I should begin this review with an apology to all non fans of Radiohead – for this review is going to be a tad too gushing for most to take. But I cant help it, because after five odd years of fevered gig going I never need to see a band again. Because last night was about as good as it gets.

Too many gigs I’ve been to in the past have had at least one thing wrong with them – be it poor sound, over crowding or a terrible venue in general – but last night, those boys got everything right. A huge marquee in the middle of London, perfect sound, a light show that constantly took your breath away, and five thousand odd people with the same expression of joy on their faces. Well, most of them anyway.

When a friend saw the band earlier this month in Wales she complained that the fans took everything too seriously – but this was not the case in the nation’s capital. Despite signs asking for no crowd surfing or moshing, the crowd danced from time to time as if it was at either a Slipknot or Fatboy Slim gig. For this is not the same Radiohead that we last saw a few years ago on these shores. This is the brighter, crazed, manic Radiohead, one where Thom Yorke is able to dance like a demented teenager and get away with it. One where beats and loops are part of the music, but only part. Sure, on a fair tunes Radiohead have gone dance, but only in the sense that they’ve just learnt to incorporate even more in to their music than was there before.

So on to the actual gig….Gates opened at six, Clinic appeared by about six forty five, were an adequate support, warming up the part of the crowd who weren’t circulating around the beer tent, and then the waiting began. Because Radiohead are one of those bands that it doesn’t matter how long you wait for them. The anticipation is almost as enjoyable as the event itself. The crowd were already cheering/screaming for ten minutes before Thom and co. casually walked across the stage, and launched in to one of the tracks from the new album (alas Mr Yorke spoke very little throughout the evening, so names of tracks played aren’t yet known) to a rapturous response from the audience.

As for those who thought that the fans might not like the bands new(ish) direction, well, the dance tune created the biggest reaction of the evening, as the crowd danced and applauded for ages. And from song to song, instrument to instrument, influence to influence, they were just simply beautiful. It’s time to switch of that cynical voice in your head and just appreciate what these five men from Oxford do. And do with such passion.

All too quickly they walked off stage, but two encores followed, including a cutting version of The Bends and ending on Karma Police, where the crowd quietly sang ‘This is what you’ll get, This what you’ll get if you mess with us’ to menacing effect – a response no one could have ever predicted. If this gig proved anything it was that Radiohead inspire a ridiculous love for the band, that they are truly appreciated, and that the fans are prepared to follow the band down any new direction road that they wish to take. So, after Kid A, who’s up for new-grave-romo-dance-nu-metal-cheesy pop? Because if any band could succeed in doing it well, it would be T’Head.

So here we are at the end of a gushing review in which I haven’t even mention yet that it was the best gig/concert/live show I’ve ever seen. A spine-tingling evening of beauty. The band of the nineties proving that unlike so many, they’re only getting started.

Alex Finch.

People, the following is a lesson that all should note. Never forget to do your research, and just turn up at a festival at mid-day expecting it to actually be in full swing. Oh no, that’d just be too crazy. Because, and you might not know this, some festivals start at 6pm, despite advertising the door opening time as 12pm on the ticket. Well, okay, only Guildford infact. Arse. A kind of giant one at that.

So things were not looking good. But all was not lost. Oh no. Because despite the fact that there were no bands on till six, there was still the comedy tent. And so, after almost two hours of waiting around, the festival day eventually began. 
 
13:50 – 15:30
Finding the comedy tent turns out to be easy, mainly because there’s only about a hundred (two hundred at best) other festival goers who have made the same mistake as us. And also because it’s all too bright orange marquee next to the beer tent. Unsurprisingly for a festival that looks like it’s been staged as cheaply as possible, it can only fit about thirty or so people in it. But what else is there to do? So we settle down and indulge in an afternoon of comedy.

Anvil Springstein comperes the first half, a scouser from Newcastle Upon Tyne who’s fairly amusing, but nothing special. What amuses is that he’s openly surprised at the poorness of venue, the lack of crowds and the fact that it’s so early on in the day and nothing else is going on at all. This quickly becomes a comedy theme of the whole afternoon as we’re treated to, in no particular order, Harvey Oliver (shit), Alistair Barrie (witty, good), Stephen Grant (Brighton blonde, over excitable but fine) Ben Norris (only okay) and a couple of others whose names have already been forgotten.

Only Grant and Barrie get any real laughs, not relying on picking on the audience or piss poor Jeffrey Archer/Big Brother jokes to raise a reaction. But when the best moment is an impromptu rain storm that could possibly electrocute the comedian, you know you’re in trouble. Thus this hack turns to alcohol in an effort to improve things.

15:30 – 17:00
The comedy tent breaks for an hour and a half or so interval, and we head back to the car to a) avoid the rain, b) rediscover comfort, and c) actually listen to some music. It’s a pretty sad state of affairs when you have to do this at a festival. Thus even more alcohol is consumed in an effort to cope with the days events.

17:00 – 18:15
Micheal Legge hosts the new stand up talent quest which is okay, occasionally very funny, but equally often very poor. Legge gets the biggest laughs by getting children in the audience to swear. Yep. You get the picture.

18:15-18:50
Fuzz Light Year are just finishing their set when we arrive late, after being knocked in to an almost comatose state by the comedy tent. Which is no bad thing, as Fuzz Light Year seem to specialise in  squealy riot grrrl sort of stuff, with a vague electro sound, and nothing approaching depth. Still, on the upside, at least the rain has stopped, and the sun attempts shining from time to time. More people begin arriving, a mixture of society this jaded hack hasn’t seen before at a festival, and questionably never wants to see again. Yeah, there’s a fair sprinkling of Pulp fans and indie kids, but far too many families, pensioners, and posh types walking around swigging from a bottles of expensive wine and laughing at anyone who looks like they earn under 80K a year. Worrying.

18:50-19:30
Alabama 3 are the band that Leonard Cohen and Elvis would have formed if they’d ever met in a smoke filled blues bar. Most famous for The Soprano’s theme tune (which sounds surprisingly incomplete when they play), there’s (not a lot, but a bit) more to them than this. Too many of their songs all sound the same, but at least they play with vigour and belief, even to this damp Guildford crowd, and when they end on ‘Too sick to pray’ everyone is at least dancing. They’re probably not even as good as this review makes them sound, but when you’ve been waiting around all day for something to happen, anything sounds good.

20:00 – 21:00
Whoever decided that Tindersticks would be a great band to support Pulp should be banned from the music industry for life. It’s not that they’re not one of the greatest group of musicians around at the moment, or that they sound poor – infact they’re almost identical to how they sound on record, with lead singer Stuart Staples voice in magnificent form. It’s just that these pre-Radiohead doom rockers are just too relentlessly depressing to be a support band, especially one supporting the headlining act at a festival. If they’d been put on first, to gently lull the audiences frazzled mood, then it could have been perfect, but as it is, few pay any attention to them, wishing to jump up and down like crazy, not nod appreciatively. Fine. But out in the open air is clearly not the right place to see them.

21:30 – 23:00
Pulp save the day. No, more than that. They make the whole day worthwhile. Beginning with a slowed down, cinematic Common People which builds and builds in to the pop song we know and love, Jarvis immediately gets the crowd on his side. Indeed more than that, in to the palm of his hand. He seems far more relaxed than he has in years, and the new songs sound so much more upbeat and melodic than when I head them last year at Reading. Infact it feels like a different Pulp all together. Not that Jarvis and co. were bad or anything, they just seemed a little limp last year, but now they seem back to full strength, and there’s a passion back in their work sadly missing in This Is Hardcore.

A lot has been made of the new songs being nature based, but whilst the imagery is in place, thematically it’s all about feeling out of place, craving sex and forcing optimism, all the themes we know and love Pulp for. Bad Cover Version sounds particularly amazing, a seventies lounge hit with biting lyrics, whilst Birds and The Bees, Weeds and Sunrise cant help but make you smile. There’s nothing quite as anthemic as anything found on Different Class, but it’s all just as beautiful, if not more so, and, more importantly, just as strong.

Its not all new material though, as Feeling Called Love, Sorted For E’s and Whizz, The Fear, A Little Soul, This is Hardcore, Party Hard, are thrust out on to the appreciative audience. Ali G’s influence on the world is amusing re-affirmed during Help the Aged as the crowd shout ‘help the motherfucking aged’ after every chorus, and the only thing which is missing is any material from His N’ Hers. But, yeah, I know, that was seven years ago, and you have to move on eventually.

Its over all too quickly, especially considering how this had felt like one of the longest days of my life before they had arrived on stage, and the crowd scream dutifully for an encore. Pulp return apologetically, only able to do one more song due to harsh council time restraints, but leave us with a beautifully seedy Underwear, before thanking the audience and disappearing for good.

And the lights went up. The crowd drifted away. And it was all over. At the end of an odd, at times annoying, and surreal day, at the strangest festival you’ll hopefully ever go to, thanks to Pulp, everything turned out just fine in the end.

Alex Finch.

When, at the last minute, I came into possession of a ticket for South Park, Oxford, I felt a huge twinge of guilt. I have never been a Radiohead fan and was resolved never to become one. I know several people who would have happily flogged their grannies for a ticket, but I felt compelled to attend. Me and ‘The Head had an old score to settle.

Strange as it may sound, I first encountered Radiohead when I spent the summer on a kibbutz. Israel was obsessed by Creep. The unsolicited version (‘fucking specials’ and all) was in constant rotation on Israeli radio and a band I’d only vaguely heard of in the UK was talked, written and raved about in every ‘cool’ quarter of the country. The lyrics had been scrawled on the walls of a room in the kibbutz ­ I was a happy, confident, sun-tanned student back then. What did I want with creeps and weirdos and seemingly suicidal vocalists?

The more my friends, then colleagues, and, more recently (shock horror), my family, tried to convince me that they were phenomenal, the more I dug my heels in. I even gave away my copy of Pablo Honey to a friend. Seven years later I find myself battling against 40,000 manic Radiohead-heads to find a bed for the night in Oxford and have to plump for a ‘convenient’ B&B almost 12 miles out of the city centre. Mother nature is stirring up a menacing feast of rain clouds that threaten to piss all over Thom Yorke’s parade and Beck is playing an ‘acoustic set’ in support. Deep joy.

I consoled myself with the prospect of Supergrass, who were taking to the stage as I arrived at a densely clouded South Park (the trials and tribulations of finding my hotel, getting back into Oxford and locating the venue meant I missed out on Humphrey Lyttelton & Sigur Ros). Despite the dismal outlook, The ‘Grass were cheeky as ever, cheering the assembled masses with the hits; Lose It, Caught By The Fuzz, Moving ­ and that was just the first ten minutes.

With a veritable catalogue of singles in the bag, Supergrass can afford to take support slots easy, but I would have liked to hear more new material. The couple of new tracks they did preview were hardly a radical departure from the last album and a few erratic drop-outs gave the sound a shoddy quality. However, the new track described by Gaz as ‘unfinished’ had a cool Ska beat and got the crowd on their toes ­ more of the same please, lads.

Sun Hits The Sky (dedicated to a recently deceased friend) was a highlight, and it’s always good to hear Strange Ones out in the open. Richard III was approached with the usual gusto and choosing Lenny (with a hilariously elongated intro) as a set closer was a champion idea. The hordes were pumped and ready to go ­ but then Supergrass were always the obvious choice for that ‘difficult’ tea-time slot.

Time to hit the alcohol tent – and nothing could have prepared me for the hellish task ahead. After queuing patiently for ‘beer vouchers’, I squeezed myself into a gasping throb of thirsty folk. As I edged my way ever closer to the front a thousand other people seemed to hem me in from all sides. Moral was lifted when each lucky punter prized their way past, pints aloft, but I was painfully aware that Beck had been and gone during the 45 minute wait to get served. Mind you, the befuddled reports snaking their way back to the service area were not complimentary. Beck’s tune-scant acoustic session was not the tonic for a crowd who’d been drinking their way through the day since 1pm.

I’ve come to regard the quiet time, as I munched through my extortionately priced potato wedges and sipped at my watered down cider to a surreal soundtrack of the Ink Spots, as the calm before the storm. The clouds loomed ever lower and anticipation cantered toward fever pitch. I treated the tension with little reverence. I was so sure what to expect. Album tracks from Kid A, wailing, glum faces all round. My God, did I get it wrong.

I could never have predicted anything this mind-blowing. Airbag (2nd song in) nearly knocked my hard-fought-for pint clean out of my hand. After the shock had set in, I was forced to confront a band who were so far removed from my half-arsed pre-conceptions I’m ashamed to say I ever disliked them.

They play their best known tracks, and Lord they play them well. Paranoid Android, Street Spirit (Fade Out), Karma Police, Idioteque, Knives Out, No Surprises, Fake Plastic Trees need I go on? They work together better than any band I’ve seen play. Jonny and Colin Greenwood positively feed off each other for the whole two hour performance. Thom is a funny and friendly front-man who claims nervousness – but the band are really enjoying themselves, particularly Jonny whose commanding presence powers the show. Their renowned perfectionism makes for a precise and technically dumbfounding gig ­ but this doesn’t take anything away from the soul of the performance.

Faithful to studio versions, the songs are far more accessible in a live environment ­ even numbers from the two ‘difficult’ albums (Kid A/Amnesiac). I’d wondered how on earth Pyramid Song would go down in a ‘festival’ atmosphere ­ I hadn’t banked on it turning into a sing-a-long. It’s hard to rock out with time-signatures so freaky, but the crowd did their best and the longer we listened the easier it became, as if Thom was gradually reeling us in to his insane musical world. Watching him suddenly lose it and bust some crazy moves of his own gave us all inspiration. When the heavens finally opened at 10:15 it’s an almighty shower, but that didn’t prevent those of us brave enough to stay from devouring two encores ­ the second of which climaxed with The Bends. Blimey.

But the wet weather had me beat and I made a swift exit – despite suspecting there may be a third encore on the cards. There was, and I missed Creep, for which I will probably burn in hell ­ I may have disliked the track a long time ago, on July 7th at 10.30pm I was desperate to hear it.

Emotive, moving, powerful, passionate ­ take your pick. Radiohead are not the pained, pretentious progressives I took them for. They are, above all, a rock band. They may use their music to convey experimentalism, angst and political messages (although with T-shirts on sale for £17 a pop you have to wonder) but they’re also up for out-and-out entertainment. Thom is a gifted man. Radiohead are an ingenious band. I’ve never been so pleased to be wrong.

Anybody got a spare copy of Pablo Honey?

Johanna Payton.

It was a long overdue pleasure, having purchased arguably the best Rock Album of 2002, which has solidified their reputation as being one of the best bands around at the moment, and last seeing them in 2001, it would be interesting for me to see how the changes in personnel affected the bands performance this time around. Well, the first night of the last part of their tour of this album proved to be an exhilarating one, as the band showed in their performance they were clearly up for it.

I don’t know if it was a general reinvogoration, or the pressure generated from Metallica’s St.Anger LP to speed up most of their set, perhaps it was a desire to cram everything in? Certainly songs off the first two records, which sound plodding at times on long play, had been renewed here live, thanks mostly to drummer Joey Castillo’s unrelenting pace, which encouraged a new-found interest in songs that have already been played to death, and will seem stale compared to this performance.

A wonderfully crafted backdrop and new single “First it Giveth” were our introduction, leading on to the glam “Do it again”, to “Monsters in your parasol”, to ” Millionaire” to “Leg of Lamb” to “Go with the Flow” to the enticing Mark Lanegan set-within a set of “Autopilot”, the only song that plodded in the entire set, “Hangin’ tree”, “In the Fade”, “Song for the Dead”, “Song for the Deaf”, “Another love song”, then songs from their eponymous debut “Regular John” and “If only” made Alfredo Hernandez’s drumming on that record seem like Meg White in Slow motion, and the main set ended with “No one Knows”.

Sadly, I was unable to stick around for the encore, but all looks good for V2003. The Queens are usually regarded as a loud band, which they duly complied with. The interesting aspect for me is that they have never played  the songs as fast, as the songs were quick and to the point, rather than quick and to the pointless.

If tonight was any indication, this incarnation of the band’s now stable set up, has allowed the members to adjust into a confidence and drive,that was clearly evident on tonight’s performance, and I am grateful for that.

Craig Aston.

Prefab Sprout aren’t the type of band to keep to regular schedule; if the majority of bands haven’t put a new record out within 2-3 years, you wonder what has happened to them. Their last LP the ‘critically acclaimed’ “Andromeda Heights”, was released 7 years after its predecessor, the epic “Jordan, the Comeback”.

So it will come as no surprise to you now, when I tell you that this is the Sprout’s first tour for TEN years, coinciding with the release of the new album, “Sleeping Rough”, and in part to promote the new single, the theme tune from the TV show “Where the Heart Is”. In that time, personnel have changed. The longest-serving line up of Paddy McAloon on vocals, brother Martin on Bass, Wendy Smith on Keyboards and Backing Vocals, and Neil Conti on Drums, ceased to exist when Conti left the band around the time of the “Andromeda Heights” , to be replaced by various percussionists.  Conti does return for this tour (and the proposed Fleadh slot), whilst Wendy Smith has been unable to take part due to maternal obligations; she recently had a baby, and is being temporarily replaced on this tour by Jess Bailey.

The band came out, with Paddy sporting a new look, which had comments raising from a refugee from the Dubliners to Captain Birdseye (personally I’d go for a cross between George Harrison and Gibbons or Hill from ZZ Top). The first song they played was “I remember that”, a subtle reference to the audience possibly, for not forgetting that they are still around, and offering a reward for keeping the faith.

Paddy offered dark humour in his patter, making cynical references to Brittany Spears; “We were supposed to duet this song with Brittany Spears, but the stabilisers on her bicycle came off on the way here so…”, and Westlife, remarking that “Seasons in the Sun” pipped “Carnival 2000″ as the song to ‘usher in the millennium’. The band was in jovial mood, as Paddy threatened to embark upon U2, and The Wurzels medleys, before thinking better of it.

It came across that he was not only keeping the atmosphere light, but also having a pleasant dig at the number of un-talented artists riding high in the charts today. They themselves seemed rusty, with Jess Bailey hitting a few bum notes on the keyboards, Neil Conti starting to play the wrong song on the set list, and even Paddy forgetting the words to one of his songs, but these mistakes only helped in contributing to the dark humour of Paddy, and the light relief given to the audience.

Apart from the new single, “Where the Heart Is”, no new material was played; Paddy preferring to play the songs the fans knew and loved, the songs that struck an emotional chord in your heart, the songs that would serve you perfectly, sitting by the sea front at 3 in the morning (or 4, depending on if your listening to ‘Faron Young’). References were also made to his heroes and icons; The Beatles in “Electric Guitars”, Bruce Springsteen in “Cars and Girls”, God in “The sound of Crying”, and although not played tonight, Elvis in “The King of Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

All the classics were played and the themes were clearly evident; the different points of view when a relationship has broken down, “When love breaks down, Cruel, Goodbye Lucille (Johnny Johnny), Life of Surprises” the differences of opinion relating to searching for a Utopia “Cars and Girls, Looking for Atlantis, Lions in My Garden, Jordan: The Comeback”, with the final song of encore illustrating the plight of so many talented bands of previous years which have not been publicly accepted with changes in fashion “Prisoner of the Past”.

Even with a lot of songs stripped down compared to their recorded versions; the band sounding wonderful, and this rarity proved to be a night to remember! Don’t stay away too long next time, Paddy.

Craig Aston

For the first time, I was wary about seeing Pulp. Having long loved the band, well, at least since 95 anyhow, when We Love Life was released just a month ago it became the first album that I’d not been able to get to grips with. It’s the first six tracks that worry, distinctly lacking in any kind of humour, and far too drawn out and needlessly wordy. ‘Weeds’ especially causes concern – I’m fine with the Mishapes/Misfits descriptive tag, but Weeds sounds so Nineteen Eighties, so The Beano, and so, well, weak, I doubt other fans will take to it either.

The Pulp that I love is the band that celebrates seediness, craves success, and whose sexual frustration is worn on their sleeves (though hopefully not literally). But We Love Life, whilst still showing occasional signs of humour towards it’s end, seems more mature, in a sensible and tired kind of way, and whilst the darkness found within This Is Hardcore rears it’s head from time to time, Jarvis seems more resigned to it’s effects than previously. Bird’s In Your Garden, Bad Cover Version and The Trees are great fun, and a clear sign that the old Jarvis is alive and well. But that’s just in three songs from an album of eleven.

And so worries persisted. The support bands, chosen by Pulp, hardly inspired confidence either. First were Princess Superstar, a female vocalist, and male guitarist, dj, and second vocalist. Shouting a lot over a mix of guitars and beats. And it’s awful, desperate to be cool dance music, with many Ali G-ism’s which are really starting to grate these days. They’ve got confidence alright, as Princess Superstar shows in spades as she goes topless at the end of their set, but so few people are actually paying any attention, it’s surprising she bothers demeaning herself in such a way.

The Fat Truckers came next, with a selection of comedy dance music and comedy dancing. And it’s not just awful, but fucking, shitting, cuntingly awful. The kind of music that gives you tourettes syndrome when reviewing it, then. One song consists of the lead singer repeating ‘teenager doubter’ for four minutes, whilst doing a mixture of John Cleese-like funny walks and the moves from the Birdie song. It could be post-ironic-modernism for all I care – it’s appallingly tediously shite in this context, and thirty minutes of my life are wasted – and by the end I’ve turned in to the most hated of gig goer, the heckler. But I just can’t help it, they’re just so bad, plausibly the worst band I’ve ever seen live, and it’s of little surprise when others around me start telling the band to fuck off too.

And so now I’m really worried. Having endured two appalling acts for the last two hours, if Pulp are on less than stellar form, then it could be one of the most depressing nights of my life. That they take half an hour to appear on stage post-The Fat Truckers doesn’t help my nerves either, and when they eventually arrive on stage to the opening bars of Weeds, well, things don’t bode well at all.

But how could I have doubted Jarvis? After all, he’s never let me down yet. Live, Weeds sounds beautiful, far more subtle than on record, mature, but in a good way. Whilst Minnie Timperly still doesn’t convince, when Something Changed begins, the crowd’s roar grows steadily louder, and doesn’t stop increasing all night. Thankfully, much of the night’s selection of songs come from His ‘N’ Hers, Different Class and This Is Hardcore as well as We Love Life, and all of Jarvis’ frustrations and obsessions make perfect sense when combined together like this.

While a lot of the songs played cover dark themes: with The Tree’s and Live Bed Show mourning failed relationships; Sorted For E’s and Wizz commiserating the solitary come down post drugs; This Is Hardcore and Underwear mocking emotionless sex; and Joyriders satiriseing teenage boredom, it’s the humour in each, even when Jarvis is at his lowest, that makes them so meaningful, and when played together like this, you realise that Pulp have always been a pretty hardcore band, and not just of late.

And of course it’s not all dark stuff – Bird’s In Your Garden is all about finding the confidence to make love to the one you love, but with a fantastic chorus that is made for thousands to sing along too. And in Sunrise we find Jarvis at his most optimistic, which sounds utterly beautiful tonight, and a surprisingly refreshing change from the aforementioned darker themes. And if it’s the way forward for the band, and there should always be a way forward, I can’t think of a better one.

Two encores make me regret not taking better care of my jaded body, as by the end of Babies, and with more too come, I’m ready to collapse. But a re-jigged Laughing Boy and Underwear gives time for recovery, and of course there’s only one song left which they can end on. And Common People makes the whole room erupt in one joyful scream of appreciation, and everyone, and I mean everyone in the room sings every word. If there’s a better way of ending a gig, I’ve not seen it yet.

Of course you should never judge a band by their latest album, and Pulp prove this tonight, whilst at the same time showing how they’re stronger than ever. So maybe not every song is perfect. The majority are, and what more can you ask from a band? Worries and wariness seem ridiculous now. How could I have ever lost faith in JC?

Alex Finch

Ooberman have yet to go on a proper ‘headlining’ tour of their own, so thus far they’ve only played live at festivals, or by supporting others. But hopefully this will be corrected soon, because they’re slowly becoming the best live band I’ve seen in a long while.

In store gigs are strange things. There’s not much space for people to gather around the band, as magazine and cd racks get in the way. And, normally, there are few real fans of a band at these type of things, just curious on-lookers. But this thirty five minute gig, on a busy Friday afternoon in the Oxford Street Virgin Megastore was one of the best I’ve been too for ages. Due on stage at one, they arrived fifteen minutes late to a crowd of about fifty or so who had been waiting for at least half an hour. Unlike most store appearances, there was a real feeling of anticipation for the band, and the crowd easily doubled within the first ten minutes. Literally bouncing on stage, the band played majestically.

I hadn’t seen them since Reading ’98, and they’ve improved so much, sounding almost exactly as they do on record, but Bigger, Brighter, and (keeping with the B’s) so much Ballsier. Sophia looked cuter than ever, Danny couldn’t stop dancing, and, for that matter, niether could the crowd. They played a gorgeously tight set, beginning with their only ‘chart hit’ “Blossom’s Falling” and then wowing the crowd with a mixture of the bands’ favourite tunes.

All the singles were trotted out, Million Suns, Tears from a Willow, and a new version of Shorley Wall, without Sophia reading poetry over the end, which is due to be their next release. But they also played a selection of songs which weren’t so well known – including Bees, and my personal favourite ‘Why did my igloo collapse,’ plus a b-side to the new version of Shorley Wall, “Wasteland of Souls” which finds them getting slightly guttsier and harder, whilst still retaining a magical chorus.

And after thirty five minutes the band left the stage to the howls and cheers of adoring fans. Many of which had probably never heard of the band before today. Surely it can’t be long before Ooberman become residents of the top ten charts, and if they don’t, well, it’ll prove my suspicions that the world has gone quite, quite mad.

Alex Finch.

And so begins the inevitable ‘slog’ within the capital. The initial, tentative step onto the slippery first rung of the rock ‘n’ roll ladder can perhaps only be achieved by your wide eyed band ‘slumming it’ in and around London’s affectionately named ‘Toilet circuit’.

With a reputation that has been cemented by hosting the Manics and Joy Division, Islington’s Hope and Anchor, can perhaps claim to be unjustly included within the ‘urinal group’ of venues. It’s intimate foot high stage melds with the audience making a wonderfully tight atmosphere and quality acoustics which, despite its cosy setting, leaves it standing tall amongst its other peers.

Enter then, Noon. A band hailing from the leafy and safe grasslands of Royal Tunbridge Wells and a fruity segment of the nonuniform record company ‘Unlabel’. The whites of the eyes are apparent amongst this five piece. Having already taken in venues such as the Bull and Gate, Camden Underworld and the lesser known Brixton Windmill, the band seem at home and comfortable on this petit North London platform.

Instantly, guitars start to build. The slow release, contradictory named ‘Got up to go to bed to’ swirls within the room. Carried via Dave Noon’s soaring falsetto it climbs to a summit before crashing forcefully into the audience. We all stand back up, wipe the Guinness from our Converse and gaze back to the front. A heavy, heavy bass line combined with the beats of what looks like a beer keg and, erm.. actually is a beer keg signals the arrival of a song called ‘Pit’. It bores deep into us mere onlookers, vibrating forcefully through the room and causing ripples from the speakers. A swanky looking ibook and synth seems to bend the sounds further creating a wall of sound that compares with ‘Pablo Honey’ era Radiohead yet still dabbles with ‘OK Computer’.

Sure, there are comparisons with Thom Yorke’s rabble and possibly associations towards sensitive songsmiths Coldplay yet, in the current musical climate a band penning a song swooning about lost love will always be herded into the shoegazers bracket (Keane anyone?) Thankfully, Noon seem to be a niche within this polite musical classification. Edgy and dynamic sounds coat their profound lyrics and the band give off an on stage demeanour that suggests they are quietly confident that their songs are keeping intrigued eyes on them that might otherwise be looking towards beer prices behind the bar.

White noise, feedback. Cliched climaxes to a bands set. Noon just stop, none of that thank you. Done, finished. Cheers. The final few haunting strands of Don’t cry fade into the sweaty air and the band quietly wander off stage. The onlookers clap, stare for a while and then go in search of their next drink, as they make their way towards their pints, their eyes seem slightly wider and certainly whiter, visibly affected by the brightness of Noon.

Mark Glover.

Camden Falcon – 19/01/00

I’m early. It’s about 8.15 and the place is deserted. I don’t normally arrive at these sorts of things until just before the main act. Tonight however, I’m not here to see the main act. I’ve come to catch Mo’ Solid Gold the new project of Boag and Julian Hewings formerly of These Animal Men and I’m not sure what time they are on. The Falcon is a venue that I’ve not been to before and I’m surprised at how far from Camden high street it is. I enter, pay my money and go through the deserted bar (not a good sign so far) and into the back room. A band is playing. About eight people are watching (very bad sign!).

The band (my apologies, I don’t know their name) seemed pretty good, a sort of seventies American cop show funk. Shame I have to watch them. Funk should be sexy and I’m sorry but these boys are not pretty to say the least. The guitarist seems quite old and none of them made an effort to create any sort of stage presence. But then I could always close my eyes. Then a horrible thing happens, the singer sings, and suddenly the funky cop show music degenerates into a sub Rage Against the Machine style rant. From what I can make out of the lyrics they seem to be kind of political which pisses me off because its sort of Levellers/Chumba Wumba political. Why don’t they just get a dog and live in a tent, whine sorted. Don’t get me wrong I didn’t hate them; I just wished the singer would shut up and I didn’t have to look at them.

It’s 9.00pm and suddenly people have started to turn up. Not just one or two either but loads and pretty soon the little back room is full. Mo’ Solid Gold take to the stage to cheers and one or two brain dead heckles. Boag and Hewings walk unceremoniously onto the stage along with a drummer and Craig Warnock who toured with TAM for their last album. They are no longer the stars merely just the band. A pause and then Mo’s real star appears. The singer (his name is K I think). The band strike up, all guitars and screeching Hammond organ. And K sings. And it is sweet soul music. The crowd love it. K gyrates and rocks his microphone stand sounding like the bastard son of Otis Reading and James Brown (if one of them were a woman!). He taunts the crowd and gets them to join in on yeahs. He swings from James Brown knee capping to Baron Samedi type voodoo stares and is in turn divine and frightening. The band rocks and the music is so Northern Soul/ Motown that I can’t help but dance. Fantastic. And then like all good things it stops. Everyone cheers and we go to the bar.

I return again for Arch Stanton and things turn bad again. Everyone is still at the bar. There are more members of Arch Stanton than there are people watching and for some reason they remind me of some sort of hillbilly cult. A musical Manson Family. They have a myriad of instruments; bongos, drums, trumpets but sound from their first song like an ordinary pub band. The crowd are not impressed and remain where they are.

“It’s OK, you can come in from the bar now!” says the girl singer before their next song but it’s no use. They’ve been converted. To the church of Mo’ and rocking hillbillies are not part of their congregation. I’m not impressed either and decide to leave, get the bus home and play some Marvin Gaye records. At last soul has returned to modern music. I’m converted too.

Paul Monk.

A one-off almost certainly, self-indulgent perhaps, enigmatic definitely. Word has it Morrissey, when drawing up his tour schedule to accompany the release of his long-awaited and critically-acclaimed album “You Are The Quarry”, specifically requested dates in Scottish towns beginning with the letter P. That meant good news indeed for the normally bypassed towns of Perth and Paisley (but hard lines yet again for the people of Pitlochry who, it seems, will need to wait until next time).

And so the less-than-sizeable Perth City Hall, which hasn’t exactly been a magnet for big names over the years, was packed to its crumbling rafters (tickets sold out in under an hour) in honour of one of modern music’s few genuine legends. It didn’t take long for a crowd, warmed up by Specials-esque support act The Dead 60s and then some more by the near-unbearable heat, to reach fever pitch as erstwhile-Smiths frontman Mozzer arrived on stage to begin belting out the anthemic “How Soon Is Now?”. The Quiffed One then stopped only to thank his audience for choosing him over “Monarch Of The Glen” (the first of a string of good-hearted between-song jibes at the locals which included mentions for woollen shops and “Take The High Road”) before launching into up-tempo new single “First Of The Gang To Die”.

Other classics to get an airing included “Shakespeare’s Sister”, “Everyday Is Like Sunday” and “Now My Heart Is Full”, alongside a healthy sprinkling of tracks from the new album such as “Let Me Kiss You”, “How Can Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel?”, “The Word Is Full Of Crashing Bores” and the simple but marvellously effective “I Like You”. A little like Mozzer’s trademark quiff in the Hall’s rocketing temperature, the gig went a little flat as the hour-and-a-bit rolled on. Three shirt changes were required by the time the sweat-drenched star had left the stage, and it became increasingly apparent that the venue’s lack of ventilation was quite literally putting a dampener on both the performance and the crowd (with the only energetic figure left in the building appearing to be the scary topless old man in the fourth row who seemed determined to start a brawl with anyone he could).

Thankfully, the Moz had just enough fuel left in his tank to return to the stage and re-awaken everyone with a rousing sing-a-long rendition of arguably The Smith’s finest ditty “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out”. If only there’d been a little oxygen left in the building, the delighted crowd would have been left screaming for more.

Gary Panton.