Waking Up On Top Of The World

It's 8am. Despite only 3 hours sleep, I feel rested. It might have something to do with Washed Out's debut Within And Without playing on my iPod dock, it might have something to do with the cool glass of water and air conditioning, or it might have something to do with the view out of my 21st storey window. Building after building, centred - as they tend to to - around Central Park.

New York City has been my friend many times over the past few years, and as I rest my (dare I say, slightly hungover) eyes upon her glorious Sunday Morning facade, it's not so much a sense of deja vu, but of a long-lost companion simply saying "welcome back"...

I arrived at the Beacon Hotel on Broadway & 77th at just after 10:30pm NY time last night, which is the equivalent of 12:30pm on Sunday afternoon MEL time; a full 32 hours after waking up. Through a mixture of red wine, cold & flu medicine and Paul Newman I managed to rustle up 8-10 hours sleep during the flights which, I believe, may have just saved my life.

After a mix-up at front desk in which I found out not only is there another Dylan staying here (Dylan Glover, fyi - I wonder if he's a relative of Danny...), but another Dylan Stewart, I narrowly avoided sharing my room with three high school seniors and checked into my room. Sure, I'll have to check out and check back in, but when in you're in New York, every minute spent in your hotel room is a minute wasted anyway, so after breakfast with the boss, it's "Exploring The Upper West Side" day today.

Tonight I'll be meeting with work folk, checking in on them and ensuring their time spent in NYC has been worthwhile. Although the economy seems to be shot to shit here, Bruno my cab driver informed me last night that there are plenty of crew on every flight coming over here, trying to leave their mark on the city of Sinatra, Allen and Jeter.

I have no false hope that in my short time here I will leave a legacy even half as great as any of those; I'm just here on business. So I shall descend the elevator, cross the marble lobby floor, and burst out onto Broadway. When this city calls my name, who am I to ignore her?

It's 8am. I'm in New York City.

Pennywise, Millencolin & Mad Caddies @ the Palace

With the Soundwave countdown only hours away, the quality of punk, hardcore & metal gigs sprouting up all over the city is the stuff of a headbanger’s wet dream. Tonight, some of the finest exponents of punk and ska appear to quench the oh-so-dry thirst that the punters crave.

While the Palace fills, Californian ska heavyweights Mad Caddies show off their wares. Although at first the set is very much that of an “opening band”, without too much crowd participation, by the end of the band’s allotted 30 minutes, there is no doubt that had the Caddies been the headlining act, this place would still be as sold out as it already is.

Now it’s time to go back in time, to a land of high school acne, limited spending money and a time where the prospect of not purchasing at least one CD per month for the reasonable price of $29.95 seems like larceny. It’s 2001 and I’m the 16-year old version of myself – the most life-altering record is about to hit my ears.

The album is Pennybridge Pioneers, and the band is Millencolin. Celebrating the 10^th anniversary of the release of their breakthrough album, Millencolin play the record from start to finish. No Cigar, Fox and Material Boy (the latter performed to the fastest-formed circle pit known to man) break open the album and therefore tonight’s playlist, preceding another 11 tracks culminating in front man Nikola Sarcevic’ acoustic singlaong The Ballad. A solid encore of songs old and new (think Mr Clean, Black Eye etc) gets the crowd even more excited, and the fact that this is a “double bill” is evidently not lost.

Half an hour later, Hermosa Beach (that’s California, punk)’s finest exports, Pennywise take to the stage. Their first tour to Australia with their current lineup – singer Zoli Teglas joined the band in 2009 – sees them in fine form. Tight, driven and a bunch of fun, the four-piece pull out all the stops, playing hits like Society, Fuck Authority, and ending with a rousing rendition of Bro Hymn. A member of the Greenpeace boat Sea Shepherd appears briefly, explaining the win they’ve recently had over Japanese whaling, and there is a definitive anti-government sentiment throughout.

If tonight’s been a walk down memory lane then it’s been a damn good one, and one that will not be forgotten quickly.

New Found Glory & Less Than Jake @ Billboard, Melbourne

Two bands, at different stages of their careers. The Soundwave sideshow is sold out, a sound achievement for a Monday night. Despite the throng of people inside by eight p.m. however, there’s a definite early-week smell in the air; a feeling that had this been a Saturday – hell, even a Wednesday night gig, the atmosphere might be a little bit more alive.

Of course, those who suffer most for this lack of crowd enthusiasm is the opening band, and the sacrificial lambs on offer to the disinterested “fans” tonight are Floridian ska legends Less Than Jake. For their part, the five-piece is as tight as a band reaching their veteran status would expect to be, and their hour-long set provides a string of hits: Dopeman, How’s My Driving, All My Friends Are Metalheads and Plastic Cup Politics. Horns a-blazing, on-stage making out sessions and the like are standard highlights, but the crowd just don’t care. With the exception of the punters in the mosh pit, front men Chris Demakes and Roger Manganelli really struggle to connect with the rest of their audience. It’s a damn shame, and their frustration is obvious, especially in Demakes. Singling out a nonplussed girl texting on the side, and inviting security on stage for a drink (“I hate to see good money go to waste”) it’s painful to see from this band, whose live shows were once a thing of legend.

The main act however, are still building their fan base, although given the raucous response they receive tonight it’s scary to think how big they may yet become. New Found Glory, also from Florida, have been together since 1997, although the group seem fresh and genuinely excited about their current tour. That excitement, however, has nothing compared with the frenzy that the swollen pit has become. Playing tracks from their entire career (including the brilliant Hit Or Miss from their 2000 self-titled record), this is a band at the height of their career, and with a new album in the pipeline, who knows where they could end up. Closing their encore with My Friend’s Over You all hell breaks loose on stage, and all of a sudden it’s Tuesday morning.

Jenny and Johnny @ EBC

JENNY & JOHNNY, THE LAURELS – EAST BRUNSWICK CLUB

It’s festival season, so for the poor buggers who can’t afford a ticket to the festival itself (OK, so I’m talking Laneway here, surely you’ve worked that out by this review’s title), we’re in the few days during which one chooses the favourite band from the line-up, and fork out the $$’s to check ‘em out.

First up tonight at the East Brunswick is Sydney’s The Laurels, a four-piece shoegaze crew who seemingly hit the right notes without actually making an impact on the growing crowd. There are some brilliant, LSD-inspired Beatles moments, and the majority of the set is reminiscent of the drone-rock of the Black Angels or Tame Impala, although there seems to be a bit too much wanking over amplifiers to really stand out.

After a quick sojourn to the bar and an all-too-obvious increase in crowd population, Jenny & Johnny take the stage. The girlfriend/ boyfriend duo of Jenny Lewis (of Rilo Kiley fame) and Jonathan Rice (of Jonathan Rice fame) share the stage wonderfully, batting eyelashes at each other from either side throughout the night. Playing pretty much their entire first album I’m Having Fun Now, including highlights Scissor Runner, Big Wave and My Pet Snakes, the set is a ripper. With only the minimum amount of banter recognised by a Melbourne crowd (who, in all honesty, don’t really seem to get into the show until the last 20 minutes), Lewis & Rice and their backing two-piece band run things very smoothly on stage, without even the slightest awkward pause.

Lewis and her seductive gaze ensures there’s not a red-blooded male in the room who doesn’t dream to be her bass guitar strap (classic Dream Weaver “sha-winggggg” moment), and Rice carries enough indie cred to keep the skinniest of jean upright.

After a very weird encore break, where the duo just hover side of stage, visible to most, they come back on for an acoustic version of Rilo Kiley’s Silver Lining. It’s a beautiful song made even more haunting by the acousticity (sure, that’s a word), and even the blatant mental blank suffered by Lewis isn’t enough to detract from it being the highlight of the night. Even the rain outside isn’t enough to wipe the smiles off all these faces.

Gareth Liddiard @ Thornbury Theatre, Nov 6, 2010

On a normal night, it’s a long way to Thornbury. The shiny lights and the buzz of High St, Northcote are distractions that pull dedicated punters away from distant suburban destinations, however tonight there is something special that calls followers of high-brow lyrical entertainment from far and wide. Gareth Liddiard, lead singer for living-legendary local band the Drones, is to play his second consecutive show to launch his debut album Strange Tourist, after his first last night sold out. As the last-minute crowds ascend the marble staircase of the Thornbury Theatre, the room’s atmosphere is pregnant with expectation. Strange Tourist is a sparse, haunting, lyrically brilliant album, and tonight Liddiard’s audience is in for a faithful reproduction, most likely with a few yarns thrown in.

He follows the album’s structure “from go to woe”, starting with the delicious Blondin Makes an Omelette, followed by Highplains Mailman. The 400-strong crowd sits mesmerised, and the genuine applause that follows each song is a fitting tribute to an artistic genius, even if an eager punter takes it a step too far – “Tapping on a glass? What are you, the fucking king of England?” After half an hour, aka three Liddiard epics, one realise that this is the kind of gig that should he play until sunrise, every seat would still be full when breakfast time comes.

Supported by crystal clear sound quality throughout the night, Liddiard is calm and confident, relaxing on his seat as though he is playing in a dimly lit lounge room in front of half a dozen of his closest friends. The honesty and forthrightness of his words, paired with the personal nature of his guitar playing, creates an intimacy with every person in the room. Liddiard’s poetic lyrics have been well-known in these parts for many years now through his work with the Drones (a fun game throughout the evening is Drone-Spotting – identifying Messrs. Noga, Luscombe & Miss Kitchin in the crowd), but stripped back to a man and his acoustc, it is truly a memorable show. After closer The Radicalisation of D Liddiard leaves the stage, only to shortly return armed with a trifecta of Drones tunes Super Cargo, Locust & Jezebel. The night is over after 2+ hours of brilliance, and the royal nature of the Theatre is truly evident. Suddenly Thornbury seems a whole lot closer to everything.

The Hold Steady – Heaven is Wherever (Vagrant Records)

Having been blown away by the rambling looseness of the Hold Steady’s 2005 record Separation Sunday, and watched the slow but steady rise of the Brooklyn band in the time since, the first listen to Heaven is Anywhere sees the band step away from the bar-room brawling sound that they encapsulated, and into a more melodic sound. Gone are keyboardist Franz Nicolay and his space-filling contribution, replaced by a tighter, thicker production courtesy of long-time producer Dean Baltulonis.

To learn that Baltulonis – who also produced Separation Sunday and the band’s debut Almost Killed Me – was behind the desk for Heaven is Wherever is somewhat surprising, given that the sound of this record is so different from previous Hold Steady releases. While vocalist Craig Finn’s verses still sprawl across the speakers like a letter, hand-written in marker in a bathroom stall, the hook-laden choruses of tracks like first single “Hurricane J” contribute more of a packaged sound than previously.

Such an approach will no doubt help the band capitalise on the relative success of their last two albums (both of which charted in the US & UK), especially 2008’s Stay Positive. Unfortunately, for those who loved the unkempt, seemingly-improvised nature of the Hold Steady’s earlier work, there will be moments on Heaven is Wherever – such as the lush yet weak “Barely Breathing” – that start solidly but get bogged down in finding other ways to fill Nicolay’s void (in this case with reverb-heavy backing vocals and horns, despite some seriously sassy clarinet) that fail to inspire.

There are however definitive moments of success. “The Weekender” sees the band use their new direction to their advantage, in making the most of volume, tempo and contrast. The percussive element of the band is also (slightly) more experimental, with tracks like “The Smidge” incorporating tambourines and the like to fill out the song’s vertical space.

The drunken swagger is still there. The drawl is still there (“Girls wanna go to the party/But no one’s in any shape to drive/So we call up a guy and when he comes we’re gonna ask for a ride” – ‘Rock Problems’). The guitar riffs are definitely still there. And although Heaven is Wherever indicates the Hold Steady have graduated from back-bar band to frontline festival favourite, there’s still more than enough here to listen to at 1am. Just not too much later than that.

N'Orleans. 2 days in...

It’s an early start as we make our way out of Austin, TX. The preceding week has seen the chaos and brilliance of South By Southwest run us rampant – gigs, planning, parties, free beer, run-ins with celebrities and a whole host of random activities – and now it’s time to head on the road. There’re just under two weeks of music-inspired tomfoolery to come, and what better time to start it than 5:45am.
First stop is New Orleans, Louisiana. Mode of transport; Greyhound. We watch the rolling landscape fly by in between fits of slumber. Houston, Texas to change buses, alas with not enough time to check out one of America’s largest cities. As we near the border to Louisiana there is a definite change in the scenery. Bland green pastures and Interstate roads give way to the bayous, the swamps that are the very essence of this part of the world. Mangroves creep toward the roadside, held back by the flying trucks on just another daily mission from one side of the country to the other.
We reach N’Orleans after dark, and after checking-in at our hostel, we hear word of a house party not far from where we are. Two Washington (state, not D.C.) are in town, and it’s an eclectic collection of party guests that are here to greet them.
Broken Waters channel the reverb-heavy, wall-of-sound inspired by My Bloody Valentine and with dual male/female vocals, turn a crowded room into a sweaty, heaving mass of people. Lit by candlelight it is a truly inspirational set by three creative individuals.
Unfortunately for Seattle band Lozen, there have already been complaints made to the police – a presence always felt in this town – and the “minimalist metal” 2-piece are only allowed a few songs before the cops show up and kill the vibe. It’s a long walk home through an oppressive neighbourhood, but we thankfully pass through with our lives and wallets, ready to live another day.
Bourbon St, with all its history, is not what I expected. I had anticipated a dank, cobblestoned street lined with dive bars blasting jazz and blues music into the moist night. What we find however is a flashing, glary street full of strip clubs, frozen dacquiri bars and stag/hen nights. Negative comparisons have to be made to Amsterdam’s Red Light district, the district immortalized no longer for its bohemian beginnings and since transformed to a drug-fuelled excuse to pillage the wallets from unsuspecting tourists.
Frenchmen St, on the far side of town, is much more impressive. Despite its small stature, there are the gypsy bands on the corners, there are the dive bars, there are big bands blasting their horns from every direction, and the Big Easy seems a lot more authentic in these parts. We stand in the corner, soaking in the music. Locals bob their heads, tap their feet, and relax in the knowledge that this is their town – home of the jazz. It’s a sassy way to spend the night.