NEW YORK DOLLS at the 100 CLUB (Footage)

Ah man, I can't write sensibly about that Dolls gig, so here's the footage instead. The sound doesn't do it justice but it gives a sense of the rocks-off atmosphere of the night.

"Pills" was the Bo Diddley cover and the ragged "Personality Crisis" the encore. Enjoy.

NEW YORK DOLLS at the 100 CLUB

The New York Dolls played the 100 Club last night.

If I can manage to supress the hyperpole, I may write a few words. In the meantime, here's a picture I took of David Johansen.

THE SPECIALS at BRIXTON ACADEMY

You don’t find an atmosphere like this very often. The whole upper circle are out of their seats, dancing, clapping, and chanting “Ruuuude Boys” and “Ska! Ska! Ska!”. And this is a full half hour before the Specials even materialise. Old ska chestnuts, “Israelites”, “Uptown Top Ranking” and, my word, the place went mental for “Geno”.

With a 2009 Monday night crowd partying like 1979 Friday night revellers - even down to two fat baldies having a scrap - the curtain raises to strains of “Enjoy Yourself” and the band launch into “Do The Dog”, “Dawning of a New Era” and “Gangsters”, running around like kids breaking up from school for the summer holidays. What a start.

From there they play everything you’d want: all of Specials (minus “Stupid Marriage”); much of More Specials; the other singles and various odds and sods. Pick of the bunch being “Monkey Man” (I’m not just saying that) and “Little Bitch” is a personal favourite.

As for the Jerry Dammers situation - being ousted Brian Jones style out of his own band - that’s something for the collective conscience of Hall, Staples, Golding, Radiation, Gentleman and Bradbury. But does it make any difference to the gig? Not really. Whatever their motivation, the other six plus bogus Jerry (particularly Staples, Golding and Radiation) put the graft in. A few moments of wonky timing don’t detract from a full blooded, committed performance. If money was the carrot, I don’t begrudge them a full vegetable bag.

ART BRUT at THE ELECTRIC BALLROOM

Art Brut don’t - or rather can’t - do cool. They’re a right ragbag of odd-balls (Rodney Trotter on guitar, someone from eighties pomp rockers the Alarm on another, shy looking Goth girl on bass, a camp German golfer on drums, and a pasty alcoholic reporter from the Dorset Echo singing), who’ve plundered the music cupboard, learnt enough chords to get by, and leap on the nearest stage to blast out their punky confessionals before someone susses they’re not a proper band and kicks them off. All the while making it look like it’s the most possible fun you could ever have (“Formed a band/ We formed a band/ Look at us/ We formed a band”).

In lesser hands this could be irritating, juvenile nonsense but in the sweaty palms of ringleader Eddie Argos, it’s a warm, funny and engrossing spectacle. You can’t afford to take your eyes off for a moment in case you miss some antic. Art Brut aren’t five people with heads down, knocking out their latest album and buggering off with little interaction with their audience. That interaction is a major part of their act with Argos orchestrating events on and off stage. “Ignore the set list, Art Brut, ignore the set list!” whilst throwing in adlibs in the middle of songs that already are choc block with ridiculous rhymes. Whilst lyrically fun, they keep the right side of novelty or deliberate comedy – it’s more Argos’ mocking self depreciation and willingness to reveal stuff most would sooner keep hidden, even if he unconvincingly tries to pass off the inability to get it up on a band mate.

Argos scissor kicks his lumbering carcass, rolls around, jumps in the crowd, uses his microphone lead as a skipping rope and star jumps like Iggy Pop with a cake habit. They even share a song title, but whilst Pop’s “The Passenger” is infused with dark brooding, “I ride through the city’s backside”, Art Brut’s everyman appeal sees them bellowing the joys of public transport with unbridled glee, “I love public transportation/ Train or bus, they’re both amazing!”.

Musically its bash-bash-bash, the Brut don’t go much on subtlety. Even “Slap Dash for No Cash” which is meant as a tribute to their current favourite current acts, the decidedly lo-fi Wave Pictures and Jeffrey Lewis, but turns into, in their own words, “Spinal Tap meets Motley Crue”. The rest of the set is divided between the new, return to abrasive form Art Brut vs Satan and the still-fresh sounding 2005 debut Bang Bang Rock ‘n’ Roll. The disappointingly flat It’s A Bit Complicated is only represented by a couple of songs but “Direct Hit” is one of the frequent highlights.

Live performances should be just that – performances. Saying “it was just like the record” shouldn’t be a compliment to anyone. They should be a unique, one-off events that offer something in addition to the actual songs. In Art Brut there’s a positive banquet of additional reasons to leave the house and see them. And if I wasn’t so long in tooth, I’d form a band too.

THREE WISHES: AN INTIMATE LOOK AT JAZZ GREATS

Between 1961 and 1966 Baroness Pannonica de Koenigswarter’s asked 300 jazz musicians their three wishes. These are now finally published in, appropriately enough, Three Wishes. Predictably most answered wealth, health and happiness, usually in that order, whilst others had desires more related to their profession: “To be able to play exactly what I have in my mind” (J.J. Johnson), “Somewhere to play – not a cellar. A place with dressing rooms” (Hank Mobley), and “Complete acceptance and recognition of this music as a pure art form” (Elvin Jones).

If you dig the look, if not the sound, of jazz then the hundreds of accompanying snapshots of greats and long forgotten sidemen chilling and playing in Nica’s hotel suite are hipness personified. Such was the partying that hotels would double, then treble, the rent in an attempt to oust such undesirables; not that such monetary issues concerned Nica - a Rothschild heiress - who paid up, so Monk, Mingus, Blakey, Davis et al had somewhere to hang out after gigs.

Those post-show sessions must’ve been something else. David “Fathead” Newman only had one thing on his mind: “To get high... right now. Tell you the rest tomorrow”.

“Three Wishes: An Intimate Look at Jazz Greats” by Pannonica de Koenigswarter is published by Abrams Image, priced £9.99

ART BRUT VS. DYLAN

"The record buying public shouldn't be voting" exclaim Art Brut on their new Art Brut vs. Satan album.

Whilst I wouldn't usually give a hoot nor holler to chart positions, there's some satisfaction in seeing Together Through Life become Bob Dylan's first UK number one since 1970. For once, the record buying public got it right, even if they didn't buy many actual records.

Not that it's brilliant, but where do you pitch your expectations? I aim low and work up. For accordian-led, blues-based songs, the playing is sprightly and breezy which counters Bob's deathbed croaking and wheezing. If you lined up all his 33 studio albums in order of merit, this one would probably come about (finger in the air) sixteenth. There's nothing amzing but no clunkers either, and it sounds like something Dylan would listen to even if it wasn't his.

No sign of Art Brut's chart position but more about them soon.

ANNETTE MESSAGER: THE MESSENGERS

Isn’t it great when you discover something unexpected and exciting?

I’d gone to the Hayward Gallery to see The Russian Linesman exhibition curated by Mark Walinger (it was shit) and fortunately stumbled across Annette Messager’s The Messengers retrospective.

Got to admit that I’d never heard of Messager before (French, work from early 70’s to present day) but now I’ve a new favourite artist.

"Articulated-Disarticulated" is a room full of mutilated, clockwork, soft toy animals that twitch and silently moan like one of William Burroughs’ more gruesome scenes brought to life by an acid crazed Jim Henson.

There’s a display case of dead sparrows wearing knitted hats and scarves; a skull made of children’s gloves with sharp, stake-like coloured pencils jabbing out in every direction; photographs of babies with their eyes scratched out; and, a terrifying hawkish mechanical skeleton called "The Exquisite Corpse". Cheery stuff it wasn’t. Although a photograph of a penis with a cat’s face drawn on it and close-ups of men’s crotches did bring a chuckle.

Loads of different styles, loads of different forms, loads of imagination and that creepy tingling feeling that grips the back of your neck and shoulders. Loved it.

Annette Messager: The Messengers @ Hayward Gallery, Southbank Centre, London until 25 May 2009