“Y’all got tickets to see the Stone Roses? What? Manchester doesn’t like the Stone Roses? Aren’t they from here? Ladies and gentlemen… our special guests, THE STONE ROSES! They’re all out back cryin’ now…”

Das Racist aren’t your average hip hop outfit. Instead of bring the usual posturing that is seemingly obligatory in the world of rap, they pretty much stumbled into view almost as unprepared as we were when we first set sight on them.

Coming to Manchester, on the back of an appearance on the Conan O’Brien show, they stared out at the throng and looked as pleasantly bewildered as those staring back at them. Mercifully, from the neck down, everybody was dancing.

Laughing at the chorus of boos that met the Stone Roses chat, Das Racist’s between-song patter was as funny as their songs are. And humour is something that these reprobates trade in daily.

Of course, having a sense of humour in hip hop is a tricky thing. Years ago, De La Soul were happy to sing about shovelling chestnuts in their backpacks, while Ol’ Dirt McGirt would often fling out hilarious asides from whichever cultural reference his sharp, but addled mind, landed on. However, both acts have been prone to act tough for the sake of staying onside with the hip hop glitterati.

Not Das Racist. They clearly couldn’t care less. And it’s this wilful and enthusiastic embracing of amateurism which makes them such a fun, cool ride.

Whereas the likes of MC Paul Barman can go overboard on the LOOK AT ME, I’M A FUNNY RAPPER! thing, at times, nearing Weird Al levels of parody, Das Racist don’t even need to try. They look like they’ve never exerted themselves in their whole lives. They’re naturally funny and, mercifully, have the beats to back it up.

And so, without a care in the world, Heems, Kool A.D., Dapwell (and the Looking Like He’d Taken A Load Of Mushrooms Before Walking Onstage Lakutis) strolled onstage and promptly went about slaying everyone in sight with some super heavy basslines and slanted, skewed observations on… well… everything, ever. When settling in with Das Racist, you have to cling on tight or you won’t keep up.

See, while the backdrop featured Beyonce looking like a melted waxwork and Osama Bin Laden grafted onto some hideous demon body, from the stage, Heems indulged in some call-and-response, notably asking the crowd to shout “GET A REAL JOB!” and “THIS IS NOT WHAT I PAID TO SEE!” at him.

He then gave someone in the audience a banana.

While this all sounds far too zany, fact is, amongst it all is one of the tightest backcats on the planet. They launched into their impressive setlist setting feet to pound and brains to stun. The morning after, its hard to beat what the New York Times wrote about the group:

“Das Racist’s lack of piety has become an aesthetic of its own, with songs that are as much commentary on hip-hop as rigorous practice of it.”

Basically, Das Racist aren’t you’re average crew. Smarter than they look and wilfully dumb, they’re just about the most perfectly amalgamation of all that rap that’s gone before it. Of course, people don’t have much room to praise anyone but Tyler The Creator and Azealia Banks at the moment and, sure, while the latter is an exciting popstar, it feels like everyone backed the wrong pony with Odd Future.

For super fresh beats and smart-ass, bug-eyed rhymes, Das Racist kill all the opposition. Don’t tell ‘em though. They haven’t got a fuckin’ clue.

Let’s keep it that way.

The big news amongst balding 40 year-olds is that the Stone Roses are going to reform. There’s a press conference imminent and everyone has got their hopes up again… just like they get their hopes up everytime someone mutters the word ‘reunion’.

Of course, around Manchester and its satellite towns, you have to silently mouth the words ‘Stone Roses Reunion’ in the same way dog-owners have to avoid saying ‘walkies’ to a dog. The excitement in both camps is equally giddy and urinatory.

And handily for the Stone Roses, save a bit of IRA sponsored building regeneration, Manchester hasn’t changed much since they split. For ON THE EIGHT DAY, GOD CREATED MANCHESTER NOSTALGIA!

And so, at 3pm, The Stone Roses are going to make a “very important announcement” at their London press conference. The most muttered rumour is that the most famous line-up of Ian Brown, John Squire, Mani and Reniwill reform for two gigs next year. Probably in Manchester.

Of course, this all comes on the back of ‘it ain’t ever gonna happen’ chat from most of the band members (not including those that made up the Roses circa ’96 when there was only Mani and Brown left clinging onto a sinking ship filled with Simply Red session guitarists and bottles hurled at their feet to a symphony of booing), but you get the notion that some of them could do with a hand with the mortgage these days.

John Squire hasn’t exactly been setting the art world alight now has he?

When Brown et al decided to call it a day, they signed off with:

“Having spent the last 10 years in the filthiest business in the universe, it’s a pleasure to announce the end of the Stone Roses.”

So are the Stone Roses going to make a comeback in the filthiest business in the universe? There’s only one thing they could do, other than the inevitable comeback tour, which would be of note.

All four band members should murder each other in cold blood before the assembled press to finally put an end to any reunion talk.

It’s the only way Manchester will move on from being shackled to indie nights that see pot-bellied DJs sticking the full length version of Fools Gold on while they nip off for a smoke/fag break while shell-toed divorcees relive the years they invariably ignored first time ’round.

*UPDATED*

There you have it. Stone Roses have reformed. There’ll be new material according to Ian Brown and they’re all chums again. Now all we need is the press to write headlines saying “What The World Is Waiting For”, “They Are The Resurrection”, “The Third Coming” and more.

Two shows at Manchester’s Heaton Park on June 29th and 30th, followed by a world tour.

Now piss off.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group if anyone is still daft enough to use it

Dealers keep dealin’. Thieves keep thievin’. Whores keep whorin’. Junkies keep scorin’. Trade is on the meat rack. Strip joints full of hunchbacks. Bitches keep bitchin’. Clap keeps itchin’.

You might recognise these as the lyrics from Primal Scream’s exileonmainstreetesque hit, ‘Rocks’. What you may not realise is that the British Conservative Party are big fans too and just love being associated with drug dealing, prostitution, crime and sexually transmitted diseases.

How so? Well, for some inexplicable reason, our Tory chums thought it would be a good idea to play the track at the Conservative Party Conference which saw Theresa May making things up about immigrants and cats. Primal Scream are not happy.

The Screamteam reacted angrily after Home Secretary Theresa May played the track at the end of her speech where she said something about hating human rights. Or something. We weren’t really listening.

Primal Scream issued this statement in response:

“Primal Scream are totally disgusted that the Home Secretary Theresa May ended her speech at the Tory party conference with our song ‘Rocks’. How inappropriate.”

“Didn’t they research the political history of our band? Hasn’t she listened to the words? Does she even know what getting your rocks off means? No. She is a Tory; how could she?

“Primal Scream are totally opposed to the coalition government, Cameron, Osborne, Gove, Howard, Clegg etc. They are legalised bullies passing new laws to ensure the wealthy stay wealthy, taking the side of big business while eradicating workers’ rights and continuing their attacks on young people, single parents and OAPs by slashing education and social security budgets, in effect persecuting the poor for being poor.”

The statement ends with Primal Scream pointing out that they see Tories as their enemy:

“We would like to distance ourselves from this sick association. The Tories are waging a war on the disenfranchised, they are the enemy.”

Of course, the mistake Theresa May made was that she didn’t use the sprightly “Bomb The Pentagon” recorded by the band, as that would’ve been about as appropriate wouldn’t it?

Lovely.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or else we’ll kill you in your sleep or join our Facebook group if anyone is still daft enough to use it or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS OR WE’LL KILL EVERYONE YOU’VE EVER LOVED!

Politics, what a lot of cobblers. Full of posh and privately educated individuals, the humble person on the street has to work out what’s a lie, or just fabrication. Politicians have a long way to go before the general public appreciate them. Ever seen an MP sticker book? Only people who are liked get this accolade, like randy, closeted footballers.

From what we can gather, the coalition government blames Labour for any problem affecting the UK and they’re here to mend the problems.

This week, David Cameron takes his Conservative minions to Manchester to tell the country how wonderful a job he’s doing and state future plans whilst making terrible jokes. But in a leaked document that was stuffed through the letterbox of the hecklerspray bedsit, we’ve seen potential policies that were scrapped at the last moment. Learning from tricks of the trade from one Tory predecessor Margaret Thatcher, one of proposals will shock you to the core.

It’s going to be a tough week for the Tories. Firstly, the entire party has had to travel to Manchester which is in the north of England.

Imagine the thought of having to leave the perfect land of London where an item in a pound shop costs a fiver and clean air doesn’t exisit.

But more importantly we’ve been given a glimpse into proposed plans that were designed to put more stress on the UK population.

Cooked up by David Cameron and his whipping boys, we’d be here all day summarising them all, but below are a few that would have immediately sparked off more riots if given the green light.

Shake Up Of Breast Milk Use

According to the leaked document that’s now in our possession, the Tories want to emulate countries such as Iraq and Saudi Arabia who are rich in natural resources. However the government accepts the fact that it has to invade other nations for oil and wants to somehow make money on a commodity that is already available.

As a parent, David Cameron knows that babies aren’t always hungry during a feed. Proposed measures would have forced a parent to supply milk from one breast to their child whilst a powerful suction machine empties the other. The extracted milk would be bottled, sold to developing nations and sent to orphanages worldwide.

Removal Of The 1p and 2p Coin

After listening to rap star Jay-Zs track “99 Problems”, Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne had his own eureka moment whilst looking a pile of money. Relating to the common people, Mr Osborne knows that purchasing goods and items for 99p can quickly make a wallet or purse, bulge with coins that can be hard to spend. Mr Osborne confidently stated that valuable pennies are simply thrown away and not spent. Removing them from circulation would pay a small chunk of nation’s debt off.

This idea would have been implemented after the Manchester conference with the immediate removal of this currency but Tory peers worried how the public would react. In certain areas of the community, such as the individual who asks for 2p for their bus ticket, may get complacent and plot revenge through violent means. The suggestion of reintroducing the coins back to the nation once major debts were paid off was met with howling laughter.

Making A Political Triangle

Rarely do governments have to share power and ideas with opposing parties. At the moment, the Conservatives and Liberal Democrats are best chums with each other. David Cameron has ensured everyone has an equal slice of political cake apart from Nick Clegg who all students once saw as a pin-up poster boy. But what about Labour? Where are they in this political jigsaw? David Milliband may be a limp leader in David Cameron’s eyes, and he planned to use this to his advantage.

One of the most shocking plans hecklerspray saw was for David Cameron to welcome Tony Blair into the coalition stronghold as his chief advisor, thus breaking down political boundaries that have existed for centuries. A silence echoed through the Tory headquarters as fellow MP’s tried to grasp the idea of appointing a man who stopped multiple Conservative attempts to gain office in the past. His experience was deemed to be priceless but due to the elite Tory mindset, the idea was rejected due to Tony Blair being from the north. Someone may have muttered ‘mass murderer’ as well, but that’s just stupid. It’s war, not killing, dummy.

So as you see the various Conservative speakers smiling and attempting to convince you that their political vision is working, just remember, hecklerspray has uncovered a few things they doesn’t make for happy reading if you’re that politically inclined.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or else we’ll kill you in your sleep or join our Facebook group if anyone is still daft enough to use it or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS OR WE’LL KILL EVERYONE YOU’VE EVER LOVED!

So, ITV1 have given all their money away to wife beaters and rapists. This is the new way. As such, this essentially means you have to watch X Factor twice, because they can’t afford to make any new TV programmes. Thank god Kelly Rowland agreed to work overtime due to how much she believes in music. (Cocaine.)

Talk Talk have given stop-frame animation a go and simultaneously ired the entire board of the Academy Awards as a result.

This week we are visiting MANCHESTER. Although the show isn’t in chronological order or anything, so basically we’re just looking  at the bits they filmed in Manchester. Or at least ITV1’s edited version of Manchester, which involves a lot of day-glo and mystical interchangeable skies, apparently. Or Hogwarts, if you will. Due to the fact that ITV1 are not culturally familiar with the ’80s ‘Madchester’ scene, we must settle for gratuitous tracking shots of Selfridges over and over to fully understand where we are. Come to think of it, the true meaning of Manchester probably is £18 lip gloss.

And, being in Manchester of COURSE means we must have a chat about Gary Barlow. Because Gary Barlow is from Cheshire, which is an entirely different county. And Hitler was from Austria. And that’s what happens when you collect your primary sources of research from Bing.

Nonetheless, we are all treated to a delightful smorgasbord of everyone in Manchester being incredibly excited to meet someone who lives NEAR MANCHESTER. Kelly Rowland talks about all the lies Gary Barlow has told her about Manchester, coked out of her mind and having an amazing time as the backlog of Bez’ family tree try and touch the hems of her clothes. We wish we were Kelly Rowland. Gary Barlow sings Manchester’s national anthem ‘Manchester Na Na Na Na’. He also wears a waistcoat as he does this, presumably because he likes to punish people and hit women. You are watching ITV1 remember.

Our first contestants of the episode are two gay men who are gay and totally FINE with it. They are either called Kendal, or Kenco, or Ken Dodd, or Amazon Kindle. One of those.  They wear hats and have primary colours in their hair, and one or both of them is/are Grace Jones. So far, so ‘good’. Upon entering the big blue shiny stage where blasé dreams come true, the pair talk to the judges for a while about how stupid they are, and everyone thinks they’re brilliant as a result. The pair decide to give Lady Gaga ‘a whirl’, because avant garde pop music on mainstream television could work if we just dared to open our eyes a mid-quarter.

And then, in the world’s greatest tribute to Salvador Dali the world has ever seen (Because it certainly wasn’t THIS, was it?), the pair apply some lip gloss (TRUE MEANING OF MANCHESTER) before launching into their performance – much to the fury and downright odium of Gary Barlow. The cameras do NOT cut to Louis Walsh at that moment, which shows self-control and integrity. Perhaps if ITV1 had used those aforementioned traits more often, Show Me The Funny might have never made it to air.

Kendro, or Eoghan Quigg or whatever they’re called start singing their god-awful rendition of Lady Gaga. All the judges (Including Louis Walsh who has been judging talent show competitions for well over a decade) seem absolutely dumbfounded that two men could DARE to come on stage and sing vaguely out of tune.

Tulisa Cocacobanathehottestspotnorthofsavana honestly doesn’t know if they can make it as serious music artists, which is a really grave concern, obviously. About five minutes later however, she professes that she would ‘spread them on her toast’, which is probably the same thing that EMI said to The Beatles, so nothing to worry about after all.  Gary Barlow hates them with every fibre of his being, but that’s only because he’s a bit iffy about sodomy, so fair enough. They get through.

Ad break – Rihanna is still harping on about how amazing Capital FM is.

Meanwhile, the X Factor are STILL in Manchester. The replacement bus service must have been delayed again. A segment of absolutely no importance to a post-9/11 dystopia is then shown, where the judges are shown riding around in custom-made X Factor BUGGIES. LOL, the economy.

A couple more auditions just for the hell of it. And to make matters worse, these are integrated with what terrifyingly sounds like a dubstep version of Another One Bites the Dust, which is just incredibly unfair. Following this – a woman sings It’s Raining Men, despite the crippling menopause, and another man sings badly too, so we guess that’s fifteen-love.

Although there have only been a couple of subtly, evenly dispersed montages on the audition stages of the show this year, we hate to be killjoys, but this particular one gives us the mild desire to eat benign cysts for breakfast. It feels as if the montage will never quite end. Eventually, it does. Unless of course it never actually ended, and we’re now just hooked up to a simulated reality created by sentient machines in order to pacify and subdue the human popula- Oh no wait, that’s probably The Matrix.

Meanwhile, the nation’s prayers for a leopard print Indiana Jones style-incarnation of Mary Byrne were finally answered in the shape of Samantha Brookes. Good ol, down to earth Samantha Brookes and her eyebrows. God, those eyebrows. They look like they were designed by the same people who did the Olympics 2012 logo.

Kelly Rowland loves her so much that she threatens to crowd surf. Thankfully, she doesn’t, but we have to say it was pretty touch and go for a second there. All these spontaneous threats and jibes Kelly Rowland has been making lately… this sounds like the early stages of a chronic depressive episode rather than a job on the X Factor, if you ask us. One minute you’re laughing happily, next thing you know, you’re rolling in to the BBC at 5am trying to audition for Celebrity Fame Academy. Just a warning.

Samantha worries that her weight may be a particular grievance to her upcoming career as a pop singer.  The fact that she sings rubbish and has no taste or any knowledge on the correct curvature of eyebrows  is not addressed. Kelly, spokeswomen of female equality and advocate of first-wave feminism since 1792 announces to the universe that YES, Samantha has a size. And that size is Size ‘SEXY’, completely abolishing the whole prospect of anthropometry AND prejudice in one fail swoop. WE’LL HAVE WHAT’S SHE’S HAVING. In a clean syringe, if that’s alright.

Next up is a girl group called Twisted. MENTAL name, we know, but just go with it. By god, these women are wearing polkadot dresses just like they used to do in something mental like the 1950s! Like Kate Nash x 1000! INCREDIBLE. God, we miss The Pipettes. Now that Belle Amie are going through their neo-classical metal phase, Twisted are exactly what we need. This literally could not get any better. One of the singers, who is called Chrissie Pitt (which in the grand scheme of things doesn’t matter, but we just thought we’d be thorough.) – ‘reveals’ that she auditioned for the show as a soloist last year. Now this year she is back! With loads of retards in New Look’s 2008 collection, and a goth. The girls perform their ‘take’ on ANADELESONGANADELESONGANADELESONG, which involve some pretty amazing Katie Waissel-style ‘shoop shoops’ admittedly, but shockingly the judges don’t go for it, and want to see Chrissie Pitt sing on her own.

We wonder why that could be? Not because the whole thing has been scripted so that the other girls can fob off and the soloist can get some extra attention in the editing process for when she makes it considerably far to the later stages of the competition, surely? No, that’s a really insensitive thing to suggest. Definitely not that reason. The reason is of COURSE that she is simply amazing and brilliant and is definitely going to be the new Kurt Cobain, so let’s not hear another word about it.

Oh, and she sang ‘Forget You’ while her friends seethed through their tears at the side of the stage. How d’ya like them apples?

After the break, Dermot O Leary had the audacity to show up to his job half-way through the programme and said something insignificant about how some people like to sing and more words of that particular calibre. Intuitive, Dermot. Absolutely Magneto-esque.

Then we got introduced to Lascel Wood. But wait, there’s more! He is 20 years old, and from Brighton. As we will steadily come to learn, Lascel likes to mix things up. Even such trivial matters such as exchanging social pleasantries. For example, instead of saying “Hello”, Lascel would tend to say something along the lines of “Hello my name is Lascel and I am 20 years of age and I was in foster care” instead, which is such an amazingly snappy ice breaker, that he probably could have single handedly saved the Titanic. Alas, as it is. RIP, RMS Titanic.

Lascel has brought his estranged mentally ill mother with him to his X Factor audition today, which to some might seem a little gratuitous, but we personally believe that Lascel should be knighted for putting up with her on the Metrolink on the way up. Lascel morosely explains to the judges that his mother has been suffering from ‘Bi-polar’, which we thought was just the name of Kerry Katona’s dog or something, but turns out to be a very serious mental disorder, which is pretty embarrassing. But none of that matters anyway, because Lascel probably wouldn’t have brought any of that up had the judges not beat him to a pulp and practically RAPED IT OUT OF HIM, so fair enough.

Lascel sings a soul version of a Kings of Leon song, because Jo Whiley’s work will never be done. People generally think he sounds quite good. Even his sectioned, mentally ill mother can recognise a damn good treble voice vibrato when she hears one, so it’s win-win-win, as Lascel gets a standing ovation. Kelly Rowland ascends triumphantly from the desk with half her pant suit round her ankles, like the Monica Lewinsky that Britain never had. Lascel concludes that he feels emotional. We quite agree.

And on that note, we’re going to go and lie in our beds wide-eyed and alone until the second instalment which takes place tomorrow night. Yeah, really. You have to do this all again tomorrow. It’s fine though, because you’re lonely enough to do that.

X Factor Review Week 4, Part 2 continues tomorrow…

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or else we’ll kill you in your sleep or join our Facebook group if anyone is still daft enough to use it or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS OR WE’LL KILL EVERYONE YOU’VE EVER LOVED!

Soul Rebels Brass Band have a story. And fuck, the white middle classes who will be fawning over this lot as they make their way around Europe, love a tale of triumph over adversity. Like the blues singers who went blind and lost all their fingers, only to grow more fingers, which they also lost, who made amazing dustbowl tales of misery, SRBB have extreme discomfort and tragedy backing them up.

Basically, all you need to know is that they’re from New Orleans and were punched straight in the gut by The Flood, left to whistle by a slow reacting government and using music to drag them out of one kind of funk and straight into another.

However, to focus on this doesn’t really do the Soul Rebels justice. It wouldn’t matter one jot if these guys just happened to be out of town while misery knocked on the door because, when they strike up their invigorating blend of N’Orleans jazz, Lee Dorsey funk and shameless enthusiasm for a good time, you’re not exactly wringing your hands and thinking of tough times.

Of course, it is pretty trite to sweep the fall out of Hurricane Katrina away like it never happened, but it seems pretty ridiculous to focus on it when the music this outrageously good band make stands up all by itself.

So what’s the deal?

Well, imagine one of those great New Orleans marching bands. You’ve seen those on the TV right? Maybe you’re lucky enough to have seen one in the flesh. Fact is, one of the finest sights in the known universe is New Orleans jazz in full-flow. New Orleans is the forefather of modern music and pretty much invented that ability to be tight-as-a-gnat’s-ass-but-still-loose-as-hell thing that makes your hip drop and your finger snap.

If it wasn’t for the music of ‘the most Northern Caribbean town’, we’d all be stood motionless nodding at violin solos. Blecch.

So where do the Soul Rebels Brass Band fit into all this? Well, they’ve clearly learned everything there is to know about this funky-ass trad. jazz… but mercifully, they’ve decided to update it and interpret it rather than making a mere facsimilie of a music that, in fairness, doesn’t reach our shores nearly enough.

By taking huge slabs of all that’s good about New Orleans music – that hit of brass that pins you to the back of the venue, coupled with a funk that makes you fight the tide and back to the stage to dance like a goon – the Soul Rebels marry their horn section with old-skool rap, cheeky cover-versions (how about a tops-off party mash-up of Eurythmics ‘Sweet Dreams’ and Rockwell’s ‘Somebody’s Watching Me’ for a closer?) which would make The Roots die with envy.

Because it’s that earthy groove they have which is just so irresistible. They’re not only channelling music from a hundred years ago, but the ghost of The Meters and Dr John sits in the seat, with nods to Doug E. Fresh and Grandmaster Flash and those great horn breaks utilised by Eric B & Rakim.

Yet, as good as these little nods to pop-culture are, the really money lies in the original material. The standout track from their set, from their forthcoming LP (out September 13th as the group liked to holler repeatedly), potentially called ‘I Made It’, saw the skewed funk RnB of Dudley Perkins and the hookiness of ’70s Stevie when he wasn’t horsing around making insipid ballads.

And like all goodtime jazz, this wasn’t an exercise in noodling away on instruments, determined to show off how many notes you can cram into half-a-second (that said, these guys can really fuckin’ blow), rather, it was all about giving the audience a big friendly slap across the chop with those huge brass stabs, before breaking you down into a gibbering wreck… and before you know it, they have the whole room indulging in a dance routine, sliding across the floor, left to right.

The venue itself – one of the coolest venues in the country right now – went from a stance of ‘go on, impress us then’, to wringing with sweat and dancing bodies… it seems that, should they get their arses in gear, the Soul Rebels could just about take over the world, blasting people out of office from the sousaphone, leaving everyone else to march along and have an absolute ball.

If you can imagine the impact Ozomatli had on crowds, double it, square it and you’re in the ballpark of how much fun SRBB are to see. And they’ll be in London and Scotland for the next week (see dates here) and you’re strongly advised to go see them because, basically, they’ll tear your head clean-off and leave your torso twitching on the ground.

There’s no better band on the circuit right now. You’ve been warned.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS!

“It’s funny when people ask me that. We like to have a good time, all the time,” said Ty Taylor, lead singer of rock ‘n’ soul outfit, Vintage Trouble. “Like Spinal Tap?” His face fell. See, Vintage Trouble is irony-free soul music. They’ve got a really, really lousy name – Vintage? Really? Why not throw ‘retro’ in there as well? Or ‘stonewashed’? – but loadsa bands have, right?

See, Vintage Trouble take their facsimile version of ’60s soul music around the world which is lapped up by those who were there and still regard it to be the best music in the world. And while you can convince yourself that to be true, there’s something missing from this crew of slick soulsters.

And that’s context.

One of the things that made soul and R&B from way back when was the danger. Back then, sweat-drenched singers thrusting their groin at a room packed with gasping teenagers was unheard of. Now, it seems rather sweet or indeed, considered the norm. Even Bob The Builder thrusts his package in his ‘Can We Fix It?’ hit.

And so, when VT throw out all those old moves, it feels sanitised and near-cute. That’s not to say they don’t do it well. The band leap around just enough for a gig-goer to walk away thinking “They really put on a good show don’t they?”, but really, there’s that vital shock and connection missing.

And once you notice it, it impairs the performance. It soon stops being ‘a show’ when you see that the band are constantly mugging in a way that isn’t a million miles away from the grating 3Oh!3 who backed Katy Perry in that video that made you want to punch your own lights out.

While the performance is impressively slick, there’s the now far-too-common return of Call And Response. Naturally, the Jools Holland-esque crowd lap it up, almost sycophantically. However, when every single song has a call and response section, you begin to consider that it’s a replacement for a lack of material. At one point, there had been so much call and response that it would have been fair for the audience to stake a claim on the door takings.

And while the singer launches into “1-2-3 Pelvic Thrust with me…“, you begin to feel like you’re at a musical equivalent of a battle re-enactment. The clothes are just-so, the singer’s dance steps are convincing, the chords and words used sound Just Like The Real Thing… but really, it’s just set into a rigid blueprint with no reinterpretation. But that’s what this audience wanted because they think that this is ‘real’ music, not like that awful modern boom-boom stuff. In actual fact, someone like Outkast are a more authentic reinterpretation of that ’60s/’70s soul thing.

With that notion comes a resentment. You see, this music isn’t real. It’s imagined nostalgia, borrowed from the reels of Ready Steady Go! and Beat Club. It feels like watching a repeat. Everything is familiar and cosy. Vintage Trouble do exactly as they threaten on the tin. And of course, it’s kinda fun. At no point in the gig do you hate the band, but you wonder how good it could’ve been if they’d brought something of themselves to the table. We no longer live in 1964, so the music lacks the urgency of the records that were actually made at the time. The thrill is diluted.

The whole soul revival is a funny thing. Such dedication to all the moves is great and all, but if this was a folk band steeped in middle ages murder ballads, with all the correct cloths and instruments made from pig-guts, they’d be laughed out of town. The ’60s is still big business and in the synthetic climate we’re currently in of electropop, internet connections and MP3s you can’t hold in your hand, this is a reminder of something that feels more ‘authentic’, when in fact, it’s about as genuine as a talking lion in a Disney movie.

And yet, despite all the criticisms, the show was well received. It was certainly more of a hoot than watching some worthy singer-songwriter pouring his poetry-for-beginners over mawkish indie-folk. However, VT were found wanting because they missed the trick that all the best artists borrow, rather than simply steal. It’s the same criticism that can be levelled at likeable Janelle Monae. And injection of that magical something else would have made this show great, as opposed to distractingly fun.

While the singer’s voice is indeed The Real Deal, with that great smokiness that resides in some of soul’s great and good, the band behind him almost ruined the illusion with Aerosmith style horsing around. If they got their hair cut and stopped looking like Viggo Mortensen (which two of them really did, to the point of distraction, making this writer consider the prospect of ‘Elf Funk’), it would have been a perfect time-capsule of the soul of yore.

If you want a trip to Theme Park Sixties with a crowd of middle-aged soulies, Vintage Trouble are the gig for you. Just try and ignore one of the band with his arm around two drunk women in a fried chicken shop as you wouldn’t catch someone as classy as Otis Redding indulging in such behaviour…

…us on the other hand have chicken down our front and left with a strange notion of having written a largely negative review of a show that was pretty enjoyable.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS!

Alice Cooper is just great isn’t he? He’s the old dame of rock ‘n’ roll, pissing about with snakes, guillotines and fake blood, all the while, churning out goth-pop and stadium horror rock with a cheeky glint in his eye.

He takes his work about as seriously as hecklerspray takes writing.

Yet somehow, despite the Iggy Stooge shock-tactics and releasing LPs that come in schoolgirl knickers, he’s become a hugely famous star. Your mum probably likes some of his tunes. And so, you should have a nice family day-out to his UK Halloween shows which, in fairness, look like they’re going to be one gigantic laughathon. With cobwebs. However, Alice Cooper needs you… if you’re a freakshow of a human that is.

So why are we doing appeals for Alice Cooper? Well, this is a naked, unashamed attempt to get free tickets for his show. We write words and hopefully, we get to see Alice and his band, alongside the New York Dolls and potentially The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown.

There’s an intimate gig where Cooper will take his ghoulish pop to the 100 Club on June 26th. That’ll be a good gig for Cooperites. However, it’s the big-ass tour in Autumn that will be the shows to catch.

In October, he’ll roll out ‘Alice Cooper’s Halloween Night Of Fear’ to promote new LP ‘Welcome 2 My Nightmare’, which is nice and all, but we just want to hear ‘Under My Wheels’, ‘Poison’ and all the hits. Sorry Alice, you know how it works.

Alice says:

“This show comes with a health warning – We don’t do acoustic, this will be loud.”

Being a Detroit kid, we should bloody well think so. So where do you come in? Well, Alice is calling together the depraved weirdos and fire breathing loons to star in his show. He’s holding auditions for freaks to gross out everyone.

Says Alice:

“It takes a lot to shock me, but last year even my stomach was churning, Britain really has got freaks. That’s what’s Halloween is all about. It’s my favourite time of the year, bring on the gore!”

Auditions are June 27th in London’s Hyde park. Go to alicecooper.com to find out about it all. You’ve got ’til June 22nd. Start making people puke with glee. It is your duty.

Now, here are the tour dates. Can we have some free tickets now? Thanks.

Tour Dates

JUNE 2011

SUNDAY 26 LONDON 100 CLUB – Doors 7pm

OCTOBER 2011

TUESDAY 25 SHEFFIELD CITY HALL

WEDNESDAY 26 BRISTOL COLSTON HALL

THURSDAY 27 BIRMINGHAM NIA

SATURDAY 29 LONDON ALEXANDRA PALACE

SUNDAY 30 02 APOLLO MANCHESTER

MONDAY 31 GLASGOW CLYDE AUDITORIUM

Tickets go on sale 9am on Friday 17th June 2011 and should cost around £35.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS!

During the summer if the heat gets too much, rather that buy a fan, consider inviting much-lauded Australian noise-merchants Parkway Drive over to play a quick set. We’ve never been cooled down by the breeze coming from speakers twenty metres away every time the bass drum is kicked.

Their career-spanning set got a reaction worthy of a headliner from the young audience. They alternated between punk-paced metal noise and sludgy breakdowns which conveniently let the old-timers do some slow-motion moshing.

There are few bands dividing people in the metal scene quite like Sheffield’s Bring Me The Horizon. Examine any left-of-centre genre and you’ll always find the band that makes people sneer.

They have a pretty singer (if you like that kind of thing), they arrived later than most, and they don’t smash musical boundaries. These are red rags to music snobs. Music snobs are useful. They trawl through bands so you don’t have to and they have great taste but they’re too busy stroking their beards to actually jump up and down and have fun.

Teenagers however are not bound by such stupid rules.

This is the youngest audience hecklerspray has ever seen at a gig. There is barely a pint of lager within eyeshot, but sobriety is certainly no obstacle to enthusiasm. There’s so much energy, we felt a teacher-like impulse to tell them to stop running in the hallways. Say what you like about stumbling drunks but at least they have some in-built sense of personal space. We’ve never been bumped into by so many friendly, if uncoordinated,  people.

The energy wasn’t just in the crowd. Singer Oli Sykes ran about for almost the entire set and, is it just us, or has his voice, previously their weakest link, suddenly got stronger?

BMTH’s recent album has been widely considered a leap forward for them, and tonight their aural assault does justice to such acclaim. In fact it’s the songs from that album that sit head and shoulders above the rest with the more interesting structures that come when bands are ready to take a few risks.

They’re still not kicking down the doors of invention, and lyrically they still use imagery that we cringe at but they’re not talking to me, so probably care not whether I’m listening. Besides, we’re too old to even understand what they’re shouting about most of the time when they’re on stage anyway.

They’re already taken seriously Stateside and they’ll be picking up new converts at the festivals this summer so if you’re looking for shouty rock-action, fun awaits…

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS!

As part of our continuing festival coverage, we’re bringing our recommendations of where to go, and our reviews of how it was. This weekend we’ll be going to the brand spanking new Friends of Mine Festival in Manchester.

Well, just outside Manchester actually if you want to be picky.

Some of the heads of the hecklerspray hydra live in the area so we’re particularly excited about this local addition to the festival calendar and are happy to lend our support.

Friends of Mine is a local club night that’s been knocking around for six years but this is their first foray into fields. It runs from this Friday (20^th May) through to the Sunday and the line-up includes Bad Lieutenant, Mr Scruff, Jim Noir, The Cribs, Badly Drawn Boy, Buzzcocks, The Charlatans and The Fall. Other hecklerspray favourites playing include Kong, The Longcut, The Wedding Present, and Young Knives.

These, however, are the tip of the musical iceberg. There’s multiple stages including a comedy bit and a dancey bit.

Look, we don’t know what you want, go their website and see for yourselves. We highly recommend you go so you can fool yourselves into thinking it’s Summer.

The weather’s looking alright actually, since you ask.

We’ll be there on the Saturday. If you see us, why not buy us a drink or throw one in our face depend on which side of the recent Michael Jackson debates you sit.

Tickets are £89.50 for the whole weekend or £56 for a day.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS!

Gigs are boring aren’t they? Middle aged blokes with backpacks on throwing their arms around and singing all the words to the b-sides planted squarely in the middle of a throng of disaffected teens who aren’t sure whether to look like disaffected teens or really let loose and throw their bap and go nuts.

Such is the world we find ourselves in where everyone is too jaded to have a real good time before bands who aren’t sure if they’re supposed to be aloof or act like they’re your best friend on twitter.

Mercifully, most of that went out of the window last night when Mazes and Sub Pop’s Dum Dum Girls took to the stage in Manchester last night, providing, somewhat surprisingly, one of the most fun gigs of 2011.

The first band on-stage were Milk Maid who were brilliantly lousy. The band clung to the backbeat with all the verve and panache of a drunk clutching at a rug so they don’t fall off the face of the Earth. Their songs were impressively dumb, cooing lines like “she was an American girl!” and “I don’t know what went wrong” like they were the first people to conjure the listless love song.

And while this all may seem like a cuss, it really isn’t. If this band ever get good at what they do and, indeed, ever stop their one-finger playing, then they’ll lose entirely that brilliant charm of a garage band showing off their amateurish enthusiasm for making a marvellously pathetic racket.

Milk Maid bowed out, making way for Mazes who have a new LP out which is causing something of a stir to those that own ears and a sense of good times.

The band seem to have married something between Lindsay Buckingham’s ‘Holiday Road’, The Undertones at their most pop and the slacker agit-noise of Sonic Youth. Tracks like ‘Cenataph’, ‘Surf & Turf’ and ‘Bowie Knives’ stripped a layer of skin from inside the ear, while somehow managing to retain a catchier than cowpox brand of classic pop. While the American influence is clear, the British take on it seems to have almost invented a new genre of Bedsit Glam. Just what the doctor ordered.

The gangly fourpiece sloped away from the stage, grateful and warmly-received (leaving some to mutter ‘this feels like one of those gigs were you can say ‘I was there’ when they get really famous’) to pave the way for the frankly astonishing Dum Dum Girls.

The Dum Dums took to the barely-lit stage, dressed entirely in black with notable excellent choice in hosiery. And while most male critics find it impossible to comment on an all-girl group without passing judgement on their looks, this time ’round we’re… oh, who are we kidding? These ladies of the dead were smokin’ hot! Seriously. Like death pin-ups, they channelled the camp ghoulishness of Vampira and the purring lust of Catwoman and left the entire audience on the cusp of becoming dribbling creeps, already prepped to pen disturbing love-letters in their own blood.

All the while, the Dum Dums just stood there, monolith still, assaulting the room with a marriage of reverb and fuzz. Imagine the DIY Wall Of Sound of the Jesus And Mary Chain careering headlong into the terse, wiry snot-garage of The Cramps and you’re somewhere close to the astonishing racket served up and volleyed toward a crowd fast-becoming the worst kind of perverts you’re ever likely to see.

And amongst all this record-collector prick approved stuff, you find the rich harmonious pop of the Shangri-Las and C86 indie.

Behind those impenetrable glares, The Dum Dum Girls might just be the best pop-group in the universe, if pop went on a road trip in the dead of night with a trunk full of mascara and opiates.

And here endeth the latest, pathetic love-letter to The Dum Dum Girls.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS!

Unlike their fellow New Yorkers that broke at the start of the last decade, Interpol have run a marathon rather than a sprint.

The Strokes were the band of their generation with the sound of the time, and their subsequent career is often looked, unfairly, through the prism of that brief moment when they were everywhere.

Interpol’s long game seems to be paying off. They are almost at that safe stage where they can maintain indie credibility and healthy sales, at least for an alternative band. All they have to do is keep releasing good quality albums and they’ll become part of the rock furniture. The question is whether that’s enough for them.

They’ve recently had to cancel a tour with U2, but even that wouldn’t have made a significant difference to their status because until they write the song they’re bringing joy to a lucky few. There’s absolutely no shame in that, it breeds longevity and a happier life when you have a loyal fanbase, critical respect and less corporate pressure.

Maybe it’s for the best anyway since we already have Editors, who are essentially Interpol with a better ear for a catchy chorus, but none of their charisma.

Tonight Interpol have lost little of their charm. They are both portentous and pretentious, although sadly less of the latter now that they’ve lost bassist Carlos D.

Although their rhythm section is still the driving force, tonight it’s Daniel Kessler’s guitar that makes the difference to a set with some glaring omissions. No NYC, Pioneer to the Falls or The Heinrich Maneuver, and we’re not yet completely sold on the new material yet although their recent self-titled fourth album does provide the show’s high-point.

Lights builds and builds as Kessler’s lonely guitar line weaves through the crowd. Seeing them live, it is so easy to see them for the paradoxically influential and derivative force that they are, with their Johnny Marr riffs hiding amongst Gothic splendour.

Despite the comparisons to Joy Division that dogged them at the start of their career, they have a theatricality that Curtis et al might have seen as a betrayal. They may not yet have the song, but as long as they have that sound they’ll still be there, finding the common ground between the cool and the cruel, making icy fuck-yous to ex-lovers whilst revealing far more about themselves than they would ever intend to.

We’re happy with this arrangement and hope they are too.

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS!

“What’s up with you lot? You seem more nervous than me and I’m nervous as fuck!” It’s not often someone takes to the stage with that level of naked honesty and self-deprecation who has seen success like Jim Noir.

Hailing from Manchester, it’d be easy (and frighteningly lazy) to lump Noir in with a whole host of Other Mancs, expecting him to swagger about the place and pout like a sulky school-kid who thinks he’s too cool for learning.

However, while many look to the city for the next Ian Brown or Liam Gallagher, Jim Noir is still spearheading the antidote to all that bravado and bringing along a sort of class-clown good-timery that is a shot of sunshine, straight in the arm and all over your stupid, grinning face.

And so, finding ourselves in Manchester’s very lovely Ruby Lounge, a purposefully trashy old tart of a venue – perfect for watching rock ‘n’ roll bands, the assembled throng all milled around waiting for some good times.

The Loungs appeared with their skewed take on psychedelia before making way for Jim Noir, looking coy and bashful, almost embarrassed to be on-stage – despite the fact that he’s created some of the finest pop music to come out of this city since 10cc.

There’s a playfulness about Noir that has the echoes of early Paul McCartney solo LPs, the toytown symphonies of Brian Wilson and seemingly, the kind of cheeky melody you’d get in a ’70s sitcom about an odd-couple. While it is blindingly obvious Jim Noir takes his music seriously, it’s clear he doesn’t want to be po-faced about it as well. Save that for the wannabes.

And sure enough, Noir took to the stage and rattled through tracks from his two LPs, as well as giggling through the tunes on his new EP, ‘Zooper Dooper’.

There’s a spate of bands around at the moment who are all proponents of Shed Pop – basically, a tuneful DIY music that is charmingly awkward and willing to take a swerve left just when you think you’re settling in to the groove. Jim Noir is, without question, the king of this subgenre, and last night, provided song after song after song of infectious hooks and ditties that saw everyone so pleased that they all dribbled like simpletons in the presence of pop mastery.

And he’s got a new backing band (he was formerly backed by the much-missed Beep Seals) who only add to the absurdist fun. With one of the Sisters of Transistors (a nearly all-girl synthpop outfit) and one of The Soundcarriers (a really, really ace band worth getting into), two glamorous ladies provided keys, backing vocals and, most importantly, go-go dance routines while Noir told his charming little tales of playtime, gawky love and computer love.

Of course, big hitters ‘My Patch’ and ‘Eenie Meanie’ brought the house down, with Noir holding the band back while the crowd sang the words, but throughout the whole show, there wasn’t a jot of filler, which displays an almost embarrassment of musical riches held by Noir.

Noir, reluctantly it would appear, is the most vital and prominent musician to come out of Manchester at the moment and he’s got good vibes in bucket loads. He could start the nicest cult on Earth if he wanted to and, y’know something?

We’re ready to sign-up.

www.jimnoir.com

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group or BUY ONE OF OUR STUPID T-SHIRTS!

Week after week they shuffle into the stadium. Their team no longer have anything in common with them. The ticket prices go up and up and the only thing that improves are the salaries of the players, subsidised by people who could be doing something better with the money.

Their loyalty to the brand is so intense that it blinds them to their exploitation. I’ve never understood why football is so popular and I’ve often stated that no film or band would inspire such blind faith. That, outside of the beautiful game, the fans would simply say “no more, you’re taking the piss out of us and we have a choice”.

Last Saturday whilst watching Linkin Park it gave us absolutely no pleasure to be proved wrong.

We would never claim Linkin Park are a great band but we’ve seen many bands over the years and we’ve enjoyed performances by bands we can’t stand and been bored rigid by our favourites. In their favour, their music has improved as they have concentrated more on being a rock band, and less on the artistic cul-de-sac that is rap-rock.

We even like a few of their songs. They are what they are, an entry-level easy-to-access rock band. A gateway drug for teenagers to guide them from pop music to metal and surely you don’t get to be one of the biggest rock bands in the world without knowing how to put on a show, right?

Wrong.

They came on with a whimper of a song (The Requiem from their recently released A Thousand Suns album) when the occasion demanded some hairy rock cojones but the problem wasn’t the material; it would be churlish to complain about Linkin Park songs at a Linkin Park concert and the problem wasn’t even with how the songs were played- they were technically flawless and very professional.

Professional.

Is that a word that excites you? Makes you want to shout “fuck you” to the world? Makes you feel part of a tribe? No, professional simply means an activity that earns you a living and that is all it is to Linkin Park. No enthusiasm, no passion, no fun. They just turned up, made a few empty statements about Manchester, played like they were in the studio and then left.

Hearing Chester Bennington say how wild the audience were was like hearing a sulking teenager being forced to tell his auntie how pleased he was to be getting socks for Christmas. Only on the last song Bleed It Out did they even look like they enjoyed playing music. Maybe they were motivated at that point by the thought of getting back to their hotel room and counting the money.

Looking from the millionaires on the stage, then to the vast number of people (each one of which had paid over £45), then to the static guitarist with his metronome-playing headphones on, seemingly unaware of there even being an audience, or that he was even in a band… a band going through the motions… a void of stage presence.

A wealth accumulating vacuum of cynicism.

We saw a band here about a year ago and paid £30 for the pleasure- a band who were excited to be playing and truly grateful to the fans for putting them there. What were the audience getting for that extra £15 each?

It’s clear what the band were getting- they were living the dream. The fan-fleecing soulless corporate rock dream.

£15 would probably be more than enough to just see support act Does It Offend You, Yeah- a band who still find playing music exciting, even to an indifferent crowd. You might think we have a bone to pick with expensive ticket prices but the issue is with the simple disparity between the cost and the quality of the product.

Have they always been like this, or has the ennui of touring made them jaded about their obligation to those that support them.

Is it now when the people finally say “no more, you’re taking the piss out of us and we have a choice” and Linkin Park ask themselves why they started doing this in the first place.

This review was from hecklerspray’s cloaked secret reviewer, Johnny Segment

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group

So, yeah. In the City is happening this week in Manchester. It’s like totally an important festival about music. I work in ‘media’ so managed to get a press pass for it.

I hate saying it, but I’m famous on Twitter. I get spotted all the time, so the festival will do well by having me on board and tweeting about their event. I used to be a freelance photographer too so I’ll be taking pictures and filming the gigs, they’ll get that content for free, I’m good like that.

I’ll put them on my social networks. I also have a radio show, so I’ll talk about it on there too. I’ll be hungover on the show, it’s tomorrow. I’m terrible, I’m always hungover on my show.

Anyway, I got my press pass, although I’m not happy, because despite me asking, they put my real name on it. I hate this, because I’m quite controversial, and don’t like my real name on things. Well, I don’t feel the need to wear it around my neck all the time anyway like all those other press idiots, I mean, what’s that all about? Have they never been press at a festival before?

They’re all like, ‘check me out, I’m press, with my green pass. Look at my camera and everything.’

I don’t even feel the need to have a real camera with me, I just use my little compact. I can film bands on it too. It’s about the quality of the content, not the size of the camera. Some of the best pictures I’ve taken have been on my compact, not my SLR.

I would know, I used to be a freelance photographer.

They say they work in the media, but when you ask them they’re all like ‘Oh, yeah, the publication I write for has readers in Manchester and Chicago’ and your like, ‘Oh what publication is it?’ And they’re all evasive. It’s probably just their blog and they only have 2 readers. Them and their sister in Chicago! I’ve got a blog It’s just a blog. I hardly even write on it. I wrote this stupid post about an awards thing I was at the other week and it got retweeted all over the place and everything. Which was funny, cos it was well shit!

I know the guys who did the website for the festival and made the iPhone app. I don’t feel the need to have an iPhone, I’ve got another smartphone that’s just as good. I didn’t get sucked into all the media hype that everyone else did. So I can’t get the app and I had a go at the guys who made the app for just catering for Apple drones, but it is actually really good. It monitors The Buzz going on around each band on Twitter and has a ‘’buzz chart’ so you can go and see the most popular bands.

I went to a gig at Band on The Wall and they let me use their staff internet, cos I know the guys there and there was this guy playing synth on stage in a hoodie – what a hipster. Ha!

This was about the time that everyone was talking about Lilly Allen being in our local, the Castle Hotel. She wasn’t there, because I know the owners and they would have told me. She is in the city though, but who cares, she’s a knob anyway. I’m not interested in meeting her, I don’t know what the fuss is about.

Me and my friend went to Gullivers then. Who would have known that it had an amazing gig venue upstairs? It’s dirty and rough, but that’s why I liked it.

It’s real.

I think I’m going to start putting gigs on in there. I know the owners and my friend writes a magazine and with my twitter following, it would be easy to promote. I’ve put on loads of gigs. It’s easy. I wont do it for money though, just the love of music. I also know some of the best illustrators, they could do our flyers. I don’t mind doing the photography, I used to do it freelance.

There’s one more day left of the festival and all of the industry are down for it. I’m not going to make any of the talks because I’m too busy with my day job (which I took on to pay the bills when the recession hit, but I’m going to go freelance again soon) but I don’t mind, because I know most of the people on the panels anyway.

But I’ll be out tonight, I’ve got flu, I shouldn’t be out at all! I’m terrible. I think it’s going to be a big one, I’m going to try and get to as many venues as I can so I can check in on Foursquare. Don’t roll your eyes, I have to use it it’s my job. I cant be a freelancer in social media and not use foursquare.

DM me your number yeah?

The post was written by A. Vanguard

Editors note: If you’re actually interested in the bands or talks at In The City tonight, look  at the website: http://www.inthecity.co.uk/

Follow hecklerspray on Twitter or join our Facebook group