Sound of Music

In the pitch black of Leeds Arena, 15,000 people gathered in the shadows of a Saturday night, eagerly awaiting the arrival of BMTH. Opening with "Mantra", their first single from AMO, the rapture began. And here's the thing, without irony, there's something vaguely cultish about BMTH. Their iconography game is strong (see Coldplay ripping off Sempiternal, see the best umbrella since Rihanna with That's The Spirit). The DropDeadClothing line is making models of us all, not seen since Atticus back in the day (ask your dad). The tie-in merch is frankly on another level (bauble, anyone?). And there's an emerging Beatles-style hysteria for Ollie and co, just wearing more black. As ever in this era, they're an open target for knocking, but this set felt like a blistering reminder that Sheffield's finest have always bought their A game. There's the hits, the new stuff, and, pleasingly, a medley of the old songs. There's old skool screaming, an

The night magic came to York… The night started in Fulford Arms, York (one of the city’s best venues for live music) and ended in Wowtown, courtesy of Thomas Truax. I admit prior to the evening I knew little of his work, save for his reputation of inventing his own instruments. Starting with ‘Inside the Internet’, complete with dial up tones, it felt like the beginning of, what was, a very special evening. Words can’t really describe the gig in justice, but here’s a selection. There’s an incredible inventiveness about Thomas Truax that’s completely mesmerising. Sounding at times like a complete orchestra, it’s an one-man show like no other. It sounds impressive, ‘invents his own instruments’, but it’s more than just putting an extra string on a guitar (which may also be great). We’re talking hornicators, gramophones, beaters, mouthpieces from saxophones, fishing reels, a spinning jenny, just to list a few. I’m not one for superlatives, but to me, it’s complete genius. Th

Arriving at the Brudenell Social Club is like walking into an indie kids Byker Grove. With more people outside than inside between acts, a gig here always feels like a ‘proper’ event; there’s always bustle, the floor is packed and the atmosphere is usually brilliant. Taking to the stage, FEHM  look electric - the frontman/guitarist and bassist are the focal points, peroxide blonde magnets leading the way. Joined by the drummer, their music shifts and shapes with every song – it’s dark, it’s gothic, it’s post punk, it’s brooding, it’s epic, it’s urgent, it’s bloody marvellous. The bass lines are a thundering powerhouse, the heartbeat of every song, as they twist and turn through the set. The frontman owns the stage, and possibly the night, simultaneously sparking guitar riffs whilst howling through the songs. It’s a rare gem of a set and for me, a show-stealing performance of the night. Proudly clutching their C90 tape on the way out, they deserve to be huge. The Eagul

Back in autumn 2003, there was a revolution for many of us. It was the first taste of independence, exciting and uncharted territory. Thrown into the mix of strangers, music quickly became the thing that defined us...not dress, weight, looks, or any other bullshit, but sounds. A symphony was building, pre-social media it travelled by conversations at the lockers, at the common room table, leafing through Kerrang and Metal Hammer, home made badges and logos scribbled on folders. Who had heard of Funeral for a Friend's EP, who'd seen them, who knew what others did? And then it dropped, Casually Dressed And Deep In Conversation. I remember camping out at the indie record store, racing to college and blasting it from the stereo. No one in our group went to class that afternoon, within a week the copy had travelled far and wide. In the era of copy control, we copied radio blasts to mini disc, cassette, and walked round with disc mans to get maximum listening. It was definitive and h

  ‘Welcome Back to Milk’ has been the soundtrack to my days and nights since landing on our doormat on Sunday 17 May. Over 12 songs, Beth Jeans Houghton has love in her sights and mercilessly toys with it like a punk rock deity. Seeing it live turned into a must see event, it’s raw power deserved a live airing so we prowled over to the Brudenell Club in Leeds. On stage, Du Blonde have a mesmerising presence, their collective magnetic pull akin to watching a hurricane to see if it touches down. On paper, it doesn’t make sense, the guitarist is wearing a jumper on the hottest day of the year so far, it’s a debut album by a new band, but in reality it’s a confident collective who are simply magnificent live. Essential listening. Make no mistake, as much as BJH is the merkin-wearing heart of the band, each band member is integral to the act, and seem to truly enjoy playing live. The drummer is a powerhouse, his count in to songs ranging from hand clapping to melodic counting

The weekend of 1 July 2011 was an epic adventure – on occasion of my mate's milestone birthday two of our favourite bands were playing the capital, Flaming Lips and Pulp. It seemed only fair to have an epic four day adventure celebrating. Writing below is from the time. Thousands of stops seemingly on the Northern Line in the armpits of a stranger. Postcard London . Arrive in a cloud of Flaming t-shirts, amongst our own people. Race to get on to the official shuttle bus. Board. Alight. Alexandra Palace . Skyline of London glitters in front of us, mesmerising. Snake queues to enter. Huge palace of possibilities. Hot dog queue threatens existence. Giant red, flamed and framed. What food is that colour? Lager refreshes as we choose to miss Deerhoof. Commercialisation at every turn, get your photo taken to a banner of the album for a tenner. Doubt it. Crowds wait for the Flaming Lips. We turn out to be a diverse group, scars mark self harmers who have a high perchance for the Li