Monday, 29 May 2017

Oh! What A Lovely Wardrobe

I suggest you read this review quickly, before the election references go out fo dat.  Or read it in 5 years, either works.




THE COATHANGERS/ SPRINGBREAK/ SELF HELP, Future Perfect, Bully, 16/5/17


If this review were broadcast by BBC News this paragraph would be accompanied by an unnecessarily flashy infographic illustrating how new wave is an attempt to resolve the opposing forces of melody, energy and sloppiness.  Self Help may have a little developing to do, but at their best they stumble across this sonic tightrope impeccably.  “Won’t You” has the insane catchiness of Os Mutantes’ “Bat Macumba”, the cheery steamroller bludgeon of your favourite Buzzcocks classic and the droopy-eyed delivery of a band who just woke up from a week-long kip.  “Gooey” is a lost Wannadies hit delivered with the lackadaisical cool of The Strokes, albeit once the New York glamour’s been scrubbed off with lager-anointed chip paper.  There are superfluous moments – the odd guitar solo, and a tendency to decelerate every song to a teetering stop – but if Self Help can hone down to the glowing pop core of their music, they’ll be a glorious band.

Bristol’s Springbreak also pull in different directions simultaneously, but although they are the more intriguing band, the success rate is slightly lower.  Most of the set consists of sweet, perky indie pop lost behind an ambient peasouper of malleted cymbals and Cocteau Twins guitar shimmer, sounding like The Sundays would if you left them in your hip pocket and put them through the wash.  Although coming across as about the nicest and most ethical band you could hope to swap coloured vinyl with, there are times when the music feels frustratingly mismatched, but feminist rant closer “I’m Walking Here” pulls them over the victory line, the shoegaze fug acting as shimmering backdrop to the song’s euphoric anger, rather than obscuring veil.  Cue swingometer swoop.

You’d think that Atlanta punk trio The Coathangers would have no room for variation in their scrappy brattish bashing, but, in contradiction to every punk show played in history this set actually becomes more interesting as it goes along.  Sure, the first half is good, Ramones directness and Stooges scuzz played with the tinny-fuelled bonhomie of the post-record industry house show generation, but the second half is superb. Somewhere around the time of the most economic diss of Oxford on record (stare down the crowd; intone “Harry Potter” in a quavery voice; giggle), the band starts swapping instruments, loosening up, wobbling into a pseudo-rap territory and generally becoming more childishly joyous than is decent.  By the time of the last number, essentially a dumbass solo for squeaky dog toy, we’re reminded of ultra-early Beastie Boys, albeit with a more enlightened agenda.  We did have an animation to illustrate the journey this gig took, but someone’s sprayed a big pair of boobies on the monitor.  Landslide victory for the iron(y) ladies.

Saturday, 29 April 2017

Floppy Disc

I hate those narcissists, they want to take a long hard look in the mirror.




GET LOOSE – GET LOOSE (Self released)

What does it mean to play within accepted stylistic boundaries, and is there a difference between working in a tradition and embracing a genre?  For everyone who respects improvisations on established carnatic ragas but thinks trad jazz bands are dead-eyed rehashers, there’s another who bigs up old skool hip hop revivals whilst sniggering at morris dancers.  The truth is, some musicians get inspired by playing to a previous generation’s rules, and some get inspired by breaking them, and that’s fine; what’s weird is those who do one thing whilst being sure they’re doing the other.   Take Get Loose’s press release, which claims their album ranges “from R&B you can dance to through to darker pychedelia”, when what it ranges from is mid-tempo blues rocking to the end of the record.

On the plus side, it’s pretty decent mid-tempo blues rocking.  The opening pair of tracks offer chunky-knit “Immigrant Song” style cantering in “Forgive Me” and Chuck Berry flavoured...err...cantering in “Ride It Out”.  The riffs and rhythms kick along nicely, the vocals are understated and pleasingly free of pantomime mid-west growls, and the solos are fluent yet concise.  The lyrics won’t win any awards, but they’re far from the most egregious examples of priapic platitude in rock’s canon, and may have a little sly inversion of sexual boasting in “King Bee” (if not it means the claim they are “able to buzz all night long” is meant seriously, and that the boys need to learn a little more about apian sexual hierarchies).  Best to ignore that stuff and just nod your head to the incessant cowbell crunch of “Bullet”, our favourite track.  Get Loose is a very solid, reliable heavy blues album.  That is both its victory and its curse, depending on where you’re standing.  

Sunday, 26 March 2017

Yaaba Ranked

Bit of a starry-eyed entry today.  I thought it was important to record how I acually felt at this gig, but also important to identify what was down to the performers and what was down to the atmosphere and the contrast to my earlier experiences.

Of course, the irony is that on a different night I'm sure the frugging neo-hippies and west Oxford world music yoghurtistas would have driven me to an acid rage.  I am fickle.

No I'm not.




YAABA FUNK, Bossaphonik, Cellar, 3/3/17

Some gigs feel like more than nights out.  Having wrestled our way out of a cashpoint mugging at the hands of a man in black tie – as neat an image of Britain in 2017 as we can imagine – we stumble into The Cellar to find a smiling Bossaphonik crowd.  Old, young, street smart, backpacker scruffy, black, white, male, female, blurring the division between the two, and all dancing happily I(if not necessarily aesthetically).  It’s at times like this we feel that Nightshift’s Oxford is a better version than any you’d find on celluloid or tea towel.

Even for those not having a minor emotional epiphany this gig offers a top flight band to make the night special.  Depressingly, a funk gig  is often just bread and circuses crowd-pleasing, little more than a mass of blues change ballast between overlong solos and silly shirts, whereas great funk is taut, minimal and sometimes disorienting.  One of the most extreme examples is Fela Kuti’s afrobeat, with repeated riffs extending for whole gigs and LP sides like huge landing strips for politically charged sweat soaked sentiments.  Brixton’s Yaaba Funk understand this perfectly, and although they have bouncing, high life influences, their longform pieces stretch into the distance, riveted intermittently by stainless steel horn stabs.  The vocals have the simple immediacy of slogans chanted from a barricade, four square but always no the edge of impassioned abandon.  Conversely the brass section spins off into improvisation (ribbons of Ben Webster sax and Dizzy-ing trumpet spirals) but always returns to tight punching just when the music threatens to get flabby.

And that’s it: repeat until euphoric or revolutionary, whichever comes sooner.  There’s a brief period in the doldrums three quarters of the way in, a call and response section going to seed and growing ugly and untameable over 5 long minutes, but this is the only misstep.  We’ll support any band that uses its double agogo tattoo to call a room of punters together despite their differences, when so many outside the Cellar are trying to drive us apart because of them.


Sunday, 26 February 2017

Delaware Soul



MUNCIE GIRLS/ CASSELS/ KANCHO!, Future Perfect, Cellar, 15/2/17

A few years ago any hipster worth their rosemary-infused artisanal salt was in a bass and drums duo.  That time has passed, perhaps because of fashion’s restless vicissitudes, or perhaps because people realised that economy of musical means demands increased precision, or at the very least a little effort put into arranging.  Kancho!’s two man tirade is built from crisp, incisive drums and rough blocks of bass granite, but they know that simply throwing everything in at once wouldn’t cut the triple strength septum-melting mustard for a full half hour, and have addressed their attentions to hooks, dynamics and slightly silly jokes.  Not that they’re preciously twiddly, any self-conscious mathy opening riff is just a disguise for old fashioned amp blasting, quickly discarded (“It is I, Leclerc; let’s rock!”).  This is an excellent set, possibly the best we’ve witnessed by them...just in time for them to split up.

Not since The Cellar Family has any Oxford-connected band brought the aesthetics of disgust to their music like Cassels.  Another skins and strings duo, albeit one with more intricate fluidity to their pummelling, Cassels ricochet between splenetic ire, mordant humour and defeated resignation, wrestling global and personal politics into punk straitjackets.  At their best, such as recent single “Flock Analogy”, a twitchy tattoo bolsters howled poetry and impassioned broadsides that reveal a burgeoning poetic sensibility.  There are lyrical missteps – describing the world as a “Huxleyan nightmare” doesn’t sound any less sophomoric just because it’s now true – and the set is oddly hesitant and apologetic when it should be declamatory, but Cassels are still something special.

Catch a few lyrics and you’ll realise that Exeter’s Muncie Girls are as politically charged as Cassels, but choose a less abrasive method of delivery.  Their perky punk pop has its roots in C86 fizz, and borrows its fat amped attitude from that early 90s lacuna between grunge’s early influence and Britpop’s colourful trade fair.  Their melodic vocals glide whilst the music canters in a way that resembles a less self-conscious Wedding Present or even a souped up version of The Sundays (The Sundays Before Bank Holiday Monday, probably).  It’s all good bouncy fun, and we can’t say a word against their opinions or general charm, but if Muncie Girls play a better set than Cassels, it’s the latter that have hooked our attention, and will drag us back for another visit. 

Sunday, 29 January 2017

Vermin Bite

Yesterday I went to a symposium on the dos and don'ts of live music.  The best advice I garnered was "do buy the engineer a drink, don;t not buy the engineer a drink".




RATS EAT RATS/ CAMCORDER/ WOLFS/ COMPULSORY PRIMAL RESPONSE, Twoface Promotions, Wheatsheaf, 7/1/17

Imagine if Rob Newman hadn’t gone away and quietly become an erudite political activist, but had instead followed the “comedy is the new rock ‘n’ roll” ethos to its logical conclusion by living off speedballs and sandwiches for the past 20 years, and you’ve imagined Compulsory Primal Response’s drummer.  With a song called “Fuck The Government” and a song called “Dave’s Gone For A Piss”, this scrappy punk trio’s watches permanently read half-past-give-a-shit, and their joyfully inept set could have come from absolutely any year since 1978: History Today.

“We are Wolf, I mean Wolves, I mean Wolfs”, proof that Google-friendly band names can seem less clever when you have to pronounce them onstage (at least Wolfs has got some bloody vowels).  Dubious plurals aside, they’re a fresh, crisp drums/guitar duo, with a strong melodic sense and some lithe sprightly tunes, which nod towards the smiley scuzz of Smudge and early Lemonheads, but they’re at their best with straight-up rockers like the LA slum glam of “Mirror” and dumbass Kiss pastiche “We Came Here To Rock”.  If this promising young band can relax and be a little less studied, they could raise some roof, we mean rooves, we mean roofs.

There’s a marked increase in polish and experience with Woking’s Camcorder, songs suddenly sounding rehearsed, arranged and generally nurtured, their set a tidy parade of crunchy distortion and chunky choruses, as if The Foo Fighters were signed to Fat Wreck Chords.  We’ll confess we get a little bored half way through, but they get a deservedly appreciative reception. 

Nothing like Rats Eat Rats’ reception, though; it’s not often we see a sizable, bouncing crowd chanting a band’s name at their first gig.  It takes more than a claque of beery mates to make a debut, of course, and Rats Eat Rats prove to be pretty great, taking the self-conscious, awkwardly euphoric end of early grunge, and ladling out a brackish stew of Bleach and Gish.  There’s the odd rhythmic sloppiness, and the two guitars can muddy the sound, but there’s a wired attractive insouciance about the band (especially the vocalist, who looks like Julian Rhind-Tutt reliving Thom Yorke’s earliest press shots), and we expect them to be local favourites before 2017’s out.