5 posts tagged “gallows”

I go and check out The Flatstock exhibition in the Convention Centre.   This is where all of the  artists who design the posters for the shows the American bands ply come to exhibit their wares.   I love this shit, not the old psychedelic nonsense from The Filmore, but the great alternative stuff designed by artists such as Koop and The Hernandez brothers during the nineties.   I always pick something up and this year is no exception.   I get this great pink Kasabian poster of Sharon Tate's face in blood, dripping down the blade of a kitchen knife.
   I head over to the Levis' fort for the second day of the Fader party.   I am fascinated to see how Gallows cope with playing to an even more laid back crowd of jaded industry hacks than yesterday, coming on at lunchtime playing in this car park.   Most bands would use the occasion as an excuse to deliver an off performance.   Complain that there was no vibe and just go through the motions.   Not so Gallows.   They create the excitement, grabbing the microphones and charging into the crowd, bringing the show right into our faces.   Regardless of the location they still triumph.   Frank even manages a lightness of touch, getting everyone to sing "Happy Birthday" to their photographer Jess who is celebrating today.   In contrast the next band up are another bunch of Arcade Fire botherers, but they do prick my interest in having two painters up on stage, both of them creating pictures either side of the performance.   Back in the day I did the same with a band called Mrs Mills Party up in Manchester and it is good to see the tradition lives on.
   I go and walk over to Stubbs to see Kings of Leon deliver the best show of the entire festival.   They look so damn good up there and the sound is spot on.   It clears the air, the perfect combination of two guitars, bass, drums and vocals.   This is what rock and roll was always meant to sound like but inevitably disappoints.   Caleb has one of the finest voices out there and is backed up by a remarkable family of musicians.   Add to this, a career which is now three albums deep giving them a rich catalogue of songs from which to draw.   New songs like "My Party" and "On Call" are greeted like standards and rightly so.
   Back out on the street I run into Gallows on their way to a tattoo parlour.   Bassist Stuart is having the band's name written across his lower lip.   I chat with Frank about his time as an artist.   Seeing the fondness with which he recounts his work I think he might just pack up this rock and roll lark and return to his first love.   He is planning on visiting an artist he worked next to at a convention in London.   He lives nearby.   Frank was astounded by his work rate.   He could manage two hours and then he would be exhausted, but this guy went all day straight.   Then he went back to his hotel room with this one punter who had his entire leg filled, stayed up all night to get the job done.   He knew the artist was returning to America the next day and wanted to grab the opportunity.   Poor bastard had to drag his leg out of the hotel the following morning it was so numb.
   It is my first time in a tattoo parlour.  It is as bright as an operating theatre and smells of disinfectant.   I flick through uninspiring books of images and look over at Stuart as he pulls back his lower lips with a pair of surgical gloves.   The girl doing the work has an impressively steady hand, especially with all of us gawping on.   He doesn't flinch and not a drop falls from his eye.   He is not meant to smoke or drink for a fortnight but like that is going to happen in Texas.   As a precaution he is off to the chemist for some mouthwash.
   I wander down Trinity and catch a bit of Mute Math on an outdoor stage.   They are pulling a big crowd keen to check out their commercial brand of Emo.   I am not sure about the "keytar" the singer brandishes or the over enthusiastic drummer, but they are the most pop outfit I have heard since I came here.   I end up back at Stubbs watching Pete and The Pirates.   There is definitely something about them, the singer burns with a passion and sincerity and their songs bring to mind a more sophisticated side to indie rock.   They do get a little too frantic but it is worth keeping an eye on.   I go inside to keep warm and catch a few numbers by Lissie, this singer songwriter from San Fransisco.  She has a charming voice and an endearing manner.   Does a great version of Leadbelly's "Rock Island Line"
  Back outside I watch Andrew Bird from Chicago.    He looks fascinating, dressed formally in a suit but with a brown hoodie inside his jacket.   The stage is littered with unfamiliar looking amplifiers and this huge black and white gramophone horn mounted on top of a large box.   He reminds me of Dylan circa The Rolling Thunder Review and is a little unsure of himself, sweating profusely, but that might just be a fever he complains of.   The music is inventive and subtle, he plucks at a violin before swinging his guitar back that he has slung across his back.   The songs are funny, subtle and heartwarming.
   Finally I get to see Perry Farrell's new band Satellite Party.   I was a big fan of Janes Addiction and their recent reunion shows that there is still a lot of fire left in his belly.   He is backed up on stage tonight by former Extreme guitarist Nuno Bettancourt.   They certainly make an impact.   Perry is dressed fabulously in a silver cravat beneath this tight white and black striped v neck over these impossibly tight sparkling silver trousers.   They unveil the new album in front of a legion of adoring fans who take it to their hearts.   The music borrows from all areas of Perry's career combining the edgy funk with impossibly catchy melodies.
   Its late and I grab a cab back to the hotel.   The driver is up tight and manic, he has been up four days straight and it is starting to show.   I pass up his offer to take me to the airport tomorrow morning.

Up before 4am, feeling surprisingly good, must be the jet lag.    Get a car to JFK and join the queue for Cincinnati.   Ahead of me in line an older man keels over clutching his chest, paramedics rush to his aid.   "Travel sure is a stressful business" whistles a large woman next to me.   Too right it is.   Soon enough I am packed tightly into a tin can of an internal flight bound for a place I know only from an early eighties TV show about a hip radio station called WKRP.   The airport seems to predate that era by some way and no matter where I wander all of the gates look the same, their numbers replaced by letters.   I eventually find my connection to Austin and can relax.
   Austin Airport is by contrast bright and modern.   The woman who drives me to my hotel was involved in the consultation of the design.   She is a laid back girl with long silver hair and a deep sense of wisdom.   Tells me of the day they closed the old airport down eight years ago and the procession of vehicles from the old to the new landing strip.   Right down the interstate came a procession of lawnmowers, tugs, petrol tankers, buses.   it must have looked like something out of a David Lynch movie.

   I head over to the venue where Gallows are beginning their South by Southwest visit.   it is at Lattitude and as I walk in there is a young guitar pop band onstage who introduce themselves as The Winter Kids.   They deliver good hooky tunes and are eager to please.   Then this guy Robert Gomez is on stage with a band of too many musicians including a cello, a violin and someone on vibrophone.   This army is deemed to be his backing band.
The room is full of music industry characters and I wonder how Gallows will play to a crowd like this.   I needn't have worried.   From the moment the first power chords kick in it is like the band have been sprung free from a cage and they are leaping about with uncontrolled abandon.   Everyone around me is going "Fuck Me".   Raised on a diet of polite indie rock, when Liam Gallagher is as menacing, having a ferocious red headed red faced ball of energy bearing down upon you from the top of the PA stack is something else.    What could possibly follow Gallows except a bunch of cowboys called Grady playing southern boogie like ZZ Top.    After the show outside the venue Amy Winehouse walks past in her scuzzy jeans and pumps.   She walks up to Frank the singer with Gallows "You used to work in Frith Street din'cha?" she says refering to his time as a tattoist.   She grins and has her phot taken with them before heading on her way.
   I hook up wirth Ben Durling from Lavolta Records who is out here scouting for talent.   Neither of us have any clear ideas about what to see tonight.   We meet at Emos where Saint Francis, the impressive WHite Rapper is hitting it off with a good crowd.    We walk up to Red River to see a band that were recommended to me called The Besnarde Lakes.   There is a huge queue to see them play on this outdoor stage.   people are pissed at having to stand in line and start pulling huge chunks out of the fence to get a look at the stage.   They look good.   A girl plays bass like Kim Gordon and there is a cute girl behind creating swirling org an patterns.   The music is reminiscent of Neil Young.   I strain to see the singer who looks like Mick Rock.
   Walking back down the street we pass a flatbead truck on which a band are attempting to set up and play.   they are impressively titled Ladyfart and feature a girl playing keyboards dressed in a huge fluffy white cat costume.   On the advice of their label boss, we head over to see Foreign Islands play at the Beauty Bar Patio.   We hang around outsdie listening to a skinny guy with a Flock of Seagulls hairdo DY British electro pop off his laptop.   We could be in Shoreditch.   We push through the crowd to another room where the band are playing.   There is plenty of attitude on display tonight.   The band look good, like they could pass for The Rapture.   The singer reminds me of Gerard langley from The Blue Aeroplanes, but he doesn't quite have the poetry to back it up.
   We end up at a party for Clash magazine where a Brighton band Fujia and Miyagi are playing.  They are actually really good.   Three guys upfront playing a hypnotic brand of electro reminiscent of Can's "Future Days" or the first Neu album.   The vocals remind me of Tackhead, simple lines r ever and over.   it is refreshing to hear something fairly original for once.   I leave Ben at the venue and head back to my hotel.   My taxi driver, staunchly anti Bush, wants to talk politics.   I want to engage but it is all I can do to stay awake.

I head up to the West End to see Gallows at the 100 Club.   The place is packed out, they have 400 people in here but they could have filled a room more than twice the size.   They have had problems with the guest list and have been out on the street buying tickets off touts to get their friends in.   They have sneaked the Deftones in down a fire escape.  
   From the minute they hit the stage the space in front of them turns into a ferocious mosh pit.   This is the third time I have seen them now and every time it makes more sense.  In Chatham I was blown away by the live show, now I appreciate the dynamics of every song, how they work with the crowd, how the space around the chants hit the spot.   They are clever songwriters, the bigger this gets, the more powerful it can become and it is growing fast.   Frank pulls out all of the stops.   He is down in the audinece, running around with his 50 foot long mike lead.   Then he dives into the merchandise stand sending Frank, Stan and the table sprawling across the floor.   It is like being blasted skywards on a huge rocket waiting for these songs to explode.   The tension before "Orchestra of Wolves" launches is incredible.   It is exactly the way Arctic Monkeys played it out, they would always end the shows with the same song so that everyone knew that his was the last chance to go mental before saying good night.  

We go and see Gallows at The Cardiff Barfly.   The weather is filthy and all of us are tired.   I have a huge pint of coffee to keep me going.   We get to the venue at 8 and I chat with Frank beforehand.   the tour has been amazing, they have been shocked by the audience reaction to them, every night the crowd knows all the words and it always kicks off.   Tonight is no exception.   the Barfly is a small venue with a low ceiling, but it is sold out and packed with a wide cross-section of kids.   It is always a relief to see the good looking girls down the front.   What I love about Gallows is that they reach such a wide audience reflecting how the rock scene is going overground right now.
   The kids are so ferocious tonight that Frank spends much of his time down on the floor in a circle near the bar to escape the pandemonium.   it is incredible seeing the intensity of the performance that close, it is like watching a dog fight down in the pit.   When he is back on stage it doesn't last long and during "Abandon Ship" both him Steph and Laurent are being carried aloft by the crowd still playing their guitars.   I catch up with Pennie from The Automatic afterwards.   This is his home town and he is a huge fan of the band, buzzing with energy having spent most of the gig crowd surfing.   Driving home I play Marc and Ollie  The Ruts .   Gallows are covering "Staring at the Rude Boys" for Kerrang, it is about time they got the recognition they deserve.

Ollie and I head down the A2 to Chatham making pretty good time to the dockyard town on the North Kent Coast.   it is famous as the home of Billy Childish and the Tap 'n' Tn is apparently the venue he owns.   Marc Jones pissed himself when he heard we were off there tonight, he managed to get himself mugged the last time he came on the two minute walk from the station to the venue.
   Walking into the big Victorian warehouse there is a Billy Childish lookalike on the door (minus the moustache).   Inside it is

huge, packed with kids, "Nutbush City Limits" playing on one of the floors.   We walk into another room where 150 kids are watching The Gallows, they are maybe four songs into the set.   We push down to the front.   They are a mixed crowd, all young.  Some metal heads.   The hardcore ones, the ones into Fugazi and Black Flag stand on benches along the wall.   the rest are having it on the dancefloor.
   All too quickly it kicks off and the audience are onstage with the band.   Singer Frank Carter is a five foot five ginger lad with his shirt off revealing a double headed eagle tattoo.   He is pop eyed with rage.   To his left is a swarthy good looking guitarist, to his right his brother, a taller striking version of himself.   Behind them is a rock solid rhythm section.   When the audience spill onto the stage they are holding their own like it's Rourkes Drift, not giving an inch and playing their jackhammer rhythms as Frank disappears into the crowd.   His microphone is long gone, the song being sung by the rest of the audience.   it is properly mental.   The last time I saw someting like tis was The Arctic Monkeys at The Dublin Castle.   Each time Frank pulls himself up for another assault the crowd is all over him.   I wish this could go on longer, it is so exhilerating.   it ends with the opening lines to "Orchestra of Woilves"   Frank hollars "My name is Cassanova!" and then everyting explodes again.   Incredible stuff.
   As we leave the venue they are playing "Don't Stop" by Fletwood Mac, I love this club.   I go upstairs and they are playing All American rejects.   Walking out the door "Born to be Wild" pipes up.   Fantastic.