Clocks - All I Can

Clocks are a facsimile of a facsimile of a facsimile. I’m not sure whether they’re aware of this and, if they are, whether they care. They would probably take being described as The View minus all sharp edges as a great compliment. And no, I didn’t think The View had any sharp edges at all either, but you will after listening to All I Can.

Clocks are also, in all likelihood, going to be massive. Only for about the length of one advert break in whatever replaces Popworld, true, but massive nonetheless. This is classic ‘indie’ music-by-boardroom-executive-committee territory, and the only image that every oh-so-calculated chord change and harmonised chorus conjures up is one of a greasy fat man in an ill-fitting suit ripping £5 notes out of the hands of stupefied six-year-olds with sugar-glazed eyes.

Holy Fuck - Amersham Arms 9/11/07

Holy Fuck evidently aren’t concerned with doing things the easy way. Not content with ensuring the near-impossibility of accredited radio play, they’ve signed to Vice Records in the States, that bastion of all that is smug and neon-clad. They probably think wheelchairs are just too ironic, dude. Not scoring too highly on the pre-conception meter then.

But then what is the point of preconceptions if not to be utterly blown away by reality? For it turns out that Holy Fuck are not just deadly serious about their music, their performance, their name even – not a shred of knowing affectation is on display tonight – they might just be one of the most vital bands in existence today.

If this is the age of Neu-Kraut, and it looks like it might be, then Holy Fuck are surely leading the way in constructing the 21st century autobahn on which lesser bandwagons will inevitably ride roughshod. The overpowering live rhythm section lays an exquisite foundation of Neu!-style motorik beat and bass, allowing lead Fucks Graham Walsh and Brian Borcherdt the space to build and loop layer after layer of keyboard and sequencer squall. The vocals are more wisp and trail than anything resembling singing, delayed and fading and floating over the regimented chaos below.

They open with The Pulse, a monstrous blast of Germanic repetition that sets even the jaded scene-it-all Amersham Arms crowd on edge. There is a ferocious intensity about this band on stage, and yet their frowned concentration is counterbalanced by simultaneous involuntary dancing. This is electronic music, yes, but it feels like real live, human music, and it is. Holy Fuck only ever improvise around their songs on stage, there is no backing track grid hindering expression here, and they are all the better for it.

Storming versions of Frenchy’s and Royal Gregory follow, transforming the floor into a living and breeding mass of movement and spilt drinks, until the climax of the night is reached in spectacular fashion with the rising strings of the Final Fantasy-sampling Lovely Allen. A break-down and build-up that Godspeed would be proud of, a violin line of such tenderness that only mid-90s Spiritualised could match and an emotional punch that Sigor Ros can only dream of these days; then they’re off, unplugging and packing up their own equipment as they go. Holy Fuck – that was good. And not a neon keffiyeh in sight.

The Nightjars - Towards Light

OK, The Nightjars…I'm afraid I must 'fess up and admit I lost their CD barely minutes after I received it. I know, professional. So this review is based solely on the four tracks on their myspace, which as luck would have it also appear on Towards Light, their debut 7-track EP. I'll have to give them the benefit of the doubt about the other three – you surely can't fit that much filler on a 7 track CD anyway, can you?

So here we are then, aping the A+R hordes and judging a band on Mr Murdoch's compressed-to-hell output. Nice banner, by the way lads. You've definitely got the 'we're moody and from Manchester' thing down pat, although I'm not quite sure how a badly burned Preston from the Ordinary Boys got in on the side…

Good lot of influences too, although as always the danger of setting the 'compare us!' bar way too high is ever present. Note to self: when a band proclaim to be 'influenced by Sonic Youth' they invariably mean 'we heard Teen Age Riot once and didn't mind it too much, actually'.

Lead track You Set Me Reeling sets off with a sprightly La's-esque chiming arpeggio and rolls along nicely, the chorus shifting the song up a gear or two before the interweaving guitars return and bring it to a close. It's nice. But it's nice in the 'yes, I'll have a Rich Tea, that would be lovely. But are you sure there's no Ginger Nuts left, though?' kind of way. The vocals don't help – there's something very popular-kid-at-school-discovers-indie-five-years-after-everyone-else about them, and you just know if you could hear the lyrics more clearly, the cringing would be involuntary. In fact, on MDMA, you can hear them – "I'm in love with this city/My girlfriend's so pretty, pretty". Yeah, and I bet she's the Netball captain as well.

No Kicks is the highlight, a droning, gothic Chameleons-tinged brute of a song that demonstrates the band's potential if they keep a tight leash on the singer and let the guitarists take the brunt of the work. In fact, it almost makes me wish I hadn't lost the CD. Almost.
6/10

Slow Club - Me and You

Yeah, I've started doing some proper reviews. Oh, the humanity.


Slow Club should be AWFUL. Irritatingly good-looking pair of teenagers play skiffle-flecked tweepop with water-filled bottles and a chair filling in for drums, all wrapped up in the ever-dreaded 'kooky' lyrics…gah, it makes you want to leap into a cauldron of treacle to wash away the cloying saccharinity that immediately sticks to your clothes just looking at the front cover.

Unfortunately, it turns out that Me and You is actually bloody brilliant. The press release pushes for White Stripes comparisons – woah, the girl plays drums! – but that does Slow Club a disservice. Yes, there's hints of rockabilly here and washboard bass there, but this is not a song that looks longingly over its shoulder at the 1950s solely for fear of turning round and facing the front of today.

The lyrics are more Neutral Milk Hotel surreal than Jack White's 'I wish I was a baby' schtick. And the music refuses to sit still for a moment, it hops around the song's 101 different parts with barely concealed joy. Then they stick a grown-up school choir in at the end. A whole gig of this might well reraise the punchability quotient, but in small doses they're more than let off.