Words by Chris Bilton / Photo by Walid Lodin

White shirts, neckties, Citibank lights, punch tables, empty tuxedos, “the unmagnificent lives of adults” — hardly the stuff of rock n’ roll. And yet within the lyrics of The National’s Matt Berninger, these commonplace images induce a compulsive tugging at the loose threads of existential meaning.

The National’s music is equally compelling, but patient. It sidles up, full of nervous energy and subtle melodies. Nothing is obvious on the first listen except for the haunting resonance of Berninger’s woody baritone, or maybe the occasional turn of phrase, a rolling drumbeat or shades of the ever-present piano.

With the same glacial confidence found in their music, The National has asserted their importance to the indie rock world. Building on the unanimously glowing reception of “their first masterpiece” Alligator in 2005, they have returned this spring with Boxer, their most accomplished effort to date, as well as an enviable stint opening for the Arcade Fire and five sold-out headlining nights at New York’s Bowery Ballroom.

How is it that this gimmick-less band, whose dynamic live show (highlighted by Berninger’s captivating and sometimes volatile presence — he is known to walk off just to clear his head and have a smoke when things get too intense) has retained the attention of both the mainstream press and the fickle blogosphere? It seems to have a lot to do with returning to day jobs from time to time just to keep in touch with normality. Not very rock n’ roll indeed.

“We never actually planned to be a band that tours and does this,” says Berninger, “but once we started doing it, the idea that maybe I wouldn’t have to spend 40 years of my life getting up at 7 in the morning and putting on a tie was exciting.”

“I’m always trying to get away from it, but then when I’m away from it for too long you start to get weird.”

Back in 1999, when getting weird wasn’t a worry, Berninger formed The National with two sets of brothers: the Dessners (Aaron and Bryce) and the Devendorfs (Bryan and Scott). Originally hailing from Cincinnati, the crew had relocated to Brooklyn and released two records on their own label, Brassland, before being signed to Beggars Banquet on the success of 2003’s Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers. Their first release for the UK independent label, Alligator prompted a national tour that consumed more than 9 months, and left the band noticeably exhausted.

Returning home, they began working on what would eventually comprise this year’s Boxer. Berninger admits that they don’t have much of a process when it comes to writing. “It just happens in so many different ways,” he says. “The only process that we’ve had is just kind of a random collage-ing system of bringing elements together. Nothing works all the time, so we’re always changing it up to try and get the songs sounding right.”

“I don’t like songs to be about being in a band,” says Berninger. “There’s only so much you can talk about and it’s a very limited experience. It’s really important to take breaks and get outside of the band and get some perspective. Some songs are thankfully outside of that little world.”

When inside of that little world, the band splits their time between recording with Peter Katis (Interpol, Oneida) in Connecticut, and working on things in their own apartments. Berninger explains, “Sometimes it’s easier to get the mood of something working if you record it in your living room or your bedroom as opposed to being behind the glass in a studio.” Working from home played a large part in the lyrical development as well. With songs such as “Guest Room” and “Apartment Story,” Berninger creates an insular moodiness plagued by a reluctance to venture out and experience the city around him.

“I didn’t leave the apartment for perhaps too long in certain spells and got a little stir crazy, and I think you can hear that in some of the songs,” says Berninger. “Some are literally about boarding up the doors and windows and staying inside and avoiding everything.”

The band did manage a few breaks while working on Boxer, “just to come up for air” as Berninger suggests. One particular mini-vacation came in the form of an invite by flamenco guitarist Pedro Soler to play at a guitar festival in Southern France. Along for the ride was filmmaker Vincent Moon, who filmed the concert and a number of impromptu performances of the new material in unique locations for his Take Away Concert series.

Moon also spent a number of hours lurking in the shadows while Boxer was recorded, compiling footage for a documentary on the band. He assured them that it isn’t a rockumentary, and from what Berninger observed, “it was just more of him watching little moments and collecting them together.”

It’s an interesting description of the filmmaker’s process, considering Berninger’s own approach to writing lyrics: “It’s just collecting stuff,” he says. “I never sit down and actually write lyrics, but when I do the songs are kind of too aware of themselves so it sounds really overwrought.” Instead, Berninger assembles words from disparate sources, “I definitely collage things together. Sometimes it’s conversations or movies — ‘Mistaken for Strangers’ has a moment of dialog in it from Spielberg’s Munich. I stole the phrase ‘showered and blue-blazered’ from a Jonathan Ames book called Wake Up, Sir! I’m a pack-rat of little scenes.”

A number of ‘scenes’ seem to come directly from Berninger’s experiences working in an office as a freelance web designer. Lines like “Underline everything, I’m a professional” (“Squalor Victoria”) and “Fifteen blue shirts and womanly hands / You’re shooting up the ladder” (“Racing Like a Pro”) sound like they’re taken directly from the compulsive notes he makes at his desk and in conference rooms. But what seems like an oddly unappealing way to get inspiration is actually the key to understanding The National.

“I’m trying to escape having to sell your time five days a week to a company or whatever,” he says. “[But] when you’re working on a project or dealing with clients or going to a conference room, sometimes that’s really good for your brain.”

“There’s also the need, the basic desire to be free and to not have any responsibilities,” he continues. “It’s trying to balance that stuff out and not lose what’s really good because you’re trying to get a little piece of everything. You can’t. You have to give up certain things and make sacrifices or else you’ll end up independent and free, but you also might be very lonely and bored and sick of yourself. It’s kind of a theme, a thread that runs through probably almost every song in some way or another.”

Appropriate to the Prufrockian weightiness of his struggles, Berninger injects a considerable amount of clever wordplay and striking images into his lyrics that one tends to laugh off without decoding their significance. Whether it’s absurd gestures like “It’s a common fetish for a doting man to ballerina on the coffee table cock in hand” (“Karen”), or the mundane detail of “Watch their videos, in their chairs” (“Green Gloves”), he mines the grey depths between satire and empathy.

Though he admits that the songs aren’t necessarily autobiographical, “I think they know – people, friends and a lot of ex-girlfriends… when it’s them in certain songs. I can’t tell how comfortable people are with that. I’ve never asked permission, but I haven’t lost any friends over it.”

The National may not simply be the product of Berninger trying to work through his personal hang-ups, but still he maintains, “I have a hard time writing a song if it’s not about something that I’m trying to actually solve.”

Words By Scott Tavener / Photo By Lucia Graca

I racked my brain to find a fancy epigraph for this piece. I wanted a quote from The Deer Hunter (I know, it’s the obvious mov(i)e). I could remember De Niro and Walken – of course – but couldn’t pull a line from the recesses of my Labatt 50-addled mind. And then I came across John Cazale.

Cazale played Fredo in The Godfather and its sequels. He was also in The Conversation, Dog Day Afternoon, and The Deer Hunter. He finished shooting his scenes for the latter and promptly died. He was dating Meryl Streep at the time. To summarize: every flick Cazale was in was legendary and he almost married Meryl Streep (did I mention that?). Oh, and he was good friends with Al Pacino.

Few knew how deeply Cazale’s influence permeated. The man helped shape the tenor of a handful of classic 1970s films and he ran with a cadre of megastars. Still, he himself never became a household name. Back to The Deer Hunter: every one remembers De Niro, Walken, and Streep, but why does Cazale keep falling through the cracks? Or does he?

During my recent (circa twenty minutes ago) Cazale obsession, I stumbled upon a short documentary called I Knew It Was You: Rediscovering John Cazale which features actors like Gene Hackman, Richard Dreyfuss, Sam Rockwell, and Pacino, De Niro, and Streep, presumably talking about how great Cazale was. So, clearly, some people remember him, notably a group of talented actors.

Similarly, a lot of bands and other musical intelligentsia name-check Deerhunter (ta da). Like Cazale, who honed his chops in New York theatre, Deerhunter toiled near the limelight, playing countless support gigs and thriving in club slots. Luckily, unlike Cazale, the band didn’t die while standing on the edge of widespread adoration. Instead, it continued to tour, playing bigger and bigger venues, and eventually arriving at London’s stately Koko. The sticky-floor venues are evidently behind the band. It doesn’t hurt that it now has a stable of stadium-ready tunes (dress for the job you want, yada, yada…).

Occasional equipment glitches and ill-advised patter aside, Deerhunter played a frequently compelling, often stirring, and impressively diverse Koko set. “Saved By Old Times” kicked off with a dirty-ass blues riff. “Never Stops” jaunted with a doo-wop/early (aka good) Weezer influence. Writ large, “Nothing Ever Happened” evoked Sabbath. “Little Kids” showcased the power of repetition, dragging the chorus up a spaced-out sonic mountain. And “Rainwater Cassette Exchange” built suspense like an indie rock Alfred Hitchcock. The crowd looked like a well-dressed still life, but – and I’ll be the first to admit this – it’s hard to move in jeans that require oil to squeeze in to.

Dues paid and, more importantly, alive (sorry, Cazale), Deerhunter could explode (in the good way, not like Walken’s head at the end of The Deer Hunter (sorry, did I just ruin that for you?)).

Words By Scott Tavener / Photo By Lucia Graca

Animal Collective’s journey from horn-rimmed-glasses pack favourite to mainstream staple was unlikely. A collection of critically fawned-over experimental albums, a reputation for furry masks, and an insistence on continuous-song shows made the band a cool-cred allusion par excellence yet it hardly suited it for regular radio play. The three/sometimes four-piece seemed destined to forever remain the stuff of record-store-banter fellatio.

And then, over its past two LPs, Animal Collective became increasingly affable. Penultimate record, Strawberry Jam put a new emphasis on lyrics (they actually made some sense) and, gasp, hooks (see “Fireworks,” “For Reverend Green,” etc.) and most recent disc, Merriweather Post Pavilion, exponentially expanded upon the formula (see “My Girls,” “Summertime Clothes,” etc.). Renown followed, beginning in the typical indie infrastructure and then spreading outside normal bounds. Now, Animal Collective can fill Brixton Academy. That isn’t necessarily a good thing.

Despite what certain musos would have you believe, milieu matters to musical perception; for instance: “it’s a headphones record” or “it’s better on a car stereo.” You’ve heard both of those oft-repeated sentiments – in some form or another – countless times. Some records are great on an undergrad syllabus while others require stadium speakers. True, malleability is important. It’s nice to produce a record that’s good at a debutant cocktail party and in a pool hall. Despite large-scale embracement, the oft-fantastic Merriweather Post Pavilion is not a chameleonic effort.

Visually, Animal Collective gigs – especially in the post-masks days – are the musical equivalent of televised pinball: all lights and tiny movements. Symbiotically, the sound(s) are nuanced and opaque like a progressive symphony of blips. At the outset of Thursday’s gig, the band, stationed behind colourfully-lit white sheets, shimmied admirably, but the mix betrayed them. Rendering vocals shrill, the sound was initially dog-whistle high and standoffish.

A much-needed rhythm section (albeit, of the quasi variety) eventually arrived, thumping thunderously through de facto hit, “My Girls,” and righting the listing sound. From there, micro-managed bleeps, a cannon of a bass drum, and scattered Bone Thug-N-Harmony-indebted harmonies mixed things up. Sonic references ran a varied gamut, from Run DMC to the Beach Boys. Bonafide sing-along, “Summertime Clothes” took its Swine Flu-infectious vocal hook and, thankfully, burned/repeated it into the ground, only stepping back for massive, heavy metal-style guitar and rapid-fire noise bookends.

Writ large and tossed into a big sonic space, the singles shone. Still, Animal Collective isn’t Buddy Holly: hooks are in short supply. Given such spacious confines, subtle shading disappears into cracks and a feast of blips. While intellectually impressive the shtick eventually became exigent. And that’s where the show ultimately faltered. Excitement dwindled as the setlist progressed. Peaks still arrived but slowed in frequency and size. The lights were nice, though. Oh, and Gang Gang Dance killed in an opening slot.

Words By Scott Tavener / Photo Courtesy of Vagrant Records

Preface
Throughout the suburbs, throughout the mid-1990s, in bedrooms, rec centres and church basements, punk and hardcore morphed into a new genre based on raw, guitar-prominent recordings with oft-romantic/sentimental lyrics. Yelling is a lyrical panacea. Regardless of lyrics’ syrupiness, a good scream makes them palatable. Besides, pained words should be shouted instead of moped over.

The new movement had punk’s DIY element and hardcore’s earnestness. It also had an extra few chords and mostly audible words. Arguably begun by Rites of Spring, it spread throughout much of North America, finding bases in the American Midwest and in other mostly non-urban areas.

Only a handful of these bands would gain mainstream traction but many of their warped, unintended progeny would end up on magazine covers and on stadium stages, name-checking them in the process. While bands like Sunny Day Real Estate, Braid, and The Get Up Kids never achieved the commercial success that their pseudo-heirs did, they did leave a marked influence on a segment of 1990s indie fans.

In the ensuing years, these bands would draw the ire of indie press in a comber of backlash. Said combos may not have broken many musical molds yet their novel mélange of self-aware, introspective lyrics and walls of distorted guitars (tuned down half a step, typically) resonated deeply, forming an indelible impression on many a teenager, even certain supposedly savvy, eventual music journalists. What follows is a case in point.

Brampton: Spring, 1998
Local-band journeyman and record store guru, Gee, queries, “what are you listening to these days?” Hopefully I said something cool (I can’t recall and I doubt it). Whatever my response, it leads him to the G section of the racks where he retrieves The Get Up Kids’ debut LP, Four Minute Mile. He escorts me to the listening post, plugs the disc into the compact disc player (remember those?) and hits “play.” Under a deluge of four-chord guitars, singers Matt Pryor and Jim Suptic yell into the dense sonic space, singing about regrets and longings. By the end of track two (“Don’t Hate Me”) I am counting out my cash at the till.

Toronto: Autumn, 1999
Signed to nascent mall-kid tastemaker, Vagrant, The Get Up Kids release what would be their most successful disc: Something to Write Home About. It’s a cleaner album that lacks some of the visceral appeal of the first and features newly acquired keyboard talents care of former Coalesce drummer, James Dewees. Immediately, it ingratiates itself with scores of backpack-wearing adolescents, including many that would go on to create a verboten, three-letter movement in popular music. At first, I malign the softer direction but, eventually, burn the disc into the ground with repeat playing. To this day, it never leaves my headphones for very long.

With the new disc comes a tour, including a stop at Toronto’s subterranean Kathedral inside Queen and Bathurst’s hallowed Big Bop building. Getting there early, the opening act’s renown reaches me in the pre-doors lineup. Though I’m there for The Get Up Kids, I’m suddenly excited for their support act as well; the band in question is a literary, melodic post-hardcore combo called At the Drive-In (yeah, I’m boasting).

With afros aflutter, a mic cable noose, and frenetic antics, At the Drive-In kill, but that’s another story (I’ll admit that I bought the t-shirt). And then the Get Up Kids come out. Mr. Pryor’s voice has taken a hit from extended touring and his vocals aren’t quite there. Mr. Suptic fills in as best he can. It’s a truncated set that, while musically impressive (the rhythm section of the Pope brothers, Ryan and Robert on drums and bass guitar respectively, excel), is somewhat of a disappointment. Although, singing along more than placates the crowd and I end up with my second t-shirt of the night.

Brampton: Winter, 2000
Driver-controlled windows in a four-door Toyota make designated driving all the more enjoyable. Filled with four intoxicated friends, equipped with a copy of The Get Up Kids’ Woodson EP, and hemmed in by a subzero winter night, the car zooms along suburban streets. As “Woodson” blares from four speakers, I lower four windows, locking them in place and speeding about town. Amidst fervent protests I revel in the intoxicated screams of my friends, barely noticing the sirens go on behind me. “I’m sorry officer,” I say, “I just love this song.” He lets us go with a respectful admonishment. Thanks, The Get Up Kids.

Barcelona: Spring, 2004
The Get Up Kids announce a trio of nights at London’s Barfly. I’m in Spain. I scramble to find an internet café, head to an electronic ticket agency and find all three shows sold out. Frantically, I dial up various independent record stores, pleading for a ticket. None can help. I get absinthe drunk and lament my luck, waking up in a computer lab, confused and surrounded by well-pressed strangers. I stumble to a machine, return to the ticket site and find the ticket icons with Xs through them. Damn it. Oh, and I look at the clock expecting it to be morning; it’s six o’clock, PM.

Granada: Spring, 2004
My hangover has subsided and I arrive in Granada after a harrowing night train that involved ripping my jeans and falling asleep with a tallboy in my DT-riddled hand. Finding a hostel, I shower and muss my hair. To torture myself, I return to the thus-far uncooperative ticket site. “Night One: tickets available.” “Holy shit,” I exclaim in the empty room. I key in my credit card details. I’m maxed out. No. No. No. No. No. Tail between my legs, I make a transatlantic phone call, beg for a quick loan, and put a little cash on my Toronto Blue Jays card (I wanted a gratis t-shirt and ended up with a credit card). The transfer takes some time to process. My traveling companion joins me, wondering why I’m eschewing wandering for a computer. I sweat. It makes typing difficult (this part needs an ellipsis)…the transaction processes. “I must go back to London next month,” I say to my bewildered friend.
“What for?”
“I just got a Get Up Kids ticket.”
“You’re an idiot.”

London: Spring, 2004
Having prepaid for my train to Gatwick I have just enough cash to get from my Bayswater hostel to Camden for the gig and buy a t-shirt. After that, I have a £10 key deposit, a plane ticket home, an empty bank account, and two maxed out credit cards. I’m excited. I get to the gig early, fetch my ticket from will call, and wait. And then I have a fan-boy moment. The Get Up Kids emerge from the venue and head across the street to grab snacks from a gas station. I stalk them.

Trailing at an admittedly creepy distance, I tail them into the petrol-serving convenience store, watching them pick up sundry odds and ends, and then slyly following them across the street like a ninja with an asymmetrical haircut. They go back into the Barfly and I find a bench to sit on, undoubtedly looking exasperated. I consider taking up smoking.

Outside, I meet Mike, a Brit with an American accent. He and I discuss our shared love of the band, running down our favourite tracks and recounting past shows. And then Mike makes an interesting offer. “I’m underage,” he says. “If you pick up beers from the bar all night, I’ll cover the whole tab.” Is there a statute of limitations on buying booze for minors? Just in case, I’m going to cut this paragraph off now. I buy a new t-shirt (that’s three t-shirts in one article).

The small room teems with star tattoos and arm sleeves. And backpacks. The Get Up Kids come out and blaze through a set, upping the tempo of slower cuts and killing old favourites. Mr. Pryor’s voice is crystalline and the band coalesces immediately. Onstage, Mr. Pryor and Mr. Suptic bicker. The band looks uncomfortable. Regardless, the show perseveres, hitting dizzying four-chord highs. I jump about, singing along. “Goodnight. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow,” concludes Mr. Pryor.

London: Summer, 2005
Across the ocean, The Get Up Kids “say goodnight, mean goodbye,” embarking on a farewell North American tour. I’m in London, folding women’s t-shirts and feeling a melancholy nostalgia. On the night the band play Toronto, supposedly for the last time, I listen to Four Minute Mile walking down Oxford Street. Shortly afterward, The Get Up Kids play their hometown one more time and retire.

Kansas City: Autumn, 2008
After two months of rumours and speculation, The Get Up Kids reunite, purportedly to celebrate the 10th anniversary of Something to Write Home About. Shortly thereafter, the band plots a European tour.

London: Summer, 2009
The Get Up Kids announce a return to Camden, this time at The Electric Ballroom. UKULA lines up an interview that falls through at the last minute. Guestlist accreditation weathers a press reshuffling and I throw on a thin plaid shirt. (I should note that, at this point, like Mikey from Swingers, I’m “all growns up.”) I get to the show early, strolling in solo. The crowd is a mixed-bag of aged hardcore survivors, arm-sleeve sporters, star-tattooed adolescents, fans’ younger siblings, younger fans, Topshop-attired indie kids, and backpack kids (also “all growns up”). Where’s Mike?

I find a spot near the front. The Get Up Kids (aka The Get Up Men) come out, looking refreshed if a little, um, jollier. The band burns through a Something to Write Home About-heavy setlist supplemented by earlier favourites like “Woodson” (take that, Officer) and “Don’t Hate Me.” The sound is tight, I think, though my unobjective pinball-ing and lyric shouting make it difficult to discern. Like a rolling snowball of sweat, I pick up perspiration from the frenetic crowd, everyone bouncing together and yelling, arms raised and change lost. I don’t take any notes.

Cuts from the still-contentious records, the penultimate On a Wire and the swansong Guilt Show, get a rousing reception and a new song (“Keith Case”) receives happy applause. (The latter falls somewhere between the visceral early work and the somber, serious and increasingly ornate latter-day fare.) A pair of covers (“Beer for Breakfast” and “Close to Me”) and a massive “Ten Minutes” finale round out the show. I consider ringing out my shirt. Mike never appears.

Epilogue
In a particularly compelling episode of Northern Exposure, Chris Stevens argues that “Casey at the Bat” is not an intellectual study. Instead, he contends, it’s concerned with a feeling, even vicariously.

The Get Up Kids play Toronto in October. I won’t bring a pen. I might buy a t-shirt.

Words By Scott Tavener / Photo By Lucia Graca
Lately supplanted by new gaze acts (see The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, Vivian Girls, etc.), post-post-punk (aka post punk revival) has lessened its grip on indie-dome. Lately supplanted by “Crystal” (see Crystal Antlers, Crystal Castles, etc.), “Wolf” (see Wolf Parade, AIDS Wolf, We are Wolves, etc.) has lessened its grip on indie-band nomenclature. Brooklyn five-piece, Crystal Stilts, brings together many of the above, albeit leaving the lupine aspect out, lessening its grip on nothing, and creating a strangely unique finished project.

Relocated from the Relentless Garage’s main level to its upstairs sweat box, Crystal Stilts’ Sunday night set started off inauspiciously with technical problems and douche-chill inducing stage patter. And then the backward-looking, ADD combo played a well-honed, perspiratory short-distance race.

As the intro paragraph suggested, Crystal Stilts’ constituent parts aren’t particularly original though there is a lot going on. Like a 48-bird roast, the sheer number and array of influences make the finished product ironically novel. The Fall, Ride, The Stooges, The Strokes, and a selection of ‘60s radio pop form the basic sonic template. From there the layout simplifies, mixing the above with Brad Hargett’s smoky, laissez-faire vocals (think Jim Morrison on a healthy dose of Ambien), occasional keys, and punchy guitars. (I told you there is a lot going on.)

Throughout the brief show, precise guitar lines and a He-Man-strong rhythm section exuded lichen-like symbiosis, rising above the constraints of a licked-candy-cane sticky room. Like a dusty suit (see Charlie Chaplin), the gig was refined yet shambolic, giving it an amiable polish. Swirling guitars, rodeo indie, and Ennio Morricone all coexisted peacefully.

Burning through familiar cuts and an obligatory new selection, Crystal Stilts managed to cram over a dozen tracks and an encore into under an hour of stage time (take that, Usain Bolt) without rushing (thank the aforementioned laissez-faire vocals). And, most impressively, it stayed sheveled (aka not disheveled) the entire time.

Words By Lucas Atkin and Johnny Siera / Photo By Lucia Graca

Lately, UKULA has fawned over The [motherfucking] DeathSet, giving out kudos for a London gig and a Secret Garden slot. Following the former, Lucas Atkin caught up with The DeathSet front-man, Johnny Siera, to discuss expat life, Southend girls, and cricket…sort of.

UKULA: What a set; I’m still sweating. How do you keep up that level of intensity?

JOHNNY: You and me alike; I don’t really know, to be honest. We just try to write songs that we would have fun listening to. Recently we’ve had to start having a break between songs to let everyone else have a breather.

UKULA: Believe me, we’re grateful.

JOHNNY: Ha! Man up! I just like to listen to fast music and I guess the people that come to our shows do too.

UKULA: The whole thing reminded me of an impromptu frat party, everyone swilling beer and throwing themselves around. Is that what you’re aiming to do?

JOHNNY: Gross. I hate frats. I hope it was the opposite of a frat party… but I see what you mean. It was more to do with writing a set in Baltimore that would light up the warehouse parties out there. Acting like a frat is something we’d never want to do. I think this is actually the opposite of what a frat party would be like. Obviously you’ve been to some good ones. It’s more to do with just having fun with the kids in the artists’ warehouse which we lived in. We love everyone being involved, experiencing the show as well as watching. But for the record, fuck frats.

UKULA: What inspired the move from Sydney to Baltimore? It’s not exactly a well-known punk pilgrimage.

JOHNNY: We did this tour in Australia, with this Brooklyn band called Japanther, playing the East Coast. It was really fucking inspiring. We just thought, “fuck it.” We grew up in this town called the Gold Coast which was really uninspirational [sic], a lot like Southend which we played last night.

UKULA: I’m going on a date with someone from Southend. Does this not bode well?

JOHNNY: I’ve never been anywhere more like the Gold Coast: so boring. As long as she’s an expat you’ll be fine. So we moved to Sydney but then thought, “fuck it, if we moved there why don’t we just move to Brooklyn?” We were just 100% positive about the whole thing and just did it. Then we found out about like-minded people in Baltimore. It’s been the best decision we’ve ever made.

UKULA: You’ve played in places like Sydney, New York, now London. Do you have any sense of your favourite place to play?

JOHNNY: I always love warehouse parties with about one- or two-hundred kids; they’re my favourites to play. We played Fuji Rock Festival and Door Festival, Reading and Leeds, to multi-thousand person tents. When it’s good it’s great but when it’s bad it’s so bad, although, it’s been more good than bad so far. But give me small venues, intimate crowds, and a low stage any day. That’s why we played on the floor tonight; the stage was too distant for us in a space like this. We wanted a connection.

UKULA: You use loads of different kinds of backing tracks – funk, rap, soul, everything. What’s the thinking?

JOHNNY: It came about from playing crazy shows on the floor where our guitars would go out of tune after every song and leads would get pulled out, shit would go haywire. It was just necessary; we needed breaks to re-tune our guitars and find our leads. People also remember and are like, “Hey! They played Lady Sovereign or Ludacris!” It just became part of the set where people would dance in between songs as well. It keeps the party going and creates a rad contrast of styles. It did this weird thing where we just got all different crews coming to our shows — hip-hop kids, punk kids, dance kids — all in the same room, which was really fun.

UKULA: The DeathSet: uniting cultural differences. Nobody’s approached you for humanitarian work?

JOHNNY: Not yet… give it time.

UKULA: I read somewhere that you played an impromptu gig outside a ladies’ Portaloo. True?

JOHNNY: Probably. We play shows everywhere. We were on tour for eighteen months and just played fucking everywhere. All you need is instruments, a small space, and just one person; then you’ve got a show. I wouldn’t be surprised if we played more than one ladies’ cubicle.

UKULA: You opened with Michael Jackson, is he a big influence? How did his death hit you?

JOHNNY: It’s nothing special, not a tribute or anything. I just think everyone loves Michael Jackson. It’s a good way to start a set. You get your toughest fucking metal head and he’ll still be bopping along to fucking “I Want You Back.”

UKULA: You’re an Aussie in England. I’ve got to ask you about how you see the Ashes going.

JOHNNY: Unless there’s an Ashes for skateboarding I have no idea. That’s cricket, right? I read in The Sun – The Sun, right? – that some guy got in a fight with a bartender.

UKULA: That’s Steven Gerrard. He’s a footballer.

JOHNNY: Whatever. I thought that was funny. Maybe he should come to one of our shows.

Words By Scott Tavener / Photo By Lucia Graca

For an ascendant New York band, spending months and months on the worldwide indie rock circuit has a similar effect to struggling while in finger cuffs: it makes things tighter. Earlier this year, New Gaze upstarts, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, arrived in Toronto just as a number of sacrosanct tastemakers heralded them as My Bloody Valentine (MBV) successors. What was to have been an intimate subterranean gig was quickly moved to a hallowed midsized venue (aka Lee’s Palace).

You’ve heard most of the following before but: sometime after Al Gore invented the internet, the music industry changed drastically, with old paradigms eschewed en masse. Bands no longer needed to follow the archaic model of playing countless bar gigs to build word of mouth, score a label signing, go into debt to a corporation, and find models for wives. Instead, acts from around the world can utilize the fruits of the technological revolution to self-record, build a little internet buzz, attract an indie label, and find models for wives.

Since the dawn of commercial radio, many an industry suit has endured the vitriol of the average record buyer (and myriad musicians). However, the old system had at least one positive offshoot: it incubated bands, letting them mature outside of the public eye. Though some acts seem to emerge fully formed and ready for the hordes (see oft-repeated Oasis mythos), others need time in the shadows to hone chops (see the legend of Joy Division).

In the fast-moving cycle of modern music, innumerable hype bands have received a set of good reviews for bedroom records but lacked the proficiency or mental stability to translate the acclaim into a successful tour (see Wavves). Said cases surely missed suit interference (well, probably, at least).

Lee’s Palace (you knew I was going somewhere with this) is a heavily-trodden Toronto institution. Its raised stage has welcomed a multitude of would-be luminaries like Oasis, Blur, the Verve, and Wheatus. A Lee’s booking inspires a set of expectations. When The Pains of Being Pure at Heart was granted a late ascension to the room, worries of impending douche chills arose (“are they ready?” I mused).

No DCs occurred. Instead, the five-piece played a gracious if occasionally shambolic set to a hugely appreciative vintage-wear crowd with singer, Kip Berman, smiling throughout and dotting the patter with “thank yous,” sporadically noting the size of the as-yet biggest show he’d ever played. Syntax was fine, the sound was only slightly dirty, and aural interaction was more than passable. Post-gig, the band milled about, greeting the crowd affably and selling stacks of gorgeous vinyl LPs (seriously, the record should hang on walls). The show was notable for infectious earnestness and unaffected charm.

When the band returned to the venue on its next North American go-around it brought with it road-enhanced sheen, refined order of operations, and increased tautness. Still, the original bright-eyed friendliness remained. Edges smoothed if not entirely rounded, the gig showcased a marked progression. And the LPs again filled the streets.

In the climax to Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure the eponymous heroes disappear for a couple of years to sharpen their musical skills. Similarly, Pains… followed its Lee’s sequel by touring almost perpetually, albeit out of UKULA’s watchful eye (this is all about us, after all). And then the band turned up at London’s Relentless Garage. Greeted by a throbbing crowd of mixed-bag punters, it started slowly, contending with a muddied mix that suppressed keyboardist Peggy Wang’s backup vocals. Strangely banter-less for the initial few cuts, the combo burned through its first act, coiling tersely as the show unfurled.

Several shades too shiny to look downward, jangly guitars in “The Love is Fucking Right!” and “Young Adult Friction” strode closer to the Cure than Ride. Shoegaze turned up in spurts, with singer Kip Berman’s endearingly unassuming vocals pinned against a wall of sound. But where were the bright-eyed quips? Pains… had a different kind of sociability planned, at least at first.

Somewhere along the road, Pains… became a sing-along band. “Tenure Itch’s” clap-alon bridge and “Come Saturday’s” resounding “ooohs…” got more audience participation than a campfire. Furthermore, the band’s playfulness has gained breadth, with “You Can’t Hurry Love”-style drums and sparkling, circus-indebted keys peppered throughout the show.

Like a Henry James novella (see The Turn of the Screw), the band got continuously better. Confident stage palavers returned and a bevy of pleasant hooks came at an increasing clip while a new song brandished impressive maturity while jettisoning most Ride comparisons. Although an unnecessary encore sullied the finale, Pains… delivered its most polished and bouncing set (that UKULA hast been privy to, at least).

(Note: I really wanted to write “even Bill and Ted had to go on a bogus journey” but it just didn’t fit. Too bad.)

Words by Chris Bilton and Alison Mosshart / Photo by Lucia Graca

A collaboration between members of the White Stripes (Jack White), The Kills (Alison Mosshart), Queens of the Stone Age (Dean Fertita), and the Raconteurs (Jack Lawrence) is definitely the stuff of indie rock hypegasm. But when the band — The Dead Weather in case you hadn’t already guessed it — delivers on its potential, there is case to probe a little deeper into just what greases the gears of its creativity. UKULA spoke with singer Alison Mosshart before the band headed out on its North American tour.

UKULA: So the story goes that you got a call in Sheffield to go play in Nashville. Did you really go the next day?

ALISON: Yeah I did. That’s true. That first day that we did that recording right after the tour we kind of started writing a bunch of things so I was just going back to finish those. So I was going to come for a week and work on that. And then we just started writing again and it just sort of kept going. And we had a record, accidentally.

UKULA: It seems to be a pretty solid collaboration. What was the writing and recording process like?

ALISON: It was just jamming really. Everybody seems to just write everything. It was hard even to go back and try and write the credits out and remember; everyone was just playing all the time. Somebody would come up with something and we’d play and in an hour we’d have a song. And if I was just writing lyrics quick enough we’d just record it and that would be that. It was just really super fast. I was kind of the only one just doing what I do, which is just to write words really fucking fast and then sing. That’s kind of the way it’s always been.

UKULA: Who wrote “Treat Me Like Your Mother?”

ALISON: That was kind of a collaboration between Jack and I. He had that line and I helped fill in the verses. That was the hardest one for me because the music was so heavy and different from anything I’ve ever done. It was the only song on the record that I literally walked out of the studio and thought: I can’t do this. What the hell is going on? I couldn’t write anything for it, and Jack helped me out with some ideas.

UKULA: What’s the story behind the title? Did he reveal any of that?

ALISON: I don’t know what inspired it. It’s about manipulation. It’s kind of an argument, but it’s hard to tell if we’re arguing against each other or if we’re presenting ourselves as the people. It changes every time we perform it. Explaining lyrics is not my best thing…

UKULA: Since you were working at Third Man Inc., in this relatively self-contained process for creating every aspect, did that mean that there was little industry involvement?

ALISON: Yeah, I mean this thing that Jack’s created and this way of doing things here is such genius for creativity because you feel basically indestructible. There’s not any pressure, there’s not anybody checking it out. You’re not relying on anybody to do anything for you. You can just kind of do exactly what you want. It’s a really freeing creative experience to work here in Jack’s studio and do everything so quickly — like we can go to the record plant and watch how it’s being made and talk to the people making it. We get to see everything and be part of every little process, even down to making our own record sleeve — 150 of them — with spray paint and glue and taking all the photos ourselves and doing everything. It’s just like a crazy camp — my idea of heaven. It’s fast. It’s so fast. The boredom — there’s no waiting around at all.

UKULA: Is there an instant gratification aspect to that?

ALISON: It’s like living like a Polaroid. It’s pretty amazing. It’s constant instant gratification, so it doesn’t get old and you just want to keep going. It’s kind of addictive.
You’d have to talk to him but I think he’s trying to find ways around the way the music industry has stuck into doing things. And the methods that they use that nobody can say are the best because things aren’t going too well. So trying new things out with every project that you do is great because you’re never sticking with one thing. It could work, it might be a disaster but at least everybody is up for trying.

UKULA: I know you’re a big Warhol fan. This sounds a lot like the Factory.

ALISON: I think that it really is, and I think that’s why I’m so into it. This is the kind of thing that James [Hince] and I have always talked about wanting to do. And it’s a really difficult thing to do. But being completely in control of the outcome of something and having a place where you can do everything, I think Jack’s done it. And it’s amazing to be able to be a part of it and to be able to work with him.

Words By Scott Tavener / Photos By Lucia Graca

Abbie Hoffman Posters
Over 500 000 people went to Woodstock. Did they all count as hippies? Sure, for the sake of this protracted ramble, they did. Therefore, there were at least 500 000 hippies in the United States in 1969. That was 40 years ago, though remnants of hippie-dome remain, turning up in leftist literature depots, at vegetarian cafes, and in head shops. Nouveau hippies subsist throughout the world, from Bali beaches to Amsterdam bakeries. Aside from Abbie Hoffman posters and the still-thriving popularity of incense, hippie culture, especially the aforementioned gathering in upstate New York, bred one hugely visible and massively popular pursuit: the music festival.

Reverse Imperialism
While Woodstock died out a few days after Richie Havens strummed to its masses (cash-grab revisits don’t count), music festivals live on. Nowhere has festival-ing become as entrenched as in the United Kingdom (aw, sweet reverse imperialism). Each summer weekend in the UK sees a festival or two This Festival Season,UKULA has already covered a pair of giant music fetes, filled with scores of punters, stages a-plenty, and aural gluttonousness. A bourgeois/hippie mishmash (with occasional bourgeois hippie sightings), The Secret Garden Party is different than its mammoth counterparts.

Take That, Joe McCarthy
Unlike Glastonbury (population approximately 140 000), Secret Garden is a small-ish annual affair held on a private estate near Cambridge. Begun and maintained by a cadre of friends, the young festival emphasizes friendly pinko conceits (i.e. togetherness and shared balloons) and proffers scattered curios (and bands, too).

Sights…(impending caveat) in Written Form
Secret Garden 2009’s grounds were populated with a glut of intrigues, activities, and scenic vistas. Hills sloped, naked swimmers (for better or worse) hid in the lake, Chinese lanterns dotted the sky, toy planes engaged in dogfights, mud-soaked combatants wrestled in an ad hoc coliseum, posses of Santas cavorted, pallbearers carried a faux body, dogs slumbered, children donned top hats, a polka band played suspended from a tree, and plebes whiled away days in hammocks.

Olfactory Glands
“Secret Garden is the best smelling festival,” opined UKULA photographer, Lucia Graca. Campfires, falafel, sunscreen, and the scent of the typically well-pressed consolidated into a pleasing and unique mélange, markedly different from the usual festival wafts of sweat and eau de pot.

The Dave Off
From yoga seminars to beatbox clinics, happenings, workshops, and goings-on filled Secret Garden’s daily schedule. One of the most contentious and surprisingly entertaining involved Daves. There are a lot of Daves in the world (ask The Kids in the Hall); some of them are Davids, but most of them are Daves (ibid). With that in mind, Secret Garden held The Dave Off, pitting Daves of varying haircuts and persuasions against one another in feats of strength and rhetoric. A pink-haired, birthday-suit wearing Dave eventually prevailed as King of the Daves, though the contest was more about the journey than the crown.

Sounds
There’s a back-alley bar in Toronto called the Green Room. Perennially, it teems with mixed-bag groups (sample strange cabal: a geriatric raconteur, a mime, an eighth grade spelling bee champion, and a brooding young rogue). Similarly, Secret Garden’s musical lineup played mix and match, bringing together a seemingly disparate roster of performers and setting them up on the snake-aping Great Stage and in a number of diverse tents throughout the estate.

Sounds: Friday
Face paint and hats can be heavy; Garden goers wander slower than the average festival attendee. Reposing in the grass or looking down at the abovementioned snake stage from a ridge, many initially showed little more than head-nod interest in musicians. Still, New York’s White Rabbit (think: Hot Hot Heat with an affinity for Joe Strummer’s haircut) managed to encourage dancing. Later, Phoenix played a smooth and increasingly rowdy show replete with dollops of French charm. And then Jarvis Cocker arrived.

“Jarvis Cocker is a dude,” noted UKULA photographer, Lucia Graca. Dapper and playful in French cuffs and thick heels, the be-spectacled ex-Pulp-er [ed. Shoddy bookends at best, Mr. Tavener] played a jubilant Great Stage closing set which saw him eschew his old catalogue entirely, knight a spectator, don a turban, kick like a Rockette, and steward a particularly successful and inclusive stage invasion. Nonetheless, “Common People” would have been particularly apropos, albeit slightly obvious (see “Take That, Joe McCarthy”).

B Side: Advice
Hello, young and earnest music journalists. Here’s some advice from a man with a beard: try to stay sober when reviewing a show or you might end up writing something like “the Envelopes played a late-night Where the Wild Things Are gig. It was good.” Obviously, you can see why you wouldn’t want to write something like that.

Sounds: Saturday (aka The DeathSet Week: Part 2)
In packed venues all over the world, t-shirt buying fans feverishly await their favourite bands, creating a din of “they had better play [insert song title here]” conversations. And then the band in question comes out and the self-professed fans nod their heads politely for an hour and a half. At Secret Garden, Baltimore-based punk trio, The [motherfucking] DeathSet played to approximately fifteen people, including the skinniest Hulk Hogan in fancy dress history. Of that fifteen people, not a single one stood still, universally opting for entranced bouncing throughout the brisk, frenetic, and bravado-filled set that included in-between-song samples and “Territorial Pissings.” (Plug: The DeathSet Week on UKULA has officially begun.)

B Side: Soko Speaks
A long, long time ago, UKULA tipped you to then-Parisian singer, Soko; remember that? During an afternoon Great Stage appearance, the chanteuse played a should-be-twee set filled with eloquent expletives, a short rant, and the best banter in recent memory. Encouraging the crowd to sit on the stage nursery-school style, she strummed through a number of new tracks, accompanied by violin plucks and abetted by her own kick drumming. Singing about impressive penises, wet dreams, tiger aspirations, and the allure of peanut butter, she delighted those gathered, particularly oblivious hippie children. When the soundboard minder disappeared, she offered up the cutest stream of vitriol ever unleashed with quips like “real professional festival,” “is anyone capable of giving me more guitar?” and “[the sound guy] probably went for a piss.” When said sound guy returned, she concluded her musing with a spirited “thanks, mate!” Cool.

Sounds: Sunday
As Pip can tell you, expectations don’t always pan out; sometimes that’s a good thing. Sunday was supposed to be twee-ish but Emmy the Great brought a full band, finally played “Edward is Deadward,” and delivered a rousing early gig. Au Revoir Simone flopped hair madly, Slow Club sidestepped feedback, and the Holloways, um, were there.

Bunny Jumping
Abbie Hoffman became a drugged-out fugitive and Soviet-style communism lost traction long before the end of the last century; The Secret Garden Party is different. Continuously growing yet steadfastly idyllic, the pretty, nice smelling, joyous celebration has music and music has a redemptive dark side. And it occasionally has Bunny Jumping.

Bunny Jumping occurs from time to time in various milieus, far and wide. On Friday night, as the vast majority of the festival’s populace gathered at the Great Stage in anticipation of Jarvis Cocker’s closing turn, a Master of Ceremonies (MC) and a rabbit-suit wearing companion emerged from the wings. The MC spoke first, calling for animal sounds from the congregation. And then the Bunny began his speech. Rife with double entendres and bawdy wordplay, he introduced Mr. Cocker. And then something wonderful happened.

Having concluded their respective orations, the MC and Bunny began running to the front of the stage. Both took flight in different directions, with the MC shortly finding the happy embrace of nearby surfs. With a higher trajectory and imbued with gazelle-like grace, the Bunny soared through the nighttime air, his ears leaning elegantly against the wind. Spreading his arms like a hare-Jesus, his form was perfect. In midflight, awaiting soft hands, he closed his eyes, his countenance suddenly beatific. The crowd parted and he landed on his Bunny Face.

Is Joe Strummer still dead? Wait, isn’t he in Glasvegas? Maybe he’s in White Rabbits.

Let this be a warning to other polka bands.

Shhhh…

Snakes are sneaky…

…and they take a long time to digest mythical birds.

Phoenix: blue light good.

Like a Camille Corot, but with more laughing gas.

”Jarvis Cocker is a dude.”

French cuffs do it to me every time.

Windy or doing yoga?

Winner of SGP’s Dapperest Man award.

Like Gladiator, except not at all.

Mmm…halcyon.

I said, “Shhhh…”

Accoutrement du jour: placards.

Am I the only one that’s weeping?

There’s something strangely alluring about that tongue shot.

When was the last time that I mentioned Abbie Hoffman?

I think it has something to do with Aldous Huxley.

He’s a Dave.

Au Revoir Simone: why are there so many creepy dudes in this tent?

I want an apple.

Words By Lucas Atkin / Photo By Lucia Graca

Heading to the Hoxton Bar and Kitchen to hear The DeathSet I found myself unusually apprehensive. Having heard tales of an impromptu gig outside a female Portaloo which calmed an audience of rioting lesbians at a gay pride march, I wondered how far from stage was a safe distance. I needn’t have bothered: my cautious entrance was wasted on the crew setting up in the middle of the floor. While not to the same extent as Warren from the Vandals – who jerked off into a (surprisingly) grateful audience member’s face — The DeathSet breathe new meaning into the phrase “in your face.”

With no song breaching the two and a half minute mark, the band produces an unashamedly authentic continuation of old school punk, evoking acts like the Buzzcocks, CircleJerks, Black Flag, and Minor Threat, albeit with a welcome dash of lo-fi electronica underpinning thumping, adrenaline-driven beats. There was even a hint of The Go! Team — minus the horns — in the DIY mix of overdriven Casio and frenetic guitars.

Despite a reluctance to look back at a Down Under heritage, the group, who swapped the apparently uninspiring surrounding’s of Australia’s Gold Coast for a punk-squat-love-in in Baltimore, brandishes an unmistakable trace of surf punk. Tracks like “Intermission,” “Around the World,” and “Impossible” delighted a small hardcore following, including some fellow transatlantic passengers, in their powerful simplicity.

The band, fronted by pocket rocket Johnny Siera, has built up a formidable reputation for must-see gigs. Whether seen as a hyperactive blast of chaotic affirmation or as a bunch of kids with undiagnosed A.D.D., fun without pretense is the order of the day.

Siera and co-founder Beau Velasco saw less and less of their mics as the show went on, with audience members screaming “whoah-oh” choruses that Dexter Holland himself would have been delighted to have penned. A 50-strong audience isn’t normally a fertile atmosphere for a circle pit, and at times the gig resembled an unplanned frat party where three drunken friends fancied their chances.

If you want an exhibition of careful musical craftsmanship which takes itself necessarily seriously, don’t bother. But if it’s a night of simple body-flinging, chorus-wailing and shirt-drenching sweat you’re after, then take note.

[Note: the above image is from The Secret Garden Party. We’re not trying to dupe you, we swear.]