To get obvious comparisons out of the way, there is growing precedent for brutal blues bands, especially ones involving only a drummer and guitarist – from The White Stripes, to The Black Keys, to local boys Bronto Skylift. In any case there’s no hiding behind a wall of sound. As luck would have it, The Gold Lions need not hide anywhere. Theirs is a raw and raucous sound, and it’s a joy to behold.

The guitar snarls and hums in between catchy headbanging riffs. And it’s no mean feat carrying vocals and lead guitar simultaneously, and keep both sounding funky. Of course, half the trick is having drums that embellish with gay abandon whilst maintaining a driving beat.

There’s a lot to be said for stripping a song to it’s bare essentials, and showing that it still rocks. In their early days, Aerosmith, Led Zep and ACDC were rough and ready blues bands that played in grimy basement clubs. In many ways, The Gold Lions sound like this kind of howl, which is brilliant. The things is, it’s hard to imagine where you would fit any more instruments into this racket. They are already loud enough. And you cannot pay a higher complement to a blues two-piece.

Ste McCabe

Continuing the vein of unconventional band arrangements, Ste Mccabe is a solo act, layering crispy fuzz guitar over thumping electro pop. The songs themselves are tongue in cheek, acerbic takes on modern life – “Everybody hates a benefit cheat”, “Buy an iPhone, have a baby’” along with some more opaque observations – “When you’ve had your face smashed off a wall in a gay bar.”

Ste McCabe stretches the definitions of a live music act. Songs are interjected mid-flow with witty prose. He wears a gaudy rainbow tie with polo shirt. The line between caustic observation and outright joke are blurred.

He revels in the lo-fi. A more conventional setup would dilute the complete package, and it is a distinctive sound, but so much so that it is in danger of sounding contrived. But like every aspect of his act, this could be a knowing wink.

It’s fair to say that Ste is not for everyone. But he knowingly embraces this – it’s part of the act – and those who do enjoy it are likely to do so with rabid devotion. The true definition of a fan. And what more could an act want?

Bleech

Chunky guitar, thunderous but tight drumming, beautifully timed harmonies. Dressed like punks, female-led Bleech continue the lineage of where grunge left off, except with more balls than Air or Feeder. In fact, at times they sound more like early, angry Metallica, or new American heavy rock. But, again, with more balls. That’s not to say the songs are full of bile – many are ultimately uplifting – it’s just that all are delivered with intensity and vigour and impact. ‘Adrenaline Junkie’, for example, is charged with positive energy. Of course, this hasn’t stopped them being called ‘the most cynical band on the planet’ in Glasgow. But they are more 30 Seconds To Mars than Stain’d.

And good lord, they are a tight unit. They have clearly spent hundreds of hours on stage, and it shows in spades. What a noise. The guitar and bass sound like they’re using a jet engine rather than an amp. Meanwhile, the drums sound like cannons going off. With immaculate timing, that is. They are so tight that on one number they give the bass guitar to a member of the audience.

This is music to dance/mosh to. They would be perfect for puncturing the eardrums of countless teenagers at various summer festivals, or providing the soundtrack to skating videos. You too should punish your ears like this as soon as you can. Spectacular.

They open with a thumping Rolling Stones tom drum and Beach Boys harmonies, matched with what sounded like Eagles lyrics – “lines on the mirrors, lines on their faces…” They filter California sunshine through the drizzle of Britain, epitomised by ‘Eternal Optimist’, warning that despite a cheery outlook, “You might find yourself on the shelf.”

Along with a standard two-guitar/bass/drums set-up, they complete the instrumentation with a Hammond organ, which they use sparingly. Or maybe it’s just not turned up enough. In any case, they sound good – like homemade Houmous for your ears.

The singer wears black jeans and polo neck. Very 60s chic, which is slightly odd when you match it with 90s indie, much like a heavier Belle and Sebastien or Aberfeldy. The Kooks, effectively. Nonetheless, they are superb at the job of being musicians – faultlessly polite with the soundman, and good at promoting their Bandcamp – download some songs there.

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Run/Lucky/Free

Another singer dressed in black – this time in a t-shirt/dress and leggings, finishing off the look with a crucifix necklace. She has a stunning voice – enough bite to cut through the other instruments, but enough body to back it up.

Meanwhile, the band confound what at first sounds like standard 4-4 driving balladry with interesting instrumentation and occasional unusual time signatures. The drums are constantly in motion with snare paradiddles. Meanwhile the guitar produces beautiful, swirling tones. It sounds like Incubus at times, complete with all the inventiveness.

They present a compelling show – stunning female vocals and a rock solid backing. Look out for these.

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Mervin Gersh

A joyous, riotous racket. They look spectacular, mixing novelty porkpie hats, waistcoats, and what may have been intended to be a pirate headband, but instead looks positively Python-esque. The man who cannot be bettered is the trumpet player, resplendent in dinner suit, tartan bow tie and matching hankercheif. The dress is telling of their approach – they are a joy to watch as well as hear. They have clearly done their time in Liverpool pubs, and bring with them not only significant experience, but a sizeable following as well. The Scouser bonhomie is complemented with excellent promo work – look up ‘Home Again’ on Youtube.

Their sound is somewhere around ‘Smooth’ era Santana, but with more gay abandon. Even their tuning-up is more entertaining than most bands will ever be – the drummer and bassist have a jam, while the trumpet player tells a joke. You can’t help but warm to a band that would clearly be fantastic drinking buddies. On ‘Same Old Saturday’ they reveal their hometown roots – it sounds like ‘Love Me Do’ vs ‘Rocky Racoon’. If only The Beatles were this much fun.

To sum up, here’s some testimony from devoted fan Megan:

“A fuckin riot, tell it like it is la these guys know it f to the u to the n know it la and getting it on yeh lid like tell me ma omegad like its friction amazon go an buy their tunes like now or ill deck ya ma”

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White Heath

Suited and booted with intent. Their’s is a glorious menagerie of sound comprising super-fuzz guitar, violin, keyboards, trombone and our singer pounding the living hell out of a floor-tom. But, what gives effectiveness is the ability to drop the intensity in an instant – it makes the the loud bits louder and adds importance to vocal delivery. Indeed, the singer is replete with Mark E Smith gurning and intensity.

The real strength is the bits they don’t play – quite typically, only two of the many instruments on stage will be playing together. The space shows real confidence in the songs, and lets them breathe. It turns a standard delivery into a performance.

Also effective is the unpredictability of the songs – they seem positively schizophrenic at times. We waltz between lullaby and danse macabre, but they are underpinned by strong melodic themes, and this ties everything together.

An assured performance from a band that simply grows with every outing. You’ll be seeing them on Jools.

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To end the night, a final word from our sponsor….

Amazing Yorkshire lass, Laura: “This is my first experience of the Voodoo Rooms and being a true Yorkshire lassie, I am very impressed. Tonight I have discovered that Irn-Bru is the national drink and outsells coca-cola, it also is a delight with vodka. As I write this I am on m 5th and the E numbers are controlling my brains (yes that is plural, I am a clever girl!). Now I am enjoying the tunes and it is time to do some more spotty dogs on the stage! If you need me, I will be the nutter in the middle of the dance floor! Over and out from the Yorkshire girl! Big up the Yorkshire MASSIF!!!! “

A piercing vocal floats above dangerous sounding strums. These haunting, stalking almost-ballads are effortlessly evocative, calling to mind the desolate badlands of the Midwest. American Gothic, if you will.

A sharp dress code of sombre shirts completes the effect, and demonstrates the band making a real effort. None more so than in the front-woman, sporting thigh-high boots, spray on jeans and a tasselled jacket. She completes the look with a lazily hung Gibson SG. The SG was designed specifically to look great on female guitarists. On this evidence, they got it right.

It may sound odd to talk about appearance, but what the audience get is a complete experience. A scene is set, and characters are brought to life. Playing against this, the between-song beater shows real personality and ensures the audience warms to the players, and not just the characters.

As a final note, it turns out this was their first performance as a four-piece. You’d never have known. Ones to watch.

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Homework

A solo snare drum intro is joined by squelchy bass, and later vocal harmonies. The two synths centre stage give the impression of an electro act. But this is a rock band. If any proof were needed, our frontman grabs a tambourine and does Jagger proud. There is a great interplay on stage, as the band show they are clearly enjoying themselves.

Guitars and synths are used sparingly to build the sound. It moves from electro tinges to tub-thumping indie. And it’s all funky as hell. Words are spat out with intent. The drummer is spectacular – reminiscent of Friendly Fires, but arguably better. It drives everything forward.

Having played at the goNorth showcases and a Belgian festival amongst others, this four-piece is starting to create a stir. If their performance tonight is anything to go by, that stir is justified.

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Dead Boy Robotics

Beefy. Drums and vocals are in abundance. The three players face each other in a triangle, and batter the hell out of their various floor toms, keyboards and synths. There is a good measure of jumping around and posturing, and occasionally vocals are delivered with a petulant abandon that calls to mind Dananananackroyd. There’s no lack of commitment, which is obvious when they let rip.

Whilst the music is at times doom laden, almost like a dance requiem, the character of the band is betrayed by the tongue in cheek visuals backing them, featuring grainy, distorted clips from 80s action movies. Who’s have thought that Predator would go so well with grim, pulsing electro?

If anything, they could mix in more eccentric elements, and shoehorn in more hooks. But this is an assured performance from a band that continue to grow in stature in Edinburgh and beyond. Solid.

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Chris Helme

UK indie legend CHRIS HELME (THE SEAHORSES) headlines with support from Edinburgh songwriter CHRIS BRADLEY (‘a big talent in the making’ – The Sunday Times) – and Oban troubadour MIKE NISBET (‘incredibly graceful… Rufus Wainwright-esque’ – Curious Joe blog).

London’s Best Of Myspace Number 1 & Clash Magazine Single Of The Month winners BLEECH headline, bringing their take on the grunge sound, with support from fiery Mancunian electro-punk STE MCCABE, who sounds like a cross between early Buzzcocks and a male Peaches and Boy George called ‘authentic and brilliant’ plus buzzing Edinburgh newcomers THE GOLD LIONS, who are channelling the bluesy, evergreen vitality of The Black Keys, Wolfmother and Led Zeppelin.

Bleech

Clean George IV have cancelled.

Advance tickets £5.00, £6.00 on the door. 8.00pm start.

White Heath performing live

Edinburgh’s wildly inventive WHITE HEATH return for a headline session at Limbo, joined by Liverpudlian loons MERVIN GERSH, plus Edinburgh newcomers RUN/LUCKY/FREE and MAYDAYS. The Black Spring DJs provide support as usual.

Dead Boy Robotics

Having received a veritable slew of praise for their debut album (released November 2010), rising Edinburgh stars DEAD BOY ROBOTICS are back to launch LIMBO’s 2012 programme on FRIDAY 20TH JANUARY, with support from HOMEWORK and THE LOTUS PROJECT.

‘DBR have the attack of Intergalactic-era Beastie Boys, without being so brattish about the beats. Both epic and economical, this is the soundtrack for heroics and esoterics. Release of the week – 4/5 stars’ (Scotland on Sunday)

‘If Blade Runner was re-imagined by Videodrome-era David Cronenberg then this debut would provide a perfectly menacing soundtrack’ (stv.tv)

‘like 65daysofstatic hacking at the innards of the original Dr. Who theme.  4/5 stars’ (The Skinny)

Dynamics are such a key element to an enthralling performance, it’s always upsetting when a band forget them. Thankfully, Will Hanson and his trio are not afraid to use light and shade.

At heart these are lovingly crafted singer-songwriter songs, with intriguing lyrics to match. “Angels with bite marks are waiting for me…” They are delivered with emotion and intensity. The first hint that they are not afraid of a little noise is that the drummer most closely resembles Animal from the Muppets. And that’s a good thing.

What having a band allows is for the genres to be crossed with ease – in fact throughout the set we move through a Who’s Who of British Indie, from Manics, Elvis Costello, even Pogues, to early, angry Radiohead. Hell, it even hits disco for a while.

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Molly Wagger

Making the journey from London specially, Molly Wagger are eagerly received by the home crowd. It’s a slow build into epic indie. Music to stare out of a rainy bus window to. Or sit on a sunny Portobello beach and feel utterly miserable about it. Or have quiet afternoon in a bothy as the wind howls outside.

It’s a big sound they produce. Harmonies abound as the two guitars swirl around each other. Our singer offers Rufus Wainwright melancholia, in content and delivery. And in the case of ‘Weekend’, also the slightest hint of Marvin Gaye sexy funk time, à la Let’s Get It On. Ah yeah. Or Jamie Cullum. Buy their music and decide for yourselves.

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Delta Mainline

An almighty squall. The stage is crammed with instruments and their owners are all singularly intent on making a racket. A very fine, very funky racket. Epiphones, megaphones, saxes, trumpets, trombones, synths, Les Pauls and shakers all vie for attention. It’s a joyous cacophony with swagger.

Whilst on the surface Delta Mainline most closely resemble the likes of Primal Scream, Stone Roses, or Happy Mondays, their name hints at the blues of the Deep South and actually the band owe more to the missing link between these two – the great British Boogie tradition – The Faces, The Sensational Alex Harvey Band, Frankie Miller. And let’s not beat about the bush – Delta Mainline could give the Scream a run for their money.

What’s more, they don’t just play – they put on a show. Each number has a definitive start and end, often with flourish, but there remains a constant storm of noise to maintain presence and momentum. Sometimes contemplative, sometimes anarchic. Always effective. It looks like they play about five times a week, and that it pays off.

(Words by Rob Sproul-Cran)

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Murky, haunting and desolate. Pet build atmospheric songs. On some they weave little more than glitches, pop, swishes, clicks and twitches. Meanwhile, the vocals are used mostly as an instrument, being fed through a reverb/echo box until they bear no relation to the human voice. It is at these times that Pet are at their most compelling. One song hits its stride into grim funk-zombie-disco.

Some songs are performed in a much more straight manner, driven forward by pounding tom-led drumming. On these songs the blips and swooshes are intermittent and sometimes feel like a distraction, rather than a complement. Pet sound best when they pick one extreme or the other.

If they lack anything it is in putting on a performance, as opposed to just playing songs. Indie-cool nonchalance is probably what’s intended, but a little more intensity would assist those of us who cannot distinguish it from boredom. Of course, this may be intended to match the occasional melancholia of the lyrics – “And I’m fed up again,” they sing.

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Pumajaw

There is no shortage of performance here. Numbering only two, and with the most sparse smattering of instruments – keyboard, guitar via laptop, occasional squeezebox – there is space for Pumajaw to use all of their stage to command the audience. And they do.

They make ominous, stalking electropop. Along with the instrumentation, the sound itself is bare, with brutal techno throbs backing lone vocals. But what vocals. Words are not just sung, they are chewed over, played with and accentuated before being delivered with full effect. “Cold. Black.” she sings. It is mesmeric, and the audience sways in hypnotised bliss.

The style veers wildly but never erratically – from jazz standard singing over ethereal electro to social commentary over Floyd-esque drones and minor chords. It is brave and powerful, and never anything less then enthralling – you daren’t look away for a second.

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Conquering Animal Sound

“My body is an island, come alive.” Layers of vocals are wrapped upon each other. Like all bands tonight, the human voice is used as an instrument to be warped, amplified, multiplied, or sometimes just barely whispered. And again, when playing with so many effects, particularly vocal ones, it would be easy to become fixated on them. But the delivery is done with commitment, and is never less than compelling.

Like Pumajaw, Conquering Animal Sound are a two-piece who multitrack guitar, laptop, mini accordion and even what appear to be random found objects to create instrumentation that is always inventive, and perfectly complementing to the song.

The subtlety of these arrangements is a triumph – there is no gap between song and transformation into performed piece. As a result, they can sound epic, forceful, enveloping and playful, all at the same time. “Becoming part of the periphery”, sings Anneke, as peripheral sounds float in, swirl around, and depart, as though they were pools in a river to be swum through. Glorious.

(Words by Rob Sproul-Cran)

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Plastic Animals build layers of sound. A bass dances. A guitar wails. Distorted howling. It cascades onto everyday pop songs to give them a character all of their own.

One intro feels like paragliding over Iceland; the soundscape suggesting huge, abrupt topography while the guitar adds whistles through rocky crags.

For all the noise additions, though, you can instantly tell what instrument these songs were written on – all are underpinned by distorted guitar strums. Arguably, it would boost originality were they to take the brave step of dropping the guitar altogether and letting the unorthodox sounds weave a song together. The quality and structure of the songs themselves are strong enough to avoid it simply sounding gimmicky. Come now, gents. Be brave.

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Edinburgh School For The Deaf

The guitar sounds like a Clyde shipyard crane dying. The band join in and build into an almighty primal scream. Suddenly the song breaks into a 60s New York warehouse party. And the atmosphere is no less buzzing. There’s a genuine excitement about this band, which on the evidence of tonight’s gig is totally justified.

The three guitarists pull shapes as the singer, Aggie, stalks the stage. When delivering lines, she stares unfalteringly at the audience. She is made in the Annie Lennox mould – severe cheekbones, severe haircut, and red lipstick. She has charisma in spades. As an amusing bonus, one guitarist – a bloke – has exactly the same haircut. He and the other members are also compelling as they jump around in gay abandon. This isn’t just a band playing some songs – this is a show.

Bassist Grant takes over singing duties, so Aggie naturally enough picks up the bass. At first Grant stands looking innocent, clutching the words on paper, but then the band let’s rip, and he spits, “love is terminal” whilst climbing amps and generally unleashing the beast. Meanwhile the band sway in a dance macabre.

The band thrumb as Aggie recites spoken word in Polish. It shimmers with emotional honesty and intensity. For the final crescendo, the drummer, Jamie, carries a snare into the audience, and proceeds to batter it senseless with occasional thwacks whilst all else descends into noise. The band lay down instruments, crumple up words, and depart. The roar ascends.

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Birdhead

We all possess an innate need to boogie. Beats that move us. Beats that make you vibrate. Beats that seeks out our collective inner dance-beast. All a band has to do is find those beats, then deliver them with gusto. Step up, Birdhead.

Just guitar, drums and electronic wizardry produce all sounds. With beefy syncopation, it’s almost impossible not to move. A snarling guitar is joined by the occasional cowbell. (What song is not improved by the addition of a cowbell? That’s right – none.)

Bouncy 80s disco bass underpins one track. And all this is carried off because Birdhead are a very tight band. “Just another hero,” is sung, perfectly summing up the bands laconic yet confident air. A stunning bird-movie backdrop plays throughout. Great.

(Words by Rob Sproul-Cran)

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