Dan Deacon is in almost all ways utterly absurd. A balding man, with a face and stomach saturated in babyfat and a beard that looks like clumps of pubic hair delicately removed from his balls and glued to his face in a haphazard fashion. This is a man more likely to be seen on a 7am subway wearing a trench coat, ready to flash the first person that floats his boat. And if his looks aren’t enough to give you the willies then his music is sure to send your sonically molested eardrums on an extensive, yet pleasurable voyage to identify and assemble the actual hum’s, echoes, reverberations and detonations fashioned from his mountain of wires and knocked off NASA space paraphernalia. Indeed Dan Deacon is not a man that deals in the simplistic and M.O.R, for Dan Deacon the Fall is equivalent to Coldplay and Lighting Bolt are the Backstreet Boys.

This is a man that burns genres with in a trailblazing disregard for his contemporaries in order to formulate music that just turns him, something that often entails Deacon freaking the fuck out, on and if anyone else chooses to care then that’s just dandy. On the one hand Deacon offers us “The Crystal Cat,” which sounds like a colossal wave throbbing against your ears as the sound of Deacons voice morphing into a castrated cat/nu-rave insect for is intertwined flawlessly for good measure. What erupts is pure noise at its chaotically controlled best. All of which just shows you that a fat balding man who wears clothes too small for him should not be so harshly judged. A face for the radio perhaps, but Deacon could well be a genius, manufacturing a melange of aggressive and melodically striking beeps and beats that cease your feet from the authority of the brain and haul you screaming towards a vomit stained dance floor as if you have just snorted a bagful of Pro Plus and drank twelve litres of coke, which in my humble opinion is always a good thing.

And now for something completely different.

Los Campesinos, a Welsh seven piece from the sheep ridden Welsh valleys, who endeavour to mix the pretentious and pop in glorious union which more often than not spawns bundles of pop joy from the womb of creation. Never has a Glockenspiel sounded so authoritative on “You! Me! Dancing,” a gem that plays off its girl/boy vocals which synchronise in beautiful harmony as guitars soar. Its all a bit like a lo fi Arcade Fire with a Welsh accent going ten times faster as a scrapbook of thoughts is discharged into a microphone with an evangelical zeal that forces you to listen that little bit harder.

Glasgow band Errors are the sound of man and machine married in knob twiddling heaven. However, for all the machines and sea of wiring this is music with all the humanity and soul of Martin Luther King and Mother Theresa combined. Errors pulsate with menacing nilistic joy that guides you home after a night on the dance floor pilled out your nut . With no concern for lyrics, Errors focus solely on instrumentation using laptops, guitars and various synths that manoeuvres itself across various genres without much care for consistency, but always achieving surreal ambience. Underneath all the technologically wheezing there truly is something more, “Mr. Milk” is a beat driven gem, that seduces with melody and then batters you with exploding synths which force you into a corner and gradually looms down on you like a schoolyard bully.

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