Music Reviews / Previews

“Song review? Don’t you mean CD review, morons?”

For once we decided not to leave ourselves open for getting something wrong and remembered that you can’t physically get hold of this new tune from the UK’s worst drug-taking band, Keane.

Unless you’re one of those posh industry types, this song is unavailable to buy on CD, vinyl or even from one of those fancy digital downloading services. Though we assume it’s on file sharing sites alongside the mis-titled new Elvis and Frank Sinatra album.

Usually we don’t bother telling you how awesome or shoddy a single is, but seeing as it’s free release that didn’t get that much publicity compared to other free downloads, offered by the likes of Radiohead and Sigur Ros, we thought we’d make you aware. Spiralling is taken from Keane’s yet to be released (but probably available illegally on the internet) third album Perfect Symmetry.

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Whenever an album from a band you’ve never heard of plops on to your desk, it always makes the first listen that extra bit special. Will it be raging punk, diced up electro or something totally different?

Sometimes it’s that little bit harder to listen to a band when you already have high expectations of them following their previous releases. If anything Radiohead suffered from this when they released Ok Computer - for an album like that to be hailed as one of the best of the nineties, it was always going to be hard for them to match it with the wobbled electronic sound on Kid A.

But you can sometimes deduce elements of a band’s personality before even listening to their CD. Scanning the track titles, it’s clear Trinitron Meets the Mars People want to have fun and aren’t exactly naming that many songs after real life, heartfelt events. The Fawn Took My Shoes, and Now I Need Blues Clues and Bear Grylls Ate My Fuckin’ Turtle made us spit tea across our keyboards when we read them, for example.

But before assuming they were some sort of novelty comedy act with wacky names, it was best to let the music do the talking.

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Apparently, the most recognised instrument in modern day music is the guitar. Anyone can pick it up and have a strum, though most people produce better sounds then the ones we belt out. But never mind, we aren’t overly jealous and we’re quite content with our homemade tambourine.

Some people also say that the human voice is something that can make or break a song; depending on how well the vocal sounds, it can add that little bit extra to the track. Once again, singing is not ranked highly on our list of talents - but when the karaoke bug bites, just watch hecklerspray go.

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Forget ‘The’ bands, 2008 is all about ‘Kids’ bands. There’s London electro punks Dead Kids, Floridian indie-meisters Black Kids and New Kids On The Block.

OK, so the latter are reforming and the only time they ever get close to anything to do with kids is probably late at night in tour hotel rooms (changing nappies, obviously, what did you think we meant?) but they still count. Honest.

Returning to Black Kids though - this year is, we’re told, really going to be a big one for them. They’ve already been marked out as ones to watch by the BBC and rock behemoth Rolling Stone, and all this before their debut album has so much as sniffed a shelf.

The record in question, Partie Traumatic, has been produced by indie stalwart and ex-member of Suede Bernard Butler, and will be released on July 7 for your listening pleasure. In the meantime, you can catch the Kids at Glastonbury, T In The Park, and pretty much every other festival this summer before they head back stateside to make more waves.

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After a few weeks of seemingly pissing people off with music from both ends of the extreme spectrum, we’re back to offer something more accessible. Oh, it’s also bloody fantastic to if we don’t mind speaking too soon.

We don’t really like people sending us messages telling us how awesome a band’s friends think they are. Usually a band’s mates have been bribed with jelly sweets to win their praise. Even if they’re shit. So when we got a mini message from a band called Trifonic saying we’d like them because we were fans of Four Tet, we naturally took a listen. And we liked what we heard so much, we thought we’d share it with you.

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It’s that time of the year again when music lovers gather in a field to celebrate the thing they love: live music.

There are all sorts of festivals to cater for all sorts of musical tastes in all four corners of the world. The main ones kick off at this time of year and hecklerspray is here to tell you all you need to know about each festival, who the essential people are to see and which act to avoid so you can queue up for the overflowing shit-filled portaloos.

As the sun sneaks out from behind one of his many clouds, the hot weather looks like it may arrive for one of the festivals that kick starts them all. Download is the chance for 75,000 people to gather together and rock out to leather clad men drenched in tattoos and piercings. Sounds like a bit ropey if you ask us.

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Mainstream comedians are fantastic, aren’t they? Of course they are, why else would they be on the telly?

Dawn French, Lee Mack, Justin Lee Collins, Alan Carr… the list is endless.

Just thinking about them makes us want to round up every TV executive in a small room and hack the testicles off them that they haven’t even got in the first place.

And so the following is a list – in no particular order – of some of the most brilliant, unique, prime-time repellent and, therefore, largely anonymous comedians we’ve had the privilege to have never heard.

Read what we’ve got to say, watch and listen to what they have to say, fall in love and spread the word.

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Talk about your long gestation periods - The Opiates, the third and final album from Swedish collective Anywhen - was originally recorded in 2001, and subject to an extremely limited release in February of that year.

So why are we mentioning it now? Well, The Opiates has aged sufficently enough to reach ‘lost classic’ status, and - following a rediscovery by ex-Japan mastermind David Sylvian - is all set for an updated and expanded re-release, courtesy of some reworking by vocalist Thomas Feiner.

Please. Stay where you are. We know the connotations that the term ‘lost classic’ has - you probably can’t help thinking of some scratchy Bob Dylan bootleg heralded as ‘the ultimate live experience’ or thirty-seven minutes of Syd Barrett farting that some wag has labelled ‘a transcendent psychedelic journey lost for several decades’.

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Cover versions can be tricky little buggers. Rather like movie remakes, they can sometimes surpass the original (Heat), just about offer a flattering copy (The Ring), or completely murder the hell out of the original and leave all fans of it employing small animals to scratch out their eyeballs (Get Carter).

Songs are a lot shorter than your average film though, and therefore, should be a lot harder to make a mess of. Although not if you’re Mark Ronson, whose grindingly shit (and admittedly incredibly successful) take on covers involves simply a jaunty rhythm and a trumpet. Again. And. Again.

Anyway, whatever the failings of the twat in the hat, you surely can’t go wrong with an album packed full of Bob Dylan belters can you? Well, maybe in some ways you can.

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‘Bring earplugs’ they said. ‘Stand at the back’ they said. ‘They’re the loudest band in New York’ they said.

Well ‘they’ get top marks for believing the hype, but they could also require after-hours schooling for a little reality, because if A Place To Bury Strangers are the loudest band in New York then the city that never sleeps is in line for some well deserved shut eye.

It may be the aural abilities of The Legion, Shoreditch’s nearest thing to an alpine ski bar, but even stood close to the stage with ears unplugged, our tympanic membranes remain intact and not even a drop of blood trickles from our auditory canal.

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“I had a stroke you know, and it’s affected me deeply,” says Edwyn Collins to the hushed Shepherd’s Bush Empire crowd. “I’m working every day on it though,” he promises, “and I’m recovering my progress. Gradually, I’m up and up.”

This last sentence is delivered with a broad smile as Collins sits on a small amp in centre stage. His report on the illness he has suffered is brief, partly because of the effects it has had on his speech, but also because he is intent on giving his audience as much of the music they came for as possible.

In reality, the short story is incredibly modest, because the stroke that Collins refers to actually left him unable to walk or talk, let alone play the guitar.

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When bands get big and famous, they tend to shun the grimy pubs and seedy back ally clubs. Instead of playing for a crowd of seven pissed old men who are more annoyed that you’re unsettling their darts night you elevated to superstar venues.

From playing horrible branded beer based academies, arenas and festivals, it’s a great milestone for any band, The Futurehead’s are no exception. After gigging around the North-East for to long, they finally got their spring bored to stardom with Hounds Of Love.

However, The Futureheads tonight played a very special and unique gig. In association with lovely tasting Gaymers cider and Channel 4, they aimed to take bands back to their hometown roots. And hecklerspray was there to see the band rekindle their love for Sunderland and play an intimate set for a handful of lucky competition winners.

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