Post by neilcrud on Sept 9, 2007 12:13:36 GMT
SLEEPING WITH THE FISHES
THE DEAD SEXYS
TRADER
Billy’s, Rhyl 22.08.07
(review by neil crud, pix by dave hornby)
Ah, the resurgence of psyche-rock, and refreshing to hear when we’re all supposedtobeintobandsthatspelltheirnameslikethis and all sound exactly the same. The oddly named Sleeping With The Fishes, (pic below) a name probably derived after a night on the bong, are reasonably unbalanced guys from misspent unbringings in dour surroundings of Scouse dilapidation. From Liverpool and the ashes of Levelleresque Carbon Atom, they had a make over – some sound words of advice from relative in waiting Paul Scouse and ta-da..! We have Sleeping With The Fishes – the wheat has been cut from the chaff – more Hawkwind than Bagofwind. This is not a retro-nostalgia trip; they’ve hot-wired that rattly prog-rock template with the aid of punk energy and some lascivious psychedelic licks. The Fishes (as their mates call ‘em), build on a primitive, almost Sons of Selina riff, piling on rusty guitars and pulsing keys into a menacing mass of eerily sepia sounding Henge-core!
Memo to the music industry: Trader (pic above) are from North Wales, please ignore them, because no matter how fucking good they are, how big they could be, they’re from North Wales. It’s too far for you to travel. Now if Trader said they were from New York rather than Wrexham, no doubt the sheep of the industry would be bleating their woolly little backs to sign them up. Or Trader could sing in Welsh and be on S4C tomorrow (but we’ll leave that argument for another day). They are evidence that life in Wrexham is pretty damn good these days, a healthy conveyer belt of bouncily bog-standard indie bands with faint touches of brilliance every now and then as in their folky-Junebuggy-Corally ditty Annie.
Looking like Bono’s alter-ego who had lived out of bins and on the scraps tossed from U2’s tour bus, the latest in a very long line of Paul Scouse’s (top pic) reinventions alights the stage for what is probably his only appearance under the moniker the deadsexys.
‘How sexy are we?’
He announced/asked. Backed by a balaclava clad band, which adds light and dimension to his electronica studio output. The purpose of tonight’s appearance is uncertain, perhaps a means to an end of endless hours infront of a computer, sometimes churning out rubbish, other times producing shining inspirational classics. The latter was showcased here tonight, the deadsexys project is Paul’s interpretations of other people’s songs, be it The Dickies’ You Drive Me Ape, Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars and, lo and behold, my own Creatures of The Night. With a video camera in my hand, it was a strange feeling to be filming a band performing their decipherment of one of my songs!
No, we didn’t all file out to the impromtu chant of ‘There’s only one Paul Scouse Hammond’ but the deadsexys performance was good enough to have served its purpose; we came, we saw, they entertained.
THE DEAD SEXYS
TRADER
Billy’s, Rhyl 22.08.07
(review by neil crud, pix by dave hornby)
Ah, the resurgence of psyche-rock, and refreshing to hear when we’re all supposedtobeintobandsthatspelltheirnameslikethis and all sound exactly the same. The oddly named Sleeping With The Fishes, (pic below) a name probably derived after a night on the bong, are reasonably unbalanced guys from misspent unbringings in dour surroundings of Scouse dilapidation. From Liverpool and the ashes of Levelleresque Carbon Atom, they had a make over – some sound words of advice from relative in waiting Paul Scouse and ta-da..! We have Sleeping With The Fishes – the wheat has been cut from the chaff – more Hawkwind than Bagofwind. This is not a retro-nostalgia trip; they’ve hot-wired that rattly prog-rock template with the aid of punk energy and some lascivious psychedelic licks. The Fishes (as their mates call ‘em), build on a primitive, almost Sons of Selina riff, piling on rusty guitars and pulsing keys into a menacing mass of eerily sepia sounding Henge-core!
Memo to the music industry: Trader (pic above) are from North Wales, please ignore them, because no matter how fucking good they are, how big they could be, they’re from North Wales. It’s too far for you to travel. Now if Trader said they were from New York rather than Wrexham, no doubt the sheep of the industry would be bleating their woolly little backs to sign them up. Or Trader could sing in Welsh and be on S4C tomorrow (but we’ll leave that argument for another day). They are evidence that life in Wrexham is pretty damn good these days, a healthy conveyer belt of bouncily bog-standard indie bands with faint touches of brilliance every now and then as in their folky-Junebuggy-Corally ditty Annie.
Looking like Bono’s alter-ego who had lived out of bins and on the scraps tossed from U2’s tour bus, the latest in a very long line of Paul Scouse’s (top pic) reinventions alights the stage for what is probably his only appearance under the moniker the deadsexys.
‘How sexy are we?’
He announced/asked. Backed by a balaclava clad band, which adds light and dimension to his electronica studio output. The purpose of tonight’s appearance is uncertain, perhaps a means to an end of endless hours infront of a computer, sometimes churning out rubbish, other times producing shining inspirational classics. The latter was showcased here tonight, the deadsexys project is Paul’s interpretations of other people’s songs, be it The Dickies’ You Drive Me Ape, Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars and, lo and behold, my own Creatures of The Night. With a video camera in my hand, it was a strange feeling to be filming a band performing their decipherment of one of my songs!
No, we didn’t all file out to the impromtu chant of ‘There’s only one Paul Scouse Hammond’ but the deadsexys performance was good enough to have served its purpose; we came, we saw, they entertained.