Live
"Do I sound like I've got a lisp? I don't normally wear lipstick - I'm making an effort"' enthuses Kathryn Williams. "Trying to pull?" comes the response. Giving her heckler an inscrutable look, the Mercury-nominated, world-weary, slightly bewildered angel emphatically wipes the make-up from her face. Despite her legendary (but instantly endearing) nerves, Williams quickly demonstrates an unexpected versatility; double bass-driven opener 'Little Black Numbers' is a bare, otherworldly lament, the lilting, ethereal folk of 'Flicker' surrenders free will to transience, and 'Fade' is simultaneously innocent and arch ("you were my back door key when there was a queue to get in"). The organic growth of slender melodies into fleeting, dreamlike visions is reprised on Williams' forthcoming album; new song 'Swimmer' whips stately, elegiac cello into a storm of urgency, combines celestial imagery with kitchen sink drama - and culminates in a seated karate kick.
Williams' extrapolation of personal experience into the proverbial folk tradition creates a genuinely universal experience; the recurrence of stalking, from a re-enactment of obsession backed by tense, fluttering drums to 'Stud's "I used to follow you around in a casual way", emphasises her intimate interaction with both subject matter and audience. Mirroring the self-reflexive slant, an airy 'Toucan' describes a dual self-perception; when Williams giggles that the vocal-heavy sound is "like being interrogated by myself", now comfortably lost in her music, there's a final, absolute vindication of her suggestion that "there's nothing more sexy than watching someone who doesn't know they're being watched".
Ria Hopkinson
"A glass of honey to whoever recognises this song," Jullander promise extravagantly. Unlikely, given that this is decidedly theoretical, instrumental, German post-rock, but as punters hum the 'tunes' en route to boycotting Six Continents' bar, unquestioned victory is theirs. Jullander's instinctive intelligence applies a difficult, fragmentary treatment to their scientific strata of weighty, blunt guitars, but this detachment belies a fascinating combination of baseness and purity. When a torrent of German is unleashed over nagging, insistent riffs, augmented by almost unbearably resonant saxophone, it's everything Radiohead's 'The National Anthem' should have been, a sound at once oblique and thrillingly direct.
Although equally complex, Billy Mahonie's sound is far more loosely structured, meshing chiming guitars around a single suspended chord wih beauty and grace, passion and restraint. 'World Inaction', a searing squall of saxophone and syncopated, circular bass, uses post-rock's extremes of repetition to suspend a moment in time; terse, clipped and to the point, the martial rhythm of 'Dusseldorf' somehow becomes 'Another One Bites The Dust' done by Six By Seven in a particularly foul mood. There's an occasional, unconvincing vacillation between small-scale Mogwai and large-scale Hood, rendering Billy Mahonie more of a spectacle than an experience, but doubt is dispelled by plaintive, longing melancholia, a muted beauty demanding a hushed, reverential reception. Billy Mahonie fuck the curfew, indulge in some warmly-received gallows humour ("what are they gonna do? Turn it into a sports bar?") and even convince your correspondent to protest against recent events by actually paying her own way. Post-rock'n'roll.
Ria Hopkinson
'What an explosive little shit I am,' drawls Thea Gilmore, sardonically deconstructing her own hype before starting on the art of performance itself. Playing acoustically to promote acclaimed third album Rules For Jokers, Gilmore, variously described as the punk Dylan or female Costello, is an edgy presence, imperious beauty and darkly resonant voice. She's also 21 years old.
'Generation Y?' , "talkin' 'bout degeneration" via a breathless rush of chopping chords, introduces Gilmore's euphoric delight in the modern protest song's juxtaposition of the personal and political; 'See If They Applaud' applies this lyrical approach to stunning effect ("the media mass-markets freedom as the ultimate commodity and you tattoo my image on the lips of all your friends"). With its accent on "docusoap shows", a beaten 'Seen It All Before' demonstrates Gilmore's ability to foreground her character against a complex, shifting backdrop of urban realism and TV 'reality', whilst even the impressionistic self-portrait of 'This Girl Is Taking Bets' avoids female-confessional cliché; reminiscent of PJ Harvey's 'This Wicked Tongue', it's a stunning demonstration of her forthright self-possession. Gilmore occasionally submits to tenderness ('My Beautiful Defence' gently checks her own ambition, whilst monochrome video and cheap magazines give way to the fading manuscripts of the contemplative 'Inverigo'), but even as 'The Things We Never Said' teeters on the edge of tears, she has the last word; "I lipsticked 'fuck you' on the mirror as a mark of my respect". As a mark of the gifted, emancipated woman, it couldn't be more apt.
Angelica Bradfield
Tyrant? Who are they? For those of you that don't know, Tyrant are a DJing partnership comprising Craig Richards and Lee Burridge (and until recently Sasha). They hold residencies at The Bomb in Nottingham and Fabric in London, both underground, labyrinthine venues, but which totally differ in size. Now together for four years, 'Craig and Lee' have begun to exalt in the limelight that has gradually increased since they showcased their style to a wider audience with the Tyrant mix album last year; a total breath of fresh air to a stagnating scene of house music.
True underground music. And what better place to play it on the occasion of their fourth birthday than at Fabric to an ever-receptive audience. Room 2 boasted heavyweight DJ talent, but unsurprisingly Room 1 was where most people wanted to be, making for an incredible, if hectic, atmosphere. Inland Knights were warming up, and it being the first time I had seen them play out, I was mightily impressed. Warm, deep house engulfed Room 1, and as they took the music up through the gears the crowd went with them.
Tyrant took things back down, giving people a chance to catch their breath and ease the congestion slightly. They then proceeded to blow Room 1 apart, playing eclectic tunes to an electric crowd. Totally original, their style is a sublime mix of warped tech-house, funky breakbeat and touches of deep, progressive house. Craig and Lee's smiles said it all as they jumped around behind the decks, chain-smoking what definitely were not cigarettes. The previous week's events in New York served to remind one of the power that dance music has to bring people together regardless of creed or colour. If a bomb can go off at any time, then you might as well seize the day and enjoy every moment like it's your last.
And that's exactly what people did. Nobody wanted to go home, and Lee and Craig repaid them by playing well past the 7am finish time. What a fantastic night it was. Here's to another birthday at Fabric on 20th October, when the club celebrates its second year.
Vivek Katyal
18th Oct 2001