Curses

 @ The Lexington

 Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Curses are a funny thing, aren’t they? Sometimes they take the form of a bicycle with a dodgy back wheel. This unholy mode of transportation, or vile demon spawn in this case, having already broken two spokes on two separate occasions in a week, nearly claiming your life at a busy intersection, thirsts for blood. Which then relentlessly continues to demand, and get, a bloodied sacrifice to return to a somewhat functional mechanical asshole once more, type of curse. Or perhaps, and probably a tad more relevant to our review in this case, a curse can take the form of a string of empty venues whilst on tour. Not only that, but having to deal with a sparse audience being unruly, talkative and restless throughout a performance which is plagued by equipment failure and mild-to-medium electric shocks when your lips get too close to the microphone. Fortunately dear and valued readers, only one of these would be the case, and it wouldn’t be the latter. Enter, Curses.

Luca Venezia, born in the states but currently residing in Germany, by night known as Curses, thrives in the choppy and uncertain waters of a demanding international touring schedule; “I love the mystery of walking into a club and not knowing how the night will go.” Well, if one had to hazard a guess using support acts Corpus Milner and Nuovo Testamento as a metaphoric barometric gauge, it would’ve read smooth sailing all the way. At once, the set kicked off and we were all struck by the deep growling bass reverberating from the electro chop block propped on stage; all corporeal beings in its path were felled. Well-balanced accoustics enveloped the audience in a thick fog that’d put pea soup to shame. Curses, clad in psychobilly attire poured himself into the mic, while the music boxed our ears with a cutting brutality, in contrast with his vocal finesse that literally made the hair on his arms stand at attention. The same could be said for that of the hair on the back of our necks.

It is so satisfying trying to process, in hindsight, the atmospheric melodies of a dark-romantic, cinematic new wave set juxtapositioned against a DIY knotted nest of vipers in the form of aux cables, and strung instruments arranged around a chop-block-tableau centre stage. Luca, now part of the Italians Do It Better Family (no strangers to gooey eyed delights in the form of uber slick visual and audio) is out promoting Another Heaven, which was released last month. Curses, who also DJs and has been in-and-out of bands since his teens, has amassed a rich tapestry of influences and aliases in equal measures, but has quite literally found his voice when he dropped label expectations, embraced and learned from his many failures, and started making music for himself. This rich history entwined within his music and identity really helped build a relationship of trust between who we saw on stage and the audience below, tossing single roses into the crowd probably helped a little too.

‘Elegant Death’, with its throbbing and rolling bass really showcased not only Luca’s vocal range, but nodded to former label mates Chromatics. It was our set favourite, his compositional prowess really shone through. With the horizon in sight, Curses calls out to their manager, “What’s our call time tomorrow morning? I wanna know how hard I can go tonight.” “6am” was shot back but that didn’t take the wind out of his sails. Far from it, as he dove into the latter part of the set with equal measures of zeal, seemingly powered by an otherworldly source; flair. There is no doubt in our mind that the celebrations did indeed carry on into the small hours of the night. Sure, they would be met with regrets of biblical proportions, but we had none after a satisfying set. Catching up with the in-house sound tech at the end of the night they could not, nor could we, fathom how such talent is seemingly flying under the radar. I guess if you know you know, and now you know too.

Efterklang

@ The Barbican

 Words by Captain Stavros

Pics by Jac Taylor

Danish trio, Efterklang, currently composed of Mads, Casper and Rasmus, and hot on the heels of their latest release, Things We Have in Common, take the stage at the Barbican Hall. Legendary musicians such as Iggy Pop, Lambchop and The London Symphony Orchestra to name a few (that we’ve seen here, low-key brag), have all graced the stage  at one time or another, in what used to be Europe’s largest performing arts centre.  Over the past 20 years, Efterklang has had a roster of rotating members as their sound has evolved. The latest three albums, Altid Sammen, Wildflowers and the aforementioned Things We Have in Common, explore themes of belonging, the human condition and spirituality. Tonight, they will not only play from their latest albums and back catalogue, but also invite former members and new friends to join them on stage.

Efterklang spill out into the hall like loose crayons shaken out of the box. Clad in various forms of pastel (is pastel-core a thing?) garb, the aesthetic is upbeat and mellow. A few songs into their set, ‘Dreams Today’ and ‘Alike’, form the inclusive melodies that echo and bounce off the towering ceilings, launching rich, enveloping acoustics that wrap around the fanned-out audience in their rake seating much the same as the rich, mahogany walls of the hall do. It’s the last sunny day here in the big smoke, with a forecast of showers and thunderstorms for the rest of the week but, tonight, the grey and dark is pushed back one last time by the shimmer resounding in front of us. On the near outskirts of the stage shone a satellite of vocal and cello excellence with seemingly effortless skill, Mabe Fratti (of opening act Titanic) blows in with bandmate Hector Tosta mid-set, adding a layer of musical umami.

The performance thus far, albeit wonderful, started to feel, for lack of a better word, indulgent. In a sickly-sweet sort of tooth decaying way. Pontificating non-sequitors and theatrics by front man Casper deep-throat sucking and blowing on what looked like a mechanical w(h)ine bladder instrument was in a monogamous relationship with himself on-stage. Rather than engaging with his audience and fellow bandmates, he leaned heavily on theatrics and pandering. In what was confirmed to be an audaciously nauseating and shameless display of self-love by fellow Muso’s contributor Jac, Casper at one point retreated to the back of the stage and began banging away on a stool, poorly complimenting (massively detracting) from ace percussionist Tatu Rönkkö’s performance. A low point on a raised stage. Tatu’s (honestly, with a name like that how could you not become a drummer?) performance was massively underappreciated, subtlety rarely isn’t. We’ve never seen a snare muted with an oversized French cut work wear shirt, but we’re here for it. He was the unsung hero of the evening and easily blew away the lot, without upstaging a single member. Casper seemingly, on the other hand, could not stand being upstaged, even if inadvertently, and squeezed his way into an already anemic spotlight, poor show.  Even Mabe had a hard time keeping a straight face as Casper blathered sophomoric lyrics into the mic.

If you could get over the mother of all muffin-top set midsections however, Efterklang really did manage to pull off a great set after reining it in during the encore. What we feared was going to be an indulgent and gluttonous return to stage turned out to be the highlight of the performance. The audience were treated to an alfresco performance (no, they stayed in the building and didn’t go outside, just out-stage, you know what, just shut up, you know what we mean) with the band hopping off stage, weaving itself between the hall’s seating, and stripping down to an acoustic kum-ba-ya session where Casper begrudgingly dropped the theatrics and leaned heavily on sincerity. The audience ate it up and we were no exception. For the duration of the encore, those who were physically able to, stood up and danced throughout the last leg of the performance.

By the end, the sit-down performance received a standing ovation, from us too. What started off with caricature-sized classical guitars slowly evolved into something much larger, pulling in cellos, saxophone, keys, sensational percussion. Even founding member Rune Melgaard, who seemingly appeared out of nowhere and like an apparition with the voice of an angel, belted out a few bars. Special shout-out to Hector Tosta and Mabe Fratti of Titanic who opened and then joined Efterklang completing the line-up. Sum up, an engaging and heartfelt performance where an entire hall was brought together and harmonised all whilst standing up at a sit-down venue for the entirety of an encore which lasted longer than 20 minutes with zero complaints. An unmissable performance? Debatable. A message and show swathed in pomp, theatrics and top-shelf musicians worth remembering? Undoubtable.

 Ora Cogan

 @ The Lexington

 Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

It's Glasto weekend, and while rowdy ‘gotta be scene’ crowdsurfs small boat installations and lose their (perhaps by this part of the festival their actual) shit to the likes of risk takers Coldplay and Avril Lavigne, words cannot describe how fortunate we're feeling to be far, far away nestled in the lofty lofts of the Lexington.

Warming up the crowd, on an already boiling day, Lando Manning with Ora Cogan on deck. We awkwardly made eye contact with the former at the bar as we regaled the bartender about our missing belt. Where did it go? Who’ve they wrapped themselves around this time? Let us paint you a picture, or better yet, we’ll just leave it to the pros like Lando’s drummer do that on the brushes throughout the set. Let’s hope they stick to painting the skins instead of houses, if you know what we mean? When the lower spectrum thrums of the bass and guitar during Manning’s too-short set, rattled the snare so loudly, we knew the only reason we could hear them was because the audience was completely captivated; great support.

Speaking of support, yours truly, is proud to be supporting a group of most excellent Canadian natives in their jaunt across the pond. Had we known beforehand, we would’ve requested a bag of Miss Vickies Spicy Dill Pickle; if you know, you know. As a completely corrupt enterprise, we’re totally partial to bribery (TAKE NOTE!) but also totally unnecessary in this case [Editor’s note: This is not official Muso’s Guide policy]. Ora Cogan has been accumulating laurels, experiences, stories and skills alike since their first pressed music back in 2008. Cogan and her guitar, slung loosely mid-hip, stood before us battle scarred and well-worn deep beyond the lacquer; each lay exposed. The musician in front of their audience on display, as was their instrument, unvarnished, worn where each leaned on the other heaviest. It was a beautiful symbiosis, producing equally gorgeous melodies.

What really stood out for us was how synced up her troupe was. At no time during the set were eyes not flicking, like snake tongues, back and forth between members, with Cogan as their altar. At one point, Ora realises they’ve forgotten their capo backstage. After a frantic fruitless scavenger hunt onstage, Cogan takes off backstage abruptly without warning and the band, literally, doesn’t miss a beat, like when Jake and Elwood snuck off stage at the ballroom to pay the taxes for the orphanage (deep cut), real natural like. It gave us a chance to take in their bandmate’s talents, and for some, their appearances. Like a cross between William Friedkin’s Cruising cowboy meets Angus Young, the bassist made our tummy feel funny, sort of like an appendix that’s about to burst. The western motif was sewn and hung deep. The whole setup really gave us Holy Motor vibes (if you’re reading this HM, we miss you!!). The music overlapped genres, across the 15-track setlist, with smokey gothic tones and hazy folk twang. The cherry on the sundae was a cover of Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’ that completely came out of leftfield.

We’re bummed to say we caught her last gig of their tour but fear not, there’s no doubt of a return, and now you know you’ve got a huge back catalogue to rummage through and sing along with next time. Ora Cogan has paid their dues and this time they’ll be coming to collect, mark our words. Although touring is done, Formless, out on Prism Tongue Records, is Ora’s latest and is available now across a whole heap of platforms and tangibles. If you’re still reading this and taking suggestions, Cogan, did mention during their set that Italo Calivino is a must read and an inspiration during their writing process.

 Julie Christmas

 @ The Garage

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

 Julie Christmas gave her fans the gift of music earlier this month when releasing her second solo album, Ridiculous and Full of Blood; great title. Jules says of the album, ‘get this in your ears and try to do anything slow and relaxed, you won’t be able to.’ Challenge accepted. ‘Supernatural’ and ‘Thin Skin’ both did seem like two songs, when listened to with over-ear headphones, that would cause an eruptive mosh pit for certain. We’d find out soon enough if they’d cut the metallic mustard as J and the Gang were playing their headline show at the Garage before carrying on a string of other live dates across the UK and EU.

Showing up to the gig in khakis, a Hawaiian shirt and white sneakers, pressed against the metal barriers at the stage amongst a crowd clad in worn out dark denim, fishnets, docs and sleeveless shirts, was a bit awkward. For sure, our sweet threads would be soiled and destroyed beyond recognition come the end of the night; fashion actions have consequences, kids! Although, not in this case. From our gig notes, we’ve underlined heavy and slow but not in a Black Sabbath Into The Void sorta way, but more ‘I’ve had too much to eat at the Mexican buffet, and I’m now having trouble breathing, and there’re pins and needles in my arms and legs’ sorta way. Was this a metal gig or a slumber party in a library!? The set lumbered along like a wad of refried beans through our lower intestine, that is to say, seemingly not at all.

J Chrizbo eventually followed out her band to a sparsely filled venue looking somewhat like Harley Quinn tangled with (pun intended) a fibre optic server. Masked and covered in fairy lights, touting heavily processed vocals backed by a kickdrum we could feel in our chest, music pounded out from the speakers. As each track continued however, the novelty wore off, Jules even gave up on wearing the mask and we, as an audience, collectively just gave up. Everyone was super polite about it though. The book tucked into the waistband of our trousers called to us as we yearned for any sort of stimulus but instead, we just kept on listening half-heartedly.

In front of us, on the other side of the barrier, was a child standing with her mother. Her mother was controlling the optic lights on J’s costume via BT Remote, real clandestine stuff. The kid in flip-flops, denim shorts and pink t-shirt must’ve gotten the Muso’s Guide ‘How To’ on proper attire for a summer gig. Wearing massive ear defenders, she scrolled Instagram updating her stories, selfie camera only. Either the show was boring, or we had the attention span of a 10 year old. Not even the lyrics of ‘Not Enough’, “I’ve not yet begun to defile myself” were enough to snap either of us out of our trance.

There were some redeeming qualities to the show like the synth samples, the guitarist’s guttural vocals sounding like a man possessed, and being able to leave the venue without so much as bumping into someone on your way out, our unscathed sneakers still gleaming. We were hoping for a little more Nova Twins and a little less Leonard Cohen though. All in all, an unremarkable set, sorta like having porridge for breakfast; nourishing, yes, but at the cost of texture and flavour. We supposed after 14 years, there’s probably a bit of calcification on the ole metal bones. Hopefully, Julie Christmas and the gang will loosen up as the tour continues. Catch ‘em if you can as they squeeze through, a-la-molasses, by a town near you.