live, music

On Ben Folds Five

Remember Them?

“We’ve just flown in,” says Ben Folds with the air of an explanation. “Boy, our arms are tired?”

There were two significant things about this moment, which occurred right after Ben Folds Five played on Friday night their first song together on British soil since 1999. The first was that, alas, explanation was needed: the band seemed if not nervous then certainly hesitant, and with Robert Sledge’s monitor not returning any of his famous fuzz bass to his ears, one third of a group the crowd had waited more than a decade to hear live again was flying solo and flustered; rusty and jet-lagged, perhaps the trio’s harmonies weren’t quite as on-point as they might have been 13 years before, when I saw them raise the roof off Wolverhampton Wulfrun Hall with a performance honed and tightened to almost inhuman specifications; the sound problems even extended to the microphones, which seemed ill-balanced – Sledge’s nasal harmony drowning out drummer Darren Jesse’s, and Folds’s lead sounding under-powered. There were, unheard of, a few bum notes from the direction of the piano. On drums, the imperturbable Jesse seemed more detached than cool.

But here was the other thing about Folds’s knowingly lame joke: it was like old times.

This run of UK shows, starting in Bristol and ending in Brixton, aren’t the first Ben Folds Five gigs in 13 years – the newly re-formed band have been touring the USA already. But the trio have never hidden the fact that they first felt understood in the UK (most notably saying so in the liner notes of Naked Baby Photos), and there was a palpable air of expectation at the O2 Academy on Friday – not just from the audience, but from the band themselves. The teething troubles didn’t help clear that atmosphere, lending to old favourite ‘Missing The War’, and even new song ‘Hold That Thought’, the sense of a feeling of the way (on the other hand, it must be said that in general the new songs came out far better from this set than they do from their record). When ‘Jackson Cannery’ bubbled out from the stage with something approaching the old energy, everyone may have thought the moment had arrived – but then a fluffy ‘Selfless, Cold and Composed’ reminded the assembled that this was a group of musicians who before this year hadn’t played these songs in a long time – and had just come over on the red-eye.

Ben Folds Five always traded in virtuosic irony – they could mock and undermine the standard poses of rock music, without in turn hobbling themselves, thanks to the sheer strength of their musicianship. The weight of meaning being placed on their shoulders in Bristol, however, asked too much of an overly flip tune like ‘Erase Me’ (the only song from the new album, The Sound of the Life of the Mind, which did not rise in my estimation after this show): the band may have just landed, but their baggage was such that they were finding it hard to take flight.

And thus it was that Ben Folds himself saved the band that bears his name: recapturing the spirit of that joke about tired arms, he began to sing about Colston Avenue Toilet, a local Bristol landmark which has amused him on every trip to the UK … and which he asked the audience to photograph and tweet to @samsmyth. First Sledge then Jesse joined in on the kind of improvisational flight of fancy for which the band was once known – 2012’s answer to ‘For Those of Y’All Who Wear Fanny Packs’, or ‘Satan Is My Master’. Something, finally, shook loose – here was a gig which was meant to be fun.

Their followed a rendition of ‘Draw a Crowd’, a song sunk on the latest record in the weirdly subdued production which characterises the whole LP, but which here became a kind of BF5 anthem; ‘Landed’ was pulled out of the solo catalogue, ‘Battle of Who Could Care Less’ crashed into the room on pitch-perfect percussion; ‘Uncle Walter’ surprised and elated a crowd for whom the song somehow sounded suddenly fresh – and a heckle from the audience led to another improvisation, this one undertaken with far less conscious stagecraft, entitled ‘When Are You Coming To Wales?‘. ‘Brick’, meanwhile, sounded as heartfelt as it ever did (and the audience uniquely respectful of it); ‘Narcolepsy’ featured a freestyle jazz interlude powered by the same irreverent virtuosity of old. By the time the set closed with ‘Army’, Folds no longer had to do any directing – simply by pointing at one side of the audience or other, the required brass parts came eagerly, unbidden and in key.

Anna had never seen the band live – in fact, she’d never knowingly heard a Ben Folds Five song before Friday night. Here’s the measure of a set which ended, perhaps prematurely due to a club night curfew, with – of course – a singalong of ‘Underground’: she danced all night, and listened to the band’s debut LP, first released in 1995, over breakfast the next morning.

You see, once they find it, Ben Folds Five still have it.

Michael Praytor, Five Years Later
Missing the War
Hold That Thought
Jackson Cannery
Selfless, Cold & Composed
Erase Me
Alice Childress
Sky High
Draw a Crowd
Battle of Who Could Care Less
Uncle Walter
Do It Anyway
Tom & Mary
Song for the Dumped

albums, bob dylan, music

“Sweep My World Away”: Bob Dylan’s “Tempest”

When the title of Bob Dylan’s thirty-fifth studio album was announced earlier this year, tongues were set wagging: would Tempest be, Prospero-like, the Bard’s farewell? As is his wont, Dylan scoffed: “Shakespeare’s last play was called The Tempest. It wasn’t called just plain “Tempest”. The name of my record is just plain Tempest. It’s two different titles.” A songwriter who has been so attuned to the rhythm and potency of single syllables should perhaps be heeded when he emphasises the absence of an article, but Tempest, a record which devotes almost fourteen of its minutes to the sinking of the Titanic, is nevertheless replete with lines which suggest the closing of curtains.

On the other hand, the album begins with as lilting and light-hearted a song as Dylan has recorded since the dour turn of 1997’s Time Out of Mind, an album which continues to stand head and shoulders above the other entries in Dylan’s late career surge, but which is uniquely troubled by Tempest. The playful video for ‘Duquesne Whistle’ – in which every cliché of the boy-meets-girl pop promo is subverted – starts as breezily as the song’s opening riff, and Dylan’s voice is as smooth and supple as it gets these days. Yet at about 3.49 the whole thing takes a seriously violent turn – and we return to the lyrics themselves, looking for a clue:

Can’t you hear that Duquesne whistle blowing?
Blowing like the sky’s gonna blow apart.
You’re the only thing alive that keeps me going
You’re like a time bomb in my heart.

This explosive sense of things barely holding together – and that queer suggestion that most other things that keep the singer going are dead and gone (the album closes with ‘Roll on John’, a tribute to a Beatle absent now for more than thirty years) – recur throughout the record, giving its initially sprightly course a rough undercurrent. Indeed, the album’s structure mirrors this effect: it drifts along for the first two tracks, the syrupy sweetness of ‘Soon After Midnight’, and scratchy blues of ‘Narrow Way (“Ever since the British burned the White House down / There’s a bleeding wound, in the heart of town”) leaving the listener to understand they should expect Modern Times redux, ‘Spirit on the Water’ and ‘Rollin’ and Tumblin’ rearranged six years on. Then, however, come the arresting opening notes of ‘Long and Wasted Years’, like Blood on the Tracks meeting ‘Brownsville Girl’ for a mournful night at the bar’:

It’s been such a long, long time since we loved each other but our hearts were true.
One time, for one brief day, I was the man for you.
Last night I heard you talkin’ in your sleep, saying things you shouldn’t say,
Oh baby – you just might have to go to jail someday!
Is there a place we can go? Is there anybody we can see?
Maybe it’s the same for you as it is for me.

From this startling juncture onwards – Dylan’s voice expressive, his words piercingly pared, the metre of the verse and the arrangement of the instrumentation divorced from the blues idiom which has come to seem his late career prison – it becomes impossible to perceive the dwindling of Modern Times. When, on that record, Dylan sang that his cruel weapons had been put on the shelf, he came close to splitting his staff and casting his books into the sea – yet, perversely, Tempest sees him wielding them as he hasn’t in years. The vaudeville mugging of “Love and Theft” gone, this is as raw an album as Dylan has released in 15 years. On the remarkable ‘Tin Angel’, a song about a murderous menage a trois, Dylan recalls his own ‘The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll’ and even ‘Oxford Town’, but, improbably, outdoes both in scope and swagger. If this album is a valediction, it is uniquely audacious – and rather more than a little cruel.

Tempest is home to important songs – as well as ‘Long and Wasted Years’ and ‘Tin Angel’, ‘Early Roman Kings’ and ‘Scarlet Town’ share the necessary intensity – and it has performances which better many previously lauded as late-career bests (the vocals on ‘Tempest’ in particular are as wry and alive to nuance as anything on the admittedly lyrically sharper ‘Highlands’, a critic’s favourite from Time Out Mind of similar duration). Importantly, though, this is a record of unity as well as one of delicious moments – differentiating it sharply from its immediate predecessor, Together Through Life, which now takes on the appearance of a jeu d’esprit. There are murders and subsumations, soldiers and wounds; there are also, repeatedly, women of ill repute: in ‘Tin Angel’, a jilted husband threatens violence on his former wife, whom he describes as a “greedy-lipped wench”; in ‘Scarlet Town’ we spy a “flat-chested junkie whore”; and on the compelling ‘Pay In Blood’ (“I pay in blood, but not my own”), we’re told, “You got the same eyes that your mother does / If only you could prove who your father was”. The purpose of these repeated aspersions – unusual in Dylan’s oeuvre – appears to be to emphasise the degradation of the songs’ men – the narrator of ‘Pay in Blood’ is presented as spiritually bankrupt, whilst in both ‘Tin Angel’ and ‘Scarlet Town’ we are introduced to men whose attenuated lives have hollowed them out (the betrayed “boss” of ‘Tin Angel’ sits in “a deserted mansion and [on] a desolate throne”.)

All this is of a piece with the essential pessimism of Dylan’s recent albums – the apocalyptic language of ‘The Levee’s Gonna Break’, or the bleak determinism of ‘Beyond Here Lies Nothing’ – but worked here to a fever-pitch of almost symbolist songwriting (“All the early roman kings / In the early early morn / Coming down the mountain / Distributing the corn”). The over-riding mood of Tempest is indeed one of annihilation – of the passengers of the Titanic, of John Lennon, of put-upon women or preeningly impotent men – but, unlike the grim resignation of Time Out of Mind, which dwelt on a dwindling, introspective sort of death (“it’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there), there’s a sort of senescent celebration of all threats external, as if life, for all its ugliness, is, indeed, the only thing that keeps us going – a time bomb in each of our hearts.

In a recent interview with Rolling Stone, Dylan said: “I wanted to make something more religious. I just didn’t have enough [religious songs]. Intentionally, specifically religious songs is what I wanted to do.” In this context – and with lines such as “I’m searching for phrases to sing your praises, I need to tell someone” (‘Soon After Midnight’) – Tempest is less a farewell and more a benediction, something more akin to a prayer: a clear-sighted, forgiving catalogue of the earthly sin we all know Dylan, too, will sooner than we like leave behind. Nina Goss gets it right when she says of the record, “life and death are working their way up and down all around us”. If, by accident or by design, Tempest is Dylan’s final album, it will be seen as an imperfect one – not every line scans, not every song leaps – but, nevertheless, both generous and … well. Alive.

Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;
And my ending is despair
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so, that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardoned be,
Let your indulgence set me free.

life, live, music


I first heard of the Songwriter’s Cafe when I was 15 . At the time, I was devouring Ocean Colour Scene records, and in particular their more acoustic b-sides, and discovering through those quieter moments, and via interviews with the folky frontman of that Britpop behemoth, the stripped-down delights of  Harry Smith’s Anthology and Bob Dylan. In fact, I still remember coming across that first copy – vinyl, mind – of Smith’s compendium, in the wilds of Brum’s Virgin Megastore that was; its four discs were, alas, beyond my pocket-moneyed funds, but the packaging whispered all sorts of untellable tales.

Even without knowing about all the many other wonderful songwriters then plying their trade in Birmingham’s bars – from Mickey Greaney to Daniel Rachel – the Songwriter’s Cafe had for me a similar aura as that hallowed boxset: I discovered, by tracking down every mention of Simon Fowler’s movements, that he was a regular at an event held on a Sunday afternoon in the Factotum and Firkin pub in Birmingham city centre. Shyly, I wanted to go – even more shyly, when I read (whether true or no) that the venue was over-18s only, I gave up all hope. When I finally turned 18, the Factotum (it’s now The Sun on the Hill) had shut its doors – and so had the Songwriter’s Cafe.

This story is told much better, and characteristically rather more colourfully, by the SWC’s ringmaster, Paul Murphy, in Radio To Go’s recent documentary on the Cafe. Recent because Paul decided a few years ago to relaunch the event at a secret location in the Birmingham suburbs. 15 years or so after first hearing about it, then, I was finally able not just to attend but to play this hallowed Brum institution. The evening lived up to every possible expectation – intimate and encouraging, and serious about songwriting without being precious, its small silent audience and hand-picked roster of musicians makes for a quite unique experience. It is lovely.

Next Thursday is the 2012 season’s final outing – good news for Paul’s incipient aubergine allergy – and you really should tune in to listen. The line-up is always kept under wraps, but it’s not about who’s playing: it’s about the exchange that happens when they do. It’s special, and thanks go out to Paul, Valeria and everyone at SWC for inviting me to play – but most importantly for making the whole thing happen 13 weeks a year.

Mark your diaries for 2013.


live music, music

On Tour with the Brave Sons

Last week was a busy one, as I acted as an (unofficial and generally pretty useless) roadie for one of Dan’s musical projects, The Brave Sons of Elijah Perry, as they undertook a mammoth week of many gigs.  The boys – Doc DW Perry, Queasy Joe Perry and Tatum Perry (also known as Dan, Amit and Rich!) – play characterful and ‘rootsy’ old time Americana tunes, which are very danceable and toe-tappingly good.

Their album can be ordered from their website, from the music shop Rise in Cheltenham, or from one of the boys.

Here is a video of them performing at Vinestock in Cheltenham last Friday night!

albums, music

Albums of 2011

I turned to this post with something of an uncertain heart: 2011 was, in many ways, a year of musical disappointments for me, in which ther were many albums of interest, but few of excellence. I listened to and enjoyed Feist’s Metals,  Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy’s Wolfroy Goes To Town, Okkervil River’s I Am Very Far, Ryan Adams’s Ashes and Fire, Iron & Wine’s Kiss Each Other Clean, Gillian Welch’s Harvest and Beirut’s The Riptide, but none excited me quite as much as I might have hoped. Others for which I had fewer expectations, like Yuck’s self-titled LP, Tim Key’s With A String Quartet on a Boat, or Alela Diane’s Wild Divine, tickled me with their novelty but don’t seem somehow heavyweight enough for an activity of such artificial gravitas as a post like this.

Nevertheless, a few records – and, as in years past, not necessarily those I’ve most listened to – stand out as complete, intriguing, and multi-layered. Here they are, in no particular order.

Fleet Foxes – Helplessness Blues

Robin Pecknold’s troupe of bearded revivalists have always had an ear for a pretty tune (‘Blue Ridge Mountains’) or mesmeric harmonies (‘Sun It Rises’), but it was hard not to credit Helplessness Blues as a serious step-change. It wasn’t that this, their second full-length record, was in any way less indebted to the sort of folk forebears to whom the band had previously paid homage; it was simply that they did more with the heritage, and did so with more depth, than previously. The title track may well be one of my favourite songs of the year, but from opener ‘Montezuma’ to the closing ‘Grown Ocean’, this record ebbs and flows with pitch-perfect control. Fantastic arrangements and superior lyrics complete a pitcture of what is a properly splendid album – with,  admittedly, all the slight post-ironic fustiness that description might suggest.

Bill Callahan – Apocalypse

It is Callahan who deserves the ‘most important living American songwriter’ title often applied to Ryan Adams, and on Apocalypse he shows why. Though this is a fractured and at times challenging seven-track sojourn into a not always coherent dreamscape, it is simultaneously a prolonged and convincing meditation on the modern (American) condition. Most obviously ‘America!’ sees Callahan worrying over questions of patrotism and identity; but in opening track ‘Drover’ he spins a long metaphor about cattle-driving into something with broader and more diffuse relevance. Not only that, but in such a short and spare record he covers a variety of modes and moods: from the flighty jazz of ‘Free’ to the spiky soul of ‘Universal Applicant’, Apocalypse achieves a rare and rather grand fusion of disparate lyrical, generic and imagistic elements – and it puts Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle, an album good enough to reach my 2009 top five, a touch to shame.

Laura Marling – A Creature I Don’t Know

Indeed, I risk looking narrow in these selections, because here’s a second reappearance: Marling was in last year’s top five, too, and yet in 2011 she like Callahan released a record of such disciplined intent that it made that previous effort look thin. As I said in my capsule review of the album published in this here blog’s sidebar in October, with this LP Marling surely enters the pantheon of canonical English songwriters. Not only are the performances energetic and characterful; her craft has matured to a point at which all its flab and fat has been removed. I may here be rewarding the perfection of a sound I enjoyed already – but few British ‘best of 2011’ lists would be complete without this record.

Frank Fairfield – Out On The Open West

Another entry from the sidebar, this time August’s, Fairfield’s is in many ways the simplest record on the album: very often solo pieces recorded directly and subjected to minimal post-production, these 12 songs have titles like ‘Texas Fairwell’ and ‘Up The Road Somewhere Blues’; they include traditionals like ‘Turkey In The Straw’, and no instrument more complex than the bull fiddle. Uncompromisingly pre-modern, it is undoubtedly a record unsuited to some tastes, and its principle strength – that it sounds as if it could have been record in 1921 – may seem an antediluvian reason for placing it in a twenty-first century list of the year’s best albums. So it may be, but there’s something serious about Fairfield which goes beyond the hi-jinx of Pokey LaFarge or the supple soundings of Gillian Welch: there is in these songs, as in Callahan’s, a kind of critique of the world of 2011. They’re also terrifically pretty if you listen for long enough.

Josh T Pearson – Last Of The Country Gentlemen

Pearson, meanwhile, gives you no choice but to listen long, with four of these seven tracks breaking the ten-minute barrier. Like Fairfield, he sticks for the most part to solo performance rooted in received forms. Unlike Fairfield, he breaks down the pre-conceptions one might have about the acoustic singer-songwriter and rebuilds the concept from the bottom up, manufacturing a howling, droning, plaintive sound, most clearly evidenced on opener ‘Thou Art Loosed’, which is sly in its abuse of our familiarity with the guitar and the voice. ‘Woman, When I’ve Raised Hell’ is a great, keening prayer of a song, and Pearson’s resemblance to Alfred Lord Tennyson only heightens his image as a sort of wry, post-romantic sage (“The only good thing I’ll ever give to you is my good grief,” he sings on ‘Country Dumb’). Delivered by a prog-rock Lefty Frizzell, and including some of the most startling acoustic guitar sounds heard in some time, this is a remarkable album which doesn’t sound like anything else released this year or in any other.



Camden Crawl Early Bird Tickets

People might remember that last year I was writing interviews and profiles for London’s finest metropolitan music festival, the Camden Crawl. Preparations for 2012 have already begun, and the rather lovely people at the rather lovely Crawl would like me to convey to you a message. Be there next May – early bird tickets are now on sale!



 We’re extremely pleased to announce that CAMDEN CRAWL 2012 EARLY BIRD TICKETS GO ON SALE 9:00 AM on WEDNESDAY 26th OCTOBER!

Next year’s Crawl, scheduled for Friday 4th – Sunday 6th May, will be one of Olympic proportion. As a warm up to the weekend’s full programme, the Crawl will host an opening night marathon to be held atCamden’s historic KOKO venue featuring six live acts and a special guest headliner to be announced later this month.

Tickets for the Friday 4th May event and 15% reduced early bird weekend passes for Camden Crawl will go on sale exclusively through and a limited amount of weekend ticket purchases will include the option to attend the festival’s opening night party.

To mark the launch of next year’s festival, Camden Crawl unveils its brand new VARIETY club night. VARIETY is four great nights out in one featuring an eclectic assortment of cutting edge comedy, London’s most competitive pop quizzes, guest DJs and a very special live music guest each week…and its FREE ENTRY!!

Location:           VARIETY at The Star Of Kings

126 YorkWay, London N1 (Kings X O 5 min walk)

Date: Wednesday, 26th October 2011


Entry:              FREE ENTRY

6:00pm/12:00am curfew

The 2012 Camden Crawl programme will feature more than 250 of next year’s brightest music talents and special guests from the UKand abroad across CamdenTown’s two mile stretch of historic pubs and venues. Previous line ups may be found at Additionally, its extensive daytime arts festival showcases cutting-edge independent talent across a variety of disciplines. 2012 events will include comedy, storytelling & spoken word, fringe theatre, a fanzine, poster and record fair, independent film screenings, outdoor live music stages and more. The festival’s interactive events will continue to include pop quizzes, live karaoke and plans are afoot for an ‘alternative pub-Olympics’.

Line ups are announced from January 2012 and, as always, venue schedules and surprise guest appearances remain under raps until the event.


@thecamdencrawl / #camdencrawl / #variety

albums, music

Nerina Pallot: “Year of the Wolf”

She wears wide-brimmed hats now. Wide-brimmed hats are cool.

Nerina Pallot reads this blog.

I know because of two things about her latest record, Year of the Wolf. The first is that it didn’t take four years to see the light of day: release a dignified two years after The Graduate, it is also – and here is the second thing – a marked and welcome improvement on that somewhat thinner LP. Year of the Wolf, written recorded whilst Pallot was pregnant with her son, Wolfgang, has more tunes, lusher production (thanks no doubt to Bernard Butler being at the faders), and a finer turn of phrase. This clear response to my own private wishlist is rather welcome – and not just, I suspect, to me.

Year of the Wolf also sees Pallot return to Polydor, the label which unceremoniously dropped her following the release of her debut album in 2001. She writes about that return in the Guardian. She doesn’t say so, but there must be something sweet about all this for Pallot, a self-made singer-songwriter whose break-through sophomore effort Fires was strong enough to break avert what had seemed like a career death. Her career has probably been helped by writing for the right people – Kylie Minogue, Diane Vickers – but, of course, it is the strength of her pop songwriting which has achieved that sort of canny networking. Moreover, she retains a quirk all her own in her solo material: there is always the odd creak or curl in a Pallot song which tips the wink that it is not merely a finely turned tune. Pallot songs also have character.

Thus the shuffly chug on ‘Put Your Hands Up’, a feel-good anthem which includes seeing stars, saying you won’t stop and boats setting sail in the lyrics. Likewise ‘Turn Me On Again’, a post break-up reunion song which, in its rueful self-knowledge, short-circuits any charge of X-Factor hedonism and acts as a sort of sequel to one of Dear Frustrated Superstar‘s best songs, ‘Jump’. Indeed, Year of the Wolf seems to cast a nod to the past whilst also looking forward: ‘I Do Not Want What I Do Not Have’ is not just the title of a song on this latest collection, but a lyric from the debut record’s ‘Bread’. Even ‘This Will Be Our Year’ shares a title with a song by Semisonic, whom Pallot supported on tour in 2001.

Pallot’s light touch and expressive voice offer a wry, under-rated sort of pop music. Year of the Wolf sees her again at her best, and consequently my only request for the next album would be fewer hats. We’ll see what we get in another two years, but this is more than enough for now. Much obliged, Nerina.