But by all on and offline reports, recollections, fervent cries and night terrors of loss and longing, the evening was a rip-roaring success. So much so, in fact, that the Birmingham Review front line reporter has been missing in action ever since… if found, please return to BRHQ.
Luckily, we had more troops in the crowd – a man who shall now and forever be referred to as ‘photo ninja’, for his Matrixesque ability to weave through a mosh pit whilst messing about with that all important ISO.
And as for the rest of you, indulge yourselves in some glorious gig shots from Saturday 2nd March at The Flapper in THE GALLERY – featuring headliners Wood and Nails, alongside support acts Last Light, George Gadd, and Dearist. There are a few picked cherries to begin with, then the larger mosaic gallery – so viddy below my droogs, such a gromky shoom horrorshow:
Woods and Nails @ The Flapper 02.03.19 / Aatish Ramchurn
For more from Surprise You’re Dead, including further event listings and online ticket sales, visit www.surpriseyouredeadmusic.co.uk
For more on The Flapper, including venue details and further event listings, visit www.theflapper.co.uk
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NOT NORMAL – NOT OK is a campaign to encourage safety and respect within live music venues, and to combat the culture of sexual assault and aggression – from dance floor to dressing room.
To learn more about the NOT NORMAL – NOT OK campaign, click here. To sign up and join the NOT NORMAL – NOT OK campaign, click here.
It’s 15th April and the holy trinity of Stourbridge are steadily attracting the masses on a Sunday night, pulling nineties indie veterans out of their local legions and into the doors of the O2 Academy in Birmingham.
Veterans like my own dad, and it didn’t take much more than an invite for him to pull out his Adidas Gazelles and a wad of Ned’s Atomic Dustbin CD’s for the car journey there – and back.
Of course, there are the younger admirers of the West Midlands indie heavyweights like myself, but Love from Stourbridge is ninety-nine percent over forty with a sprinkling of those barely legal that they’ve hauled along with them. Not to bash the nostalgia train though; tonight is the final lap of their grand tour of the UK, ending where things kicked off thirty years ago.
First of the gang is Pop Will Eat Itself’s very own Graham Crabb with his eclectic DJ set, hopping from The Prodigy to Arctic Monkeys at a pace that requires rapid auditory adjustment. But hey, leave the kid alone. “Let’s fucking have it!” he shouts over a questionable dubstep tune, one hand punching the air to the fast-paced rhythm and the other firmly planted on his headphones. Crabb’s having the time of his life, and although no heads are turning away from the direction of the bar it’s pretty clear that he probably won’t notice.
Thrashing like a six-foot fish out of water, Jonn Penney flings himself onto the stage accompanied by the rest of the cohort as they begin their set – 100% Ned’s Atomic Dustbin style. With no signs of age other than the loss of Penney’s mane (rest in peace, you’ll be sorely missed) Ned’s storm through tunes like ‘Suave and Suffocated’ and ‘Until You Find Out’ leaving barely any time for this crowd to rise for air.
Like a Pogo stick on a shed load of coke (if such a thing were possible) eyes can’t help but to follow Penney as he goes up and down, up and down… and then up and down again. “So, here’s the prediction, you get an affliction” he belts, dangling his lanky torso over the audience and finishing fan favourite ‘Walking Through Syrup’ with a menacing smirk spread across his face. “You’re all very old, to remind you all of that.” He smiles even wider, but despite a middle-aged crowd this clearly isn’t a softly-gently warm up, this is a powerhouse.
There’s not much time to gather yourself when ‘Terminally Groovy’ isn’t far behind, anticipation generating before the line we’ve all been dying to hear since we got here. “So, come on…” is all it takes to set us off, a thumping bassline carrying the crowd right through till the very end.
Six minutes of dancing, shouting and cavorting is all we have left of Ned’s for tonight. An encore consisting of iconic tracks ‘Kill Your Television’ and ‘Selfish’ is deemed necessary to rejuvenate an exhausted crowd, somehow breathing life back into those gasping for air and gagging for another beer and a fag before the final power chord rings out.
Hard to beat? Sure. Impossible to beat? Not according to The Wonder Stuff on a Sunday night. Frontman Miles Hunt is on top form, and the rest of the gang follow suit with the addition of violinist Erica Nockalls as a rather attention-grabbing counterpart. An interesting addition at that, with tunes like ‘Red Berry Joy Town’ and ‘Don’t You Ever’ getting the barnyard treatment thanks to her country-esque style.
It doesn’t take long before beers are flying, shirts are removed and tossed above heads, and Hunt has something to say about it. “Are you the guy who didn’t get the selfie in the pub earlier? Bit pissed off are we?” he jeers at the crowd, but essentially just prodding the bear who’ll more than likely just chuck another beer and a middle finger your way, sorry Miles.
Blasting through the next handful of hits, The Stuffies manage to cram ‘Circlesquare’, ‘The Size of a Cow’ and ‘Cartoon Boyfriend’ into about nine minutes and thirty seconds; an impressive achievement and potentially a new record time for them, well done lads and lass.
Social media paves the way for a much-anticipated poll result regarding the next track. Will it be ‘Radio Ass Kiss’ or ‘It’s Yer Money I’m After Baby’? Trick question, the answer is both. The result of the poll did mean that it should have only been the latter, but this wasn’t what The Stuffies wanted and, after all, they’re clearly the ones in charge here.
After a solid eighteen track set, a conclusion in the form of ‘Unbearable’ seems inevitable for the majority, but the rest are happy following up with ‘Ten Trenches Deep’ to say adieu. It’s been as wild of a night as possible for a Sunday, reminiscent of most of the crowd’s teenage years back in 1988 when Ned’s were still normal and the Eight-Legged Groove Machine was still grooving without the responsibility of a mortgage.
Words by Andrew Wilson & Ed King / Pics by Denise Wilson
Back in Birmingham for the last date of his UK tour, Puma Blue plays to a comfortably full Sunflower Lounge crowd. But before the birthday boy can take centre stage (23 candles and cake today for Puma Blue) Sam Hollis is up as the evening’s first support act – joined by a full band, the recently solo singer/songwriter launches into a set of confident swagger.
Reminiscent of something between The Libertines or The Slackers, tonight’s Hollis ensemble strike the balance between tight and loose that so many post-Madchester bands have tried to embrace, emulate or evolve. Not an easy task post-naughties either, but one well executed by the first act on stage. And with his first solo EP out in January this year, minus those easy to find reptiles, things look set in a strong new direction for Sam Hollis this year.
Joining Puma Blue across his UK (and possibly beyond) is peer and producer, Lucy Lu – who is actually the solo pseudonym of Hester band mate, Luke Bower.
Stepping into more jazz tinged territory, Lucy Lu is made up of Bower on bass and rhythm guitar – with keys, percussion and saxophone that will jump ship to Puma Blue for the next set. Oozing in talent, the funky grooves and lyrical angst is delivered by an academically tight ensemble, and the room is gripped in a confident and well-schooled musicianship.
The crowd, who would be forgiven for not being seen at much of the Birmingham Jazz programme, are eager in their appreciation, with the effortless strings, charm and soft vocals of ‘Golden Prairie’ getting some well-deserved attention. I smell a return, and possible step up on the Birmingham bill for Lucy Lu. Roll on 2018.
Then it’s time for the rising balloon. Puma Blue is nascent right now, with his summer Swum Baby EP getting all the New Year ‘ones to watch’ lists twitching and ushering in some pretty respectable support slots.
Last time he was in the city was to warm up for Jordan Rakei in October, joining the Brisbane maestro on his UK tour. But now the South London ‘croonah blu’ has his own six string secondment and is back in Birmingham at the top of the bill. A place The Sunflower Lounge crowd seem very happy to welcome him to.
Again, the musicianship is superb; backed by a metronomic drummer, this proficient ensemble move into more Ratpack flavoured waters as the Puma Blue set unfurls. But it’s not pure homage, as the band embraces elements of jazz, dance, reggae and soul – with Puma Blue leading on rhythm guitar and vocals, husky at one end and mirrored by a confident falsetto.
Tracks from his debut EP get a good airing, with the brushed drums and laid back swoon of ‘Only Trying 2 Tell U’ filling out any forgotten corners of the room. ‘Soft Porn’ puts in an appearance, but there is a reggae dipped track midway through the set (whose name I couldn’t catch) that added spice to the proceedings. One to hunt down.
On stage for about an hour with no encore, there is much to laud, applaud and look forward to with Puma Blue – an artist who is earning his place on many people’s musical radars.
And with another jaunt across Europe and a festival summer before we’ll likely see him in the city again, who knows what momentum will be behind this artist by the time Puma Blue returns. One to watch… yeah, sounds about right. Probably in a bigger room next time too.
Puma Blue @ The Sunflower Lounge 24.02.18 / Denise Wilson – Birmingham Review
On Saturday 24th February, Puma Blue will be performing live at The Sunflower Lounge – with support from London based producer Lucy Lu, alongside Birmingham singer/songwriter Sam Hollis.
Ending his 6 date UK tour in Birmingham, before heading out to mainland Europe for shows up until the end of April, Puma Blue returns to the second city – following a support slot with Jordan Rakei at the O2 Institute last October. This time around the ‘croonah blu’ will be headlining his gig, joined by producer peer and collaborator Lucy Lu, as well as the Birmingham based singer/songwriter Sam Hollis.
Puma Blue and Lucy Lu recently released their single ‘Fakery’, which was set free into the wild to coincide with the beginning of this tour. But Puma Blue is still out and about promoting his five track debut Swum EP, which was released in June 2017 – showcasing the laid back jazz, alt-pop, and husky vocals that have taken this Londoner around the smoky rooms and jazz clubs of Europe.
It’s still relatively early doors for Puma Blue too, who is already sitting at the top table of London’s new low-fi and jazz artists such as Cosmo Pyke, Eastern Barbers and Ezra Collective. With a respectably far reaching tour circuit keeping him busy until festival season, Saturday 24th February will be a good opportunity to see Puma Blue before the bigger rooms of Birmingham beckon – not that there’s anything wrong with the larger venues, but you’ve got to love a gig at The Sunflower Lounge for getting up close and personal with an artist on the rise.
But it the meantime, roll back your jacket sleeves, undo the top two buttons on your slightly crumpled shirt, ruffle the mop top, turn down the lights, sit back, pour yourself a drink, and…
‘Want Me’ – Puma Blue
Puma Blue will be performing at The Sunflower Lounge on Saturday 24th February, with support from Lucy Lu and Sam Hollis. For direct gig information, including venue details and online ticket sales, visit www.thesunflowerlounge.com/event/puma-blue
Daphne was screened in Birmingham as part of the Flatpack: Assemble project, bringing industry showcases to the city. Daphne will be further screened to the general public at mac from Friday 13th to Thursday 19th October – for direct information, including showtimes, venue details and online ticket sales, click here.
The amorphous structure of Peter Mackie Burns’ feature-length directorial debut perhaps owes something to its origins in a 2013 11-minute short, Happy Birthday to Me. But there’s something oddly compelling about Daphne’s resistance to following cinematic convention, as though, much like its title character, it refuses to be pinned down and made to stick to a single, clearly defined course.
Cinematography by Adam Scarth feels as restless and detached as its subject, both moving passively from one scene to the next, apparently without much sense of where they’re going. And though some inevitably will, viewers aren’t asked to sit in judgement on the character or her story but merely to observe it.
Self-obsessed, single and spiraling steadily out of control, the misanthropic Daphne is almost as unlikely a ‘hero’ as you could imagine. Though she makes a show of independence, her spikiness is little more than a mask for her unwillingness or inability to take control of the life through which she drifts, instinctively ducking out of any encounter where she detects a whiff of change or serious commitment. Because she hasn’t thought of anything better to do yet, Daphne continues to meet up with old school friends she doesn’t really like, stumbles around in a drunken, drug-fueled haze, lives off takeaways she’s forgotten that she ordered and occasionally hooks up with strange men in whom she has no interest.
But when she witnesses a stabbing in a corner shop and stays to save the victim’s life, well… not much changes, actually. After the event, she takes up the offer of counselling, but not because she’s feeling particularly traumatised by what she’s witnessed. In fact, it’s the complete lack of an impact the incident has on her that makes her acknowledge that perhaps there’s something up. As she says to the therapist in a moment of uncharacteristic honesty, “I haven’t felt alive in a long time.”
In conversations around the film, there’s been a lot of emphasis on Daphne’s gender, whether in the form of comparisons with BBC Three’s Fleabag or in accusations of misogyny levelled at critics passing comment on her ‘likeability’. But while Daphne might be part of a new wave of women in film depicted with more unflinching honesty than we’re accustomed to, she’s certainly not the sort of character who’d see herself as any sort of feminist trailblazer. In fact, she largely fails to see herself as anything very much at all.
Arguably it’s this that makes her seem so resonantly real, but perhaps also is at the root of her sometimes being such uneasy company. Though Daphne’s dialogue is often cutting and she is someone who manifestly refuses to give a shit what anyone else things of her, it’s not so much anything she actively says or does that makes her difficult as it is her total inertia. It’s hard to decide what to make of someone who so clearly doesn’t know what to make of herself. This fragmented sense of self is visually indicated from the off, with a striking image of her descending an escalator beside a wall of mirrored strips that dramatically shatter her shifting reflection. That said, Daphne is so far from being unloveable that a bouncer who kicks her out of a club where she’s been misbehaving is enamoured enough to chase her down, ask her out and then decline her knee-jerk offer of casual sex in favour of pursuing something more meaningful. We see, too, that her friends and family are willing – determined even – to put up with her and remain in her life despite her self-destructive attempts to push them all away.
But quite apart from how her fellow characters respond to her, if you’re intellectually smug enough to laugh at her declaring Slavoj Žižek a “doughnut” as she chucks aside a book that she’s been reading just for fun; or at her revelation that she always thinks of Freud when doing coke, (and let’s face it, if you’re watching this film, you probably are) it’s almost difficult not to find her rather charming, spikiness et al. Then there are her magnificent, enviably spontaneous put-downs. “You, sir, are a fabulous cunt,” she says to bouncer David as she staggers away from him.
Daphne also breaks the mould of the gritty, social realist style of cinema it adopts. Rather than focusing on the disenfranchised working class such films are usually designed to champion, Mackie Burns singles out a member of the expanding modern-day precariat as his protagonist. As a well-educated and possibly once fairly well-off 31-year-old (when she remembers), she could serve as a sort of cipher for the instability and disillusionment of the millennial generation, promised a seat at the feast but fast discovering she’s been left with only table scraps.
At the same time, there are hints that she’s merely treading water above a darker underbelly of urban life, which threatens to flood into her world at any moment. For one thing, there’s the homeless man on the corner she knows by name, and for whom she makes up sandwiches at work. Then of course, there’s the lad who panics and stabs the owner of the shop he’s trying to rob in front of her. He tries to rob Daphne too, but tellingly she’s got nothing on her person he deems worth stealing.
Daphne doesn’t give us any easy answers, but the clues to the residual sense of self the title character still possesses are there to hunt for, littered through the story like a trail of breadcrumbs or scrapped leftovers from whatever concoction she’s been devising in the kitchen. On one level, the film might be considered a dark romantic comedy that comes in too late to fully flesh out one affair, and finishes too early to allow the next to blossom. But perhaps surprisingly, Daphne isn’t entirely without ambition: at the restaurant where she works, she asks chef Joe to make her his sous, only to be dismissed completely out of hand (“It’ll ruin your life”) and not for the first time, it seems. She’s clearly interested enough in the idea to spend her free-time testing recipes at home, admittedly only to wrinkle her nose and bin the lot, but the drive is still there. That she doesn’t press the matter further is mostly due to her complicated relationship with the chef himself, a married man with whom she’s clearly mutually in love.
Unsure how to deal with those feelings, she seeks solace in meaningless sex, while holding potential boyfriend David at arms length. Her view of love, as a deluded human attempt to impose meaning on a random universe, is reiterated often enough to sound as though she’s trying to convince herself, and when David calls her bluff on it he unexpectedly exposes real vulnerability – Daphne suddenly flees the scene like a frightened rabbit. Blink and you might miss it, but it’s also her serious decision to quit the job after Joe ‘fesses up his feelings that heralds the beginning of possible change on the horizon.
Meanwhile, she’s also determined to alienate herself from the one reliable figure in her life; having refused chemotherapy for an aggressive cancer, her mum has instead discovered faith and mindfulness, something which naturally frustrates her daughter. Then there’s the fear and self-doubt Daphne is contending with – in particular, her anxiety over not feeling enough about the man she saved to go and visit him. It takes her therapist to suggest that perhaps just doing something is sufficient, and enough of a feeling might well follow after.
Emily Beecham’s skill is in being able to subtly convey all this, without really saying a great deal that’s to the point. Scriptwriter Nico Mensinga’s razor sharp, bone dry dialogue is hilarious but also constantly evasive – it’s down to Beecham to present the character’s pain without ever soliciting our pity. The performance is at once distant and intimate, cold and moving, laugh-out-loud funny and rather tragic. Daphne lives and breathes through Beecham, lingering on in the mind long after the credits finish rolling, so much that you almost expect to meet up with her in your local pub, or maybe on the train back home.
Emily Beecham is backed up by a strong supporting cast as well, with Geraldine James as her surprisingly vivacious, terminally ill mum, Nathaniel Martello-White as a cheerily optimistic David, and Tom Vaughan-Lawlor as Daphne’s jaded boss and soulmate Joe, who similarly can’t quite work out how his life has ended up like this.
The unsung fifth main character in the film is London itself – a suitably messy and complex companion for Daphne, one vividly captured by Scarth. At times, the camera hones in on the squalor of poverty in England’s capital; at others, it hovers in a sky filled with gleaming clouds and glistening skyscrapers reaching out for something more. The film showcases the rich diversity of London with all its teeming masses, as well as the profound loneliness and anonymity of living there. One particularly striking, slightly hazy birdseye view has the cold, unsympathetic eye of CCTV surveillance, with Daphne staggering past faceless crowds and traffic blurs to create a dizzying, disorienting effect.
Refreshingly then, Daphne is a film that actively resists the conventional cinematic trope of turning points and inciting incidents that change a character’s life for good, instead preferring to just let stuff happen. In real life, epiphanies are generally a long time coming, even if we tend to remember them otherwise after the fact.
Like Daphne herself, the audience is required to sift through the mundane paraphernalia of everyday existence to find the meaning underneath, if indeed there is any. It might not fall in line with standard storytelling techniques, but Daphne is a skillfully drawn character study that provides plenty enough meat to chew on for its full 90 minutes, and long thereafter.
Daphne – a film by Peter Mackie Burns
Daphne will be screened at mac on from Friday 13th to Thursday 19th October. For direct information, including showtimes, venue details and online ticket sales, click here.
For more on The Wonder Stuff, visit 
but there is a reggae dipped track midway through the set (whose name I couldn’t catch) that added spice to the proceedings. One to hunt down.
