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Four more reasons to live, all British and all criminally overlooked for too long. But at least Jetplane Landing are having to play this show as a warm-up for their set supporting Ash and Hundred Reasons next week. While they may claim that they're not Revolution Rock, they're certainly doing their bit to change the musical landscape this side of the Atlantic. Bristling with righteous fury and great tunes, this is a band with so much soul it hurts, streamlined to meet the demands of a particularly 21st Century dynamic and mainlining on pure anger. This IS the sound of a jet plane landing, all the power and grace and noise and beauty, a primal scream that is only about as invigorating as you could ever want. During 'Tiny Bombs', it's The Rolling Stones gone all New York on us and oozing a sleazy, slinky vitality. 'Lights Out New Condition' builds on a most twisted groove, frontman Andrew Ferris dancing his funky-assed dance and clenching his fists at both band-mates and audience. And 'Adam's Dream In Technicolour' begins as a Teutonic mantra and ends as a sweat-drenched call to arms. Or on that single, the one which renounces their power to affect an entire world, they become an indie At The Drive-In, switching effortlessly between the war cry of '"We must not go quietly" and a melodic, jangly chorus. Not one note is out of place, every ounce of fat trimmed from every sharp chord, creating a perfect, punk-infused rock n roll beast with the snake hips. Imagine Fugazi or Refused with a buzzing blues vibe welded onto their infectious, taut rhythms. Then the warm harmonies bring a loose and spacious feel to each song, giving the riffs essential room to breathe. Jetplane Landing aren't just a good band, there's also that intangible aura which makes them an important band. Tonight, in the confines of the West End Centre, we find the true (flight) path to salvation. Even by their own admission, Caretaker continue to play the same old set, having not written any new material for nigh on 18 months. But, of course, when those five or six songs retain all the potency of the first time you heard them, why bother? So instead, they just play the same songs in a different order. It all dives straight in, immediately crashing around at myriad conflicting angles, and thankfully, for all their familiarity with the material, Caretaker remain a glorious mess of a band. But perhaps more importantly, they've also begun to string truly great gigs together, rather than occasionally make one a beacon in a sea of relative mediocrity. One particularly prescient flyer recently announced this band as "the next big thing", and tonight you can almost believe it. Theirs is a truly exhilarating interpretation of the rock beast, inspired by the enduring youthful desire to play something very loud, yet tempered by the experience that a moment of quiet reflection can work just as well. Think Sonic Youth or Idlewild trying to play Mogwai songs. 'Hidden Agenda' highlights perfectly that sense of contrast, when they rein it all in for moments of real beauty. Dark beauty, of course, all fragile and quiet, yet still threatening to lose it any second, the fractured shards of melody played off against the slashing riffs and Harry's visceral scream, building ominously before exploding into blackness. 'Raze', usually the perfect vitriolic ending but now thrown away mid-set, ebbs and flows towards the inevitable roaring climax. That you've seen it coming countless times does nothing to reduce its impact. Similarly, 'Safe As Houses', even after so many listens, is one of those songs that sends you running through brick walls to yell its name at passing strangers, effortlessly putting little shivers down your spine as the riffs suddenly come bombing at you from all sorts of weird angles. That it gets you every time, without fail, might be considered one definition of greatness. In these two cameos of lo-fi invention lies Caretaker's genius, but much of their set hints towards even greater achievements. With a new mini-album due in the summer, all they need now is to match such quality in everything they (eventually) write. After yet another not-so-minor victory, almost anything seems possible. When Dustball split up a couple of years ago, they were forced to reform due to something approaching a public outcry. Which makes their return to the nation's sub-consciousness on a wave of resounding apathy all the more mysterious. But, having gone to school and negotiated a line-up change in the meantime, they return better than ever, dragging themselves up by their frayed bootlaces virtually from scratch. And, right on cue, with bass-player Tarrant demanding "noise, goddam you", that's just what we get... a racket which can still count itself amongst Oxford's - even Britain's - finest. They almost shamble their way through the set, but by simply being themselves, Dustball are superb. For all its fast and furious delivery and buzzing riffs, though, this is dirty, lo-fi noise that soars above the average by being so much more than the sum of its parts. In their own unassuming way, these are well-constructed songs; slice after slice of beautifully understated guitar purity, charming tunesmithery at its very best - bloody great huge, raw pop tunes which have a delightful habit of descending into blathering, crashing chaos. And an even more delightful habit of dragging a bright and shiny chorus from the resulting carnage. Each song is a minor frenzy of fuzzy riffs and fractious harmonies, forever on the edge of a burning abyss and threatening to fall down any number of flights of stairs at any moment. But then it breaks to an angelic vocal and it's even more stunning. Several generations of pop superstardom ago, Dustball were on the verge of breaking out of this circuit bound for infinitely bigger and better places. This time, you can't let them fail - and, believe me, it really would be your fault. No pressure, now, just give this band the success it deserves... Maybe their association with the apparently 'cooler' rock dudes in The Rock Of Travolta will help them. Because this is a band so wonderfully theatrical, with enough attitude and rock n roll poses, to go just about as far as they want to. Even before their hardcore techno intro has finished, they're already throwing more ridiculous shapes than most bands would dare in an entire career, but when they eventually launch into a flourishing, angular groove, it all makes perfect sense. This is a group for whom the grand gesture is a way of life, a six-piece post-rock beast dressed in black who simply know that their band is better than yours. And not just because Radiohead said so. Huge great chords vie for attention against swirling synth lines, only to mutate in an instant to delicate, chiming beauty that still sounds just as vast. Yet these are not the art-rock soundscapes you might expect; it's far more direct than that, and, for all the clear, contradictory influence of the likes of Mogwai or Add N to (X), they are just a rock band who want to mess with your mind. When that cello and not-so-subtle wash of keyboards pierces the heart of another guitar wall, it lifts off from nowhere, the jangly darkness and pulsing theramin kicking up a real storm that drags you along for miles. Then they launch into something called 'I Am Your Father', throwing more Quo guitar poses in the midst of a huge obtuse riff that, from out of nowhere, becomes the Darth Vader theme. Cue more trashing of equipment and foot-on-monitor preening, hurled instruments and noise-infested darkness, as they leave us to comprehend the enormity of it all and whether it did actually just happen. Like they said, their band IS better than yours. Steve |