Jamie T’s second album in two years is a punk, rap, pop and hardcore tour de force
Eagles Of Death Metal; KOKO, Camden, Londn, Friday August 31
No Josh Homme, but dumb riffs, hard rock and lacy thongs-a-plenty
EODM have triumphantly shrugged off the twin misconceptions that they are either a death metal band (duh – they’re The Eagles crossed with death metal) or they’re Josh Homme’s solo project. The hulking ginger rock god isn’t even here tonight due to Queens Of The Stone Age commitments, proving that Jesse radiates sufficient rockness to carry the show by himself.
Jesse’s lustrous biker’s ’tache and Aviators combo make him as likely to be devoured at G-A-Y as recruited by Hell’s Angels on Interstate 95. He looks like Gogol Bordello’s Eugene Hutz after a two-week coke binge at the Chateau Marmont, while he clearly found the rest of his band by laying a whiskey trail from the door of the Rainbow Bar & Grill on Sunset Strip. The Eagles are pure LA rock theatre, but the lean, mean, fat-free version: neolithic riffs, butt-clenched rhythms, falsetto squeals and glam-fisted boogie-downs.
Like the Queens’ most lascivious moments played with added disco sleaze, it’s spunk-funk struts like ‘Whorehoppin’ (Shit, Goddamn)’ and ‘Cherry Cola’ that get the blood pumping to the nether regions. A few too many screaming Big Book Of Rock Clichés solos and ‘can I get an amen?’s and the Eagles Of Death Metal could be duckwalking across a minefield that already contains the graves of The Darkness and Electric Six. The trick is keeping your foot to the floor the whole time your tongue’s thrust into your cheek. And for almost two hours, Jesse gives it more gas than Texaco. Shit, goddamn!
Character studies and ready melodies abound in the latest record by the Oxford quartet
A battle-like record where fear and dread rule
Another gripping Pedro Almodóvar mystery, full of vibrant visuals and emotional revelations
The Californian succeeds, once again, in exposing the ugliness of mankind. It’ll get under your skin