Online music magazine based in Copenhagen, Denmark

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March 2018

LIVE REVIEW: Tune-Yards, Pumpehuset, 29.03.2018

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merrill garbus of tune-yards live at pumpehuset in copenhagen

Tune-Yards closed out a six-week tour on the smaller stage at Pumpehuset. The space is packed and the lights are low, and there’s faint aura on the stage from the glow of an uncountable number of pedals.

The energy in the room is good. In part, this is because Merrill Garbus is herself a high-energy performer. She bops and struts, leads her band in sun salutes, raises her arms as if in a rallying cry, and through the low lighting you can occasionally see how wide her eyes are opened and the exaggerated stretch of her facial features. But the energy also refracts back from the audience; the people here not only know Tune-Yards but clearly love Tune-Yards. They are dancing, they are shouting back lines from “Bizness” and “Gangsta.” Much of the set comes from this year’s I Can Feel You Creep Into My Private Life, and they know the songs well.

If …Private Life was a bit down-tempo as a recording, the live set is a swamp of loops and yelps, driven by drums that cut through the electronics with their sheer tangibleness. Garbus makes playing the ukulele look cool, which is an impressive feat in itself, but much of that may have to do with her skill in making a ukulele sound like anything other than a ukulele. She plays her pedals with her feet like a separate instrument, her looped voice tumbling over and colliding with itself, and it doesn’t take long before it becomes difficult to distinguish what is sampled and what is looped.

Garbus’ voice has real power behind it, and she knows how to wield it. She offers a soothing sweetness when her vocals are meant to serve as a backing track and punctuates lines with massive bellows. She does not scream, she does not have to. Whatever she’s projecting — a state of zen or a call to arms — people are dancing, are listening, are ready to follow.

LIVE REVIEW: Shirley Collins and the Lodestar Band, Alice, 25.03.2018

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Shirley Collins live at her first ever Danish concert at Kunsthal Charlottenborg for CPH:DOX

There is so much to say and discover about Shirley Collins that it is hard to see where to start. This is a problem that the documentary The Ballad of Shirley Collins needs to battle with, the mountains of material, but it is a problem easily solved by the presence of Shirley herself: warm, funny, and full of love the folk songs she has dedicated her entire life to. This night is a collaboration between CPH Dox and Alice, a double presentation of the film, followed by a concert. It is a strange experience to watch her on a big screen being fawned over by Stewart Lee and David Tibet, and before you know it the film is over and you are running to pee before the show starts and there is Shirley herself by the theatre entrance, beaming.

Accompanied by guitars, fiddle, banjo and shruti box, Shirley and her band work through a selection of material from Lodestar, as well as several of the songs featured in the film, which means that they are all imbued with a familiarity that allows the audience to focus on the details of the arrangements and the lyrics. During “Washed Ashore”, for example, I notice for the first time the detail that when the song’s protagonist finds her dead husband washed up on the sand, she recognises him by “the mark on his hand”. Implying that the rest of him is so bloated and disfigured as to be unrecognisable, which adds a certain dash of gruesome horror to the tenderness of her kissing him.

Shirley delights in these bloody details, particularly in songs like “Cruel Lincoln”, but can just as easily talk about the harsh realities she encountered in the pre-civil rights South. Several of her songs are American folk tunes that manage to surreally remember aspects of British culture long forgotten on the East side of the Atlantic. One of these she asks us to pay careful attention to, as one particular line is hilariously drawn out and requires a certain amount of temporal elasticity to perform. The odd misremembered line adds to the charm, as Shirley still recalls the content of the sections if not the full lyrics, and so amiably blusters a summary of them.

As the evening draws to a close the room is positively humming with goodwill. The complete lack of affectation in the performers, their dedication to music which they lay no claim towards, is incredibly refreshing, and must surely bring about our own private revival.

 

 

LIVE REVIEW: Lolina, Alice, 20.03.2018

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Inga Copeland live as Lolina for CPH:DOX at Alice in Copenhagen

Continuing a string of inspired bookings, Alice has brought Lolina–the latest moniker of London-based producer Inga Copeland– to Copenhagen a week after the release of her latest album, The Smoke. Both Copeland’s solo work and her collaborations with Dean Blunt are laced with a confrontational humour, and her latest effort is no exception.

But before we are plunged into the murky depths of Lolina, we spend some time with local producer Astrid Sonne. Accompanied by visuals of an abandoned waterpark somewhere in southern Europe, Sonne’s music mixes abstract electronics–always just on the verge of breaking into dance–with lush romanic stretches of viola playing. There is a curiosity to this, a mix of the cerebral and intuitive, that keeps you glued to the music and the screen.

When Copeland walk on stage in a trilby and pinstripe jacket, it is an indication of the jazz-teasing nightmares she is about to conjure up. The album and set opener, “Roulette”, features two atonally juxtaposed piano arpeggios that fly up and down the scale against each other until they are broken up by the mechanised blues of a bass and organ. “Whatever you’ve got lets light it / Whatever’s in my pocket lets spend it / If nothing left then fuck it…” she chants, as if to herself.

Copeland has a real sense for the uncanny, the way her bass lines lurch rather than groove, her drum sounds calculated to distress. This sounds like criticism but there is real artistry to it. Her only instruments are three digital turntables, a microphone and an effects unit, but she wields these with a light precision that belies the calculated broken quality of her music. Towards the second half of her set it seems she can’t help herself but throw in some of the grime that always lurks just beneath the surface of her work. And a filthy bassline is always welcome.

 

LIVE REVIEW: Greg Fox, Alice, 14.03.2018

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Greg Fox live at Alice in Copenhagen

In principle, watching a guy play drums for 45 minutes doesn’t sound like it would make for the most interesting concert. But in this case, the guy is Greg Fox, a drummer you could calibrate your metronome to. We’ve been repeatedly spellbound by Fox’s contributions to Liturgy, Guardian Alien, and Ex Eye, but how would his work hold up as a solo performer?

The premise of his most recent release, September’s Gradual Progression, is that Fox used Sensory Percussion — his kit feeding into modular synths via a MIDI — to create a fully-fledged ambient work. Woven with samples of saxophone and guitar, most of the sounds he’s working with are high pitched and mechanical, but the tenor of the set lacks much of the aggression of the other projects he’s involved with.

It’s difficult to tell if or how the sensors play into his live set; to the casual eye, he could just as easily be playing along to a backing track on the laptop set up next to him. But without other band members to distract or be physically set up in his path, this was the best opportunity to appreciate his skill. Fox seems to enter a trance when he plays — his eyes are rarely open — and it’s difficult not to feel meditative in his presence. If you couldn’t see the sweat flying from his face, it would all look completely effortless.

The intimacy of the evening isn’t underscored until the encore, when Fox returns to the stage to provide more insight into his latest work. Listening to him speak without a mic closes the space in and brings a human side back to the autopilot of his playing. He introduces an “experiment” — possibly to be found on his next album — which triggers a series of bird songs among the drumming. It’s whimsical and weirdly charming and guarantees that we’ll track down whatever he works on next.

LIVE REVIEW: Cindy Wilson, Hotel Cecil, 02.03.2018

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Cindy Wilson live at hotel cecil Copenhagen

There is no way to know exactly what to expect from Cindy Wilson’s solo set at Hotel Cecil. The B-52s singer released a debut album under her own name late last year that bears more resemblance to Hope Sandoval than new wave party rock. The show starts early, there’s just enough snow on the ground to delay buses and trains, and it’s our first visit to the new venue.

Hotel Cecil has preserved the feeling of Jazzhouse, though the bar now takes up more space. It’s the same intimate feeling, though, which is particularly good tonight because only about 50 people have shown up for the gig. This is the challenge that Wilson has walked out to, but she is instantly buoyant.

It helps that amongst the small crowd that has assembled are some super fans. They are here for Wilson as a solo artist, they know every word to every song on her new album and it’s preceding EPs, and they do not shout requests for B-52s’ songs.

Cindy Wilson live at hotel cecil Copenhagen

While some of the soft, dreamy vocals of the album make it through, Wilson’s live set is much higher energy. She’s swinging her arms and kicking around, surrounded by a band who grin like they’ve found the best gig in the world. Wilson is manipulating her vocals, twisting knobs, and tacking theremin outros onto almost every song. This feels like the logical place for the woman from the new wave band to be; performing live, it’s clear that Cindy Wilson is still a pop singer, but there is an experimental edge to it. There’s that little bit of weird that endures, that keeps her a safe distance from the blandness that she’s tried to avoid throughout her career, and she’s found it in a way that’s separate from the space and the band that has defined her up to this point.

With all that said, it’s an early night. Everything in Wilson’s solo catalogue only adds up to an hour, and by 21:30 it’s time to go home. Yes that hour was good fun, but maybe an opener on the bill would have fleshed out the evening a bit more.

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