Iggy Pop and Josh Homme have announced plans to release a record together. Kept a top-secret and fully independent project until now, the album, titled Post Pop Depression, will see its release in March via Loma Vista (Marilyn Manson, Spoon, Ghost).
According to the New York Times the album is said to show “both songwriters’ clear fingerprints: the pithy, hard-nosed clarity of Mr. Pop’s lyrics and the unflinching tone of his voice; and the crispness, angularity and deft convolutions of Mr. Homme’s chords and melodies.”
This pairing of forces came about with a text message sent from Iggy Pop to Josh Homme, who told the Times it said something along the lines of, ‘Hey, it would be great if we got together and maybe write something sometime — Iggy’. Several phone calls later, and a fed-ex package sent from Pop to Homme containing a heap of material and ideas, including memories of his time spent in Berlin with the late and great David Bowie, the two gentlemen wound up in a rehearsal room.
Beginning sessions last January, the pair financed the project entirely out of their own pockets with no record label, with Homme recruiting a full band himself. According to the New York Times, Iggy has stated, “it was made to be heard — not to be some quirky thing that we did with our own money, ha-ha.”
In a conversation after the initial rehearsal Iggy told Josh, “you took me to a place I’d never been.” With Homme replying, “this was to go where neither of us had gone before. That was the agreement. And to go all the way.”
We here at Crossfire love Ghost, we do. (The Nameless Ghoul who plays bass is our favourite, he’s so much sexier than the others). Clearly, we are not alone, as tonight the queue for the sold-out Koko has to double back on itself long before the doors actually open. The Swedish sextet’s mix of old-school metal, synthesized orchestration and gothic/horror imagery may seem very much at odds with the prevailing Sounds Of 2015, but it makes for a devilishly good night out, and a fine last chance to dance as the year draws to a close.
Dead Soul are armed with some decent melodic industrial rock tunes, but the trio’s minimalist set-up and relative lack of stage presence ultimately draw little more than polite applause from a crowd eager for quite the opposite. They’d probably be more fun in front of their own crowd in a more intimate club.
Ghost, on the other hand, seem completely at home amidst the Koko’s cavernous red-and-gold furnishings. Churches may be heaving at this time of year, but it’s doubtful that many boast as magnetic a figure as Papa Emeritus III to lead their congregations. His increasingly camp between-song banter runs somewhat contrary to his band’s image – with various Nameless Ghoul musicians stalking the stage in black clothes and silver masks – but who says alleged devotees of The Horned One can’t have a sense of humour?
If you’re still tempted to dismiss Ghost as a novelty act, then you really need to wrap your ears around new album ‘Meliora’, which dominates tonight’s set, and on which Ghost have never sounded better. ‘Spirit’ is as atmospheric an opener as you could hope for, whilst the slower ‘He Is’ is sung back religiously by a crowd that encompasses teenagers in Black Veil Brides shirts, a few geezers in 1980s Monsters Of Rock t-shirts, and all folks in between. Quite simply, the likes of ‘From The Pinnacle To The Pit’ and ‘Mummy Dust’ sound bigger, stronger and more memorable than past efforts, whilst still being unmistakably the work of Ghost.
By the time they treat us to an encore of sorts, Papa has long since discarded his papal hat and robes for a tuxedo, and the almost reverential vibe has somehow seamlessly evolved into one of fun and celebration. He compares his band’s traditional set-closer ‘Monstrance Clock’ to an orgasm, and indeed, tonight it proves a deeply satisfying end to a sweaty evening, with many a shit-eating grin amongst the hordes filing out of the Koko. Ghost – come again?
Fat White Family The Continental, Preston Sunday 13th December
Living in Blackpool, I usually have to venture into Manchester to see any live music worth watching, however, recently the local city of Preston (or as others know it “Depreston”) has had an uproar of amazing live acts coming through. After seeing an advertisement for Fat White Family at a venue of which I have never heard of, I couldn’t turn up such an opportunity.
Fat White Family may sound like nothing new to this scene; we’ve seen these outrageous statements about discerning topics such as oral sex and pedophilia so frequently before, much like the shock factor of Sex Pistols firing swastikas to their clothing. However, what make Fat White’s so special is that they exist in a time where music is so scared of being offensive, forcing any statements into a small corner of political correctness, and supplying this degenerative sense of creativity, where everything is clean cut. These guys are fucked and have something to say; they’ll say it as loud as they can.
My nostrils began to sting, pre-empting their appearance, as the wandered through the croud flaunting clean skinheads. They intiated the storm by teasing the crowd of eclectic post teens with the intro of a new song called Tinfoil Deathstar before melting into one of their most recognised numbers Auto Neutron. I can almost taste the Lysergic Acid in the back of my throat, tainting my lips as his fingers lick the psychedelic tones of the guitar.
FWF play other classic songs from their debut album “Champagne Holocaust” such as “Is It Raining In Your Mouth” which gets the crowd moving delightfully as Lias erupts, his neck popping and his half naked body dowsed in all kinds of fluid. He coats the crowd in Stella before grinding over the surface of his own residue, bellowing the lyrics “c’mon baby shoot your load, c’mon baby I’m gonna explode”. The sexually suggestive lyrics from his tarnished, belligerent mouth, of which you can almost feel taunting its way up the back of your neck, leaves you feeling slightly violated and creates an essence of insecurity.
Whilst playing their newest single “Whitest boy on the beach” the PA system failed mid-song. Stealing other mics from the stage, Lias makes a combined effort to howl over this somehow orchestrated clash of sounds. Electrifying his lips, the microphone sparks to his mouth; thinking on his feet Lias fires one of his shoes into the crowd before brandishing a stiff sock around the mic, dampening the shocks.
Ensuing this, the band try to discuss what they can actually play and “Fuck it, let’s just Bomb Disneyland and this place,” is heard as their drummer begins to play the beat, swiftly followed by everybody else. Lias drags the mass of microphones out into the crowd as he screams, “all your kids are dead kids” fighting over the words with the crowd as he becomes one of us. A deranged scattering of legs and screeches. The song closes as the band make a final attempt to rescue the set by being as loud as humanly possible, before hurling their instruments in an abrupt halt of sound and make for the back door.
The lights stay down and one reveler launches for a nearby working microphone, calling for more. Only to be met by the bands road manager. At this moment a return becomes unexpected, the lights flash on.
The set may have been cut short but they made the absolute most of what they could play. They saw the final embers of rock burning out and brought the fire back to an antagonizing eruption. They’re a band, which touch a deep part of you, a place in which can only exist within that room; you truly will believe all their kids to be dead kids and you will belong to the cream of the young, before returning to reality through the exit of a door.
Fat White Family far surpass any expectations and the only way to understand these sensations would be to see them live, they’re an entity in which nobody can currently rival.
Lemmy touched a staggering amount of people’s lives in his 70 rock n’roll years on Planet Earth and almost all of these experiences were positive and genuine. Sure, he could be a cantankerous bastard and equally told as many people to fuck off – but they probably deserved it. He was a man of rare integrity, conviction and passion and he compromised for no one.
When news broke of his death the outpouring of affection was vast and overwhelming. Everyone had a story to tell, a memory to share. From punks to rockers to every aspect of alternative culture, to the mainstream who held him high as a figurehead of rock, his influence is far-reaching. But the stories keep coming back to what a gentleman he was. He always had time for people and didn’t fall into the rock star ego trap. His manager Todd Singerman recently stated: “He was one of the kindest men I’ve ever met. The proof would be to go ask his fans. He never denied someone an autograph, he bought the fans drinks instead of them buying him drinks”.
I first met Lemmy when I was ten years old at a charity football event that my father took me to. I’m pretty certain that Motörhead’s legendary frontman wasn’t kicking a ball around but he was there, I got his autograph and he patted my head. I thought he was cool as fuck. Then in my early twenties I interviewed him for Metal Hammer magazine around the time of the release of their ‘1916’ album. He turned up at the offices at 10.30am with a four pack of Special Brew, sat by my desk, drank the lot and churned out pearls of wisdom after wisdom. I was in total awe of him. I had to do the ‘single’s reviews’ and played some of the latest rock releases on a turntable by my desk for him to comment on, one of which was ‘Sliver’ by Nirvana which I was raving about. “ Yeah, I like that one”, he said. “It’s really interesting and they’re having a go at something by themselves and not just copying someone else. Good one.” It’s fair to say that drinking Special Brew and spinning vinyl with Lemmy on a week day morning is a memory I’ll cherish.
Ph: “Despite my appearance, believe me, I am a gentleman”
My wife has a fantastic Lemmy story that I want to share. Her and a friend were nearing the end of a US road trip in the early 90s, ending up in LA. They were staying at a rough motel at the wrong end of Sunset Boulevard and a gang had tried to break into their room the previous night, so they were scared to return. They were at The Rainbow and started drinking with Lemmy who was famously a regular, and told him their story. He showed concern at two young vulnerable girls with little money and invited them back to his apartment rather than return to the motel late at night. They agreed with some trepidation given Lemmy’s reputation with the ladies, but his behaviour was entirely chivalrous. They spent a fun-filled 2 days hanging out in his apartment, drinking endless bourbon and cokes being regaled with debauched stories from a life of hell-raising. He played them new tracks which were to feature on ‘Bastards’, the album he was working on at the time, allowed them to nose through his collection of Nazi memorabilia whilst he sunbathed in bright pink speedos, and (at their direction) posed for some hilariously inappropriate souvenir polaroids.
The stories go on and on. It’s been heartbreaking over the last year to see Lemmy looking so frail and ill. We all wanted him to live forever. If Lemmy is around still, then all is well with the world. When they played Hyde Park in 2014 with Black Sabbath, Lemmy really struggled and they weren’t on good form. It was so sad to witness. But then a few months later Motorhead played at Wembley Arena with The Damned and they were back to full power and awesome again. That night they were incredible. The greatest rock n’roll band of all time, one more time.
Ph: Rummaging through Lemmy’s dressing-up box
Slash declared “People who live, sleep and breathe rock n’roll, the lifestyle and the attitude. There’s only a handful of guys who are still alive who represent that. And Lemmy represents that to me.” And now he’s gone, taking the loudest band in the world with him. My absolute hero. A benchmark in integrity and passion, principled, opinionated and unapologetic, “I don’t regret much. Fuck ’em.” We will never see his like again. A true rock n’roll warrior. Rest in noise Lemmy.
Words: James Sherry
NOTE: It’s well known that Lemmy collected Nazi regalia but essentially he was more an anarchist than a fascist. Worth noting that both women in these polaroid photos do not support Nazi fantasies.
Archy Marshall, who we are all familiar with under the alias King Krule, announced this project via his new instagram only a couple of weeks ago. He may have ditched the name for now, however his sadistic lyrics in which romanticise the smallest of details within our world still remain.
The project comprises of a book, 12 piece soundtrack, and a short film, all of which give us an insight into the creative pathways in which a crossover between Archy’s music and his brother Jack’s visual expertise are contextualised.
I have been eagerly anticipating more beats from the south London legend and stand not in the slightest disappointed. These tracks may lack the jazzy undertones of which we generally associate Archy with, however this album is still a melting pot of different experiences; grinding every genre into one amalgamated sound and with each listen a new aspect can be heard within his equanimous words and beats.
King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard
Paper Mâché Dream Balloon
Heavenly Recordings
King Gizzard & Co. are a band that know no sonic boundaries. Flitting between solid garage rock, kraut-driven wig outs and potent swamp-boogie’s alike on their previous six records, there’s only one theme throughout and that’s to take your mind on a psychedelic trip to remember, every time.
Whatever instruments they find themselves tooled up with, be it warped organ tones or screaming harp riffs, this seven-piece promise to take you on a joyride. And they’ve delivered the goods again with Paper Mâché Dream Balloon. As opening track ‘Sense’ glides in you’re greeted by softly focused clarinet lines and beautiful piano chords, altogether creating something unexpectedly mellow, and far removed from their standard 16-minute psych-out fare, see ‘Head On/Pill’ or the recent Quarters EP, with each of the four clocking in at 10 minutes 10 seconds a piece.
Here you’ll search high and low for a track that barely crosses the four-minute line, there’s only one, ‘The Bitter Boogie’, and it’s a total gem. Albeit curiously un-bitter as it rolls and tumbles past pleasingly familiar swamp-blues territories, with a hefty tip of the hat to their Californian forefathers as they segue into yet more harmonica-honking goodness on ‘N.G.R.I (Bloodstain)’. Is that a sitar noodling away in the background too?
With each of the album’s twelve offerings recorded using nothing but acoustic instruments, this LP is a justification, not that one was ever required, of why King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard repeatedly warrant your ear. Strip away the cooking tube amp distortion and there’s marvellous, accessible song writing to be found, yet remaining forever psychedelic. If you thought the flute was just a fad, you were so wrong.
This is probably the hardest press release any band has had to send out to their fanbase ever. Our hearts are with everyone caught up in this horrific situation:
“While the band is now home safe, we are horrified and still trying to come to terms with what happened in France. Our thoughts and hearts are first and foremost with our brother Nick Alexander, our record company comrades Thomas Ayad, Marie Mosser, and Manu Perez, and all the friends and fans whose lives were taken in Paris, as well as their friends, families, and loved ones.
Although bonded in grief with the victims, the fans, the families, the citizens of Paris, and all those affected by terrorism, we are proud to stand together, with our new family, now united by a common goal of love and compassion.
We would like to thank the French police, the FBI, the U.S. and French State Departments, and especially all those at ground zero with us who helped each other as best they could during this unimaginable ordeal, proving once again that love overshadows evil.
All EODM shows are on hold until further notice.
Vive la musique, vive la liberté, vive la France, and vive EODM.”
‘Back in 2011, certain figures were bustled into a squat stuck in South London – Peckham to be precise – this lead for quite the formation of a musical group. A grotesque, lurid and putrid set of ghouls came together – remembered since for masturbating onstage and smearing themselves in faeces amongst other acts of disgust. However, all these eccentric acts have lead to a cult appeal, a cult interest that revels within the notorious nature of the group’s darkness.
Their debut album titled ‘Champagne Holocaust’ was released back in 2013, pointing the group to critical acclaim. Tracks such as ‘Touch the Leather’, ‘Is It Raining In Your Mouth?’ and ‘Auto Neutron’ were established as stand out tracks within the poignant album. Alongside their live stage performances, the group was causing controversy and anxiety through their recorded format. They were reminding the British music culture of what it was to be ‘punk’ and what it was to create ‘punk music.’ Darkness shrouded the album. Ghostly backing vocals caused intensity, screeches and yelps brought back imagery of horror and death all the while the bones of Lias, Saul and Adam et al rattled away.
Lyrically, the group are a reminder that punk music and what it means to be a ‘relevant’ band is to mean much more than a posing facade. It is not a whimsical, commodified fad that washes right over you. It is common knowledge that every word that is published by NME etcetera should be taken with a pinch of salt – Kasabian are not ‘the saviours of music’ for example and guitar music is not ‘dead’ – in fact it never really died, it was just spun out in quite a lethargic way. The existential nihilism presented by Fat White Family is something far superior, something that harks back to the likes of The Velvet Underground and the Sex Pistols. Seminal cultism is something that is defined to last the test of time, perhaps not instantaneously, however it is something that can be called upon and placed within a society. Terminal cultism on the other hand is something that exists for a short period. Take the late 60s hippie culture for example – an idea that came abut due to social rebellion, however similarly one that eventually stuck around like a fart in the wind and collapsed in on itself due to the conflicting nature of it’s sellable image. When a band titles a song ‘When Shipman Decides’ or ‘Bomb Disneyland’, it is impossible not to get up and take notice.
Taking ‘When Shipman Decides’ for example. Yes, this song is still yet to be released (it is released on the band’s sophomore LP ’Songs For Our Mothers’ in January 2016) however, the titling of the song suggests a breaking in the mould. It is daring and has taken the expletive and the unimaginable from the jaws of metal and hardcore music. Of course this is a slight generalisation, previous bands have released songs with daring titles, however for a band that has appeared on the front covers of the British music press and received critical acclaim in the nation’s largest newspapers, this does not happen so often. Shipman being the guilty murderer who was armed with medicine, now one can only anticipate the content behind this song. Jumping back to the downright seedy and lurid ideas behind ‘Is It Raining In Your Mouth?’ – “I was born to have it / And you were born to take it,” and the provocative and seductive ‘Touch the Leather’ – “Tight black skin in the baggy leather.” Lyrically, you get the sense this apocalyptic, darkness harks back to something such as The VU’s ‘Venus In Furs’, Reed’s grumble and growl behind “Shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather / Whiplash girlchild in the dark.” This existential sexuality is something so deeply rooted in punk music and the history of poetry inspired from the Dionysus character. From Baudelaire’s ‘Le Voyage’ – “Pour us your poison wine that makes us feel like gods / Our brains are burning up – there’s nothing left to do!” to Rimbaud’s ‘The Drunken Boat’ – “As I floated down unconcerned rivers / I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers.” Poetry and lyricism revels in the unknown, the putrid and the alcohol stained bliss of solipsism and escapism. Here, Fat White Family are digging up an old grave, they are venturing further in the punk lyricist cult.
Taking the live shows into account is a different mindset more than anything. It’s a process of alienation to build angst, tension and frustration. It’s an amphetamine riled situation focusing on Brechtian theories of defamiliarisation with the aim of making it a bloody uptight, tense experience for the individual. Brechtian ideas stipulate that the audience should not become involved within the narrative of the performance – the audience should be kept at distance – enough to intrigue them and hold their focus, but not enough to allow them to escape within the world of the spectacle. It works in a notion of intriguing the audience then letting them go at any giving moment, giving a feeling of anxiety. The gaunt, ghoulish figure of Lias lingers over you, provoking you with his eroticised shakes, and jerks as he mutters sweet whispers – often nothing more than a breath echoing the words he wishes to say.
In the background, a bag of bones lead by the shape of Saul Adamczewski maintain your eyes, keeping you in their stare at all times – there is the constant petrifying feeling of being watched from below dark frowns. It is an emotional, mental release that this troupe seek when presenting themselves in a live setting – it’s not escapism, it is a downright confrontation and it’s often as chaotic and convoluted as it sounds. The live show emphasises their importance and necessity in live music. It acts as a counterculture to the escapists – those artists providing a show that lets you out of your day to day life for a brief two hours whilst you stand or jump; only to then go back home, reminisce briefly and drift off to a pleasant sleep.
No, what Fat White Family do is bring you out of your shell in a way that is emphasised. It’s a possession of you, it makes it hard to let go of the experience – it’s a confused situation of beings and liquids that makes you nervous and anxious. Masturbating onstage and kicking around the head of a pig gives the horrifyingly intriguing troupe auteur image. A gang mentality that is oh so exaggerated in a live setting.
So all this can seem highly exaggerated and I’m sure, irrelevant to a mass majority of music fans. Essentially, it comes down to what one wishes to take from a group. If one finds gratification in the safety of a band, then Fat White Family may not be for you. As is the musical technicality of the band, if you are one to take into account interesting time signatures, dynamics and pedal jumping, then once again, maybe think again. However, if you are to take into account the true cult identity of a band – in a similar way to The Velvet Underground and The Brian Jonestown Massacre – then Fat White Family may click with you. If you want something that will resonate in a seminal fashion and provide you with a total confrontation of your morals, self and community, then take this group and hold them tight. Not too tight though, they will unapologetically kick back and leave you bleeding somewhere.’
Archy Marshall
King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard
