James Arden checks out the garage rockers latest album.
The Christian rock band from Brighton bring religion to the masses.
Recipe for modern R'n'B album: liberal helpings of guest rappers and an overdose of sexual euphemisms.
Crushes are funny things, aren’t they? Often unexpected, usually inconvenient, always embarrassing, striking at will, they render you totally oblivious to your victim’s faults.
Take that sporty bloke you see around campus. You enjoy his face. You smile at him occasionally. You haven’t realised this yet; but he is a Ziggy’s-going, traffic-cone-stealing idiot, but your crush has blinded you against this somewhat major flaw. Or that pretty girl you smile at in the library. The one who once smiled back at you. She is certainly a total cow. A. Total. Cow. This is the truth. Doesn’t life just stink?
Sometimes, however, a crush will strike, and it isn’t embarrassing, inconvenient or unexpected, but makes a perfect amount of sense. On the 22nd October, in Durham, my crush was not on some “fit” piece of AU ass, but a collection of the most strangely wonderfully superlatively beautiful people to grace God’s green earth.
The Jeff Lewis Band do not wear trendy shoes, but the most practical walking-shoe style trainers ever produced.
First up were The Middle Ones, two quirky girls from the exotic climes of East Anglia. Both kitted out in sparkly dresses and armed with an acoustic guitar and jauntily decorated glockenspiel (oh yes!), how could anyone not develop an instant crush? Strictly acoustic, they harmonize their way through a collection of delightfully eloquent songs, punctuated with the odd bit of nervous banter. Their nerves made them oh-so-endearing, but were totally unwarranted; their songs shone as much as their silver clothes. In short, a band who are far and away better than they think they are. Which is lovely in a way – it is such a rarity in a world populated with would-be Borrells.
The Jeff Lewis Band display a similar modesty. With songs about rubbish girlfriends, bad acid trips and thwarted dreams, they show none of the cock-sure swagger that we have come to expect of indie bands and the idiots we form crushes on. The band do not wear trendy shoes, but the most practical walking-shoe style trainers ever produced. They aren’t tarted up to the nines in “indie” garb. They don’t write the sort of music that can be described as “indie-pop to make your feet move”. They just write damned good anti-folk music, produce hilarious cartoons provide educational interludes on communism and generally act like your brother’s goofy best mate; and I swoon. A much more interesting crush than that Coke-Zero-swilling idiot in Vanbrugh, yes?
Yes!
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