January 23rd, 2012 | Doctor Curio

Balkan bite: Black Bear Combo

Black Bear Combo

Wotcher, squires, squirettes and squirrels! It is time, once more, for me to extol the virtues of some of the music world’s hidden treasures, so that you may absorb the full force of their magnificence and worship them accordingly.

Of late, I have been fulfilling my duty to ears and brain by probing further, harder and deeper into the realms of the unknown, in order to satisfy my hearty lust for new music. I feel obliged to report back in full on every discovery I make, so that you too may begin your own journey. I’m quite the philanthropist, no?

So it was, that, one day in the misty murk of the relatively recent past, I swore an oath: to find the foremost proponents of the Balkan brass-band sound, and bring them to you- if not with their heads on a plate, at least with their music in a link.

Far and wide I roamed, across the desolate deserts of the internet, braving the Mire of Myspace and the Wilderness of Wikipedia, through the wild, weird websites of Eastern Europe, on a quest fraught with trombones, tubas, trumpets and all manner of perilous parping.

Everything I heard filled me to the brim with wonder. So much so, there was no hope of quantifying what was the greatest. My head spinning, I was forced to retire for a mental-health-related hiatus. Everything was so dazzling in different ways that I felt I was doomed to failure, and most likely insanity, should I continue my hunt.

That’s when it struck me. Rousing in the dead of night, I struck on a new plan- to unearth America’s finest Balkan-esque brass ensemble. Refining my field, I voyaged onward with renewed focus. What I found was utterly astonishing….

Among a great many of their countrymen who have taken such music to heart with stupendous results, Chicago’s Black Bear Combo stand out like a towering, brassy colossus.

Part microcosmic klezmer orchestra, part miniature marching band, Black Bear Combo are a frenetic, contemporary, theatrical re-working of the classic Balkan party sound. Taking the high-energy staccato rhythms and wild woodwind and whipping up a Slavic-style storm, they could start a riot in an empty room.

These fine fellows are almost like a Balkan brass SWAT team, descending on venues, parties and busy street corners around the nation and blasting everyone to sweet oblivion with their powerful sound.

Comprised of trumpet, saxophone, accordion, sousaphone, bass drum and euphonium, they have the raucous flavour of a New Orleans mardi gras marching band. Mixing this with punk energy and attitude and experimental jazz chops, they are practically the definition of excitement.

Though Black Bear Combo take their obvious influences from the distinctive sound of Eastern European folk music, their take on it is a turbo-charged beast, and they drive it like they stole it (which, I suppose, you could say they did).

You’ll never have heard a brass band do anything like this before. Forget jazz standards played to snoozing pensioners around the bandstand- this is pure brass fury, a frenetic blast of wind power that blows everything else clean away.

Though they may thrive on the sheer adrenaline of live performance, you too can replicate the thrill in the comfort of your own home with their stunning album ‘Game Of Death’, a tour de force of rhythmic brass bouncing, honking and parping that will most likely make you dance all over the place like a caffiene-addled octopus.

Black Bear Combo represent all the best aspects of Balkan brass, except for one thing; they don’t come anywhere remotely near the Balkan peninsula. This, however, is a minor quibble, as their fresh approach to traditional sounds is more than strong enough for them to stand in a class of their own.

So, if you’re looking for something exciting, experimental and intriguing, that spans continents and eras, Black Bear Combo are the band you need in your life.

Yours loquaciously,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Videos:

Black Bear Combo- live at Honkfest 2010

Black Bear Combo- live in Chicago

Black Bear Combo- live at Chicago Field Museum (with skeletons!)

Links:

band website

Myspace

Last FM

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January 15th, 2012 | Doctor Curio

Swingin’ into the future: The Correspondents

the Correspondents

Huzzah! Rambunctious greetings to you all! I do hope you are feeling fresh, as there is a brace of unexpected intrigue heading your way!

First of all, I must request you don your thinking caps. Mine happens to be a 4-foot tall purple stovepipe hat, but that’s beside the point. If you are able, I’d like you to think of two musical genres that seem so disparate in their juxtaposition that a combination of the two defies all probability. For instance, Dubstep and country, oompah and funk, or gospel and drum’n'bass. As amusingly bizarre as such concepts may seem, they’d most likely be doomed to cacophonous failure.

Sometimes, though, striving for the impossible is the only way to achieve brilliant results. This depends entirely on the vision, imagination and talent of the artists involved. I put it to you that, in this world, there are men possesed of the genius to meld hip-hop and electro with….. 1920’s/30’s swing.

‘Never!’, I hear you spluttering into your gin and tonics, as your cigars drop unceremoniously from your mouths with the shock and begin to smoulder in your laps. ‘Such an unthinkable concept could only ever birth an abomination!’, I imagine you’d say if you had a tendency toward Victorian verbosity. I agree, such a fiendish plot pushes the very bounds of probability, but, hear me out, as two men have managed to boldly venture where others fear to tread. I give you….. The Correspondents!

This dapper, dashing, dastardly duo are products of the seamy underbelly of London, but are not affiliated with any pre-existing scene. No, by some freakish melding of their two minds, they have managed to spawn their own musical movement from thin air. The Correspondents are the undisputed inventors of Swing-Hop.

Comprised of immaculately-dressed, fleet-footed master of ceremonies Mr Bruce, and mad professor of samples, beats and sonic mayhem Mr Chuckles (a.k.a Chucks), over the past couple of years they have set out on a rapid ascent from their glitter-strewn gutter toward the stars.

Who would have guessed that the goldmine of early 20th-century jazz styles could have become manna from heaven for the modern sample artiste? Taking blasts of big-band, chewed-up Charlestons, jaunty jives and salacious swing, and re-energising them with a violent jolt of electricity and a raft of ricocheting rhythms, the Correspondents instantly span 100 years of dance music, right up to the cutting edge.

There’s elements of dubstep, grimy electro and glitchy techno jostling for supremacy with the more historic sounds Chucks er…chucks into the melting pot. Mr Bruce uses this as a springboard for machine-gun scatting, arch crooning and lyrical wizardry, coupled with a natural classic showmanship and a fine line in natty threads that ooze a kind of insalubriously devilish class.

Their debut EP, ‘What’s Happened To Soho?’, was released in April 2011 to rapturous acclaim. Almost a microcosmic concept album, it is designed to be listened to from start to finish, and charts our protagonist’s adventures amid the perils of love, lust, debauchery and despair with wit and panache.

Following the EP’s release, it quickly became apparent that any novelty value attached to their unprecedented hybridisation had been rendered immaterial by their sheer skill, innovation and stunning tunes.

Of course, a major part of their masterplan is to get people dancing, necessitating a herculean amount of gigging. Certainly no slouches in this regard, they have gone from playing pub back-rooms to capturing the hearts, minds and bodies of the masses at the titans of the British festival season, including Glastonbury and Bestival, replete with horn section, light show and conveyor-belt dance platform, as one should always have on such occasions.

Aside from his whip-smart vocal and verbal gymnastics, Mr Bruce provides the visual focus, not only with his urban-dandy sharp suits and Brylcreemed hair, but with his ludicrously entertaining dance moves. Gyrating and contorting in a manner that suggests his bones have been replaced with convulsing eels, he twists his lithe frame in ways that seem unnatural, unspeakable and absolutely fantastic to watch.

With lyrics that explore the less moralistic aspects of love and its attendant urges and emotions, Mr Bruce does a fine job of painting himself as the modern rake, something of a cad who nevertheless remains unimpeachable due to being more stylish than everyone else.

In November, the Correspondents released their first single ‘Cheating With You’, an absolute beast of sleazy electro with a fantastic lyrical twist that turns the concept of a love song on its head. It marks something of a departure from ‘What’s Happened…’, and shows a band in constant evolution, developing at a staggering rate.

In recent years, originality in music had seemed to be bound for the brink of extinction, with anything new being little more than a dilution of something old. The Correspondents buck this trend in an astounding fashion, taking established trends and mixing and matching them into something utterly unprecedented and quite spectacular.

No doubt, the more people who are exposed to the Correspondents’ ingenious alchemy, the faster their rise shall be. This is why I implore you, as lovers of music, to spread the word of their peculiar talents far and wide. Attend their shows, buy their records, tell your friends and sing their praises. They deserve to be massive, and, with you help, they surely will be. You know what you have to do.

Yours sagaciously,

Dr A.F.W Curio

These videos will warp your mind and reshape your worldview. This is a good thing.

The Correspondents: \'What\'s Happened To Soho?\'

The Correspondents: \'Washington Square\'

The Correspondents: \'Cheating With You\'

The Correspondents: \'I Wanna Be Like You\'

Links

Official Website

Myspace

Soundcloud

Last FM

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January 10th, 2012 | Doctor Curio

Seeing in the New Year with: Th’ Legendary Shack Shakers

Th' Legendary Shack*Shakers

Hellohellohello! Welcome to the inaugural Phonovault post of 2012! I cannot understate quite how thrilled I am to be done and dusted with the foul year of our lord 2011 and steaming ahead at full speed into what promises to be a magnificent year for not only music, but the whole blessed world!

My apologies for not posting for a while. You can count this as a late Christmas present from the Phonovault. As you can imagine, the festive season is a busy one down here in the vault. For starters, getting a 40-foot Christmas tree down 2 miles of tunnels is an operation that requires military precision. Also, the sheer amount of mulled wine and sherry around makes for some unfortunate yuletide injuries.

I thought it prudent not to post on New Year’s Day, partially because most folks would probably have been too shell-shocked from the previous nights festivities to mentally or physically handle a blast of bizarre rock’n'roll, but mostly due to my own personal issues with being little more than comatose and unable to raise as much as a single finger without engendering the most excruciating pain.

As we have all had over a week to recover, though, I hope you are ready to be astonished, astounded and awed by one of the finest acts ever to emerge from our great green globe. Hopefully, you will already have been blessed enough to have encountered their delicious sonic devilry before. If not, however, it gives me obscene spasms of pleasure to introduce you to the unstoppable juggernaut of Southern Rock fury that is Th’ Legendary Shack Shakers.

By rights, the Shack Shakers should be living legends. In my world, and those of many others, they already are. Their rough ‘n ready ruckus of southern-fried boogie, raw rock’n'roll, punk abandon, bluesy songcraft, rockabilly fury and Southern Gothic storytelling makes for one fiery gumbo, effortlessly cementing their status as the modern torch-bearers of good ol’ fashioned American musical tradition.

Based in Nashville, they explore the seamy underbelly of their part of the world, whether it be truth or myth, and ally it with a turbo-powered take on the music for which it is famed.

Over a 14-year career, they have been turning heads and pricking up ears wherever they’ve roamed, garnering high praise from all who have heard them. The band have been lauded by some of the most iconic figures in music as the best band on the whole goddamn planet, from the godfather of country himself, Hank Williams III, to Robert Plant, who, on the strength of a single, apocalyptic SXSW show, personally invited them on his European tour.

Fire-and-brimstone frontman, Jerry Lee Lewis-a-like and blues-harp god Col. J.D Wilkes has been hailed as ‘the last great rock’n'roll frontman’ by the frankly heroic Jello Biafra (who also guested on ‘Ichabod’ from the album ‘Pandelerium’), and by others as easily the equal of Iggy Pop or Tom Waits. Comparisons like these are not lightly bandied about, I’m sure you’ll agree. Though his military credentials may be a mite dubious, Wilkes’ ability to command a crowd certainly is not.

The Shack Shakers have always revolved around the magnetic personality of Wilkes, but have gone through several incarnations since their inception. Hulking double-bass demon Mark Robertson is a long-serving stalwart, but through the years, they have featured a throng of like-minded musical mavericks, including the semi-mythical spirit o’ the South himself, JoeBuck (a.k.a Joe Buck Yourself), and assistance from the positively godlike Reverend Horton Heat on guitar, amongst a stellar array of others.

Their current line-up could well be their strongest yet. Wilkes and Robertson are perfectly matched by drumming whirlwind Brett Whitacre and herculean guitar hero Duane Denison, of Jesus Lizard/Tomahawk/Hank III renown. Combined, they are a force of nature, sweeping through the music world and leaving it awestruck and happily shell-shocked.

Though the Shack Shakers take their cues from the sounds of the Southern States, they aren’t bogged down in any musical swamps. Their sound roams far and wide, from the heaviest, hardest-hitting rock to the filthiest blues and the most lonesome country airs. Though their approach to their homeland’s traditional sounds may be irreverent in its supercharged revisionism, their love of their music and the passion with which they play is beyond doubt.

There are echoes of many recognisable sounds from throughout the ages that eddy around in the undercurrents of the Shack Shakers’ music. You may detect hints of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, the Cramps, Link Wray, Tom Waits, a particularly murky Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Duane Eddy, the Blasters, and a host of other influences from everything between psychobilly and country (quite a broad field, as you’d imagine), but there sure ain’t anything that sounds quite like these boys.

Wilkes is a classic storyteller, albeit one in the preacher mould, growling, hollering and crooning his disturbing tales of bad religion, worse whiskey, diabolical romance and sheer bloody murder over the band’s whip-smart yet thrillingly ramshackle racket. Lyrically, the Devil is in the details, but he sure seems to get around a bit elsewhere, too. Tapping the vein of Dixie mythology and drinking deep, Wilkes could be described as the rock’n'roll William Faulkner.

Though it’s taken years of blood, sweat and beers for the Shack Shakers to get where they are today, they have steadily carved themselves out a formidable reputation as the must-see gig ticket worldwide. Not only do they rule any stage upon which their boots tread, but their recorded output is a finer body of work than most bands could ever conceive of.

There is a simple process to test whether you’ll love Th’ Legendary Shack Shakers or not. It involves three easy steps.
Step 1)- take your index and middle fingers and press them to the inside of your opposite wrist. Can you feel a pulse? If so, congratulations. You are, in fact, alive.
Step 2)- take both hands and place them on either side of your face. Move them back. Can you feel some fleshy protuberances on either side? We call these ears.
Step 3)- Make an owl noise. If you can hear it, and it sounds a bit stupid, well done, your ears work.

So, you are alive, and you have a pair of functioning ears. In that case, you’ll love them.

Hopefully, that’s all I need to say. With a bit of luck, you’re already listening to them, and my work here is done. If so, don’t let me distract you any further. If not, why the Devil are you still reading this? You should be listening to Th’ Legendary Shack Shakers! Get on with it!

Yours discombobulatedly,

Dr A.F.W Curio

You will be needing some videos, I believe…

Th\' Legendary Shack Shakers- \'Ichabod\'

Th\' Legendary Shack Shakers- \'Where\'s the Devil?\'

Th\' Legendary Shack Shakers- \'Help Me\' (Live)

Th\' Legendary Shack Shakers- \'Iron Lung Oompah\' (Live)

Th\' Legendary Shack Shakers- \'Sin Eater\' (Live)

Links:

Band website

Myspace

Last FM

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December 21st, 2011 | Doctor Curio

Album Review: Next Stop: Horizon- ‘We Know Exactly Where We Are Going’

Next Stop: Horizon

Hello yet again, my scrumptious chickadees, and welcome to another unfathomably intriguing post from the mythical Phonovault! Huzzah!

Today’s heroes are a band from Gothenburg, Sweden, who make the kind of off-kilter, multi-dimensional smorgasbord of sounds that ears were invented to hear.

Oh yes, I have been raving like a schizoid loon all week at their phantasmagorical sonic superlativity. They have re-ignited the wonder within my soul that arises whenever I discover the finest new music.

Next Stop: Horizon are one of the few acts on the face of the planet who are exciting enough to totally defy categorization. Like some kind of Scando-cabaret-operatic-twee-carnivalesque-blues-oompah-folk-jazz-pastoral-vaudeville-cinematic tune-generator, they flit hither and thither on the wings of a thousand ideas, alighting wherever they see fit to craft flawless melodies before fluttering away to their next work of wonder.

Their debut album, ‘We Know Exactly Where We Are Going’, was released in 2011, and represents a new high point in modern musical innovation.

At the helm are the extravagantly-whiskered Pär Hagström and his partner in romance and invention, Jenny Roos, who use their album to take us poor, earth-bound listeners on a voyage of fantastical discovery. They may know exactly where they’re going, but, for us, the magical uncertainty of the unfolding mysteries could only ever be exhilarating.

Opening song ‘Iron Train’ is a creepy, bluesy lurch through eerie caverns of toy pianos and echoing voices, Roos’ sweetly juxtaposed voice beckoning you onward in spite of the forbidding atmosphere the music creates. It’s a haunting introduction to a mesmerising band.

It may seem hard to beat, but second track ‘Wild Escape’ is a masterpiece- a double-bass driven jazz scamper bedecked with clanking percussion and Hagström’s sinister intonations. The title is an apt one, as the song seems to dash around madly, but, at its heart, there remains a cast-iron tune.

Never ones to settle when there’s adventures to be had, NS:H tumble headlong into the Weillian cabaret-noir of ‘She’s A Ghost’, ascending into heady melodrama, before swooping back down to the bucolic country pop of ‘Reed Organ Song’, followed by the melancholic torch-song ‘Ship In A Bottle’.

So far, so weird. Or so it seems, until NS:H unleash the psychoactive broadside of ‘Telekinesis’, essentially the sound of a three-ring circus in the seventh circle of Hell. In a good way, obviously.

Out of this darkness comes a…. different kind of darkness. ‘Up In The Air’ may consist of a maudlin shuffle, touched by madness, but it also possesses the kind of tune that will inhabit the recesses of your mind for aeons. A similar feat is repeated by a different beast, the staggering majesty of ‘Tiny Wings’ tempering its nagging melodies with alternate blasts of walloping vaudevillian cacophony and eerily childlike verses.

‘Mysterious Grace’ is most likely what would happen to Tom Waits if he found himself in Sweden’s most obscure jazz club having discovered just how many Krone he needs to buy a single whisky shot. Naturally, it’s fantastic.

After giving us the full force of their wrath, NS:H take it down a notch, to spare our spinning minds. ‘One Of Those Nights’ is a rather lovely solo piece from Hagström that sounds like Springsteen if he were ever alone and desperate in the bottom of a bottle. This is followed by their first moment of outright levity, a fabulously freakish cover of Roger Glover’s top pop fluff-nugget, ‘Love Is All’, taken to outrageously parodic extremes of tweeness.

Then, alas, we have arrived at the final stop on this fantastic journey, the aptly named ‘Mountain Bells’, featuring a cavalcade of twinkling bells (really?) and Bavarian oompah chanting, of course. It is absurd, rousing, mystifying and magnificent all at once, which, by this point, is exactly what you’ll have come to expect from Next Stop: Horizon. There really isn’t anyone remotely like them.

I would advise anyone, be they old, young, deaf, mentally unstable (OK, maybe not you- it might tip you over the edge), human, alien or otherwise, to listen to this superb album. Though the spirit of adventure may seem to have eluded many of our modern musical practitioners, Next Stop: Horizon prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that is indeed alive, well, and guiding them not only to the horizon, but beyond, and onward to the stratosphere.

Yours improbably,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Videos

Next Stop: Horizon- \'Wild Escape\' (official promo)

Next Stop: Horizon- \'Tiny Wings\' (live)

Links

Myspace

Facebook

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December 11th, 2011 | Doctor Curio

Introducing: Quixote

Quixote

Greeting, masses! Yet again, I have taken it upon myself to bring forth news of the utmost importance regarding some of the best new music that you need in your lives!

Today, it gives me an almost perverse amount of pleasure to introduce to you the astounding Quixote. Unlike Cervantes’ anti-hero, these chaps certainly aren’t madly and misguidedly tilting at windmills, preferring instead to engage themselves in the entirely worthwhile pursuit of creating amazing music instead.

A quintet of demented geniuses who fermented in an old boat in the hulking shadow of Battersea Power Station and now ply their trade in the hedonist’s paradise of Berlin , they mine a rich yet rare seam of idiosyncratic, experimental pop wonderment.

They have recently released their debut single, ‘The Big Bad Man’, a rollicking glam stomp that towers over the musical landscape like a neon monolith. Propelled by gargantuan riffery, crunching piano, manic electronics, thunderous drums and Cameron Laing’s rampant vocal histrionics, it’s set to cement Quixote’s status as one of the most exciting bands ever to stalk the face of the planet.

Statements of intent don’t get much bolder and brasher than this. ‘The Big Bad Man’ is a massive gut-punch of a song, Laing cavorting around a gilded palace of sin whilst the band swing raucously behind him. It has vast reserves of swagger, style, power and energy that should see it become an instant classic. Plus, the muse that inspired it is that legendary rock’n'roll staple, the Devil himself- surely no-one can resist such temptation?

‘The Big Bad Man’ is a precursor to their debut album, due out next month. It would be safe to assume, following such a superlative single, that it’s going to be an essential purchase, and that Quixote are going to be a band worth watching.

Straddling the worlds of rock and pop, but with a deliciously deviant theatrical bent, Quixote are masters of the songwriter’s dark arts. From lush baroque pop to barnstorming rock, black-hearted blues, crazed cabaret and beautiful piano ballads, they conquer all they attempt with ease, wit and panache.

Capable of rocking with the best of them, but also of tugging at the heartstrings, disquieting with their eerie atmospherics and soaring to the skies on the back of super-sized choruses, they are a multi-faceted musical machine, with an eclectic arsenal of songs brimming with originality and overflowing with catchy hooks.

Laing’s lyrics take us on an often terrifying tour of the seedy underbelly of the human psyche, delivering stories of woe, despair, iniquity and inebriation in twisted verse that would do Poe proud. To deliver these tales, with their accompanying cast of (often deranged) characters, he pushes his remarkable voice to its extremes, from sublime, Jeff Buckley-esque falsetto to Tom Waits-style beatboxing, ominous croaking, unbridled wailing and louche crooning.

Quixote are one of an increasingly rare breed of bands who are not only highly proficient individuals, and phenomenally tight as a unit, but also great fun to listen to. Completed by drummer Carlos, bassist Guillaume, guitarist Phil and co-songwriter Danny Conroy, whose dexterous keyboards do much to define the Quixote sound, they are a band in a billion.

These are still early days for Quixote, not that you’d guess from hearing their phenomenally accomplished sound. No doubt they will go far beyond the realms of other mere mortals, so I’d advise you to fill your ears, hearts and minds with their wondrous sounds before they skyrocket toward the stratosphere.

Yours quixotically,

Dr A.F.W Curio

‘The Big Bad Man’ was released 12th December 2011

Links
Myspace

Facebook

Videos:
Quixote- 'The Big Bad Man'- promotional video

Quixote- 'Whiskey Fists'

Quixote- 'Endlessly'

Live videos:

Quixote- 'The Big Bad Man'

Quixote- 'Drinking The Rain From The Puddles'

Quixote- 'Cincinatti'

Quixote- 'For All The Wolves/Elephant'

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December 4th, 2011 | Doctor Curio

Harlequin Jones: The Bad Beginning EP

Harlequin Jones Harlequin Jones- The Bad Beginning EP

Felicitations! I have for your fine selves details of a most intriguing nature, regarding an issue of the utmost importance. Please, read on…

Aah, guitars. The staple tool of rock music, capable of bludgeoning, scraping, and all manner of forceful actions needed to give the music the full heft it requires. Surely, in the creation of any weighty, durable music, it’s a must-have item?

Well, think again. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a contender. A challenger every bit the equal, if not more, than the overblown lute so many have come to rely on in the interests of rocking out. When it comes to melding melody with substance, only one instrument can cut it. The piano is king.

Harlequin Jones have recently released ‘The Bad Beginning’ EP, and, by gum, it’s a blinder. The ol’ joanna has never sounded so thrilling, so abrasive, so damn good as it does here. The dense chords and deft fingerwork create a full, intense sound far beyond the realms of the humble axe.

Straddling the worlds of pop, blues, dark cabaret and rock, but finding a dark, peculiar niche in between, Harlequin Jones are an original, enthralling, exciting and occasionally disturbing proposition. Formerly a three-piece, they have now slimmed down to the core of Amanda Von Loon on vocals and piano, and Jesse Arcadio on drums, with a nifty sideline in guitar and bass.

Their combination of talents is a potent brew, Von Loon’s sonorous tones and exuberant ivory-tickling melding exquisitely with Arcadio’s pummelling battery. Taking the blueprint laid down on their self-titled EP, ‘The Bad Beginning’ sees them push their oeuvre toward the stratosphere, their minor-key melodies never maudlin due to the personality and vigour with which they deliver their magnificent songs.

Opener ‘Carve That Crap’ sets out their stall with consummate style. Von Loon’s chunky, deep piano chords thumping away in the lower registers of the instrument, as Arcadio beats out a heavy, yet, swinging rhythm. With splashes of bluesy guitar and multi-tracked harmony vocals from Von Loon, the effect is mesmerising, the swirling, multi-textured atmospherics coating the track in an opaque miasma of satisfying gloom.

Von Loon’s voice is a thing of full-blooded power, her deep tones alternately stern and sensuous, sweet and severe. Think Grace Slick causing a vaudevillian rumpus at the opera. Each song is lathered in multiple layers of her self-harmonising, showcasing the full extent of her formidable range. With lyrics taking in the whole gamut of love, despair, obsession, retribution and and self-analysis, she imbues everything with a sense of drama and intrigue.

Every track here is an absolute blinder. ‘Unsought’ starts with a classical-esque arpeggio, before diving into schizoid cabaret with a truly unhinged chorus. ‘Worried Ugly’ takes us into twisted, black-hearted blues, which metamorphoses into lush, baroque pop with a gargantuan avalanche of a chorus, again bolstered by Arcadio’s superb drumming and subtle yet powerful guitar work.

Throughout it all, it’s heartening to hear that, whilst Harlequin Jones obviously take their music seriously, unlike some close contemporaries they never treat it as an exercise in high art, preferring instead to let the tunes do the talking, remaining resolutely accessible whilst retaining their unique mystique. Most songs come in around the 3-minute mark, replete with catchy verses and super-sized choruses that emphasise the band’s stupendous songcraft.

The staccato ‘Will O’ The Wisp’ is another highlight, but, then, so is everything on this EP. ‘The Epic Song’ is, fortunately, not an interminable slice of prog-rock pomposity, but instead a mammoth slab of rollicking rapacity, it’s nagging minor-key melodies building into a tumultuous tempest of pure pop perfection, with creeping bass and furious guitar taking it to even headier heights.

To conclude, Harlequin Jones treat us to ‘Bold As Brass’, a slinky stomp wrapped sinuously around the ‘Peter Gunn’ theme, but with extra bite courtesy of Von Loon’s clamorous croon and Arcadio’s clattering percussion and booming bass.

By rights, The Bad Beginning’ should be a landmark release for Harlequin Jones, a concise summary of their singular sound that should endear them to discerning listeners the world over. Their not-so-secret weapon is the strength of their songs, and their sheer melodic might should surely be capable of converting even the most jaded ears.

What makes them even more special is the darkness they weave into these songs, hinting at depths we can only begin to comprehend. Remaining just the right side of melodramatic, but capable of instilling an eerie sense of the bizarre and foreboding nonetheless, their music is a thrilling departure from pop’s staid, stagnant norms.

Though their career is in its relative infancy, ‘The Bad Beginning’, in conjunction with their début EP, proves that Harlequin Jones already possess a canon of instantly classic tunes. Though, lyrically, their outlook may seem a tad bleak, for them, the future will surely be bright.

Yours pre-eminently,

Dr A.F.W Curio

These videos should pique your interest, to say the least….

Harlequin Jones- \'Worried Ugly\' (live)

Harlequin Jones- \'Will O\' The Wisp\' (live)

Harlequin Jones- \'Carve That Crap\' (live)

Harlequin Jones- \'Carve That Crap\'

Harlequin Jones- \'Unsought\'

Harlequin Jones- \'Worried Ugly\'

Harlequin Jones- \'Will O\' The Wisp\'

Harlequin Jones- \'The Epic Song\'

Harlequin Jones- \'Bold As Brass\'

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November 14th, 2011 | Doctor Curio

Gig Review- An evening of unusual pleasures:- featuring Charlie Khan, SpecialGuests, Birdeatsbaby and more!!!

Poster
Charlie Khan and the Bullfrog Chorus SpecialGuests Birdeatsbaby

Hail, all! Most rapturous salutations from the fabled Vault! Oh, what a wonderful mood I’m in today! The events of the past weekend have instilled within me a glorious sense of stratospheric elation. Due, in part, to this, but also related to a slight scientific hiccup, I am literally beside myself with joy.

The state of sheer ecstasy I find myself in is born of the event I attended this Saturday past, a carnival of carnally cacophonous delectations to send all the senses into spasms of awe. Never, in the annals of man’s endless struggle through the travails of history, has there been an experience to match the majestic madness of the evening’s entertainment.

What, o what indeed, could cause me to spout forth so elegantly and eloquently? What is it exactly that you’ve missed out on? Am I simply gloating at my being able to say ‘I was there’? Well, to the latter question, yes, of course. To the more pertinent inquiry, however, it gives me an almost unhealthy pleasure in revealing all…

Try, if you will, to imagine a drumroll… the cataclysmic occurrence to which I refer is…. Charlie Khan’s Tiger Tail single launch party! Oh, what a night, what a night. Not only were the many assembled dignitaries and laymen treated to Phonovault favourite Mr Khan and his utterly deranged henchmen the Bullfrog Chorus, but also some more veterans of these very pages, the superlative SpecialGuests, and 50% of the breathtaking Birdeatsbaby. As if this weren’t enough, we were held rapt by the stunning soprano Ruth Schwer and some beautiful burlesque from a young lady often described (at least every other sentence, courtesy of the rather eccentric compère) as ‘the Welsh Dita Von Teese’, the ravishing Gypsy Love. Ding dong!

All were gathered in the salubrious surrounds of The Miller, Southwark, (handily, if portentously, situated a stone’s throw from Guy’s Hospital), to celebrate the release of Charlie Khan’s latest single, ‘Tiger Tail’. Arguably his finest tune to date, it is a frenetic blast of crunchy, keyboard-powered polka-punk, concerning a flagrant disregard for animal rights in the purloining of orifice-located gifts for his lady friend. Out on November 14th, it is sure to be a big hit with eccentrics, dangerous sexual adventurers, unhealthily obsessive romantics, and pretty much everyone else excluding PETA.

Before we were subjected to Charlie’s dulcet tones, however, there was a whole brace of exhilarating lunacy to carry us happily into the night. Master of Ceremonies for the evening was the inscrutable Mr Lee Cavelliere, bedecked in full pomp with tailcoat, cravat, red top-hat and umbrella. And red wine. And white wine. And any other booze that happened to drift within his field of vision. With a flourish of floridly colourful verbosity and an air of dishevelled majesty, he introduced, traduced, amused and bemused as his whims dictated. A sterling chap indeed!

So it was he set the stage for the first revelation of the evening, the incomparable Birdeatsbaby. At least, 2 out of a possible 4 members. Piano-pounding chanteuse Mishkin Fitzgerald and violin maestro and sometime vocalist Keely MacDonald enthralled us with some pared-down, but no less affecting, versions of some of their band’s finest works, including the imposing ‘Always Hang Myself With The Same Rope’, the heartfelt yet disturbing ‘Rosary’ and the magnificent ‘Victoria’, to name but a handful of highlights. Between the two of them, they filled stage, room, hearts and minds. Powerful stuff indeed.

And then, for something completely different. Having had our ears titillated, it was our eyes’ turn to have their fill. And how… The next young lady to take the stage certainly had no trouble in capturing the full attention of the room. Yes indeed, it was the delectable Miss Gypsy Love, one of the UK’s finest mistresses of the Burlesque tradition. Entering in full regalia as a Red Indian chief, she raised more than just smiles amongst the crowd with her tantalising gyrations. The rest, I shall leave to your imaginations…

To follow this, you might imagine it would be wise to allow everyone time to cool off. Not with this show… Instead, why not force everyone to dance until their feet are at risk of being ground down to stumps? That would be the usual effect of SpecialGuests, a 10-legged musical S.W.A.T team sent in to get the room moving, whether they want to or not. Their gypsy/ska/hip-hop/folk/jazz/prog/rock/funk/carnival/god-knows-what fusion is all about rhythm, groove and energy, whipping up a frenzy that can barely be contained within the walls of the venue. Within a minute, the entire room was transformed into a mass of pogoing, flailing, skanking, jiving bodies. The can-can circle-pit that emerged down the front quickly expanded as it sucked in everyone within its vicinity.

Special mention must be made of the magnificent Daisy Grainger, who not only took the mic for a stunning soul-influenced number (as a special guest of SpecialGuests, who were Charlie Khan’s special guests), but also hauled the band back from the brink of catastrophe with the staggering power of her voice alone. When a freak accordion-related mishap silenced SpecialGuests unexpectedly, Daisy ensured the show went on with a rousing a cappella rendition of a traditional folk song. To that, I can only doff my cap.

Considering how the exertions of the previous set had sapped the collective energy of the room, it was time for something a little more refined. Step forward Ms Ruth Schwer, one of the finest opera sopranos ever to bless this earth. Her slight stature disguises the fact that she must surely be approximately 90% lungs. Without recourse to such fripperies as a microphone, she captivated the crowd with the sumptuous beauty of her vast voice. With the audience struck dumb in hushed reverence, her swooping, angelic tones very nearly brought a tear to the eye.

Of course, proceedings couldn’t remain so genteel for long. The edge of chaos that had been suppressed by Ms Schwer’s dulcet tones reared its head again as Charlie Khan and the Bullfrog Chorus took the stage. With his hot pink double bass, Charlie cut a curiously commanding figure. Flanked by his equally deviant partners in crime, he crashed headlong into the song everyone had been waiting to hear, ‘Tiger Tail’. The dancing feet that had barely recovered from the pummelling they had endured during SpecialGuests set suddenly found themselves obliged into action yet again, whipping up a maelstrom of pure kinetic energy. With Charlie at the helm, the band charged through a set of their wildest songs, from the gonzoid jazz-punk of ‘Everybody Dead’ to the transsexual drama of ‘That’s The Man I’m Going To Be’, interspersed with a handful of mildly more subdued, but no less forceful numbers and some hilarious moments such as the pure comic filth of ‘The Pornography Song’, the Winnie The Pooh appropriation ‘Heffalumps and Woozles’ and the Clovers’ ‘Cocksucker’s Ball’, featuring an impromptu guest vocal from Alabama 3’s Rob Love. Spectacular!

Oh, what a crazy, crazy, crazy night. Egad! If I could ever experience the like again, my existence would be fulfilled. It may well be a high I’m doomed to chase for the rest of my life, but to have been there leaves me feeling utterly blessed. Of course, this is of no comfort to yourselves, as, alas, my prototype time machine is not yet developed enough to transport you back to that gig. However, you can rest assured that all artistes involved will be playing many more shows. All you have to do is keep your ear to the ground for word of their future performances, and you can be sure of having yourself a life-changing night. I, for one, would certainly hope to catch Gypsy Love again… ahem… Anyhoo, find them, watch them, and prepare to have your minds blown.

Yours astoundedly,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Here’s some vital links to all you need to know- go forth!

Charlie Khan:
Website
Myspace
Last FM
Facebook

SpecialGuests
Soundcloud
Myspace
Facebook

Birdeatsbaby
Website
Myspace
Facebook
Last FM

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November 7th, 2011 | Doctor Curio

The good Doctor prescribes: Kid Congo Powers and the Pink Monkey Birds- ‘Dracula Boots’

Kid Congo Powers and the Pink Monkey Birds- 'Dracula Boots'

Good galloping gazumptions, friendly freaky sound-fiends! How the Devil are you all? Don’t answer, it’s rhetorical- I only ask because I am certain, whatever heights of ecstasy or doldrums of despair you’re currently inhabiting, you will be even better once you’ve digested my latest recommendation to your fine selves.

This week, I have mostly been getting my genteel groove on to the magisterial ‘Dracula Boots’ by Kid Congo Powers and the Pink Monkey Birds, and shaking my amply-proportioned thang in a refined yet exuberant manner. There’s a party in my Vault, and everyone’s invited.

Yes, I appear to have been walloped with a massive dose of the funk, the beat, the groove, and all else that goes with it, courtesy of the Man Himself, Kid Congo, and his rhythmically contagious comrades. I’m on it, in it and all over it. I think the word that best describes my thoughts at the moment is something like….Yowzah!!!

For those unfamiliar with Mr Powers, he is neither a child, nor from the Congo, but he certainly has some formidable powers indeed. In fact, he is a long-standing member of U.S underground rock royalty. Those with long memories and unimpeachable good taste may well recognise him from his stints as the demonic guitar foil to the late, lamented Jeffrey Lee Pierce in the magnificent Gun Club. They may also have caught a whiff of the Powers amongst the ranks of the Cramps, the Bad Seeds, the Fall, the Divine Horsemen, Die Haut and the Angels Of Light. With a CV like that, he could easily have spent the last decade-and-a-half reclining upon his gilded laurels.

But, blessedly, this gargantuan talent remains ever restless, aiming his killer guitar into previously unconquered territories and blasting his way forth. Aside from endless collaborations with a stream of awestruck acolytes, and intermittent solo outings, he has somehow found time to lead his own band, the Pink Monkey Birds, to the extremes of both the brilliant and the bizarre. Featuring possibly the only musicians on the planet talented enough to match the Kid, Kiki Solis (bass), Ron Miller (drums) and Jesse Roberts (guitar/keyboards), they seem destined to rip the world a rather fetching new orifice.

Arguably the band’s magnum opus, ‘Dracula Boots’ is as fine an album as anyone could ever hope to hear. A seedy, sexy, smouldering set of epic grooves, latino rhythms, squalling surf-guitar twang, 60’s psychedelic sass and vintage horror-movie atmospherics, it’s almost impossibly coherent given the tonnes of ideas and influences crammed into its relatively brief duration.

From the opening manic drums and low-slung stoner riffage of LSDC, you know you’re in for a treat. Powers husky sing-speak croon couldn’t be more laid-back, juxtaposed perfectly with the old-school sci-fi synth sounds whistling overhead. ‘I Found A Peanut’ is like the Seeds if they’d got their mitts on some modern drugs. ‘Hitchiking’ is a massive slab of surf-punk nihilism, before things get supremely soulful, if a little skewed, on the bass-boosted ‘Funky Fly’.

And the beat goes on… ‘Black Santa’ seems precision-engineered to get you go-go dancing up the walls. Things can’t remain so (relatively) straightforward for long, though, as we reach the Mexican-flavoured b-movie slo-mo-billy of ‘La Larona’. By this point my head is spinning, and my feet are tapping smoking holes in the carpet. Thank Hephaestus for my asbestos shoes…

Every album needs its moment of reflection, and ‘Dracula Boots’ is no exception. Of course, this being Kid Congo Powers, he is duty bound to ensure that the low-key ‘Buck Angel’ is haunted by malfunctioned tape noise and sounds like it’s being delivered whilst slowly sinking into a pool of acid. You wouldn’t expect any less, frankly.

With that out of the way, it’s time to return to the rhythm, and ride it roughshod all the way. ‘Pumpkin Pie’ is as much a hymn to the power of the bassline as it is a celebration of squash-based foodstuffs, and ‘Bobo Boogie’ really does boogie like a… er… a bobo…. know what I mean?

Thence, onward, to the trebly Ramones-meets-Pixies-in space oddity of ‘Rare As The Yeti’, followed perhaps their funkiest cut yet, ‘Kris Kringle Ju-Ju’, a track that involves little more than the rhythm section cranking up the syncopation to wish us all a very merry Christmas. Then, alas, as with all good things, we find ourselves at the end. THE END!!!! NOOO!!! All that stands between the entranced listener and a Kid Congo-devoid oblivion is the slinky slither of ‘Late Night Scurry’, Powers’ baritone croak intoning quasi-spiritual mantras to spook you into playing the whole album all over again.

‘Dracula Boots’ is a dangerous album. They just don’t make albums this good anymore, and the shock of how great it is could send even the least discerning music fan into an unbreakable trance. There is every risk that, once you have played it once, its sheer power will force you to put it on repeat ad infinitum until, eventually, they break in and find your long-forgotten bones in a heap next to the stereo from which the Pink Monkey Birds will still be blaring.

Needless to say, I don’t really give a damn whether this cruel yet delicious fate befalls you or not. As long as you discover, purchase and play ‘Dracula Boots’ forthwith (and pick up the Pink Monkey Birds’ latest masterpiece, ‘Gorilla Rose’, whilst you’re at it), my work here is done. now, where was I… oh yes, of course, it’s ‘Dracula Boots’ time again….

Yours mesmerizedly,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Before I slip under its spell again, have a brace of audio/visual delectations…

Kid Congo and the Pink Monkey Birds: \'Rare As The Yeti\'- official video

Kid Congo and the Pink Monkey Birds: \'LSDC\'

Kid Congo and the Pink Monkey Birds: \'I Found A Peanut\'

Kid Congo and the Pink Monkey Birds: \'Funky Fly\'

Kid Congo and the Pink Monkey Birds: \'La Llarona\'

Kid Congo and the Pink Monkey Birds: \'Pumpkin Pie\' (live)

Links:

-MySpace

-Band Website

-Last FM

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October 31st, 2011 | Doctor Curio

The Delta Jacks- Tales of the wild East

The Delta Jacks

Good day, audiophiliac homo sapiens! Gather round, as I have a most curious tale to relate…

Some pretty amazing things can happen to you if you hang around in basements. Admittedly, it may strike the average upstanding citizen as something of an insalubrious pastime, but I can assure you that, as a seasoned cellar-dweller, you may just find it could change your life. (n.b- this may not be such a positive thing if your name is Fritzl or Schalit).

So it came to pass that I was mooching in the gloomy crannies of the undercroft of the Royal Hotel, Southend (no actual royalty appeared to be in attendance, but it was hard to tell in the dark), on a forbidding, stormy Hallow’een weekend. This probably implies many odd things about my character, but, then again, they’re probably all true.

Anyway, on this occasion, there was a purpose to my subterranean lurking. That purpose, of course, was the absorption and enjoyment of music. A grand evening it was too, with a whole host of talented troubador troupes regaling the rowdy revellers with a magnificent miscellany of aural amusements.

One band in particular seemed to capture the crowd completely. The Delta Jacks swaggered onto the stage adorned in undertakers’ garb and corpsepaint (in the Hallowe’en spirit- fortunately no black metal was involved) and proceeded to behave as if they own the place, which, for the duration of their set, they did completely. From the first strum of guitar and squeal of harmonica, the audience was captivated, the previously half-empty room suddenly transformed into a heaving mass of bodies.

Proponents of an unholy melange of country, blues, deep-south choogle and raw rock n’roll, these four local lads evidently found themselves standing at the Alabama/Essex crossroads, having sold their souls to the Dagenham Devil. In return, they have seemingly been blessed with the kind of skills it took your actual deep-south guitar-slingers decades of dustbowl destitution to hone. Evidently, the Thames Delta is surrounded by some pretty gritty badlands itself.

Righteous indignation, lovelorn heartache, intoxicated rumination and good ol’ fashioned storytelling all seem to have found their way into the whiskey bottle from which frontman Ryan Bradshaw draws his gravelly gospel. His raw-throated holler, frantic harmonica and rollicking rhythm guitar provide the centrepiece of the Delta Jacks’ rambunctious country-blues-rock. He preaches fiery sermons on subjects ranging from love, despair and lust to booze, rough justice and Elvis, in a voice more suited to the banks of the Mississippi than the view to the oil refineries lining the Thames estuary.

Guitarist/banjo fiend Trev Reeves churns out massive slabs of dextrous riffery and flawless solos, intermittently indulging in a spot of stadium-style foot-on-the monitor posing that, thanks to his formidable skill, avoids looking at all incongruous. In the meantime, the all-important grooves laid down by bassist Greg Beager and drummer Dom Bauers are precision engineered to get the audience’s feet moving beyond the point of any inhibition.

Instantly, the dingy, dungeon-esque confines around the stage disappear beyond a lively throng, some dancing, some full-on flailing, some singing along, but all having a marvellous time. Even the most stony-hearted of spectators pressed up against the shadowy walls could not keep their feet from tapping nor their heads from nodding as the Delta Jacks’ rollicking rhythms overcame any attempt at resistance.

Yes, they totally slayed. They killed it, bagged it, slung it over their collective shoulder and strutted proudly home with their trophy. Such a band, you would imagine, must have been playing together for so long that they have developed a telepathic musical connection. Not only are they a supernaturally tight unit, they maintained a stratospheric level of intense energy and exuded boundless confidence throughout their set. It would appear they were buoyed by the benefit of years of experience.

Post-gig enquiries, however, left me flabbergasted. It transpired that, far from being a long-running institution, this was merely the fifth show they had ever played in their short existence as a band. Considering the blinding set they had just played, I was utterly gobsmacked. Surely, as in all the greatest stories ever told, this band was meant to be together.

Yes, admittedly, I am romanticising the whole episode a tad, but believe me, if any band are more than worthy of florid hyperbole, ’tis the Delta Jacks. This is only the beginning of what will doubtless be an amazing journey through some of the most exciting music you’re ever likely to hear, and they deserve the ears of the world to hear, absorb and adore the sounds they make.

Anyway, it would appear I’m going on a bit, when what you really ought to be doing, rather than reading my wayward witterings, is tracking the Delta Jacks down and hearing them for yourself. If you manage to catch them live, you will most likely become an instant fan.

As for myself, I shall most certainly be descending into as many ominous caverns and grottoes as possible in future- who knows what I might find?

Yours murkily,

Dr A.F.W. Curio

Videos ahoy! Marvellous, naturally….

The Delta Jacks- \'Long Way\' (live)

The Delta Jacks- \'Englishman\' (live)

The Delta Jacks- \'Hung, Drawn and Quatered\' (live)

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October 16th, 2011 | Doctor Curio

Kill It Kid- Never too young to get the blues…

Kill It Kid

Ahoy hoy, you beautiful creatures! I do hope you are all feeling as exuberant and enthused as my good self. If not, you certainly will be presently, as I have marvellous and magical mysteries to unravel for your delectation. Thus, it falls to me to relate to you (with great relish, as ever) this ode to the sheer magnificence of Kill It Kid.

‘Who?’ I hear you intone disinterestedly as you browse wearily through the catacombs of the interminable interweb. Well, prick up your ears and lay down any other trinkets and distractions that may otherwise be consuming your time and concentration, as these young maestros require your full attention.

I trust you are ready, rapt and raring to recieve my revelations. If not, tough luck. I simply can’t wait to spew forth my words of praise and admiration for such a superlative band. Before I hurl myself headlong into a plethora of lyrical waxings, however, I should probably give you the essential info on Kill It Kid. So be it, we’ll start with the facts…

Kill It Kid have got the blues, bigtime. This may come as something of a surprise to some, as they are relative whippersnappers who hail from the gentrified surrounds of Bath. Be this as it may, they have evidently amassed enough experience in their short lives to transcend their environment and evoke some rather desolate badlands

Comprising dual/duelling vocalists Chris Turpin and Stephanie Ward, who also play guitar and piano respectively, bassist Dom Kozubic and drummer Marc Jones, they whip up a maelstrom of raw, rollicking rock ‘n’ roll, frenetic folk and bleeding-heart blues, positively dripping with passionate fervour. On the flipside, they are dab hands at lush, bucolic melancholia, backwoods country and winning pop melodies. What’s not to like?

Their initial references can be traced back to the proud traditions of rough n’ready Americana that have wound their way through the music of the disheartened, downtrodden and desperate throughout the decades. However, they also have a keen appreciation of the heavy strand of blues that has informed the most thrilling rock music ever made. Add to the mix an epic sense of scale, a hefty slab of pastoral folk and the skyscraping, full-blooded hollers of old souls Turpin and Ward, and you’ve got a heady brew indeed.

Though guitar heavy (especially some sumptuous slide), and rolling on some monstrous grooves courtesy of the rhythm section, Kill It Kid know how to layer on multiple textures in all the right places. Blistering fiddle, thundering piano, screaming organs, mellifluous banjo, sweeping strings and far more ensure that they are never less than enthralling.

Kill It Kid could capably soundtrack the Devil’s own party, their tortured muse being set to a backing of such vigorous energy that they go beyond the realms of mere toe-tapping into full-on limb-flailing and head-banging. Basically, they make the blues fun. Forget the dreary ‘woke up this morning…’, this is more like ‘went out this evening and went totally nuts…’

So there you have it, yet another band who may well change your life. Now, do the decent thing and show them your full appreciation by filling your ears with their astounding sounds. Onwards!

Yours indescribably,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Videos ahoy!

Kill It Kid-\'Pray On Me\'

Kill It Kid- \'Ivy and Oak\'

Kill It Kid- \'Burst Its Banks\'

Kill It Kid- \'Heart Rested With You\'

Kill It Kid- \'Bye Bye Bird\' live acoustic

Kill It Kid- \'Boom Shally Wah\' live acoustic

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