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ventaWell, having been at Whitby listening to bands all weekend, I trundled merrily down the M1... and went to a gig.
By way of a teaser for Latitude later in the year, some of the smaller bands on the bill are touring round the country at the moment.
Paris Motel
Paris Motel were bottom of the bill, but they were the band I was really there to see. They have a bit of a shifting line-up, but were nine-strong on Monday. Having arranged themselves on stage, the broke into the a cappella track which opens their latest EP. I like unaccompanied harmony singing, and there I was sitting in my nice red velvet seat in a neat little theatre. It was all terribly civilised.
Amy May fronts Paris Motel, a tall, slender violinist with a dark, gentle voice and jangly bracelets on her ankles. Main backing vocals are provided by the bassist who clearly would very much like to be in a metal band with long hair and ripped jeans, but has agreed to be put into a suit and play nicely with a nice band. The drummer is part Muppet, throwing himself around the kit and executing strange spinning twiddles of the drumsticks between beats. The remainder of the people on stage are quiet and well-behaved, contributing keyboards, violin, viola, flute and cor anglais.
They have an elegant, sophisticated sound which is better suited to a theatre than to a scummy club. Some of the melodies are beautiful and quirky, others sound like an Anglicised Nick Cave, all haunting and scary.
Alberta Cross
I thought Alberta Cross was going to be a her, but it turned out to be a them. Four blokes, who are apparently from London but sound like they've sprung straight out of psychedelic seventies America. I felt like I would have liked them if only the singer hadn't been partly descended from a cheesegrater. He had a high, piercing voice that made me phsyically wince at times.
They had good stuff going for them - Hammond organs are always good, and the guitar playing was nice - but it just didn't quite come together enough to be interesting. According to me, anyway. Lots of other people seemed to be whooping and cheering. Maybe they like cheesegraters.
Angus and Julia Stone
These two wandered on stage, looking like refugees from some sixties folk revival. They both picked up guitars, and Julia - long black dress, long hair, alice band - wandered up to the mic to sing. The voice that came out nearly made me leap out of my seat. It sounded like a little girl's impression of a witch, and the clawing hands and gasping that accompanied the opening song (of a rather bunny-boiler-sounding lost love) convinced me that she was deranged.
By the second song her voice had settled down into a Björk-like breathiness, that is to say merely bloody weird instead of absolutely terrifying. Later, they were joined on stage by a drummer and a bassist, and I found myself actually rather enjoying the set. The rhythmic backing provided a good drive, and the songs were interesting melodically, if lyrically a bit stereotypical in places.
They're certainly interesting and, while I wouldn't go out of my way to seek them, I'd be happy to hear them again. Incidentally, the interweb tells me they're siblings, which is weird because on stage they seemed very much like a couple.
Findlay Brown
Yorkshire bloke in hat sings soulfully and plays guitar. I've read reviews of this guy, and don't quite get it. He's got a nice voice. He's a good guitarist. The songs are... well, there, to be honest. Everything seemed perfectly pleasant, but I couldn't get hold of anything to mark him out as different from a million and one other guitar-playing singer/songwriters.
His drummer (who has an interestingly minimalist approach - foot-operated bass drum, tambourine and shaky egg) and bassist provide backing vocals, which had some cool harmonies. But overrall... well, they get nice enough out of ten.
By way of a teaser for Latitude later in the year, some of the smaller bands on the bill are touring round the country at the moment.
Paris Motel
Paris Motel were bottom of the bill, but they were the band I was really there to see. They have a bit of a shifting line-up, but were nine-strong on Monday. Having arranged themselves on stage, the broke into the a cappella track which opens their latest EP. I like unaccompanied harmony singing, and there I was sitting in my nice red velvet seat in a neat little theatre. It was all terribly civilised.
Amy May fronts Paris Motel, a tall, slender violinist with a dark, gentle voice and jangly bracelets on her ankles. Main backing vocals are provided by the bassist who clearly would very much like to be in a metal band with long hair and ripped jeans, but has agreed to be put into a suit and play nicely with a nice band. The drummer is part Muppet, throwing himself around the kit and executing strange spinning twiddles of the drumsticks between beats. The remainder of the people on stage are quiet and well-behaved, contributing keyboards, violin, viola, flute and cor anglais.
They have an elegant, sophisticated sound which is better suited to a theatre than to a scummy club. Some of the melodies are beautiful and quirky, others sound like an Anglicised Nick Cave, all haunting and scary.
Alberta Cross
I thought Alberta Cross was going to be a her, but it turned out to be a them. Four blokes, who are apparently from London but sound like they've sprung straight out of psychedelic seventies America. I felt like I would have liked them if only the singer hadn't been partly descended from a cheesegrater. He had a high, piercing voice that made me phsyically wince at times.
They had good stuff going for them - Hammond organs are always good, and the guitar playing was nice - but it just didn't quite come together enough to be interesting. According to me, anyway. Lots of other people seemed to be whooping and cheering. Maybe they like cheesegraters.
Angus and Julia Stone
These two wandered on stage, looking like refugees from some sixties folk revival. They both picked up guitars, and Julia - long black dress, long hair, alice band - wandered up to the mic to sing. The voice that came out nearly made me leap out of my seat. It sounded like a little girl's impression of a witch, and the clawing hands and gasping that accompanied the opening song (of a rather bunny-boiler-sounding lost love) convinced me that she was deranged.
By the second song her voice had settled down into a Björk-like breathiness, that is to say merely bloody weird instead of absolutely terrifying. Later, they were joined on stage by a drummer and a bassist, and I found myself actually rather enjoying the set. The rhythmic backing provided a good drive, and the songs were interesting melodically, if lyrically a bit stereotypical in places.
They're certainly interesting and, while I wouldn't go out of my way to seek them, I'd be happy to hear them again. Incidentally, the interweb tells me they're siblings, which is weird because on stage they seemed very much like a couple.
Findlay Brown
Yorkshire bloke in hat sings soulfully and plays guitar. I've read reviews of this guy, and don't quite get it. He's got a nice voice. He's a good guitarist. The songs are... well, there, to be honest. Everything seemed perfectly pleasant, but I couldn't get hold of anything to mark him out as different from a million and one other guitar-playing singer/songwriters.
His drummer (who has an interestingly minimalist approach - foot-operated bass drum, tambourine and shaky egg) and bassist provide backing vocals, which had some cool harmonies. But overrall... well, they get nice enough out of ten.
