Institute of Contemporary Arts

Huw Stephens presents....

Date: 29 February 2008

The return of the Celtic Soul Brothers

Toby Messer

Should you ever tell people that you're Irish, they may mention Guinness and having the Craic. Scottish, and no doubt people will talk of Tartan Armies, Scotch and maybe the deep-fat-frying of various confectionery. On the other hand, say you're Welsh and people will invariably baa. Now there is a more agreeable sound emanating from the Valleys. Great music.

The benchmark has already been set by the Furries, the 'phonics and the Manics. Now there is a new wave of Welsh music and various bands, carefully selected by Radio One DJ Huw Stephens marched from the valleys to the ICA on the eve of St David's Day.

First up was Pagan Wanderer Lu from that little known Welsh haven Bolton, though now residing full time in Cardiff. One guitar, various effects and a serious message thrown in for good measure. I detected a tiny bit of Durutti Column, a helping of Badly Drawn Boy and a nod towards wonderkid Beck, with pure pop being elbowed for politics, in particular, Memorial Hall which highlighted the forgotten fallen of Afghanistan, and another song that stuck the knife into the often grotesque theatre that accompanies school reunions.

Next up was a three piece, Mr Huw, an Undertones/Ramones hybrid; resplendent in white boiler suits and wraparound bug shades. They could have been trying to emulate Akron's finest Devo, or to give them a more contemporary spin - bird flu inspectors from Mars. Whatever the desired effect, all the songs were short and sweet. On one occasion they even gleefully informed the audience that one of the numbers would be over three minutes. Yep. According to my chronograph 3 minutes 5 seconds. And apparently their songs were pure filth - but having unceremoniously stuffed some welsh cakes firmly in the mouth of my mother tongue, many years ago, I didn't have a Scooby Doo what they were talking about.

Between sets Vinyl Vendetta spun the platters. An agreeable melange of Jerry Lee Lewis, Iggy and, unless my ears very much deceived me, even a snatch of Brotherhood of Man to up the Eurovision ante. The girls on the decks reminded me of the Human League handbag gazers - with the one difference being that they gyrated wildly and obviously seemed to be enjoying themselves.

MC Mabon on the other hand seemed to be late Jurassic in their demeanour and facial hair. Their grinding riff-a-rama (and some people may have to ask their parents about these bands) reminded me of an unholy trinity of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bad Company and Deep Purple. And when you have a drummer that looked barely out of his teens counting in, by banging his sticks together, you know that you're in trouble.

We repaired to the bar, my good old Welsh mate Rhidian Brook and me, and managed to catch the soothing electronic, synthi noodlings from the DJ team of Pappy. It was something of a refreshing antidote to the noise soup that we had previously encountered and they even had a rather fetching banner with some, defiant not subservient, sheep on it.

The penultimate band are going to be stars. Remember where you heard it first. But boys, you have to change that name. I ask you - Radio Luxembourg? When I sulkily used to eat Salt and Vinegar crisps in some godforsaken Holiday Camp in Rhyl as a child - the house band would have a name like that, conjuring up images of beer bellies, waistcoats and comb overs. This Radio Luxembourg couldn't be further away from that horrific image. Young energetic, pin-up boy looks, a great line in paisley shirts and more importantly, fantastic psychedelically-tinged songs. I detected a little Ferdinand in there, the Kinks at their adrenaline-charged best and the swagger of the early Libertines. And rather than be mute, the singer had a nice line in self deprecating wit, stating that they didn't have any CDs to sell on the evening as they were more interested in fashion.

Top of the night were Wales' own Beastie Boyos, Genod Droog. They rapped and cavorted and whipped up the crowd but it was shame that the rather cool girl singer either had an aversion to her mic or didn't appear to know what it was. She didn't seem to get anywhere near it so consequently much of her contribution was lost. They were great, funny and one of their members came perilously close to airing his own by doing an impromptu strip out of his army fatigues. Phew, who said there was no longer any steel in Wales? Cymru am Byth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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