Its a dark, cold and foggy night out, and inside its warm, low key and friendly. Uncle Brendan is somewhere at the back fiddling with sound levels, and the cute new barmaid is serving with a smile.
On stage, the first act, playing guitar with an array of effects pedles and drum + bass machine backing is the cartoonist known as Rob Miller, tonight known as Telemachus. He bares a striking resemblance to the comic book character Elexender Brown. This gig looks like one of his strips, achingly honest, like we can see inside his head, looking out his eyes. When he played the Tchai Ovna a few months back I wasn't convinced, but tonight the man is an artist, every nuance, every reverb and guitar jangle, the slow pace and epic tones, carefully crafted, even the slightly too quiet vocals, supposed to be that way. He seems far away, but the music is so loud, and vaguely dischordant.
The set ends unexpectedly, jarring even, he wouldn't have it any other way.
Nathan Persad is if MJ Hibbett discovered boogie, songs about lifestyle changes cos of new girlfriends, dedicated to Maggie Broon, songs co-written with Adam Plimpton.
Do I mention him in every review? Quite possibly, I ought to cut down on that. But not tonight, he's curated and arranged all this and the Littlest Album 3. Why does he do it? Why do I do it? Banging my head against the cell door like I'm Leland Palmer or something. Why can't I stop? What am I expecting from Glasgow Indie Eyespy, Last Night from Glasgow, manc_ill_kid, The Plimptons, Ivan Lendil Music, The Wolfknuckles, Shag Times, One Big Snog, SchaudenFreude, Somewhere in The Sun, any of this? The futile hope that some girl from far away will look up and remember and pick up the phone, all forgiven? Wouldn't it be easier to pick up the phone or ring the doorbell myself, rather than spraying this across the nation, half-hearted wank if anything. Maybe that's why she's so far away, and I'm left here dreaming of things that never were, aren't and never will be. This will never work out, I'll always be feeling my way through a fog of choking emotions and deluded beliefs. I am Francesco Petrarca with a 407 mile long conveyor belt of Lauras. Under the sunshine can't I just tell her the way I feel? or would that shatter everything?
And why's it always dead sheep?
The room's slowly filling up, forty paying customers at the 1 hour point.
Someone near the bar says (about Nathan) "This sounds like Johnathan Richman"
Looking at the expression on Adam's face, its clear how wrong I am about his motives. Sheer, unadulterated glee.
Nathan's enjoying himself, pwning hecklers, he's a natural entertainer, given the opportunity to entertain and spread a little happiness.
Time passes
I doubt anyone could sound warmer or fuzzier than Tom Snowball and if I were a girl about whom he'd written a song, my heart would melt. Elements of Americana on the vocals I guess, on reflection sounds like a stripped down Decemberists, deep resonance from the guitar, audience talking loudly.
Time passes
Once again, its Only Joe Kane, onstage alone with backing mp3s, so its like a whole band. The audience, pre-programmed, holler after each song.
The only act tonight playing with a full band are Murnie, drums, keyboards and guitar. Sounding rather rock tonight, a lilting Dire Straits.
They have an old school music stand for lyrics and sweet noodly keyboards which doesn't quite gel with the harsh guitar.
Showing posts with label Joe Kane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joe Kane. Show all posts
Saturday, 28 April 2007
Thursday, 26 April 2007
The Gems, Joe Kane - Out to Play - Brel
Stagger in, halfway through the first act's set, after watching Laura Palmer's killer confess all on DVD, sure, we saw it coming, the evil that men do and all that, but there's still three discs of episodes to watch and all that business with the blue rose to address.
The place was kind of half full, the weather's braw so there are crowds outside. I must be about two thirds through the best years of my life and instead of talking to any of the beautiful women the weather brought out, I'm in here, scribbling in a notebook and trying to justify my review slates to Joe Kane. Maybe I can just awkward him out.
The guys with guitars at the front are too nice, too polite with their banter and song introductions. Jolly and forgettable.
This place reminds me of The Ceilidh Place in Ullapool, family holidays when I was real young, tonight is a night of regressing. God help me, I'm drowning in inescapable misplaced regret and strangling bitterness.
I'm not sure where I saw it, but Joe Kane was billed tonight as being a "local indie hero". It stands up, first with The Stunts who I understand played the Barrowlands, then with The Owsley Sunshine for many years. Was it three or four years ago they did The Owsley Sunshine Sub-Crawlin' thing, stopping for a pint at every underground station, finishing at the 13th Note for an epic gig. I'd caught up with them first at The Captain's Rest, first time I'd met most of that crowd. Vague drunken memories of Dom Newton getting kicked out of The Big Blue for playing the blues, rescuing Adam Plimp from leaping onto the underground tracks at Kelvinbridge and losing track of everyone at Brel.
Crumbs, somethings never change.
With the release of Watermelon, their third album, a year ago and the addition of a few more members, The Owsley Sunshine kind of discombobulated into a handful of bands, The Likes of Use, The Fast Camels, The Getset Go, and Only Joe Kane.
Ah, some chap called Beggan has hit the stage. They'd been billed as The Gems. My affection here pre-dates the mighty 'Sunch. Almost a decade ago, my favourite local band were Sound Buggy, playing King Tuts supporting tours almost every week.
They had a single called Lovelord with the b-sides, Another Emotion and Droppin' Out. I recorded me a cover of Droppin' Out the other week. I think Sound Buggy split in 2000. I'd accost their bass player, dreadlocked Tommy, in the street, regularly, and he explained that some of them were in a band called The Gems. So tonight, on stage, its just Eddie Beggan.
There's a lot of pop trying to escape from behind the acoustic guitar, you could hear it pleading in his voice, neat guitar work. He finished up with a cover of New Order's Blue Monday.
Joe Kane on stage, certain stabbing qualities to the guitar and vocals, from soft whispers to stabby vitriolic howls. Foot stomp percussion. His sixties, Kinksy, Beatles, Moody Blues, Orgone Box roots disolved and pwned as his own, the room is held enraptured. The hooks, riffs and nods are warm, fuzzy and familiar, much like his beard.
The place was kind of half full, the weather's braw so there are crowds outside. I must be about two thirds through the best years of my life and instead of talking to any of the beautiful women the weather brought out, I'm in here, scribbling in a notebook and trying to justify my review slates to Joe Kane. Maybe I can just awkward him out.
The guys with guitars at the front are too nice, too polite with their banter and song introductions. Jolly and forgettable.
This place reminds me of The Ceilidh Place in Ullapool, family holidays when I was real young, tonight is a night of regressing. God help me, I'm drowning in inescapable misplaced regret and strangling bitterness.
I'm not sure where I saw it, but Joe Kane was billed tonight as being a "local indie hero". It stands up, first with The Stunts who I understand played the Barrowlands, then with The Owsley Sunshine for many years. Was it three or four years ago they did The Owsley Sunshine Sub-Crawlin' thing, stopping for a pint at every underground station, finishing at the 13th Note for an epic gig. I'd caught up with them first at The Captain's Rest, first time I'd met most of that crowd. Vague drunken memories of Dom Newton getting kicked out of The Big Blue for playing the blues, rescuing Adam Plimp from leaping onto the underground tracks at Kelvinbridge and losing track of everyone at Brel.
Crumbs, somethings never change.
With the release of Watermelon, their third album, a year ago and the addition of a few more members, The Owsley Sunshine kind of discombobulated into a handful of bands, The Likes of Use, The Fast Camels, The Getset Go, and Only Joe Kane.
Ah, some chap called Beggan has hit the stage. They'd been billed as The Gems. My affection here pre-dates the mighty 'Sunch. Almost a decade ago, my favourite local band were Sound Buggy, playing King Tuts supporting tours almost every week.
They had a single called Lovelord with the b-sides, Another Emotion and Droppin' Out. I recorded me a cover of Droppin' Out the other week. I think Sound Buggy split in 2000. I'd accost their bass player, dreadlocked Tommy, in the street, regularly, and he explained that some of them were in a band called The Gems. So tonight, on stage, its just Eddie Beggan.
There's a lot of pop trying to escape from behind the acoustic guitar, you could hear it pleading in his voice, neat guitar work. He finished up with a cover of New Order's Blue Monday.
Joe Kane on stage, certain stabbing qualities to the guitar and vocals, from soft whispers to stabby vitriolic howls. Foot stomp percussion. His sixties, Kinksy, Beatles, Moody Blues, Orgone Box roots disolved and pwned as his own, the room is held enraptured. The hooks, riffs and nods are warm, fuzzy and familiar, much like his beard.
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