Stand-Up Review: What Is Love, Anyway?

Richard Herring is a sweetie. There's simply no denying it. He may have stood on stage and delighted in the vulgar and sophmoric in "AIOTM", or tormented comedy partners with sick imagery and a sicker brain. He's still a sweetie. His new show "What Is Love, Anyway?" is a triumph, or rather I expect it will be - since I've only see the (very polished) preview. Despite it's unfinished nature, it was the best stand-up set I've had the pleasure of seeing. You might say I'm biased since I'm a long time fan girl -I even own a t-shirt, but last night I put down my wine, listened and felt deeply touched. Not like that.

What is love, anyway? Howard Jones says it's leaving room for doubts, other songwriters tell you that despite the dark night, the heartbreak, the physical abuse, the cheating or otherwise hell to pay, that some people muster up a love so intense, so pure that it can endure any attack no matter how atrocious. People are immortalised by their love - or fossilised by it. Finally the bible comes along and defines a kind of love so bloody blissful that it is nigh on unattainable and if you had it, well you'd probably be bored.

Love is not boastful, love is kind, it is not arrogant nor rude - all of which seems to be at odds with Herring's on-stage persona of a juvenile bombast, delighting in the moronic. When one thinks of Richard Herring the first thing that comes to mind ridiculer of the offensive and champion of the absurd. Though he has presented a softer side before, both in his delightful and long running blog Warming-Up and in the reflective "Headmaster's Son".

In "What Is Love, Anyway?" Herring purports a rationalist perspective; love is as ridiculous a belief as religion. Faith in soul mates, in moonlit walks and hands held tightly, is all just as foolish. It the hands of a less skilful comic, the show could easily become the same bitter rant that's been spewed at bartenders through the ages. It never does. Instead "What Is Love, Anyway?" skilfully blends the pitfalls and absurdity of romance; it's never mawkish, nor wistful, nor is it overly cynical or cruel. The humour is keen, personal and utterly beguiling. You leave needing to think on about Herring's observations, not because they're so quotable, nor because of the unexpected tenderness flourished at the end, but because the jaunty pace and blithe delivery mask unexpected wisdom.

The show hits the highest peak of comedy, it is both funny and astute. It does not lecture, it does not harrange. It is quick to laugh at the foibles of human nature and sniggers at delusions. Like the Apostle Paul, Herring it seems, trusts, hopes, perseveres (even when he claims otherwise), but later laughs heartily.

Well worth a look. Go, go, flock in your droves.

Cider, Parks and the Creeping Sensation of Sunburn

The Lure of the Possibilities of Summer ... Aber Almost Looks Nice

Matt Pond PA were one of the first bands I found courtesy of the sparkly new technology of the interweb, with its “www’s”, mp3s and other … modern things. Back in the dark age of dial-up. Back before google had become a verb when rickets still roamed the Earth. If I remember rightly Polyvinyl Records were offering some free tracks of Saturday Looks Good to Me - least I think they were free, surely everything was back in those halcyon days; free or bartered for with pigs. Anyway, since Matt Pond PA were part of the same stable and also (very probably) free I gave them a go.

I’ve a soft spot for the band. Matt Pond, now located over at Altitude, ticks along with a myriad of chums who come and go like ships in the night. Generally Pond et al, create gentle indie of a wishy-washy nature; expansive yet at odds with Pond’s frailty. Don’t get me wrong, it’s (thankfully) nowhere near Conor ‘here’s-a-tissue, give-it-a-good-hard-blow’ Oberst’s intense wail, but there’s the same time there's a similar crunched up awkwardness; Pond oscillates between nervy hand-wringer and dreamy tree-hugger. At worst it’s just pleasant background music but at best it’s ridiculously catchy, or apt to tweak the corners of your mouth upwards. It also fits well with the sunshine.

Which brings me to my point; the nice weather dictated a playthrough of 2010’s ‘The Dark Leaves’ in its entirety; I really rather enjoyed it. Whilst it's neither bursting with originality or tenderness, Dark Leaves is however good at what it does; with a nature element that makes one feel almost out-doorsy. It's the musical equivalent of a hand crafted wooden kitchen table, one whose burns and spill stains only make it seem all the more homely and loved. Dark Leaves is gentle but solid, and I’m recommending Matt Pond PA as the perfect accompaniment to cider, picnics in parks and the creeping sensation of sunburn.

• New Hampshire - Emblems,2004
• Ruins - The Dark Leaves, 2010
• Possibilities of Summer - Deer Apartments, 1998

With Blasphemy So Heartfelt, And Tired

Not A Happy Bunny.

Jessica Lea Mayfield may look like a wee country poppet, but her songs are as weighty as an apathetic partner forced to waltz. At 23 she's a veritable connoisseur of misery - all perfectly okay for bluesy country, especially as there isn't a trace of bad teenage poetry, emotional aggrandisement, nor a misplaced quest for empathy. The girl is just plain miserable. She's not happy being sad; she just is.

She's also just released a new EP, 'Tell Me', but I'm behind the times and still caught up with 2008's 'With Blasphemy So Heartfealt'. 'Blasphemy...' is a break-up album that hits all the right notes and won't spare a single one extra. The sparsity of each track reigns in mawkish tendencies, and the sullen delivery is strangely evocative, despite its detachment. This is an album of lyrics churned from nights spent with eyes fixed upon a spot on the wall, and where fleeting western skies can be found in a few chords.

All in all, it's impressively bitter. The only problem is that listening to the whole thing in one go feels like being beaten over the head with a brick by someone who consistently sounds too bored by their own anger to care. However taken in little pieces it's a beautiful broken necklace of an album with gems that are burnished brightly. Mayfield is a talented soul, and one I suspect will be accompanying my night whiskies for some time to come.

• Jessica Lea Mayfield, Blasphemy So Heartfelt - Kiss Me Again
• Jessica Lea Mayfield, Blasphemy So Heartfelt - I Can't Lie To You
• Jessica Lea Mayfield, Blasphemy So Heartfelt - Bible Days

Lived in Bars and Danced On Tables

It's late and I'm wistful. Circumstances that are far from mutually exclusive, though it's usually thanks to whisky that the two dance to their private waltz. There's nothing like living in a bottle.

Which brings me to Cat Power's 'Lived In Bars'. The last song of the night for the drinker who's up way bedtime and reached far, far beyond Darien's peak. At least until the beat kicks in.

Always stay for one last drink. That's when the interesting things happen.

• Lived In Bars - Cat Power, The Greatest

Still Corners - The Musical Equivalent of Floaty Sleeves

Another beautiful spring Sunday; blue skies, birds, squinting whilst muttering about lost sunglasses (left in a pub). It can mean only one thing; time to pull shut the velvet curtains, maintain my consumptive pallour (not to mention vitamin D deficiency) and wither away in bitter darkness, but all whilst listening to sunshine songs.

Still Corners recently signed to Sub Pop where they're currently slogging away on an upcoming album that should be out in time for summer. The band makes 'dream-pop', aka music that sound wispy/ethereal and is this case comes with with heavy organ usage; it's melodic, but too skewed to be wholesome. Imagine the tunes playing in Christopher Lee's head when he's gadding about in that Wicker Man wig; all flowers and nature one minute and then virgin sacrifices the next. Got it? Lord Summerisle's internal soundtrack -that's them.

Not that that's bad thing! Still Corners's first self produced album 'Remember Pepper' is intriguing and eerily tranquil; a 1960s dream of smoke and silent waters, though like the sticky drips of a melting mivvy it can be a bit too much of a good thing. However their last EP 'Endless Summer' is a haunting ball of fuzzy noise and reverberating drums, packing a hidden punch and boding well for the upcoming album. It may be a hazy summer love-affair brought on my the shimmer of the sun, but right now they're definitely worth a listen.

• Endless Summer - Still Corners

Brighton Rocks

Hullo!

Bloody hell it's been a long time; a long, long time; a long, long, long, long time. A long, long, long, long ... ahem, enough of that! Thanks to the friendly folk who emailed to ask if I was dead. I'm not. So, aside from listening to too much Josh Ritter (you can never have too much, never), hating Aberystwyth with the fire of a thousand suns, collecting evesdropped beauts like "real zombies shuffle" and bemoaning being old, what do I have to offer you?

Well, to ease myself back into the swing of things, I'll start with a wee band called The Blue Hearts. Confusingly there happens to be two sets of Blue Hearts, one was Japanese punk outfit and the other is a Brighton purveyor of self proclaimed 'neon rock'. Unlike most irritatingly titled music sub-catagorisiations 'neon rock' comes with a handy little definition that one suspects was scribbled on a beermat; an "eclectic mix of brash rock n roll tones steeped in the sexuality of a down-town late night speakeasy". Yes, well.

The Blue Hearts have been around in one incarnation or another since the early 90s. The front man, Bob Powell sounds eerily like better adjusted Nick Cave, whilst the music rings with echoes upon echoes of nostalgia; solid rock 'n' roll hooks of simpler times, but with typical three piece rhythms enriched by Sue Bradley's violin.

The latest album title 'Jukebox of Maladies' may put you in mind of a pic'n'mix of venereal diseases, but it's a hearty listen of extreme reverence to mythologised rock and roll. Influences lie heavily but each song never quite tips into tribute or wholesale imitation. The whole record is undoubtedly loving made and it is a thing of quality - old fashioned but certainly not without style.

You can bop a bit to it too.

Snake Oil Sam - The Blue Hearts, Jukebox of Maladies

Jukebox of Maladies - The Blue Hearts, Jukebox of Maladies

And One Guy Played a Saw

A busy weekend has passed leaving bruises, a bad back and worries of impending hypothermia as souvenirs. I swear a solemn oath to the stars above to never, never go to a festival ever again. Never... though I seem to remember saying that last time.

A few years ago the Electric Picnic went badly wrong; the bands were brilliant and atmosphere great, but thanks to an overly enthusiastic night in Dublin (and the need to buy wellies) I found myself picking coins from the floor, pitifully trying to garner enough to buy food to go with my free samples of iced tea (like tea but cooler). Four years on; I'm older and wiser (and I own wellies). Four years on and I was determined my Electric Picnic would be foolproof: ney, it would be nothing short of triumphant! Waterproofs, camping stove for morning brew, air beds for old bones, sun screen, anti-histamines, enough plasters to bandage a mummy, eye masks, ear plugs, warm clothes, sunny skirts... the list of was endless, it would make everything perfect - and I took it all, as my now strained back can testify.

And yet it still went wrong - I forgot to pack a spare tent.

To say the tent leaked gives the impression of the odd few drops tattooing an unwelcome wake-up call on a partied out sleeper. The tent did not leak - the tent streamed water in order to give a reproduction exact in its verisimilitude to the lashing storm outside. There was no sleep, no sleep at all, only sopping wet sleeping bags, drenched clothes, floating air-beds and hunched figures huddling over a dying lamp holding umbrellas in what was technically indoors. I blame Dublin Gospel Choir and their quite frankly unnecessary, though funky, prayers for rain earlier on the Sunday. And the tent. I hate that tent. And I hate the bus that made me late for my flight back; so late in fact that I had to fork over more precious euros for the pleasure of waiting 8 hours in Dublin airport in bone-chillingly wet clothes, getting steadily drunk, sleep deprived and maniacal.

As for the Picnic itself, well, it's changed a lot; the crowd is now young, drunk, and not too interested in music, or maybe I'm old, grumpy and fed up of being barged into by festival zombies smacked out on the thrill of underage booze and cigarettes. It did seem a shame to be surrounded by solipsistic youngsters, flush with a sense of self-entitlement, wrists wrapped in special wristbands denoting access to the poshest camp sites that their parents' money could buy; most of whom were content to swig jelly shots and scream at each other rather than listen.

It wasn't all bad though; alongside the youth, the poets trying out sex noises as performance pieces, fire-dancing hippies and the over-priced cartons of noodles there were still some decent acts; I wouldn't have missed Seasick Steve's gurning or Marc Almond putting his heart and soul into his set for the world. Not to mention the sheer joy of looking on as a 55 piece orchestra was upstaged by a spoon wielding tramp, though oddly enough he wasn't advertised in the line-up.

The outstanding band was undoubtedly The Low Anthem; easily one of the most impressive and diverse musical outfits I've seen for a good long while. Their second album, the self-released 'Oh My God Charlie Darwin' drew high praise, signings with the Nonsuch and Bella Union labels, wider re-release and then even more critical acclaim and as much wealth, sex and beardcare products as the band could want. Not content to rest on these laurels Ben, Jeff, Jocie and Matt have also been touring heavily, including some new material rumored to be from a forthcoming album, currently somewhere in the works.

The band is unashamedly talented, with members frequently swapping between the harmonium, oboe, drums, mobile phones, "singing" saws and some weird bell like contraption (crotales - thank you wiki), whilst blending their voices in perfect folky harmony. There wasn't a single trace of the ennui that seems to riddle other indie-folk bands, you know, the ones where members project so much artful disaffection that they can't even to be bothered to sing their own turgid songs.

The Low Anthem played like they meant every minute, their songs rang clear with skill and care, whilst Jocie Adams' voice couldn't be more beautiful if it tried. Also, one band member looked a lot like an incredibly smiley Asian Robert Winston, which was just the icing on an already very well iced cake. Highlights included the post-apocolyptic, but "now performed as a love song" 'Ticket Taker' and 'This God Damned House' accompanied with melodic mobile phone feedback.

The gig was a tad spoiled by the dull bass of the stupidly positioned 'Electric Arena' stage, and by the brusque time-keeping due to the damn schedule. Still, if I should die of galloping influenza it'll all have been worth it thanks to these tip-top folks. I'll be seeing them again as soon as I can. Assuming of course that the galloping influenza thing doesn't happen....

Have a wee listen...

• 'The Horizon is a Beltway'
• 'The Ticket Taker'