I don't think I meant "titration" here, probably "clinical evaporation" would have been more accurate, but I'm not certain. Fuck chemistry, let's dance.
SMILEX/ HEADCOUNT/ BEELZEBOZO/ DEATH VALLEY RIDERS – Quickfix, Wheatsheaf, 10/7/09
Repetition, like excessive volume, is a musical trick that’s childishly easy to achieve, yet incredibly difficult to pull off convincingly. Death Valley Riders play huge, near static rock instrumentals, with a distant basis in metal, and the merest hint of goth in the bass effects, and come off like Einstellung divided by Nephilim. The ever-chugging longform tracks are doubtless supposed to be monumental, and in a way they are, but that isn’t always impressive: imagine the monolith in 2001 made of, not mysteriously sleek adamantine, but warm guacamole. Ultra-minimal music can be hypnotic, but it can also just be, you know, sort of…long.
Beelzebozo are the residue after a clinical hard rock titration – there’s nothing to their music but thumping drums, ceaseless riffs and silly outfits, leaving us wondering why so many other rockers try to dilute their sound with clumsy extraneous ornaments (rap breaks, hasty electronics, embarassing politics). The band’s Satan-raped conference delegate look, all blood-splattered shirts and battered nametags, is amusing, but doesn’t detract from some high quality rock taken at a stately pace. Glance at their website, and you’ll find it boasts more ideas than most bands get through in a lifetime: their music is harmless levity, but they take it very seriously, which is why we love them.
Three chunky lads playing sweary punk should be tedious, so the fact that Headcount are not only listenable, but also one of this county’s best acts, is frankly astounding. We call it The Tommy Cooper Ratio. So, of course we get lumpy clogged-artery punk frolics, but we get subtlety too, in Stef Hale’s surprisingly delicate drum embellishments (shades of Therapy?, perhaps) and Rob Moss’ increasingly melodic vocals. As befits a band that has been working hard for a decade, it’s admirably mature stuff, and even better, as Moss gives his arse an airing onstage, it’s played by admirably immature people.
The temptation before this gig was to cut up all our old Smilex reviews and stick the words back together in a random order. The downside of being vastly professional and reliable entertainers (and you should see Tom Sharp flying into the set, even though he’s sick as a dog), is that people can get immured to your charms. Intriguingly, this turns out to be a set of new and less familiar material, which allows us to focus once again on what a storming rock band Smilex is. We discover afresh how intense the rhythm section is, and how good Lee Christian can be at performing a song (even whilst he’s flailing about with his top off, like the grotesque child of Iggy Pop and Neil Hannon). A wonderful set by a band we shouldn’t take for granted. But don’t spit on us like that, Lee; Rob’s already brought one arse to the stage, no need to be another.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Sunday, 8 November 2009
There's Nothing In It
More thoughts you won't read about musicians you've never heard of.
EMPTY VESSELS - demo
Floppily discordant post-punk with a Duane Eddy twist is normally the kind of thing to get us tapping feet and smashing crockery with gay abandon, and when “Sex Disco” by Empty Vessels starts up it begins to look as though we’re in for something good. Somehow, though, by the time the vocals stroll in, the effect deflates like an unsuccessful soufflé. It’s certainly not that the vocals are poor – although they certainly were when we saw EV live recently – but they seem to be a collection of ticks and mannerisms from a bunch of other singers, without any substance underneath. At any given moment one can be reminded of Bowie, The Kinks, Talking Heads, The Fall or, most powerfully of all, The Psychedelic Furs. But not in a pleasant way. Not in the sort of way in which we’d be happy for EV’s website to quote that sentence as if it were glowing praise, let’s put it like that.
Luckily, the second track swiftly makes up some ground. The drums have receded into the mix, giving the vocal more space for slurs and warbles that, though equally affected, are more consonant with the music, which boasts quietly funky atonal guitar. By the time we’re onto closing track, “If It Came Down To It” the drums have returned but the vocals have wandered off mic, possibly into a studio cupboard. Can’t say we’re mourning with much vigour. The tragedy is, though, that the song is a big ball of early 80s nothing, strumming, jangling and delay pedalling around with no discernible ideas, and at this point we give up all hope, and start smashing the crockery in frustration. Empty Vessels could amuse you for 20 minutes on Sunday afternoon at Truck, but on this evidence they wouldn’t survive too well as the main attraction.
EMPTY VESSELS - demo
Floppily discordant post-punk with a Duane Eddy twist is normally the kind of thing to get us tapping feet and smashing crockery with gay abandon, and when “Sex Disco” by Empty Vessels starts up it begins to look as though we’re in for something good. Somehow, though, by the time the vocals stroll in, the effect deflates like an unsuccessful soufflé. It’s certainly not that the vocals are poor – although they certainly were when we saw EV live recently – but they seem to be a collection of ticks and mannerisms from a bunch of other singers, without any substance underneath. At any given moment one can be reminded of Bowie, The Kinks, Talking Heads, The Fall or, most powerfully of all, The Psychedelic Furs. But not in a pleasant way. Not in the sort of way in which we’d be happy for EV’s website to quote that sentence as if it were glowing praise, let’s put it like that.
Luckily, the second track swiftly makes up some ground. The drums have receded into the mix, giving the vocal more space for slurs and warbles that, though equally affected, are more consonant with the music, which boasts quietly funky atonal guitar. By the time we’re onto closing track, “If It Came Down To It” the drums have returned but the vocals have wandered off mic, possibly into a studio cupboard. Can’t say we’re mourning with much vigour. The tragedy is, though, that the song is a big ball of early 80s nothing, strumming, jangling and delay pedalling around with no discernible ideas, and at this point we give up all hope, and start smashing the crockery in frustration. Empty Vessels could amuse you for 20 minutes on Sunday afternoon at Truck, but on this evidence they wouldn’t survive too well as the main attraction.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Chromoplasty
Look, I changed the colours. Go, me.
MY MEGA-MELODIC ALL-DAYER, Port Mahon
Promoting gigs is often more a matter of blind hope than financial certainty, but hosting over nine hours of lo-fi performance on Bank Holiday Saturday is simply commercial suicide. Still, we popped along for the first half of My Analogue and Melodic Oxford’s marathon, and discovered some gems, even though we’re pretty sure we were the only non-performing audience member for at least half the time. Dave Griffiths in acoustic mode raised eyebrows from the off, revealing emotional subtleties in his voice rarely evident in Witches’ sonic maelstrom. Arresting, but we still live for sonic maelstroms round here. Proffering rustic guitar strums augmented with frail melodica and glockenspiel, Blanket was never likely to satiate this particular need, but their featherweight pastoralia was lovely. Rather gorgeous on the ear it may be, but trying to actually focus on the music and criticise it proves as tricky as climbing a rice paper staircase. Things fare better on their evocative (and reasonably priced) album.
When Robh Hokum takes to the stage with his acoustic he seems even more awkward than Blanket’s singer, who had the air of a five year old forced to play an angel in the Infants’ Nativity. Quick stage school tip: “I’m this close to vomiting” isn’t an ideal greeting. However, once he starts singing his Americana-brushed songs, any concerns are forgotten. His tiny nylon strung guitar and high reedy voice are so thin and delicate it sounds like someone’s spinning a Depression era 78 onstage, to surprisingly engrossing effect.
Twee will rock you! Synth-poppers Life With Bears have grabbed the guitars to become Socks & Shoes for some inept three chord proto-punk with childlike lyrics, something like The Shaggs meets Rod, Jane & Freddy. It’s bloody great fun, but probably not much else. HIV apologise for their offensive name, but they needn’t worry, their tedious improv rock is offensive enough on its own, a dire mirror image of The Evenings’ brilliance, which is tragic as the members are in wonderful bands too numerous to mention. Some light-hearted unpretentious banter softens the blow, but HIV could have internet moles feverishly typing “Clique”. Caps lock on, naturally. Warbly crooner Wolf Tracks is so ear-manglingly awful we’re ecstatic that we catch a few minutes of Onions For Eyes before departure, and leaving during their carny roustabout 2 Unlimited cover makes us want to stay awhile. Which, after over five hours in The Port, is really the biggest compliment we can give this intriguing, if uneven festival.
MY MEGA-MELODIC ALL-DAYER, Port Mahon
Promoting gigs is often more a matter of blind hope than financial certainty, but hosting over nine hours of lo-fi performance on Bank Holiday Saturday is simply commercial suicide. Still, we popped along for the first half of My Analogue and Melodic Oxford’s marathon, and discovered some gems, even though we’re pretty sure we were the only non-performing audience member for at least half the time. Dave Griffiths in acoustic mode raised eyebrows from the off, revealing emotional subtleties in his voice rarely evident in Witches’ sonic maelstrom. Arresting, but we still live for sonic maelstroms round here. Proffering rustic guitar strums augmented with frail melodica and glockenspiel, Blanket was never likely to satiate this particular need, but their featherweight pastoralia was lovely. Rather gorgeous on the ear it may be, but trying to actually focus on the music and criticise it proves as tricky as climbing a rice paper staircase. Things fare better on their evocative (and reasonably priced) album.
When Robh Hokum takes to the stage with his acoustic he seems even more awkward than Blanket’s singer, who had the air of a five year old forced to play an angel in the Infants’ Nativity. Quick stage school tip: “I’m this close to vomiting” isn’t an ideal greeting. However, once he starts singing his Americana-brushed songs, any concerns are forgotten. His tiny nylon strung guitar and high reedy voice are so thin and delicate it sounds like someone’s spinning a Depression era 78 onstage, to surprisingly engrossing effect.
Twee will rock you! Synth-poppers Life With Bears have grabbed the guitars to become Socks & Shoes for some inept three chord proto-punk with childlike lyrics, something like The Shaggs meets Rod, Jane & Freddy. It’s bloody great fun, but probably not much else. HIV apologise for their offensive name, but they needn’t worry, their tedious improv rock is offensive enough on its own, a dire mirror image of The Evenings’ brilliance, which is tragic as the members are in wonderful bands too numerous to mention. Some light-hearted unpretentious banter softens the blow, but HIV could have internet moles feverishly typing “Clique”. Caps lock on, naturally. Warbly crooner Wolf Tracks is so ear-manglingly awful we’re ecstatic that we catch a few minutes of Onions For Eyes before departure, and leaving during their carny roustabout 2 Unlimited cover makes us want to stay awhile. Which, after over five hours in The Port, is really the biggest compliment we can give this intriguing, if uneven festival.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
The Demon Barbie
This review was fun to write. The jury's out on whether it will be fun to read.
THE MILE HIGH YOUNG TEAM/ HOUSE OF BLUE DOLLS/ BACK POCKET PROPHET – Grinning Spider, The X, 4/10/07
Likable. It’s a positive adjective, to be sure, but not one that you’d really want associated with your metal band: it’s more the sort of word you expect to be applied to a floppy-eared dog, or a backward farmhand. Be that as it may, Back Pocket Prophet’s classic NWOBHM fuzz and thump is just the tonic to raise a smile and a warm glow. This – go on, let’s say it - likable trio is so friendly and comfy, you see, even if it’s also tight and loud, full of meaty riffs and nourishing marrowbone jelly.
Of course, we could sit here and tell you all about how Back Pocket Prophet’s music was a big hairy cliché without too much in the realms of originality or adventurousness, but that would be to ignore the glaring fact that their set was foot tapping, head nodding, beer guzzling good fun, and that we’ll deck anyone who says different (unless they’re as big as the drummer of course). Furthermore, you’ve got to wonder why other metal bands don’t dip into Christianity for their lyrical content, the New Testament is such a great source of heavy rock tropes: betrayal; sacrifice; rising from the dead; parties with unlimited free booze.
The House Of Blue Dolls (1978) was a lacklustre soft porn horror, modelled loosely on Andre De Toth’s House Of Wax and apparently scripted solely from offcuts from other recent chillers. When an erotic wax sculptor (you know, there’s one in every town) is maimed in an implausible collapse of his studio, he animates his creations and sends them off to kill all his enemies…sexily, which is obviously the most efficient way. What we get, therefore, is a loosely clipped together series of mini-episodes, far too slight to be called portmanteaux, and a bunch of bouncy 70s boobs, which are about as arousing as support hosiery. Peter Cushing, presumably skint since Hammer ground to a halt two years before, looks deeply uncomfortable as the inexplicably ubiquitous chimney sweep, but retains a shred of dignity by being the only male in the film not to be involved in some lame romp with a waxy Benny Hill “bird”. From www.thegildedfang.com, cult horror reviews online.
Oh, OK. We made that up. I guess our mind was wandering during House Of Blue Dolls’ somewhat lumpy set. Their music is nothing if not adventurous, welding rock, blues, funk and jazz together with noteworthy musical ability (the rhythm section particularly impress), but, like Boris Johnson’s hair, it seems that there’s no way of making it actually work together.
All this would be fine, and we’d be happy to wait until HOBD found their inner Zappa, were it not for the annoyingly strident female vocals. Up and down she goes, honking out huge notes exactly when the music would benefit from a little subtlety, with a horrible stage school emotiveness that reminds us of long gone local blusterers X-Hail, just when we’d managed to expunge them from our memories. So, the lesson is, ditch the Bonnie Tyler vocals and work on the promising arrangements. Otherwise we’re sending out the waxworks, right?
Thankfully, we soon see drummer Dario using his powers for good, as The Mile High Young Team take to the stage. They have the smallest crowd of the night, which just goes to show that nearly everyone in the world is stupid, as they’re clearly the best act on the bill. We’ll be the first to admit that their recorded work drifts past us a little, but in the live arena the intricate, articulate rock constructions are fascinating, whilst the teasing melodies swirl around the consciousness.
If the Blue Dolls’ singer was still in the room, she could have learnt a lifetime of lessons from Emily Davis’ poised performance, which delicately imbues the vocal lines with stately presence, without ever feeling that the songs are being milked for their emotional content. One lyric that jumps out at us is “it strikes you just a glancing blow”, because this is exactly what MHYT’s performance does: it doesn’t feel the need to grab you by the lapels and slap you in the face, but sneaks up on you before unexpectedly clipping you from behind. And when the boys join in the vocals for a crescendo the Team do, in their own quiet way, actually rock pretty hard.
We can highly recommend this band to anyone who likes their pop music cultured and well-groomed. Admittedly a few keyboard twiddles seemed unnecessary and clumsy, but they were perhaps filling in for the sadly absent ‘cellist; also, once or twice the rhythmic restraint can make the songs feel a little distant, which is a pity. Still, we thoroughly enjoyed the set, even if just occasionally, like Peter Cushing, we weren’t really feeling anything.
THE MILE HIGH YOUNG TEAM/ HOUSE OF BLUE DOLLS/ BACK POCKET PROPHET – Grinning Spider, The X, 4/10/07
Likable. It’s a positive adjective, to be sure, but not one that you’d really want associated with your metal band: it’s more the sort of word you expect to be applied to a floppy-eared dog, or a backward farmhand. Be that as it may, Back Pocket Prophet’s classic NWOBHM fuzz and thump is just the tonic to raise a smile and a warm glow. This – go on, let’s say it - likable trio is so friendly and comfy, you see, even if it’s also tight and loud, full of meaty riffs and nourishing marrowbone jelly.
Of course, we could sit here and tell you all about how Back Pocket Prophet’s music was a big hairy cliché without too much in the realms of originality or adventurousness, but that would be to ignore the glaring fact that their set was foot tapping, head nodding, beer guzzling good fun, and that we’ll deck anyone who says different (unless they’re as big as the drummer of course). Furthermore, you’ve got to wonder why other metal bands don’t dip into Christianity for their lyrical content, the New Testament is such a great source of heavy rock tropes: betrayal; sacrifice; rising from the dead; parties with unlimited free booze.
The House Of Blue Dolls (1978) was a lacklustre soft porn horror, modelled loosely on Andre De Toth’s House Of Wax and apparently scripted solely from offcuts from other recent chillers. When an erotic wax sculptor (you know, there’s one in every town) is maimed in an implausible collapse of his studio, he animates his creations and sends them off to kill all his enemies…sexily, which is obviously the most efficient way. What we get, therefore, is a loosely clipped together series of mini-episodes, far too slight to be called portmanteaux, and a bunch of bouncy 70s boobs, which are about as arousing as support hosiery. Peter Cushing, presumably skint since Hammer ground to a halt two years before, looks deeply uncomfortable as the inexplicably ubiquitous chimney sweep, but retains a shred of dignity by being the only male in the film not to be involved in some lame romp with a waxy Benny Hill “bird”. From www.thegildedfang.com, cult horror reviews online.
Oh, OK. We made that up. I guess our mind was wandering during House Of Blue Dolls’ somewhat lumpy set. Their music is nothing if not adventurous, welding rock, blues, funk and jazz together with noteworthy musical ability (the rhythm section particularly impress), but, like Boris Johnson’s hair, it seems that there’s no way of making it actually work together.
All this would be fine, and we’d be happy to wait until HOBD found their inner Zappa, were it not for the annoyingly strident female vocals. Up and down she goes, honking out huge notes exactly when the music would benefit from a little subtlety, with a horrible stage school emotiveness that reminds us of long gone local blusterers X-Hail, just when we’d managed to expunge them from our memories. So, the lesson is, ditch the Bonnie Tyler vocals and work on the promising arrangements. Otherwise we’re sending out the waxworks, right?
Thankfully, we soon see drummer Dario using his powers for good, as The Mile High Young Team take to the stage. They have the smallest crowd of the night, which just goes to show that nearly everyone in the world is stupid, as they’re clearly the best act on the bill. We’ll be the first to admit that their recorded work drifts past us a little, but in the live arena the intricate, articulate rock constructions are fascinating, whilst the teasing melodies swirl around the consciousness.
If the Blue Dolls’ singer was still in the room, she could have learnt a lifetime of lessons from Emily Davis’ poised performance, which delicately imbues the vocal lines with stately presence, without ever feeling that the songs are being milked for their emotional content. One lyric that jumps out at us is “it strikes you just a glancing blow”, because this is exactly what MHYT’s performance does: it doesn’t feel the need to grab you by the lapels and slap you in the face, but sneaks up on you before unexpectedly clipping you from behind. And when the boys join in the vocals for a crescendo the Team do, in their own quiet way, actually rock pretty hard.
We can highly recommend this band to anyone who likes their pop music cultured and well-groomed. Admittedly a few keyboard twiddles seemed unnecessary and clumsy, but they were perhaps filling in for the sadly absent ‘cellist; also, once or twice the rhythmic restraint can make the songs feel a little distant, which is a pity. Still, we thoroughly enjoyed the set, even if just occasionally, like Peter Cushing, we weren’t really feeling anything.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
The Effects Of Urban Ligth Pollution?
This is a short review, of just one act. So, read it, it won't kill you. Saying you think think Clunes' Reggie Perrin is better than Rossiter's, that might kill you.
AND NO STAR, Zodiac, 10/04
Four lads amble onstage. They aren't particularly old, and look nervous. The bass doesn't work. Someone mumbles. Embarrassment. Okay, we know what to expect here, don't we? Inept Oasisisms or identikit punk waffle.
Wrong! And No Star's first number is so assured and imposing there's a suspicion that the opening fumbles were some eleborate joke. A fizzing sherbet bomb of guitar noise is launched at us, only to be immediately replaced by an ornery patchwork of strange time signatures and awkward arpeggios. Musically it's firmly in the tradition of local mathlords Youth Movie Soundtrack Strategies, augmented with the sort of abrasive dirty rocking we might associate with Sonic Youth (and even as I type that I realise where And No Star got their name).
The set is primarily instrumental, whihc is fortunate as the vocals are frankly dire. Not that they're strictly necessary when the music is so beguilingly intricate. Despite a raging desire to snip some mic cables, my only concern is that, underneath the superbly performed wonky arrangements, some of the core muscial material is somewhat hackneyed. The first track is built on a melodic motif that could be the TVAM theme, for God's sake. Pebble Mill post-rock anyone? Thought not. And No Star need to get some fresher compositions to get their teeth into. But what lovely sharp teeth they are.
AND NO STAR, Zodiac, 10/04
Four lads amble onstage. They aren't particularly old, and look nervous. The bass doesn't work. Someone mumbles. Embarrassment. Okay, we know what to expect here, don't we? Inept Oasisisms or identikit punk waffle.
Wrong! And No Star's first number is so assured and imposing there's a suspicion that the opening fumbles were some eleborate joke. A fizzing sherbet bomb of guitar noise is launched at us, only to be immediately replaced by an ornery patchwork of strange time signatures and awkward arpeggios. Musically it's firmly in the tradition of local mathlords Youth Movie Soundtrack Strategies, augmented with the sort of abrasive dirty rocking we might associate with Sonic Youth (and even as I type that I realise where And No Star got their name).
The set is primarily instrumental, whihc is fortunate as the vocals are frankly dire. Not that they're strictly necessary when the music is so beguilingly intricate. Despite a raging desire to snip some mic cables, my only concern is that, underneath the superbly performed wonky arrangements, some of the core muscial material is somewhat hackneyed. The first track is built on a melodic motif that could be the TVAM theme, for God's sake. Pebble Mill post-rock anyone? Thought not. And No Star need to get some fresher compositions to get their teeth into. But what lovely sharp teeth they are.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Edwina Takes It All
OK, that took longer than I thought to type up, and I have to go and cook a risotto, so I'll leave you to it...
SALMONELLA DUB/ YT/ DUBWISER - Zodiac, 29/9/05
In general, devotional music works best when it pushes fewest boundaries - marvelling at technical novelties tends to distract from the matter in hand. I'm sure that any number of British Christians listen to Tallis' Spem In Alium or Bach's St Matthew's Passion for their beauty and ingenuity, but when they feel in the praying mood some harmless old John Rutter finds its way onto the stereo. Interestingly, in Jamaican musical history the rule is inverted. Much of the deepest, most invigorating reggae can be loosely classed as roots, with an emphasis firmly on the spiritual and irie, whilst dub - a blueprint for studio innovation over the last 35 years - is synonymous with Rastafarianism.
The only reason I mention this is to highlight the oddity of seeing a reggae gig mostly full of non-believers jumping and singing along to music that is explicitly religious. They're just there for the music, the lyrical content is irrelevant. I don't know whether Dubwiser are true believers, or whether they're just working within the confines of the genre, but they certainly deliver the goods with deep resonant tracks like "Jah Kingdom Come". Dispensing for the most part with reggae's signature offbeat guitar, they birng percussion to the fore, creating a bouncy mix of nyabinghi rhythms and dancehall clatter. The vocals are sweet and clear, too, in the best Alton Ellis tradition.
Only the overworked apocalyptic number obsessed with "prophecy" falls flat, coming on like a messy Rasta version of Aphrodite's Child. However, with this exception, you'll find that 30 minutes in the company of this relentlessly bouyant bass will put a smile on your face...as will the fact that said bass is seemingly played by Chris Moyles.
YT. I don't know whether that's his initials, a pun on "Whitey" or a play on Youth Training schemes. the last option would be fittest, as there's still lots more work to be done if YT is to become a successful live performer. May U-Roy strike me down if I'm forgetting the long relationship between toaster and selector in Jamaican music, but this feels like a man talking over a backing track, nothing more, nothing less.
In fairness, YT sounds like a decent rapper, if he could calm it down and stop growling like a B-movie pirate, but the real problem is the the backing tracks are so tinny and compressed they sound like they're playing on a tape recorder at the back of the room. The other difficulty is that there's no feeling of narrative at all, either lyrical or musical, and the tracks just start and then suddenly stop a few minutes later. I'm prepared to believe that in the studio YT could work some wonders, but live he's at best ignorable and at worst annoying.
I guess New Zeland dance music is an area in which my education's somewhat behind, as hundreds of cheering people have turned out to see Salmonella Dub, while I admit to never having heard of them. They know best, though, as SD are an excellent dance act. The sound hits the usual dubby club references, like Dreadzone and Zion Train, with some of the slower sections recalling long forgotten ambient skankers Another Fine Day. However, the live horns and full frontal drums add a more organic punch to the performance. It's all about texture and process, as guitars and brass drop into loping repetitions over which keyboards gradually phase and develop.
Salmonlella Dub are all clearly excellent musicians, and there's a part of me that would like to see them let go a little and throw in the odd solo. Perhaps "an excellent dance act" is a critidcism as well as a celebration: if you're not in the dancing mood sitting a nd wathcing the band could prove a tad samey and uninteresting. then again, the number of people in the Zodiac not in a dancing mood is approximately seven, so I think we'll strike that objection, don't you?
SALMONELLA DUB/ YT/ DUBWISER - Zodiac, 29/9/05
In general, devotional music works best when it pushes fewest boundaries - marvelling at technical novelties tends to distract from the matter in hand. I'm sure that any number of British Christians listen to Tallis' Spem In Alium or Bach's St Matthew's Passion for their beauty and ingenuity, but when they feel in the praying mood some harmless old John Rutter finds its way onto the stereo. Interestingly, in Jamaican musical history the rule is inverted. Much of the deepest, most invigorating reggae can be loosely classed as roots, with an emphasis firmly on the spiritual and irie, whilst dub - a blueprint for studio innovation over the last 35 years - is synonymous with Rastafarianism.
The only reason I mention this is to highlight the oddity of seeing a reggae gig mostly full of non-believers jumping and singing along to music that is explicitly religious. They're just there for the music, the lyrical content is irrelevant. I don't know whether Dubwiser are true believers, or whether they're just working within the confines of the genre, but they certainly deliver the goods with deep resonant tracks like "Jah Kingdom Come". Dispensing for the most part with reggae's signature offbeat guitar, they birng percussion to the fore, creating a bouncy mix of nyabinghi rhythms and dancehall clatter. The vocals are sweet and clear, too, in the best Alton Ellis tradition.
Only the overworked apocalyptic number obsessed with "prophecy" falls flat, coming on like a messy Rasta version of Aphrodite's Child. However, with this exception, you'll find that 30 minutes in the company of this relentlessly bouyant bass will put a smile on your face...as will the fact that said bass is seemingly played by Chris Moyles.
YT. I don't know whether that's his initials, a pun on "Whitey" or a play on Youth Training schemes. the last option would be fittest, as there's still lots more work to be done if YT is to become a successful live performer. May U-Roy strike me down if I'm forgetting the long relationship between toaster and selector in Jamaican music, but this feels like a man talking over a backing track, nothing more, nothing less.
In fairness, YT sounds like a decent rapper, if he could calm it down and stop growling like a B-movie pirate, but the real problem is the the backing tracks are so tinny and compressed they sound like they're playing on a tape recorder at the back of the room. The other difficulty is that there's no feeling of narrative at all, either lyrical or musical, and the tracks just start and then suddenly stop a few minutes later. I'm prepared to believe that in the studio YT could work some wonders, but live he's at best ignorable and at worst annoying.
I guess New Zeland dance music is an area in which my education's somewhat behind, as hundreds of cheering people have turned out to see Salmonella Dub, while I admit to never having heard of them. They know best, though, as SD are an excellent dance act. The sound hits the usual dubby club references, like Dreadzone and Zion Train, with some of the slower sections recalling long forgotten ambient skankers Another Fine Day. However, the live horns and full frontal drums add a more organic punch to the performance. It's all about texture and process, as guitars and brass drop into loping repetitions over which keyboards gradually phase and develop.
Salmonlella Dub are all clearly excellent musicians, and there's a part of me that would like to see them let go a little and throw in the odd solo. Perhaps "an excellent dance act" is a critidcism as well as a celebration: if you're not in the dancing mood sitting a nd wathcing the band could prove a tad samey and uninteresting. then again, the number of people in the Zodiac not in a dancing mood is approximately seven, so I think we'll strike that objection, don't you?
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
If I Had A Nikolai For Every Time I'd Done This Joke...
Gogol Bordello kick arse live, this is a fact. On record, they're fine. So, your choice is clear; now, fly, my pretties, fly.
GOGOL BORDELLO/ THE FIGHTING COCKS, Zodiac, 3/09
The Fighting Cocks have five members, but they only play three instruments, two of which are inaudible. The guitars are there solely for show, and the turntables don’t add much to the incredibly loud punk ragga backing track anyway, so effectively this band consists of four oddly attired people ranting brattishly. As a chunk of ironic Variety it’s fun, but the strength of the show is that The Fighting Cocks are clearly half in love with the same pre-packaged pop they ridicule (both Kelis and B*Witched have their lyrics reappropriated). It can all turn into a Dumb & Dumba Chumbawumba occasionally, but this band are updating the punk credo for the digital age: don’t even bother stealing instruments and half-learning them anymore, just cut straight to the dressing up and shouting. For this, they must surely be admired.
Now, imagine this punk cabaret schtick but put the musicianship back in tenfold, and you’ve got Gogol Bordello. Searing East European fiddle and accordion runs are married to thumping bass and drum rolls that wouldn’t be out of place in Pantera, whilst all the time frontman Eugene Hutz throws his bared torso round the stage like Borat Rotten, his handlebar moustache dripping sweat. What’s amazing is that beneath all the chaos Gogol Bordello are still as tight a folk rock band as anyone could dream of. But when we add in washboard wielding sisters, musicians crowd surfing on bass drums, fists aloft on all sides and one of the biggest stage invasions seen in recent times, the net effect is like an egalitarian Nuremberg Rally. There’s so much going on that any review is in danger of becoming simply a list of salient oddities, but it’s evident that this band are tapping a vein of good old-fashioned showbiz, offering us choreographed carnage, built on ruthlessly honed performance and practised theatricality, equally embracing Busby Berkely, The Who and Taraf De Haiduks. Expect imitators springing up all over London about now. Expect none of them to come even close.
GOGOL BORDELLO/ THE FIGHTING COCKS, Zodiac, 3/09
The Fighting Cocks have five members, but they only play three instruments, two of which are inaudible. The guitars are there solely for show, and the turntables don’t add much to the incredibly loud punk ragga backing track anyway, so effectively this band consists of four oddly attired people ranting brattishly. As a chunk of ironic Variety it’s fun, but the strength of the show is that The Fighting Cocks are clearly half in love with the same pre-packaged pop they ridicule (both Kelis and B*Witched have their lyrics reappropriated). It can all turn into a Dumb & Dumba Chumbawumba occasionally, but this band are updating the punk credo for the digital age: don’t even bother stealing instruments and half-learning them anymore, just cut straight to the dressing up and shouting. For this, they must surely be admired.
Now, imagine this punk cabaret schtick but put the musicianship back in tenfold, and you’ve got Gogol Bordello. Searing East European fiddle and accordion runs are married to thumping bass and drum rolls that wouldn’t be out of place in Pantera, whilst all the time frontman Eugene Hutz throws his bared torso round the stage like Borat Rotten, his handlebar moustache dripping sweat. What’s amazing is that beneath all the chaos Gogol Bordello are still as tight a folk rock band as anyone could dream of. But when we add in washboard wielding sisters, musicians crowd surfing on bass drums, fists aloft on all sides and one of the biggest stage invasions seen in recent times, the net effect is like an egalitarian Nuremberg Rally. There’s so much going on that any review is in danger of becoming simply a list of salient oddities, but it’s evident that this band are tapping a vein of good old-fashioned showbiz, offering us choreographed carnage, built on ruthlessly honed performance and practised theatricality, equally embracing Busby Berkely, The Who and Taraf De Haiduks. Expect imitators springing up all over London about now. Expect none of them to come even close.
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