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Russian Circles, KEN Mode, Inter Arma at Underground Arts, Philadelphia, 2/19/14

Last week, Chicago's Russian Circles touched down in Philadelphia as a part of their current tour with Ontario's KEN Mode and Richmond, Va.'s Inter Arma. As far as show bills go, it really doesn't get much better. All three acts released top-notch records in 2013, albums that garnered deserved praise from critics and fans alike. The other thing that all three bands had going in their favor on this night was that they've all been touring relentlessly for what feels like forever behind their sterling latest recordings. Simply put, this was three bands in a dark basement performing at the peak of their powers. 

Inter Arma were first to take the stage. Last year's Sky Burial is an almost disorienting doom record as it plods from black depths to bleak psychedalia, and the live experience is no less scorching. Bear with me on this, but hypothetically if zombies, pirates, and vikings were to wage war on dry land in some sort of battle royale then Inter Arma would be the ones leading the charge for soldiers who drown at the depths of the blackened ocean floor. It took time for them to build, but their power only swelled as sounds continued to get louder and considerably  heavier. The band's second guitarist seemingly appeared out of nowhere about halfway through their set. They play with a bit of a chip on their shoulder, and seem poised to take over that space previously occupied by Mastodon as a band popular with the smokers but still heavy enough for the heads. Their set ended with the drummer thumping away. He even pulled out a large wooden branch and basked that against the kit to close out their performance. 

Next up was KEN Mode. To describe their performance in a word, that word would be "spirited." They've obviously been touring a lot, and it's evident in their live set. They crank out heavy, blistering tracks one after another with virtually no breaks in between. Way more earnest, honest, and real than could possibly be expected based on listening to the album. 

The genre descriptor "post-rock" is kind of a strange one, but for Russian Circles it's apt.  Their music is "post" in the sense that it breaks down conventional expectations for a band comprised of guitar, bass, and drums. At times it seemed like there was a full on fleet of musicians on stage conjuring up these soaring landscapes. One of the most remarkable things about seeing Russian Circles perform live is that they don't say a word. In fact, they don't even look at one another. And yet, they know when to start each song and they know exactly when to stop. There's a level of trust on display that is nothing short of incredible. They're a well-oiled machine at this point, and a product of experience. It's seamless, and a marvel to watch unfold. They know exactly what they're doing, and know exactly when to do it. Not to put too a fine point on it, but this was an epic, seamless set from a band of true professionals. I still haven't quite recovered. 

HIM, Caspian

Southampton Guildhall
Southampton, Hampshire, UK
October 28, 2013

It has been three years since HIM last played on the shores of the UK, with a lot of uncertainty whether they would continue as a band due to drummer Gas having arm splints that prevent him from playing. Also, earlier this year singer Ville Valo contracted pneumonia and things didn’t look good for the love metal band. But after the release of the band’s latest offering, Tears on Tape, everything seemed to fall back into place for them.

October 28 saw them playing Southampton Guildhall with support coming from Massachusetts instrumental band Caspian—a band whose post-rock sound seemed to fall short of getting the crowd of die hard HIM fan’s ready for their favourite band. This wasn’t because they were a bad band but there was just something lacking from their set, maybe it was there was no real connection with the audience?

As HIM took to the stage bursting into the new song “All Lips Go Blue,” it was clear that the break only made them tighter as a band, and that Ville has developed as a front man, now opting to pick up the acoustic guitar which brings a new dynamic to the live set. Although this tour is to promote the new album there was something for everyone with a lot of variety in song choice. Personal highlights were “The Funeral Of Hearts” and “Join Me In Death”.

The show ended with “When Love and Death Embrace,” which was the perfect note to go out on. It is clear they have been through a lot in the past three years but it has only made them a stronger band;if you were lucky enough to see them on this tour then you will know. If not, then I suggest that you catch them when they return to the UK next time. You won’t be disappointed.

Live review and photos courtesy of David Rutherford.

Beacons Festival 2013

North Yorkshire

August 16-18, 2013

Beacons Festival is a pretty novel addition to the British concert scene. Taking place in Skipton (Lancs > Yorks) away from the bright lights of Reading or Glastonbury, it boasts a lineup ranging from the well known – Wire, David Rodigan – to the sort of fresh faces more expected to be visitors than acts. There's a certain individualistic charm covering the DIY foundations of Beacons, whether it's the small scale, inclusion of independent businesses and scope of events beyond music, from film showings to arts classes. I headed down to see what the fuss was about.

My trip was reassuringly drawn out, trudging on train from London to York, then onto Leeds and finally Skipton. It was the bemused faces of locals en route, not the flowing greenery or diminishing traffic, that carted you into smallest of small town England. The short bus ride away led to the field where I'd spend the next three days. After sorting out my pop-up tent (easy to take out, a pain to pop back in) I made my way into the arena to check out the bands and get a sense of the atmosphere. 

What first struck me, and never left, was surprise at how sparse the crowd seemed. The area was fairly well laid out, with more than enough room between stages and a pleasant intimacy to the venues, but it seemed like there should've been more people milling/staggering/passed out around. After catching up with a couple of friends and getting nicely libated, I headed off to see the first band of the day, Egyptian Hip-Hop.



I'd heard a few of their songs, not enough to form a judgement but suffice to be interested in what they'd be like. Arriving on stage looking like acid casualties thrown out of Waynestock, they proceeded to play a set which provoked, interested but ultimately frustrated me. Frontman Alex Hewett varied between adding to the noise onstage to mingling with the crowd, his demeanour much more jovial than the occasionally indecipherable music. This was added to by the lack of vocal definition Hewett has, too often fading into the instrumentation. Compounded by an overly loud bass, the muddy mix sacrificed the nuances of Egyptian Hip-Hops sound. Nonetheless, a welcome start to the weekend's festivities. Up next was Matador up and comers Esben And The Witch. 



Despite being a trio, the group were more than the sum of their parts. Playing on the quiet-loud dynamics beloved of, say, the XX, the Brightonians showed a lot of promise with their dance influenced post-punk. Veering between sparseness and furious activity, it was a real diversity on show; however, it didn't make for a staggering live performance as the three seemed rooted in place to their pedals. At over five years of activity, perhaps they'd passed their moment to crossover into something bigger, but are surely the sort of gem to find on the off-chance. They played Noisey's You've Got To Hear This stage, which acted as host to a variety of great bands, one of which was next act Only Real. 



To say that the West London troubadour is divisive is to say that he's strawberry blonde. His Jamie T. referencing blend of hip-hop, classic rock 'n' roll and stoner delivery comes at a time when King Krule is slaying any and all imitators. At Beacons, he packed the stage with kids who wanted to rep Real. Accompanied by a band, Real filled out the gaps which appear in songs like 'Cinnamon Toast' or 'Cadillac Girl', sounding more substantial than the one-man-and-a-Macbook approach he's taken so far. Despite complaining of illness, Real manages to execute his surprisingly well thought out raps and youthful crooning, to the delight of people who're dressed as ridiculously as he is. If he built on the success shown, he'd soon escape the shadows of others. 

I was soon presented with a dilemma, a rare clash between two hotly tipped but very different acts who both appealed- Ghostpoet and Eagulls. The former is a songsmith who spans hip hop and electro music, as reminiscent of Jeremiah Jae as Portishead. The latter is a clan of Leeds miscreants who're getting ahead by their surly performances and music along the lines of Dinosaur Jr being cottaged by Electro Hippies. I initially plumped for Eagulls and readied myself for their set. The sweat-mist of cramped bodies was enough to prove what a draw the band were; within minutes of Eagulls kicking off, it was pretty much security's version of Apocalypse Now. Unsightly moshing, surges forward, frontman George working up enough people to the point of where they were heavy-handedly getting thrown out be security. At this point I bailed as I realised the value of having teeth, so off to Ghostpoet it was.



Whereas Eagulls was stripped-back aggression, Ghostpoet easily provides the experience closest to a 'show'. Dressed in all black, the singer and producer spends the lion's share of his time tied to a keyboard. His strut is self-assured, the moments when he take to the mic feel like high drama, accentuated with the atmospheric lighting and drawn out string instrumentals. This isn't to say he's somehow disengaged from the crowd; to the contrary, his performance is equally marked by tense rapping over catchy beats and cacophonous drums, setting the revellers off. Again, in terms of sound, so much is going on that while the sound dips into muddiness, plus the occasional technical fault, Ghostpoet continues as the consummate professional. 



My first night was capped off by a band who need no introduction: Fucked Up. While it's hardly a rare treat seeing the band - considering their prolific touring schedule - it's always enlivening to see a group who've stuck at it for over a decade, doing their own thing in spite of peers and trends. Despite the numerous pairs of jogging bottoms and jetlag symptons on show, Fucked Up waste no time ripping into their crowd as Eagulls did on the same stage hours earlier. It's harder to tell who's losing their shit more, fans, the band, or security, as Damian Abraham embraces the audience, bodies fly and the boys with the walkie talkies don't seem to know what to do. A lengthy, energetic set, the perfect nightcap for the weekend. 



Saturday 

I emerged from my peg-secured abode and ambled around the arena. I caught glimpse of a few acts, such as Wolf Alice and Amateur Best, but neither struck me worth watching. In fact, the second made me think Michael Bolton was playing a secret set with a Microkorg. The less said about his rap song the better. The first act that impressed me on Saturday was Bournemouth boy East India Youth. His sound is as varied as you'd expect from someone The Quietus releases music for. The keys vary from glitches to shimmering and the atmosphere drifts from the darkness of witch house to the flight of deep house. His inclusion of live bass feels somewhat like tokenism whilst his vocals need a dose more character, but overall, a promising performance.

Elliott Smith at his last-ever NYC show, January 29th 2003. He killed himself that October.
Photo: Alexis

I have this friend, let's call her L. We "met" on a music messageboard back when things like that were still popular. We lived in different cities and we never met in person, but we both loved music. She introduced me to a bunch of artists I'd never otherwise have come across.

L lived a complicated life. She suffered eating disorders, self-harmed to a quite terrifying degree, and was in and out of rehab centres. She was also a brilliant artist: a writer skilled with words and meaning and an expert with sketching, painting and textiles. This was reflected in the music she loved.

Elliott Smith was one of her favourites. I first learned how to properly spell his name after she painstakingly corrected me in late-night music discussions over MSN Messenger. She loved "Needle in the Hay", perhaps Smith's most famous song, as featured in The Royal Tenenbaums, which meant that this became the first of his recordings I ever heard.

Other artists captured her personal mixture of the tragic and beautiful: Xiu Xiu were another of her favourites. I could never warm to Jamie Stewart's heartwrenching pain and the sparse and uncomfortable soundtracks. Elliott's simple and unpolished aching, his open, bare outlook and sometimes joyous uplifts in spirit were something I could engage with, for a time.

He killed himself not long before I first became aware of him. I remember L telling me the story and wonder now if she understood a little of what he felt, while to me it was just another glamorous, mysterious dead rock star, joining the immortal ranks of Cobain, Vicious and Edwards. His gentle, lulling chords and angry, passionate yelps might have spoken to her with the depth and reach that Elliott's songs often reached for his most devoted followers.

I learned to play a few of his songs and recorded shaky cover versions to show her. They weren't great: my voice was weak and nervous and the guitar awkward at times and amateur. But sometimes that was how Elliott sounded: every time I listen to "The Biggest Lie", I marvel at how it begins like an over-eager open mic performer but transforms into a hymn, almost.

I copied out the lyrics to "Twilight" on a piece of paper because I didn't have a printer, wanting to perform it somewhere. My dad found the words and thought they were my own. I wonder sometimes what he thought when he read the lines: "haven't laughed this hard in a long time / better stop now before I start crying". I didn't really know then how Elliott felt, though I suspected L did.

His music never changed, by then. Unlike other artists whose work you come to late, Elliott's discography was final: an artefact, if you like. Sure, there were demos and b-sides and covers and all the rest. But what he left behind a decade ago this week has remained a constant in my life: the twinkly chords and mumbled verses instantly take me back to L and our long talks and my attempts to understand her world through the filter of Elliott's music.

I last spoke to L in the autumn of 2010, three years ago now. I'd just lost a close family member and was feeling, for the first time in my life, some of the emptiness that unexpected death can leave you with. I told her about it and she expressed her shock and sorrow for me. I told her I'd be okay.

That was the last time I heard from L. I know she'd been in some kind of recovery or rehab centre around that time, but I didn't know where. I texted, emailed, and after a couple of years, wrote to her a copied letter which I posted to all of the addresses I'd had for her. I did get one response back, from a man who'd moved into her old address. All he could tell me was that she didn't live there any more.

It's ten years now this week since Elliott Smith left us, and almost three years since L disappeared from my life. For me, the two are inextricably linked. L introduced me to the music and the tragedy of Elliott Smith's life and work. Elliott Smith helped me understand and cope with the beauty and the sadness of L and whatever path she took.

I miss her all the time and I wonder at what happened, but the music that Elliott left us gives me a bittersweet gift. I didn't really know what he meant when he said "because your candle burns too bright / well I almost forgot it was twilight", but I think now I have a little idea.

RIP Elliott Smith: 1969-2003

Thank you, L.

(names have been changed to ease loss)

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Endnotes:

• Second Elliott photo by Constintina Trainwreck.
• Scene Point Blank wrote about Elliott's death the week it happened. You can read our reaction here.
• We also compiled a list of the Top 5 Elliott Smith Songs That'll Choke You Up.

Listen to the songs in this article (and others):