This Is Not TV

You wait ages for a belligerently titled band to turn up and two come along at once. Ain’t it always the way? Not to be confused with the American prog, jazz, rock, dance, avant garde outfit, Battle are a London-based quartet who met up in the mean… lecture halls of the University of Kent in 2000 (trivial robfact: I was offered a place there a whole decade before that, when the vice chancellor was ardently pro-cannabis and they actually had a ‘smoking room’ just off the union bar. Naturally, I went to Hull. I am an idiot) and started making music together. Fast forward to 2005 and they are lurking around some disused vault in Luton when they are not supporting the likes of Bloc Party, The Rakes and British Sea Power. Bringing you right up to date, they have just finished touring with the arse-kicking Kubichek! and have released their debut album, ‘Break The Banks,’ which is what this review is all about. If you hadn’t guessed already.

Produced by Geoff Knowler and mixed by Adrian Hall, who has already put in some time for label mates The Young Knives, this album gathers together their single releases so far and a smattering of new stuff to keep the fans happy. For all those unfamiliar with their work (ie. Me), this is pretty irrelevant. I don’t even know why I included it. So, down to the business that is music.

Quoting The Smiths as one of their major influences, I don’t think it is unfair to deal with Battle as two symbiotic yet individual entities: Jason Bavanandan and the rest of the band, specifically Jamie Ellis. It’s a guitar-vocalist thing. I only say this because, whereas the music has a sweeping epic pop sound, mindful of U2, Manic Street Preachers and, on one occasion, the Strokes, Jason’s vocals are sparse and grounded, with the odd foray into surreal imagery (“why has this piano been discarded in the rain” from ‘Looking for Bullets’ is about as prime an example as you are going to get). Sound wise, comparisons can be drawn to Bloc Party’s Kele Okereke or Reverend (of Makers fame) – urban and funky but ultimately business-like and unpretentious, especially considering the monotonal delivery of tracks such as ‘Longest Time’ and ‘North Sea’. But this doesn’t necessarily make for a dull album, because it allows the rest of the band to collectively go off on one. A bit. Successfully too, to some extent.

As a flock of metallic seabirds are chased off by Oliver Davies urgent Beatles-baiting drums, a lone guitarist takes to that alien shore, sending out a familiar mayday of a riff that apes the Automatic’s biggest hit. Strings spiral around it slowly rising to a climax that fades to that same lone guitar. Very cliff top, as is ‘Negotiation’ and ‘North Sea’ – you can almost see the foot on the monitor. There are, however, moments of joviality: ‘Demons’ has that buzzing intensity that the Strokes captured so expertly, ‘Paper Street’ jangles and sirens at turns and ‘History’ is essentially ‘Friday, I’m In Love’ with different lyrics. It boils down to a love of grand gestures with those guitars, perhaps a bit too much so. Meanwhile, Oliver is trying his darnedest to throw in some interesting fills, regardless of what Jason wants or needs. Interesting, but rhythmically needy.

Beneath all this, there is a sinister something that I can’t quite locate. Perhaps it lies in Tim Scudder’s innocuous bass lines, but I can’t produce any hard evidence to back this up. Sudden hints of poignant wistfulness break out like a cloud across the sun or a sudden lack of serotonin; lines of melody are left horribly exposed like recently discovered bones poking through the earth. Something’s up, and it’s not Jason singing, ‘I’m being chased by killer bees.’ It’s intangible, and I am ashamed at being a total cop-out, but that is how it is.

So there’s definitely something there. Though members of the band seem to be pursuing their own ends, it all hangs together quite adequately and though it may not be a complete musical fire-starter, there is definitely something there. Deja vu. Something dark amidst the pop. Something scary in the gloss. The sort of thing you’d want to see in a new band. All they need to do is give it full rein.

Popularity: 6% [?]

Though August is just a fading memory now (more déjà vu?) and I am preparing myself for a long hibernation until the next festival season, my memories are still as fresh as if it happened two months ago. Ah, the sunshine, the overpriced food and beer, the girls dressed in those summer frocks, floppy hats and oversized belts that flattered their stomachs and emphasised their breasts… and Kate Nash. Like Arcade Fire, ubiquitous this year, though perhaps not so much showered with praise and respect than disdain (my next door neighbour at Leeds was unamused to the point of suggesting capital punishment for the wench) and accusations of Lily cloning. I will concede the point that she is like Lily in that she comes from London, but then so does Alan Sugar, and no-one compares her to him. Ridiculous. No, this Kate Nash has come as a surprise to me. Against my better prejudgement… I like her stuff.

Right, first off, if your looking for musical complexity and virtuoso composition, go elsewhere – Battles this ain’t; hell, it makes Belinda Carlisle look mathy. Though she has been dubbed by some bloody stupid journalist as ‘the queen of chavtronica,’ samples and electronics are pretty sparse. More prevalent is the abrupt, petulant nursery piano that goes beyond simple – ‘Merry Happy’ has a piano line that could be played by someone who finds ‘Chopsticks’ a challenge (ie. me) – but is infantilely cheerful and catchy. Admittedly, the first track, ‘Play,’ does have a fair whack of instruments bunged at it, but in the way that a toddler uses expensive electronic toys to hammer shape blocks into banana mush. She messes around with blues and big beat, even strays into early electronica, but her closest musical comparison is… Victoria Wood. Hold that thought.

Still holding it? Good. I’ve asked you to do that, because something interesting happens when you listen to the lyrics. I know, crazy idea. And listen to the delivery while you’re at it; I think everyone has heard ‘Foundations’ more than enough times by now, but on the radio it is denuded of its key features: her extended pronunciations of ‘bitch’ and ‘shit.’ Let us return to the lyrics though. She cracks them out at a fair witty pace and, for the most part, captures the essence of calling a spade a spade. She talks about dickheads, shit songs and expressions of love that are only half got by the expressee (‘Birds’ is hilarious: firstly for comparing beautiful girls to birds that shit on you and secondly for the girl’s reaction to this observations; “wot?”). That’s not all though. She goes off on flights of surreal fancy: ‘Skeleton Song’ is a love/hate song with her own skeleton; ‘Mariella’ is about a goth who sticks her lips together. Funny stuff really. But the humour really takes shape with her Ani Di Franco, trip over the words ideas, stuff the metre, Matt Skinner eat your heart out delivery that matches the matter. ‘Foundations’ is edgy, ‘Mariella’ is dreamy, ‘Dickhead’ is worn. The core is that the delivery is conversational rather than purely musical, with all it’s associate stumblings and stresses that aren’t immediately obvious. “Thanks, I like you too” she says, with a hint of a question in ‘Birds.’ “ Cool,” he responds. Fairly genuine commercial pop.

So here I am, confessing my admiration of Kate Nash. She does relationships proper. The only danger I perceive is that she’s going to get stuck on this subject – look at Alanis – and never write anything decent again; ‘Nicest Thing’ hints at this ominously. But if you finish an album with a hook so catchy that it should be banned under the Geneva convention, your eye’s are set optimistically on higher things, I hope. And I get to say “I’m looking forward to hearing what Katie did next.”

I am such a hack.

Popularity: 6% [?]

No, The Enemy are not doing a Klaxons and re-imagining a nineties ‘classic,’ they’ve actually written this themselves. Perhaps they should get a double Mercury prize for writing their own material, miaow? Bitchiness aside, it’s a feisty little number.

Andy lays down a plucky bass line, Liam bounds out a rhythm with all the solidity of an elongated sound-check and Tom’s subterranean guitars effectively clone the intro from Talking Head’s ‘Psycho Killer,’ but gives it a deeper voice. When Tom starts to sing about empires it is with the voice of Andy Partridge spliced with Midge Ure, curious new wave bedfellows but indicative of a pop sophistication belying the melody’s straightforward simplicity.

Add a chorus that just repeats the title over and over and the whole thing becomes as annoyingly appealing as The Proclaimers. Yes indeed, this is a pop labradoodle, a mongrel with pedigree but still liable to spoil your priceless Persian. It also brings to mind one of my favourite Leeds bands, The Scaramanga Six, which is no bad thing. Stompy, crude and effective, a song that reminds you that, for all its lack of sophistication, a hammer is still a useful tool.

Popularity: 5% [?]

100 years ago, a military hero took a group of boys to an island off Southampton for a weekend of exploration & adventure. If someone did that nowadays, they’d be pilloried and burnt at the stake. As a society, our innocence is lost, replaced by mistrust and consumer goods. Still, at least we got high-tech games consoles as part of the bargain. Sweet deal.

Occasionally, you do come across an isolated pocket of wide-eyed, adolescent, hormone-fuelled naivety that is as close to innocence as you get in these cynical times. Scouting For Girls are one of those pockets, filled with lint, fluffy fruit gums and pictures of ladies cut out from Janet Frazer’s lingerie section. This fulsome threesome met when they were still wee kidders (Vocalist Roy Stride was drummer Pete Ellard’s ‘sixer’ in Cub Scouts and Greg Churchouse knew Roy from primary school. Bless) but only started making tunes together in 2005. 2007 could be the year of the Wolf Cub (their fan club) for them if they can continue to make singles of the same high calibre as their debut, ‘She’s So Lovely.’

With all the urgency of a premature ejaculation, the song explodes into being with a flurry of handclaps, bass and vamped Kate Nash pianoforte. “I like the way she fills her clothes,” leers Roy, “she looks just like the girls in vogue.” Brash, illusory, eager and… sweet, really. Roy continues to pound his way on the piano through the four line verse full of Benny Hill subtlety, before pausing momentarily to gather momentum for the brain worm of a chorus. “She’s so lovely!” Repeat until you get the idea. This is the point that you’ll probably think “Crowded House? Without the edge?” Okay, it is undeniably simple pop fare, but it has the flags of the world up its sleeves. Listen.

Hot on the heels of the chorus comes the bridge, hot blooded and similarly unsubtle: “she’s flirty/and thirty/ ain’t that the age a girl gets really dirty?” Roy questions, perpetuating the myth of the older woman. Then, as it all gets a bit much, a second, more contemplative bridge carries the song and we’re into the chorus again. Four simple sound-bites, slid about willy-nilly to convey the chaotic exuberance of fantasy and infatuation coupled with bashful hesitation and self-doubt. And on top of that structural complexity, it still maintains its pop simplicity – check out those school yard couplets and triplets – but not by wallowing in musical condescension.

I know I’ve banged on about it, but I’m stating a case, because I know there are those out there who will dismiss this as a Pigeon Detectives-a-like on first hearing. Give it a few more hearings and you’ll realise it’s not as crass or ladsy as those… people; it’s a lot nicer, sweeter and a hell of a lot more fun. Be prepared for a whole lot more.

Popularity: 3% [?]