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PLANETNOTION TELEVISION!
CAMERA-FOLK AND FILM EDITORS WANTED!
Planet Notion is looking for guys and dolls to film and edit features for its new TV channel, PNTV. Accompanying Notion to artist interviews, gigs, fashion shows, festivals and international events, you will be skilled, passionate and full of ideas about how to produce shit-hot video content. Camera-folk will be experienced and ideally have their own equipment, or at least access to equipment, while editors must be able to turn projects around quickly, and with stylistic flare. If you can both film and edit content, we would especially like to hear from you! These casual, unpaid positions would be ideal for those looking to develop their showreels, and to get the chance to travel, film major artists and top events.
 
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Nail The Cross. Various Acts. New Cross.
Nail The Cross. Various Acts. New Cross.
07/10/2008
tags: | nail the cross | nail the cross news | nail the cross latest | nail the cross review | more...

Bestival. Robin Hill. Isle of Wight.
Bestival. Robin Hill. Isle of Wight.
16/09/2008
The huge success of the previous four Bestivals must have given curator Rob da Bank a feeling of invincibility, thinking he could poke contemptuously at the genitals of fate by announcing the theme of this year’s fancy dress to be 30,000 Freaks Under The Sea . Well, whichever gods Rob da Bank may have offended in the past saw to it that he had the perfect stage for his pantomime, and it duly pissed it down for much of the weekend. The rain and mud may have sodden the trousers and skin of many a reveller, but certainly not their spirits, and certainly not the hair of Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong, who neatly strut their tailored musical wares with such confidence that even their instruments pout. In the dry of the Big Top tent The Breeders radiate a warm glow with their smiles and humour alone - their set has a consistent brilliance, through old favourites such as ‘Cannonball,’ to newer gems like ‘We’re Gonna Rise.’ Despite over a decade on hiatus and excessive shoe-gazing, main stage headliners, My Bloody Valentine crank out their trademark silken vocals over a wall of gushing guitars in powerful and mesmeric fashion. The effect of the synced-in, fast-moving film clips create a disorientation that peaks at the end of their set with 10 minutes of lung-collapsing noise, that crashes sublimely back into the end of ‘You Made Me Realise.’ By far one of the most intriguing spectacles of the weekend is Chrome Hoof. With an eleven-strong entourage dressed in glittery silver gowns like futuristic Druids at a solstice booze-up, they blast out shards of post-apocalyptic melodrama that somehow straddles the apparent gulf between Funkadelic vibes and doom metal. With an array of instruments from bassoons and violins to synths and chugging guitars, the elaborateness of their music more than matches that of their costumes. Saturday opens with the softly whisperings of Laura Marling. Perhaps not optimum weather conditions for her alternative take on traditional folk, though ‘Alas I Cannot Swim’ cuts through the morning haze with uplifting jolliness, and a somewhat strange pertinence. Kitty Daisy & Lewis boogie down with circa 50s R&B and quaff-heavy rock ’n’ roll, which they do very well; though it seems at times to simply be a nostalgia trip, making them little more than a good pub band to keep in mind for your cousin’s wedding. A band stirring the sleepy post-rock nest is Vessels. As a light drizzle sets the mood perfectly, with musical virtuosity they create atmospheric quakes that tower above their occasionally all-too-obvious precursors to Explosions in the Sky, which they blend in with gently trotting intricacies. As something of an almost comical contrast, Let’s Wrestle clatter out an endearingly clumsy frenzy of slightly discordant indie-pop that is so effortlessly brilliant, it almost seems like they’re dong it by mistake. Hanging nonchalantly between The Cribs and The Moldy Peaches, they prove that tuning-up is what lesser bands do, to hide the fact that they don’t have any decent songs. The promoters were holding a couple of cards close to their chests by listing two surprise guests. The whole main arena went berserk when Terry Hall bounded out and played what amounted to The Specials’ greatest hits collection. Though the absence of Jerry Dammers meant they were not officially billed as The Specials, no-one in the crowd seemed to care about such minor details as they hollered and danced along to ‘Too Much Too Young’ and ‘A Message to You, Rudy.’ The appearance of Grace Jones on-stage was quite spectacular and also slightly surreal. Everything about her exudes eccentricity. From the costume changes after every song, to the androgyny of her voice, which is magnificently showcased in its full and frightening range in ‘La Vie En Rose.’ With po-faced cool, XX Teens cruise their way through a mix of quirky rock, pulsing techno and big-band blasts, with ‘Over You’ as the stand-out track. Back on the main stage, Hot Chip attract the biggest audience of the festival by far. In Bestival spirit they emerge in fancy dress, before launching into a set charged with a relentless energy. By ‘And I Was A Boy From School,’ the anthemic dance-steps which tread on adorably camp retro ground have the whole crowd - despite being crammed together like sheep - waving whatever limb they manage to shake loose. In true prima donna style, Amy Winehouse staggers on-stage 40 minutes late, to mix of cheers and booing. Like a Victorian freak show, people turn up just to see her - sod the music; with each song being met by a response that would generously be called apathetic. Although she does have an incredible voice, she represents something more. By the end of the set it’s a depressing fact that most people would feel more satisfied if she’d come on-stage smoking a crack pipe, and then just fallen over on something sharp, rather than played any songs. On a slightly less dismal Sunday morning in the aftermath of an evening’s excess, the lenitive tones of King Creosote perfectly vocalise the optimistic daze of the scattered crowd who are appreciative of his folksy lullabies. For a brief moment when the sun slices its way through the cloud, a subtle euphoria hangs like a mist over the main arena; music to release a gratifying sigh to. Thomas Tantrum are like a bright sunshiny beam emanating from the BBC stage, firmly carving their faces into the indie-pop candy mountain. There was a mix of mild reluctance and intrigue surrounding Sebastien Tellier’s appearance, though his talent and wit shone out through his set, which was often so drenched in irony a second pair of wellies was required just to wade through it. Standing like a rock cavalier he paints a huge rainbow-coloured smile across the festival, and with psychedelic waves of retro computer sounds layered on disco pop beats, he churns out music that sounds like the theme-tune for a Japanese cartoon about a young boy’s adventures with his pet dragon ‘Bjorn.’ Micah P Hinson sets a more serious tone, as a slightly angrier Elvis Costello. Although his music sounds rooted in 70s folk such as Neil Young, there are grittier strings to his bow, which often erupt in Frank Black-esque screams. Zombie Zombie win the award for the least attended set, which is surprising considering the buzz surrounding them leading up to the summer – I guess no one was in the mood for their journey through a minimal techno wonderland. Anyone who thinks that all the possibilities of a guitar, bass and drums have been exhausted, need to go and see Akron/Family. They play eerie traditional folk with a dynamic gusto, spliced in with Eastern themes, so that choruses often sound more like mantras. Then straight from left-field, the show ends with drummer Dana Janssen taking the microphone as the human beat-box, for a hand waving version of ‘Ed is a Portal.’ Genius. Words: Simon Jablonski / Photography: Chiara Meattelli
tags: | bestival | more...
The Harder They Come. Playhouse Theatre. London.
The Harder They Come. Playhouse Theatre. London.
09/09/2008
The giant-spliff-touting, rastafari-coloured, soul-shaking theatre production of Perry Henzell’s ‘The Harder They Come,’ running at the Playhouse Theatre until 13th September, is essential entertainment and not just for anyone looking to get lifted; if you can locate your sense of humour and your heart, this is a cathartic kind of show that manages to unearth joy even under the very influence of death. Aspiring reggae star, lover, rebel and ganja-dealer, Ivan, originally played by Jimmy Cliff in the 1972 Jamaican film, here locates himself in the elastic limbs and tremendous lungs of Rolan Bell. Bell leads a carefully selected cast, pitting the might of their awesome reggae and gospel songs against a plot of conflict and spiralling chaos – we are asked to wiggle in our seats to classics like ‘Higher And Higher’ and ‘Pressure Drop,’ against the play’s actual trajectory towards violence and death. But then that was – still is – the power of reggae music, repackaging menacing imagery amid upbeat melody and booty-movin’ riddims: ‘Walkin’ down the road / With a pistol in your waist / Johnny you’re too bad…’ An even better conundrum is queuing for the toilet in one of the West End’s most esteemed theatres, and hearing Bob Marley through the speakers; dancing along in a standing ovation to some of the tunes that propelled black music further, in a building that was built to be bastion of white culture; being enlightened by Ivan’s sidekick that the interval is in fact ‘A fifteen minute ganja break.’ Jah be praised! GO SEE ‘THE HARDER THEY COME’ BEFORE IT ENDS ON SATURDAY!
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Goodiepal/Shit and Shine/Faust. Cargo. September 2nd.
Goodiepal/Shit and Shine/Faust. Cargo. September 2nd.
04/09/2008
I’m pretty certain I harbour haughty delusions that “music” can be neatly defined, wrapped in a bow and held up as a yard stick to which all sounds are judged. However, fabulously moustachioed opener, Goodiepal, seems to have the sole mission of lining up all our musical preconceptions one by one and questioning them thoroughly until they lie deflated and confused on the floor. For half an hour he strides manically around various items of musical paraphernalia fastidiously arranged on a large wooden table, whilst excitedly spewing a diatribe that continuously branches off on ever jumbled digressions. Attempts to follow his ranting are foiled further by the eerie drones of a drummer and a vocalist that in parts, completely drown out the un-miked speaker. Shit and Shine have forged a reputation transfixing audiences with dramatic, building sets that weave layers of exquisite electronic chaos into pounding mesmeric rhythms. Tonight they grapple the floor with as much sincerity as a band wearing blue masks and rabbit ears can muster. Sweeping away the builds, they crash straight in with thunderously rampant drums that wrestle destructively with big, fuzz fuelled guitars. The tones of a clarinet screeching over the top make this first section reminiscent of a super fuzzed Mudhoney, who have transcended their fear of death and hurtle manic and unconstrained towards a distant cliff edge. As the set progresses, guitars give way to prolapsing synth über bass which serves as a backing for a slow deterioration into psychedelica; the clarinettist has merged with his instrument, now hanging from his face like a trunk, trumpeting out spasmodic noises. As everything resolves with breath taking awe, there’s little doubt that Shit and Shine are one of the most exciting and captivating experimental bands in the country, nay, the world at the moment. Despite having only two remaining founding members, there’s always a huge anticipation around seeing Faust. For a band that has done so much to aid the progression of music, it was quite disappointing that there was less of a shine about them and more of a... (well, I won’t insult anyone’s intelligence by completing that sentence). Headed by new member Geraldine Swayne, a softer feminine energy gives their sound a fresh new face, yet one that quickly becomes slightly dull – dull enough to half the size of an already apathetic audience within 15 minutes. New track Fresh Air starts nowhere and tails off from there, and their catalogue of driving classics has been replaced by faux-art improvisation in which cringe inducing sentiments are muttered over the sound of tearing paper. Perhaps it’s their expectation that is ultimately their downfall. Whatever it is, tonight’s performance saw the krautrock baton ceremoniously passed to along to the more musically virile clatters of Shit and Shine. Words: Simon Jablonski
tags: | goodiepal | more...
O'Death + The Cave Singers. Cargo. August 14th.
O'Death + The Cave Singers. Cargo. August 14th.
18/08/2008
Tremors of the current folk explosion have spewed forth a host of diverse and interesting bands from various reaches of the globe. The taking up of a tradition, long thought to have died the day Simon and Garfunkel decided to go their separate ways, is a phenomenon that has itself been the subject of over-lengthy musings and often hostile greetings. Tonight sees Cargo displaying a small sample of these folk shaped projectiles. A promising sign as O’Death take to the stage is the notable presence of beards; an adornment devoid of fashion value and rife with a renegade attitude that always announces that: Here stands a band ready to point us to a rich musical landscape. And O’Death affirm, at least for now, that this is still the case. Armed merely with the tools of a traditional bluegrass band – a banjo, guitar, violin, bass and drums – they throw together a plethora of brilliantly interweaving styles with the most impassioned force. Though musically they’re rooted in some 19th century western setting, where times are hard and mean and vocal harmonies battle it out over intricate banjo and fiddle parts, there is a strong punk drive that pounds against your chest - whilst a wild, gypsy heart, sees them tearing savagely through songs that demand to be danced to. This very much evokes comparisons to fellow New Yorkers Gogol Bordello. Though this would not be unreasonable, there’s a constant roll of creative splendour in O’Death’s set, where a ho-down of interchanging rhythms meet intensely with brilliantly crafted vocal melodies. Each song is delivered with such force and conviction, that it feels as if they’re reaching out into the audience and using their individual souls as microphones to shout their message into. Most definitely a band of biblical proportions. It would be near impossible to follow O’Death and outdo their boisterous ingenuity. The Cave Singers, however, alter the mood beautifully with their warm Americana tinged folk - which lacks nothing in intensity and whose soulful tones softly light the air around the room. Despite a more stripped down stage set-up than on their album ‘Invitation Songs’, with merely guitar and vocals for their opener Helen, the haunting timbre of singer Pete Quirk’s voice creates an orchestral presence that expands out into the venue. Their music is both delicate and powerful; with fervently delivered melodies that undulate gently, they manage to paint remarkably vivid imagery of their world. This expressive force is explicit in Pete Quirk’s face as he draws out each articulation as if in a state of deep catharsis. As the set progresses it builds up to unexpected climactic clangs and a swirling drive that places a progressive colour to their folk sensibilities. Although both bands have a sound essentially rooted in traditional music, they each remould it in their own unique way that surely proves to any doubters that there is life in the old folk dog yet. Words: Simon Jablonski Photography: Chiara Meattelli
tags: | o'death | more...
Lenny Kravitz. Brixton Academy. August 13th.
Lenny Kravitz. Brixton Academy. August 13th.
15/08/2008
Hmm, hmm, hmm… Yep, he takes some pondering, Lenny Kravitz. This is Planet Notion’s philosophy (following a day of pondering): ‘Fly Away’ killed Kravitz. I know, I know, that’s quite a statement; one that’ll probably have the mountains of people that took it to number one banging on our door like deranged freaks from the 1500s, searching for a witch to burn – or in my case, a low-paid hack drinking black coffee because we’ve run out of friggin’ milk... again!!! Sure, Kravitz retained the legendary status after 'Fly Away', but it greatly diminished. Let's face it, it was a wrong 'un. Krav turned his back on what his fans wanted to see by releasing a commercial song that the masses took to number one; The same masses that did the same for fucking Shaggy and Right Said Fred before giving them the ‘V’ sign, moving onto Chumbawumba, and leaving ‘em in purgatory until the End Of Time. I reckon a fair few rock fans washed their hands with Krav after ‘Fly Away’ because it was so damn soft and commercial. Fickle? Maybe; but if it ain’t broke, don’t try and fix it. So turning up to see Kravitz at the Brixton Academy, Planet Notion was feeling somewhat, um, I don’t know… nonchalant? Firstly, The Krav was almost an hour late on stage, and this creates two problems: (1) if the performance doesn’t live up to the unnecessary anticipation, you’re screwed; (2) you’re starting to piss off a fair few people. So what was The Krav’s saving grace? Well, the fact that he can still play the friggin’ guitar with the best of ‘em; still has a ‘good’ range to his voice; the fact that his presence makes you want to go all Total Recall on his arse and step into his shoes; and here’s the biggy: The fact that his backing band were one of the finest Planet Notion’s witnessed. It almost took us on a nostalgic, non-drug infused trip to the days when listening to Kravitz made you feel dirty in your scummy Converse, greasy leather jacket and stained vest (we imagine); back when he wasn’t playing friggin’ ‘Fly Away’ on a weekly basis to noughties teeny-boppers. The best bit of the night was probably the ten minute drum solo with a touch of ‘Moby Dick’ and the John Bonham’s about it. The worst bit was the encore of ‘Fly Away’ after already playing it twice already. Yep: Twice. Planet Notion went down the pub after that. Verdict: Good. But seriously Krav; ditch ‘Fly Away’ and stick to dirty rock-riffs. Dangerous
tags: | lenny kravitz | more...
The Great Escape Festival: A Diary Review!
The Great Escape Festival: A Diary Review!
29/05/2008
‘Twas that time of year in the middle of May for some Great Escapism. Over 200 performers graced more than 30 musical lairs in Brighton, all set against the backdrop of the Kooksian seaside. Londoners left the forts of Camden and Shoreditch to join their sexually adventurous cousins in Brighton for the poor man’s Benicassim: The Great Escape Festival . A chance to scavenge through the rubbish and pebbles for hidden treasures that, come next year, will be smothered by pages of music magazines and violated by Mark Ronson. Missing the headliners (Vampire Weekend, The Tings Tings, Late of the Pier) because you’re too smashed or sick of queuing - and settling instead for some unknowns in a cubby hole, may have just been the ticket to future smugness. That magical self-satisfying phrase: “I saw them before they were big.” Thursday 15th Beer in left hand, pen in right, I was led directly to the Ocean Rooms where I enter a hazy atmosphere, complete with coloured lighting and psychedelic scenery. Almost like an extension of the venue are Post War Years, with their ambient and synth sounds, simultaneously soothing and rave-inducing. The four young lads shuffle elegantly and awkwardly to some complex syncopated rhythms as if performing a choreographed epileptic fit. They’re so enthusiastic and energetic that they appear to have more fun than the crowd; surprising considering that their music is such a seamless mix of rave, dance and Indie - lacking the pretentious distorted-electro elements that so many possess. An instrumental swap-o-rama takes place throughout the gig with all members, bar the visually entrancing Animalesque drummer, showing how amazingly multitalented they are. Next I head down to see The Futureheads at Digital, which boasts the best soundsystem in the country but still hasn’t mastered the art of air-conditioning (lead singer Barry Hyde would later announce: “I think this is the hottest gig we’ve ever done”) . I enter to the crowd trembler of ‘Decent Days and Nights’, a fierce opening that harks back to a time of originality; when bands weren’t just replicas of the Arctic Monkeys and skinny jeans the uniform of the Indie masses. There’s a constant dialogue of friendly banter that tenderly narrates the anthems ‘Hounds of Love’ an d 'S kip to the End’ ; ewer singles ‘ The Beginning of the Twist’ and ‘Radio Heart’ thrown into the mix. The band succeed in nostalgic value only. Stumbling across the seafront I head to Barfly, to catch much-hyped pop-duo The Ting Tings. I’m met by a ridiculously long queue akin to Thorpe Park on a boiling-hot bank holiday. After a delayed start due to technical difficulties (sound problems remained throughout) the band kick-off with ‘Great DJ’, ending the set with number 1 single, ‘’That’s Not My Name’; the rest of the set a stodgy filling of forgettable and irritating songs. Friday 16th As I wander around the seaside town, with its fish and chip shops and arcades, I wonder where all the chavs have gone. I needn’t have worried, as I soon discover they’re all at Concorde 2 waiting to see The Wombats . The band’s introduced as a “goofy-arse three-piece” by We Are Scientists frontman Keith Murray, who earlier played a secret gig at an intimate outdoor BBQ. Unfortunately, all of The Wombats’ songs seem to mesh into a droney scouse dialogue of “woah woahs” with cheesy topics of romcoms, strippers and discos thrown in. Yet another boring mainstream Indie band that have had one good catchy song . Feeling slightly short changed, I head to the Barfly. I learn a valuable lesson; there are certain things that should be seen and not heard. Children, for one, Scarlett Johansson for another, and... Ipso Facto . For a painful 20 minutes I watch four somnambulist relatives of the Addams family ‘perform’ to a bewildered crowd. An echo permeates the venue, not just due to the poor sound quality, but the jeering of the masses. The music, contrary to their sixties haircuts, is distinctly shoegaze; that genre where ultra-cool scenesters shuffle and stare lovingly into their footwear. This poses a certain dichotomy, because you cannot help but look at these four attractive girls yet you are unable to move to such stiff soulless music. They apologise for it being such a short set (thank god!) and are met with absolute silence in place of applause. Saturday 17th I attempt to catch Wiley who is supposed to be playing at the gayer-than-gay club Revenge. Did the promoter acknowledge the irony of putting all the grime artists in this incongruous setting? Especially when you consider that much of this style of music has been chastised in Brighton over homophobic connotations. Perhaps Wiley wanted to maintain his macho reputation because for whatever reason, he failed to show. After the disappointing events of yesterday and today, I’m in need of a musical messiah to restore my faith. It comes in the form of the angelic Laura Marling who performs within the church-like acoustics of the Sallis Benney Theatre. A delicate young girl enters the stage who, as her intense lyrics suggests, appears to be carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. A full band including a violin and xylophone make a powerful majestic entrance, during the beginning of ‘Ghosts.’ A young Joni Mitchell belts country and folk from her fragile soul in fast-paced catchy songs, such as; ‘My Manic and I,’ recent single ‘Cross Your Fingers,’ and new song ‘Rebecca.’ Her awkwardness translates to the audience who are too embarrassed to sing along and the silence is broken only by male fans screaming, “I want your babies.” What is notably missing is her popular cockney-infused song ‘New Romantic;’ a smart move as she attempts to move away from Kate Gash comparisons. Overall Marling is a worthy saviour of a bland music scene, and it is no surprise that she is touring in churches next month. Next I’m led to the not-so-hidden gem of Crystal Castles at Barfly. Initially I had my doubts as I thought they were an over-hyped band who sounded like white noise from a bad Super Mario soundtrack. I was wrong. You truly have to experience them live to understand the uniqueness and power of their music. The crowd is bursting at the seams and, above them, an ethereal figure is suspended (by a very unlucky and confused security guard) - shrieking with intensity - it’s their front woman Alice Glass! Despite what her name suggests, she is anything but fragile. This girl has balls, sustaining the crowd as they gently pummel her head and attempt to grab her mic. The frantic crowd is panting in the chaos, to music that is the pure expression of their anger. The grime equivalent was when Bizzle’s ‘Pow’ came out and got banned for causing too much aggression in clubs. There is one significant difference; the Indie-electro fans aren’t violent, but unite in their aggression. The crowd join in with Glass’ frenetic behaviour, crowd-surfing alongside her as she’s repeatedly plunged back and forth. Her vocals suffer from the turmoil and are barely audible as she screeches through tracks such as ‘Air War’ and ‘Courtship Dating.’ A bruised but breathtaking finale to my quest of seeking out the gems amongst the musical rubble. The wistful darkened eyes of the seagulls fluttered in unison to bid farewell to their fellow scavengers. My basket of gems remained light, my ears less than satisfied, but my soul had been well fed by the friendliness of the festival goers, the electrifying atmosphere, and that indescribable buzz that ran through the veins of the town they call Brighton. Overall the festival was without doubt an experience, an expedition, and a true escape from the monotony of our musically insufficient lives. Words: Martha Kinn
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