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King Tuts Wah Wah Hut 27-01-01 Teletext review

Southend Chinnerys 20-10-00 Melody Maker review

Hanley Sugarmill 16-10-00 NME review

Oxford Zodiac 21-07-00 Melody Maker review

Leeds Rocket 05-05-00

Teletext Review 8/2/01 page 454 Back to the top

Glasgow King Tuts Wah Wah Hut

Considering Matt has all the aesthetic appeal of a creature from the Black Lagoon, it's lucky they sound great. New song Weather (It's Whether actually) hints at a good future if they can restrain themselves from ripping off bands of the last ten years.

Despite the 32-minute set and lack of encore (apparently a hangover of their Manics fixation) I wish the album was out now. Along with support band Easyworld's single, ideally with pictures, as frontman David Ford is gorgeous.

7/10

Laura Paterson

Melody Maker Back to the top

Readers Polarised!

Chinnery's, Southend 20th October 2000

4/5

What's better? To be quite liked by a lot of people, like some of the "nicer" bands around? Or to have half the Melody Maker-reading population falling over themselves to get in your pants and the other half baying for your blood in a manner that is quite frightening, either way?

King Adora fall with a squelch firmly into the latter category and, on tonight's evidence, they're loving every minute of it, touching people up and pissing people off in equal measures. There's an indication of their popularity early in the evening when a certain eyeliner-caked group of females ignore the excellent punky support band Crackout in order to follow Dan, the drummer with the 10ft-high hair, into the gents' toilets. It all seems appropriately sleazy.

The gaggle of girls later flocks around the front of the stage as King Adora come on, preening like the queens of the building site with the in-and-out-before-you-realise-what's-happening- punch of "Scream And Shout", singer Matt looking disturbingly like Eddie Izzard with a New York Dolls fixation.

If they are the new Manics, it's only because everything here is driven by sex - politics don't get a look in (unless "Muff Diver" has something to do with Communism, but it's probably just very rude). And, in any case, thank God for that, because if King Adora ever took their minds out of the gutter, they might leave some of their charm down there. "Bionic" is a solid glitter classic already, Matt screeching like a Banshee who wishes that the Pixies had made a record with Madonna in the Eighties. "Smoulder", meanwhile, is an exercise in thinking yourself sexy, no matter what nature gave you to begin with. Yes, it's all a little ridiculous, but that's the job of a pop star, and the camp boys and self-consciously cute girls here are lapping it up, as bassist Robbie's cheekbones threaten to go into orbit if he pouts any harder.

The reason King Adora are such a good band is not necessarily the songs - although they sparkle brilliantly through the grime. It's also the fact that they've got the energy, the arrogance and the ability to provoke a definite reaction of love or hate. Which is more than many British bands can say right now.

EMMA JOHNSTON

NME- I Wanna Be Adora! Back to the top

King Adora/ My Vitriol

Hanley Sugarmill 16-10-00

It's like treading in shit while eating an ice cream. King Adora are pop-art perfection. They are Roy Lichtenstein's Whaam! Repainted by Jackson Pollock at his most savagely pissed. The torsos of anorexic whippets topped by cutely-fringed evil-angel faces, they look like wannabe supermodel smack addicts and deliver short, sharp blasts of shoplifting, shirtlifting deviant scum-rock. And they've got moves stolen from every sexually confused neurotic boy outsider rock loser from Brian Jones to Richey Manics, all filtered through a haze of subliminal Bowie worship and driven by the certain knowledge that all any healthy heterosexual teenage girl really wants is to fuck the skinny arse of a boy who looks like a girl. And owns a pony, obviously. Cliched? As fuck! But in the same way that a blow-job is cliched. Done skilfully, it's still a heart stopper. From `Scream And Shout', through `Bionic', the bulimic `Big Isn't Beautiful' and the new single `Smoulder', singer Matt Browne leads his motley crue through the entire gusset-drenching repertoire of New York Dolls/ Duran Duran sex moves. And it's exhilarating, it's thrilling and it feels like a resurrection. King Adora, flawed as fuck, are in short, perfect.

And then, of course, someone leaves my cake out in the rain and My Vitriol come along and shit on it.

If King Adora are everything a rock band should be, then My Vitriol are a textbook example of bedwetting student-wanker twat-rock. They suck shit out of a dead cow's arse. And Swallow. It's dull. No, it's beyond dull. It's painful. It's sonic constipation. In their heads they're The Velvet Underground or Joy Division, but onstage they're the Stereophonics with no tunes. They are like Mogwai, only really shit. They play `Dull', `Irritating' and `Pass the Valium' and then singer/guitarist Som Wardner tells us, "This is the new one. It's so new it hasn't even got a title yet."

Hmm, how about `Oh God, I Wonder If Anybody Would Notice If I Sneaked Off Back To The Hotel And Watched A Porn Video Instead.' I mean it's like mood music for a bowel cancer ward, maaaaaan!

At one point, all three of the fuckers at the front of the stage start tuning up at the same time, completely ignoring the poor bloody audience. The arrogance! The amateurishness! I'm sorry to be so harsh, My Vitriol, but you're rubbish! Fuck Off!

So there you go, kids. Forward into the future with the bright, shining and disgustingly sleazy sex-rock of King Adora? Or skulking back into your wank-stiffened-tissue-strewn bedroom with the dull, shitty shoegazing turd-rock of My Vitriol? Decisions, decisions!

STEVEN WELLS

It's Getting Better, Monarch Back to the top

King Adora Zodiac, Oxford

4/5

Four boys, seven songs, 20 minutes. One venue, some people. One journalist, 500 words. Do we add, divide or just stare furiously at our pens now? Miss? Miss? I'm stuck… Well, sod all that. School was out a long time ago, and we don't have to worry about arithmetic any more. So why do we still stick so rigidly to the indie-rock textbook? Punk threw tables everywhere in a fit of boredom, and we've put them neatly back in place, so we can become bored once again. It's the most vicious of circles, and to be quite frank I'm bored with hearing about it. And to be quite Frank Black, King Adora do not do bored.

The audience is small and singer Matt's brash Brum tones are sanded down to a husky, disdainful whisper between songs. "So this is the centre of Britain's eduxcation," he observes. The young audience regard him apprehensively. "You must be f***ing joking."

Music writers splash the gaudy point of hyperbole liberally across reviews because that's how legends eventually become visible. Bands - some of them - do it to themselves first. Brilliant. Why the f*** not? Why feel obligated to trundle through an hour-long set, hopping desperately from single to single across a mire of fillers? Why be humble about yourself if you genuinely believe you are a sex baguette? Why don't you give your copy of " The Man Who" to next door's dog and come ang join in?

Out of a hyper-industrial intro comes "Scream'N'Shout", Matt's astonishing panther-yell mingling with the raucous guitars. He's dripping with the jewels of what he looks like in his head, gangly and languid, a pantomime Mick Jagger with Jabberwocky hair, all arse and lips, sex and cheek. The new single "Big Isn't Beautiful" swoons and rages - the lyrics grind bone against bone, wear their heartache on their sleeve, and are actually bloody clever for a band so keen on abandon. They have this habit of snapping off bars in the middle and throwing them into a churning cacophony of guitars, a perfect, seductive jolt to your system that you love them for.

"Bionic" pulls that trick, and it's the best going-out tune in the world, the searing whine of it's hooks is as neon as they come. "Super Muff Diver" starts gently, almost winsomely, and after a tiny moment whams itself into a tumble-drier of steaming violence, a fist in your gob by the feather on your cheek. Then they're gone. Brief as sensation and garish as multicoloured kicks. They're young guns going for out in the flimsy armour of bravado, wolfing their food and getting you to lick the bits off their chin.

The fairy ring cry, "More!" like you do at gigs. They don't get it. Bugger boredom. Break stuffiness.

SARAH BEE

Leeds Rocket Back to the top

May, 2000

3/5/5

You've got to hand it to them. Their debut single not yet cold on the shelves, the lipstick not yet smudged on the lips of their little faces, and here they are doing what band plenty bigger daren't.

It may seem odd, but the first night of a tour seems to be something of a scared cow. There's a good number of well-known bands who tremble at the thought of the of anyone in possession of a pencil even coming within listening distance on that first night. A review? No, no. "Not up to speed," they claim, "ironing out the creases," they say, "technical run through," bleat their people. Still, they don't seem to mind charging the audience.

So,here we are then, boys and girls, on the very first night of the King Adora tour.

Apprehensive? Nervous? Unsure of themselves? Yeah right. Check piss-thin singer/guitarist Matt Browne, clad in his hipsters, Seventies shades, cropped tops and lipstick. Hang on, looking like a popstar? Excatly like that. You remember them, don't you? Bryan Ferry, Johnny Rotten, David Bowie. Whatever next?

Well next comes the songs. By no means the finished article, but King Adora have made one heck of a good start. "Smoulder", which, despite it's suggestive title, does nothing of the sort. There's single "Bionic" which does sing along REM with spikes or there's the sweet menace and Manics-bluster of "Whether". Not that, just because there's a bit of a glam, they're MSP wannabes. That'd be too easy.

With a deliciously short set the order of the day, the Birmingham four-piece clearly understand the rules here. Get in, hit them hard, get out fast. In fact, do everything fast and make a load of noise while you're about it. Not bad for a bunch of self-proclaimed big girl's blouses. Imagine, some proper pop stars to keep your eye on. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

NEIL MASON