Issue 94 / November 2018

Half Man Half Biscuit
O2 Academy – 28/09
“Anyone here from Crosby?”
*small cheer*
“Do you want a fucking medal?”
And we’re off… First ‘local’ gig in over 13 years. Not in
Birkenhead, but the Scouse side of the water, just like, err, the
last one. Oh well. That would explain the speed at which this
sold-out (in hours, apparently). Nigel Blackwell and Neil Crossley
are back. Back! And this isn’t lost on the heaving, slightly tipsy
and very up for it Friday night crowd. The roar that greets our
Wirralian brethren is so huge there are young kids waking from
their slumbers in Dovecot. Yes, there’s anticipation and love here
on Hotham Street, slight bewilderment on why it’s taken 13 years
to play a gig here, but relief that they are, in fact, on stage. On
Merseyside. Woo and, indeed, hoo.
If you’ve read this far, one assumes you are aware of the
power of HMHB in this part of the world. Blackwell is the
greatest poet of his generation and the new album No-One Cares
About Your Creative Hub, So Get Your Fucking Hedge Cut has
gone into the Top 40, the first HMHB album to do so; basically,
because it’s brilliant. The aural equivalent of a rant that you agree
with by someone you can overhear in the pub – with added
pathos.
In the years that have passed since their debut (Back In
The D.H.S.S. was 1985) HMHB have stuck to a route that is
unequivocally awkward. No tours, just random shows. No
interviews, unless they feel like it. Constant references to places
that no-one has heard of. Constant references to people no-one
has heard of. Cultural references that no-one (outside of the
Wirral) has heard of. Oh – they like the Lake District. And the real
nub is a staunch refusal to write and sound anything other than
Half Man Half Biscuit. If it ain’t broke…
The fanbase has grown exponentially over the last five years
or so, for no real reason other than a slightly aging generation,
who aren’t quite finished yet, are finding humour in music a rare
beast. So, when it’s as explicit as Blackwell’s barb and basic
chord changes there’s a unique homely aura to the proceedings.
Coupled with twisted sing-along banter and clever mundane
observations, there’s your evening out. Right there.
The set owes much to the band giving the punters what they
want, but there’s an overwhelming love of the new record. Songs
about bat-walking naked in Royston Park (Renfield’s Afoot) or
avoiding going to watch the mighty Tranmere Rovers in a crap
cup competition (Swerving The Checkatrade) all sit proudly
and comfortably alongside anthems that were the language of
schoolboys in the 80s (99% Of Gargoyles Look Like Bob Todd,
Fuckin’ ’Ell It’s Fred Titmus). The fact that the 28-song (28!!) set
list smothers the entire career of Birkenhead’s finest is of such
elation to this 40-plus crowd. There’s even a sing-along from
those that know when Nigel and the band belted out the radio
advert “Maincrest Car And Van Hire: seven double three three
two oh one”.
With an encore that inevitably gives us Joy Division Oven
Gloves (and yes, someone down the front was wearing a pair.
Sigh. It’s the equivalent of donning a lab-coat at a Kraftwerk gig)
and a rather rousing obligatory cover version (Jimmy Jimmy by
The Undertones), that was that.
There’s a local affection for the band that seems to be
lost on them, in spite of tonight’s congregation giving it large
in that direction. Homecoming shows can put the fear of God
into anyone, but the performance tonight suggests a relaxed,
confident and, above all, funny band who deserve to be seen by
everyone on Merseyside. Now, who wants to book them a show
at Prenton Park?
Ian Abraham / @scrash
The Orielles (Jamie Sherwood)
The Magic Gang
+ The Orielles
I Love Live Events @ O2 Academy – 03/09
Pale Waves
+ Swimming Girls
O2 Academy – 24/09
Pale Waves (Georgia Flynn / @georgiaflynncreative)
Roll up, roll up, fan boys and fan girls, for a lesson in emo aesthetics and electro-pop. After making the ascent into the windowless
attic that is the Academy, the teenage angst is almost palpable as SWIMMING GIRLS entertain the gathering crowd of edgy fans.
With the scene developing like a Tim Burton creation, the moody and brooding support act deliver their sounds with a fluidity that
chimes with the front row inhabitants. Penultimate track Back Of Your Car breezes through the thick air, followed by the roar of Tastes
Like Money, reminding the crowd that Swimming Girls are here and definitely ones to watch.
As the energetic indie-pop four-piece exit the stage, ripples of impatience emanate from the fans as they wait for their
Manchester-based champions to take the helm. Looking around the Academy, I can’t help but wonder whether Robert Smith of the
Cure is sat behind a face-painting stall recreating his pop culture image, or the majority here tonight are just paying homage to PALE
WAVES’ poster girl and vocalist, Heather Baron-Gracie. Suddenly, there’s a break in the low murmur of muttering and ignorable
background music. The lights cut and all in attendance are still. An electro buzz grows and grows into an almost unbearable volume,
then drops as the band enter.
Opener Television Romance gets Pale Waves on the front foot from the start, with a familiar chorus to get everyone hooked and
in the mood for what wonders lie ahead. As the black silhouettes move around in front of their red background (drawing comparisons
to the artwork of their newly released album My Mind Makes Noises), the band receive a mixed reception when announcing their
geographical origins. They then proceed to get their fans back onside with a flurry of popular choices such as Kiss and Eighteen,
resulting in a collective catching of breath. With Baron-Gracie’s approach to performance resembling that of a ragdoll, the pace slows
and lighters come out. As the genuine fire hazard continues, it’s nice to see the sentiment has been properly received, but all too
quickly, as Noises (a crowd favourite) rings around the walls, the lighters are rapidly swapped for the recording feature of numerous
smartphones, leaving many to witness this track through digital means.
With the closing of the set consisting of Obsession and There’s A Honey, Pale Waves have set the bar high when talking in terms
of electro-pop. They leave the crowd feeling re-energised and filled with hope that a once-proud genre of music may continue to see
a meaningful resurrection. With their melancholy lyrics, yet upbeat and fanciful music, the formula seems to be a winning one among
this young and hungry audience.
Jake Penn / @p3nno
As the smell of dangerously cheap lager and teenage
pheromones lingers in the air, you could be forgiven for
presuming that you have arrived at the wrong address and
found yourself caught up in the middle of a freshers’ week party.
However, the room is not about to be filled with the thumping
basslines that seem to dictate university life, but with the mellow
tones of the UK’s new brand of indie. For a city as culturally rich
as Liverpool, you can, on occasion, be left feeling disheartened by
the poor turnout from the Scouse youth, as if the intangible spark
that has driven these city streets for decades has finally burnt
out.
Yet, it is clear that the Autumn drizzle has not eliminated any
spark here. The next generation of musicians have arrived in their
hordes and the ebb and flow of sonic anticipation is beginning
to circulate. The night boasts an enticing line-up of some of the
county’s most highly praised young acts. As a disciple of these
new artists myself, I await the answers as to why they create
an unusual amount of attraction for a cold Wednesday night in
Liverpool.
Before the main act arrive, the indie-disco cocktail that is THE
ORIELLES take to the stage and begin to explore the depths and
intricacies of their debut album, Silver Dollar Moment. Although
still clearly sticking to a set-list, their performance is lucid. Their
sounds work their way around the room, flowing between the
members of the crowd and whirlpooling towards the centre of
the room where a mosh-pit begins to form. This lively reception
from the audience is testament to the bubbling atmosphere The
Orielles create.
The songs are bustling with tropical static, deconstructed
and then rebuilt, injected with a new layer of infectious energy.
I Only Bought It For The Bottle provides the perfect platform
as the guitar solo is replaced by a wild samba frenzy. The usual
instruments are substituted for cowbells and an apito (samba
whistle), all topped off by a reworked, unstructured version of the
final chorus; it’s an atmospheric swell that engulfs the audience
below. This experimental quality to their live sound, summarised
by the psych-pop outro of Sugar Tastes Like Salt, is captivating
and concocts a colourful vibe, full of alcohol, smiling faces and
flailing limbs. The question that I can’t help thinking is why these
vibrant creations are only deemed worthy of a support slot,
while the indistinguishable songs of THE MAGIC GANG take
precedence.
Having grown up amid the peak of mid-2000s indie, you
would have thought that the four lads from The Magic Gang
would be packed full of youthful, chaotic exuberance – akin
to The Cribs, Arctic Monkeys, even The View. Maybe this is a
northern gaze, but they give the impression that they’ve soaked
up this spirit and pushed it through a London Millennial filter,
appearing on the other side clean, refined, good-looking and kind.
Although their performance is a long shot from the
underground culture of garage and psych that perpetuates the
constant buzz of Liverpool’s music scene, their influence has to
be commended. With their uplifting, sing-along choruses and
their soothing Beatles rendition (featuring in a proper encore)
they have dragged the young people of Liverpool out from their
homes and packed out a sizeable venue. Even though they
lack any definitive edge they may be crucial, playing a part in a
genre that is keeping guitar music alive. Having said this, while
watching them placed next to a band such as The Orielles, I know
which way I would prefer indie to swing in the coming years.
James Booton / @BOOT_MUSIC
REVIEWS 45