St. George’s Hall in Liverpool city centre sits vast, proud and ostentatious on Lime Street and William Brown Street; its pillared design and affluent gardens striking chords of ancient Rome and Greece thrown haphazardly under the gloomy skies of good old Blighty. A nucleus of Liverpool’s Victorian architectural opulence, William Brown Street is home of the library, museum and art gallery that played no small part in the city’s hungry grab at it’s Capital of Culture 2008 status. Indeed, anyone who saw the self-congratulatory opening celebrations last year would have seen the light and laser kitchen sink shebang during which hundreds of guitarists played from the skyward tips of these decadent structures and Ringo Starr thudded his drums amateurishly from the roof of St. George’s hall itself. If anyone had listened really closely they probably would have also been able to hear the unmistakable collective crackle of twenty thousand Scouse arseholes clenching simultaneously, willing the scaffolding to buckle hurling the baritone Beatle buffoon to a rapturous, long overdue demise. With The Wombats miming (yes, miming) a few of their most risible songs on a stage just below him the phrase ‘two birds one stone’ also springs to mind. Death By Falling Starr – the headlines would write themselves.
The designers of these noble and gothic structures would probably bust out of their dusty corsets in rage if they had any post-mortem ken that their epitaphic masterpieces were being bastardised as mere plinths for geriatric rockstars clambering for publicity (FYI, Starkey Snr’s new album was entertainingly shit), or if they knew St. George’s Gardens were but a weekend playground for the Ferrari-haired teenage Emo population of Merseyside who congregate in such Attenborough documentary-worthy numbers their pluralistic hair dye can be seen with the naked eye from outer space. If the crusty aristocrats of old knew that the Sound City vagabonds, tinkers and hoodwinks had infected St George’s they would, in supernatural terms, do a shit. But infest it Sound City has, and shit they very well may have done.
Playing host to the various conferences and seminars covering the more bureaucratic intricacies of the Biz Music during the daytime, by night the hall is arena to mucky rock bands playing heretical music with loud, immoral guitars. A queue had formed early outside the inconspicuous opening at the William Brown end; two bouncers were stoically surveying everything and nothing in particular, ignoring the buzzing jitters of the event promoters milling outside who seemed on the cusp of a group wide panic-induced pulmonary embolism due to there simply not being enough room inside the concert room to contain everyone with the necessary passes. As we approached the velvet rope one of these promoters, a short, bleach blond man in his late thirties, said hello cordially with the apologetic air of someone about to break some bad news. Fuck that, we thought, so in a pre-emptive strike we asked how many of our press party had already come through and remarked how much our international readership would enjoy our report on the event. “This is never going to work,” I said to Chest as the promoter scurried off. A word to the bouncer later he came back over and whispered conspiratorially “Go on in, any problems come and find me”. Chest looked smug, but a problem was encountered almost instantly: a snooty girl with a clipboard at the front desk took detached delight in informing us we were not on ‘The List’ and wafted us back out with swinging clipboard and clanging jewellery from whence we came only for our blond friend to spot us, relieve us from the clutches of the draconian Clipboard and usher us straight back in again. Take THAT, society!
Prescribed the appropriate wristbands, our wrists now starting to look like unwrapped packs of fruit pastels, we walked along the narrow entrance corridor debating under our breath whether what had just transpired could be classed as ‘a blag’. The corridor opened up into a grand entrance hall flushed with a Wall Street ant’s nest of human activity; directly in front of us was a makeshift bar (formula: 10 crates + 4 cloths = one bar) across which gratis bottles of the third most popular brand of bottled cider were being thrown by hapless temp staff into the outstretched, expectant paws of the squawking gaggle of freeloaders. Ascending into the recesses of the ornately furnished walls on either side were two staircases and judging from the flow of thoroughfare from East to West the one on the right led to the performance area and it’s opposite to the old pissin’ hole. After half an hour or so of pleasant free drinking the blond man, standing a few stairs up the right hand staircase to render himself visible, gave his best ‘Let’s get ready to rumble!’ speech regarding young upstarts The Sound of Guns, and up we went to check them out.
The Sound of Guns, St George’s Hall Concert Room (www.myspace.com/soundofguns)
The Sound of Guns look like a band. There, I said it. If you were asked to conger up a generic image of an indie band on the back of your eyelids you would probably come up with something startlingly similar to their press photo. Clothes, hair and even stage movements seem so overly familiar that something’s not quite right; a nameless Truman Show feeling of overpowering visual beigeness blurs the image of the band into that of the thousands of also-rans nationwide. Thankfully, they sound a little less generic than they appear; local lads, recently heard bothering the airwaves of Steve Lamacq and Zane ‘God-help-you-if-you-call-me-Australian’ Lowe, producing music which could share power chord parallels with those ultimate whatever-happened-to’s, Hundred Reasons. Spirited frontman Andy Metcalfe is in energetic form on the night, revving up the diehard fans near the front of the stage with outstretched arms and raised mobile phones and single ‘Architects’ sounds suitably massive, complemented hugely by the grand surroundings and acrobatic light show. Drawing a cheer of familiarity from the five or six hundred or so in the audience, some of whom slouch lazily in the shadowed balconies which seems odd as this is hardly Swan fucking Lake, ‘Alcatraz’ is as long standing a live favourite as a band who’ve only been together a matter of months can have and here it’s delivered with admirable in your face confidence as Metcalfe leans over his mic stand into the audience, delivering a crunchy Maximo Park-esque pop nugget complete with an ‘everyone sing along!’ chanty bit. Then a joyous ‘Collisions’ catches you off guard with it’s anthemic major-key chorus, sounding a little bit like that Keane song that you’re ashamed of actually rather liking.
Sound of Guns’ power chords at first make a welcome change from the trebly guitars of perpetual indie cliché but while, with the exceptions of wearing shades in winter and necrophilia, it’s always respectable to go against the grain, the ear becomes quickly over-accustomed to the lack of thirds. And while Sound of Guns may become huge I couldn’t escape the impression they could have possibly done with a bit longer to marinate and discover who they are, to develop their sound and look into something justifiably theirs. If they do garner nationwide popularity they may do so in the vein of the flash in the pan Pigeon Detectives, and these lads have got something more. They just need time to figure out exactly what that is.
The Mojave Collective, Studio on Hardman Street (http://www.myspace.com/detroitsocialclub
A handful of those with no desire to pander to the expected and watch The Zutons steadfastly pretend nothing’s wrong in St George’s made their way across town to the comparatively grotty, comparatively expensive (they seem to charge for drinks here…) Studio. It’s always a good sign to see a bongo player setting up on stage and he turned out to be a fair substitute for a svelte saxophonist, adding a soft, earthy layer to the proceedings in a trance of ethereal juju. The fucking hippy.
The Mojave Collective seem to have been around for yonks despite having only just released their debut album Rust and Dust. Frontman Mark Delaney turned down a lucrative publishing deal in the US to concentrate his energies on this band and he is a charismatic figure, singing very charming English melodies over music so Deep South that you feel a little bit more xenophobic for just actually having listened to it; a slide played Gibson SG plus an occasional pedal steel gave me mental images of Burt Reynolds rubbing chewing tobacco into a weeping Lee Mavers’ back whilst saying ‘Nice and quiet now, Boy….’ I didn’t want this image, but there it was.
They’ve got nice enough tunes too, yet after a few something strange happened: I felt slightly patriotically affronted. Never having experienced national pride of any sort I was baffled by this but I found myself having to contain the rising urge to shout ‘We’re bloody English, chaps!’ ‘Enough of this Yankee-doodle bollocks!’ and the odd ‘Tally ho!’ The endless Republican Rock, after a while, began to get on my tits.
If you like country music, and I for one LOATHE it, you could do a lot worse than these cheeky buggers who did try valiantly to jig up a beguilingly indifferent crowd who just seemed to be waiting around for the headline act. The Mojave Collective are definitely niche though, so where should they aim themselves? You can’t really see the ringtone Teenagerz becoming massive fans between stabbings and pregnancies and, despite Barack-induced Cool Americana, stars and stripes hillbilly rock is still deeply out of favour unless you are a racist and a homophobe. But your dad might like it. I’m not saying that your dad’s a right-wing bigot mind, but he might.
Detroit Social Club, Studio on Hardman Street (www.myspace.com/detroitsocialclub)
Riding in on the crest of a wave of positive press and sharing a manager with none other than The Arctic Monkeys - la-di-da- Detroit Social Club bring a welcome dose of hype to this sticky and rather skanky part of Liverpool. Their sound on record is one of dense, psychedelic layers with thick beats powered along by full and funkadelic drums similar to The Happy Mondays, The Farm or Primal Scream. I admit that whether or not they would be able to do this sound justice live, as there just seems to be too much going on, was a minor concern of mine before they’d even began.
Thankfully their triple-pronged assault of two guitars plus either another guitar or keys never lets the wall of sound crumble for a second; smooth melodies are layered over the baggy backbone provided by bassist Chris McCourtie and drummer David Green. Played live, the songs benefit from the lack of post production and singles ‘Sunshine People’ and ‘Rivers and Rainbows’ are immense without having one obvious hook between them, instead relying on relentless beats to drill into your cranium. While singer Dave Burn may look a bit like Robert Plant his vocals remain as understated and laconic as the Madchester legends (and the one Scot) he is undeniably influenced by. An imposing figure onstage, Burns’ body language attempted to provoke the audience (who were utter, utter shite) into any kind of participation. Confidence without arrogance – a rare thing. Whilst things occasionally veer off into vaguely Portisheaddy territory, comparisons to Kasabian are inescapable and not entirely unjust; they both produce music that can only be described as, and I apologise unreservedly for this, ‘cool’.
During all the pre-release Dig Out Your Soul guff Noel Gallagher was chirping on about wanting to capture grooves rather than obvious songs. Whilst he partially succeeded, it seems six lads from Newcastle may have quietly nailed it. You won’t leave a gig humming one of their tunes but you’ll definitely want to hear more. If Kasabian are perfect for chomping disco biscuits and pulling strange faces in nightclubs then Detroit Social Club are the perfect comedown rock. They might be one to listen out for this year.
So then it’s all over. The crowd dissipated and melted into Saturday night, their now useless armbands and passes discarded like fag-ends into the gutters, and Ted and I retired to the dingy darkness of The Swan to quaff cheap whiskey and talk shit about music for a while. Only another year until it all happens again I suppose, and in the meantime there is Manchester In The City and the Mathew Street Festival to keep the North West entertained, not to mention the ‘proper’ festivals of the Summer all still yet to come. So even though Sound City is sadly over the festival season is just about to begin.
Posted In Festivals, Jul 11 2011.
Words - Luke