Weird Canadians rule the indie clubs and nervy Brooklyn David Byrneophiles are keeping t-shirts stripy and hair boot-polish black, and meanwhile here reappears a band with a Stones fetish and a predisposition to grindy, sawdust-floored, sub-Dirtbombs bar-fight blues.
While women are still far from achieving equality of opportunity in music, the last thing women artists want – or need – is to be ghettoised, writes musician and journalist Kim V Porcelli. The point about the women who are at rock’s cutting edge – from Sinéad O’Connor through PJ Harvey to Peaches – is that they defer to no one in their pursuit of greatness.
Just as when a supertrendy handbag or iconic pair of sunglasses comes into fashion and the streets the world over are flooded with cheap knockoffs, the planet-hugging success of a certain dark-hued New York foursome has, unfortunately, inspired a number of bands who may as well be called Interpull, Hinter Pole, Enter Pool, or, perhaps, Intir Pól (local variation).
‘Got Perspective?’ enquires an overhead projection, one of dozens of metaphysical koans Mercury Rev will pitch at us tonight, in between flashing fuchsia-and-violet images of, er, double-helixes and em, animals flying through abstract space and stuff. Yes, we do have perspective: for a start, if these screen-saver squiggles and Be Your Own Life Coach mantras are meant to inspire feelings of blissed-out philosophical introspection, the Rev should know that what they’re actually doing is making us think of patchouli-reeking Transit vans with the Egyptian pyramids airbrushed onto the side...
One of the nation’s most acclaimed playwrights, Conor McPherson has examined the Irish condition in forensic detail in plays and films such as The Weir, Port Authority and Saltwater. In his new play Shining City, McPherson uses the disturbed psyches of his lead characters as a means to explore loneliness, isolation, friendship and salvation in the ghostly setting of contemporary Dublin. “The city holds some very dark feelings for me,” he admits to Kim Porcelli.
The best thing here, as with all of her records, is the total lack of sentimentality: the fact that, as girlish and beguiling as her music might be, we’re not in Dawson’s Creek: there’s a steely, fiercely intelligent, absolutely grown-womanish point of view at its centre.
Following the huge commercial success of Set List and ‘Fake’, The Frames look poised to ascend to rock’s premier league with the upcoming worldwide release of the Burn The Maps album. Kim Porcelli joins the band on the day of their triumphant show at Marlay Park to discuss the pros and cons of pop-stardom, the departure of dave odlum, the abiding influence of mic christopher, and the challenge of creating their most eagerly anticipated record yet.
Kim Porcelli investigates Speakers’ Corner, the “forum for public discourse” currently running in Temple Bar each Sunday. The brainchild of Kila’s Rossa O’Snodaigh, the event promises all manner of political and social debate. But are the people of the Republic actually all that bothered? Photography Cathal Dawson
At first, you think they’re merely terrible. Then your man starts singing, and it’s at this point you start examining the record sleeve for evidence that the whole thing’s some kind of a joke.
The Von Bondies were finally vindicated when Jack White pleaded guilty to assaulting their lead singer last month. Oh, and they’ve just released one of the albums of the year.
Sepia-tinted olde-style cover art, hmm. Photos of cactuses and tin-roofed shacks, eek. Band name: The Creekdippers, egad. Any fears one might reasonably have, on encountering this compilation of the ‘Dippers’ three-album career to date, of wonkily played pretendy-drunk alt.country and/or snoozily worthy Grammy-bagging ‘new folk’ are, however, happily misplaced.
Funny how, these days, everything not touched by the hand of Pharrell sounds… well, smaller – but Trak Starz, Jackpot’s producers, are too playful, and unshowy with their skills, to be written off as merely a Dunnes Stores Neptunes.
Like Groucho Marx may or may not have said, timing is (pause) …everything. As such, the two albums that electrified us this year (Interpol’s hugely moving, visceral masterpiece Turn On The Bright Lights; Justin Timberlake’s Neptunes-assisted pop‘n’B triumph Justified) were actually released in ’02.
When she debuted in 2001, the then-20-year-old New Yorker Alicia Keys had a soulfulness well beyond her years, an authoritative piano style that recalled gospel churches in Harlem as much as it did Tchaikovsky and Chopin, an earthy, street-accented, dark-chocolate contralto and an unusually acute emotional understanding of what gave old-school soul records (by Marvin, Stevie and Reverend Al) their magic.
Domino Records – home of Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, Max Tundra, Franz Ferdinand and Four Tet – turns ten. Kim Porcelli talks pop culture with label boss Laurence Bell.
Shot to fame by The White Stripes, the aptly-named Holly Golightly has confirmed her status as the new ace face du jour with a sparkling female take on old male music.
Postcards From Downtown [is] rife with badly used third-hand ideas, depressingly parochial and strung together with dead words still box-fresh from the cliché factory.
For the person in the eye of the storm, massive success can involve a titanic struggle. Especially when, as you’re trying to keep your bearings, ordinary life jumps up to punch you in the teeth. Now, after death, birth, fatigue, grief, joy and the "mindfuck" that is "the tidal wave of success," it is time, says David Gray, to get back to the music. and – whisper it – maybe even have a little holiday.
DIY r’n’b artiste, support act to the new-garage glitterati and unlikely sex-bomb Har Mar gets undressed for success. Superstar skinning up Kim Porcelli
His largely unadorned, drums-bass-and-Casio 1980s-synth’n’b sound was probably unintentional, a product of simply not knowing how to programme much else, but it works.
It ‘s upsetting, however, that the specific track choices here frequently reduce truly great artists with vari-coloured work, and a number of obsessions and preoccupations, to their one track that most addresses what a lecturer at my university used to call The Ongoing Fight.
Kim Porcelli leafs through a new version of the book that kickstarted the sexual revolution, and brought toes into contact with some very strange places
Dance is dead, says Roisin Murphy, but if any act is going to raise it from the grave it’s Moloko, proud authors of the over the top and utterly sincere Statues, an album of tremendous pop songs that recapture the glory of classic disco.
It’s what every remembrance should be: not a reflection on the ache of losing him, but a celebration of our insane good luck at having had him in the first place.
The result is a reflective, elegiac, extremely personal study of love and loss, measuring the yawning absences of bereavement, and testing the fortitude of the relationships which tether us at our most bereft
You can see why she mightn’t have become a name. Her absolute individualism, however fiercely admirable, occasionally manifests as collegiate awkwardness
Pushing 70, at least, perched on a high stool in a baseball hat, cowboy boots and sunglasses, the evening has about it a hint of Vegas dinner-theatre, if an unusually moving one
This year’s genre-redeemers, here to re-prove that words are for losers who can't say it with music, are the pathos-laden, relentless, positively monumental The Uptown Racquet Club
A thrilling collision in the Guinness Storehouse between the aural and visual worlds, Wonky2 - brainchild of Leagues O'Toole - proved that at some parties, you don't have to check your mind in at the door
The Flaming Lips, whose new record is a 'concept album about death' are possibly the most life-affirming band you’ll hear this year. Frontman Wayne Coyne explains why
Jack wailing like a preacher, each phrase getting its own gasp of breath, Meg's familiar pound-and-smash speeding and slowing as his fervent blues-gospel erupts and subsides
Meet Rodrigo Y Gabriela, Mexican guitar virtuosos and planet-hopping adventure-seekers who, as Kim Porcelli discovers, are partners in more ways than one
As with cathedrals, the tremendous emptinesses in this music is what matters: the infinities of space are what make us stop and look, and become still and listen
Gough’s score for the film adaptation of Nick Hornby’s boy-meets-dad novel, wholly charming as it is, is not quite of the calibre of his staggering debut
Violent, jizzed up, livid, political, tender, unflinching, occasionally hilarious and above all more spikily tuneful than he's been in years if not ever
As wholly charming as it is, it's not quite of the calibre of Gough's staggering debut, and we quite miss the lowing cellos and doleful Northern brass of ex-backing band Alfie
As skyscrapers, lightning storms, and oceans blaze above them in lieu of further communiques, it becomes clear that this wordless, relentless music is in desperate love/hate with planet earth, testing the boundaries of its ugliness and majesty
That kittenish sass that works so well on record - beating the boys at their own game, girly but authoritative, laughing and intelligent as jailbait - simply doesn’t carry live: it's too baby-powder-soft, has no sharp edges, nothing to punctuate the music
Does electronica ever go beyond great feats of sonic cleverness - and, occasionally, great beauty - to also possess a warm human heart? In 2002, the year after the beat-boxed dose of palpable humanity that wasThe Big Romance, we know that it does
Depending on your point of view, this frustrating album is either an amusingly disjointed flying-visit traipse through the usual bustling, omni-cultural Cornershop tour of central London and points east, or a disappointing collection of great ideas brought about seventy percent of the way to satisfying fruition and then, perversely, left there
He's shot U2 and Madonna and numerous nudes, formulated an "aesthetic of the dick", published the perfect magazine and, most recently, hit the headlines for endeavouring to make the Queen of England look "really fresh". He's Rankin Waddell, co-founder of Dazed And Confused and probably the most renowned fashion, music and pop culture snapper on the planet
The tragic death of Mic Christopher before Christmas came as a terrible blow to his many friends and fans (see letters page). Here our own Kim Porcelli recalls her memorable encounters with "an exceedingly generous soul".
Anti-capitalism, political fundamentalism, life after September 11 and what to tell the kid who has only two stripes on his tracksuit - the celebrated no logo author tells Hotpress about how best to beat the brand.
“Don’t give in, 2000 man,” sighs Jason Lytle through the nine-minute prog-epic heartbreaker that is ‘He’s Simple, He’s Dumb, He’s The Pilot,’ and a theatre-ful of enthusiastic Lytle-people are delighted to have him looking out for us.
Adrian Thaws revolutionised music nearly a decade ago as the darkest and most fascinating architect of trip-hop, seamlessly fusing claustrophobic urban isolation-scapes with sheet-metal guitars and jagged hip-hop arrhythmia, resulting in a kind of fractured, unbearably bleak yet transcendental ghetto poetry.
KIM PORCELLI sees DAVID KITT in Brussels on the eve of the release of his new album The Big Romance. Back in Dublin, the pair settle in at the Long Hall for the long haul…
Photography: MYLES CLAFFEY
Falling snow, falling bodies and equipment, and music to fall in love with: it’s Australian mod-disco anarcho-samplers THE AVALANCHES. Text: KIM PORCELLI
With the release of their fourth and finest album "For The Birds", THE FRAMES have zoomed straight into the Irish top ten for the first time. Now, with critical acclaim ringing in their ears, and their glowing fanbase sensing that something special may be about to take place, they prepare to take the Green Energy Weekend by storm. could it be their time has finally come? Interview: KIM PORCELLI. plus mainman GLEN HANSARD gives us a glimpse inside his private diary. out of frame: MICK QUINN
The Frames
Hotel Curracloe, Wexford
Preaching to the choir is for the godless. The Frames, possessors of possibly the largest ‘choir’ in Ireland in the form of a fanbase more devout than most religions, have nevertheless always seemed to prefer to shun the easy option.
Artist Michael Landy - this year's favourite for the Turner Prize - tells Kim Porcelli about the two-week process of destroying all that you can leave behind
Alfie were, for a long while, Badly Drawn Boy's backing band - and you'll certainly recognise that plangent guitar sound, that moony-eyed cello and those sombre Northern horns, not to mention an innocence, a lightness of touch, an absolute lack of guile mucking up the melancholy which they share with their famous ex-collaborator.
Already cult favourites in France and Spain, with their gorgeous second album Garden Tiger Moth leaving international reviewers smitten, dark-horse Galwegians CANE 141 are increasingly looking like the best-kept secret in Irish music. KIM PORCELLI coaxes the cat out of the bag
The Jimmy Cake – a seated, smiling cacophony of trumpet, saxophone, squeezebox, and endless random percussion (think: attic, toy store, bike shed, rubbish tip) - are here to clarify that, in fact, fucking LOUD is the new loud
If not quite a Valentine's night massacre, the recent Dublin appearance of GOLDFRAPP should certainly have shaken the city's more innocent lovebirds. But as KIM PORCELLI discovered when she met ALISON GOLDFRAPP and WILL GREGORY, just because the music is serious, that doesn't mean everything else is.
Post-Throwing Muses, post-grunge, post-Britpop, post Tori and Alanis, post girl power, post-Corrs, the charts flooded with shiny moulded-plastic pop bands for so long we don't even notice their rubbery stench anymore - what could 2001 possibly have to offer the almost-gone and nearly-forgotten godmother of American college-rock?
The Last Post, Dublin's newest deputies of the alt-country township, have a strange and beguiling way of making an entire song sound like a chorus: rich, almost unbearably poignant and utterly relentless, and full to capacity with high emotion from the very first bar.
The ultimate heist movie, The Italian Job was everything the British wanted to be in the late sixties: full of street-savvy wit and push-your-luck cheek; astoundingly sharp-dressed in an era of longhaired hippie unwashedness; nation-conqueringly sexy; composed and smirking with hubris in the face of sure disaster.
After stepping down from her position as Director of the DUBLIN RAPE CRISIS CENTRE, OLIVE BRAIDEN tells KIM PORCELLI how far things have come, and how great a distance is still to be travelled to get justice for victims
P.J. HARVEY's latest album, Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea will surprise listeners with its positive spirit and sheer lust for life. Hell, she even manages to get Thom Yorke to sound like Tom Jones! KIM PORCELLI meets an artist who has come in from the cold
Even if Candy Falls Here were a better record than it is, it can never be ‘essential listening’ – that ship has sailed early last decade. But these submerged vocals, these rough-yet-sweet sugar-high rifforamas and this lo-fi Sensitive Bloke moping could unmistakably be from no other lank-haired era.
Even if Candy Falls Here were a better record than it is, it can never be ‘essential listening’ – that ship has sailed early last decade. But these submerged vocals, these rough-yet-sweet sugar-high rifforamas and this lo-fi Sensitive Bloke moping could unmistakably be from no other lank-haired, flannel-clad era.
Thundering out of El Paso, Texas with the ferocity of a guerrilla firebomb come At The Drive In, touted internationally, somewhat hysterically if the press cuttings are anything to go by, as this year’s saviours of the US punk underground.
With her delightfully husky, conspiratorial growl – dripping with mischief, sassy Northern soul and a believeable, unforced warmth – and her loose’n’lanky Amazonian presence, Melanie B was always the Girl most likely to remain interesting when outside the glow and girl-power-in-numbers of the Spice unit.
Never trust anyone who tells you they're honest‚ as la mère Porcelli used to say. Advice like that might give one pause when listening to Black Eyed Peas' sophomore foray into Keeping Hip-Hop Real For The Masses.
Pop, is it? We’ll give you some pop... on this deliriously good mini-album of theme tunes for the better class of romantic adventurer. Pop hooks you could hang a summer wardrobe on? Check. Intelligence? Check. Best pop vocalist in the country? Check.
“Rap is something you do, hip-hop is something you live”. So say the liner notes to this essential best-of compilation from KRS-One and longtime collaborators
Boogie Down Productions. Anti-violence, anti-guns and anti-materialist, they spread their hip-hop philosophies – “strategies toward enhanced health, love, awareness
and wealth‚” in the late 80s/early 90s via astute and highly socially-conscious raps they termed “edutainment”.
Pop fans d’un certain age will remember the jolt: the electrifying shock of the new, followed by the realisation that nothing will ever be the same again.
In a year where Miss Selfridge is flogging Motorhead t-shirts and heavy rock's most talked-about proponents are sportzmetallers with masks and vomiting fetishes, where to next? is an increasingly valid question. Tuneful, opiated and complex, Queens Of The Stone Age are looking increasingly like the answer.
Ambient but not a dance album, modern-classical without any of the academic seriousness or rigidity that connotes, and finally a world-beating, thoroughly modern pop record, this marvellous debut from Dubliner Daniel Figgis is an impressionistic gem.
Following on from Volume 1, released earlier this year, this third album from Echoboy’s Richard Warren is a moody, buzzy amalgam of the pounding guitar-drone Death in Vegas have patented, the brave-new-worldisms of Primal Scream’s Xxtrmntr and the slightly nerdy keyboard manifestos of the retro-80s/Krautrock set. It’s as noisy, mock-threatening and fun – and, occasionally, as disposable – as a high-tech, batteries-not-included toy lasergun.
30,000 people, loads of A-list stars, four stages on Fairyhouse Racecourse. Yes, we're talking about WITNNESS. KIM PORCELLI reviews the biggest festival of the summer.
Here we have a good-but-not-great anthology of lost songs and remixes from City Slang - home over the years to alt-faves as diverse as Gallon Drunk, Hole and Sebadoh, and more recently Calexico, Yo La Tengo and Lambchop - who are celebrating ten years in 2000.
Yes, hello. We'll have a number two single to start, and then a follow-up that drops bang into number one, please, thank you. Nothing to drink for me, thanks.
If the proposed SPENCER DOCK development gets the go-ahead will it bring Dublin's architecture into the 21st century? Or will it be a blot on the landscape? By KIM PORCELLI.
In a world infatuated by the loud, the obvious and the immediate, it would have been easy for this tender collection - intimate, lo-fi and humble as it is - to have been lost in the ether of the too-ethereal. But then, seminal London Irish independent Setanta have a long and distinguished history of listening closely.
