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PLANETNOTION TELEVISION!
CAMERA-FOLK AND FILM EDITORS WANTED!
Planet Notion is looking for guys and dolls to film and edit features for its new TV channel, PNTV. Accompanying Notion to artist interviews, gigs, fashion shows, festivals and international events, you will be skilled, passionate and full of ideas about how to produce shit-hot video content. Camera-folk will be experienced and ideally have their own equipment, or at least access to equipment, while editors must be able to turn projects around quickly, and with stylistic flare. If you can both film and edit content, we would especially like to hear from you! These casual, unpaid positions would be ideal for those looking to develop their showreels, and to get the chance to travel, film major artists and top events.
 
Please email lucy(at)musichqmedia
(dot)com if you’re interested in getting involved, cheers!
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Liquid Liquid. The Barbican. October 4th.
Liquid Liquid. The Barbican. October 4th.
10/10/2008
tags: | liquid liquid | liquid liquid news | liquid liquid latest | liquid liquid 2008 | more...

Nail The Cross. Various Acts. New Cross.
Nail The Cross. Various Acts. New Cross.
07/10/2008
Constant blabber about a New Cross music ‘scene’ has always been pretty unfounded, hinging heavily on the lie that the Klaxons have something to do with the place. Someone even tried to coin a name for it once – ‘Rocklands’ – which made very little sense and caught on with no one. Undeterred, the organisers of Nail the Cross have realised the potential for a multi-venue festival across the area’s many art-scum bars, and by bringing together Domino Records and Adventures in the Beetroot Field, succeeded in attracting an impressive mix of intellectual rock and performers with names like DiscoFuckSlut DJs (or similar). Notion started things off with The XX, who demonstrate enough taste in their neo-goth plagiarism to be really quite good. Darting over to the New Cross Tavern, we catch a genuinely local band; Hatcham Social deliver their fidgety, stripped-down early 80s indie to some adoring fans and a few newbies, who vow to remember the name. More darting takes us to Goldsmith’s University for the foot-stomping, bottle-smashing maelstrom of Archie Bronson Outfit. A few in the crowd look slightly baffled by the band’s increasingly psychedelic re-working of their songs, but there's still enough energy there to leave you feeling as though you’ve been beaten by a gang of Mississippi rednecks. It would have been nice to see Clinic, who were undoubtedly excellent, but in the interests of journalistic variety, Notion headed to the Amersham Arms for a spot of These New Puritans. They should be rubbish given the fact that no one does ecstasy anymore, but somehow TNP’s Madchester vibe of droney, beat-heavy swirls and Messianic shouting, still sounds relevant and captivating. It sets the crowd up perfectly for the next five-or-so-hours of increasingly degenerate dancing, to a wide mix of electro-techno-digi-dancehall-whatever, interspersed with some animated stumbling around the streets. All in all, quite an achievement - if only fleetingly, New Cross stopped being merely the decrepit home of irritatingly-clothed art students and actually felt like a music scene. Words: Eric Randolph / Photo: Simon Fernandez
tags: | nail the cross | more...
Bestival. Robin Hill. Isle of Wight.
Bestival. Robin Hill. Isle of Wight.
16/09/2008
The huge success of the previous four Bestivals must have given curator Rob da Bank a feeling of invincibility, thinking he could poke contemptuously at the genitals of fate by announcing the theme of this year’s fancy dress to be 30,000 Freaks Under The Sea . Well, whichever gods Rob da Bank may have offended in the past saw to it that he had the perfect stage for his pantomime, and it duly pissed it down for much of the weekend. The rain and mud may have sodden the trousers and skin of many a reveller, but certainly not their spirits, and certainly not the hair of Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong, who neatly strut their tailored musical wares with such confidence that even their instruments pout. In the dry of the Big Top tent The Breeders radiate a warm glow with their smiles and humour alone - their set has a consistent brilliance, through old favourites such as ‘Cannonball,’ to newer gems like ‘We’re Gonna Rise.’ Despite over a decade on hiatus and excessive shoe-gazing, main stage headliners, My Bloody Valentine crank out their trademark silken vocals over a wall of gushing guitars in powerful and mesmeric fashion. The effect of the synced-in, fast-moving film clips create a disorientation that peaks at the end of their set with 10 minutes of lung-collapsing noise, that crashes sublimely back into the end of ‘You Made Me Realise.’ By far one of the most intriguing spectacles of the weekend is Chrome Hoof. With an eleven-strong entourage dressed in glittery silver gowns like futuristic Druids at a solstice booze-up, they blast out shards of post-apocalyptic melodrama that somehow straddles the apparent gulf between Funkadelic vibes and doom metal. With an array of instruments from bassoons and violins to synths and chugging guitars, the elaborateness of their music more than matches that of their costumes. Saturday opens with the softly whisperings of Laura Marling. Perhaps not optimum weather conditions for her alternative take on traditional folk, though ‘Alas I Cannot Swim’ cuts through the morning haze with uplifting jolliness, and a somewhat strange pertinence. Kitty Daisy & Lewis boogie down with circa 50s R&B and quaff-heavy rock ’n’ roll, which they do very well; though it seems at times to simply be a nostalgia trip, making them little more than a good pub band to keep in mind for your cousin’s wedding. A band stirring the sleepy post-rock nest is Vessels. As a light drizzle sets the mood perfectly, with musical virtuosity they create atmospheric quakes that tower above their occasionally all-too-obvious precursors to Explosions in the Sky, which they blend in with gently trotting intricacies. As something of an almost comical contrast, Let’s Wrestle clatter out an endearingly clumsy frenzy of slightly discordant indie-pop that is so effortlessly brilliant, it almost seems like they’re dong it by mistake. Hanging nonchalantly between The Cribs and The Moldy Peaches, they prove that tuning-up is what lesser bands do, to hide the fact that they don’t have any decent songs. The promoters were holding a couple of cards close to their chests by listing two surprise guests. The whole main arena went berserk when Terry Hall bounded out and played what amounted to The Specials’ greatest hits collection. Though the absence of Jerry Dammers meant they were not officially billed as The Specials, no-one in the crowd seemed to care about such minor details as they hollered and danced along to ‘Too Much Too Young’ and ‘A Message to You, Rudy.’ The appearance of Grace Jones on-stage was quite spectacular and also slightly surreal. Everything about her exudes eccentricity. From the costume changes after every song, to the androgyny of her voice, which is magnificently showcased in its full and frightening range in ‘La Vie En Rose.’ With po-faced cool, XX Teens cruise their way through a mix of quirky rock, pulsing techno and big-band blasts, with ‘Over You’ as the stand-out track. Back on the main stage, Hot Chip attract the biggest audience of the festival by far. In Bestival spirit they emerge in fancy dress, before launching into a set charged with a relentless energy. By ‘And I Was A Boy From School,’ the anthemic dance-steps which tread on adorably camp retro ground have the whole crowd - despite being crammed together like sheep - waving whatever limb they manage to shake loose. In true prima donna style, Amy Winehouse staggers on-stage 40 minutes late, to mix of cheers and booing. Like a Victorian freak show, people turn up just to see her - sod the music; with each song being met by a response that would generously be called apathetic. Although she does have an incredible voice, she represents something more. By the end of the set it’s a depressing fact that most people would feel more satisfied if she’d come on-stage smoking a crack pipe, and then just fallen over on something sharp, rather than played any songs. On a slightly less dismal Sunday morning in the aftermath of an evening’s excess, the lenitive tones of King Creosote perfectly vocalise the optimistic daze of the scattered crowd who are appreciative of his folksy lullabies. For a brief moment when the sun slices its way through the cloud, a subtle euphoria hangs like a mist over the main arena; music to release a gratifying sigh to. Thomas Tantrum are like a bright sunshiny beam emanating from the BBC stage, firmly carving their faces into the indie-pop candy mountain. There was a mix of mild reluctance and intrigue surrounding Sebastien Tellier’s appearance, though his talent and wit shone out through his set, which was often so drenched in irony a second pair of wellies was required just to wade through it. Standing like a rock cavalier he paints a huge rainbow-coloured smile across the festival, and with psychedelic waves of retro computer sounds layered on disco pop beats, he churns out music that sounds like the theme-tune for a Japanese cartoon about a young boy’s adventures with his pet dragon ‘Bjorn.’ Micah P Hinson sets a more serious tone, as a slightly angrier Elvis Costello. Although his music sounds rooted in 70s folk such as Neil Young, there are grittier strings to his bow, which often erupt in Frank Black-esque screams. Zombie Zombie win the award for the least attended set, which is surprising considering the buzz surrounding them leading up to the summer – I guess no one was in the mood for their journey through a minimal techno wonderland. Anyone who thinks that all the possibilities of a guitar, bass and drums have been exhausted, need to go and see Akron/Family. They play eerie traditional folk with a dynamic gusto, spliced in with Eastern themes, so that choruses often sound more like mantras. Then straight from left-field, the show ends with drummer Dana Janssen taking the microphone as the human beat-box, for a hand waving version of ‘Ed is a Portal.’ Genius. Words: Simon Jablonski / Photography: Chiara Meattelli
tags: | bestival | more...
The Harder They Come. Playhouse Theatre. London.
The Harder They Come. Playhouse Theatre. London.
09/09/2008
The giant-spliff-touting, rastafari-coloured, soul-shaking theatre production of Perry Henzell’s ‘The Harder They Come,’ running at the Playhouse Theatre until 13th September, is essential entertainment and not just for anyone looking to get lifted; if you can locate your sense of humour and your heart, this is a cathartic kind of show that manages to unearth joy even under the very influence of death. Aspiring reggae star, lover, rebel and ganja-dealer, Ivan, originally played by Jimmy Cliff in the 1972 Jamaican film, here locates himself in the elastic limbs and tremendous lungs of Rolan Bell. Bell leads a carefully selected cast, pitting the might of their awesome reggae and gospel songs against a plot of conflict and spiralling chaos – we are asked to wiggle in our seats to classics like ‘Higher And Higher’ and ‘Pressure Drop,’ against the play’s actual trajectory towards violence and death. But then that was – still is – the power of reggae music, repackaging menacing imagery amid upbeat melody and booty-movin’ riddims: ‘Walkin’ down the road / With a pistol in your waist / Johnny you’re too bad…’ An even better conundrum is queuing for the toilet in one of the West End’s most esteemed theatres, and hearing Bob Marley through the speakers; dancing along in a standing ovation to some of the tunes that propelled black music further, in a building that was built to be bastion of white culture; being enlightened by Ivan’s sidekick that the interval is in fact ‘A fifteen minute ganja break.’ Jah be praised! GO SEE ‘THE HARDER THEY COME’ BEFORE IT ENDS ON SATURDAY!
tags: | more...
Goodiepal/Shit and Shine/Faust. Cargo. September 2nd.
Goodiepal/Shit and Shine/Faust. Cargo. September 2nd.
04/09/2008
I’m pretty certain I harbour haughty delusions that “music” can be neatly defined, wrapped in a bow and held up as a yard stick to which all sounds are judged. However, fabulously moustachioed opener, Goodiepal, seems to have the sole mission of lining up all our musical preconceptions one by one and questioning them thoroughly until they lie deflated and confused on the floor. For half an hour he strides manically around various items of musical paraphernalia fastidiously arranged on a large wooden table, whilst excitedly spewing a diatribe that continuously branches off on ever jumbled digressions. Attempts to follow his ranting are foiled further by the eerie drones of a drummer and a vocalist that in parts, completely drown out the un-miked speaker. Shit and Shine have forged a reputation transfixing audiences with dramatic, building sets that weave layers of exquisite electronic chaos into pounding mesmeric rhythms. Tonight they grapple the floor with as much sincerity as a band wearing blue masks and rabbit ears can muster. Sweeping away the builds, they crash straight in with thunderously rampant drums that wrestle destructively with big, fuzz fuelled guitars. The tones of a clarinet screeching over the top make this first section reminiscent of a super fuzzed Mudhoney, who have transcended their fear of death and hurtle manic and unconstrained towards a distant cliff edge. As the set progresses, guitars give way to prolapsing synth über bass which serves as a backing for a slow deterioration into psychedelica; the clarinettist has merged with his instrument, now hanging from his face like a trunk, trumpeting out spasmodic noises. As everything resolves with breath taking awe, there’s little doubt that Shit and Shine are one of the most exciting and captivating experimental bands in the country, nay, the world at the moment. Despite having only two remaining founding members, there’s always a huge anticipation around seeing Faust. For a band that has done so much to aid the progression of music, it was quite disappointing that there was less of a shine about them and more of a... (well, I won’t insult anyone’s intelligence by completing that sentence). Headed by new member Geraldine Swayne, a softer feminine energy gives their sound a fresh new face, yet one that quickly becomes slightly dull – dull enough to half the size of an already apathetic audience within 15 minutes. New track Fresh Air starts nowhere and tails off from there, and their catalogue of driving classics has been replaced by faux-art improvisation in which cringe inducing sentiments are muttered over the sound of tearing paper. Perhaps it’s their expectation that is ultimately their downfall. Whatever it is, tonight’s performance saw the krautrock baton ceremoniously passed to along to the more musically virile clatters of Shit and Shine. Words: Simon Jablonski
tags: | goodiepal | more...
O'Death + The Cave Singers. Cargo. August 14th.
O'Death + The Cave Singers. Cargo. August 14th.
18/08/2008
Tremors of the current folk explosion have spewed forth a host of diverse and interesting bands from various reaches of the globe. The taking up of a tradition, long thought to have died the day Simon and Garfunkel decided to go their separate ways, is a phenomenon that has itself been the subject of over-lengthy musings and often hostile greetings. Tonight sees Cargo displaying a small sample of these folk shaped projectiles. A promising sign as O’Death take to the stage is the notable presence of beards; an adornment devoid of fashion value and rife with a renegade attitude that always announces that: Here stands a band ready to point us to a rich musical landscape. And O’Death affirm, at least for now, that this is still the case. Armed merely with the tools of a traditional bluegrass band – a banjo, guitar, violin, bass and drums – they throw together a plethora of brilliantly interweaving styles with the most impassioned force. Though musically they’re rooted in some 19th century western setting, where times are hard and mean and vocal harmonies battle it out over intricate banjo and fiddle parts, there is a strong punk drive that pounds against your chest - whilst a wild, gypsy heart, sees them tearing savagely through songs that demand to be danced to. This very much evokes comparisons to fellow New Yorkers Gogol Bordello. Though this would not be unreasonable, there’s a constant roll of creative splendour in O’Death’s set, where a ho-down of interchanging rhythms meet intensely with brilliantly crafted vocal melodies. Each song is delivered with such force and conviction, that it feels as if they’re reaching out into the audience and using their individual souls as microphones to shout their message into. Most definitely a band of biblical proportions. It would be near impossible to follow O’Death and outdo their boisterous ingenuity. The Cave Singers, however, alter the mood beautifully with their warm Americana tinged folk - which lacks nothing in intensity and whose soulful tones softly light the air around the room. Despite a more stripped down stage set-up than on their album ‘Invitation Songs’, with merely guitar and vocals for their opener Helen, the haunting timbre of singer Pete Quirk’s voice creates an orchestral presence that expands out into the venue. Their music is both delicate and powerful; with fervently delivered melodies that undulate gently, they manage to paint remarkably vivid imagery of their world. This expressive force is explicit in Pete Quirk’s face as he draws out each articulation as if in a state of deep catharsis. As the set progresses it builds up to unexpected climactic clangs and a swirling drive that places a progressive colour to their folk sensibilities. Although both bands have a sound essentially rooted in traditional music, they each remould it in their own unique way that surely proves to any doubters that there is life in the old folk dog yet. Words: Simon Jablonski Photography: Chiara Meattelli
tags: | o'death | more...
Lenny Kravitz. Brixton Academy. August 13th.
Lenny Kravitz. Brixton Academy. August 13th.
15/08/2008
Hmm, hmm, hmm… Yep, he takes some pondering, Lenny Kravitz. This is Planet Notion’s philosophy (following a day of pondering): ‘Fly Away’ killed Kravitz. I know, I know, that’s quite a statement; one that’ll probably have the mountains of people that took it to number one banging on our door like deranged freaks from the 1500s, searching for a witch to burn – or in my case, a low-paid hack drinking black coffee because we’ve run out of friggin’ milk... again!!! Sure, Kravitz retained the legendary status after 'Fly Away', but it greatly diminished. Let's face it, it was a wrong 'un. Krav turned his back on what his fans wanted to see by releasing a commercial song that the masses took to number one; The same masses that did the same for fucking Shaggy and Right Said Fred before giving them the ‘V’ sign, moving onto Chumbawumba, and leaving ‘em in purgatory until the End Of Time. I reckon a fair few rock fans washed their hands with Krav after ‘Fly Away’ because it was so damn soft and commercial. Fickle? Maybe; but if it ain’t broke, don’t try and fix it. So turning up to see Kravitz at the Brixton Academy, Planet Notion was feeling somewhat, um, I don’t know… nonchalant? Firstly, The Krav was almost an hour late on stage, and this creates two problems: (1) if the performance doesn’t live up to the unnecessary anticipation, you’re screwed; (2) you’re starting to piss off a fair few people. So what was The Krav’s saving grace? Well, the fact that he can still play the friggin’ guitar with the best of ‘em; still has a ‘good’ range to his voice; the fact that his presence makes you want to go all Total Recall on his arse and step into his shoes; and here’s the biggy: The fact that his backing band were one of the finest Planet Notion’s witnessed. It almost took us on a nostalgic, non-drug infused trip to the days when listening to Kravitz made you feel dirty in your scummy Converse, greasy leather jacket and stained vest (we imagine); back when he wasn’t playing friggin’ ‘Fly Away’ on a weekly basis to noughties teeny-boppers. The best bit of the night was probably the ten minute drum solo with a touch of ‘Moby Dick’ and the John Bonham’s about it. The worst bit was the encore of ‘Fly Away’ after already playing it twice already. Yep: Twice. Planet Notion went down the pub after that. Verdict: Good. But seriously Krav; ditch ‘Fly Away’ and stick to dirty rock-riffs. Dangerous
tags: | lenny kravitz | more...
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