METAL THRASHING MAD

ANVIL

CATHOUSE, GLASGOW

23.06.11

(8/10)

METAL ON METAL ON METAL ON METAL: CANADIAN PROTO-THRASH LEGENDS CONTINUE TO BUILD MOMENTUM, 34 YEARS ON

CRASH! BANG! WALLOP! KAPOW!

9pm. A muggy Thursday night in Glasgow. Another drunken payday, the streets awash with boozy punters and middle-aged women lost on their way to Take That. In one of the city’s darker rooms, Steve “Lips” Kudlow is throttling his guitar with a vibrator, pulling slitty eyes at the audience (part of an extended intro to 1982 classic Mothra) and headbanging just as hard as anyone in front of him.

Anvil may have come a long way in the past few years but it’s refreshing to see they’ve not outgrown their roots: the exuberant juvenility and cartoon vibrancy that marked their appeal in the first place still burning brightly well over three decades into their career. Performing with intensity, commitment and defiance, there’s a sense of abandon to tonight’s show; a gleeful freedom to finally do what they want – on their terms – without having to worry about the social or financial repercussions.

Their celebrity notoriety may be at an all time high, but the songs hold up too; whether rolling out the inevitable brazen simplicity of Metal on Metal, the crunching atmospherics of This Is Thirteen or anthemic, back to basics new track Juggernaut of Justice there’s never less than overpowering volume and a remarkable sincerity – not necessarily in terms of outlandish subject matter but rather in that lasting confidence in metal as a genre. Powered on by the thrust of Rob Reiner’s pounding stick work and “perpetual new guy” Glenn Five reaching hard to live up to his introduction as “the best bassist in the world”, these are not the songs of a band looking to cash in on past glories or a more recent fifteen minutes of fame, but rather evergreen statements of intent from men that live to play and be heard – whatever winding path life leads them down.

Perhaps Anvil did push their luck, clinging on in elongated dry period – this is, after all, only their third tour of these isles – but as bastions of metal as escapist fantasy there’s not a soul here tonight, whether diehard fan, next-gen blow-in or curious movie convert, who’d dispute their credentials. It’s not just a show, it’s a feel-good experience and after almost two hours, drenched in sweat and grinning just as hard as when he stepped onstage, Lips is quick to salute the crowd for helping his fantasy come true. But he’s drowned out, rightfully, by fans new and old happy to acknowledge that – 34 years in – he’s already given so much more than he’s ever getting back.

Sam Law

FRANK TURNER – ENGLAND KEEP MY BONES

(Epitaph)

(8/10)

ENGLAND’S FOLK-PUNK LAUREATE FINDS STRENGTH IN FRESH PURPOSE

IT’S DIFFICULT to believe that Frank Turner is a mere 29 years old. Four records into his solo career (not to mention the two released with Million Dead) and what already seems like half a lifetime spent on the road, you’d be forgiven for thinking this is a man who’s already peaked.

He hasn’t done himself many favours in this respect; a canon of disenchanted laments and road-weary travelogues doing little to break the illusion of an artist as creaky as his instrument. Even here we’ve got posthumous instructions (One Foot Before The Other), historical ballads (English Curse) and the kind of soul-soaked rabble-raiser that’d have you believe he’d seen the rise and fall of rock n’ roll (I Still Believe) but, crucially, this is the record on which Turner finds the drive, purpose and patriotism on which to build the lifelong career he so clearly desires.

Working through brass-led intro Eulogy to both full-band and acoustic numbers, the sound is handsome throughout; there may not be quite the same stylistic coherence as on Poetry of the Deed but the looser experimentation ties well with the sense of freshness, the occasional sprung-step and the overall energy of the piece.

It’s an energy that pulses through the flesh of the music but it seeps, initially, from the bare bones

First and foremost, Turner is a songwriter. The tale to tell or point to make is the prerequisite hook on which everything else hangs. Attack the vocal shortcomings, attack the simple sounds, attack the Etonian, silver-spoon background; as long as the words are enough to hold a room rapt – with only the help a microphone and an acoustic guitar – the songs will be bulletproof.

While the collection at hand isn’t perfect – there’s no Long Live the Queen here – there is a newfound purpose. Whether singing the praises of his country (Rivers) or his hometown (Wessex Boy) – so much for ‘the road’ being home -  or composing contemporary humanist hymns (Glory Hallelujah) there’s a real sense of belief in his causes. That belief’s a crucial, heartfelt keystone – one that’s certainly never lacked in Turner’s songwriting before, but it’s great to see it steeped in positivity. For a man percievably incapable of reinvention, rejuvination will do; spiky sounds and spikier ideals (the aforementioned Glory Hallelujah’s chorus of “There is no God” plays like a better-willed but no less provocative Slayer) marking a transition into the big league with feet still firmly on the ground.

A patchwork triumph that stands by itself and hints at even greater victories yet to be won, the true value of England Keep My Bones will be told only by the passing years, but for now – with a huge Autumn UK tour already announced – The Road beckons once again.

Sam Law

IN FLAMES – SOUNDS OF A PLAYGROUND FADING

(Century Media)

(7/10)

GOTHENBURG LEGENDS GO FOR BROKE

TEN ALBUMS in and many would argue that change would be good for a band.

Yet, for In Flames, change has never been a unfamiliar concept. Following their creation of the Gothenburg death metal subgenre alongside At The Gates, the Swedish five-piece have never been afraid of an organic progression of their sound. From the earthy acoustic interludes of The Jester Race through the millennial, synth-seeped likes of Cloud Connected and Only For The Weak right up to A Sense Of Purpose’s almost commercial bombast they’ve had a constant, fleet-footed creative freedom that’s allowed them to make broad tonal and stylistic shifts without completely compromising their credibility.

In Flames 2011, however, find themselves a founding member down, facing a potentially jarring, forced shift in personnel and style. Giants at a fork in the road, they can either plough on with further reinvention – running the risk of tainting their legacy – or, like ATG, they can retire to the festival circuit, fading slowly into obscurity as a frayed, thumping nostalgia act.

An explosive – if at times reluctant – maelstrom of fervour, skill and self-belief, SOAPF is the resounding evidence that In Flames will follow the former, higher road right to the end. Burning with neither the outright brilliance of their early classics  nor the stylistic diversity of their reactionary releases during the nu-metal era, this still manages to hone several already fine-tuned elements to perfection while thrusting onto the front foot with a pounding directness and sparse touches of original flair.

Many have remarked on this as a consolidation of all that has one before; a sprawling retrospective of the progression up to this point through the eyes of an older, tighter, more experienced group of musicians looking to remind us why they’ve been perched on extreme metal’s upper tier for over a decade. In many ways it works: the standard of musicianship is truly exceptional throughout and while much of the album plays like a more restrained, refined progression of what we heard on ASOP – best evidenced by lead single Deliver Us – there are elements – particularly on Ropes and The Puzzle – of the ragged momentum and progressive leanings of their early career.

Still, the strength of every individual In Flames record has been in that absolute individuality. While a composite collection of objectively excellent parts was never going to fail outright, it lacks the moments – the exciting guitar breaks, the sense of creative uncertainty – that have characterized the band’s daring in the past. Without that will to take risks there’s a reluctance to forgive flaws.

Still, the future is unwritten.

As a first run-out for the new line up the conservatism is understandable, it’s just a pity to see such thrusting excellence without the adventure to match. Nonetheless, with time will come confidence and with confidence… well, we’ll just have to see where they go next.

Sam Law

NIVERSE

PLUS: FIVE BAR GATE

IVORY BLACKS, GLASGOW

02.04.2011

(7/10)

BEER AND BEDLAM AS SCOTS YOUNG GUNS FIRE OFF A WARNING SHOT

TABLECLOTHS ON the tables. Lights still up. Even the odd candle burning here and there. Ivory Blacks doesn’t look itself this evening with the remnants of an early-doors jazz gig still scattered about the normally battle-worn interior. Fortunately, it doesn’t take long to find its hard rock feet once Five Bar Gate hit their stride. One overheard punter sums them up as “like Moist only not nearly as pretty”; the label fits their grizzled, groovy hard rock well but there’re elements of other mainstream favourites Nickleback and Creed too. Meat and potatoes metal it may be, but it’s great drinking music and doesn’t scare off too many of the chin-strokers still hanging around the bar. For better or worse, that’s something that can’t be said for Ayrshire’s Niverse. Taking the stage as unassuming youngsters, it’s a blink of the eye and they’ve gone all “Mr. Hyde”. Roaring into life with a full-on metal assault pitched somewhere between the direct technicality of Devildriver and gob-flecked swagger of Children of Bodom their volume alone seems concussive while the crushing likes of Atlas Time point to immense underlying  songwriting ability. They do falter occasionally, veering into blandly melodic territory but when they keep it heavy it’s easy to imagine these boys punching well above their weight.

Sam Law

BRING ME THE HORIZON

ACADEMY, GLASGOW

24.04.11

(6/10)

OLI AND THE BOYS DELIGHT THE KIDS WITH THEIR ALTERNATIVE EASTER SERMON

IT’S EASTER Sunday in Glasgow. The old-firm’s passed off, a non-event nil-all draw without too much chaos. The sun’s out and the city’s sodden. Normally such circumstances would herald a good-willed knees-up at the Academy but tonight the front entrance is packed with kids refused entry without the right ID, industry chancers skipping bands to chat fashion and weary security guards awaiting sugar-fuelled chaos. Frankly, it’s a disheartening scene.

Inside, events are predictably amped-up. The sold-out venue is literally rocking. An exceptional support lineup has loosened the largely underage crowd and while the bars are comparatively deserted, the pit is a pounding, pulsating destruction derby of toothy grins, teenage hormones and the highest ratio of short-skirts you’re gonna get at a gig this heavy.

BMTH have won the day before they’ve ever even stepped onstage. Arguably the most popular extreme band of their generation, through graft and tactics they’ve ascended to a stature where they can not only headline a tour of some of the UK’s biggest indoor venues but where they  sell them out months and months in advance. Glasgow’s always been a friendly city for Sykes and Co.  and on this victory-lap tour for There Is A Hell… anticipation among those who’ve made it in is high.

It’d be desperately unkind to say the band don’t deliver – the chorus of high-pitch screams and boundless kinetic energy on show certainly aren’t the antics of a crowd feeling shortchanged – but for seasoned gig-goers the purity of the product is entirely up for debate. For one, the volume is pathetically weak for this type of gig. Right from opener It Never Ends it’s clear that while the lead-mic is packing respectable heft, the backing instruments aren’t at the races. Sure, the sound mix is clear, but it’s unfortunate that the bass can’t hit harder than the ankle-biters.

Secondly, the ethos of the band is conspicuously “emo”. To see the one-time badboys of the Brit-metal scene repeatedly dedicate songs to anyone who’s ever lost a loved one/felt the world was against them/contemplated ending it all/hit fucking puberty is to see a band who’ve filed down their edge.  Sure there’re circle-pits and walls of death aplenty but they seem more like on-demand metal set-pieces than any mark of real chaos. It’s hard to believe this is the same band who had to be shut down at Wembley a few months back.

Fortunately, the songs still pack a punch. From frantic closer Chelsea Smile to the more recent, studio-centric likes of Anthem there’s not a beat missed. The translation from disc to live arena may not be entirely smooth in some cases but it’s more often passionate than passable. Their growing talent for taking frankly un-musical music into popular culture via any means necessary is admirable and , not to labour a point, the vast majority of this crowd laps it up.

Yet, BMTH simply aren’t the best young metal band in the UK. They’re not even close. For anyone who’s actually hit the club (and pub) circuit this is a blatantly obvious truth. Sure, they do get better with every record and may yet grow to deserve their elevated status but for now they’re really little more than a trendy gateway band for young metal fans. Still, much as with the Easter Bunny, an idea absurd to anyone with the experience to know better, BMTH’s essential status makes for a delightful fantasy of youth; a hype that’s not difficult to get a little swept up in.

Sam Law