Alopecia The Action

"That" song is "I Wanna Live In Your Buttcrack", which is how you imagine it but less mature. Harry implausibly were selected to support Girls Aloud (who are pretty great, in case there's any uncertainty) at a Children In Need gig in an RAF base. There, now you know everything.

HARRY ANGEL/ TOUPE/ BEAVER FUEL/ JAMES BELL – Moshka, The Bully, 3/5/08


We’re fascinated by acts that nearly don’t work, performers who skirt the shores of musical embarrassment and somehow arrive safely at the port of artistic integrity. James Bell is a fine example; his supersized, falsetto-heavy cabaret acoustic shows, replete with implausible covers and frenetic leaping, should have all the charm of a precocious toddler, yet somehow he not only escapes with pride intact, but also manages to sneak some powerful emotions into the room. His cover of “Canadee-i-o” may sound like Thin Lizzy, but it reveals a deep fondness for traditional folk song, and “Last Of The Corners” manages to mix Elvis Costello’s lyrical intricacy with authentic Waterboys yearning. A real talent.

That song aside, Leigh Alexander’s songwriting for Beaver Fuel can actually be more subtle than is generally perceived, and he cuts big issues down to size with cheeky verbosity a la Carter USM. Having said that, the new tune is called “Fuck You, I’ve Got Tourettes” so let’s not get carried away. Beaver Fuel is an act that doesn’t normally thrive in the live environment, ending up a stodgy mess. Not tonight, however. Something’s changed in Camp Buttcrack since the lacklustre EP launch scant weeks ago: Leigh’s voice may not be the most versatile in town, but he’s clearly been working on his projection and his lyrics sail clearly over a surprisingly neat and bouncy band. We still wonder whether lumpy punk with Mojo solos is the ideal vehicle for Leigh’s writing, but this is a band improving steadily.

Slap bass. Swearing. Boob jokes. You’re not going to believe us that Southampton’s Toupe are geniuses, are you? Led by stand up comedian Grant Sharkey, they use drums and two basses to create propulsive and surprisingly varied smut funk, coming off like a cross between Frank Zappa and The Grumbleweeds, like a pier-end Primus. Oxymoronically, they survive because they don’t take their silliness too seriously, and goof off more to amuse themselves than to create an air of calculated wackiness – and beneath it all the music is actually superb, with magnificent drumming from Jay Havelock. One of the best bands you’ll see all year, though we know you still don’t believe us.

It’s been two years since we last saw Harry Angel, and we’re glad to report that little has changed. The early Radiohead references may have been swapped for some mid-period Sonic Youth, but otherwise they still spew out fizzing amphetamine goth, a huge wall of irascible noise with Chris Beard’s vocals as a black smear across the front. They also look like they’re playing in the last few seconds of their lives. “Proper rock n roll”, shouts a drunken punter. Girls Aloud must still be getting over it.