Letters To Fiesta @ Roadhouse, 29.03.13

Just as a flame seems to flicker more brightly towards the end and the wick folds into the remnants of the wax, the club event that Underachievers Please Try Harder has used to light up both the live music and club night atmosphere of Manchester is slowly drawing to a much regretted close. Like George Best, you might as well go out leaving fond memories, and the best wishes of those who have taken part in the event, behind.



So let’s enjoy the fare that Dave and Kirsty have laid on for us. First up is Letters To Fiesta, who feature the pure, clear voice of Anna-Louisa Etherington. Her performance resembles an intelligible version of Liz Frazer, who fronted the Cocteau Twins. Strong yet delicate, the vocals seem to frame how their set is delivered.

Whilst her voice is the first thing that grabs attentions, the musical detail supplied by Tom Brydon (guitar), Andy Fletcher (bass) and Daniel Houghton (drums) provides a splendid platform to work from. Ethereal in tone and subtle in delivery, they could be Sigur Ros on steroids.



The band is being hailed as the latest in a long line of outfits to emerge from Manchester, and as the next band that must be twittered about. Yet, like the other band on the bill, they've been making music for several years – albeit with slightly differing line-ups. This overnight recognition of abilities seems to take several years. On tonight’s performance that opinion seems justified. Let’s hope they are allowed the time and space to flourish.



So it's onto to the very danceable tunes of Kid Canaveral who have travelled down from Scotland. I hope they weren't swayed by the fact that Manchester is closer to the equator and as a result it will be warmer than their nominal home base of Edinburgh. It’s a pity that the weather outside cannot match the warmth of their sounds.



By now there's now a large crowd in the Roadhouse some of whom are waiting for the club night to start rather than catching the bands. It could have been a challenging occasion for Kid Canaveral, but it wasn't. From the front David MacGregor guides the four-piece through a merry romp, armed with a repertoire of instantly catchy songs. Quickly they have a core of dancers in front of them and the smiles on people’s faces are enough indication of how well they’ve been received.

Words & photography: Ged Camera.

The Lovely Eggs @ Roadhouse, 29/11/12

In 1916 during the ‘year without a summer’ Lord Byron, his physician John Polidori, Percy and Mary Shelly and Claire Clairmont spent some time in a rented villa by Lake Geneva. Kept indoors by incessant rain they spent their days contorted on irresponsible amounts of laudanum telling each other ancient and fabled ghost stories. It was from these rainy days spent in earnest that inspiration seized Mary Shelly and bid her write the great gothic horror story Frankenstein.

Nearly 200 years later a band called the Lovely Eggs played a show at the Roadhouse in Manchester.

The Lovely Eggs are like your cool, boozy aunty and her stay-at-home boyfriend who gives you your first puff on a joint and plays you Sparklehorse on his record player. He wildly points out the best bits and explains that his records and the player were the only thing he managed to rescue from that bitch he was seeing before he met your aunty.

Just then your aunty comes in from the kitchen with half a bottle of Campari, an avocado and a packet of Penguin biscuits and your soul is instantly given the texture your mutilated, teenage body has been crying out for since sporadic hair growth, explosive sweat glands and giddy erections took over.

Back to Manchester and the Lovely Eggs charge through their rampant set with endearing violence leaving punk ditties in carnage, griping all over the stage. Song blood poured out of strangled melodies leaking in trembling pools off the stage and in to the soles of the front row stomping feet. The rest was mopped up by the drum mat, absorbed and recycled into the drum skins, beaten to a pulp like a pair of bruised kidneys.

Middle eights were severed and strewn from their thrashing carcasses. Shrieking vocal lines drove spikes hard through glaring eyeball observations, delivered with grinding copulation against raw, waggish nerve endings. Some literally had to stitch their ears closed to combat the infectious whim. The place was a bloody mess.

The audience was eclectic. A throwback punk, a flat cap folkie, some girl dressed like Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction throwing interpretive dance moves at the shoddily placed pillars. A man in a tracksuit, a man on a horse, some twat with a flag and a couple with no hope. They were all magnificent.

In the midst of all the chaos, the blood and guts and remnants of three albums worth of material, the severed limbs and noxious mix of muso freaks, a hideous monster was formed.

A mash of cyclic verses, crushed rhythms and social misfits held together by grating chords and dirty jagged hooks. Given life with the throbbing heart of punk and the distorted energy of tragedy and joy Frankenstein stood bewildered and grotesque, flapping wildly in delirium and adoration of his Godly revivers the Lovely Eggs.

Words: Samuel Buckley