It’s been a very long time since we had a gig in the Liverpool Academy 2 and thus take as much time organising our entrance as we would for a gig in Manchester. It’s this size of gig that is particularly fascinating. Smaller more visceral bands with a more engaged audience are a ROCKFLESH favourite, although the room to photograph get increasingly silly as the room decreases. I’m now onto sickness number three for the month and starting to feel quite Dickensian.
Read More
It’s as regular a night in Manchester as you are likely to find. There is evidence of rain and daytime activities have transitioned into minor night time reveries. The crimson death wagon has sped into Manchester with the grace of a drunk at an open bar. We arrive late, H.E.A.T are just about to go on stage. Johann makes the scramble to the pit, leaving me at the bar. Apologies to Vega, domestic shenanigans and Manchester never ending roadworks hold us up.
Read More
It’s that time of year were the family tries to kill off the weakest member by incubating the most virulent strain of cold, flu or chest infection possible and infecting a member at the most inconvenient possible time. All attempts to resist are futile, alcohol gel, tissues, exercise and pre-firing (See Call of Duty) day and night nurse are not barrier enough and my wife manages at the very end of her own ordeal to pass the lurgy onto me. Both myself and Johann’s crimson death wagon cough and splutter into Manchester for a mid-afternoon chat with Johannes (Hannes) Braun, vocal songsmith for Kissin’ Dynamite, more to follow as a separate piece on rockflesh.com.
Read More
Our life, like the universe, is largely made up of dark matter punctuated by the occasional bright spot. As we stare into the unnatural canvas of brake lights and computer screens, sat in our prescribed clothing trying to remain within prescribed behaviours, is it any wonder how close our demons lurk beneath this veneer? Something as simple as the organised vibration of air particles is enough to lure the beasts from all of us, unleashed and unburdened, a second state of you, fist in the air. Screaming “It has to start somewhere It has to start sometime, what better place than here, what better time than now? All hell can't stop us now”.
Read More
Before I was able to rationale an argument against religion I often found myself as a child, stood behind a lectern reciting a letter from the Corinthians or some such babble to the elderly parishioners of Kirkby. Now as a young boy I didn’t know much about a rabbits dick, but I’m fairly certain not one person mentioned within the New Testament called Jesus “a shit stained cunt”. Alas the sheer misery of negotiating Manchester’s gridlocked streets took its toll on Johann. That was just the start.
Read More
Johann rocks up to the house, sends me a text “Thanks, Love!”. It’s sweet but I think the sentiment is misguided, I’ll take it though, it’s a harsh world and the cold is eating through my chequered shirt. If K is reading this, I think it was meant for you! We are on the road early; New Years resolutions are being activated early. It’s the new way, Johann assures me. So of course we get to the gig with ten minutes to spare. “Should I move to Manchester?” He jokes, “Manchester people are so much friendlier!” just as he is cut up by an errant Mancunian in a silver Volvo.
Read More
The most satisfying success comes when you push and push and something happens beyond the prescribed boundaries. Often it is where you can see opportunity that others can’t. So it was, that in the sixth minute of four minutes injury time, Divock Origi saw what no one else did and caused much celebration for one middle aged Frenchman, who now sits beside me, bottle of water to hand and the effects of a 96th minute derby winner steering him nauseously to Manchester in the red, bullet wagon of death. “I don’t skimp on brakes and tyres” he assures me, testing his unnerving creed to the limit, but thankfully not past it.
Read More
It’s getting to the busy time of year for gigs, Johann is out most nights. We agree 2018 is a year we could both forget. March onwards, 2019 beckons and omens are looking good. Transition is in the air. The countdown, the car & the traffic jams are all there. The European driving style is better suited to the city streets and tonight gets to the gig for the opening act. It’s dark all the time now, I see in perpetual orange and rain magnifies the colours in the windscreen. I’m a shit passenger, hanging on to the handrail on the passenger side for dear life.
Read More
It’s been that long since I jumped in the Johann’s Crimson, German death wagon that I have changed career paths, got past a serious medical scare (not mine) and watched Johann jet-set about Europe. Going to a unvisited venue is always exciting. Aside form the new things too write about each venue has its own character. Satan’s Hollow is off the beaten track a little, situated in the back roads between Oxford road and Piccadilly it sits askew to its corporate surroundings. A large, dark, heavy gate greets the visitor, a portent of things inside? We traverse the usual entry problems, god help us if Johann forgets his phone. Once inside we can see an unusual layout. It’s a small venue, 500 people would see this uncomfortable. The stage is a small penned garden of metal right in the centre of the oddly shaped room. Shining have wrapped a large banner around one side of the pen creating a temporary backdrop to the normally circular stage. The room is intimate but has space for two separate bars.
Read More
I’d literally just clicked send on the Just Eat order, the anticipation of a large chicken kebab swirling around the axions and synapses. Was I droolin? Then that little ping and a blue message “I’m on my way”. What? Why are you on your way? What purpose? I check the ROCKFLESH calendar, clear as a bell, Oct 1st - Sons of Apollo. I quickly throw a t-shirt and hoodie on and dive out. Johann’s late for a gig I thought was tomorrow. He roars down the street, I’m already missing the kebab. The rain has turned the roads black, slick and shiny. Distorted brake lights multiplied in the windscreen. After a few death defying, maybe law breaking manoeuvres, we are at the familiar side street in Manchester city centre. The Academy 2 is the epitome of a box auditorium. It looks like a glorified Punch and Judy stand.
Read More
The red Audi screeches to a stop outside my door. I jump in, Johann is drumming the steering wheel. He is super excited and roars up the road. Manchester can’t come soon enough. I’d already been warned that Europe are a first love. Still integrity and all that. No one is fast enough and Manchester’s myriad of perma-road works aren’t helping. Doors open at 7:00pm so a 7:30 kick off isn’t unlikely and there is the usual gauntlet of getting in to run. The Academy has a large pool of staff so we don’t get recognised as press quite so quickly. There is also the matter of the little jaunt between parking and entry. All aforementioned problems evaporate, a smooth entry and we are at the bar. King King are due to start at 8:00pm. This is the start of Europe’s European tour.
Read More
We’re in Wales, well Buckley, on a wet Saturday night on what feels like the start of winter. The accents in the queue are thick with wool. Why the queue? Technical difficulties are holding back the doors. I always wonder why they don’t just let us in, they’re not keeping a secret from us. We know how bands sound check. The bar is still working.
Johann is nervous, I missed the deadline for last review, by some way, a gig I requested. There is talk of interlopers, a support slot for the headlining act. I don’t blame him, I’m a naturally lazy fucker and he’s not. I must be a pain in the arse to know.
So with jaunty anticipation, I bounded into Johann’s car knowing only one thing, tonight’s gig is in The ‘Pool'. Normally we find ourselves hurtling against time to get to Manchester, not tonight. A quick stroll of the Audi’s ever aging frame and we are in the city. Heebie Jeebies has seen a few radical transformations. The early nineties saw it as a Jazz bar, replete with stoned philosophy students and blues clarinet players. As the city’s nightlife boomed into the early 2000’s it became another student gaff with no discernible musical direction. So it is with tremendous relief that we come to see EBGBs has transformed into a rock and metal bar. The upper, main bar is decorated sparcely in the saloon style. While beneath the street lurks a brick bare cavern. It’s a fantastic venue for live music that could easily measure up to Rebellion given time. The show started at 7:30.
Read More
It’s starting to become de rigueur, to shoot for a racing jaunt into Manchester. Manchester's live scene is so far ahead of my own city’s it is depressing. The Frenchman is in good spirits with a bit of long overdue good news in a what has been a fairly awful year for both of us. The car seems in good shape despite a quick check under the hood. Neither of us have been to the Albert Hall before and as ever, we are absurdly early. It sits in a row of upmarket bars on the north side of Deansgate. They have completely overlooked the plus one request and just confirmed the photographer. After some negotiation I get in on a press pass. The venue is upstairs. The Hall lies somewhere between a hollowed out church and a unused court. It has high sided balconies and is all dark wood. Bars line either side of the theatre and are slightly overpriced even in the live music realm.
Read More
The groove has gone. It’s been a month, a long time in rock and roll. Friends have fell out, families argued, jobs have changed and life has stamped it’s leaden boot over everyone. The countdown begins, a tradition that might cut short this escape one day. Johann is agitated, tense probably hungry. There’s a rasp in my voice, I’m lethargic from doing fuck all, all day, every day. I can feel Hyde’s shadow creeping through the axons. I want the bands to be terrible, I want the pressure in my head to burst out of my hands and evaporate the keyboard. It’s at this point Johann points out we have fifty miles in the tank and the coolant is leaking out, but he has a 16 seater death wagon somewhere, lurking in our near future.
Read More
An admission, nothing too shameful, I can’t drive. The thought like an itch scratches the inside of my skull, we are powering along the M62 towards rebellion. Johann is nursing a can of lemonade. Rehydration, he looks fucked, it was a long night. “Fuck it”, he shrugs, accent thick with nonchalance. I’m inclined to agree. Friday was a good gig, I have high hopes for tonight. I grew-up fast, on 70’s swagger, eighties excess, my first night out was my mates thirteenth Birthday, it was a different time then. I had a denim jacket, arms cut off, patches everywhere, like a less ginger mate of John Connor minus the mullet and PTSD.
We knew for certain we where going to see Bonafide, Swedish, denim, sports shoes and more than a seasoning of high energy, short fuse rock and roll. What we didn’t know then, there would be three other bands of equally high energy and full of punk, blues and rock so prevalent in the 70’s and 80’s.
Read More
In a complete Juxtaposition to the previous evenings night of mellow blues, Rebellion in Manchester was serving metal on an industrial scale. The tight, noisy little venue is situated on a corner in the upmarket area that is Deansgate. Nestled among trendy restaurants and wine bars, this is wonderfully grungy bar. I like to think it reminds the normal that we are still here, angry, disturbed and wild. So it was great disappointment that the event kicked off behind schedule meaning we had to queue, outside, in the rain. Thankfully before the rust set in on the less than industrious queue we where ushered inside. A small dimly lit venue, I was immediately home. I don’t like seated venues for music. It steals the vigour and energy from a crowd. Makes meek the heckler. So tonight, was after two or three seated affairs, refreshing. We were not entirely sure if 3Teeth had organised support, they had, a London Duo called Creepiing who have an incredibly low online presence.
Read More
Late, early, on time! Not usually an issue for press given that access is given by the bands/promoter. Not so tonight though. We were told 19:30 doors, support starts at 20:00. Steve Hill was well under way when we arrived at 19:45. The Epstein Theatre is a weird and magical auditorium, a venue designed for dance, plays and Vaudeville. The stage is deep and wide, it lends itself to that very specific kind of stage ownership you don’t see often enough.
Read More
I tend towards social media sound bites when compiling a review at the actual venue. I email myself two and three-word descriptions unless my thought process absolutely warrants more. So it was with some amusement on Saturday morning when I read the opening gambit from last nights flurry of emails.
Old school sweeps. Esoteric winged horse imagery.
Read More
It’s Wednesday and hopefully, with the first balmy day of the year we turn our back on one of the longest winters for a generation. Manchester streets are trying hard, shorts, hot pants and sunglasses are out. We aren’t quite there yet, but we northerners don’t know when we might get a consecutive day without rain. It’s a well-travelled route to the academy, I’m starting to recognise the yellow jacketed security staff. Rockflesh founder and all round photographic wizard, Johann, the brobdingnagian European has left his phone in the car. This is a problem, we aren’t down on the press list and the staff aren’t volunteering options. Back to the car. After a few calls we get in touch with the tour manager, Bill. Problem solved.
The Academy 3 is a rectangle, bar, mixing desk & stage, all in line. The sound has no where to escape, a wind tunnel of rock and roll. The stage is small, a four piece fills the stage and there is an absurdly large gap for pro photogs (take note Hangar 34). In a venue this small, there isn’t the sense of anticipation, people lean awkwardly at the sides of the hall, or meander around waiting for focus.
Read More