MANCHESTERMUSIC IN THE CITY

So, I’d just about dragged by weary body through a day in the office, when five thirty rolled around and I skipped to Bedlam with a sprightly step. Or not. The fact that the venue was decked out like a padded cell was most welcome, as I slumped my aching bones against the wall. Desperately needing to be hooked up to a drip of gabber house or something of similar bpm, I was initially a little concerned to find that the first act of the night would be of the acoustic variety, but Paul Marshall was no lobotomised Newton Faulkner.

For a start, he looked like the younger brother of David Walliams, and opened his set with a song that could cause a troupe of Royal Marines to break down in howling sobs. Marshall made music about extinction and train derailments to soundtrack the funeral of a loved one. A loved one who died a tragic and painful death at a heart-breakingly early age. Do not be misled into thinking his songs were anything other than sheer brilliance though. Starkly beautiful, they commanded silence and his clever use of pauses provided a real sense of emotion. ‘Vultures’ had the vulnerability of Nick Drake with the bigger vocal power of someone like Damien Rice, and although such a communicative voice made it was easy to overlook his skill as a guitarist, the man was definitely the whole package. A further pleasant surprise was the appearance of Bottomfeeder Kate on cello; clearly pimping her own considerable talents far and wide.

Next up was Amy Crowther, who looked like a T4 presenter and came about as close as possible to Katie Melua without any mis-informed lyrics about transportation statistics in developing countries. Becoming quickly bored, a flick through the live guide revealed an Icelandic showcase down the road at The Pitcher & Piano…

…which had been cancelled. Most of the interesting bands had been given spots at alternative venues but, oh… they were on two hours ago… Slightly pissed off, another dive into the live guide offered Godwits, who apparently “demonstrate a beguiling sense of melody and structure, with an intelligence, grace and wit that is beyond their years.” All very well medear, but what do the buggers actually sound like? They’ve the best band name within a three minute walk though, so it was back down Peter Street to Squares, which smelled like it needed a good hose down.

In Squares’ cavernous basement, The Jubilees were just starting up, having travelled from Lincolnshire for the night. They attracted the kind of minimal audience numbers that made me think that I was missing something amazing elsewhere. Had everyone left to see the secret Blur reunion gig at Bar 38, or had news of a Legionnaires Disease outbreak reached the press, I wonder? Whichever, this was clearly not going to be The Jubilees’ big break, although they played their little socks off anyway, bless ‘em. A generic indie-rock band, the only thing to distinguish them from hotly-tipped acts like The Courteeners or Twisted Wheel was the absence of any arrogant swaggering. They played well, and moreover, they played well together, with ‘Frustration’ inexplicably managing to sound exactly like all the others and yet, much better than the others. The Jubilees had melody in spades, and the lack of an attitude problem endeared them to me, even if it will be their downfall as a “marketable commodity”. Shame really.

Now, if you look at the MM photobucket account, you will see that my picture of Godwits features a man with his fingers in his ears. I had not noticed him at the time, having been so utterly carried away by the swathes of angelic noise created by this absolute gem of a band from Newbury. Never have I been so glad to find proggy Icelandic experimentalism cancelled. A young band who dress like an old band (and here I mean The Zimmers, rather than The Stones), Godwits made a similar gypsy psyche-rock noise to Air Cav, but with a vocalist who was wonderfully unclassifiable. He made the sound of a barbershop quartet featuring Win Butler, Bono, the dude from Cold War Kids and, erm, Aled Jones, all at the same time, and he maintained the onstage presence of a Mr Thom Yorke. Bloody captivating. Like Air Cav, it was often the drums and twisting violin that led the melodies, but during ‘Dead Heads Of Flowers’ they was a quite stunning choirboy moment. Maps do gigs in churches, but Godwits managed to make Squares feel like one. I left the venue having spent Tuesday’s dinner money on a CD and knowing that even if the bigwig delegates ignore their brilliance, Godwits had gained a new super-fan. Also, if anyone recognises the heathen with his fingers in his ears from my photo, tell him I want a word…

Floating somewhere about three feet from the pavement from then on, I glided down to the Studio in a spaced-out state of fatigue and musical nirvana in order to catch the last couple of tunes from Liverpool’s Elle S’Appelle. A female-fronted three-piece, they created edgy, upbeat pop; acceptable to indie kids, ravers and the Radio 1 playlist alike. Give them a support slot with Calvin Harris and they’ll never look back, but with each song swapping beats around every other nanosecond, I got the impression that Elle S’Appelle wouldn’t know how to look backwards even if they had those funny revolving reptile eyes. Insanely catchy Bis-inspired bubblegum yelling did exactly what it said on the tin, alongside a keyboard lick so infectious that I couldn’t quite believe it hadn’t already been invented by a Sixties girl group. Perky madness for the Kate Nash generation, and were I not still floating around in a little bubble of Godwits adoration, I may have busted a move or two.

As I walked to the bus stop, Friday night at Islington Mill felt like several decades ago, and to be fair, I think this year’s In The City has aged me considerably. Highlights had been folk-rockers in tank tops and classic rock throwbacks in the suburbs, whereas I had remained resolutely unimpressed by angry young whippersnappers and experimentalists with head-torches.

I definitely needed to lie down in a dark room for a few days… Or weeks…

Meg MM.

Monday starts where Sunday ended, in South, which is alternating English and Japanese (or at least Japanese-ish) bands. How's My Pop are about as English as can be, in the grand tradition of Northern observational indie, with a distinct feel of Pulp meets Oasis - yeah, I know, there's a lot of it about - but these Lancaster lads do it very well indeed. A rich organ lifts them above the legions of guitars-are-all bands, and some thought's gone into the lyrics too. The last song takes on the state of the nation from the point of view of Anytown on a Saturday night (a bold move for ones so young) and does a pretty fine job of it, variously referencing Davina McCall, "bloodstains on the English flag", people doing crack in public toilets and "a culture where there is no fucking culture" - at which point I remember I'm meant to be going out in Lancaster in a couple of days' time. Thought it was meant to be nice up there... and no, it's not startlingly original musically but the answer to "how's my pop" has to be... pretty good, actually.

Levelload like yellow. Their website is yellow, their clothes are yellow, the streaks in singer/bassist Mariko's hair are yellow. She and not-remotely-Japanese guitarist Tony are both extremely attractive, skinny as a pair of drumsticks and oozing rock'n'roll cool from their black drainpipe jeans to their battered yellow T-shirts. Their instruments are slung Clash-style low round their hips and played with relentless energy. They are so straight out of some scenester Svengali's fantasy list that you really wish you could hate them, except for the fact that they're absolutely brilliant as well. Behind this undoubtedly dynamic duo, however, stands another figure; a small, quiet Japanese woman wearing a housewife dress (that's not yellow) and Clint Boon's 1989 haircut and working the electronics that provides the foundations for this mostrous pop beast. Is she in the band? Or did they just find her somewhere and carry her along for the ride? Either way, Levelload play dirty, garagey, electro-backed punk-metal rock'n'roll with a big dollop of pop splattered across it. Tony squiggles solos through a great wall of distortion whilst Mariko hammers out powerchords in the most aggressive use of four strings since Motorhead's last tour; both have a tendency to stick a scuffed sneaker up on the monitors, and yelp like Bis with their arse on fire. Their new single is called "HND In Rock'n'nRoll". I suspect they passed with flying colours - yellow, probably.

Feeling rather international, I head over to the Pitcher And Piano to discover that the Icelandic showcase has been moved to (a) somewhere else and (b) considerably later. Wander into Studio to find it absolutely rammed; onstage are Airship ("late teen Manchester alternative rock band" says the blurb) who sound rather a lot like... Snow Patrol. They either have a lot of friends or a very good PR. They are, it has to be said, extremely accomplished and they do grunge it up a bit towards the end - but alternative it certainly isn't. Later discover they have been brought to us courtesy of one Martin Terefe, part of the axis of evil behind KT Tunstall and James Morrison. Sounds about right.

Far more interesting, across the road in Bar38, is Joe Dangerous ("believe it or not" as he says). A rather polite youngman in a crisp white shirt, armed with a laptop and a small keyboard (the latter hanging round his neck) he deals in spacious, atmospheric electronica. Including songs about allergies, "my prayer for the end of all religion" and "a deep hatred of Portsmouth". The music is icy, sweeping and equally introspective. File under "possibly doesn't get out much". This is not, incidentally, meant in any bad way. If Meg was here we'd probably have tried to adopt him or something.

Boom In The Diamond Industry have probably the best - or worst - name of the day and describe their music as "post-past" - sounds intriguing? It isn't. It's the sort of bogstandard indie schmindie for which there really should be some sort of quota. There are a lot of people watching them, but they comprise (a) three friends/fans (b) people who've come to worship at the altar of Gideon Conn who's making his 275th appearance of the weekend here later or (c) people like me who've given up on having any kind of plan by this point. Oh, and six people in a band like this looks a bit wrong, too.

In my haste to get out the door I crash headlong into Crosby from The Second Floor, so obviously I get my investigative head on: yes, they stil exist; it's just him and Nolan Watkinson and a drum machine now (I don't dig, I've learnt the hard way not to...) and yes they will still be playing the Aftershow at Sankeys on 29th November with Air Cav. Which, incidentally, is Chris Cav's birthday, so, er, book the Friday off now. I also run into Chris Stanley, recently departed drummer of Fear Of Music, for about the 37th time this weekend - and just in case you were wondering there's nodirt at all on that count - he's still mates with Joe, Ali and Mike; they've got a new drummer now, and the album's recorded and ready to launch. Oh, and as this seems to be turning into some Mancunian underworld version of Popbitch, my spies (AKA Julie and Sui from The Vanguard) report that Mark E. Smith was spotted drinking in the Castle earlier...

Anyway, finally, the Icelandic Showcase is go, in the rather-more-pleasant-than-I-remember-it Cellar Vie. We are slightly distracted by the sight of a man with a long, bleached mullet waring gold Spandex "strides" so sausage-skin tight we can practically see what he had for dinner. And then another one, and another... christ, how many of them are there? Must be one of the bands. "We were going to go to Reykjavik in January" says my mate "but I'm not so sure now..."

The first band on, Kira Kira, sound exactly as you would expect an "experimental" Icelandic band to sound. Tonight's "table full of interesting stuff" award, anyway, for anyone still following that particular thread of these meanderings. Actually there are some proper instruments too; a double-bass, glockenspiel and guitar - all played so delicately it's a bit like listening to cobwebs. Very pretty cobwebs, that is - melodic with understated yet evocative vocals from Kristín Björk Kristjánsdóttir who's also in charge of the table of interesting stuff. I am trying not to use the word "ethereal" but - ah, fuck it, there it goes.

The Spandex brigade are onstage next and something tells me I won't be needing the word "ethereal" again in a hurry. They are Skátar - or possibly SKATAAARRR!!! - and they are Ready To Rock. Unfortunately nothing else is. the soundchecks and lineckhecks are not going well and they just have to stand there looking silly. The singer (Sawyer from "Lost") attempts some very polite conversation - "Can you please all come a little closer? We find when people get closer they get better views of our crotches, and other areas." I didn't make this up. I have witnesses. The sound engineer continues crawling around their equipment - and their musical instruments (badum-tsssh!).

So what of the music? Well I'll hand over to them - or at least their exceptionally funny Myspace page (this isn't even the best of it, do ensure if you click one link today it's that one...): "Picture driving to the country with your younger siblings, ten and twelve, respectably, and putting in a random CD out of the glove compartment. Imagine their plainly terrified faces as a hair raising attack of PUREÉD WHITE NOISE SKRONK DEATH blasts at ‘em from the car speakers. Imagine ignoring their pleas (as a good older sibling will do), driving on, and them starting to sing along to that very album, in a manner of minutes. This is The Ghost of the Bollocks to Come, and this is Skátar. Let’s dance."

Oh god. Right, well when they eventually get started it's an utterly impenetrable mess of bizarre Sonic Youthisms, funky chunky bass bits, and full-on RAWK! choruses (sample lyric: "I AM NOT READY TO DIIIIEEE!"). the small crowd (including one John Robb - possibly hoping for the next Towers of London) mostly look bemused. It's hard to tell exactly where thet're pitching. "Can I have some more chocolate in the monitors... and a Harrier Jet?" Frankly they make a far better comedy troupe than rock'n'roll band. And I think they know it. But do check the Photobucket; words can't do these men justice...

It's a fittingly strange finale to what's been a bit of a strange ITC all round, really. I'm not the only person who's said this - it all seemed a bit more low-key than usual this year. Maybe we just weren't in the right places. But ther have been some excellent performances: the four that stand out for me being (in no particular order) The Witch And The Robot, Thomas Truax, Air Cav and Does It Offend You, Yeah?. I've not discovered any new favourite bands, but to be honest I don't actually need any more right now. I just want to go to bed.

http://www.myspace.com/howsmypop
http://www.myspace.com/levelload
http://www.myspace.com/airshiptheband
http://www.myspace.com/joedangerous
http://www.myspace.com/boominthediamondindustry
http://www.myspace.com/trallaladykirakira
http://www.myspace.com/skatar

Normally at this point it falls to me to wrap up the MM ITC coverage with some sort of sweeping platitudes about the state of the weekend, Manchester, or the music industry in general - but time's short. Because for some of us, the music carries on long after the passes have been hung up and the posters taken down. My favourite live club night Wotgodforgot chose not to dirty their fingers in this corporate jamwagon (although promoter Ciaran's band Laymar played twice at suitably out-there fringe events) - instead they've got a session tonight. There are two bands on I've not seen before who sound quite good. Somewhere, right now, some overpaid idiot is leafing through the guide book trying to remember the name of one of the bands they saw through a drunken haze so they can file some sort of copy or impress the A&R boss at their debrief meeting - for us at ManchesterMusic.co.uk life goes on as usual, squidged into the gaps between day jobs, home life (well, in Jon's case anyway; I rarely seem to see the inside of my flat these days) and our own favourite bands. We don't do this to be cool, we don't do it for money, we do it because we absolutely fucking love it.

Same time next year then?

Cath Aubergine, signing off.

You know – it’s a bit weird that it’s almost over. It seems to have been a little quieter this year. Not as many buzz bands perhaps and I really think Night & Day (the whole weekend) and Country Club (at Ruby Lounge) maybe stole the fringe weekend. The stack ‘em high / dubious quality control of some of the other showcases made them the ones to miss this year and Dry Bar maybe needs some sort of re-invention as it’s just too damn claustrophobic and there are just too many dubious bands in-between the good ones.

What is refreshing though is that down Oxford Road / Peter Street, there are still plenty of laminates walking up and down the town, although Manchester is eerily still on this Monday evening. At least it hasn’t rained all weekend though.

Peter Street though is still disgusting. A thug infested ginnel of glitter, where guys who look they’ve just finished a prison sentence try to make it past giant beasts on the pub doors themselves reminiscent of tough mutated screws at lock down. It’s a fucked up piece of shit that’s pretending to be an upmarket slice of city living. If you don’t lose your wallet on the bar prices, you’re probably just as likely to lose it on the way home, as you cross the dimly lit and suspiciously un-policed slice of barter town that is St Peter’s Square. At least the Northern Quarter has it’s own set of excuses and is becoming comfortably trendy (although that’s not always a good thing).

It’s amazing that the Midland Hotel stands as a beacon in this crossroads of shit and capitalism, where Teasers marks the beginning of this culturally barren wasteland and M2 provides a sensory finish with its back streets littered with sick and aggressive beggars. If anyone ever tells you that you can have a good time down here, they’re fucking nuts.

Unbelievably, MUSIC BOX is at the more sanitised end of this evil run and the almost derelict basement is vibrating to the sound of KIDKANEVIL. There’s a few people on stage but this is essentially the work of Leeds DJ Gerrad Roberts, who scratches, mixes and triggers various samples and loops. It is accomplished stuff with some live percussion, a flautist and plenty of eastern promise. It does begin to get a little bit too jazzy though and the whole thing soon melts into a swirling flow of lounge based music.

Down at BEDLAM (where we avoid purchasing ANYTHING), the place is packed for the incredibly noisy OLD ROMANTIC KILLER BAND who hammer out punk fuelled chords and enough decibels to mask the landing approach of a 747.

Arcacia are performing at CHICAGO ROCK which also hosted an earlier ITC UNSIGNED and now, an ITC SHOWCASE. It’s a bit confusing but the sound of ARCACIA isn’t. It’s an embarrassing mêlée of uneventful heavy rock that’s further ruined by a guy who can’t sing and who thinks he’s headlining Wembley Stadium. Ouch. Should have saved the bus fare – no disrespect but this is well below par on all counts.

On the very same stage we then have THE MARGARETS – a confident outfit from Norway who I said nice things about on Saturday. Tonight though they’re all electric and their subtle harmonies and sweet Nordic reflections sit well (there’s a video running as they play , featuring them and some pretty homeland scenery). They’re pretty good too, but far more impressive when they strip things down and rely on their delicious harmonies.

Downstairs in STUDIO it’s still OFFICIAL UNSIGNED time and it’s totally rammed. The bars run out of beer with just Cider or Alcopops left - which is what this place most probably sells the most of, anyway. The crowd seem mainly here to see ELLE S’APPELLE (or “She Is Called”) – the name’s a bit random really, but musically this is Lucy on a vocals / keyboard and Andrew on Bass (and a bit of singing) whilst Owen bashes the drums. The fact that she dresses like Kate Nash doesn’t help as she tinkles on the fuzztone keyboard, but Elle s’appelle have a sound that can drag out any remaining ounces of attention. They have a few nuggets in there and the band have at least carefully constructed something that’s exciting and more importantly, different.

FREERUNNER are from Newcastle. “Ask us to say something in Geordie whilst we’re here” shouts the singer – one fellow I’m with shouts “P.J. ! I’m Blind !!” – and just like Byker Grove, there and then, it comes echoing back.. Freerunner are most probably mining the same territory as The Wombats, but whereas their Liverpudlian counterparts are brimming with pop genius, this trio are struggling a little. But then they surprise they hit you with a precious slice of angsty yelping that you could soundtrack your haircut to. It’s compelling if you want to stick to the current fashions.

Finally in the pit of despair, SQUARES, the last band for me is THE ALONES. They’re playing downstairs with a ridiculously big P.A. and the sound is awful. The drums, vocals and bass drown out the guitars and you end up with a headache. It almost ruins things for me. The Alones are urgent but it does at times sound like STEREPHONICS playing some of their faster back catalogue. There are a lot of people to see them and you see that with bands like The Enemy creating a healthy diversion away from jerky, snappy guitars, that this band too are cottoning on to something altogether better.

I also can’t believe that the same idiot as last year (at the time, manager of ‘insert name of Geordie indie band’) is stood in front of me in the same spot and same venue, with another pair of stupid shoes. He’s topped last years joke footwear with some Burgundy / White two-tone brogues topped off by a big overcoat – hello !!!

Anyhow on a brighter note it has to be The Alones and Elle s’appelle who stand out tonight for sheer energy, originality and guts – good luck to ‘em..

And good luck to everyone who organised, played, attended or just recognised the In The City carnival – it’s been awesome, tiring, exciting and exhausting but most of all it’s been an education..sleep well my friends.

JonMM

Fri Feelings

THE RESEARCH / MR. LIZARD / DEAF TO THE GHOST / LOWLIFE

Having appeared in Dundee the night before, THE RESEARCH (Dry bar) are just glad to see a crowd. Similarly, this crowd at Dry bar are glad to see the Research. Front man Russell Searle has been leading the trio around for some time now, and the simple Casio keyboard generated tunes have evolved into a sound more suited for a stage rather than someone’s bedroom. It’s all done in a warm, friendly manner, the band maintaining an admirable bonhomie with the crowd pressed up against the stage that are clearly enjoying the sugar coated pop

Band, bands and more bands are swamping the venues of Manchester and it’s a great thing. Literally bringing live music to the masses, so it’s intriguing to watch clubbers waiting to hear their “top tune” bound out from the speakers, then wonder what on earth is going on? So whilst MR LIZARD blast out aggressive guitars sounds that bounce of the low ceiling, the regulars at THE RUBY LOUNGE aren’t quite sure what to make of things. Should they keep playing pool or move closer to the entertainment? It’s a bit of a mix in the end

That musical nomad, Coni (Tsuji Giri, Kyra Bronx etc.) has returned to beat the crap out of a set of skins with a new band, DEAF TO THE GHOST (Ruby Lounge). He’s not the stand out element of the band though – that’s the (un-named) female vocalist who has a voice of purity and power that could crack glass – not always a good thing for a bar, but certainly impressive stuff

LOWLIFE have a packed Night and Day to entertain and its all gusto and guitars, powerfully executed and one place where you are guaranteed to drive the audiences into a sweat

Sunday Sessions

BITTERLY IRONIC / DELUCA/NEIL McSWEENEY / TELLISON/LUCA GEMMA / LIGHTS! ACTION! / DEAR SUPERSTAR/VIRGIN MARY’S/

I know it’s early-ish, the Sunday after the free bar but the crowd at Aqua Bar for the POW-WOW all dayer is disappointingly slim. Less than 10 people are hear to see the female fronted DELUCA dish out their brand of American tinged rock hewn out of the Pat Benetar mould. In an adjacent room, the one man plus banks of keyboards that is known as BITTERLY IRONIC is performing mainly in front of a handful of friends/converts. The daylight streaming through the windows mixes incongruously with the biting beats, which are more reminiscent of some underground rave somewhere. He can produce the threatening accompaniment for the victim/killer-pursuit-in-a-thriller movie, before pummelling you with dance beats

The low turn out seems to be something repeated across most of the venues. Sure, NEIL MCSWEENEY is dispensing his heartfelt songs of watching clouds, to a full Trof Bar, the place of many rooms but no toilet cubicles, but many of those present would appear to be there because they normally would be in any case, as opposed to making a deliberate attempt to view the evenings lineout.

TELLISION (Studio) seem to buck the trend as the place is relatively full, but the way the crowd sing along and know the stop-start parts, it’s clear they have prior experience of the band. The tight unit provide a Foo Fighters type roar, and the front man connects well with the crowd, but where are the diehards who dip their toes into as many new bands as possible on the basis that they may hit a beautiful surprise such a last years SIBERIAN NEWSPAPER? It may have occurred and I missed it. I hope so ..

LUCA GEMMA (Chicago Rock) similarly has a handful of listeners, but he does sing in his native, non-English– language, though his fellow compatriots applaud loudly

The Sunday service for the VIRGIN MARY’S (WALKABOUT) does not include religious values, but is tribute to good old-fashioned, no nonsense rock. The guitar solos dance up and down the fret board; the vocals are gravelly and direct with the hair long and swung about. It’s a mountain shuddering effect, the reliable meat and two veg of rock delivered with gusto and style.

In a similar vein DEAR SUPERSTAR (Dry), have – at least I hope they do- one tongue firmly embedded in their cheek. Glam rock is still alive in “From Lamppost To Bedposts”. The 5 of them can just about fit on the narrow stage and their histrionics seem to scare the crowd who watch from a safe distance. Their outfits are outrageous and the tee shirts are replete with the Iron Cross motif.

In the time it takes to say “LIGHTS! ACTION!” (Walkabout) the 5 piece explode on the stage with their fulsome sound. It’s fun watching which of the guitarists will collide with each other, so much so that one of them turns and faces the wall. This is Simple Minds stuff on speed, the urging, the pleading and the wall of (guitar) sound in place.

As the LUCIOS (Dry bar) began to sound check, I feared the worst. Was that an Oasis turn being strummed? Luckily this group of lads hail from Middlesbrough , so the Oasis phenomenon may not have reached there yet. Instead, the more palatable news is that they tell stories a la Artic's, tinged with Babyshambles, and it’s a raucous mix that gets everyone moving.

Similarly, the ALLIES provide a change from the usual guitar fare. Featuring a fiddle and accordion, the genial Brummies boys launch into a rousing Celtic style slab of music. Debts to the Pogues and the Waterboy's may be obvious, but it’s enjoyable none the less.



Till next year

Ged Camera
www.camera1.free-online.co.uk

Even with the best of intentions, Saturday night got rather messy – a sort of “hard day at the office” (but more like wandering around bars listening to music after being stuck in a seminar all day) - followed by a caffeine fuelled burst of excitement that meant I couldn’t wind down at all after ducking and diving between venues. So Sunday, of course a holy day for many, should on the face of it be at least a little more relaxing. Wrong.

Today sees a Northern Quarter Festival – I don’t say THE NQF as there have been a few in the past with this name and there are few others going on too during the year as various ‘promoters’ and ‘entrepreneurs’ try to lay claim to this now trendy mini- Manhattan. Word is (and I’d love to be informed / corrected) that TV21 have underwritten a lot of this and if they have it’s to their credit. Over the evening there are around thirty bands over eight venues and it’s all free. Each place is also just over the road from the other – In The City ‘Official’ should be here next year, not that stupid chav strip that is Peter Street. It’s just an ugly horrible street full of vile venues.

SAY is performing at the BAY HORSE and the trio are championing their album “Autumn Burrows” which is available now via them and which may be also out on a well respected local label too. They still use wonderfully programmed electronics and acoustic instruments, that bath the basement of this trendy bar in a warm, generous light of melody and creativity. Word is that the band may be expanding to an even bigger line up.

MM are obvious fans of Laymar but I personally haven’t seen them play for well over a year and it’s big reason number two as to why we’re here. In fact we were so eager to attend that I got the dates mixed up and we actually came along on Friday by mistake. Stark visuals and a band dressed in black may be warning enough but it’ll never prepare you for the sonic bombing that lays a carpet of blood soaked sounds between your ears. Think ethereal but with nuclear triggers. Laymar’s brooding, progressive rock combines live loops and samples, shuddering guitars and live drums that pound away like a distant jungle telegraph warning of impending doom. The whole thing is an orchestrated symphony that embraces spontaneity and some sort of beautiful turmoil. Apparently they’re playing at Ruby Lounge later for a 2am show. Be afraid. Read Cath's review of this - I was awestruck and she's captured the wholething far better than I.

In-between sets a mad Geordie bloke somehow, for some reason, comes up to me. “I’m from Newcastle like..I want to get some drugs and get fucked..”. He’s already fucked – he looks like Chris Moyles and has eyes like balloons that don’t blink, as he then flops his rather large head to one side. We see him later doing a Riverdance skip because he thinks he looks cool. I hope he’s ok…or well, I’m not sure now - he was bloody dangerous and probably ready to explode in some innocent persons face, the bloody freak. Listen kids , drugs ARE bad.

In both remembrance and celebration, of the might of one of the best bands in Manchester, DOUBLEJO(H)NGREY bow out on a greatest hits package of electronic versus guitar based assaults. The room is packed for the bands twisted guitar riffs, plunging bass lines and the stark, sometimes growling vocal. There’s a track even I don’t remember in there too, but for most of us it takes us back to the original music/art collective that was Minus Money – most band members have other projects up their sleeves so keep watching for news – for now, it’s the end of an era.

KING KAYAK are on at BLU, maybe this area’s grossest bar – an open, sports type establishment that seems less than inviting. The stage seems out of place and it looks like a p.a.’s just been stuffed in a fun pub. The sound though is actually good and the band rise to the occasion with their stripey shirts and eyeliner. They create anthemic, rousing songs that aren’t afraid to go off on a guitar solo or for the keyboard to add a bit of a jerky swing. The energy levels are potent enough to carry their supercharged efforts beyond the gaze of The Levellers and Mega City Four. King Kayak seem to be a potent hybrid of both old skool psychobilly (the attitude) and sci-fi heavy rock (their dominating, feverish sound) .

Over at TV21 (if you can get past the Predator that’s in a glass case near the door) the basement has an intimate show in full swing with rap duo MM2. The music is a backing track over which a guy who makes himself look like a hatted Stone Roses Reni, furiously hammers out a lively heavy funk bassline. The MC quickfires the lyrics out and it’s powerful, hard hitting stuff. The only problem is that the mix is awful and you can only hear the backing track – You can hardly make out the bass. The rapping is also so fast that it’s indigestible so you can’t get what the whole lyric is about – which sort of defeats the object. Interesting though and I’m definitely going to seek out their tunes for a better listen, purely on the basis of the amount of sweat they released into the atmopshere .

It’s meant to be a quieter night but it’s too hard to resist popping into NIGHT & DAY. THE RASCALS are on next. For anoraks this IS NOT the soul / rock band from the 60’s. For those with a memory that does go back three years, this outfit have formed out of The Little Flames - the scouse outfit that started off their career with ‘Put Your Dukes Up, John’. That’s history but the news is that Miles Kane’s friendship with Alex Turner sees the Monkey’s singer just stood in front of me at the bar. You can see the difference too, in Kane’s new project that’s been collaboratively supported by Turner. The Rascals are more Yorkshire than Lancs and much less Liverpudlian in their sound. Spiky angular pop that sounds contemporary and enthusiastic. There’s enough of a tune in each track here to keep even the meanest of indie kids happy for a few hours dancing, but I think the real proof will be in the actual record itself which should surface next year.

Then it’s quite literally….home..

JA

Released, if not unleashed onto the streets of Manchester, the live experience (i.e full bands) begins just before tea time. Strangely a walk onto Peter Street reveals a slightly subdues city.

BEDLAM AT BEDLAM

Visting this little venue is often quite a pleasant experience but today their draught beer is mysteriously “not-available” and they just charged us £9.60 for two bottles of Bulmers. A. RIP.OFF. A venue to be very much avoided in my mind. Playing this afternoon as part of a Pure Groove Showcase are TOM WILLIAMS AND THE BOAT (www.myspace.com/williamstommusic ). It’s decent enough stuff from the guys who rattle out their London based tunes as though they’re stood in a field in Ireland - It comes across as something similar to the Waterboys had they been brought up in Camden. The violin spins a fine country line whilst Williams himself barely sings over the plot – a fashionable but slightly confused mix of over eager bohemia.

A BITE OR TWO AT M2

M2 plays host to the Break In The City aftershow and there are a few bands worth considering. LADY MUCK play a full band set and their music takes on a different complexion. It’s a mish-mash of genres and styles - each song takes on a different character but played with a firm line in guitars. When they get moodier and slightly more aggressive they seem to take off quite well.

The highlight of this show was however THE MARGARETS (www.myspace.com/themargarets) from Norway. They decided to pick up three acoustic guitars and to play a small set in the middle of the audience without the use of amps. It sounded magnificent with oozing harmonies and a gentle, but exquisitely commanding drill of Scando rock tinged with Californian sounds. Check out their website for more of their glacial pop. It was a pretty awe inspiring experience just seeing them do this.

It’s hard staying in one place with so much going on – so hark ! time to get right over to ye olde Northern Quarter.

ROADHOUSE

I can’t believe my luck as we catch the start of WORKING FOR A NUCLEAR FREE CITY’s set. They sound scuzzier than ever and their industrial landscapes are carefully fuelled by banks of electronics and loops all peppered with French sensibilities. At times it seems they have a fondness for Spacemen 3 as they drive their instrumentals with occasional echoed vocals along with their trademark cut and paste energy. They get very near to the stratospheric wonder of M83 but with a curiously Mancunian flavour and cocktail of all that has gone before, in this crossover genre. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them this good.

The double bonus is that VAMPIRE WEEKEND are on early. The New Yorkers have already impressed in the MM review pages but live their funky world music is played like an indie band on a mission. They dress like Haircut 100 and splatter their sound with the sound of Paul Simon’s Graceland whilst shoving it through a Postcards Records mincer. It’s an unadulterated combination of plaid shirts and African sounds played on twangy Fenders with a cool American accent. Tracks like “Mansard Roof” drive the final point home. Indispensable stuff.

The In The City weekend wouldn’t be complete without a trip to Oldham Street’s The Castle. You’ll always find someone you know in there and tonight is of course PUNK NIGHT. Landlord Damien is a little distraught after the England team got beaten at Rugby but by way of compensation there’s an unholy yet glorious racket coming out of the back room. WAR ALL THE TIME shatter out their mortars of death punk. They’re as old as me (that’s old) but buzzing and burning with short sharp explosions of bastard hard distortions. The screams begin, the drummer is at least 55 but can hammer the kit like an 18 year old in a street fight. It’s bloody it’s fantastic and I can see the band THROUGH someone’s ears – a feat accomplished by the fact that he’s had them pierced with a couple of massive riveted rings. This is what live music and gigs are about and it’s maybe the best show so far.

MIDLAND MAYHEM

There’s time to get to the official ITC opening party. It’s a bit like a wedding reception gone wrong and there seem to be some women in there who seem to be bewildered by the event and who seem to be ‘looking for business’ if you know what I mean. But more importantly THE XCERTS are on and impressive everyone pretty convincingly with their EMO tinged songs that sound like a very early Snow Patrol – it works and they have a definite angst that shines through their better moments.

DAVID FORD (www.myspace.com/davidford) has his trademark hat on and his limp piano led songs seem to suit the ‘Ambassadors’ reception. Tiresome it is too with it’s trendy song writing and all too chirpy musings. A big push is on for Ford, but the effort would probably be best engaged in tipping his CD stock into the nearest canal. Awful stuff for some (i.e. me).

There’s then a further 4 hour session where I end up talking (not drinking as it’s nearly £5 a pint) in the hotel bar until 4.45am with maybe the threat of the odd fight with a crappy London magazine in the offing as a highlight – their representative here is some weirdo who seemed to be joking about being ‘interested in kids’ and some joker who is in his own words “ the best writer of his generation..” who are these people? …details available only verbally…!

JonMM

Where was I? Oh yeah, The Witch And The Robot. Where the hell do you go from there? How about two more back-to-back delights from the outer edges of music... yes please.

Time for another mad dash across town for a rendezvous with some of the MM crew in the Bay Horse basement. I've missed SAY but would like to point out that the picture disc vinyl Jay is showing people is one of the most beautiful things ever. Half the people here are faces from other local bands or underground nights, and there's one good reason for it; Laymar.

They take an age to plug in, bits of wire and fixing tape pile high across the small stage; there are technical difficulties, but then as Laymar probably have more things to go wrong than the Space Shuttle we'll forgive them. Their set starts quietly, the first sheets of analogue and digital soundscape competing with a crowd babble, but then there's that moment when it all clicks in and the next twenty minutes are lost to Planet Laymar. Three silent silhouettes work their magic against a backdrop of Russian words and red light; twisting and turning alongside the towers of beautifully bleak post-rock that strike out into every corner of your consciousness. It builds and builds, as delay-heavy guitars float across the icy vistas from the electronics; drums crash like the weather closing in and deep bass trembles. When they reach the peak it's like Ulrich Schnauss meets 65daysofstatic meets the distorted echoes of some Blade Runner parallel universe; the peak lasts for five, ten minutes; there is no time here. Then it all disintegrates, beautifully; there's a hole in one of the cymbals and it's thrown into the drumkit like some funeral pyre, and... fade out. Breathe.

I need more of this, I don't want to watch another indie schmindie band or nice folky sort; across town again, checking the time, and down the stairs into South just in time for Restlesslist. Last time I saw this band was mid-afternoon on Brighton pier during May's Great Escape festival where I wrote of "a wonderfully eclectic stream of psychedelic shape-shifting lunacy full of warped keyboard sounds, samples and distortion; snatches of tune here and there sound like old B-movie or cop-show themes being played by aliens on whatever they found on landing". Needless to say the pensioners in for their fish and chips looked a bit scared. On that occasion they featured Brighton's favourite floating band members Tom White (Brakes / Electric Soft Parade) and Phil Sumner (Actress Hands / British Sea Power); tonight they don't - must be the touring team from that particular deep squad system - but they're just as deranged. Or indeed pissed, as twiddler-of-interesting-looiking-stuff Ben admits. Put simply, this is eclectic and multi-dimensional post-rock wearing some extremely dodgy knitwear. In more detail... well... think Postal Service, 65daysofstatic and that deliciously weird stuff Maps stick on B-sides to scare people who like them for the nice tunes, stir it all up, and then turn it inside out. There are pretty much no boundaries here - sounds seem to make themselves. One minute they're in abstract psych-territoryand the next it's all taken a sharp Z-bend into squelchy acid bass-heavy dub. It's really hard to tell whether they know exactly what they're doing or have absolutely no idea at all. Either way it's bloody fantastic.

They even give me a copy of their forthcoming album (review to follow in a week ot two on MM), apologising that it's really sticky. It is, as well. By the time I have put my brain back in it's too late to make it to Rusholme in time for Heads we Dance at saki, so apologies all round there. I've been running around all day and there's another band on here, Post War Years. The guide mentions London, electro-indie and, more worryingly, "funky spunk rock" - but hey, you never know...

There are some jittery beats, pointy stabs of guitar and a classic funk organ, but it's all rather spoilt by horrible yelpy vocals and a distinct lack of tunes. Now I know this might make little sense coming from someone who's head's been gleefuly stuffed full of Restlesslist's disordered approach to just about everything, but if you're going to play funk electro indie (or indeed spunk rock) it does help to have some. And there's a cloying uber-trendiness about it all. I've been out for ten hours, I've got work tomorrow... I can't be arsed.

http://www.myspace.com/laymarmusic
http://www.myspace.com/restlesslist
http://www.myspace.com/thempostwaryears

Cath Aubergine. About to go out again...

PS. Loads loads more photos in the Bucket - see http://s12.photobucket.com/albums/a215/MMinthecity/

Ohh Err - I'm out of sequence and I'm still writing about Saturday - shame on me - so blimey- I’m going to have to squeeze this in before Cath and Meg get even more of their ace fly-on-the-wall coverage in.

Well these notes here, are still being written inside the confines of The Bridgewater Hall and this time John Robb turns up in the biggest white leather beetle crushers in town. Danny McNamara has also popped in and is making sure that The Aftershow is becoming the well oiled, brilliantly mastered event it is, with an impressive support team and even a small stall set up in the entrance area.

John’s our compère for an open mic event – the formula ? : names in a box and Mr Robb pulls them out – if the act are here, they play – if not they’ve “pissed on their chance” as Mr R so directly put it. There’s a lot to crunch through here, so I’ll get right to it..

I can tell you now that the best band in this session are actually the first folks on on. OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT (www.myspace.com/officialsecretsact ) look good and sound great – they’ve plugged into the practice amp backline and they rattle out a speeded up mix of brash, slightly dark but jolly pop – they sound ten times better than their demos too. Very highly recommended.

GEKKO are next and their soaring stadium rock doesn’t quite transfer to a naked acoustic outing – the vocals do shine through well enough on their track “Cardigan Boys” which has the benefit of some smart harmonica parts.

BACKSEAT ANGEL come out with their boy band acoustica and they’re dressed like they’ve just been sacked from either The Towers Of London or Razorlight. The guitar playing is poor but the singer is pretty compelling. From Newcastle and not a completely wasted journey.

NATIVE STATE has struck lucky and got her demo played and now has a chance to display her deep, dynamic range- it’s genuinely emotive and quite captivating.

GARY WALKER is from Sheffield act SUBNOVA and he has a really interesting Chris Cornell kind of voice – it’s strong confident and expressive as the definite Seattle flavouring takes hold.

DANIEL RAY plays “Here Comes The Light” which runs a parallel to Springstein but with a muted energy – it’d sound good with a full band, but his song doesn’t half go on a bit.

ANDY RUDDY is from BRADFORD and plays in STRAYS – he’s got the best individual voice of the day and despite borrowing a pink guitar that has a loose strap he overcomes any obstacles easily. Watch out for him and Strays.

STOP DROP AND ROLL struggled in the demo sessions but still persist in hammering out an acoustic number. It’s too soon and they’re not ready, as proved by a rusty, rough arsed performance. The vocals thankfully are decent but much more rehearsal and practice please.

Time is running ( as Matt from Muse once said ) – this time it’s the Robbster calling the shots and with just a handful of slots left and about 30 names left in the box he picks the next act because one of them is wearing a pair of particularly aggressive white winkle pickers. It’s those REDSTAR REBELS who look like Motley Crue after a night out on the piss. They collared me last night and gave me a flyer and made sure I knew when they were playing over the weekend – good luck to them. Musically it IS L.A. Boulevard rock and roll. They struggle with just two acoustics, their little spindly drainpipe treasured legs sticking out the bottom and their big hair (or hat in this case) jammed over the top. Rawk & Roll, but with of course a “shush” factor.

Another act to watch out for are HARRISON DRIVE. Their stuff is a little bit BoyBand/McFly and of course it’s stripped down. But with two guitars they pull off the best dynamics and come armed with a fantastic singer. It’s very impressive and these young stars certainly have some very sign-able qualities - and neatly avoid anything that’s too cheesy.

SARAH GRIFFIN (www.myspace.com/sarahgriffinmusic) is from Bournemouth and has a song called “Alley Cat” – it’s interesting with a cosmopolitan slant and her voice is as flighty as it is accurate. I’m not too sure about the slightly jazzy shuffles and whether her songs are as robust as they should be.

SEVILLA is some crazy woman from Newcastle who gets up and sings A Cappella - but whilst having a decent voice perhaps struggles with the kind of thing that only Sharon Osborne or Simon Cowell should put up with.

DARNELL is next and to be fair he’s also struggling to impressive even on what seems home territory as he ably strums his acoustic guitar. His brand of soul and funk blues are ok but there’s nothing in there to make you really want to listen.

Apologies to two separate girls whose names weren’t announced clearly when they played (most of the acts were loosely announced but I managed to chase after the acts and ask them). The girl with the pink guitar was I think Irish and sang rather wonderfully. The second girl was the last on and did a bit of rrriot grrl acoustica - nice attitude but no tunes unfortunately.

So at this point I’ve been in the Bridgewater for six and a half hours – part three of the Saturday missive comes next – plus there’s a separate item on pay to play which raised it’s head during a BITC panel today – in an ironic twist that revealed that the panel condemned practice, was ironically a main part of the BITC live program. Oops.

But more to follow…

Staying off the beaten track, next stop is The Attic where another of Manchester's largely unsung and tireless promoters SA Promotions are custodians of an eclectic little bill. Girl Afraid have a nice line in abrasive, emo-flavoured punk-pop-indie fronted by the amazing little powerhouse that is Tara Kidd. Assertive, melodic and wracked with emotion when singing and sweetly shy in between times, she's at her best on the "experimentally one" "Numb" which sounds like a reverb-soaked PJ Harvey; the lads in the band are pretty tight too, but I suspect they might have to get used to Tara getting the lion's share of the attention.

Now I was delighted to see Cohesion's name on one of the official showcase lists after spending about two years wondering why more people haven't cottoned on to their simple brilliance - this isn't it, but if they play the way they just did today it should stand them in very good stead. There's no frills here, no gimmicks, just four lads with three of the greatest Northern indie-pop-rock tunes you'll hear anywhere this weekend. Which is not to say there's anything wrong with the rest of the set - all their songs are good, but three are just upliftingly heartwarmingly great. "Paper Scissors Stone" sees Andrew O'Hara in pensive, nostalgic mode; this band's always been about the words as much as the tunes. "Behind Closed Doors" sees some beautiful searing guitar work from Kevin McPhillips and the final "Can't Ignore" is bordering on anthemic. They're probably never going to appear on anyone's Cool List, butwith the right backing they could win a lot of hearts.

At this point I break my own rule and treat myself to the first taxi ride of the weekend. Look, the King's Arms is a really long way from here... On arrival I find a friendly little fringe party in full swing, a barbecue in the beer garden and a delightfuly chilled atmosphere. This is Underneath The Trees and Borowski would be pleased with the complete lack of idiots here, too. Actualy it seems he did a stint here before the Garratt.

There's more foliage around the two stages than British Sea Power's entire autumn 2003 tour (and I should know, I went to, er, most of it...) - downstairs Kamal Arafa and friends (including the biggest double-bass ever... well at least it looks like it... or are they all the same size? No idea) are doing some slightly wayward folky indie-country. Despite looking about 17 he sings of love and having been skint for years, but there are just too many people cramming in and out to really appreciate him. Upstairs then, wheer something far more sinster awaits...

The Witch And The Robot are no strangers to foliage, being (a) from Cumbria and (b) associates of the aforementioned British Sea Power (they're promoting and supporting at the Brighton-based Lakeland ex-pats' forthcoming gig at Barrow-inFurness Canteen on 6th November, with a third dose of Cumbrian insanity from Wild Beasts - well worth fighting with the M6 for; and even stick on "Fear Of Drowning" over the PA before they come onstage. Attempting to capture the experience that is a TWATR performance in mere words is a bit like trying to interview margarine, in Finnish, but I'll have a go.

There are three men onstage; one has a string of real sausages around his neck, one a pink feather boa and the third is covered in shaving foam. Behind them a screen shows images of a man in a papier mache face mask - think a far more disturbing Frank Sidebottom - running around a field of sheep and hiding behind rocks. They start chanting, slowly; "Fight! Fight! Fight!", and then unleash a form of art punk folk psychedelia-gone-dark that has precisely no comtemporaries in modern music or indeed anything else. One minute they're a mildly threatening Violent Femmes doing film noir soundtracks, the next an acoustic goth Fall with the scariest sounding flute you've ever heard. These comparisons are still pretty wide of the mark. "Everyone on the farm is dead", they intone in low voices. At which point papier mache head man wanders through the door and starts waving a small sprig of leaves in peoples' faces. Feather boa and flute and jumps down from the stage and wrestles him to the ground. This is Mr. Heartbreak, and you might well have nightmares. The three men onstage, by the way, are Mr. Venice, Mr. Goodnight and Hen. They throw the content of a packet of Werthers Originals into the crowd, without really making much of a point of it. By the end, pretty much everyone is standing aghast whilst Mr Heartbreak crawls around and picks up the remaining sweets. They really have to be seen to be believed; afterwards I go and ask the Fugitive Motel ladies, seeing them for the first time, what they thought of them. It's a good few seconds before either of them can actually form a word. Truly one of the performances of the weekend.

http://www.myspace.com/wearegirlafraid
http://www.myspace.com/cohesionuk
http://www.myspace.com/kamalarafa
http://www.myspace.com/thewitchandtherobot

Cath "Beware the creatures from the hills" Aubergine

Question: does orange VK constitute one of your "five a day"?

Up in the North East they know a thing or two about drinking (at least if my own Geordie mates are anything to go by); thus the annual Spearhead ITC NE showcase is accompanied by a free bar for delegates. At, er, 1pm. This "morning"'s gentle ease into wakefulness is accompanied by the sparkling acoustic melodies of the oddly-named Beth Jeans Houghton. Sweet introspective folk with a few childhood lyrical references is the order of the day from this tiny blonde teenager, more Ladies Of The Canyon than Hoxton birds - sounds familiar? Yep, doesn't she know she's on Lucy And The Caterpillar's home patch here? Oh, and her probably-gets-ID'd-at-bars youth and barely-there babydoll dress yields an overheard conversation between two late-middle-aged male delegates at the bar which I'd be tempted to name and shame if their passes hadn't been dangling back-to-front.

The Chapman Family have some faintly scary stuff on their Myspace and T-shirts proclaiming "We Are Not A Cult", although the singer's own simply states "Middles Fuckin Boro" - presumably in any hapless hack still using the N word can expect to see the head of the family pet in a box, or something... nah, they're not that scary at all really. They are very bloody good. With a level of energy rarely seen anywhere at half one on a Sunday afternoon they chuck out fast, furious slithers of window-rattling postpunk with one foot in Maximo power-indie and the other in Interpol blackness, darkened further by assertive halfway-to-goth vocals and a cloamouring mass of hardcore drums. "Hope you're enjoying the free bar, you cunts" - yep, predictably the back of the venue's somewhat fuller than the front, but this just makes them play harder, faster, angrier; screw the free bar, this is what someof us are here for. By the end of their brutally short and icecubes-down-the-back invigorating set there are drumsticks flying everywhere, guitars rammed into the floor and swaet splattering off this exciting young band. Quality stuff. Er, where you from again?

It's like a conveyor belt; with barely time to nip out for a fag before the next act is paraded before the still rather too disinterested crowd... what's this... ah, right, I get it. We seem to be alternating "nice" and "nasty" here. Uncle Monty are Nice. The flyer promises "melodic, powerful loveliness; songs that will just stay in your head forever". Er, whose head, exactly? Cos yeah, they strum some pleasing tunes with all the chords in the right age-old order, they've probably got a few records by The La's and The Shins and loads of other bands with nice tunes, and transiently they're enjoyable enough but frankly if I do find myself with one of their songs in my head in half an hour's time, never mind next week or "forever", it'll be down to some sort of government mind-control plot. This is music to wash your car to whilst cheerfully greeting your neighbour with a view to borrowing his strimmer. When the singer apologises for "the distortion on that last one" I think that says it all really.

This gets me thinking. Can all bands be divided into those who apologise for distortion and those who turn it up? I reckon The Eye Jab would be in the latter camp, anyway; their "thing" is dreamy, stargazey melodies with all sorts of unexpected little twists of post-rock undercurrent. On the one hand, twinkly piano and vocals that swoop and dive; on the other, piles of guitars crashing all over it and climbing into stirring peaks like iLiKETRAiNS on Prozac or an indie-pop Arcade Fire; somewhat predictably, I rather like them.

By now I'll have missed Tim And Sam's Tim And The Sam Band With Tim And Sam's published set time at the Walkabout, but I'm rather banking on it all running as late as it usually does there. It is. Bargain. Timspotters note: this is the three-piece variant, although between them they slip seamlessly between two acoustic guitars, keyboard, glockenspiel, clarinet and melodica, floating their gorgeous dreamy melodies across this most inappropriate of surroundings. This is the sound of flowers opening, of summer on the breeze, of brightly coloured stars; the clarinet somehow eerie and welcoming at the same time as the guitars stitch a delicate tapestry. Yes, I know, but you try writing about this without getting all flowery. It's just really fucking gorgeous, and whilst some quarters have lamented the lack of local bands at the official showcases this year Tim And Sam's Tim And The Sam Band With Tim And Sam are something Manchester has every reason to be proud of.

The one good thing about the Walkabout - apart from, strangely, better sound quality than some "proper" venues I could mention - is the nachos. Right, if I have the guacamole and the jalapenos, is that two (more) of my "five a day"?

Next up are The Tommys, and... nope, that's definitely three blokes. The Official Secrets Act, to be precise; sat on stools and explaining they'll be playing "with the full band" on Monday (As indeed will Tim & Sam - do drummers have some work-to-rule thing involving Sundays or something?) The problem with blokes sat in a line on stools with guitars is it rather sets off the Del Amitri alarms - and that's before they start whistling. A tad unfair, sorry; their tunes are full of hooks and heartfelt lttle lifts - in this form, at least, they're reminiscent of the early Tides, particularly with the high pitch of Thomas Charge Burke's vocal (Look, that's what it says here. I don't make these peoples' weird middle names up for a laugh, you know). Quite why they cover The Ronettes' "Be My Baby" though is anybody's guess.

You might be wondering why I was so keen to see The Tommys - three reasons, really. Firstly cos they wrote to me a while back and asked me to, and I do actually try and see bands who've made the effort to get in touch, unless they're quite obviously not worth the effort. Secondly, because I once saw them in a previous line-up blasting seven shades of punk rock hell out of a High Voltage night peppered with sad boys who didn't like it. And thirdly because some of them are from Crewe, a complete shit-hole where I nevertheless spent two of the best years of my life at college (attaining five A-levels of a calibre that strongly suggests I used to have a hell of a lot more brain cells than I seem to have these days - as well as publishing my first fanzine) and I've still got a vague soft spot for the place. Anyway, looks like it's not happening, so having managed to have dinner without missing any music it's time to head back away from Peter Street to the fringe of the fringe, namely BUSK at the Garratt. It seems I've missed Nomad Jones's set, but am pleased to report that his hair is now the size of a small tree...

Whilst we await what sounds like possibly not very good news regarding the fate of my beloved Second Floor, their spot on the bill is filled by The Witches. Some of whom we think might have been in New Graffiti and indeed Movement, the latter equipped with a quite terrifying Mexican bandit 'tache. This is apparently their first ever gig and they rock up a lovely filthy garage goth rock'n'roll racket that probably isn't best suited to four o'clock in the afternoon. Go and see them somewhere dark and dirty sometime.

The main reason I'm here, of course, is to catch one of my favourite living legends in action. This is the second of three performances of the day from George Borowski and as ever the veteran singer-songwriter has a couple of things to say about the sort of people who come to ITC and never make it off the Peter Street strip where they stand and talk at the bar in various places on someone else's money. Quite simply, this man is made of music, and his tendency to stop songs part way through to try and emphasise a point is just part of that. He's had a tough year; his beloved mother passed away in May just a day after we saw him absolutely captivate a crowd at Strummercamp punk festival; her photo sits on his amp. And there seems to be a certain pain in his voice still, as his heart-wrenching folk ballads bring people close to tears. the word "troubadour" is often ussed undeservingly. but as George sings of the 53 bus and the streets of this town it's like he carries the spirit of the place within his very soul. And here, in a sidestreet pub where everyone has to muck in with their three quid delegate or not it's a warm reminder that whilst there might well be a Music Industry, music itself runs deeper than that.

Fellow BUSK regulars Optional Wallace are on next (the alternating stage set-up leaving little chance to catch your breath) - this is terse, powerful and ever-so-slightly doom-laden indie rock, administered with that tautness you only get in a three-piece. the Manchesters past in their sound are those of Magazine, early Chameleons, imposing waether formations over crumbling brickwork - but there's a soaring indie-rock sensibility too in their urgent songs. And, of course, they've got an utterly fantastic name.

I'd love to stay longer, but I've got somewhere pretty important to be... more follows shortly (my typing fingers are definitely starting to hurt!)

Cath Aubergine

http://www.myspace.com/bethjeanshoughton
http://www.myspace.com/thechapmanfamily
http://www.myspace.com/unclemontyband
http://www.myspace.com/theeyejab
http://www.myspace.com/timandsamstimandthesambandwithtimandsam
http://www.myspace.com/officialsecretsact
http://www.myspace.com/optionalwallace
http://www.myspace.com/georgeborowski

Walking up and down Peter Street this weekend has provided many opportunities to hear Twisted Wheel mentioned. Indeed, as I headed for Bar 38, various snippets of overheard Southern mutterings reminded me that I really should make the effort to see the band being heralded as this year’s Big Deal. A swift about-turn took me to One Central, where I had the unexpected pleasure of Eugene Francis Jnr, adjusting his Village People headdress as I arrived…

When 600 different bands and artists play over the course of three days, it’s important to stand out. It’s possible that this was the reason for Eugene Francis Jnr’s Red Indian feathers, and it may go some way to explaining the Captain America shield he had strapped to his forearm, but he may just like to look like he survived an explosion in a fancy dress shop. Either way, he was really rather good. His skills on the acoustic guitar did not stand out in such an over-populated genre, but as he switched between two microphones his songwriting talent emerged. One mic echoed the yearning mid-Atlantic twang across the busy venue, while the other allowed for some gentle crooning, and he moved between the two frequently. Apparently, Francis normally plays with a six-piece backing band, but half of them were either ill or abroad or (I imagine) working on new costumes, so missing instruments were replaced by the banging of feet and subtle whooping. His final song, introduced as a “political one”, featured many apt lines, including “Keane and Snow Patrol are going straight to Hell” and “Don’t take tips from pricks in suits”. It was only when he threw in a line about Manchester’s weather that we began to consider the possibility that Eugene Francis Jnr was using these inflammatory lyrics to demonstrate a strain of reserved anarchy.

By the time Twisted Wheel arrived onstage, all cat-swinging contests were off, and a whole collection of folk had positioned video cameras and flash bulbs everywhere you looked. A local trio, they are one of a few bands giving new hope to Manchester’s lad-rock contingent, as A&R hoards trip over each other to take a look. And going off tonight’s performance, Twisted Wheel could take off, if only because The Jam, Oasis and The Arctic Monkeys have all taken off before them, and Twisted Wheel are but a Best Of compilation of their predecessors’ triumphs. “Painting pictures of life/Caught in the strife” could be the chorus to any track from Definitely Maybe, while there are no points for guessing where the inspiration behind “He’s a scamming man” came from. Frontman Jonny warrants a new birth certificate reading Liam Turner-Weller, but while his lyrics are the correct mixture of poetic and blue collar, they lack the dry wit of the Arctics. Putting criticism aside though, it quickly became clear that Twisted Wheel are very bloody good at ripping people off. Jonny is a fine guitarist, and the band have made excellent use of their rehearsal time. Fuck-ups aren’t welcome in this operation, and if nothing else, they may just remind us tired old cynics why bands like Oasis were so brilliant in the first place.

It took a shocking amount of time to escape One Central and its headache lighting, which was all the more frustrating as I had a bus to catch. “In The City”, you say? Not quite. Looking further down the weekend’s listings revealed a must-see event; the Out Of The City fringe gig at Heaton Moor’s Blue Cat Café. I have joked about these provincial venues being “the bars that time forgot” and that was before I arrived at the Blue Cat to find AC/DC onstage…

Wired Desire didn’t quite wear school uniforms, but they certainly channelled the spirit of Bon Scott like pros. Having thrown themselves whole-heartedly into recreating a classic rock sound, tight jeans and sleeveless shirts created the look to match, and I expect if any of them decided to get a haircut, their days in Wired Desire would be numbered. That said, they were blisteringly good. I mean, they were scorching, face-melting, super-charged, awesome rock’n’rollers. With a frontman who combined all the best stadium postures from Axl Rose and Robert Plant with a penetrating screech, no-one could argue that the performance was lacking. Shoegaze, this was not. Various galloping Mick Ronson guitar solos and a riotous encore of, naturally, ‘Whole Lotta Rosie’, caused much lamenting of the fact that it was not Wired Desire, but George bloody Michael who opened the new Wembley.

It was Jake Mattison who had really drawn the crowds to this dim corner of Stockport though, his fanbase having grown since he’s fleshed out singer-songwriter material into a full band sound. Some devotees (or perhaps just me) were a little nervous of this new electric direction, having fallen in love with earlier growling acoustic blues, but tonight’s show proved that the rasping soul of Mattison’s voice has only been bolstered by the addition of brass and a raucous rhythm section. ‘Idle Protest’, a long-standing live staple, was akin to something from Tom Waits’ The Mule Variations; bombastic cornet that will make you punch the air with glee mere moments after your dog is dead and your home repossessed. Encouraging his audience with a yell of “Are you all ready for some melancholy?!” ‘Dirty Old Town’ was reason enough to grab your loved ones and sway gently like a Top Of The Pops studio audience, but it was when the band fell into something only a few degrees of separation from a jam session that their infectious exuberance really spread the love. Jutting guitar necks into the crowd and getting more than a little carried away on the drum kit, Jake Mattison and his band proved that you don’t need to look like Tommy Lee in order to rock the f**k out.

I tell you, I needed the journey home just to calm myself down again.

Meg MM.

Bloody hell, that Control’s a bit of a party-killer, isn’t it? I thought I’d enter into the spirit of In The City as it operates beyond Peter Street’s basement venues, and check out one of the related films being offered at the Cornerhouse. Control was everything that a film about Ian Curtis’s life should be of course; poignant, touching, sobering, funny in places, and with no shortages of references to the swamping banality of Macclesfield. (Just so you know, I’m allowed to say that because it’s my hometown. If anyone else dares diss the place they’ve got a fight on their hands and I’ve seen The Karate Kid, so know the meaning of real damage…)

Back to the music though, and this morning took me to the recently refurbished Ruby Lounge. The PA system could launch a satellite, but at half past one on a Sunday afternoon, there weren’t many punters to soak up its power. Not discouraged, The Fischers requested a nice bit of blue lighting and commenced the pub-rock. If nothing else, the bass was loud enough to shake me into some semblance of life. A four-piece with occasional saxophone, they were the kind of band who would happily buy you a pint down at your local, but are probably more suited to a game of darts than the world’s rock-n-roll stages. They played a vigorous hybrid of Ocean Colour Scene and the Lightning Seeds, but offered about as much innovation as a Paint By Numbers canvas. The saxophone should have elevated the show to a more bombastic, ska-flavoured bounce, but its use was minimal, and far too quiet. Also, the slightly strained vocals of their lead singer were surpassed by the bassist’s backing and big “no, no, no, no” moment. Methinks the job of frontman was decided with an arm wrestle.

Despite being but a quiet wee soul, it was Kathryn Edwards who really lifted energy levels, with a ukulele of all things. Her voice is exactly how I imagine I sound in the shower of a morning, and its jazz stylings on ‘Sway’ or when she elongates “killer” to be more of a “killerrr-errrr-errrr” were a wonderful tonic after all than bone-shaking from The Fischers. After a couple of songs with trusty acoustic guitar, she exposed her vulnerability with gentle plucking of the uke. By letting her voice shine with such minimal backing, Kathryn Edwards conveyed a gorgeous fragility. Great stuff.

Clipe Sexo Amador is another of your one man bands whose electro-funk singer-songwriter fare has been encouraged by the continual development of musical technology. With a backing track inspired by everything from Prince to White Town (remember him?), he lurched about with a guitar, just about managing to uphold a sense of musicianship, but this man’s expertise did not lie in his manipulation of bells, whistles and samplers. Clipe Sexo Amador was a world-beating lyricist who had obviously spent more time writing poems in his bedroom than making friends with any musicians. Go forth, my friend, find a band who can do musical justice to your wonderful rhymes about self-worth and writing fiction. That said, I imagine that at half eleven on a Friday night, these funkadelic move-busters could fill a rave the size of an aircraft hangar. Sadly, early on a Sunday afternoon was not his natural home.

Pictures on the photobucket account!

Meg MM.

The enemy so far isn’t poison or intoxication, but rather the more painful and draining curse of sleep deprivation. With so much to see and experience the writing up bit, is actually the part that seems to take the longest.

With an early rise and a ride on the tram, at this time populated by pensioners and crack of dawn shoppers, the train cuts through the mist of north Manchester’s cold but sun filled morning. The mission is to be at the opening of Break In The City at The Bridgewater Hall. For my sins I’d been asked to sit on the demo panel. It’s a proper top table, with microphones and everything. A bit like a press conference for say a football manager about to relay some rather bad news to ardent fans. Except I’m not Stuart Pearce and things, I hope are rosier these days.

Even at this time, the large reception area begins to fill with musicians and people who’ve travelled from London, Cambridge, Edinburgh, Newcastle, Huddersfield – that’s just some of the hometowns of the people that I just happened to get speaking to.

The plots pretty simple – the bands present submit their demo and it’s played over the p.a. and the panel offer their views – in a pretty democratic fashion, the artist is also given a microphone!

Here’s some of my comments – nerve wrackingly relayed via the big speakers …

HUN PILGRAMIGE (www.hoonmusic.com) – a pleasing tune from South Korea (they’d actually travelled over!) – using traditional instruments , piano and modern electronica the bass booms into a beautiful vocal passage. Spacey. Ambient and rather nice. MMM

THE GLORIOUS YANG (www.myspace.com/thegloriousyang ) come up with a quite ravey, dance outing that’s pretty commercial – not that different from anything out there but competent. MM

EPIPHANY also begin their cut with an electronic rock mix of stadium bound stuff – a bit like Marillion playing industrial goth, but it’s a little too heavy and laboured and doesn’t seen to get its wheels off the ground. MM

JASON DUNKLEY AND THAT GIRL SUE (Manchester / www.myspace.com/jasondunkley ) come up with a song that’s a little bit obvious but overcomes this with a great vocal and some really well defined acoustic arrangements. The harmonies are very pretty and it’d be good to hear this band experimenting a bit more. They’re also congratulated for having the best band name so far. MMM

THE MANYANAS have the best overcoats – we’re talking centre pages of The Face here – They’re from Oldham and kick off the song with a drum intro and clatter of indie falling down the stairs. It whips up into an exciting, energetic three minute hit with poppier Clash style thrashes. Good stuff. MMMM

THE UNDERCLASS (www.myspace.com/theunderclassmusic ) I’m ashamed to say were immediately devalued by me on sight of their name and pictures. This was going to be the sound of Oasis. And it was - but I’m not one to piss on someone’s dreams and despite that ‘classic’ Manc stereotypical sound this was the sound of a band who could actually play and who had a singer who could hold his own and who was just about different enough to warrant another listen. If this kind of stuff actually does justify a genre then it’s pretty high up in it.

SKETCHBEAT came up with something that was a little bit dubby, post-jazz with a dash of Portishead in it - but it don’t move me enough to write much else about it – it’s one of those that needs a fairly good listen, which a one minute sample doesn’t allow. MM ½

THE FUSILIERS ( www.myspace.com/wearethefusiliers) are from Edinburgh and put their CD in a simple black and white sleeve with a smart A4 copied PR sheet. It did exactly what was needed and was a perfect example of how to present a simple demo. Musically this was the best CD of the bunch. A full review will follow too on the MM pages. For now let’s say it was a rousing bout of choppy, hooklined strongly fuzzed indie rock akin to something like The Enemy but refreshingly less polished. Excellent. MMMM

STOP DROP AND ROLL (www.myspace.com/stopdropandrolltheband) are another local band and their quite long intro has the feeling of something like Tubular Bells played through bargain basement guitars. The recording and performance are a little dull but there is plenty of promise from what seems to be a first band effort. MM

LADY MUCK (www.myspace.com/ladymuckband ) show plenty of promise too. They muck around with the timings and mix in classical guitar riffs with random indie rock quotes. Apparently the rest of the CD has a vastly different array of styles but as a taster this shows a skilful display of a band trying to break at least a little of the convention. MMM ½

NATIVE STATE I’ve heard before (www.myspace.com/nativestate) and this CD has the vocals of a very talented woman indeed. Musically it suffers like many of the tracks so far, in that the tunes aren’t pushing the singer’s abilities to quite the extent they could. But it’s more than compensated for by a very entertaining singing range. MMM ½

GEKKO are back too ! With a track from their current EP, “Flags” is a bright anthem from this young Manchester band – a full review can be heard on MM from its previous release date.

BASHPELT (www.bashphelt.com) look every inch the pop stars (they were featured on T4’s Popworld a while back) and their jazzy funky pop is just the stuff for mums and girlfriends to dance to down at their next gig – They’re from the Lancs town of Barnoldswick which for those who live North of Lancaster is like Cheshire but smaller, poorer,wetter and higher up. Very well executed. MM ½

LIONS TIGERS & BEARS is a fantastic band name but sadly the proceedings seem a little slow despite a firm vocal. The voice is right up front and centre but seems slightly unsure at times. Better production may well seal the deal on this. MM

DOGHOUND (www.myspace.com/doghound316 ) provided a poor recording and budget / biro sleeve that looked a bit dog-eared (no pun intended). The voice mumbles and is almost invisible within the mix – which only includes an acoustic guitar, ham fistedly rattling out a mundane song that’s not even in tune. Shocking stuff and the guy was actually just looking for band members. Go listen to “This Dark”. M

THE COMFORT (www.myspace.com/thecomfortuk ) are an ageing but pleasant country band from London but if you like Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton and Wilco you might like this folky pub music. Clean, lean classic stuff. MMM

LIGHT SYNDICATE didn’t have any contact info inside which is always a bad move, especially if you’re submitting something to a demo panel. It’s indie pop tumbling over a bed of folky influences. Nice but not overwhelmingly great. MM ½

DARREN TOMLYN has been working on the 50 minute soundtrack opus of “Excalibur” for over nine years and he’s brought it along today – finished !. With just a minute to go on, he seems to have written a classical score performed on synths (he couldn’t afford an orchestra) and it did sound pretty impressive – hard to tell but it looks like Tomlyn has a talent. MMM

Local outfit (previously of Lancaster) BEAT THE RADAR don’t have a great recording but they have absolute bucket loads of ideas and a bleak armoury of brooding anthems that combine post-rock with crashing beats and distortions. It proves that if you’re good, even a dodgy demo won’t be a barrier – keep an eye on these. MMMM

Phew ! – well after a serious review like this I’m going to have a rest. But not before mentioning that fellow panel member Alex Designer Mag tried to fix the random selection of CDs by asking for EL POLICIA to be the last demo played –in the end the CD was faulty and wouldn’t play, much to the amusement of the panel chair who took the rip out of Mr McCanns quote “nepotism gone wrong” !

A fantastic panel which I thoroughly enjoyed thanks to Break In The City – a big thanks to the bands who came over to me later and gave me CDs, asked for advice (I hope I was adequate!) and who just said hello – remember these are just one blokes opinions – to all of you unsigned people out there – good luck.

Coming up in Saturday Part 2 – the open Mic event at the Bridgewater – 15 live acts go under my knife in a fantabulous event hosted by John Robb

– In Part 3 it’s the live bands , gossip comments and how things got very messy – indeed…

JonMM

Afternoon becomes night. We have apparently not won something sport related.. Knuckle-walking animals are swaggering and spilling their anger (bag of sweets for the first person to spot where I robbed that line from) - they've got nothing on Centro's bouncers though. I arrive to be greeted with tales of chaos and extremely disrespectful treatment of promoters and band members by those employed to keep such behaviour outside. That said, it is absolutely rammed in there and I have to kill four people to get down the stairs (er, joke).

Air Cav are absolutely playing out of their skins. The sheer power created by this four-headed engine of psych-folk-indie-space-rock could keep a small village going for a week; I'm hanging onto the wall during "Branches" watching a sea of tightly-packed delight, singing along as Sophie's glorious violin sounds sweep across the driving rhythms, and singer Chris piles on the passion whilst being apparently eaten by his hair. The new one still doesn't have a title and still sounds ike the greatest song New Order ever wrote being administered by a rocket-powered Hope Of the States. Performances like this simply go to prove that they stand a country mile above pretty much ay other band in this town. By the time they finish on a colossal-sounding "Alliance" there are people flinging their arms round each other down the front, heads cramming through the spaces on the packed staircase and fire regulations well and truly bulldozed. I suspect that this marks the end of any relationship between these promoters and this particular venue. Good.

I mention to Meg that Julian Donkey Boy's drummer looks like Art Garfunkel. She says she's already noted this down. I can't stop though because I want to get to Dry Bar for a midnight performance by grrl-punks The Tommys; I get there to find some blokes on stage instead playing decent enough classic Northern indie with a distince Smiths-ish feel to the vocal melodies; who are they? I ask the soundman. "The Tommys". No they're not, pal. Actually they're Little Avis. Who weren't even on the list. I start to feel my brain sezing up. Best go home then; Sunday is looking like one of the busiest days in ITC history and whilst sleep is (as I frequently tell people) over-rated, a bit of it now and then's quite useful.

Cath Aubergine

Studio, AKA Late Room, is hosting the Club NME event today, so it's always interesting to see what they're pushing - we manage to catch a couple of somgs of The Beep Seals and they're really riocking out at the end of their set these days with a pretty explosive finish to the excellent "I Used To Work At The Zoo" - we'd have loved to have seen more of you, lads. This show also, rather excitingly, brings the weekend's (and indeed pretty much the year's) first sighting of local legend Dave "One Man And His Beard", previously a man with a gig attendance record to rival MM's (all of us, that is, put together) who retired to the internet sometime in early 2007.

It's been a while since I saw Tired Irie; well over a year in fact, where I was impressed by their "thrashy, demented end of post-rock; from a calm, tuneful and extended introduction echoing all those Canadian bands with beards then suddenly someone presses the 65daysofstatic button" - and bloody hell, they've changed a bit. Suppose the guide booklet's use of the new NME buzz term "puzzle pop" (what?) should've been a clue. The guitars are a long way down these days and the keyboard and percussion brought out to the fore - in fact they appear to have morphed into their sometime contemporaries Foals. Not that there's anything wrong with that; anyway my official advisor on all things Oxfordshire and post-rock tells me Foals don't sound like Foals any more anyway, so someone probably should. I can't keep up... Dance beats underpin bleep-signal guitar sounds; there's a remarkable complexity in the way the instruments and dual vocals fill each others' spaces. They do a particularly deranged version of The Creatures' "Mad Eyed Screamer" (ask your ex-goth uncle); these days, you don't stand and soak up this band, you dance your face off to them.

I've been (semi)consciously avoiding Does It Offend You, Yeah for some time on the grounds that it's a really stupid name and they wear hoods over their hats so I probably won't "get" it being some way past 20. We can't be bothered going anywhere else though - and thus witness what I'm certain should be rated one of the performances of the weekend.
They're bouncing about before they even start, frontman-of-sorts Morgan lamenting the fact that the bar won't serve him a triple rum and coke, and then they're off - except his mic's not working. This is clearly a lad who had way, way too much Sunny Delight as a kid. He stabs at a keyboard for a few seconds before seemingly getting bored with it whilst searingly loud vocoder noises blast from the speakers. Tunes are short, sharp shocks of electroblast frenzy-pop like The Beastie Boys, Shut Your Eyes And You'll Burst Into Flames and Hadouken beating you around the head with an 80s arcade game and then sticking 20,000 volts up your nervous system from behind. They possibly have less musical talent that the average amoeba, but they've got 300 ideas a minute and throw them at you from every angle. It's amusing to note the gulf developing in the crowd as this set goes on; anyone over 23 and/or wearing a delegate's pass is standing well back, some of them looking a bit scared, whilst down the front is rave moshpit mayhem with bodies flying everywhere - not least Morgan's, who seems to see the stage as something of an inconvenience. They do Devo's "Whip It" - Devo being the official old band it's OK to like if you're a glowstick-popping teenager - and it's a delicious mess. I might not fully understand it, but does it offend me? You've got to be kidding. This is what music was meant to sound like in the future and it's rather ace that it does.

http://www.myspace.com/beepseals
http://www.myspace.com/tiredirie
http://www.myspace.com/doesitoffendyou

Cath Aubergine

The next couple of hours are a little more stressful. Having started the weekend with no schedule at all, a couple of minutes in the corner of Night & Day on Friday had yielded a timetable of sorts, but it's spannered fairly early on by tecnical difficulties at Centro, where Fugitive Motel and Elah Valley have planned a quality afternoon's entertainment and I'm down for covering the first band(s) til Meg gets here. In the end she arrives just as My Side Of The Mountain start, 40 minutes behind schedule; they're sounding good but we don't really need two of us here. Then I get to Trof just in time for the last two songs of The Star Fighter Pilot's set. He's not having the best of times either; coming up against the sound limiters in this normally acoustic-only venue. Acoustic he isn't. It's always a pleasure to hear "Another Penny" though, undoubtedly one of the singles of the year even here where the daft squelchy noises have to be toned down a bit.

Liam1987 is, I presume, a 20-year-old called Liam, although it would amuse me greatly if he were actually a 23-year-old called Dave. He's also, he tells us, in a band called Downtown Rag - recently reviewed on MM by Ecostos who reported "they attract a crowd of at least 30 young girls and sound like the Coral but without any indication that they might have a hit record under their belts." The former I can understand; the latter might have been a little unkind. Solo Liam plays short but heartfelt acoustic pop tunes whose upbeat strumming is interestingly at odds with the often rather bleak lyrics, best exemplified by "Come Home James", a tribute to a friend who died set to a sprightly indie-pop-flavoured shuffle. Pretty good, actually.

He steps off the stage at 6.15pm. Red Vinyl Fur are onstage at 6.30... at PureSpace. As in behind Oxford Road station. First daft sprint of the weekend then... and... I'm... not... as... fit... as... I... used... to...be... 18:22, Piccadilly Gardens, go away shoppers... reach the bottom of the stairs just as they're plugging in. Gasp.

Dressed entirely in black and probably not hugely familiar with traditional feminine pursuits such as flower arranging, Red Vinyl Fur are the girl gang who laughed at stupid boys at the bus stop, grown up and armed with guitars. A taut salvo of caustic riffs and threatening rhythms, with the glorious foil of Chelle's sultry but tough vocals. Nadene meanwhile attacks the drums with a ferocity that would send most metal boys running home to Mummy, not least on the excellent "Slow Girl" - one can only begin to wonder, but you wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of Manchester's greatest post-Riot-Grrl alt-rockers.

There couldn't be more contrast to Eskimo Smile, who at first glance might well have been the boys tough girls laughed at at the bus stop. They start off in funky beat-driven lad-rock territory, sort of like a youth club Kasabian, but enhanced by a rather wayward garagey organ. The singer's a right cheeky little monkey too, clambering all over anything that'll take his weight (which is, well, pretty much anything). I am not known for my appreciation of indie funk rock, but I end up rather liking them. Trust me, it's really hard not to. Because half way through their set they start to go up a gear, and another; their second to last song explodes into a great big Killers-on-disco-biscuits bonkers-pop monster and their last sounds like Rage Against the Machine crossed with The Klaxons. By which point the singer and keyboard player are lying in the space in front of the stage doing press-ups and waggling their legs on the air. All in all a pretty startling turnaround and one of those performances it's a joy to have seen.

http://www.myspace.com/thestarfighterpilot
http://www.myspace.com/liamest87
http://www.myspace.com/redvinylfur
http://www.myspace.com/eskimosmile

Sadly, even roving reporters have to eat occasionally - and whilst I am quite aware this is meant to be about the music, we find ourselves robbed of a good hour of band watching time by the utterly appalling service in the Pizza Express next to the Midland. Delegates be warned; the word "Express" in the case of this franchise is basically a lie. The pizzas are really horrible too. Eventually, reeling from the unpleasant combination of legal mugging and indigestion, we make it down to Studio. Where? Oh, Late Room. Or Downstairs At Life Cafe. Except Life Cafe is now a Chicago Rock cafe. When did this happen? Anyway, we're back on track.

Cath "Right, I'm not bothering eating again this weekend" Aubergine

Cath again. Good morning. I'd like to start with a recommendation - ran into Cumbrian weirdness purveyors The Witch And The Robot somewhere last night, where they told me they were hoping to incorporate raw meat into their performance at The Kings Arms today (7pm). Is this a recommendation? Well, trust me on this, you've never quite seen anything like them...

Anyway, Saturday. You have to start the day, the first day of ITC proper, with a portion of Night & Day's chili-cheese fries. Have to. It's the Law. Onstage John Fairhurst is moving his fingers at lightning speed on a steel-front acoustic, making it sound like a race between banjos, before heading off into some Eastern-flavoured twiddling around a root note. I don't mean twiddling in a bad way; it's really rather lovely, I've just not woken up yet...

Liz Green is the first of the weekend's lone girls with guitars. There's usually quite a few, but this year the schedules are overflowing with them as unimaginative suits chase around looking for the next K*** N*** - which Liz Green most certainly isn't, thankfully. This is delicate, folky blues, sparse and spacious guitar plucking framing her evocatively English folk voice - although she does briefly break the spell to mention that she's been distracted by someone's impressive-looing breakfast. Then works it into the next song. By the end she's accompanying herself on one of those intriguing-looking fold-out wooden box type instruments... and suddenly the place is starting to fill up.

There's always one act at the Acoustic Breakfast who pulls in the crowds and this year it's New Yorker Thomas Truax, one of those people to whom the words "bonkers" and "genius" are all too frequently applied. Yep, we can see why. What the hell is that on the stage? It could conceivably be a small spinning wheel attached to the pulley system of a miniature mineshaft. It is in fact the drummer, explains the young David-Tennant-as-Dr-Who lookalike (complete with pinstripe suit and wild-eyed I've-had-four-Es-for-breakfast stare). Right. Then he starts murmuring down a gramophone horn attached to some tubing. Bet he has some fun getting that lot through airport security. Oh, and he's got a flashing light strapped round his head. It's three o'clock in the bloody afternoon...

Not surprisingly the music which emerges is basically unclassifiable; from mildly portentous proclamations to quickfire young-David-Byrne art-pop babble accompanied by what sounds like Victorian mill equipment shoved through an effects rack. I turn away for a minute or two and he's gone - surely that can't be it - but nope, he's somehow made his way to the bar and does a quick acoustic turn stood up on the corner of it. Before regaling a tale of a butterfly hitch-hiker. I don't know what the weather's like on Planet Truax but I rather fancy visiting sometime...
A bit like Night & Day's chilli-cheese fries, no ITC would be complete without a trip into the borderline chaos that is the three-stage Dry Bar. A sort of car boot sale of unsigned music, piled high and sold cheap, you do sometimes have to sort through quite a pile of rubbish in order to grab the gems but previous years have seen some of the best fringe performances of the weekend in here (the LycaSleep / Second Floor "lost afternoon" of 2004; 65daysofstatic turning the basement into the engine room of a spaceship the following year). It's already sipped behind schedule downstairs by half three but Satellites are worth the wait.

Their downbeat, chiming guitar pop might not look like much on paper but there's a streak of contemplative beauty running through their strong melodies; the faintest hint of dark-hearted country, evoking images of lost highways. "Games We Play" has a Go-Betweens melancholy close to its heart whilst "More Than You Need" recalls those other great 80s Autsralian pioneers of thoughtful indie rock The Triffids as wel as their British counterparts The Weather Prophets. Nick's vocals are laden with introspection, the tunes full of minor chords, and even when the last track rocks up a bit into more mainstream territory it's shot through with something deeper than your average mid-afternoon guitar band. I end up talking to Nick afterwards - he's never heard of the Go-Betweens.

http://www.myspace.com/lizgreenmusic
http://www.myspace.com/johnfairhurst
http://www.myspace.com/thomastruax
http://www.myspace.com/satellitesgb

Photos in the Bucket. As they say.

Slight downer of the day: following recent speculation and the grinding of the Failsworth and Moston rumour-mill, I run into Pete from The Amber Club who confirms they are no more. If you count their previous incarnations as The Flow and Scapa Flow, it's hard to remember a time when their wayward space-antics weren't part of the fabric of the local scene - all the best for whatever you do next, Astral One.

Time to go wandering then...

Cath Aubergine

My evening at Centro began with My Side Of The Mountain, a band whose use of drum machine creates blissful Postal Service atmospherics; music to crunch through snow to. Swinging between this simple electronica and a full band sound was not entirely called for though, as it’s in the sweet retro melodica that they charm their crowd, and when the crystal clear guitar rang out it was quite special.

When Little My gathered all their seventy five members together (I may have exaggerated that just a tad…) they emerged as another band from The Melodica And Glockenspiel School Of Lo-Fi Indie, but with a sublime Belle and Sebastian psyche-folk twist. A female vocalist added the Isobel Campbell factor, and although the set could easily be described as a rambling shambles, Little My made me feel all cosy inside. From Cardiff, perhaps it was their presence which attracted Radio 1’s Huw Stephens to Centro’s increasingly sweaty basement, but attention swiftly reverted to Little My’s drummer, who had strapped a tea towel to his tom. No, I don’t know why either…

Following on with, you guessed it, a healthy portion of melodica, The Search Map could be mistaken for a Scandinavian post-rock outfit during their more chilled moments, but their more chilled moments generally only came along after the drummer had broken either his sticks, his pedals, or indeed, his chair. No cutesy tea towels in this band… Some apparent technical difficulties could explain how their vocals were sadly lost, but The Search Map managed to put real power behind tunes that retained a soft, often ethereal, sound.

I think you could safely smack Wakefield’s The Old House in the face with a super-sized melodica and they wouldn’t recognise it. Here we had the first genuine rock’n’roll band of the night. No keyboard, no hippy shit, just guitar, bass, and a drum kit that looked like it needed a good life insurance policy. Alas, they began the set sounding only a smidgen more advanced than a high school punk band who once heard a NOFX album and never looked back. Gradually though, the performance became more polished, growing into a trendier mould. Echoes of The Libertines abounded, but The Old House are by no means the greatest example of the genre.

Speaking of genre, how would one describe local treasure Gideon Conn? Hiphop-folk? A lounge rapper? Acoustic funk-jazz? I’ll settle for simply Downright Excellent. His fusion of Beck and The Beastie Boys with heart-warming lyricism about romantic meals (“I chose the restaurant/You chose the part of town”) and dancing (“Introducing… the groove to the audience/The audience, this is the groove!”) could even make Girls Aloud crack a smile, while his own technique of bending knees and running on the spot could launch an whole new sub-category of exercise video. Accompanied tonight by cornet and minimal percussion, Gideon Conn struck the perfect balance between laid-back and lacing up your very best dancing shoes.

Modernaire were probably born in their dancing shoes. To the sound of Kraftwerk covering ‘Thriller’. A dark electro-pop three-piece, they featured a man looking seriously at a row of knobs and buttons, alongside two glamourpusses (one called Cruella De Mill apparently) who cooed out their simultaneously fun and menacing lyrics about committing murder and getting soaked to the skin by wet Manchester weather. Having just released an EP, they were excellently rehearsed, with choreography for ‘Bloodshed In The Woodshed’ owing clear inspirational debt to Norman Bates. Freeform jazz “bee dah dah”s (from voices with real personality) and guttural synthy whirrs made Modernaire a joy to listen to, as well as to watch…

…unlike Held By Hands. A late addition to the bill, they did an awful lot of buggering about with sound-checking only to produce a mightily senseless racket. I take my hat off to the forward-thinking musicians of this world, but playing electric guitar with a violin bow is surely only ever unpleasant. Using all the traditional instruments as well as banjo, synth and an accordion that appeared to have been shrunk in the wash, Held By Hands momentarily spiced things up with some a cappella yelling before they continued to try our patience as much as the venue’s over-zealous doormen were.

Air Cav came as welcome relief, their fanbase visibly growing with every gig. Like Gideon Conn before them, the unconventional mix of genres evident in their euphoric gypsy post-rock succeeded in sounding both epic and danceable, with the fluidity of the violin given a harder edge by Chris’s commanding vocals. Air Cav are a band who will lift your spirits and soundtrack a brilliant night out, but who might also sign you up to their direct action vigilante army if you’re not careful. An electrifying show from a captivating band.

Ending tonight’s In The City shenanigans from Elah Valley and The Fugitive Motel was Julian Donkey-Boy, but I only got as far as realising that their drummer is the spitting image of Art Garfunkel. It was time to get on the bus home to prepare for everything tomorrow will bring…

Don’t forget to keep checking back for the latest reviews from ITC 2007, and to marvel at our supremely amateur photography on the MM Photobucket album. Sadly, my camera battery ebbed away during Air Cav’s show, but if I track down Julian Donkey-Boy’s drummer again, I’ll get some evidence. Might even ask him to sing ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’…

Goodnight!

Meg MM.

Labels: In the city manchester centro elah valley fugitive motel

Right. Saturday lunchtime and I willingly made my way to the Arndale Centre. This is not normal behaviour, but then, The Bottomfeeders are not a normal band. Returning from a six month hiatus in gold lame and face paint, the customers of Virgin Megastore had never seen anything quite like it, and one suspected that there would have been a significant crowd gathered even if organisers hadn’t bothered with free wine.

Kicking off the day’s Fat Northerner and Humble Soul matinee, The Bottomfeeders are a bonkers ensemble of top hats and retro glamour, marrying demonic stares with requests for audience members to play the coconuts. Vocalist Natalie wails like Kate Bush, and has a sense of theatrics that recalls that Shakespears Sister video where the goth chick from Bananarama becomes the angel of death. The tunes are sometimes ghostly, often funky, and always bloody mental, with their redheaded bassist picking up her musical saw on several occasions, but it is plucked cello that elevates their very best song to a cool Peggy Lee groove; ‘Loretta’ was post-rock chillout jazz, and is very brilliant indeed, while ‘Science Class’ provided the invaluable opportunity for Natalie to sing their best line, “I’m eleven and life is shite!” The woman has a voice rarely heard outside of Polly Harvey’s rehearsal rooms, let alone the basement of Virgin Megastore, and the pictures (check the MM photobucket site) are proof enough that The Bottomfeeders are from Outer Space.

Mark Wilson’s wardrobe does not feature many feather boas, but his guitar genius easily made up for the fact that he looks like a heating engineer. An unassuming man, here was an example of talent far out-weighing ego (Razorlight take note), and the way his fingers ran up and down the fretboard was a pleasure to watch. Wilson sounded a little like Springsteen with his growling vocal (vowels coming from somewhere between Accrington and Atlanta) but he created idiosyncratic rhythms by tapping the body of his guitar in a manner that looked effortless, but was probably ridiculously complicated. ‘Alive’ had apparently been written a matter of days ago, though was gloriously accomplished, and wouldn’t be out of place on a Muddy Waters album.

Following a blood-boiling battle with the great unwashed of Market Street, Night and Day proved a quick-acting tonic for my shopper rage, with the oft-recommended Thomas Truax positioning an enormous gramophone horn up to his face as I entered. Truax builds his own instruments, including the ‘hornicator’, percussion extendable by some dryer tubing, and a drum machine that looked like it began life as a small bicycle. He claims to come from “Wow Town, which seceded from the United States so now floats somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean” and this wandering spirit was brought to the stage, as he wound his way around tables and onto the bar. My own proximity to the stage provided the chance to participate in his DIY silliness, as I stretched out a bit of string till it was ripe for plucking. While Truax was an impressive spectacle to watch, hanging his head over the edge of the stage and threatening to kick over your coffee, he thought nothing of pausing the lo-fi experimentalism mid-song to twiddle about with his homemade contraptions, breaking the momentum frequently. And for all his innovation, the most effective technique was simply the way he played guitar with a handheld fan. The song in question was about a butterfly, the whirr of plastic blades against metal strings reflecting his subject perfectly.

Next up were Former Bullies, whose residency at the psychedelic end of the rock spectrum has apparently come to an end. Perhaps they couldn’t meet the rent so the lava lamps had to go on Ebay. It’s a shame and a disappointment, but to be honest, they remain an admirably tight guitar band, and are more likely to pick up fans without such a vintage sound, even if ‘Road To Hell’ urgently needs to be a further few degrees of separation from Chris Rea’s Mondeo-rock of the same name.

This evening takes me to Centro, for one of the best line-ups of the weekend. Expect news on Modernaire, Gideon Conn, Air Cav, The Search Map and more at a shockingly late hour tonight. In the meantime, take a look at the day’s sights on Photobucket, and keep sending your good vibes to the MM team, as we put our health on hold for the weekend…

Meg MM.

Labels: In the city manchester bottomfeeders former bullies thomas truax mark wilson

What was that? It doesn’t properly start till tomorrow?

Taking a look around Manchester’s music venues this Friday evening told a very different story. With delegates fishing about in their goodie bags, thumbing through flyers and drinking free pop (insert your own joke about the music industry’s penchant for Coke here), there is no denying that In The City 2007 has already kicked off.

I decided some weeks ago to warm up for the weekend not by enjoying new, fresh and hip sounds from the next generation of trendsetters, but by relaxing in Kro Bar to the sound of legendary guitarist Wizz Jones. I’ll make an educated guess and say that he’s about 125 years old, but definitely looking good on it. Apparently, Wizz was the man to encourage a young Eric Clapton in his musical endeavours but, as Cath said this week, “we won’t hold it against him”. Being very honest about his plans to rake in some cash with a forthcoming ‘Audience With…’ type tour, much of the charm came from his stories rather than his strumming, but it’s fair to say that lesser men would need about four hands to make such gorgeous noises from only six strings.

Two lemonades and one confused taxi driver later, and I approached the camouflaged doorway to Islington Mill having middle-aged thoughts about it already being time for bed. While a shady-looking street in a semi-regenerated ghetto is several lightyears away from the glitz and glamour of the music biz, this was Official Delegate Country. The Ting Tings were holding the first of four single launch parties; London, New York, Berlin and, erm, Salford, with each audience creating the artwork for the records sold at the next city, and I splashed paint around with the best of them in what is an inspired location. Without the mood lighting and projections, Islington Mill is the kind of place where the victim of a low-budget horror movie would meet their death, but assemble a drum kit and fill a few fridges with beer and you have the coolest venue since Sweden’s ice hotel melted in the spring.

While drunkards in skinny jeans amused themselves graffiti-ing cardboard record sleeves, bar service was put on hold for Hotpants Romance. This made sense, as most of the bar staff were actually in the band, but also because they played the gig from behind the bar. A retro three-piece with 70s fringes and, of course, crotch-hugging hotpants, they reminded me of the origins of Siouxie Sioux and The Banshees; cobbled together to fill a space on a fledging punk line-up but then capturing the zeitgeist so completely that shoulders were shrugged and the discordant yells kept coming. I can’t be certain, but Hotpants Romance may have formed sometime earlier today, which could explain why some songs were about forty-five seconds long. They played like Sid Vicious, thrashed seven shades out of their minimal drum kit and donned out-sized sunglasses to shout “it’s a heatwave!”, but despite it all being complete schoolgirl nonsense, Hotpants Romance were the best of fun. A perfect warm-up for the bubblegum madness of The Ting Tings.

Having risen from the ashes of Dear Eskiimo and only played their first gig in May, the massive local profile of The Ting Tings is going to go global just as swiftly. Katie and Jules already look like superstars, one in big shades and the other in a minidress and little rainbow boots (again, insert obvious joke here), but the last few months has seen their live performances go from the ever-so-slightly nervy, to assured and confident declarations of quirky pop intent. Opening with ‘Great DJ’, Jules’ unfaltering beats were accompanied by the kind of sound a cowbell would make if it could chirrup like a grasshopper, and murmurs of “so now” could be heard all around. In keeping with their support act, Katie demonstrated that skilled guitar playing is not necessarily important in music that is made to move your feet to, and while riffs are simply loud, the woman’s energy beams into every corner. She hunches over the mic, reaches out to her crowd, struts along the top of speakers, and when she swung at her big branded bass drum, every one of us wanted to grab a drumstick and join in. With ‘That’s Not My Name’ causing widespread cheering, it’s difficult to see where the ascent of The Ting Tings could stumble. Yes, they will eventually need to write a few more songs. The current stock of five will not perpetuate Rolling Stones longevity. For now though, they are so very now.

Megan Vaughan (who will probably need to be poured into a bucket by Monday).

Labels: In The City Ting Tings Wizz Jones Manchester

The next stop is within the welcoming confines of NIGHT & DAY, Greeted as we are by living legend RICH CHEETHAM and KIERAN from LAYMAR, we also rendezvous with CATH AUBERGINE. Schedules are hastily reviewed and ideas precipitated between rounds of spring water and pop. Clean living kids we is.

You’re going to hear this phrase quite a lot (probably) – “Great on record but dodgy live” – or more hopefully the same phrase inverted. Strangely HEADLINES sound quite refined and interesting in the studio but live their jerky repetition can be hard work. The guitars are compelling but the vocals can warble a little like a cartoon character. The band’s stage presence is firm but the operatic spikes and wobbles can be a little disconcerting, but this really is picking at a band who can make the right moves on stage – I just wished they could move me more with a stronger “Fuck! Yeah!” factor.

In between bands, Mr Cheetham gets quizzed about his slightly beefier physique. “You’re looking well cut – been going down the gym ? “ proffers a colleague. “No – it’s the Night & Day dinners …”. As good as home cooking we say.

The interrogation doesn’t stop there. I notice a Night N Day flyer – Is that Elvis or Cheetham himself at the centre of the picture?. He’s in denial; we’re not convinced. Requests for autographs were met with two finger thank yous. Well I for one think it SHOULD be Mr C holding court with a bevy of line drawn beauties…

I digress…

It’s PETE AND THE PIRATES. Great on record. Pretty good live. It takes a bit for the plot to warm up but once it does their slightly ramshackle brand of pop oblivion is infectious. They conjour up party soundtracks and odd ballad soundtracked by fizzy angst. It’s looking good.

In between we say hello to Nick(ex-Cardinal) who has a new band coming our way – watch out for that in the new year. And if you spot MAX FNF he’s looking very dapper with his new trimmed moustache (the beard is gone) and smart retro hair. Apparently that new hedge on Sackville Street isn’t actually a hedge…

Then it’s time for THE TEENAGERS. After the promising release of their single “Scarlett Johansson” the intercontinental outfit drum machine their way to somewhere near Bad Audio Dynamite on a particularly camp day. The guitars are pretty amateurish but the bass and backing track keep things lively. There’s some crowd participation in the form of some lady volunteer backing singers and they actually begin to deliver a raft of decent tunes. It shouldn’t really work but somehow, by a flap of skin or a bent nail, it does.

On exit we’re confronted by half the audience having a fag outside – but we’ll see how brave the smokers are once Manchester gets its weather back…

Back tomorrow – there’s a demo panel at the crack of dawn..well 11am..


JonMM

http://www.myspace.com/headlines

http://www.theteenagers.net

http://www.myspace.com/peteandthepirates

It’s not very rock and roll, but at the end of the prelude (ie Friday) to In The City, I’m sat here in my pyjamas in the middle of the night typing up various words and comments from an eye opening night out. And I’m lucid – sober – and very much awake…

After getting mixed up about the LOST & BROKEN event – I now realise that this is in fact taking place on SUNDAY. After being quizzed by the manager, whilst searching out a non-exsting band in the bar. Interesting though that the re-gentrified back alleyways of the Northern Quarter now attract/distract the fashionable youth some distance away from the cultural bastions of the areas long established rock venues.

In The City doesn’t seem to be as inclusive of the Friday events and as such the night is more dominated by drinking and clubbing – but some venues forge ahead with an early doors policy that pick up from late tea time until around 10.30pm.

There’s no better way to break open the weekend than with a trip to THE ROADHOUSE who have some crowd busting gigs on this weekend – upcoming are VAMPIRE WEEKEND and THE COURTEENERS / THE WOMBATS.

Tonight though, it’s the gentle strains of TIGERS THAT TALKED (Leeds) who mix violins with jangled guitars and their strange mix of folky, down beat indie rock. With the strings providing such an impressive verve to the bass / drum / guitar, it all pans out with a certain bohemian style doused in some serious credibility. It’s pleasing but I’m not entirely sure that they have all the tunes they need.

Fear ye not however. PARKA from Scotland are brimming to capacity with their urgent party rock. The band literally explode on song 1 and keep the sparks flying with their electro / rock n roll / sax fuelled machinations. There’s all sorts here, pinned to a series of frenetic beats. They sound at times like The Cash, then it’s the Ordinary Boys Vs Plastic Bertrand. Then there are bits of the Blockheads. It gels well though and they storm through what probably is the equivalent of a greatest hits catalogue. “Hoxton Hair” and “Mr Optimistic” stand out but there’s plenty to pick from. Definitely better live than on record

The best is yet to come. One half of the legendary Nylon Pylon ( the other active half being The Whip) are in the Manchester / London combo THE ANDERSON SHELTER. Stubbsy and Bo Walsh are two thirds of this new outfit who sparkle with their brand of surfing indie which meets at the point where The Beatles hit the grind of San Francisco, California. At times it’s gritty enough to reminisce on the very early sets of The Stone Roses. It’s a song packed outing. Stubbsy exits to find his Capo and Mr Walsh provides some mid-set banter. After condemning a haircut as a “£6.75 Shudehill Special” it’s back to business with the sunniest, melting songs I’ll hear tonight.

People wise it’s also time to catch up with TASH who designed the artwork for our original Oceansize release way back. She’s out and about photographing all weekend (her shots are on the wall of the venue) – I’ll get a link on here once the ink dries and I find out what it is..

JonMM

www.myspace.com/tigersthattalked

www.myspace.com/theandersonshelter

www.parkamusic.com

The starting point for this entry begins with Cath’s post from last year, typed up in the aftermath of another bloody, glorious FictionNonFiction. In The City is back this year but of course there is a slightly different complexion to the whole affair.

ITC is eminently well organised and justifiably renowned but of course it’s co-founder will be missing. There’s been talks of statues and plaques and other form of recognition which I’m sure have been of massive importance to his family, partner and friends. But surely the whole ITC legacy is one that we all share, year on year and which has done much to ensure that Manchester created its own spotlight, regardless of whether the NME or any other London-centric organ was saying it was a shit city.

We never believed that, neither did its loyal residents and population and more importantly neither did Tony Wilson. In The City is THE event in the Manchester and UK music calendar, possessing enough muscle to get the best names in the world and small enough to be accessible and digestible whilst still providing an impressive corporate platform.

But it’s at a grass roots level that it’s pulled the master stroke. Manchester, like it’s industrial past is a hotbed of obsessive fans, musicians, photographers, designers, promoters and writers, who create an ideal embraced by its indigenous and transient populations. Every one buys into it and computers, CD burners and photocopiers slave through the night to bring together the cottage industry independents into one big scalable voice of industrial passion.

From the mills of Salford and Ancoats, the revolutionaries march. Tabloid indie nights rub shoulders with gritty, dynamic pioneering basement events. You know who they are- and the thing is, this isn’t all new. Alternative indie was reborn in Manchester in the year 2000 and whilst no-one cared to noticed outside of the M postcodes, the world has actually just caught up with us.

This weekend the MM crew are going commando – going random – no plans, let’s just see what hits us. There’s no budget, no corporate support, no wages, no staff and no totting up the takings on Wednesday morning. There’s just passion - and I hope that really is in the spirit of this whole magnificent celebration.