Murray A. Lightburn

 Old St Pancras Church, London

 Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Old St Pancras Church is hugely unassuming, situated rather than nestled, by Kings Cross St Pancras station.  In fact, our plus one had to send several texts (two of which included pictures) to confirm it was the right place, citing trepidation about crossing the threshold of a church.  Making our way to our seats in the front row, we swung by the merch table where a mild-mannered Ramona Flowers type was swallowed up inside a book.  Standing politely and answering our questions as we loitered, we couldn’t help but feel a familiarity with someone we’d never met before.  Shrugging off the spookies, we ventured deeper within.  The Church, a structure with a small exterior once inside, opened up its hidden depths to us.  So would, momentarily, Murray A. Lightburn.

23 years ago, nearly to the day, yours truly arrived home quite inebriated around two in the morning and put on the TV at the end of their bed.  During that time, in Canada, MuchMusic would bury its tax funded countrymen’s music to hit its Canadian Music Quotas.  Oh, Canada.  The block was called The Wedge and, in the early ‘00s, it was playing some of the best up-and-coming national artists who would later explode internationally.  It was a very proud and memorable moment in this music fan’s tiny existence, but we digress.  On this particular occasion, one miserable fuck unknown to us at the time as Murray A. Lightburn, walked swigging liquor from a 26’r alongside a motorway in Montreal, mumbling “I hate this miserable fucking video already”. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ALA8bszA0L0   One man’s trash is another man’s ‘Dumpster Gold’ and in this case we felt we’d hit a musical goldmine.  End of a Hollywood Bedtime Story, both album and title track blew us away completely.  We had to special-order the album and pay import CD prices, but it was completely warranted in our opinion.  Two lukewarm albums would follow, each with a few solid tacks, but what we remember as sticking out the most during that time was a) the live performances which were nothing short of stellar, and b) meeting Murray and him being consistently introverted and grouchy with a massive chip on his shoulder.  Never meet your heroes, kids!

With that, let’s time travel back to the present.  We’d long ago lost touch, to our deep regret, with the founding members of The Dears.  We’d somehow grown inexplicably close with them and their music both.  Having left Canada and spent the better part of the last decade floating around the globe aimlessly, tethers soon loosened and were ultimately lost.  Then, as carelessly as we’d drifted away, into our inbox floated Once Upon A Time In Montreal.  Unbeknownst to us, Murray had developed a whole solo career over the last 10 years with three releases in tow.  This evening, Lightburn is flanked by five session musicians and backed by a pointed dress shoe that taps loudly as it keeps the beat.  If you’re familiar with Murray, you’ll know he’s a massive perfectionist.  It is only then that you can hear the strain in each toe tap like the beating of the Tell-tale Heart.  Standing before us in a three-piece suit, with all but the coat tails of a bygone era bandmaster, he tosses strained aural and visual musical cues to the players surrounding him.  It feels strained and a bit uncomfortable to witness, but then, something happens.

Lightburn lightens up.  It sent a ripple of goose pimples across our tender flesh.  To put it bluntly, it was a fucked up and surreal experience, rolled up into a church. Jesus Christ!

 “The subtext of the album is definitely about making your case for your own personal growth.” It’s a complex and vulnerable release involving, at various points, communication breakdowns, admitting one’s faults, making amends, and understanding true devotion. While Lightburn notes that Hear Me Out is not wholly autobiographical, it is an ultimately inward-looking experiment that has him contemplating how we treat the people in our lives.”

If you didn’t believe in a God beforehand, you’d be hard pressed not to after this event.  A welcome change nonetheless though.  The chilled Murray made his first appearance struggling with clamping a capo, in Chaplinesque fashion, on the fretboard.  “Don’t worry, I’m a professional!”, he cracks.  He went through most of his latest album nailing every track.  Later still, he’d crack a few anecdotes like meeting a proper Londoner in Montreal for the first time, who introduced himself as “London, born and bred”.  Born, and bred, “he said it twice! I think about that often, it gets me every time”.  Before singing a Dears classic, ‘You And I Are A Gang Of Losers’, Lightburn tells us this was the song he’d sooth his wailing newborn in the car with, who’s now all grown up and selling merch by the entrance.  Unreal!  We’d never met Neptune Lightburn but they were instantly recognizable as equal parts Natalia (founding Dears member) and Murray’s partner.

After each track followed an applause louder than the last, drawn out in the hopes of distracting the musician as one does from their set’s end.  We’re soon put at ease when Murray comes back with, “I think I’ve got a few more in the tank”, which was followed by Dears classics ‘Pinned Together, Falling Apart’ and ‘Lights Off’.  Mrs Lightburn is in the audience, and we hear the story of how his parents met, “and if you were born in the ‘60s in London, my mother might’ve delivered you. True story”.  He closes his set with ‘Belleville Blues’ from Hear Me Out; “This song, I sing in the voice of my father”.  Lightburn holds the line, “save me from myself” after dismissing the musicians making up the travelling band, the last word, in the final line before the outro.  The duration of which, the strain on his jawbone and voice is both visibly and sensibly painful to endure, is felt.  It holds unbearable sorrow and peace in equal measure.  That being said, Mr Limelight, was certainly lapping it up like a cat at a saucer of warm milk.  To add to the drama, halfway through the final song the church bells struck the hour, resonating like phantom backup singers.

After the performance, to our shock, Murray all but dove into the crowd and engaged with the audience, greeting his mother, son Apollo, and partner Natalia, before signing autographs and exchanging pleasantries.  His latest work is a masterpiece.  His voice, even after 25+ years of singing professionally, sounds fortified instead of weakened.  We were impressed.  There were two unexpected titbits we neglected to mention earlier but will do so before signing off.  The first was of a heartfelt appreciation of the moment Lightburn found himself in and the pure joy he gets from performing, “This job is a grind, really grinding, but this moment makes it all worthwhile.”  We’d never heard him, but also found it completely refreshing, sounding so appreciative.  Perhaps the most insightful was a moment of enlightenment for all music when Murray explained that, “all of these songs aren’t biographical, they’re sung in the voice of the character. What can I say, I’m a writer, I like to embellish”.

Empty Country

The Oslo, London

Words & pics by Captain Stavros

What do you think would happen if there was a food processor the size of a room?  I mean, there probably is somewhere, but what about right here, on this page?  Well, prepare to be amazed because there is, without any of the messy clean up either!  What if we told you we were going to take 1992’s Irish export Ash, chuck in a whole heap of American mid ‘90s trio, Ben Folds Five, with a generous helping of none other than the Blue album maestro’s themselves, Weezer?  Will it blend?  It sure will, but will it also be a textureless mass, that’d be an acquired taste for most, you ask?   Also yes! Welcome to our quick and dirty, with a no fuss clean-up, review of Empty Country.

We must’ve been distracted whilst haphazardly listening to the new single ‘David’ from Empty Country II (out now on Tough Love Records), Joseph D'Agostino (Cymbals Eat Guitars) solo project, because we asked to check-out the one-off performance last week at The Oslo.  Taking the stairs two by two, as is our reckless style, we made it to the gig halfway through the opening act’s performance.  The crowd up here, like the air and the music, was pretty thin.  We lingered near the back, catching up with a friend who’d also just come out of Dream Scenario (would recommend) and came with us to catch this show, which, we would not recommend.

Empty Country came on, and although the crowd fattened up, we had lost our appetite for the gig by the third song, whatever it was.  It was the porridge of all gigs, just a bunch of mush without any texture.  One song blended into the other and we couldn't really hear the lyrics (or chose not to) from where we were standing which, at this point, was right at the front.  Halfway through the gig D’Agostino, who was hitting the high notes like…..we don't wanna say eunuch, but think eunuch, but we’re definitely not saying it, got pretty emotional.  Lamenting on, and being appreciative about, where he was in life because a couple of years prior, he didn't know where he would be, he carried on like this for a time, almost completely breaking down.  Listen, don’t get us wrong, appreciation is in our Top Five but pandering to a crowd and reminiscing about the pandemic is a cut we do not need to keep hearing on heavy rotation, jeez Louise already!  It was hard enough to get into the groove when even the band’s feet stayed cemented to the ground as their top halves, semi-deflated, swung around like those dancing used car lot balloon people things.

That being said, the Oslo was pretty full, we’d say almost half full, and is there anything wrong with porridge in the end?  Some people seem to think not.  Sure, you can zhuzh it up with cinnamon, raisins, honey, fruit, you name it, but it's still just porridge in the end.  In the end, for good or ill, no one got hurt.  Is there anything wrong with heading to a failing brewery on a Tuesday night to catch the resident band who just so happens to be the less than hoppy, Coors Light of bands?  We’re looking at you, Empty Country.  If you ask us, maybe.  If you ask your friends and they say, ‘certainly not!’, we will not argue with you.  We might, however, take a rain-check the next time a gig is recommended.

Mannequin Pussy

The Windmill, London

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

In October of this year, Mannequin Pussy posted that a new album, I Got Heaven, would be released in March on their label, Romantic Records.  Heralding the release, a string of North American and European tour dates were announced and are currently being fulfilled.  Missing both their previous stops in London, ‘third time lucky’ would become more than just a mere platitude, it would become a reality.  Our reality.  Sneaking in, just under the wire, we blag our way into night two of two sold out shows for the hardest working band from Philadelphia.

The Windmill’s a standalone pub, in more ways than one.  It lies at the end of a quiet street, in between pools of light about a 20-minute walk from the station (if you’re hoofing it), that you’d never find if you weren’t looking for it.  Known for breaking the best up-and-coming bands (many of which campaigned for funding to keep the lights on during the pandemic, we’re looking at you, Goat Girl), tonight would be no exception.

Gaining and losing members since the band’s foundation, Mannequin Pussy would be playing with five of a like-minded kind this evening.  Through the years, the band would make Rolling Stone’s and Pitchfork’s ‘Best New Music’ and, over the years, go on to release four studio albums alongside four EPs.  Most recently, the band bought back their masters, and founded a label, their trending trajectory clearly on the ascent, with a focus on treating artists (and everyone in between) on it fairly.  Has their slow burn success story found an audience and a must-see live-show that’d match pace?  Well, on that chilly November evening in Brixton, they’d fire 16 shots into the audience, and each of them would hit the mark.

The crowd was made up of everyone; young, old, posh, rough sleepers, humanoids both foreign and domestic.  There was even one woman on crutches who was allowed to keep them behind the bar for the duration of the gig.  The stage, more of an exiled wizard’s lair with tinsel curtains and broken records stapled to the ceiling than a raised performance platform, was soon occupied.  The first thing we noticed was that everyone’s fingernails were vibrantly decorated, but ground down for optimal playing performance, admittedly a weird thing to notice.  Clothing?  Sheer’s the name of the game, or boiler suit delights.

The set opens with ‘Sometimes’, followed by ‘I Got Heaven’ (Marissa half bark/breathes like a pervert throughout it into the mic) from the soon to be released album.  Both will be (and were) full bodied instant hits; a ballsy move setting the tone of the evening.  Fortune does favour the bold, and there would be no shortage of boldness tonight.  Two unheard new cuts were also dropped from the forthcoming album, ‘Of Her’ and ‘Aching’.

The gig was somewhere between a crippling anxiety attack (due in part to a lack of personal space that nobody seemed to mind, and being penned in by a teetering 30 kilo speaker atop a two-meter-tall stand that ALSO nobody seemed to mind) and a jolt one’d get from licking a 9v battery.  Mannequin Pussy played their way through their set the way a local might rip along with zeal down the winding roads of the Dolomites in the dark after a half bottle of fortified Lambrusco, with unheeded confidence.  It was a complex and heady cocktail of mellow, hard, funky, and compelling stoner pysche.

Set highlights everyone got behind were ‘Drunk II’, ‘Control’, ‘Perfect’, ‘Everything’, and the finale ‘Pigs is Pigs’, which was bookended by Marrisa’s “WE DON’T DO ENCORES” and Colins’ feelings about the cops, of which, both statements had their merits.  Shortly before the set came to a close, Marissa pauses, comes to the edge of the stage, and hoarsely speaks in the mic, “you might have come here alone, but you are not alone in this room”.  Everyone, most of all the band, at The Windmill is soaked from head to toe in sweat.  The crowd’s general appearance thanks to the smearing of eyeshadow, mascara and damp hair has taken on the appearance of a gothic water colour phantom.  Keep an eye out for future tour dates, you won’t walk away dry or disappointed.

 Will Butler + Sister Squares

 The ICA, London

Words & pics by Captain Stavros

Once my mother got so angry at me, she threw the stand up am/fm radio with single tape deck I kept next to my bed out my second story window.  As it sailed into the night, arcing in slow motion before my young eyes, then coming crashing down hard with a sickening crunch, my heart leapt into my throat.  Hours passed as I sat, still mourning the loss of my beloved and only connection to the outside world, for we lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in a sleepy part of town, The Suburbs.  I rallied the courage after my parents went to bed and crept out to retrieve what felt like a lost appendage.  Remarkably, after retrieving the unit and plugging it in, it still worked, but differently.  Something must’ve come loose deep in the guts of the fractured receiver because now it played with added fuzz.  Not only that, but it played any song’s bass and percussion more predominantly than that of their counterparts.  Naturally, this being the ‘80s, new wave was in vogue, and I guess the long and short of it is that after hours, days, months and even years of listening to my peculiar radio, I was now primed as a receiver for those elements in music.  Enter Will Butler + Sister Squares.

I had no idea Will even had a side project.  Around mid-summer, Will started leaving a trail of musical breadcrumbs, not directly or literally for that matter, in my inbox around the beginning of a very wet and cold summer in London town.  ‘Willows’ was the first single to whet my appetite. The kick-drum on the track pounded out like an elevated heartbeat and, in turn, raised mine.  I was hooked.  The Weeping Willow also happens to be my favourite tree.  ‘Arrow of Time’ was next and had a sauntering bass beat that lead it.  It’s a song that finds its way into any room, then waits for the sun to go down, and changes tack with a crisp hook full of cymbals forcing you to want to crash the nearest dance floor.  Both will be played this evening with accompanying bandmates, Miles on Will’s left and Jenny, Sara and Julie on his right.  All, except for Miles (who’ll play mostly standing up) dance loosely and naturally.

Will Butler doesn’t shy away from speaking about his time in Arcade Fire, and why should he?  It was a huge part of his life; his family is in the band and, not to mention, it’s still a raging success.  When I first heard Arcade Fire, it was during the wildfire that was the indie wave ripping its way through Canada by way of Montreal.  In the early ‘00s, Montreal was a powerhouse of new bands and music and I can scarcely remember a time I was either more entertained or proud to be Canadian.  Due in part to a myriad of unbelievable life events, I would not get to see Arcade Fire until two years after I unexpectedly dropped roots in London back in 2012.  In 2014, at the height of their popularity, due largely in part to the overwhelming success of The Suburbs and Reflektor albums, every show was sold out months in advance.  I didn’t have much (any) money and I wasn’t writing (if you can even call what this is, that) in those days so I had no hope of even dreaming about getting in to see them.  I still went to Earl’s Court, which called to me like a beacon on that fateful evening of June 6.  As luck would have it, outside of the huge venue, I found a ticket stub that someone must’ve dropped.  It was already torn showing admission which often meant no-re-entry at larger venues, but I thought I tried my luck anyway.  To my great surprise and relief, I managed to gain entry.  I was elated.  Getting in late I was super far from the large stage which took up the central part of the space.  The lights went down and the band came up from beneath the stage on motorized platforms wearing their giant papier mâché heads.  The set aptly started with ‘Reflektor’ and blew the audience away, I could barely see them but still remember the experience vividly. Then, they just stood there, inanimate.  Then, without warning, a huge WOOOSHING sound came from behind me.  There had been a giant fucking curtain setup which dropped and appearing directly behind me stood Arcade Fire in all their glory a mere arm’s length away!  Talk about theatrics.

So, I guess the point I was driving at, in the rather verbose recollection above, is would this also be a theatrical display or would Will shy away from that chapter of his life?  Will came onto the stage wearing a green singlet, black trousers and a classic pair white Oxfords.  He cut a tall, lean, sinewy figure that of Iggy Pop in his prime.  There was not a time where he wasn’t on stage swapping instruments; guitar, bass, keys, singing and kicking high with a reckless abandon one could only dream of.  Sure, there weren’t papier mâché heads, but a different sort of theatrics a-plenty.  Believe me when I say, we were all thoroughly entertained throughout the 16-song set.  The music that evening showcased the dynamic range and colourful vibrancy the new LP throws down.  Will credits his new work’s success in part to bringing in Sister Squares, which includes Will’s wife, and giving them agency during the creative and collaborative process.  It was a set full of textures, pop music, drum beats, and resounding bass that Will describes as “glacially slow with a fucked up colorscape, but with dancey drums.” - Brooklyn.  Agreed.

The set ends with ‘Tall Grass’,  one of my favourites on his new cut. Before they begin to play, Will looks into the crowed, shooting a sideways glance at his bandmates over an exposed shoulder seemingly unaffected by the efforts that’ve led to him covered in a sheen of sweat.  ‘It’s Friday Night’, perhaps a subtle nod to his 2016 solo release sharing the aforementioned namesake, or perhaps his evening was just about to get started.  Will Butler & Sister Squares on Friday evening left a kinetic trail of music in their wake and as they left the stage, they also left behind a satisfied and danced out audience.  It was Friday night alright, as Butler stated but as we filtered out, I couldn’t wait to get home and hit my bed, it’d been a long week.  At the merch stand, I was stopped when my eye caught the t-shirts, and  the beautiful album cover of their latest release. I asked the guy at the stand how he was doing, his final words to me were, ‘it's Friday night man, I'm tired and I want to go to bed’.  True say.  Will Butler and Sister Squares, however, show no signs of slowing down, so we’d recommend catching them during their next batch of tour dates.  It wouldn’t hurt in the interim giving the album a spin either.