Interview: Lee May Foster of the Bonbi Forest Indie Emporium

These days it’s nigh on impossible to buy any decent high street clothing without playing second fiddle to some Grazia-glorified celebrity, spotted paying their dues to Topshop in a vain attempt to retain that “girl next door” allure. And what with every which wagon-dismounting celebrity lending their name to a clothing range (Lindsay Lohan’s absurdly expensive leggings; Lauren Conrad’s pitifully plain “couture”), it’s a genuine relief to discover DIY, independent designers creating apparel for those of us who remain unphased by Agyness Deyn’s usurping of Kate Moss’ best dressed throne. Thrust into the limelight by the Chicago-based online community Threadless in 2000, the trend for independent design has intensified sufficiently that numerous designers have been able to abandon their day jobs, and wholly dedicate their efforts to the creation of exciting, eccentric designs a million miles away from the laughably generic designs of Topshop et al.

One of the frontrunners of the sparsely-populated UK scene is multi-talented Cornwall-based designer, Lee May Foster, who, at the age of 27, not only commandeers her own line of limited edition jewellery and t-shirts (as Bonbi Forest), but owns and directs the Bonbi Forest Indie Emporium, an online store selling tantalizing and quintessential wares of likeminded designers from around the world.

“Originally, Bonbi Forest existed as its own individually branded shop, but after a while, I realized I was struggling to fill the shop all the time, so I decided to expand. Consignment was the most suitable option available, whereby designers send me their things, and I sell them for a percentage of the cost,” says Lee May, sat in her neat white, sunlit studio, a farm outhouse transformed into an orderly haven of mood boards, inspiring CDs (as we speak, iTunes flits from electronic post-rock outfit Mice Parade to Mirah), and treasures waiting to be uploaded to her pretty, scrapbook-style website.

A vast number of Cornish designers draw inspiration from the pervading coastal heritage of the county (here, you’re never further than 12 miles from the sea), but Brighton-educated Bonbi Forest’s illustrations admiringly revere the county’s woodland mysteries, beasts and Celtic heritage. Woodland creatures gallivant through her illustration-based designs with ephemeral intricacy, the elegant lines of her deer motifs are as fleeting as a glimpse of the creature itself, and her charming willowy birds evoke the twitchy effervescence of Cy Twombly and the late Robert Rauschenberg’s work. It’s no surprise that she describes herself as “always having been a big animal fan” – her horse is stabled nearby, birds chatter inquisitively with the fake taxidermy on her windowsill, and the family’s beloved creaky old dog Jay Jay keeps a sleepy eye on proceedings from the conservatory.

Another huge boost to her label has been the creative partnership with Brighton-based musician Bat For Lashes, aka Natasha Kahn, who in the space of a year has been nominated not only for two Brit Awards, but also the Mercury Music Prize, one of Britain’s most prestigious and culturally reflective accolades. They became lasting friends at university in Brighton, Lee May studying Fine Art Painting; Natasha Film and Music, and combined their respective heritages to establish the band’s mysterious imagery of majestic animal hierachies under the spell of a full moon.

Despite drawing influences from an unfettered Cornish landscape, Lee May has contrastingly also taken advantage of the internet’s many benefits.

“Everyone says with Web 2.0 that everyone can be someone, but if you use the internet wisely, you can start to infiltrate people's ways of life without going over the top. I get customers from all over - Hawaii's the furthest west, and Japan and Australia the furthest east! Without Myspace and Facebook, I wouldn't have been able to reach out to those people as easily, I'd have to have had massive targeted campaigns, which wouldn’t fit with my business ethos.”

With tens of thousands of international visitors to her website each month (that number increasing without resistance), and gaining second place in American website Fred Flare’s Next Big Thing contest (think a higher profile contemporary site, showcasing cutesy clothes, trinkets and fripperies), Lee May is well on the way to realising her dream where the Bonbi Forest Indie Emporium becomes the biggest website of its kind in the UK.

“I’d like to establish more of a community around the site. A “bricks and mortar” shop would be lovely, but there are expenses involved. The nice thing about the online shop is that it runs itself, and that I can spend the rest of the time in the studio, drawing and making things. I love the DIY scene – the idea of people getting really passionate about something, regardless of its commercial prospects. It’s exciting to see creativity utilized in a really positive way.”

Import/Export

The press may constantly highlight our country’s economic and social inadequacies, but it seems we have a lot to be grateful for after seeing Import/Export, a beautifully shot look at just how bleak life can be, and the lengths people go to to afford so little. Olga leaves her baby and the Ukraine behind, to find work as a nanny, a “live” on-demand internet porn worker, then eine Putzfrau (cleaning lady) on a geriatric ward. Director Ulrich Seidl authenticates these painfully affecting scenes by using what are ostensibly non-actors; frail old ladies muttering blindly to god, and playful men who pinch the nurse’s bottom. He switches, vignette-like, between Olga and Paul, machine-like in physicality and searching for personal “harmony”, but instead stuck working for his stepfather, a coarse man who tries to prove that money is power by taunting a 19 year-old prostitute. Seidl never shies away from discomfort or uncompassionate characterisation, focusing in on the violence inherent in desire (a customer riles angrily at Olga to “stick [her] finger in [her] asshole”), the fallen glory of old men having their nappies changed, and teeth removed as punishment, and the heartbreaking sight of Olga singing through silent tears about a starry wonderful life down the phone to her baby. Makes you think how much worse things really could be.

8/10

Islands at the Cooler, 03.10.08

It’s hard to order the worst bands you’ve ever seen live, but Bristolians Sid Delicious would definitely be a contender. All buzzwords and formulaic song titles (“Vinyl”, and the neither seductive nor enticing “Synthesize Me”), their hackneyed and inarticulate Mark E Smith meets David Byrne polemic about the vacuous nature of modern culture backfires into accidental postmodernism as they perpetuate every cliché they’re mocking. Married to the Sea are to The Hold Steady what The Kooks are to The Kinks, bland and largely unremarkable, so it’s a relief when Islands slink onto the stage, in uniform black and with infinitely more energy and affinity than either of their predecessors. They’re as fun in spirit as The Unicorns, but the long set is marred by painful volume levels, exacerbated by the violins slicing precise oozing wounds to our ears. Pieces of You channels the nautical and mariachi, Don’t Call Me Whitney Bobby hasn’t aged in its 16 years, and The Arm should have been a perfect high note on which to end. Instead, the violinist throws chains against the ceiling, and they tease us with potential endings, but every crescendo crashes into noodly interludes or krautrock-esque lulls.

(6/10)

End of the Road 2008

It’s a testament to End of the Road organisers Sofia Hagberg and Simon Taffe that not even the festival’s most professionally melancholy acts could contain their merriment at playing amongst peacocks, enchanted forests and parrots in the beautiful Larmer Tree Gardens, with everyone from Bon Iver to Warren Ellis singing EOTR’s praises. Squirreled away down the rabbit warren lanes of the Dorset border, this wonderland infant festival managed to command an amazing roster, and sell all 5000 tickets whilst keeping its friendly ethics and atmosphere intact. Canada’s The Acorn hit on a slightly guilty note, commenting, “so this is where white people come from”, but lifted the mood with their comfortable woodsy snow-capped songs (although they’re the first of the weekend’s bands to not do their album much justice). A Hawk and a Hacksaw’s intense jarring Baltic folk was sadly lost a little to the leafy heights of the Garden Stage and the drizzly afternoon, and the augmented band clustered together in a corner of the stage.

The many nooks and crannies of the festival only upped the charm quotient, from watching parents getting carried away in the kids’ bhangra dancing workshop to giggling whilst a hokey “peace healing practitioner” conned a gullible family into a trip around the woods to massage each other’s auras. Back on the Garden Stage, Bon Iver’s natural candour and emotional understatement made for many a lump in the throat, breaking away from his falsetto for a new organ-led song, Blood Bank, about “finding yourself trapped in the snow with someone you’re meeting for the first time”. This apparently is one of his last gigs touring For Emma, Forever Ago, and this aching song of missed opportunity and awkward encounters is an auspicious sign of what’s to come. His songs climb from burning embers to cloud-piercing firecrackers with The Wolves, the audience shivering as they sing “what might have been lost”, beaming with awe at our own mellifluous intensity. Brightonian Sons of Noel and Adrian, a self-professed “musical centipede”, are reminiscent of a more folk, less neurosis Arcade Fire, with their huge vocal harmonies and chorus of whistling glowing like the spirits in the woods, perfect for relaxing on a bin bag (as much as is possible) in the morning wake of far too much hot spiced cider the night before.

Low play what should have been a triumphant set, sad and redolent, with Dinosaur Act and Sunflower amongst others, but as the sky darkens so does Alan Sparhawk’s mood. He bitterly asks the audience if they’ve ever had a day where “everyone you love tells you that they hate you?”, and ends the set by violently hurling his guitar across the heads of the front row. Miraculously, no-one was hurt, but although the owner of the mangled instrument went away beaming, many of the audience left silenced with concern for his emotional wellbeing. It was an evening where many seemed let down by their heroes, as Sun Kil Moon followed with an esoteric, grumpy and indulgent set. Someone shouted, “play Glen Tipton”, to which an ostensibly bored Mark Kozelek replied, “jeez, three songs in and you’re criticizing me already?” Yep, three songs, and half an hour. However, their aloof monotony makes it even easier to be charmed by the cute, but never twee dancing of The Chap, who brought joyous angular poppy krautrock to The Local stage. They borrowed from Fujiya and Miyagi’s delicious cornered pronunciation, and Devo’s arch deadpan outlook on life, their manifesto for “proper songs about girls and clubbing!” making them a jolly good fun antidote to the weekend’s weightier bands.

The goofy fun streak shines brightly in Sunday afternoon’s bands too; The Wave Pictures aren’t particularly innovative, but frontman David Tattersall’s bashfulness at potentially offending his mum, and their slinky-like lyrical bounce lead nicely into Kimya Dawson’s busy set. She cuts an altogether different figure above the magic eye-esque sea of of checked shirts before her, starting bashfully with a song from her new album of songs for children, a cutesy actioned tale about bears which delights the beaming families in the crowd. Unbeknownst to them, it’s probably all a giant metaphor for skag. The parents in the crowd are quick to cover their spawn’s ears as she starts Alphabutt, the A-Z of animal poop – “d is for doody…f is for fart”, and the humour turns more puerile, comprising some staple festival Bush bashing, and her polite decline to ride an audience member’s cock. She completely epitomises the childlike wonder of the festival, and it’s brilliant to watch adults sniggering like Beavis and Butthead at the toilet humour inherent in her set.

Jason Molina is impossibly well presented given the gloopy mud, and slightly disappointing – he does little to lift the spirits – it’s more of a fan’s gig than anything likely to convert anyone, which is a shame considering the wealth of his back catalogue. Another berserk shift in tone comes from Bob Log III, who looks like Boba Fett phoning adult chat lines, and roars like Billy Childish should. His one-man band schtick and thankfully very layered striptease are funny for five minutes, but we escape before any mention of dipping a boob in his Scotch, bewildered at the reverie surrounding him. Both Darren and Jack Play Hefner, and Jeffrey and Jack Lewis are spirited manolescents, followed by the majestic grandeur of Calexico. The muddy camaraderie of the festival extends to a member of the crowd buying them a round of steaming ciders, which are subsequently passed around the front rows. Were it not so teeth-chatteringly cold, there’s no doubt that everyone would have been on his or her feet. Brakes end the festival on a frenetic, wired high, with Eamon Hamilton bringing his new wife on stage to sing Jackson (so new in fact that she seemed still to be wearing her wedding dress), and Comma Comma Comma Full Stop seems the perfect definitive cue to bite the cake reading “Eat Me” and slope back to reality.

Last Summer in Gothenburg...

“So, what made you decide to go to Gothenburg?” enquired my family. At this point, I could have fabricated an elaborate admiration of a country that has resisted the onslaught of the Euro, and a lifelong fascination with trams and Abba. However, truth prevailed, and I had to admit that it was the result of a slightly inebriated game of “pin the tail on the Ryan Air cheap flights map”, with a little help from Gothenburg native Jens Lekman’s album, Night Falls Over Kortedala (which happens to be at the end of our tram line). But as we cycle serenely across a city basking in midnight silence, the cool air off the Göteborg Älv brushing our faces and the curvaceous reflection of the Operan swimming in our eyes, I’m convinced this is the start of a Scandinavian love affair.

Our hostel, Slottsskogen Vandrarhem, in inauspicious concrete turns out to be a bustling haven of Erasmus students frantically apartment searching, Asian backpackers blogging their experiences on Macbooks in the corner of the friendly book-laden lounge, the heart of the hostel, and noisy German school children (who one morning meet their comeuppance playing knock-a-door down the corridor, waking up an unimpressed 6ft 4 Finnish goth). We make friends with our Parisien roommate, Pauline, who takes us to a tacky but fun club in the heart of the city. We’d read that alcohol in Scandinavia is supposed to be extortionate, but a five hour long Happy “Hour” (about £2.20 a drink) left us sated when the prices jumped back up to 48SEK (about £4.30).

Belying its metropolitan status, the city is closed for business from about 4pm Saturday, and the whole of Sunday, so we borrow bikes free of charge from the hostel (“here’s three sets of keys – if you can make the bikes work, you can take them,” says the trusting girl at reception in perfect English), and meanderingly cycle sunkissed down 12km of clapboard coast to Saltholmen (from the air, the houses look as though they’re made from Port Salut), the ferry port for the Southern Archipelago, a cluster of eight verdant islands not dissimilar to the Isles of Scilly (but where the Scillonian costs close to £100, this ferry was £1.20). To say that we’re amateur cyclists would be far overstating our prowess on the pedals, but the clearly marked cycle paths and sit-up Dutch bikes make for an easy ride, with few mishaps other than chains flying off at high speed. We hop off the boat at peaceful Vrannö, the smallest island, comprising 382 residents (although we’re not sure where they were), a fleet of curious bicycles with huge loading pallets mounted on the front, and a crystal clear, unfettered coastline. We ferry back, and cycle a more direct route home, through Slottsskogen Park, where we see penguins, parrots and pelicans (and other animals that don’t begin with the letter P). Sweden is apparently in the midst of a baby boom, evident by the number of men made all the more handsome by the babies papoosed to their fronts. Whole families cycle together, and the sight of giddy blonde children racing down cobbled streets is affirming – we don’t see an advert for Wii all week.

Everyone had told us how expensive Sweden is, but the only things we pay for are food (the same price as in England), and travel – we spent 100SEK (about £8) on a joint travel card, and after taking 12 trips on it, still £2 remained when we left – beat that, National Rail!). Museums are free as we’re under 25 (not that they ever wanted to check – we were shrugged through without even the promise of ID), and really challenged our preconceptions of Sweden’s national identity (which, to be fair, we had guiltily only gleaned from Eurovision, Ikea, and Swedish pop music).

Our metonymic association of Ikea as representative of Sweden is certainly swayed – the fascinating Röhsska Museet contains a chronological exhibition of furnishings, with every corner questioning what constitutes Swedish design. When the exhibition reaches the seventies, great heed was paid to flat pack design, and the ugly uniform hegemony of homes across the world, with their generic Billy bookcases and Oslo beds. There definitely seemed to be an artistic rebellion against Ikea’s usurping of the homeware market, from Design Torget – a chainstore paradoxically dedicated to showcasing and selling the work of independent Nordic designers – to the beautiful and varying typography throughout the city (Times New Roman and Comic Sans seem unofficially banned from the city’s signage, thankfully).

With its beautiful, stoic university buildings and the romantic village feel of Haga’s cobbled streets, Gothenburg is reminiscent of Oxford and Paris, yet never feels pretentious, or that it’s trying to conform to rose-tinted expectations of how a city should be, it’s casually dismissive of trends, and artlessly welcoming both aesthetically and in spirit. On Monday evening, exhausted after walking miles through the town, we collapse waiting for a tram at Järntorget, and spot a club called Pustervik, advertising a “Pingisklubben” for that evening. A quick Babelfish search on the hostel’s free internet tells us that this is a ping-pong night (and mentions cottages and babies…never trust internet translations!), so we group together with six Germans, a Dutch guy, an Australian, a Lithuanian and an Italian for one of the funniest evenings I’ve ever had. Pingis is a ping-pong table in the middle of the room, with 20 paddles passed around the crowd – everyone takes one hit at a time, going out when you miss or hit the ball off the table, all to the tune of Radiohead, Sigur Ros, and Lykke Li amongst others. As more people go out, the remaining players run doggedly faster and faster around the table, eventually leaving two players to battle it out. We stumble home, to find a new girl asleep in our room, and she’s gone by morning. It reminds me of Lost In Translation, hotel rooms providing the possibility for romantic surprising encounters with people in a similar state of culture shock.

Tuesday takes us and a new Dutch friend around the city’s numerous museums, with highlights including a skateboard exhibition at the Röhsska, and Tomorrow Always Belongs To Us, a showcase of 11 young Nordic artists, whose work ranges from flashing light installations that you’re supposed to watch with your eyes shut, to lifesize gnarled papier maché humanoids twisted under the weight of their self-imposed capitalistic chaos. The museum is an aesthete’s dream, and a brilliant film called Surplus: Terrified Into Consumerism, by Swedish director Erik Gandini catches our eye – set to music by the Gotan Project, and other slippy techno/dubstep beats, he samples and loops excerpts of his interviews with people in the throes of consumerism, lip synching Cuban leader Fidel Castro into saying “I LOVE THIS COMPANY!”, taken from the sloppy mouth of a sweaty, hyped up Microsoft motivational speaker. We’re in stitches, and have to tear ourselves away before the museum shuts.

For our last night in the city, we decide to have a barbeque in the gorgeous Slottsskogen Park, surrounded by babbling ducks and our proud bikes silhouetted against the lake. We promise one another that we will definitely be playing “pin the tail on the Ryan Air flight map” again, for the thrill of the unexpected and the secret internal pride at our intrepid international trailblazing – we feel like pioneers, and leave Scandinavia’s biggest port exporting excited memories as our cargo.

I am in love with Sweden.  

Mamma Mia

That the two biggest chick flicks of the decade contain subtle allusions to the economic recession should be wholly implausible, but where the Sex and the City film was a climactic exhibition of material excess in the face of the credit crunch, Mamma Mia retorts with a “make do and mend” attitude familiar to the older generation, gently ridiculing its sole socialite and her moisturiser containing “flakes of 24 carat gold and extract of donkey testicle, at $1000 a dollop”. That’s not to say it constitutes cutting edge social commentary by any stretch of the imagination – it’s a film so saccharine and wholesome that the off-key singing of the protagonists is as close at it gets to gritty realism. In case you’re blissfully unaware of the plot, wide-eyed and fatherless Sophie (a spry Amanda Seyfried) is getting married to Sky (Dominic Cooper, who’s about as dreamy and exotic as an Any Dream Will Do contestant), and using covert information gleaned from her mother’s diary, has invited along the three men who could potentially be her father. Cue hilarious conversations at cross purposes and far too much menopausal camel toe for anyone in their right mind to stomach, all to the tune of ABBA’s finest…
There’s a great deal to loathe about this film (not least the soundtrack if you’re not an ABBA fan), from the horrible soft-focus cinematography to the repetitive pratfalls into the glorious Mediterranean, and the pithy script (particularly Pierce Brosnan’s polemic about respecting the rights of the father). The casting is as off-key as the singing – Colin Firth is so embarrassingly unconvincing as a gay man that come the end of the film, the director included an apologetic slow-mo homage to Pride and Prejudice where the abundance of wet-shirted men is in direct inverse proportion to the amount of sex appeal Firth exudes here. It suffers a lack of balance, dedicating little time to the relationship between Sky and Sophie (although we should be grateful for small mercies – their relationship makes that of Troy and Vanessa from High School Musical look transcendent and intense), and its only success at subtly acknowledging Greek mythology (shoehorned in by director Phyllida Lloyd at every opportunity) comes with faintly disturbing shades of the Electra complex that Sophie threatens to develop against Donna pre-wedding.

However (and it’s an extremely begrudged however), Mamma Mia’s greatest success lies in its impeccable knowledge of its target audience – the older generation (or the “BBC crowd” as the film’s marketing manager labelled them)- and part of the film’s indirect charm is to see largely senior audiences one minute acting giddy as school girls (you’ve never heard anything like the screams when the male contingent appear in shiny blue leotards), the next empathising with Donna’s self-confessed technophobia, then cooing with grandmotherly affection as the youth make impassioned decisions. It’s visually addictive HRT, and an older crowd will appreciate a cast that’s not American by majority.
Your average teenager understands that singing in front of people is a mortifying pastime reserved for delusional X Factor contestants, public displays of affection are for saps, and that you should never trust a girl who says her mother is her best friend - but for the older generation, the sentimental decency of the plot recalls a time when entertainment came from making the best of what you had, and not compensating for emotional voids with capricious capitalism. It’s good clean fun, with old favourite Julie Walters delivering the film’s sharpest and most risqué line – when discussing Donna’s sex life in a cringeworthy scene starring a power drill (no prizes for interpreting that metaphor), she upholds that “it’s just more plumbing to be maintained”, and often steals the show with her wired delivery and unabashed willingness to send herself up in the stickiest of situations.

Only people who bandy about the word “trendy” could ever see this film as cool, but happily, the film never pretends to be anything of the sort. It’s a self-indulgent and undignified farce, but the original ingenuity of the ABBA-led narrative still shines through, despite the gaping plot error (the oldies reminisce about flower power and the good old days, making Pierce Brosnan a latent hippy, or Sophie the world’s youngest-looking 39 year old). Where Sex and the City failed to emphasise the so-called empowerment of feminist, liberated modern women, Mamma Mia thrives by discouraging subordination to a life of domesticity and emotional materialism, promoting independence, and self-discovery. Which, when you think about it, is far cooler than desperately chasing romance and $250 cushions…

Sunburned Hand of the Man & The Rosemarie Band @ Miss Peapods, 10.06.08

With Miss Peapods still reeling from Monotonix's sweat-drenched assault a few weeks ago, Sunburned Hand of the Man's second gig in Penryn initially looked to be a far less life-threatening affair. Elegant Falmouthians The Rosemarie Band complemented Cluster-esque shades of Krautrock with a Celtic chirruping flute, and a calmly liturgical rhythm akin to the post-rock instrumentation of Do Make Say Think. Their first song an incongruous vocal number, the set improved incrementally as words were cast aside, and a burring guitar met with the sun setting over the Fal for a demure crescendo. Resonant with promise, The Rosemarie Band could follow in Thistletown's footsteps and become Cornwall's brightest slow-burners of 2008.

Appearing shortly after to a crowd buoyed by Peapods' potent organic cider, Sunburned Hand of the Man precipitated potential danger in their set when they strewed shock-absorbing foil sheets across the stage; it wasn't immediately obvious whether these were intended for the benefit of a venue bruised by Monotonix, or audience members of a nervous disposition. Either way, songs ranging from primal lycanthropic yelps to more cosmic percussive drones passed by without making much of a lasting musical impression - most memories of the evening will recall freakish totem masks looming through alien euphonies rather than any mind-blowing brilliance. However, as with each and every gig put on by Lono, it marked a thoroughly memorable night better than most, and to echo the thoughts of many, it's a shame that the next date in Lono's calendar isn't until August.

MV&EE @ Miss Peapods, 11.02.08

After a run of quietly spectacular gigs in 2007 (Jack Rose, Jeffrey Lewis et al), Falmouth-based Lono Records' latest coup (and their list of forthcoming dates) only added to the unanimity that they're the saviours of truly alternative music in Cornwall. Preceeded by the yodelling, herb-referencing Simon Drinkwater, and Andrew Hockey's off-kilter pop-psych jams, MV & EE delighted the largely bearded crowd (the male contingent at least) with sprawling, 20-minute renditions of songs from their exponentially expanding back catalogue (anything written about the band will undoubtedly feature the word "prolific").
Both the more subtle, woody songs from recent album, "Gettin' Gone", and its crunchy Americana-tinged numbers were similarly burnt by an intriguing conversational drone and lysergic pounding rhythm, which, at times, could rightly have been labelled self-indulgent, but under the head-nodding influence of Miss Peapod's potent organic cider, a harsh stop to a song might have seemed unfair, and amputative. However, it'd be unrealistic to state that every 20-minute opus was a pleasure to hear - whilst the set seemed impressively built around intuition for the other musicians, it would perhaps have been more satisfying to hear them draw from further into their past recordings, with a little more tonal texture.

Tegan et Sara - The Con

Quand son dernier titre est devenu populaire seulement parce que les White Stripes ont enregistré un des chansons (le fantastique "Walking With a Ghost"), c'est comprendable qu'on serait amer. Naturellement, ce n'est pas probablement la raison du changement de la tonalité, mais il est indéniable que les jumeaux canadiens cinquième titre est lyriquement plus sobre, et moins "pop" par convention que son prédécesseur. 26 ne nous semble pas vieux, mais les rêveries sur l'âge brillent par le disque le plus musicalement expérimental de T&S - sur "Like O, Like H", et "Nineteen", relaté par le lyrique typiquement idiosyncratique - "je vous ai senti dans des mes jambes, avant que je vous aie jamais rencontré". Des quelques moments optimistes, "Back In Your Head" discute l'engagement très ouvrir - "je ne suis pas infidèle mais je vaguerai", s'ajoutant au type d'honnêteté rare et beau qui est sûre de permettre ce titre de parler pour lui-même, sans aide des amis célèbres.

Red Stripe Music Awards: Falmouth Heat

So it’s awards season again, and with the NME Awards making the Brits look more alternative than Britney doing gabba, it’s up to Red Stripe to revolutionise recognising unsigned talent (despite ignoring last year’s finalists, our resplendent Rosie and the Goldbug, in favour of another identikit guitar band). Kicking off the first of Cornwall’s three heats is The UPS, four skinny young chaps in full uniform (Topman’s Winter collection) with a nice line in explosive drumming. However, they let themselves down with the other members’ failure to concentrate on the job in hand, instead remembering to don one’s all-important white Wayfarers mid-set. All stuttering guitar and drums, most of their repertoire bombed with weak verses, and generic football terrace “oh-oh-oh-ing” about that much-mooted cliché, “reality”.

Less on-trend of disposition, Nervosa take to the stage, looking promisingly like a supergroup made up of Lemmy Motorhead, one of Arcade Fire and Glass Shark. However, they disappoint with their rankling, dated mid-90s rock sound, often evoking the hairy soul of Nickelback. To give credit where it’s due, they were significantly tighter than The UPS, but in no way comparable to their stage successor.

“Now for some fopp rock,” purrs the dandyish Andrew Bate, with the first sign of any charisma or real presence of the evening. Since first appearing two years ago, Andrew has developed remarkably, crafting an enigmatic, seemingly innocent onstage persona, and lending his songs a sweeping tonal grace akin to Radiohead’s acoustic moments. The rhythm section led by his waltzing eyebrows, ‘Trust’ writes the evening’s most thoughtful lyrics (although the competition’s not hard when up against nonsensical trend-chasing tales of reality).

Unfortunately, the embers of Andrew’s set are soon stomped on by the boisterous, hardcore Disco Pip, whose set was hampered by the presence of a great big Gaye albatross, and their every song ending in a crashing sonic wall of oblivion. However final song, “Even the Brake” was undeniably satisfying, all synthetic sirens and visceral yowls, erasing all memory of the one-chord wonders they played previously.

It’s hard not to take the bait in Tom Pitts’ opening statement – “Hello, I’m The Pitts” - especially when his first number sounds like a male Kate Nash with terminal screaming PMT, followed by an appalling cover of Pixies’ “Where Is My Mind?”, which, like the rest of his set, attempts to be ramshackle and twee, but just comes off as unadulterated tosh. There might have been a certain charm lingering in his profusely perspiring nerves, but certainly not the addictive allure of the Moldy Peaches, Bill Bailey, or any other comedy acoustic troubadours.

Thank goodness then, for My Elvis Blackout, who despite a year away from the scene, are razor sharp of wit and shirts, without a dated note in their ‘50s surf-rock heavy set. Their thumping, swaggering sonic beast would leave the Cloverfield monster pleading for mercy, and they’re the only band tonight to whip the crowd into mid-song whoops of joy. Old favourite “Elsie Elsie” rears its head, steaming with pheromones and the scent of sticky young lust. Set-closer “Back In The Food Chain”, with its bullish feudal lyrics, sent a message to all the young pretenders to their throne, but it’s not one to be printed here...