It’s difficult to know what the right setting for James Blake would be. His show at Falconer Salen — bumped up from Store Vega because of demand — feels like it should have been shifted to a seated theatre rather than an open ballroom. Wouldn’t that be more suitable for Blake’s gentle, moody compositions?
But once the electronics of opening song “I Never Learnt to Share” kicked in, it’s immediately apparent that live, Blake’s music is less delicate than on his albums. Most notably, the beats are a lot bigger, and fill every inch of the room. Not that anyone is dancing; the audience mostly stands rapt, hanging on Blake’s every bobbing, slinking movement, but rarely moving their own feet.
The great appeal of Blake’s music is his voice, that smooth, silky falsetto that can melt hearts. And it’s there, and he hits every high note without effort, but it’s often drowned out by the volume of the electronics that surround him (literally and figuratively: he is hemmed in by his keyboards).
He is joined on stage by a guitarist/keyboardist and drummer, and with all due respect to his guitarist/keyboardist, it’s the drummer who is incredible. When the drummer has moments away from his electronic kit, his skill is displayed in furious lashes.
An hour into his set things break down into straight dance music, nothing delicate, just energetic. And the audience is responding by almost dancing. The energy would have dropped with any song that was any slower, except the next song he plays is his single “Retrograde,” and the room erupts in enthusiastic cheers when he hums the opening bars. He rolls this into downtempo set ender “The Wilhelm Scream.”
Coming back alone for his encore, he asks the crowd — which he admits has already been quiet and respectful — to be quieter still. He then sings the bulk of “Measurements” a cappella, looping his voice back with each subsequent verse, before tearing into his keyboards. In these last minutes of the show, he lays out his artistic and technical abilities so plainly, it would be difficult not to be moved. He leaves the stage quietly as his own voice continues looping. It’s a very impressive exit.
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Going on tour is hard work. There are long journeys, late nights, early mornings, sweaty clothes, cramped quarters, etc. On top of all that, you have to actually look like you’re enjoying yourself when you perform. How unreasonable. MGMT’s sold out performance on Tuesday night at Store Vega could have been an amazing concert, if they’d only bothered to smile and bob about a bit.
All the ingredients are ready before they go onstage for MGMT to put on a great show. The warm up band were popular, there’s a large white screen behind the stage hinting at a visual show, and they’ve only recently started the tour, so they should be full of beans. The audience are nicely pumped up, and the notoriously annoying fan base are not too bad. The lights dim and make way for an echoing robot voice cooing the band’s name over the speakers. This should be good.
However, it does not take too long to realise that this is not going to be a five star review. The show starts with the minor chord psychedelic track “Mystery Disease” from the new, self-titled album, a song that could be full of anticipation and low rumbling energy, if it was delivered that way (which it’s not). A trippy visual of contact lens-like shapes flipping and exploding accompanies the song. Just as well really, because the band are not proving very interesting to watch. There’s no energy, no passion, no movement. The group of jumping and thrusting bros down the front seem to be enjoying MGMT’s music more than the band are.
As that chiming opening riff from “Time to Pretend” takes over from “Mystery Disease”, everyone in the venue, in a predictable fashion, bursts into energy and enjoyment, and there seems to be potential to salvage this concert. Everyone, that is, except MGMT, who continue to stand and play without smiling. Colourful videography decorates the back wall with amazing psychedelic visuals, including silhouettes and projections of the musicians themselves, moving and stopping, pixellating and smudging. The band are not matching their vibrant show.
Now don’t get me wrong. Musically, MGMT are performing brilliantly. Better than I had expected. The band range and rove over three albums, and every sound is refined and considered. The large number of performers in the live band skillfully recreate that rich, synthy signature sound. Store Vega is even graced with a giant cowbell player, “Be Aware” emblazoned on her instrument, for “Your Life is a Lie”. “Kids”, the hit track the band has tried to ditch from its live performances for a few years now, is played, and once again proves itself to have one of the best opening riffs of the 21st Century. It’s bigger and better having had a few years’ break, with a large instrumental section. MGMT should look so proud of this song, but they just continue to look remarkably bleak.
I’ve been trying to work out frontman Andrew Vanwyngarden’s fuzzy, brown, polka dot trousers all evening. I decide that they’re really pyjamas, because he looks half asleep. If it hadn’t been for the graphics, it would have been more fun listening to the concert whilst looking at the wall. The band have only recently started their tour, and won’t stop until January. It’s a bit early to be looking tired, chaps.
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Against unbelievable odds (an awful PA, miniscule room and a career largely built on one song), CSS managed to prevail. The Brazilian quintet played a short, 50 minute set, bringing a large quantity of punk brashness and wild enthusiasm to their particular brand of electro-rock. Singer Lovefoxxx made up for the shitty PA, which would have disgraced a 5-year-old’s birthday party, by inciting the crowd, sharing oddball linguistic insights (the main one being that “tak” is too short a word to express gratitude), and generally being very loveable. Chatting to her after the gig, next to the drawing of a slow loris riding a Christiania bike, I realized I’d spent the set trying to like the music as much as I liked the people making it. In a way CSS seem to run solely on an enthusiasm. No one can deny that even such a short set was full of some very unremarkable and very similar songs, but it’s hard to care about that. They appear amateur in a refreshing way, happy to be doing what they are doing.
I’ll be honest: I went to hear one song, and one song only. And when CSS played “Lets Make Love and Listen to Death from Above”, I was ready to forgive any inconvenience. Like Editors the night previous, they do rely heavily on certain musical styles and tropes, but CSS do so without cynicism. They are brash and, when considered soberly, almost irrelevant musically. But they are a party band, no one has to consider them soberly.
The few early birds at Store Vega are greeted with five Belgians singing in eerie harmony over a sparse rhythm section. Balthazar are a puzzling band. A naysayer would call them derivative, unoriginal, erratic. They seem to pinch from everyone and everywhere: the odd poppy bassline, occasional spaghetti western guitars, Bob Dylan-drenched lead vocals, chimes, a violin, big group choruses, tremolo picked guitars. On paper it sounds like awful cliché. But no matter how highly you choose to prize originality, Balthazar have an undeniable if elusive idiosyncrasy, and more importantly, a fantastic live sound. Songs that on record seem rather unremarkable, like “Sinking Ship”, completely transform on stage, in this case into a thundering, Bruce Springsteen chorus. Another name, another influence, I know, but certainly not a criticism. They are constantly surprising, veering in unexpected directions, always simple, but never facile or boring. Even with five people on stage, and countless musical influences, they are able to leave enough space in their sound for every instrument to be distinct and vital. They are, in this sense, quite the opposite of Editors, who will spend the next hour and a half filling up every space they possibly can.
Not that the audience is exactly filling the place. The balcony section has been closed off due to low ticket sales, and the back of the room is less than packed. Perhaps the casual concert-goers were already satisfied with Editors’ performance only a few months ago in Tivoli. What the crowd lacks in numbers it makes up for in enthusiasm, as the cute-couple contingent at the front and the back-rows of post-punk veterans/old farts hail the headline act’s opener, “Sugar”. The ice machines and backlighting give the place a churchy feel, and I feel an infidel among the faithful. People around me are beaming, singing along, awkwardly trying to dance, fist-pumping, or being arseholes with their camera phones. Admittedly the band have a swagger I would never have expected from them, with Tom, the singer, making witchy hand gestures and bassist Russ constantly climbing onto the drum podium. And they do manage to make each song sound exactly like the album recordings. There is just something I’m just not getting.
It’s strange. After all, I was the perfect age when The Back Room first brought Editors to international fame. I used to mouth the words. These songs should make me nostalgic. This is the first gig of their new tour, and after having toured The Weight of Your Love extensively, this is a chance for the band to dip into their four albums at will. Indeed I get a twitch at the beginning of “Munich”, a slight tingle at “Bullets”, and I have the impression, probably wholly incorrect, that the rest of the audience reacts most strongly to the songs from the debut album. But I am constantly held back, no stage theatrics or sing-alongs carry me into the same state as the people around me.
Halfway through the concert I move back to the old farts’ section, losing in sound quality, but making up for it with the sight of overweight, 60-year old men in New Model Army t-shirts making strange arm gestures at the blatant Echo and the Bunnymen ripoff opening riff to “A Ton of Love”. My god, they must have been my age when Ocean Rain was first released.
Why is it that I can defend Balthazar while being completely baffled by people’s love of Editors? It has nothing to do with considerations of originality, or even stealing sounds, but rather that the sounds Editors chose turned out to the ones I find least interesting about those post-punk bands we enjoy. There is no surprise, no subversion. Editors are a band guided by emotion, but evidently not one I happen to share. But it was exactly what a couple of hundred people in Vega wanted, so who can fault them that?
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As I was walking to the train station today, I noticed something rather depressing and undeniable. Autumn is here. I’ve been denying this fact for about two weeks now, but this evening there’s no fighting it, I am cold. As I reach Ideal Bar in the Vega complex, the cold quickly melts away due to the body heat of the audience and warm up band, like a sticky, sweaty log fire. But the real warmth comes at 10pm, when French Films jump onto the stage (after roadying themselves), play a long reverberating note to bring everyone’s attention to the fact that they’re ready, and launch into their set of infectiously good, surf pop songs and rough, punky vocals.
From their new album ‘White Orchid’ comes the title track to start proceedings. It’s a solid track, it’s engaging a few people, but the general consensus appears to be that this is a song they don’t know, and therefore don’t especially care for. By comparison, the five piece then move on to “Take You With Me”, a decidedly more popular choice. Suddenly, the audience seem to have remembered why they came and are dutifully tapping their feet and nodding their heads. A few seem to be smiling. Better keep this up, boys.
As the gig continues, the kids onstage become increasingly peppy and sweaty, as do one group of particularly enthusiastic punters, waving their slick mop tops back at lead singer Johannes Leppanen, as he waves his. And the positivity of both the music and the young band onstage can’t be helped: the audience are enjoying themselves. It is impossible to stand and listen to a track like “Escape in the Afternoon”, and not feel perky, smile and move your feet. These three minute pop songs, with their expert melodies and riffs, effortlessly define the summer feeling, and Joni Kähkönen on guitar is proving particularly impressive tonight. Some Americans standing behind me are clearly a little perplexed as to why no one’s dancing along. I’m with you on that one.
As the band play “Golden Sea” towards the end of the set, a very cheesy montage of flashbacks from summer 2013 lodges itself into my mind. It’s lame, but I have to hand it to these five young guys for helping me end the season with a bang. “You Don’t Know” initially closes the gig with a big noisy finish. Classic. They hop back onstage for an encore, and play “Where We Come From”, from ‘White Orchid’. This time compared with the opening however, the audience are loving the new sound, and Leppanen crashes into the audience to join the mop tops down the front in gratitude. Finland is not a hot country. Neither is it especially sunny, from my understanding. It is ironic, therefore, that a band from Finland should play such sunny surf rock. Seriously, these guys sound like they just stepped off the plane from San Diego, with sand from the beach still stuck between their toes. Outside it may be Autumn, but inside, French Films’ feet are still firmly planted in summertime, and that’s a very good thing.
It’s raining on a Monday evening in September. Alice Boman is singing soft clichés into a half-empty room. On an other occasion, I might say her songs have a naïve fragility, but as I have already mentioned, it’s Monday, and I’m wet from the rain. The crowd needs warming.
Having listened to Big Inner, Matthew E. White’s debut album, early in the day, I’m expecting more low-key Americana, but from the opening riffs and wild steel guitar of “Big Love”, it is clear we are in for something quite different. Live, White and band are warm and intense. The rain is forgotten. By the second number, “Steady Pace”, the band have transformed the break after the second chorus into a drinking game, downing beers and performing coordinated dance routines. They are one of the most immediately likeable bands I’ve ever encountered.
The energy of the room amplifies the rhythmic elements of White’s songs, punctured by a precise, Afrobeat-style horn section. On paper, it should be very easy to describe the band’s sound, but in practice it feels ridiculous. You can throw names at it: Curtis Mayfield, Randy Newman, at times even Devendra Banhardt (a facile comparison, White is superior by far). The best analogy I can muster is the Band: instantly recognisable, but not tied down to a particular genre.
It turns out, however, that Randy Newman isn’t such a stupid comparison. White recounts a time when he tracked down Newman’s house in the Hollywood Hills, trying to hand him his record and contact details. He follows this story with a stripped-down cover of “Sail Away”. The song also showcases the half-whispered vocal style that is more familiar to listeners who have only heard White on headphones.
No matter how good White is on his own, it is obvious that he is most comfortable around his band. The classic R’n’B rhythm section is aided by steel guitar and a keyboardist who looks like Seth Rogen’s brother, adding a psychedelic edge to the evening. Joined by a local horn section, the band layer on top of each other, building up songs like “One of These Days” into explosive crescendos.
Having showcased two new songs, “Signature Move” and “Human Style”, White begins his encore with “Hot Toddies”, which provides the perfect metaphor for the evening: warming against the oncoming winter, sweet and inebriating. The whole of Vega is nodding along to the groove, Monday is redeemed.
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RUST is not a big venue. The concert tonight is sold out, and so the audience, many of whom are female, is crammed close. The crowd is very hip, but then again, so is the band. The Brooklyn pop duo have remixed MØ and have been remixed by CHVRCHES, were fallen for by the blogosphere, oh, and she has colourful hair. So far, so somewhat predictable.
However, as the concert begins, and singer Lizzie Plapinger releases the low, sultry tones of “Bones” upon the audience, I start to think there might be more to this band than comes across on their debut album, ‘Secondhand Rapture’.
Mid-way through the concert, Max Hershenow, Plapinger’s partner, producer and keyboard player, explains, “Lizzie and I started MS MR three years ago now, in my bedroom, or cupboard turned studio. I didn’t know I could produce and Lizzie didn’t know she could sing, so when we first started we thought it would be easier to do a cover.” The duo then performed Patrick Wolf’s “Time of My Life”, as they had done three years ago. Those comments come as a surprise upon hearing Plapinger’s voice, which has been on top form all night. It’s great on record, but a bit too girlie. Live, it’s more raw and real, underneath echoey vocal effects. They follow the Wolf cover with “Fantasy”, aptly chosen to co-ordinate with Plapinger declaring the Danes have “lived up to your stereotype” of being “so sexy!”
The most striking observation to make about the concert is how incredibly likeable the band are. Plapinger’s focused, but there’s an innocence and excitement that radiates from her onstage. By “Salty”, the third track of the night, she’s warmed up and confident, and has shaken off some of the awkward if charming nerves. Between songs, and sometimes during them, she cannot help but beam in disbelief. There are few seamless transitions; before “BTSK” for instance, Plapinger says “It’s really hot, I hope you’re well lubricated,” before screwing her face, giggling and adding “take that as you will.” But even the awkward stage banter and audience interaction is engaging. There’s something of the good girl trying to be rebellious as she climbs onto the drum set for “Head Is Not My Home” towards the end of the set. Of course, she’s been supported by Hershenow’s killer keyboard skills, which he’s on occasion employed to fill and complement the clunky gaps between songs. “We’ll all wait whilst you drink some water, Lizzie,” Max teases. It’s obvious that the chemistry between the two is at the heart of this band, from the dizzy sidelong looks to the samba dancing intervals.
Unsurprisingly, the final song is “Hurricane”. Plapinger’s voice is getting tired, she’s missing notes, and the focus is waning, but the enthusiasm and energy is infectious. As the curtain is drawn and Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” fills RUST’s speakers, the audience continues to dance. The concert was not flawless, but it was the imperfections that made it great.
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I returned home bruised. Earlier that evening, from outside the venue, I can hear Communions beginning their set. The ground floor of Jazzhouse is all curtains and jazz, smells of citrus and evaporated alcohol. Below, the Copenhagen band is thrashing around a mix of surf-rock riffs and jangle with a hardcore rhythm section. The singer’s voice is already dead, the band have Beach Boys haircuts, it works. The crowd is all there, swaying and nodding. There are still two hours to go before the headline act.
People rush outside at the end of the 45 minute set, spilling onto the street. Two cigarettes later, some trickle back in for Femminielli. Possibly the revelation of the evening, the Montreal one-man band strolls on stage like a latino Zach Galifianakis. Leather jacket, black shirt, sunglasses, massive beard. He thanks us like he’s receiving an Oscar, hits the keyboard and turns into sweaty sex-beast. Drawn out, repetitive beats, slowly evolving, writhe under Spanish-language monologues. I catch something about love and vampires, then he calls us “putos”, but this is a crowd that welcomes that kind of thing. After the second song, someone shouts: “Vamos a la playa!” Femminielli smiles, “you don’t want to be on the same beach as me.”
Another break. Shorter, more impatient. I find a place by the stage, determined to report from the front. I’m a journalist, damn it, I go where the story is! As the rest begin to amass around me, I get stuck next to a Bostonian politics student who tries to convince me there is more to Massachusetts than the Modern Lovers and Mission of Burma. I remain unconvinced. He asks me if people mosh here. I look around the room: pretty hipster girls, guys with cameras, 30-something web designers with close-cropped hair and awful glasses. I tell him it’s unlikely. I am wrong, very wrong.
Let me be clear: if anyone remembers the full Iceage setlist, they were standing in the wrong place. As the band enter the stage, white shirts, black pants, drunken Jehova’s witnesses, the mood tenses. Elias, the singer, looks like Leonardo DiCaprio in The Basketball Diaries. They begin their set with songs from their sophomore album, You’re Nothing. On headphones, the album sounds more fleshed out than their urgent debut, New Brigade. But live, even a slow, thudding song like “Morals” is pushed to its limits, urging the crowd into a slow-motion mosh, incited by a speeded up chorus. The bass pops and chuggs, guitar cranked up to a tinny, black metal screech. Drums roll, elbows fly.
Between songs, I see the Boston kid getting up from the ground. He shows me his bloody hand, happy. During “Coalition”, the album highlight, I find myself elbowing Femminielli out of the way as Elias lunges at people with fist and microphone. He’s screaming: “Excess, excess”. All of a sudden I feel drained. They play “Ecstasy” – fast guitar, weird disco drum beats and Nick Cave-style vocals – , and then disappear. It seems stupid asking for a encore. Looking at the time as I leave the venue, I see that the whole Iceage set lasted less than an hour. Unsurprising, really, given that both their albums combined clock in at half an hour each. It has been both a long and a short evening. Iceage depart victorious, the audience leaves dazed.
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Before the show, the tranquil sound of birds chirping fill the hall while the audience find their seats. This is a seated concert, which makes up for the bad acoustics during The Smashing Pumpkins concert at the same venue last month. Moments before the band enter the stage, Byrne asks us ”not to experience the show with a gadget in front of your face.”
A somewhat didactic attitude, but nevertheless a very refreshing comment towards the iPhone addicts.
The concert opens with ‘Who’ – also the opening track on David Byrne & St. Vincent’s critically acclaimed album ‘Love This Giant’. A beautiful song that not only tell us that the sound tonight is impeccable, but also showcases St. Vincent’s attributes in the duo’s work: her magnificent vocals and distorted guitar. Her tip-toe dancing back and forth on the stage adds to the charm of her appearance. An appearance that fuses perfectly with Byrne’s. He wears a microphone headset, which allows him to move around on stage. And move around he sure does! From metronome-like moving back-and-forth with his upper body to physical antics, reminiscent of a mime artist. It’s equally comical and elegantly, and a fun thing to behold.
As showcased on the album, the band consists of many brass players and they do an excellent job in highlighting the concert’s masterful showmanship. The musicians twist around in choreographic movements in symbiosis with Byrne and St. Vincent. And it only makes the atmosphere more vibrant and the audience love it. People loudly show their appreciation and some can’t constrain themselves and start a little dance gathering to the left of the stage.
The interaction between David Byrne and St. Vincent is mesmerizing; their voices blend into one cohesive force on ‘Like Humans Do’ and their moves reach another high when they start attacking a theremin during ‘Northern Lights’ and sending the instrument’s extra-terrestrial sounds into the ecstastic crowd, During their solo material the two protagonists show their relevance on today’s artrock scene. On ‘Strange Overtones’ Byrne plays a rhythm guitar so funky it would make Nile Rodgers envious and St. Vincent’s ‘Marrow’ directs all attention towards her intense presence and performance.
Tellingly one of the final songs is the Talking Heads classic ‘Burning Down the House’ which is exactly what happens. This is the moment where the entire hall erupts in standing ovation and everybody’s on their feet cheering. A great finale on this Thursday evening where David Byrne & St. Vincent conquered Copenhagen with a fantastic show, on the top of their form and musically superior!
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Wasn’t Born to Follow saw Pumpehuset open it’s doors to independent and underground artists from Denmark and North America. Music fans enjoyed outdoor concerts all afternoon in the venue’s ‘byhave’, before moving indoors for a post-punk tinted evening of more traditional shows.
Danish band Nobody started the festivities, with a snazzy synth fest in the garden. Built around three keyboards and a soundboard, Nobody proceeded to experiment with the electronic sounds, and showed flashes of brilliant mixing from behind the sound desks. However, the band, which consists of different musicians from various Danish indie projects, and is led by popular Danish DJ Kim Las, appeared unprepared and unrehearsed, and it quickly seemed as though the group were just having fun messing about on the keyboards. That’s not so fun for the audience. [1/5]
EMMA ACS (DK)
The day started to look up when Danish red head Emma Acs, and her band, The Inbred Family, played their set. This was Acs’ first full concert in a while, and the singer was at moments hesitant. Nevertheless, Acs’ delivered her signature twee vocals with style and competency, and lived up to her reputation as a big Danish talent. Helping the artist to achieve her rich signature pop sound was the sitar player Atusa Zamani, who played the jangly riffs of “Green Stars and an Orange Sun” and “Fever” from 2011’s Champagne with artistry and confidence. Acs also debuted some new material from her second record, which she’s currently working on. [3/5]
“Hello Copenhagen, it’s really nice to see you all. It’s a beautiful day,” chimes a smiley Matt Monandile from the log cabin stage. Ducktails, playing the final outdoor show, banished the cold wind of Copenhagen with a warm, sympathetic and summery show. Popular chilled out tracks like “Killin’ the Vibe” matched the laid back atmosphere of Pumpehuset’s byhave perfectly, and towards the end of the show, the band played all new tracks. Ducktails proved that whatever the weather, if you’ve got a good vibe, you can generate a cosy atmosphere. Mind you, despite frontman Matt Monandile’s obvious eagerness and focus, I couldn’t help feeling that guitarist Alex Craig’s enthusiasm was really lacking, which distracted from the music, and, in a small way, broke the hypnotic effect this lo-fi group have on record. [4/5]
Some people have a problem with Merchandise. An indie pop group posing as a post-punk band, some feel. Maybe this is because charismatic frontman Carson Cox writes interesting yet attainable melodies, accompanied by beautiful, tortured, killer vocals; to some, a punk faux pas. Personally, I think the genre ambiguity is a plus.
If, however, punk is about energy, sweat, jumping offstage to collide with audience members and collecting a group of dedicated pogoing Danes at the front of your audience, rather than just being different for the sake of it, then Merchandise may as well have mohawks. After a lively rendition of “Anxiety’s Door” from 2013′s five track release Totale Night, Cox addressed the token couple of freestyling fans at the front: “Oh! We’ve got a couple of dancers now. Before I was worried you weren’t gonna dance.” “Become What You Are” closed the show, guided through by distortion and “1,2”s hummed into the microphone. Both Cox and guitarist David Vassalotti dropped to the floor to shred, for exactly the right length of time before it would have become annoying. He wrapped things up with a few push and shoves into some audience members, delivered in a quasi-affectionate manner, of course. “And that’s it!” he said, before shuffling offstage.
With a capitalist name like Merchandise for a post-punk band, there’s got to be some irony at work. [4/5]
DIRTY BEACHES (CAN)
The Dirty Beaches live show is a physical as well as musical workout. Whilst some artists may dabble with dancing onstage, Alex Zhang Hungtai, the mastermind behind Dirty Beaches, performs a full physical workout during his set. The show started by watching the warm up; Hungtai punching the air to feel the beat of the hazy synth laden soundscape created by his bandmates, starting small, and then with increased power. And so, he gets in the zone. Then we come to training. We hear a mixture of crooning and shouting through the effected microphone, pulling fists in, as well as pushing them out. He’s building the energy. And then suddenly, we’re at a boxing match, as Alex pulls out a mass of passion, strength and spirit for “I Dream in Neon” and “Casino Lisboa”, accompanied by a pair of big, black, austere leather gloves, and blue and red boxing lights. Hungtai’s not distracted by audience interaction, or cables, or prettiness, when he’s feeling his music. All together, a pretty amazing spectacle.
But one small nag. “Why is no one dancing? This place should be like a rave! He looks like he’s having fun, why is no one moving?” was my internal reaction. It’s strange watching someone exert themselves and pour so much energy into a live show of what was in many ways, dance music, and not dance yourself. I feel like Hungtai might have been cheated out of audience participation because it was a Sunday night. Or maybe the spectacle was just too hypnotic? One thing is for certain. On stage, Hungtai is an intense guy. [4/5]
It’s pretty clear from Lower’s gig, that the assumption that Copenhagen is the new home of punk music, is right. This proper, hardcore, rough and tough punk music is making the crowd proud to be Danish, and those who aren’t, like me, a bit jealous. The band are playing tracks from their Walk on Heads EP, full of crashing and painful sounds. On the back of Iceage’s success, Danish band Lower have made a name for themselves in Copenhagen’s community of post-punk fans. Surrounded by bowl haircuts, upturned drainpipe jeans, Joy Division t-shirts and Doc Martens in the crowd, I find the “just stepped out of the pub” look of Lower remarkably refreshing. They’re in running shoes, Jeremy Clarkson jeans and fleeces. The bassist even has a Newcastle scarf.
Pretty predictable, but seriously enjoyable gig; lively, lots of people throwing themselves about, purposefully rugged vocals, oh and a shout-out to Merchandise: “This next one’s for Merchandise.” Merchandise had declared “This next one’s for Lower”, during their set. Carson Cox was right at the front to join in the group of pogoers. [3/5]
MIKAL CRONIN (US)
Mikal Cronin ended the mini festival with his hard rock tinted pop music. It was a merry ending to the day, and the gig appeared especially popular with the younger audience members. From Cronin’s 2013 sophomore album MCII, he played the upbeat likes of “Shout it Out”, and “Situation” and “Apathy” from the self titled debut of 2011.
Wasn’t Born To Follow finally came to an end as Cronin delivered an encore performance of Wreckless Eric’s “Whole Wide World” to the Danish fans. With a good stage presence and audience rapport, the singer songwriter finished the day off with a head bang, and brought a positive vibe to the dark venue and end to a brilliant, diverse day of live music. [3/5]