LIVE MAGIC!!!

It's been a ruddy good couple of months for them, and things are set to get better, with ATP, Boris, Teeth of the Sea and Ben Frost still to come!

 note: the pictures below are not mine, but are, I believe from the gigs in question

Skream and Benga - Fabric, London; March 19 2010
Boxcutter, Kuedo and others - Corsica Studios, London; April 9 2010

Two club sets just a couple of weeks apart were the perfect introduction for me to the dubstep live experience. I'm glad I was prepared for how loud it would be, especially at Fabric where the pounding drum patterns and sub-sub-bass hit crushing volume levels.

Skream and Benga are the genre's two young superstars, a deserved reputation as they are also two of the most talented producers out there. I do have my reservations about the whole experience, though. Fabric is a pretty vile place, a club "superstore", soulless and brimming with tourists. The average age of the audience must have been 20, making me feel somewhat out of place. To top things off, Skream and Benga didn't come on until 3am, meaning I had to drink my way through the boredom of a number of other, less enthralling performers.

I would like to say it was worth it. Certainly, they are a talented duo, and I loved that they decided to perform side-by-side, taking turns to release their respective riffs and tunes, and supporting each other with much arm-waving to the crowd when not at the decks. But 6 hours is a long time to wait with only inaudible chats with friends and lots of beer as company. Plus, their set was partly spoiled by the irritating presence of a couple of MCs whose only vocal interventions seemed to be to repeat the words "Skream and Bengaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!" ad infinitum. A shame, as both Croydon lads are excellent tunesmiths and when they were flying, the crowd's reaction was unlike any I'd seen in a club, even Berlin's cathedral-like Berghain. Benga was the hero for me, his pounding rhythm tracks setting a monstrous groove under industrial synth lines. But, by the time the set ended at 5 I was weary, and the MCs had driven me to the back of the room to lean against a pillar grumbling into my umpteenth bottle of Budweiser. Still, the experience of seeing hundreds of 20-somethings bouncing up and down to the thudding bass lines of two of of dubsteps most exciting stars was memorable, and proof perhaps that the genre has finally entered the mainstream. Where it goes from here remains a mystery...
The Corsica Studios are an altogether more intimate venue, with two small-ish rooms linked by tunnel-like corridors running under the dingy archways of Elephant & Castle in gloomy South London. A perfect setting for a dubstep evening that was cheap, good-natured and blessed with some amazing music.

I don't remember all the artists I saw, but even those I was unfamiliar with were able to get the young, arty crowd bouncing. I had come to see Boxcutter, whose excellent Oneiric album (Planet Mu, 2006) has been a recent fave of mine, and Kuedo, aka Jamie Vex'd, one half of the sadly now-defunct Vex'd, whose Degenerate (Planet Mu, 2005) remains one of the true must-have dubstep albums. 

Boxcutter's style has evolved notably since Oneiric's IDM-inflected indo-dub, moving towards more house-y synth patterns and graceful pop. For this set he added a live electric bass to his programmed patterns and whilst it didn't always work, lurching into wanky noodling occasion, there were times when it hit a spacey electro groove reminiscent of The Field.

But if Boxcutter was good, Kuedo was amazing, cranking up the volume and the thumping beats and mixing the best of Vex'd's post-industrial dub with the retro synthetic approach that has made Joker and Joy Orbison the new darlings of the UK club scene. Like them, Kuedo's synth riffs evoke a cross-section of 80s and 90s pop culture, from cheesy movies to old skool hip-hop and garage to video game soundtracks. But Kuedo's beats are that much more massive and thumping, whilst heavy basses churn away underneath the mix. Industrial dance at its best, Kuedo is an artist to watch, especially as his new EP Dream Sequence (Planet Mu, 2010) is also excellent.

Lou Reed's Metal Machine Trio - Royal Festival Hall, London, April 19 2010

The Metal Machine Trio's album The Creation of the Universe (Sister Ray Records) was one of the best surprises of 2008 or 2009. Which is not a slight on mister Reed (although his post-Songs for Drella output has been patchy at best), but rather a testament to how exciting, raw and adventurous the new album was. The Creation of the Universe saw Reed crowbar-ing free improv into his own curmudgeonly musical philosophy, delivering something that was unpredictable but concise, noisy but efficient. An essential album, but one that sat uneasily in any category, be it improv, rock or noise. 

So, the news that the RFA's Ether festival was going to give Reed a chance to unleash this particular brand of free "fuck you" on a London audience was quite welcome, and this was not an opportunity to miss. I figured most people would assume it would be a rehashing of Metal Machine Music, his unfairly lambasted noise album from 1975, and one the greatest "fuck you"s an artist has ever addressed to his or her own audience, and therefore steer well clear.


Instead, it seems most of the prats in the auditorium hadn't read the script, hadn't wondered what the "Metal Machine Trio" could possible imply, and had turned up expecting a run-through of hits, from "Perfect Day" to, um, "Walk on the Wild Side". As far as I'm concerned, these middle-aged dipshits got what they deserved. A good 30 minutes of feedback greeted everyone as we filtered our way into the glorious main hall, and already some of the grey-haired biddies around me looked troubled. When their enthusiastic applause at Reed's eventual appearance was drowned out by a wall of guitar feedback, electronic noise and strident sax, most decided, after a few minutes of very Britishly polite consideration, to head en masse for the exit. 


For those of us who stayed it was a true monument to free exploration of sound. The error here would be to expect Reed to play the improv game by the book. No, Lou Reed is Lou Reed, and even when improvising, he controls everything, with his usual sour temper. As such, you could see him bossing electro wizard Sarth Calhoun as to how to pound out his electronic drones, whilst sax genius Ulrich Krieger always deferred to the New Yorker, even when in full squalling flow. And why not? It's Lou Reed, for chrissakes! It's been a while since we were privileged to hear the great man's singular take on feedback virtuosity, and I for one one was enthralled, as rumbling drones made way for high-pitched saturation and then back again. At the end, the aging (he's 68, for fuck's sake) rocker waddled over to the giant gong behind him and gave it a resounding bash that woke up the old man beside me and brought this tumultuous, rapturous set to a close. All I can say is, fuck those dozy cunts that walked out (and I've never seen so many people head for the doors at a gig), and I am glad I got to see a grumpy old fart do what he still does better than most - make a fucking racket!

Iggy and the Stooges + Suicide - Hammersmith Apollo, London, May 3 2010

I think I was probably the only person in the audience who preferred the opening act to the main guys. As part of the interesting "Don't Look Back" series (organised, I believe, by ATP Recordings), Iggy & The Stooges were playing the entirety of their seminal Raw Power album, whilst Suicide would assault us with their complete debut. An evening of pure sonic bliss would surely present itself.

Ah expectations. I'm pretty sure they are the mother of all fuck ups. Which is not to say the gigs weren't great. They were. But maybe after dreaming of this moment for years, those damned expectations were bound to put the cat among the pigeons.

Suicide have the advantage of having a reputation built on a talent for making music difficult for their audiences. When they first appeared in London supporting The Clash, someone threw an ax at them, after all! As such, I was prepared for them to be challenging. I was not expecting it to be so loud, though! It must be kept in mind that Alan Vega and Martin Rev, the pioneering duo that makes up Suicide, are old. Vega is 71! But Rev's thundering drum machine patterns and warped synth noise roared out of the speakers at ear-shattering volume from the off, as they smashed "Ghost Rider", the album's amazing opener into the ground. Vega looked his age in a ludicrous yellow beanie, no longer able to jerk around stage whilst hitting himself in the face with the mic and starting fights with the audience. But he has traded in such antics for the mother of all "fuck you" attitudes, slouching around the stage and growl-shouting his lyrics as his voice is twisted and mauled by ridiculous amounts of reverb. At one pointm in true bastard rock curmudgeon style, he lit a cigarette and smoked it onstage, before apparently getting signalled that he would be in some shit if he didn't stub it out. Not really punk rock, but a nice little bit of grizzled, ageing defiance.

But Rev was surely the star. He barely looked at the audience as he hid his face under weird fluorescent wrap-around shades, instead banging on his fucked-up organ like a petulant two-year-old. It was hugely messy, untamed and the mix was all over the place, but with every pounding thud of electronic percussion I slipped deeper into a woozy swaggering dance, captivated by the duo's monstrous noise. They may no longer have the edginess of yore, but at least they still steadfastedly refuse to play the rock star game, skulking off with barely a glance our way after just 30-odd minutes. One of my friends was suitably outraged at what she heard, and sometimes it's nice to see that music can still incite that kind of anger and bile.

But what of Iggy? I think a lot of it has to do with how I enjoy live music. I no longer have the energy to cram myself into a mosh pit and bounce up and down like a Masai warrior on speed whilst some eijit crowd surfs over my head and the singer jiggles about like a whirling dervish with inner ear problems. These days I much prefer to sit at the back of the hall and observe such shenanigans from afar, which ultimately says a lot more about me than the quality of what's going on onstage. So, let's be clear: Iggy rocks like a motherfucker. He has always trodden the thin line between being ridiculous and being a genius, a feeling that is only reinforced as he nears 65 years of age. But for sheer charisma and never-ending energy, he has few peers, and I was seething with jealousy at the site of his amazingly ripped torso.


My main quibble was with the sound. In a bid to make as much noise as possible, and keep as tight as possible, The Stooges (with James Williamson back on guitar and the groovy Mike Watt in lieu of the late Ron Asheton) cranked up the volume and ultimately sounded a lot more like a thrash metal band than they did even on the super-violent Raw Power. Williamson's steamroller riffs were the main cause for this, with the guitar drowning out everything else and seeming to overpower Scott Asheton's Motown-y drum patterns and the occasional sax bursts from Steve Mackay. For me, songs like "Penetration" and "Gimme Danger" lost a lot of their subtle menace and sly sexuality with such an onslaught, as the over-amped electric guitar replaced the slender acoustic one from the album. Other tracks suffered less, particularly the blit-krieg versions of "Search & Destroy" and "Raw Power", but it spoke volumes for me that the best songs were the ones in the second half the set that were lifted from Fun House (still Iggy and The Stooges' best moment), the in-your-face onslaught becoming something more free-form and jazz-inflected, even at such cacophonous volume. And "I Wanna Be Your Dog" was a beauty as well. Throughout, Iggy Pop was constantly dancing, moving, leaping into the audience and showing his arse, as unfettered and untamed as ever. I may be a bit too old for this kind of show, but he sure as hell isn't, which is perhaps the best thought to retain from a rather intense but slightly anticlimatic evening.