Sing-Sing, the duo of Lisa O’Neill and former Lush member Emma Anderson, have released their second album, Sing-Sing And I. The album is only available through the band’s store so while I was there I picked up their first album, The Joy of Sing-Sing. It’s interesting to hear the progression from 2001 to today. Lisa still has that playful quality to her singing but the songwriting and playing are more confident and focused this time out. The ladies are headed in a more pop direction and less of the dreamy stuff. I’m up for either so both albums work for me but it’s no secret that I’m up for great pop tunes. Speaking of which, check out Lover. There are a couple of carryovers from their Madame Sing-Sing EP, including the catchy A Modern Girl. If you read the bio on their site, it turns out that the EP was to raise funds for this album and people actually donated extra to help Sing-Sing along. Having been on the receiving end of such internet generosity, I know the band is thrilled. Heck, if I would have known about the donations I might have kicked in some extra but I’ll just have to be happy knowing that my EP purchase helped, even in a small way, to bring this fine album to fruition. Support those indie bands, people.

Variations of this story play out all over the world every day but I thought I would share it anyway. In my last CD Baby order the bonus disc was Thirteen, the 2001 debut by Cleveland band Krumble. These bonus discs, as you might imagine, tend to suck but I always give them a listen because you just never know. Turns out it’s pretty good stuff. Rocking sound with an edge. Solid female singer. A good first effort from a local band. I wanted to find out more about them so I went to CD Baby to read the album’s page. No band listed there by that name. Huh? I tried a few variations but nothing came up. Odd. I did the Google thing and came up with their site. Turns out the lead singer on that album, one Theresa Carroll, has been replaced but you can click to listen to a couple of tracks with their new lead singer. Problem is, the link is broken. Search on Theresa Carroll–nothing. The band does have thirteen for sale on their site, so it appears that that is the only game in town. Problem is, I go to write this tonight and the band’s site is pretty much gone now, replaced by a The future home of Krumble page. So here’s this local band with some potential and, for whatever reasons, just disintegrates. I don’t get to hear them get better. I don’t get to hear their lead singer develop. Even CD Baby doesn’t carry their album anymore and they carry anybody’s album. For some reason it just struck me as sad, that’s all. Take a listen to Vow and Awful Truth to hear what you missed.

The nice lady from the indie label emailed me saying she had an album that “features various unreleased psych and freakbeat tracks.” Wow, both psych and freakbeat (whatever the heck that is). Oh lord. “Sure,” I wrote back, “send that my way.” The first rule of struggling music websites is never refuse a freebie, right? You don’t have to feature it but don’t say “No.” Funny thing, though…it’s actually pretty good stuff. Sugar Lumps is the album’s name and it is a compilation of mostly recent neo-psychedelic tracks with a few vintage ones thrown in for good measure (including a previously unreleased track with Rod Stewart sharing vocals). This reminds me a lot of the Nuggets sets I wrote about previously as the songs have a garage-y feel to them. Check out Food for Soul by The Evergreen (how can you resist that bass?) and The Woeful Tale Of Shakes Magoo by Groove Ruben. There is even a track by our friends Jarvis Humby. I still don’t know what freakbeat is but, once again, never dismiss an album based on some silly label somebody has given it.

If I was forced at gunpoint to name my favorite song, I think I’d have to choose the Moody Blues classic Nights in White Satin. I vaguely recall one of the first times I heard it. I was the fabled child under the covers at night with a transistor radio. I caught the song after it had started but I knew I was listening to something special–art, to my little ears. The other night I got a wacky impulse: to buy all the cover versions the iTunes store had, which would add to the ten versions by the Moodies and the few covers that I already had. Eighteen songs later and my collection is up to thirty-four (I even made an iMix of what’s in the store, for your perusal). Excessive? Perhaps but I’m kinda nuts so it’s okay. What is in the collection (besides the classic version)? There is the punk version, the country version, the Italian versions, the R&B version, the new age version, the piano versions, the symphonic versions, the fusion version, the string quartet version, the pan pipes version, the karaoke version, the version with recorders, Nancy Sinatra’s version, and still more. A sign of great songwriting is when a song sounds good pretty much no matter who plays it. There are a few clunkers here and there it’s mostly good stuff. I wonder what other songs this would be fun with?

“I wanna go where the people go…”

It has never been “cool” to like The Wildhearts and it never will be. They are too unashamedly rock ‘n’ roll: too metal for the indie crowd, too tuneful for the hardcore metallers. Which is a shame, since their songs possess some of the most catchy harmonies and hummable riffs of any songs around.

For a number of years the band were Kerrang!’s favourite soap opera. They split up and re-formed more times than The Verve, lost members left right and centre, accidentally set fire to hotel rooms, and once famously trashed the Kerrang! office, no doubt making every writer wet his pants in excitement. This was the stuff that kept magazines flying from shelves!

Time passes, however, and things change. These days there is a more serious edge to proceedings. Bassist Danny McCormack is in rehab again, replaced on the May 2003 tour by Jon Poole of the Silver Ginger 5, and Ginger’s recent page-long article in Kerrang! reveals a man who has been through every stereotype of rock hell and emerged stronger, reaching back a hand to try and pull his friends out of the wreckage with him. And this is somehow reflected in their set at the Forum in Kentish Town, a strangely more mature show than any other Wildhearts gig I have witnessed. Every song comes into its own: “My Baby Is A Headfuck” is a frenetic pop-punk singalong, “Sky Babies” an anthem of sheer beauty, “Sick of Drugs”, now imbued with a darker meaning, has the crowd pogoing insanely.

Noticeable by its absence is any material from 1997’s “Endless Nameless”, which is a shame, since it would be interesting to see what this older, wider Wildhearts could do with songs which still indicated Ginger’s ability to write infectious tunes, albeit masked under distortion and a garage style rock production. But it’s hard to find any fault with the set the band *do* provide, or with their stage presence. Jon Pool does an admirable job of filling Danny’s shoes, while Ginger chats cheerfully to the crowd between songs. These are not new fans, but those who have remained faithful over the years, and the show is a celebration of everything the band and the fans have survived together.

The Wildhearts still know how to have fun. But these days they know where the party ends, and they are all the better for it.

“I got a problem, this infernal love.”

Remember the early nineties when everyone loved Therapy? When the NME, back when it was the yardstick of all that was cool, gave them great reviews? When magazines actually reported with interest what Cairns and co. were up to? It’s hard to believe now that such a time ever existed.

Someone once told me that she went off Therapy? “when they went metal”, timing this roughly with the release of “Troublegum”. How “Screamager” is significantly more “metal” than “Potato Junkie” or “Teethgrinder” I’ve yet to understand. Perhaps it was that the presence of those hoary old shaven-headed metallers in their painted leather jackets at gigs that scared off the indie kids. Yet even Kerrang! failed to stick by Therapy? through those widely slated albums of the mid ’90s. Look in any bargain bin in the country and you’ll still find stacks of “Infernal Love” and “Semi-Detached”, un-purchased even at a measly £3 a copy. And yet the sad thing is that the former is the nearest thing to perfect that Therapy? have ever achieved. But it was a tricky concept to market, perhaps. The indie kids were already running in their droves, and the cello-laden poetry sweeping through the album caused a similar effect on the “rawk” magazines.

The band still don’t play much of “Infernal Love” live, save the obvious singles - a basic, riff-driven “Stories”, sometimes the pop-metal blast of “Loose”, and the very occasional cello-led cover of Husker Du’s “Diane” (the proceeds of which the band donated to Rape Crisis). Then again, it’s hard to imagine justice being done to the remainder of an album which it’s hardly exaggerating to describe as “beautiful” in the raw feedback-heavy squeal of the live venue.

The stark, angry lyrics of Therapy?’s fifth album contract beautifully with the mournful hum of cellos, which lend a real tone of menace to Cairns’s voice. Anyone, more or less, can write a song. The mark of the truly great musician is to make the listener feel - live, even - his music in those few minutes for which the track lasts. “Infernal Love” is Therapy?’s most passionate, most heartfelt album. Perhaps Cairns was going through a difficult period when it was written (despite claiming at the time that this was “our happy album”), and it is this which now makes him ignore the record. Whatever the case, it’s criminal that the rest of the world does too.

Key Therapy? Tracks

A Moment Of Clarity (Infernal Love - 1995) – A song capable of staying at the top of a person’s favourites list for eight years is nigh on remarkable. “A Moment Of Clarity” possesses an achingly lyrical beauty. When Cairns moans helplessly, “give yourself to me, I share your need” one could almost do a Winona Ryder and bombard him with Screamager-based fanmail (”I’ve got nothing to do but hang around and get screwed up on you”, anyone?). A friend usually far too pretentious to admit to even going near a piece of music written in the past century or so once asked in awed tones if the lyrics to this haunting, cello-driven track were poetry. They might as well be.

Misery (Infernal Love - 1995) - Proper rock with violent menace. And one of the best lines ever to appear in a song: “While you lead me down dark alleys in the ghettoes of your mind”.

God Kicks (Suicide Pact: You First - 1999) – Cairns lays the menace on as heavy as he knows how, his voice literally a growl over a backing of muted cellos. Lovely.

Potato Junkie (Pleasure Death - 1992) – One of the best live songs known to man. And that’s all you need to know.

Screamager (Troublegum - 1994) – Come on - it’s a classic! The one Therapy? song all your friends will sing along to.

Our Love Must Die (Loose EP - 1995) – With almost country leanings, a deliciously sad little ditty.

Wicked Man (Shameless - 2001) – They’ve not lost it yet! Therapy? enter the milennium with classic rock.

Lonely Cryin’ Only (Semi-Detached - 1998) – Perfect two minute pop song. Almost sweet!

GIVE ‘EM ENOUGH ROPE

“Loser, liar, fake and phoney - no one cares!”

I could possibly refer to it as the worst day of my life.

No, I’m not referring to the day my dog died, or I received terrible exam results, or my best friend went into hospital. The evening in question is the 15th December 1998; the place, London’s Wembley Arena. The event; part of the London leg of the Manic Street Preachers’ This is my Truth” tour.

To think how easily I could have been spared the torture of that night. Yet the entire world seemed to be scheming to coerce me through those fated swing doors and, weakly, I allowed myself to be dragged in. A Manics habit, it seems, is one of the hardest addictions to kick. However, when the tour was announced I had no realisation of this fact at all. Smiling smugly to myself, happy in the mistaken knowledge that I was free of them forever, I instantly phoned my best friend, confident that she would derisively laugh off my suggestion of an evening excursion to North-West London.

“We-ell…” She began dubiously, “I suppose we might as well go. After all, they were good once upon a time. And you never know…” Dumbly I nodded, too deeply embedded in shock to realise that she could hardly recognise my acquiescence over the telephone. Hanging up, the next number I dialled with shaking hands was that of the Wembley Box Office.

“Good morning, Wembley Arena. Can I help you?”

“Do you have any tickets left for the Manic Street Preachers on Tuesday 15th December?”

“I’ll just check for you.” The sound of rustling and interminable tapping at a computer keyboard followed. I held my breath, strangely uncertain as to whether I was nervous that there would be no tickets or that there would be.

“I’m afraid we only have seated tickets available.” Ironically, as it turned out, I scornfully dismissed this suggestion.

My relief at the outcome of this exchange was short-lived, however. It seemed that attendance of the event was a fate I simply could not escape. A second date announced I sat on my hands, casting furtive glances over my shoulder at the temptation of the telephone. Just one more time…But no! I told myself firmly. It was no good attempting to wean myself off – I knew I would never quit that way. It had to be a clean break; once and for all, and I’d just have to suffer the withdrawal as best I could.

A month later I was approximating a normal human being once more. To my delight, for the first time since 1993 I no longer needed to collect any article, any picture, any record or any television clip that related to the Manic Street Preachers to add to the shrine in my room. Foolishly I believed I had recovered, which left me totally unprepared for the next instalment in the saga. Disaster! A friend had a spare ticket for the arena date. Couldn’t he find someone else to buy it? I enquired desperately. He didn’t know. I um-ed and ah-ed, but it was pretty clear to everyone that I would cave in and buy the ticket in the end. I simply couldn’t help it.

And so there I was at Wembley, dismally swinging my legs over the edge of a red plastic seat approximately five hundred miles from a stage I had never even wanted to see in the first place, checking my watch every few seconds to see how long it was before I could go home.

The lights dimmed. The first stirring notes of the instrumental struck up. The crowds of middle-aged couples, twelve-year-old Steps fans and t-shirt clad nondescripts began to cheer enthusiastically and sing along. Sulkily I remained silent, glaring vaguely in the general direction of the other end of the arena, my eyes determined not to focus at all. Sadly my vision had cleared by the time the band strode onto the stage (perhaps I should have left my contact lenses at home). But who were they? I suddenly realised I didn’t even recognise them anymore. Two short fat bastards in sports gear, some keyboardist bloke, on whom the cameras always bizarrely focused during televised gigs (as if he was actually part of the band…!) and a six foot two teenage girl with bad hair.

Somehow the worst thing wasn’t that my heroes had changed beyond belief; that these men whom I’d once worshipped I now felt complete and utter contempt for. It was the undeniable fact that I simply didn’t care. As they burst into Australia there was no surge of emotion as in the old days - even post-95 when the band had already staggered into a sharply accelerating decline. There was simply – nothing. I felt completely numb, empty – devoid of feeling. I could almost have laughed.

Instead my mood swung dramatically throughout the gig. There were sudden intense bursts of hatred - “Never ever wanted to be with you. The only thing you gave me was the boredom I suffocated i-in!” I spat, glaring viciously at Nicky Wire with childish savagery. Then there was the sadness. Grief for a past which had vanished without a trace, wistfully remembering the way things used to be. Sorrow for Richey. And all of this was interspersed with gaping holes of nothing, during which I could hardly believe that I had ever even spared a thought for those three minute men prancing about so ridiculously on a matchbox stage on the other side of a vacantly gaping abyss. I could hardly believe that I had ever cared about anything.

“They were the only thing that ever meant anything to me!” My brain screamed at me with teenage melodrama over a blaze of guitars and trumpets, “And if they don’t matter anymore, then what does??” And, for that year-long hour-and-a-half my life seemed to be completely empty. As far as I was concerned, nothing existed outside that huge dismal hall – and there was as sure as hell nothing inside it! And, when the band committed the cardinal sin and played the dreary dirge of A Design for Life after the rousing traditional finalé of “You Love Us”, the tears which had previously merely trickled came full force and, knees drawn up to my chest, head crushed into them, I was oblivious to the screams and cheers around me which seemed as distant as if they came from another planet.

Laugh at me scornfully if you like; call me sad but, if you have never been a Manics fan (or, indeed, an obsessive fan of any band) then you cannot possibly understand. Despite the horrors of that evening, however, I can almost consider the experience as a beneficial one. It was, after all, the day that something finally snapped; that retreat into the past was no longer possible. Before that, although I was able to chortle at the ridiculous lyrics on the latest album, I could still remain true to the first three. I could flick through Melody Maker, filled with utter scorn at Nicky Wire’s pitiable attempts to be interesting again past the edge of thirty in his see-through dresses. I could laugh with bitter revulsion at the crap he came out with in interviews; at his pathetic pride in his so very “different” (and, therefore, somehow conforming to the NME’s ideas of rock ‘n’ roll) addiction to housework, at rants about class coming from a man who had never even had a proper job and was so insular and divorced from real life that he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about!

So I thank my friends for having persuaded me to go to Wembley. For, when this new band with whom I could not identify burst into “She is Suffering” or “This is Yesterday” it no longer meant a thing and the past and the future fused into one long worthless nothing. If Nicky Wire could irritate the fuck out of me now, I reasoned in a surprisingly logical manner, then I could scarcely have been in love with him then. Occasionally I would still listen to ”The Holy Bible” but no longer with the same devotion as before. They had become Just Another Band…

“I will go there - bingo!”

Just what is it that makes The Candys so bad? It may seem a little cruel, perhaps, to single out one of so many mediocre Shoreditch rock bands for a rant, but this is where the crux of the matter lies. The Candys are just so damn average it’s almost painful! They could be playing pubs in any provincial town (in this case all except guitarist Ben hail from Hastings) in any post-Britpop year, and it’s only singer Del’s addiction to neckties and their fondness for playing venues on Kingsland Road that places them on the fringes of the Hoxton bracket, where they clearly so desperately want to be.

“Would you really want to see this band??”

What’s more, the Candys try too hard. Del wants to be something like Hastings’ answer to Craig Nicholls; an insanely gurning frontman with an unfortunate lack of the latter’s charisma. Kat, the bassist, meanwhile, will do nothing but look coyly downwards in that classic “I’m so cool, aloof and sexy and - oh look! - the only woman in the band!” pose. The Candys are determined to be more than a three-chord sub-punk sub-rock ‘n’ roll outfit but, because they don’t have the songs to back this up, they just end up looking stupid. They’re the kind of band who will, no doubt, be playing On The Rocks for years to come until even their friends get bored of watching them.

Oh, and the guitarist used to be in Catch. Enough said.

The Blueskins hail from Wakefield, near Leeds, and consist of singer/guitarist Ryan Spendlove, a former boxer with a Bob Marley obsession who writes most of the tunes, Ryan’s schoolfriend the affable Maff Smith on bass, seventeen-year-old Beatles enthusiast Richie Townsend on rhythm guitar and NME-hating drummer Paul Brown.

So far the band have only released one single, the fast-paced scrawl of “User-Friendly”, but “Magic Road” follows shortly on 27th October, along with a variety of live dates and, hopefully, a tour to replace dates cancelled earlier in the year when Ryan was struck down by a mystery virus. Go and see them when you can!

How do you have four people in a rock band but no guitar player? If you are San Francisco’s Von Iva you do it by kicking ass. Drums, bass, keys, and singer. Shades of Death From Above 1979, you say? One big difference, though. Singer Jillian Iva is a belter-and-a-half with a swagger to match those pipes. Then you get the bass intertwining with and bouncing off the keyboards and some really solid drumming holding it down and you have a heavy rock sound that makes you want to move (which I don’t recommend doing while driving down the freeway). The first single from their self-titled debut is Not Hot To Trot (the CD comes with the totally hot video for it, as well). For my money, though, Showboat is the EPs killer track. The whole band just destroys on that one. The CD is mainly available from the band’s store and iTunes but I saw copies on Amoeba Music’s shelves this past weekend so also check out the more enlightened stores out there. This is a great CD, folks. Don’t let it pass you by without giving it a listen.