Jeffrey Lewis/ Liverpool Barfly/ 07.05.09

A great number of this country’s anti-social and depressive tendencies could probably be remedied fairly quickly if Jeffrey Lewis’ brand of nihilistic, quick-witted optimism was available on prescription from the NHS.
Prior to his onstage appearance, Lewis can be found at the merchandise table, drawing cartoons on the backs of Rizla packets and scraps of paper for excitable swarms of twenty-somethings with enormous Cheshire Cat grins.
Onstage, he obtains the same reaction from the entire audience. An amazingly adept storyteller, Lewis is at times uproarious (‘Good Old Pig, Gone To Avalon’) and others endearingly touching (‘Alphabet’), and the audience is transfixed and awe-struck for the entire show.
Songs ‘No LSD Tonight’ and ‘Williamsberg Will Oldham Horror’ are delivered pitch perfect and prove Lewis’ prowess for live shows - songs which surely can’t be improved upon, are further buffed up into sparkling, impassioned vignettes of imaginative comedic observation.
Song’s off new album ‘Em are I’ sound particularly amazing, with ‘Broken, broken, broken heart’ delivering a crushed, heart-yearning set of lyrics against an ironically-upbeat melody of pure determined optimism.
The show is essentially flawless, at times it can be heavier than anticipated, and the songs shudder out excitedly. Lewis’ backing band are an exceptional bunch too, delivering powerful, quirky and personality heavy backing vocals, beats and melodies which supportively enhance every sublime moment.
Like an anti-folk Harvey Pekar, Lewis also demonstrates his craft for comic books with what he calls his ‘low-budget short films’. Flipping through cartoon filled A2 sketch books, he regales the audience with poetic tales of finding a hand on the floor, a detective detecting the oddball plot twists of his own story, and a concise history of communism - which, under Lewis’ deft ability and charisma, is more entertaining than is even fathomable.

Published on the-fly.co.uk and rockindustry.co.uk.

Rolo Tomassi, Grammatics, Pulled Apart By Horses/ Liverpool Barfly/ 21st April 09

Pulled Apart By Horses are dangerously seductive. Combining the potency of every incredible pop song ever made with deliriously heavy grunge-grumbling guitars, hysterical wailings and a devastatingly pounding rhythm section, they are emphatically impossible not to love.
Offstage, front man Tom writhes and jerks himself amongst the audience - a possession of unrestrained delirium, matched by vigorous, thrashing and at times, jovial, vocals. Melodies grind, bounce, roar and trickle majestically against each other, whilst drums are pounded fierce and explosively.
Set finale, ‘Meat Balloon’, with it’s sublimely addictive chant of ‘We are so macho!’, is a prime demonstration of the bands dexterity for insanely catchy hooks coupled with exquisitely beastly guitar riffs. Perfect.
Grammatics’, however, have a delicate and theatrical sound, the splendour of which is emphasised when songs build into sumptuous walls of sound, juxtaposed with moments of grinding ferocity.
Despite this, a great deal of their sound seems lost, enveloped in it’s own outstanding convolution and as a result parts of the set can be somewhat forgetful and performed with a little less energy than is expected of a band sandwiched between two of such exhausting and spirited power.
Enter the exhausting and the spirited - an eruption of high-paced, torrid, grimy noise known as Rolo Tomassi. It’s all ridiculously intelligent and complex stuff, with jittering indefinite time signatures that jolt about within songs and utterly insane guitar riffs that are perplexingly intricate (the pace with which fingers tap strings and frets is menacing in itself).
Lead singer Eva Spence is truly the sexiest person in existence to produce such an unhallowed growl, as she does. Skipping a serpentine samba about the stage to the disordered sound ruminating from her fellow band mates, she’s dazzling to the point of rapt captivation.
Tracks ‘Macabre Charade’ and ‘Oh Hello Ghost’ demonstrate the bands great ability for ambience, with the slightest glimpses of a pop sensibility that works tremendously and keeps the set fresh, reducing Eva’s voice to an unexpectedly sweet and hushed pitch. Whilst songs ‘Fuck The Pleasantries’ and ‘Film Noir’ are fearsome, body-breaking noise fests which tantalise and terrify.

Courtesy of Rockindustry.co.uk

Son Of Dave/ Liverpool Barfly/ 2.05.09

(4/5)

Son Of Dave is sat on stage dressed like a less-malevolent version of Judge Doom from Who Framed Roger Rabbit. He’s been rambling for a minute or so about being lonely, before gesturing at the perplexed audience and drawling, ’Weeelll, we’ve got a little party going on here, don’t we?’.
A party, perhaps, but a party in which all the guests turn up at once to discover the host already deep into a bottle of vodka and a little too drunk for company.
However, SOD (AKA Benjamin Darvill) somehow still manages to put on a fucking good show (and he’s not that drunk, really). A one-man-blues-beat-box of soulful and rousing proportions, with a fantastic talent for a witty anecdote (or twenty), Darvill is exceptionally charismatic, displaying a personality which is worth the 10 quid entry fee alone.
Beset by ongoing technical problems, the set is anything but smooth-sailing, with Darvill constantly having to re-adjust the levels of his equipment and jostling the sound engineer for not ‘getting it’. However, this is all remedied mid-set, with Darvill proudly displaying the power of his human-beat-box bass - ‘BOOOOMMF‘, it thunders down the micophone, ’That sound should make you want to shit yourself!’, he chuckles wryly to himself before launching into an excitable version of ‘Nike Town’.
The gig builds to a satisfyingly rewarding climax, performing an emphatic rendition of ‘Hellhound’, ‘ripping off James Brown’ mid-song, and performing what is undoubtedly the best cover of ‘Low Rider’ I’ve ever heard.
“You’d better clap this next one” he mumbles despairingly, “otherwise I’ll go back to my dressing room and hang myself whilst masturbating”. The crowd howls with laughter, and luckily for him go bat-shit crazy with adoring applause.

Courtesy of The-fly.co.uk