Issue 33 / May 2013

There is a hardcore edge to the vocals that is
at times incongruous to the expansiveness of
its underpinnings but nonetheless adds some
much needed heft.
There is a sense with FANG ISLAND that they
could never disappoint. Unstoppably upbeat
and contagiously happy, their music almost
defies criticism. It would be like kicking a
puppy or crashing a wedding – you’d have to
be a real grouch to do so. Any moments of mild
sloppiness are glossed over with the sound of
major-key duelling guitars in a constant state
of emphatic solo. In fact there is so much solo
that it can no longer be defined as such and
chugging power chords assume the role of
middle eights and respites.
To get an image of a Fang Island show, think of
what would happen if Brian May, Rivers Cuomo
and Andrew WK got pissed and listened to Kiss
records before breaking out the guitars for an
all-nighter. It’s as ridiculous as it sounds but not
in the least bit showy or egotistical – just full
on earnest fun. There’s little time to catch breath
during their set and the lack of an encore ensures
that their performance is compact enough to be
absorbed without outstaying its welcome. Fang
Island are an essential pop-punk booster shot
designed to revitalise and rejuvenate.
Jonny Davis / restrelaxrecords.co.uk
JOHN SMITH
Birthday Girl - TJ & Murphy
Ceremony Concerts and Harvest
Sun @ The Epstein Theatre
Tonight’s modest attendance is no reflection
on the artists on show, as Liverpool is covered
in a thin veil of sleet, and the kettle whistles
its seductive siren song. BIRTHDAY GIRL kick
things off, three lads who’ve obviously heard a
lot of Fleet Foxes and pastoral American rock
in the mould of John Grant. Their voices and
three acoustic guitars blend pleasantly together,
heralding a well-received intro to the gig, and
an act to keep an eye on. The real problem is
the sheer “sameyness” of the set list. They lack
that one killer song – even what is done quietly
must remain in the memory. The foundations of
something truly magical are there, so the hard
work starts now.
TJ & MURPHY are welcomed by the whoops
and hollers of an enthusiastic local fanbase.
There’s real Scouse heart and soul here, but with
the dark undertow of a broken heart. It’s as if Jeff
Buckley woke up in a bar on Mathew Street. The
songs are certainly original, and strong enough
to stand on their own two trainers, which is
why covering Springsteen’s defiant hymn of
existential ennui Dancing In The Dark
initially
seems like a misstep. With an altered melody
line, it all makes perfect sense. Far too good
for the local alehouse, TJ & Murphy are a very
enjoyable proposition.
JOHN SMITH is dressed like a gunslinger,
with the tonsorial precision of a Victorian gent.
“You haven’t heard of me,” he says in a polite
West Country burr. “But that’s OK; I haven’t
heard of many of you.” His music is vaguely
familiar, but somewhat elusive at the same
time. It’s impossible to say exactly what the
genre is: too soulful for AOR, too smooth for
folk, too cool for school. Fresh from a tour
with Richard Hawley, he bears no relation,
physically or musically, to the rockabilly
rebel. However, when Smith sings, there’s the
softness of snowfall and the smoky edge of a
bonfire. He’s certainly an engaging personality,
bantering with the audience about wanting to
do an ad for B&Q.
If there’s any real problem, it’s that the initial
songs are somewhat formulaic (start softly, build
to a crescendo, repeat). They also seem to come
from the well-mined/condemned shaft of “more
songs about my ex”. Playing a set list largely
drawn from his new album, Great Lakes, Freezing
Winds Of Change sticks out like a red flag. Salty
And Sweet uses a standard folk subject (girl
falls in love with a Merman), and turns it to a
gorgeous foot-tapper.
When he sings away from the microphone,
putting the emotional gas on a low heat, Smith
smoulders. When the guitar goes down and he
plays slide, his true talent shines. Maybe this is
where his focus should be. Although John Smith
may have an average name, his music need not
wallow in the mainstream.
KING CREOSOTE
Kev McCready
Ceremony Concerts @ The Kazimier
With a work-rate to shame most other artists
(his recorded output now stands at forty-one
albums and counting), KING CREOSOTE surely
deserves a sit down now and then. But that’s
not the reason he performs tonight’s set in
a sedentary position. A storm-trooper’s boot
encases his lower right leg, due to a broken
ankle sustained just prior to this tour. Hobbling
to the stage on crutches, his discomfort is clear,
but this frailty is a source of extra mirth during
his warm banter with the crowd.
King Creosote has seemingly built a career on
self-effacement. Accompanied by a percussionist
on African djembe drum, tonight’s songs
overflow with wry reflections on romantic failure.
As befits a folky gig, there is a high beard-count
in the venue tonight (although come to think of
it where is that not the case these days?) and a
range of ages are in attendance, sitting at tables
or on the floor.
Despite being nominated for the Mercury
Prize in 2011, King Creosote (real name Kenny
Anderson) is not showing any signs of Premier
League promotion, a fact that is probably a relief
to his core followers. “I love you, Kenny!” shrieks