Friday, 21 November 2008

Ladytron live review, 19/11/08.

“You don’t really go for blondes, do you?” my sister accurately observed on her recent visit. With that in mind, I knew that going to see Ladytron play in Bristol wasn’t going to be a bad idea, any way you cut it. Plus, it’d been a few months since my last gig and I was ready to be icily electropopped so the idea of getting my arm-folded head-nod on was very appealing. Also, you know, I like the band. So I hopped in the almost van with Wood and Martin and we were off. Just like that. Like Magic. Light and Magic.

Gig was at the Carling Academy; venues built specifically with the idea that no matter what sort of music is being performed, it will all feel equally out of place. A look at upcoming shows confirms this; Opeth, Alkaline Trio, The Roots. . . ah well. Better than Sin City, at any rate, albeit with worse beer. Seriously, Carling?

The support act, Asobi Sesku was solid; very loud, very pretty, tight and propulsive. None of this quite won Martin over, whose look of “this is thoroughly unimpressive in every right” was evident even dimly lit and in profile view. Wood and I quite dug on them, though; the songs were all indebted to shoegaze, but were varied enough one has their options as to what-sort-of-mix-cd they’d go on. But doubtlessly a good band to scam on girls with cute haircuts with, or perhaps impress a friend with. Fact that she sings in Japanese is cred points plus plus, but unless you’re Swervedriver or Catherine Wheel (Shoegrunge!) no one pays much attention to the words; its all about the voice-as-instrument. Which, incidentally, is one of the few aesthetics shared by a whole generation of mopey brits and the guy from Pig Destroyer.

Ladytron took the stage with Helen Marnie and Mira Aroyo right up front and the guys with questionable facial hair in the back. This is as it should be. You don’t play rhythm guitar for a band called “Ladytron” and expect an interview in Guitar Player Magazine; these guys know what side their bread is buttered on. The women of Ladytron maintained a cool reserve for most of the show as they rocketed through selections from their most recent album. It was all well and fine since that's the one I've got. A bit of a quibble as single “Ghost” felt slowed about a half-step, but “Deep Blue,” “Kletva” and “Forget the Day” were all aces.

The best moment of the show, undoubtedly, was “Seventeen,” when Marnie actually came alive and punched the air like she was at a socialist rally. Starting a revolution. Of angry 21 year olds and the men who empathise. Or something. There are many theories as to why this old, old song (for them) was the highlight of the night—possibly most credible being crowd reaction—but I’d theorise it’s easier to rock out a tune with fewer words. Plus if you fuck up the lyrics you just have to wait a few measures and you can throw down again; yeah!

The encore was a few more new ones and, of course, “Destroy Everything You Touch,” which has been stuck in my head the last couple of days. The show could have been a bit more switched-on energy wise (as demonstrated by a handful of the cuts that were) but all in all I left satisfied. After all, I was going to see a band called Ladytron.

Saturday, 15 November 2008

Everyone Has Something

There’s a pterodactyl outside your bedroom window
claws like diamond cutters, eyes red slits.

You outran the sabertooth, left the tyrannosaurus in the
tarpit with a quick dash-and-roll, killed the raptor with your
bare hands but you haven’t been able to shake this one and
now it watches you sleep, head ducked between leather wings.

Close the curtains and hear it breathing, waiting.
The pizza places stopped delivering,
the neighbourhood pets have all disappeared.
Sometimes it leaves the heads of cats on
your doorstep, reminders that someday, it’ll be you.

For now, you bury your face.

In South Dakota a man carries bundles of firewood
through the snow, he’s got holes in his boots and his
wife no longer loves him. She stays because he’s the
only thing between her and the wolverine on the roof.

He’s not afraid of wolverines; he’s got an axe for that,
but he never leaves his bed ‘til sunrise; otherwise the wood
will splinter away, leave him pitching through an
endless stretch of dark.

You are certain of your floors and ceilings,
none of your doorknobs have ever come off in your hand.
You know you’re safe in alleys, don’t
worry about taxes, trolls or terrorists.

But the fear always hits you in the
back of the knees when you get home and
that’s how you know you’re home.
Because It’s out there,
raising black wings, eyes of red,


this is an old one I found when I was ruffling through my papers. Jake might remember it but I only read it once anyway. Gave it a few edits. I like when I write this sort of thing and it feels like it actually is something. Probably bring it out at a couple of upcoming features. May consider it for the chapbook submission.