Low Brown Danny Anthem Extravolanza

The Low Anthem, Thekla, 15/11/16

Sentiments of sibilant sentences sent
To sentient sentinels etcetera
That doesn’t mean anything at all
It’s just clever words put together
In a carefully unaffected order.

My ears hurt.

Goodnight.

The above occurred to me in the first ten minutes or so of this show, which included (from the stage, not from me) a typewriter, spoken word, bird calls, other animal noises, ambient noise, a gong and three band members arsing about with various definition-stretching types of music, while the other band member sat typing away and speaking at the same time.  The typewriter was amplified as well, to give the full effect.

Then there were some songs, most of which were fairly gentle, in an odd sort of way, like most of The Low Anthem’s recorded music.  There was a pump organ, guitars (sometimes two), bass, violin, trumpet, synths, drums, drum machines.  The drummer seemed to be looking for unusual places to hit on his kit. 

There was a noisy rendition of one of my favourites, Boeing 737. 

The above is all true, but doesn’t convey what it was like to be there for this show.  I wrote the above notes in hurried, mis-spelled text on a phone in the toilet, near the end, but I’d thought of it right near the beginning.

They were noisy for a band described by most reviews as alt. folk, and/or Americana (not by this review, mark you.  This review/er wouldn’t describe anything as alt anything.  “Alt” is short for “alternative”, isn’t it?  I don’t like it.  Even before its recent association with a particular brand of dangerous, crazy racism in the US.  Fro which is it also not really appropriate). 

Cacophony!  From noise, beautyThat’s another note I made in an attempt to remember what it was like to witness this thing.

The end of the set was Dream Killer, off the back of some noisy Mono-style postrock freakout improvisation.  (Some of which I missed, being in the toilet, making the above notes before hurrying back.  We were right down the front for most of it, before that, but when I came back I watched from further back.  The sound was better, but the experience wasn’t as good.  Right down the front, the noisy stuff hurt my ears at times, just a little bit.  It really added something, I think.  I felt more involved with it.)  Each of the constituent parts were cool, but the whole thing was way greater than the sum of its parts, just like a good band always is.

This whole show was fucking astonishing.

It was like a live rendering of the new album – but better than recording; not song-for-song, but overall.  There was some old stuff, some noise, some quiet, some weirdness, some ethereal beauty, some straight nice songs.  It had everything, and it all just seemed to make perfect sense as a piece.  It was performance art more than it was a band playing some of their songs. 

I thought, the end was perfect, and them some people were chanting for an encore, in a way that made little sense to me, at the time.  It would be like asking for an encore of a play, I thought – what   are they supposed to do, act out the best scene again?  I said to MAccy B, “Do we really need an encore – after that finish?”

And then they came back on and mucked about with microphones and stands for a few minutes and all stood at the front of the stage and sang Charlie Darwin, with just an acoustic guitar accompanying and I realised I was terribly wrong and all the people chanting were right,  It was beautiful.  (It’s another of my favourites.)  Well, fair enough then.

And then they played Bird On A fucking Wire.  I was not prepared for that, emotionally.  Again, it was just a guitar and all four of the band singing away, barely bothering with the mics.  By that time I was back down the front, so I could hear them anyway, as loud as I could hear myself and everyone else around me.  That’s community, isn’t it?  It was uplifting and quite sad at the same time.  Melancholy.  Like all the best art.  Like all the best art, it made us a community, of sorts, for a brief period, and then finished and prodded us gently back to the real world to decide how to act, having experienced that.

“Like a drunk in a midnight choir….
I have tried, in my way,
To be free.”

Perfect.

Danny Brown, Marble Factory, 18/11/16

And then, on Friday night, I headed to The Marble Factory to see Danny Brown.  It was alright.

Maccy B treated me to dinner beforehand (it was very good indeed, since you ask.  Lasagne, if you must know.  His Mrs made it, truth be told.)

When we arrived, the support act was in full swing, even though it was early: he’s a very confident young man with a high voice…he’s camper than the average rapper; but then, so is Danny B, as everyone points out – and they’re right.)

“Like Danny B but not as good” Ratman had said on the phone on the way, and he was right.

The Kids are lovin it, mind.  Friday night, yeah? Woo-hooo!
The rapper breaks off to sing Happy Birthday to his Mum on the phone – she’s off to see Mary J Blige. 
“My Momma loooooove Mary J. Blige….”
I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’d rather be watching Mary J., but….actually, I probably would.  What this fella lacks in songs, he makes up for in energy.  He makes space for a mosh pit, and gets right in the middle of it.

It’s a very mixed crowd – there is more diversity of age, style, race and gender than I’ve seen at many Hip Hop shows.  Danny B himself is enjoyable, but a lot of the entertainment comes from the audience as much as from the stage; Maccy B tells me his worst fears are confirmed – that Brown’s high, raspy voice grates over the heavy bass.  Hard to disagree, but for me the issue is that I’ve never been sure how much I like the music; having seen it, I’m still not sure.  I probably wouldn’t pay a hefty ticket price to see him again.

H-Bomb sends dispatches from the front: “It’s mad down there. I felt so old.”

What a pleasure it was to be alive – but to be old!  Very heaven.

Ratty is right, as ever – it’s a fucking liberty:  “Four quid a can, get ‘em in, get ‘em out for the club might after.  Bit shit innit.”  It is indeed, old friend.  I won’t recycle my well-worn arguments (you’re welcome), but it is just too early for a Friday night gig with so much energy to be all over by ten. 

“Raise your skinny fist like antennae to heaven!”  Says H-Bomb, in reference to something I didn’t quite catch – before providing the invaluable Public Service of telling us what’s on at The Stag...

Olanza, Stag & Hounds, 18/11/16

A few of us make it to the second gig of the night.

Olanza are heavier than some of the postrock bands I like.  But I like them.  A lot.

For the sake of keeping the Review pretense going: they are a 3-piece band, composed of 2 guitarists and a drummer.  The drummer is a personal friend, and a real Punisher.  Whatever has made him angry, he has taken it out on the drums.  He is not an angry man; perhaps because of this handy outlet.

As I say, it’s more heavy than intricate but still some really good double guitar stuff (This is descending, isn’t it?  No proper review would ever say “really good”, would it?).  If you twisted my arm behind me back and kept twisting until it snapped in an effort to get a standard soundalike soundbite like the Proper Reviews have….I’d let you break my arm.  And then write on my cast that they sound a wee bit like Mogwai. 
The point is, they’re really good.

My ears hurt.

Goodnight.

“But I swear, by this song – and by that I have done wrong
I will try to make it all up to thee.”