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Carina Round could be another one of those
unsung singer/songwriters who fall into the 'unknown'
or 'not bad, fancy a pint?' category. After various
support slots with high profile bands such as Coldplay,
Elbow and Turin Brakes, perhaps this is her year. Tonight
she is in the spotlight, a writhing demon in red, doing
her damnedest to control her guitar. Any idea of her
being your average songwriter are demolished in a performance
of strong, dynamic, soul addled numbers that dispel
the impression she is just that, a singer/songwriter.
Flanked by a skeletal guitarist, and a cello wielding
bass player, the red number she wears leave all eyes
on her while her voice screams 'this is a one woman
show'. She could be the missing link in a Chipmunk-esque
blues trio along with the Kills, but that’s one for
the tabloids. In such an 'intimate' venue as the ICA,
her vocal talent is unfortunately wasted. Her ability
in ranging from the subtle to the soulful, the dynamic
to the dark is the essence of a her rough, raw but spectacular
sound. Strange that, singer/songwriters and needing
bigger venues? Something's amiss. If you're looking
for something more fulfilling in a singer/songwriter,
look no further. Still the same personal interpretations,
and the same reflection of thought, but delivered with
a force. Powerful AND poetic.
 Fresh
from his modelling in Switzerland, Patrick Wolf gives
the average singer/songwriter label a kick in the teeth,
before drawing intricate patterns on each one and wrapping
it up nicely to give back. The boy is a musical chameleon.
His eclectic fusion of drum n bass, electronica, synth,
folk (and just about every other genre under the sun)
gives every song a refreshingly, unique texture. Nevermind
the fact he breaks the 'me and my guitar' convention,
hell he doesn’t even play one tonight. A guitar, a violin,
a keyboard and electronics push the boundaries, as do
the end results. 'Wolf song' is on the surface a childhood
ballad, but beneath its innocent exterior lies a darkness
to his writings 'come and eat the ones, we know who
taste the best'. 'To the lighthouse' is an odd combination
of electronica and violin, which is surprisingly successful.
'You can't say no' could be Johnny Cash but the stand
out track is, 'Demolition' with a chilling keyboard
loop, its atmospheric edge drags the hairs on the back
of your neck to attention. Songs like 'Bestiality' screams
coffee house poetry, whereas 'Bloodbeat' lurches into
80’s tedium. His ability to encompass a variety of sound,
that's mostly successful, is a result of the art and
experimentation that Wolf toys with. Singer/songwriters
will never be the same again. Laptops, violins and modeling
are the way forward.
The Futureheads provide not just a punk shock
to the cultured, contemporary art folk who dwell here,
its Geordie punk shock. Entrance number 'Robot', clears
the sinuses, awakens the senses, and probably wakes
the dead. The next hour doesn’t so much as blaze by,
it burns. The Futureheads are the anecdote to the punk-pop
virus that has infected the very core of punk. In a
lethal dose, and in a true punk ethos, they are also
the poison injected into the corporate vein that is
the music industry. They are so punk that after second
song 'Try not to think about time', the snare drum is
fucked. To look at them, they ooze anti-nothingness,
its only until The Futureheads a.k.a Barry Hyde (Guitars,
Vocals), David Craig (Bass, Vocals), Ross Millard (Guitars,
Vocals), David Hyde (Drums, Vocals), take stage, play
fast and don’t stop. With no breaks, the set is only
punctuated by the 2 and 3 minute throbs and bursts of
guitar, laced with subtle Ska. The more accessible songs
like 'De, De ,De' , breakthrough song 'First day' and
standout track 'Alms', all have that radio friendly
capability and that 'ooooh,ooooh' chorus that wont go
away. They could be a minor saving grace for British
punk, but as long as there's still some righteous political
outrage, Joe and Sid can rest in peace.
Relevant sites:
www.thefutureheads.com
www.carinaround.co.uk
www.patrickwolf.com
Sherief Younis for Crud Magazine 2003©
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