Post by blade on Apr 10, 2014 9:46:26 GMT
Oslo, April 7th
From: dotsanddashes.co.uk/live/review-howling-bells-oslo/
Howling Bells are, in many respects, very much an old-fashioned rock’n’roll band. And, backlit throughout, they’ve swagger in abundance as they saunter onstage at Hackney’s Oslo for a first London date in quite some while. Not that they’ve been resting on wilting laurels, nor twiddling idle thumbs; their forthcoming long-player, Heartstrings, will be the Antipodeans’ fourth, if a first in approaching three years, while Juanita Stein gave birth to her first child, Daisy Jean, in the autumn of 2012. Thus congratulations are in order all round, not least on what transpires to be a pretty well irreproachable performance this evening.
That they perform with such ready ease should of course come as no surprise – Howling Bells have been tolling; toiling away at this for the best part of a decade, with their eponymous début going on eight years old already. Juanita and lead guitarist Joel Stein’s histories, dating back that bit further, are tightly intertwined too, while the former has called London – a city she intimately admires “the grit” thereof – home since the band first began. And as Paris’ racy, Manic Street-preached riff tonight kicks in, in spite of Joel’s relocating to Berlin, that inimitably familial synergy has seemingly only strengthened.
If a little clunky, the Heartstrings opener subtly nods toward Juanita’s combining with Coldplay, when several years ago she contributed backing vocals to Mylo Xyloto number Up With the Birds, joining an illustrious, if incongruous assembly also comprising Rihanna, Brian Eno and Jon Hopkins in the process. The brattish, openly boisterous Possessed instead recalls the driving classics of The Cardigans, Juanita’s coquettish cooing, “I can see the look in your eyes” offset by rambunctious segments reminiscent of Sebadoh at their ebullient best. Original Sin stomps with sultry guile, caught as it is midway between the raggedy desert-rock stylings of the début and the altogether more glitzy, if slightly less glorious, and in certain instances Las Vegan endeavours since. With its tripartite backing vox, it’s been meticulously stadium-primed alright, and positively vast, can likely be heard at the Emirates some way down the road. “Why don’t you love me?” sings Juanita, although with the entire room united in adulation, the question is long beyond rhetorical.
Your Love, with Joel showing off another string to his EBow, is that which best suggests a sense of maternal mellowing, although it’s he who pulls so much of Heartstrings – with his every nonchalant flicking of quiff, he confidently directs the likes of Slowburn, released this very morn, and the excessively messy Reverie, which comes across as a gently regressive indie live wire. If The Strokes have long since lost that certain je ne sais quoi they once so evidently possessed, then this certainly isn’t that ever so elusive ‘it’ Casablancas & Co. first went out in search of, either. That said, if material pulled from Heartstrings may be found a little lacking at times, then they’ve visibly invested enough conviction to carry off these largely unknown, if at times decidedly large ditties with total aplomb.
And in barely chipping the veneer of such scrupulously polished albums as Radio Wars (decommissioned, but for an incendiary Cities Burning Down) and The Loudest Engine (perhaps aptly, the lyrics to The Wilderness are completely lost tonight), not only do they imply the audible homogeneity of their first and latest efforts, but they exhibit the enduring strength of the former with explicit relish. Blessed Night proves ineffably sensational, as does a Starcast Velvet Girl. These songs are now, in relative terms, elder statesmen of 21st century rock’n’roll although finely nuanced through and through, if some may now be going on a decade old, they sound as though they were scribed just yesterday. And, clichéd though it may sound, they’ve a tomorrow, too.
It’s one that once seemed a little more unlikely, a prolonged period of creative inactivity at one point perhaps suggesting their death knell had already rung. But rarely have Howling Bells sounded more alive than they do this evening, Velvet Girl reminiscent of a Geoff Barrow-produced Goldfrapp and evergreen as Juanita and Joel look to this very night. A Ballad For The Bleeding Hearts, meanwhile, sounds worthy of the masterwork Tarantino has yet to magic, dismal blues and hellacious reds imbuing Oslo with a superbly purgatorial atmosphere. Evocative as an eternity of Hot Dreams, it’s met with unbridled rapture, and rightly so.
Setting Sun, slinky as a crimson, velveteen curtain, and Broken Bones then both jangle with life anew, although it’s Low Happening – their début single that which Joel finds most peculiar to play – that resonates with the vim of an entirely new band. That they’re done and dusted in under an hour consolidates such a fallacy but monosyllabic to the last, and thus quintessentially British in attitude, it’s almost as though Howling Bells were themselves reborn tonight. And to be stood beside the proverbial bed, or perhaps rather bathtub, was an absolute pleasure.
Josh Holliday
From: dotsanddashes.co.uk/live/review-howling-bells-oslo/
Howling Bells are, in many respects, very much an old-fashioned rock’n’roll band. And, backlit throughout, they’ve swagger in abundance as they saunter onstage at Hackney’s Oslo for a first London date in quite some while. Not that they’ve been resting on wilting laurels, nor twiddling idle thumbs; their forthcoming long-player, Heartstrings, will be the Antipodeans’ fourth, if a first in approaching three years, while Juanita Stein gave birth to her first child, Daisy Jean, in the autumn of 2012. Thus congratulations are in order all round, not least on what transpires to be a pretty well irreproachable performance this evening.
That they perform with such ready ease should of course come as no surprise – Howling Bells have been tolling; toiling away at this for the best part of a decade, with their eponymous début going on eight years old already. Juanita and lead guitarist Joel Stein’s histories, dating back that bit further, are tightly intertwined too, while the former has called London – a city she intimately admires “the grit” thereof – home since the band first began. And as Paris’ racy, Manic Street-preached riff tonight kicks in, in spite of Joel’s relocating to Berlin, that inimitably familial synergy has seemingly only strengthened.
If a little clunky, the Heartstrings opener subtly nods toward Juanita’s combining with Coldplay, when several years ago she contributed backing vocals to Mylo Xyloto number Up With the Birds, joining an illustrious, if incongruous assembly also comprising Rihanna, Brian Eno and Jon Hopkins in the process. The brattish, openly boisterous Possessed instead recalls the driving classics of The Cardigans, Juanita’s coquettish cooing, “I can see the look in your eyes” offset by rambunctious segments reminiscent of Sebadoh at their ebullient best. Original Sin stomps with sultry guile, caught as it is midway between the raggedy desert-rock stylings of the début and the altogether more glitzy, if slightly less glorious, and in certain instances Las Vegan endeavours since. With its tripartite backing vox, it’s been meticulously stadium-primed alright, and positively vast, can likely be heard at the Emirates some way down the road. “Why don’t you love me?” sings Juanita, although with the entire room united in adulation, the question is long beyond rhetorical.
Your Love, with Joel showing off another string to his EBow, is that which best suggests a sense of maternal mellowing, although it’s he who pulls so much of Heartstrings – with his every nonchalant flicking of quiff, he confidently directs the likes of Slowburn, released this very morn, and the excessively messy Reverie, which comes across as a gently regressive indie live wire. If The Strokes have long since lost that certain je ne sais quoi they once so evidently possessed, then this certainly isn’t that ever so elusive ‘it’ Casablancas & Co. first went out in search of, either. That said, if material pulled from Heartstrings may be found a little lacking at times, then they’ve visibly invested enough conviction to carry off these largely unknown, if at times decidedly large ditties with total aplomb.
And in barely chipping the veneer of such scrupulously polished albums as Radio Wars (decommissioned, but for an incendiary Cities Burning Down) and The Loudest Engine (perhaps aptly, the lyrics to The Wilderness are completely lost tonight), not only do they imply the audible homogeneity of their first and latest efforts, but they exhibit the enduring strength of the former with explicit relish. Blessed Night proves ineffably sensational, as does a Starcast Velvet Girl. These songs are now, in relative terms, elder statesmen of 21st century rock’n’roll although finely nuanced through and through, if some may now be going on a decade old, they sound as though they were scribed just yesterday. And, clichéd though it may sound, they’ve a tomorrow, too.
It’s one that once seemed a little more unlikely, a prolonged period of creative inactivity at one point perhaps suggesting their death knell had already rung. But rarely have Howling Bells sounded more alive than they do this evening, Velvet Girl reminiscent of a Geoff Barrow-produced Goldfrapp and evergreen as Juanita and Joel look to this very night. A Ballad For The Bleeding Hearts, meanwhile, sounds worthy of the masterwork Tarantino has yet to magic, dismal blues and hellacious reds imbuing Oslo with a superbly purgatorial atmosphere. Evocative as an eternity of Hot Dreams, it’s met with unbridled rapture, and rightly so.
Setting Sun, slinky as a crimson, velveteen curtain, and Broken Bones then both jangle with life anew, although it’s Low Happening – their début single that which Joel finds most peculiar to play – that resonates with the vim of an entirely new band. That they’re done and dusted in under an hour consolidates such a fallacy but monosyllabic to the last, and thus quintessentially British in attitude, it’s almost as though Howling Bells were themselves reborn tonight. And to be stood beside the proverbial bed, or perhaps rather bathtub, was an absolute pleasure.
Josh Holliday