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First of all, apologies for not having blogged lately. I’ve been away and, on the occasions when I have been gracing the 6 Music offices with my considerable presence, I have been busier than Santa’s little helper on Christmas Eve when all the other little helpers are working to rule because they’re not happy with their proposed position in the all-new Santa’s grotto.

Not that that’s an excuse, of course. The world of Rock Action rumbles on whether I put finger to fancy new computer or not and fortunately, I have still been able to attend at least a couple of rock happenings of note. Starting with …


The Pipettes
100 Club, London, 15 Nov

Tonight, in a more fabulous part of London, Madonna is playing her big comeback gig. For those of us who hadn’t really noticed she’d gone away, however, this is far more exciting.

Because The Pipettes are currently indie pop’s most cherishable combo, having no truck with the current obsession with sounding like it’s going to be either 1979 or 1981 forever and instead swishing us back to a time before even The Beatles existed.

Essentially, they take the sound of sixties girl group Heartbreak, filter it through the C86 perfect pop blueprint of The Popguns and The Flatmates and sass it all up with the spirit of Kenickie. They’ve got tunes too, from the throwaway buzz of I Like A Boy In Uniform to the genuinely moving Because It’s Not Love (for some reason tucked away on the B-side of the equally excellent Dirty Mind single).

And while Radiohead are not about to lose any sleep over the musicianship on display here tonight, as shows go it’s much more fun than watching an aging diva flounce around in a leotard. In fact, with Rose wisecracking away like another Lauren Laverne in waiting and Welsh blonde bombshell Gwenno coming on like Andrea Darling Bud reincarnated as Pamela Anderson (or possibly the other way round), The Pipettes are pretty much the most fun to be had on the gig circuit right now.

Madonna? Madonna who?


The Strokes
ULU, London, 29 Nov

Noo Yoik’s finest, meanwhile, could teach even Madge a trick or two when it comes to creating a buzz. Gaining entry to tonight’s showcase for third album First Impressions Of Earth requires even media gunslingers like myself to queue for about 47 hours and then present photo ID.

Once inside, there’s an undeniably overexcited atmosphere, although much of this seems to stem from the invited celebrity gig-goers, rather than any particular enthusiasm for The Strokes themselves. As we wait for Julian Casablancas and co to show their punchably handsome faces, a seemingly endless stream of flushed females stumble up squealing “I just stood next to Alex Kapranos/Kelly Jones/John Taylor/Johnny Borrell/Glen Matlock!”* I wonder if they had to show photo ID as well?

Over in the more cynical section where I position myself, we note that the Strokes still look pretty cool as they stumble onto the stage, apart from Nick, who now looks like he’s either joined The Datsuns or got a bit part in The Lord Of The Rings IV: The Fellowship Of The Lower East Side.

The time away clearly hasn’t dented their self-confidence either. They start with ace new single Juicebox – essentially, Weezer being kicked all over Greenwich Village by a Flying V-toting King Kong – and follow it with ten utterly unfamiliar songs. Lawks.

It’s very difficult to judge music you’re hearing for the first time in these circumstances, especially as the single proves to be the reddest of herrings in terms of hints towards the new direction. Instead, many of the new tunes show the same “difficult” sketchiness of Room On Fire, with only Hawaii (a B-side, apparently) and You Only Live Once really cutting through the celebrity hubbub and leaving a lasting impression.

Elsewhere a random selection of my notes yields such gems as “like The Magic Numbers if they were chewing on chilli dogs in Coney Island rather than eating pies in west London”, “fairground music”, “alarmingly widdly guitar solo” and “like The Pogues if they were scoring heroin in the Meatpacking District rather than chucking down Guinness in Temple Bar”.

Then, just as everyone is about to get terminally confused and shout out “Ruddy heck! Simon Le Bon just trod on my foot!” rather than applauding between songs, they somewhat belatedly decide to do The Hits.

And, as such, hurtling through Last Nite, Hard To Explain, Someday, New York City Cops and Reptilia (the one  copper-bottomed classic from the second album that proved Is This It’s glorious mix of tunes and ‘tood wasn’t a fluke) serves as a rather better reminder of The Strokes’ brilliance than the presence of a whole roomful of eighties superstars ever could.

They finish with Take It Or Leave It, presumably an attempt to sum up their attitude towards those who might think some of the classics could have been dropped in a little earlier.  To which the only possible response will have to be: thanks for the offer, guys. We’ll think about it once we’ve heard the album …


* Please delete according to age and/or drunkenness