I make no secret of thr fact that I'm monstrously hungover an have a very busy day ahead, so here's a recent review of a great LP, now I'll go and have a nice lie down.
BORDERVILLE – JOY THROUGH WORK
No-one would have believed, in the last years of the twentieth century, that ornate, theatrical pop music would ever be seen again. Whilst Travis was paving the featureless yellow path that led to Coldplay’s ubiquity, the ears of the scene were either tuned to dour, po-faced post-rock expanses in the form of Mogwai and Godspeed or the mumbled introspection of Low and The Tindersticks. And yet, some survived who believed in the power of drama, who revelled in the communicative possibilities of façade and pretence, who felt that musical invention was better shown by intricate, intelligent orchestration than by the portentous length of tracks (or their titles). And slowly, and surely, they drew their plans against us.
Whilst cabaret pop hasn’t precisely taken over the world, Borderville’s gloriously over-reaching debut album seems a perfect zeitgeist Polaroid, a record so theatrical it should come with a glossy programme and an unfeasibly overpriced ice cream. And it’s an incredible piece of work, welding Bowie’s cracked actor dramatics to off-Broadway torch songs, with crescendos direct from Queen’s halcyon days. Joe Swarbrick may not have the most agile - or even tuneful - voice in town, but he may well have the most expressive, alternating between stage whisper and Christ-pose rock howl to wring every ounce of emotion from elaborate rock opera opuses. The wonderful “Short Sharp Shock” is a prime example, capturing the whiff of deflated expectations as a band packs up after a show, offsetting some emotive, barely pitched yelps with massed Original Cast Recording backing vocals. Everything about this surprisingly varied LP is overdone to a T, and Borderville have clearly realised that, whilst sincerity and chest-bashing might do the trick, emotions can be far more powerfully expressed if we all realise they’re artificial. The mask is always more frightening once you know it’s a mask.
The rest of the band is also superb, dealing in the wild dynamic variations that can only be achieved with sensitively controlled ensemble playing. Keyboard player “Woody” Woodhouse deserves especial praise for his improbably fluent runs across the ivories, the synth whoops of live favourite “Glambulance”, the tipsy stumbling solo of “Lover, I’m Finally Through” and the jerky mazurka of “Short Sharp Shock” particularly standing out. What’s most impressive about the record is how much variation the band achieves with a relatively sparse sonic palette: it would have been all too easy to drench everything in swooning strings and ersatz effects, but Borderville have retained the sound of a simple rock quartet and pushed it into some intriguing places
No matter how unfair we find it, most of the world considers every damn person in Oxford to be a limp-wristed, pretentious, teddy-clutching silver spoon sucker, honking away about Byron and ponies. A review of Winnebago Deal some years ago in the NME said something like, “What are you lot so grumpy about? Was your 15th century quad not properly manicured this morning?” Yes, even the whiskey-soaked death-grunge hollers of two hairy creatures from darkest Eynsham brought forth plummy images from Uncle Monty’s most rose-tinted recollections. We feel that, if this is how the world sees us, we should embrace it. We’ve already given the world the preppy Bowdlerised art-funk of Foals and Stornoway’s warm-jumpered folk poetry, let’s complete the picture with Borderville’s greasepainted bombast. Cherish them.
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Thursday, 17 December 2009
Panzer People
The opening paragraph was cut for publication. Fair enough, can't say it adds much to the review, but I do like to cover every act on the bill, it just seems lazy not to...plus the first band on is regularly the best. Is that because I get bored/drunk/cynical as the night progresses, or that accomplished, popular performers don't interest me that much? Questions questions.
THAT FUCKING TANK/ MONSTER KILLED BY LASER/ IVY’S ITCH/ BALLS DEEP, Poor Girl Noise, Wheatsheaf, 15/8/09
Bass and drums duo Balls Deep create all the thump and buzz one would expect from a PGN opening act. The amp-vibrating bass burr sounds wonderful, like Mechagodzilla snoring after a few pints, and a jugband cowbell section is well placed, but neither the performance nor the compositions offer a justification for the stark focus of a rhythm section duet. Fine for a second gig, but nothing special yet.
Since we last saw Ivy’s Itch they’ve changed, perhaps in the way a red giant changes into a white dwarf. Everything is heavier, denser and more oppressive. Gone are the spacious goth passages, replaced by mismatched metal pummelling topped with orc tantrum vocal tirades. The sound is fascinatingly agressive, akin to Babes In Toyland folded intricately in on themselves like an autist’s bus ticket. It’s a brilliant set, and made even more intriguing by the degree to which Eliza Gregory’s outfit and mannerisms remind us of Morwenna Banks as the five year old on Absolutely.
Aside from a slightly messy synth noodle intro, which sounds as though two kittens had got loose in Klaus Schulze’s studio, Yorkshire’s Monster Killed By Laser produce a proggy breed of contemporary instrumental rock that often sounds enticingly like Dark Side Of The Moon reinterpreted by Mudhoney. At times they can become overly introspective, and spend too much energy focussed on miniature twiddles like some post-Slint version of Sky, but in general they produce an impressively well-structured take on wordless post-rock. Plus the guitarist’s waistcoat and gestures make him look like an amateur magician, perhaps they could incorporate some conjuring into the show.
Having heard Leeds’ That Fucking tank on record, we’d dismissed them as one more guitar and drums act littering the byways and culs-de-sac of hipster rock. Seeing them live is a different matter altogether. Ignoring a stately guitar intro that sounds strangely like Dowland, their music is dirt simple, primarily just straightforward rhythms and two or three note motifs, but they perform it with such energy, tension and elasticity that they could spearhead a Bungee Rock movement. It’s sets like this that remind us why we spend so much time in dark cellars and drizzly paddocks, as a great performance holds pleasures no recording can possibly capture. Perhaps not the best band in the world, but one of those lovely gigs that justifies all the night buses, tinnitus and bad plastic pints we endure in the search for exciting music.
THAT FUCKING TANK/ MONSTER KILLED BY LASER/ IVY’S ITCH/ BALLS DEEP, Poor Girl Noise, Wheatsheaf, 15/8/09
Bass and drums duo Balls Deep create all the thump and buzz one would expect from a PGN opening act. The amp-vibrating bass burr sounds wonderful, like Mechagodzilla snoring after a few pints, and a jugband cowbell section is well placed, but neither the performance nor the compositions offer a justification for the stark focus of a rhythm section duet. Fine for a second gig, but nothing special yet.
Since we last saw Ivy’s Itch they’ve changed, perhaps in the way a red giant changes into a white dwarf. Everything is heavier, denser and more oppressive. Gone are the spacious goth passages, replaced by mismatched metal pummelling topped with orc tantrum vocal tirades. The sound is fascinatingly agressive, akin to Babes In Toyland folded intricately in on themselves like an autist’s bus ticket. It’s a brilliant set, and made even more intriguing by the degree to which Eliza Gregory’s outfit and mannerisms remind us of Morwenna Banks as the five year old on Absolutely.
Aside from a slightly messy synth noodle intro, which sounds as though two kittens had got loose in Klaus Schulze’s studio, Yorkshire’s Monster Killed By Laser produce a proggy breed of contemporary instrumental rock that often sounds enticingly like Dark Side Of The Moon reinterpreted by Mudhoney. At times they can become overly introspective, and spend too much energy focussed on miniature twiddles like some post-Slint version of Sky, but in general they produce an impressively well-structured take on wordless post-rock. Plus the guitarist’s waistcoat and gestures make him look like an amateur magician, perhaps they could incorporate some conjuring into the show.
Having heard Leeds’ That Fucking tank on record, we’d dismissed them as one more guitar and drums act littering the byways and culs-de-sac of hipster rock. Seeing them live is a different matter altogether. Ignoring a stately guitar intro that sounds strangely like Dowland, their music is dirt simple, primarily just straightforward rhythms and two or three note motifs, but they perform it with such energy, tension and elasticity that they could spearhead a Bungee Rock movement. It’s sets like this that remind us why we spend so much time in dark cellars and drizzly paddocks, as a great performance holds pleasures no recording can possibly capture. Perhaps not the best band in the world, but one of those lovely gigs that justifies all the night buses, tinnitus and bad plastic pints we endure in the search for exciting music.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Pre-Budgie Report
One of no fewer than 4 Gullivers EP reivews I've done for Oxfordbands. I didn't get passed ther most recent, the editor did it instead. not sure whether I should be upset that they broke the chain, or thankful that I don't have to thinkof things to say about the same band all the time.
THE GULLIVERS – EP
The Gullivers is a band that has been improving at a pleasing rate over the past couple of years, and yet their development has been entirely qualitative: they’ve improved their knockabout punk pop, but haven’t seen fit to alter the blueprint any. That is, until this new, that demonstrates just how great they can be, as well as showing up their very real flaws.
What truly knocks us for six is the understated melancholy of opening tune, “Forever”. Yes, it has short vocal lines, and insistent new wave drums, but there’s no hint of the scruffy urchin bluster that made earlier recordings sound like glue sniffing takes on “You’ve Got To Pick A Pocket Or Two”. In its place we find a mature resignation in the performance, especially the vocals – check the wonderfully world weary way that Mark Byrne intones the hook “This is history”. In their older, Sex Pistols influenced days the band would have declaimed this as a nihilistic statement, whereas now it sounds more like a guilty admission, and is all the stronger for it. In fact, this song is surprisingly beautiful.
“Majesty” continues the high quality, melding the punk music hall feel of earlier Gullivers material (listen to that vintage Stranglers bassline) with their newfound introspection: an emotive synthesised french horn part suddenly gives way to a surprise bumpalong chorus, with conversationally chanted vocals that remind us most unexpectedly of Shakespeare’s Sister! It doesn’t sound a thing like them, of course, but it is a decent tune.
Sadly, “The Fun We Have…” sees them lose it completely. Never the tightest band in the county, it’s the vocals that put many people off The Gullivers, Byrne displaying such a heroic inability to hold down a melody he sometimes sounds like an effete Mark E. Smith. Not only does he fail monumentally to stay in tune on this track, but the backing vocals sound like someone half-arsedly calling the cat from the studio door. Add to that a loping rhythm that plods along like a wooden-legged postman and you’ve got a track that reveals all the band’s faults and none of their charm.
Things improve slightly with “Chemicals” (hang on a mo, wasn’t the last EP called Chemicals, even though this track wasn’t on it? And this EP doesn’t even have a name, though it does have a photo of some suburban budgies). The contrast between a bouncy handclap and brittle guitar intro and a dissonant march is neat, but should probably be played slightly more tidily to really work, plus the vocals, whilst better than the previous track, don’t come close to the wonderful ennui of the opener. Still, the line “Your absence of evidence is not evidence for absence” is one of those pop moments that seem to carry much more weight of meaning that they ought, and put us in mind briefly of early Wire lyrics, even if the music drifts from our consciousness pretty soon afterwards.
So, an uneven record, but one containing the best track The Gullivers have yet committed to wax, and one displaying hints for a very interesting future, even as it clings on to clunky remnants of the past: the rough and tumble playground feel is departing, but The Gullivers are still tottering a tiny bit in their grown up clothes. Fuck it, we don’t want to end the review on a bad note – let’s play “Forever” again and let its wan, autumnal half-smile win us over once more.
THE GULLIVERS – EP
The Gullivers is a band that has been improving at a pleasing rate over the past couple of years, and yet their development has been entirely qualitative: they’ve improved their knockabout punk pop, but haven’t seen fit to alter the blueprint any. That is, until this new, that demonstrates just how great they can be, as well as showing up their very real flaws.
What truly knocks us for six is the understated melancholy of opening tune, “Forever”. Yes, it has short vocal lines, and insistent new wave drums, but there’s no hint of the scruffy urchin bluster that made earlier recordings sound like glue sniffing takes on “You’ve Got To Pick A Pocket Or Two”. In its place we find a mature resignation in the performance, especially the vocals – check the wonderfully world weary way that Mark Byrne intones the hook “This is history”. In their older, Sex Pistols influenced days the band would have declaimed this as a nihilistic statement, whereas now it sounds more like a guilty admission, and is all the stronger for it. In fact, this song is surprisingly beautiful.
“Majesty” continues the high quality, melding the punk music hall feel of earlier Gullivers material (listen to that vintage Stranglers bassline) with their newfound introspection: an emotive synthesised french horn part suddenly gives way to a surprise bumpalong chorus, with conversationally chanted vocals that remind us most unexpectedly of Shakespeare’s Sister! It doesn’t sound a thing like them, of course, but it is a decent tune.
Sadly, “The Fun We Have…” sees them lose it completely. Never the tightest band in the county, it’s the vocals that put many people off The Gullivers, Byrne displaying such a heroic inability to hold down a melody he sometimes sounds like an effete Mark E. Smith. Not only does he fail monumentally to stay in tune on this track, but the backing vocals sound like someone half-arsedly calling the cat from the studio door. Add to that a loping rhythm that plods along like a wooden-legged postman and you’ve got a track that reveals all the band’s faults and none of their charm.
Things improve slightly with “Chemicals” (hang on a mo, wasn’t the last EP called Chemicals, even though this track wasn’t on it? And this EP doesn’t even have a name, though it does have a photo of some suburban budgies). The contrast between a bouncy handclap and brittle guitar intro and a dissonant march is neat, but should probably be played slightly more tidily to really work, plus the vocals, whilst better than the previous track, don’t come close to the wonderful ennui of the opener. Still, the line “Your absence of evidence is not evidence for absence” is one of those pop moments that seem to carry much more weight of meaning that they ought, and put us in mind briefly of early Wire lyrics, even if the music drifts from our consciousness pretty soon afterwards.
So, an uneven record, but one containing the best track The Gullivers have yet committed to wax, and one displaying hints for a very interesting future, even as it clings on to clunky remnants of the past: the rough and tumble playground feel is departing, but The Gullivers are still tottering a tiny bit in their grown up clothes. Fuck it, we don’t want to end the review on a bad note – let’s play “Forever” again and let its wan, autumnal half-smile win us over once more.
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Hound Of The Underground
I reckon this review is somewhat hard on Dog Show, they were a good fun band.Pehaps their relentless merry-go-round of bleeps doesn't sit well with an old freidn in town and copious amounts of red wine. It's a pretty god read, however, I'm quite proud of this one.
DOG SHOW/THE KEYBOARD CHOIR/PAGAN WANDERER LU, Big Hair, Cellar, 2/5/09
Pagan Wanderer Lu’s songs are tiny crystallised nuggets of excellence, hand turned clusters of bleepy melody and literate lyrics so exquisite they should be sold from some impossibly cool boutique. Every tidy tune is catchy but creakily skewed, as if Stephen Merritt had been bashing fragments of song together after some violent pop holocaust. Pity that the live show isn’t too captivating, really. The vocals are a tad lifeless, and the guitar sounds clumsy and nasal amongst the quaint electronic backing, so we have to pay close attention to get the most out of the compositions. They are well worth it, though, especially the last number, a wonky Mario World bounce featuring the award winning line, “Christians like you are why God made lions”. Why aren’t there more lyricists like this around?
After the Oxford Radcliffe Hopsitals Trust, The Keyboard Choir must be this city’s primary employer. There are loads of them, and we’re not sure they’re all the same ones as last time, but they come together to buzz, fuzz, flutter and chuckle with a panoply of synths. We heartily applaud the undertaking involved in getting this huge band onstage to make keyboard noises that everyone probably assumes are all on tape anyway. The music takes in everything that’s great about electronic sound, from Messaien’s ondes martenot to microhouse, via Delia Derbyshire and Tangerine Dream, and the only part we take issue with are the rather shopworn, cliched spoken samples. They end with what sounds like something from The Orb’s forgotten Pomme Fritz LP versioned by Klaus Schulze and Sven Vath. Endearingly illogical.
What with their live drums, endlessly arpeggiating keyboards and slightly crappy flashing sculpture, Dog Show are pretty much what a band from “The Future” would look like on some low budget British sci fi show from the mid ‘70s (they wanted Roger Moore but ended up with Simon MacCorkindale; Nigel Havers puts in a good cameo, but Michael Elphick is woefully miscast). The set varies between pumping electro euphoria and a slightly annoying fairground jauntiness, until we don’t know whether stick on an Altern8 facemask or join the candy floss queue. In many ways this is like music for excitable children, on a constant sugary high and with a relentless, if somewhat gauche, melodic logic that just keeps going and going and bloody well going. Watching Dog Show is like endlessly riding the waltzer; refreshing and liberating, but you know that sooner or later you’re going to start feeling sick.
DOG SHOW/THE KEYBOARD CHOIR/PAGAN WANDERER LU, Big Hair, Cellar, 2/5/09
Pagan Wanderer Lu’s songs are tiny crystallised nuggets of excellence, hand turned clusters of bleepy melody and literate lyrics so exquisite they should be sold from some impossibly cool boutique. Every tidy tune is catchy but creakily skewed, as if Stephen Merritt had been bashing fragments of song together after some violent pop holocaust. Pity that the live show isn’t too captivating, really. The vocals are a tad lifeless, and the guitar sounds clumsy and nasal amongst the quaint electronic backing, so we have to pay close attention to get the most out of the compositions. They are well worth it, though, especially the last number, a wonky Mario World bounce featuring the award winning line, “Christians like you are why God made lions”. Why aren’t there more lyricists like this around?
After the Oxford Radcliffe Hopsitals Trust, The Keyboard Choir must be this city’s primary employer. There are loads of them, and we’re not sure they’re all the same ones as last time, but they come together to buzz, fuzz, flutter and chuckle with a panoply of synths. We heartily applaud the undertaking involved in getting this huge band onstage to make keyboard noises that everyone probably assumes are all on tape anyway. The music takes in everything that’s great about electronic sound, from Messaien’s ondes martenot to microhouse, via Delia Derbyshire and Tangerine Dream, and the only part we take issue with are the rather shopworn, cliched spoken samples. They end with what sounds like something from The Orb’s forgotten Pomme Fritz LP versioned by Klaus Schulze and Sven Vath. Endearingly illogical.
What with their live drums, endlessly arpeggiating keyboards and slightly crappy flashing sculpture, Dog Show are pretty much what a band from “The Future” would look like on some low budget British sci fi show from the mid ‘70s (they wanted Roger Moore but ended up with Simon MacCorkindale; Nigel Havers puts in a good cameo, but Michael Elphick is woefully miscast). The set varies between pumping electro euphoria and a slightly annoying fairground jauntiness, until we don’t know whether stick on an Altern8 facemask or join the candy floss queue. In many ways this is like music for excitable children, on a constant sugary high and with a relentless, if somewhat gauche, melodic logic that just keeps going and going and bloody well going. Watching Dog Show is like endlessly riding the waltzer; refreshing and liberating, but you know that sooner or later you’re going to start feeling sick.
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Man Cannot Live On Bearder Lone
Despite what I said here, I think The Download (or Oxford Introducing, as it has been renamed in some horrific national rebranding) is quite good nowadays. The real irony is that in criticising it I've turned in a very dull review. Cliche-ridden guff, isn't it? Sorry about that.
V/A - THE DOWNLOAD SESSIONS (BBC)
It can be tough to know how to judge things sometimes, if they're good ideas. No one could possible deny that it's wonderful that the BBC have foudn an hour a week in their schedules to devote to local music, but aren't a lot of people quietly wondering if The Download couldn't be a tiny bit better? Well, whatever the consensus, with this showcase album Bearder & Co. have hit absolute gold, turning in a varied and impressive collection of acoutis cmusic that touches many bases.
It also pleasingly tinkers with all the emotions. The problem with so much acoustica is that it tends to get mired in one particular zone, whose slogan might be "I'm pretty upset and sorry for myself, but not enought o actually look like I might get of my arse and do anyt bloody thing about it". No chance here, as we're swept from the dark suspicion of Rebecca Mosely's 'cello-spiked "Power In Paper" to the tuneful apology of The Epstein's jewel-like "Leave Yr Light On", floating on neat mandolin lines and breezy backing vocals. Other highpoints are "Games" by Charlotte James, who has managed to extricate herself from the session muso sludge of her live outings, and Ally Craig's charged "Lower Standard" - it may not be his best song, but anyone who can perform with this intensity can aome round and sing the 'phone book to us any time, frankly. Also worthy of mention are "Bluebird" by KTB, which reminds us how lovely a folk vocalist she is for the first time in eons, and Belarus, who turn in a tuneful Keanesque effort which wraps us up lik a blanket...OK, the pattern may not be very interesting, but it makes us fele safe and warm. In fact there are no real failures on this CD, whcih is unusual enough for any compilation, let alone a simple "live lounge" collection like this. Emily Rolt's wispy meanderings still sound pretty vapid nto these ears, but we don't have any urge to smash the furniture this time, so she must be doijng something right, whereas Los Diablos reveal their vocal limitations when shorn of the visuals, which is a pity as "Joan Of Arc" is a strong song, with dense Catholic imagery that recalls Scott Walker in his Seventh Seal mood.
We finish with a track by Richard Walters, one of the city's best singers and a Beard Museum founding follicle to boot. Richard's voice is strange and awkward, like a tiny cowering lizardine creature, but somehoe it manages to scrape past ugliness and achieve real beauty. If there's anyone who epitomises the variety and individuality of Oxford's acoustic scene it's this man, and as the last notes die away we raise a glass to The Download...and to the fact that the song isn't immediately followed by one of Tim's jokes.
V/A - THE DOWNLOAD SESSIONS (BBC)
It can be tough to know how to judge things sometimes, if they're good ideas. No one could possible deny that it's wonderful that the BBC have foudn an hour a week in their schedules to devote to local music, but aren't a lot of people quietly wondering if The Download couldn't be a tiny bit better? Well, whatever the consensus, with this showcase album Bearder & Co. have hit absolute gold, turning in a varied and impressive collection of acoutis cmusic that touches many bases.
It also pleasingly tinkers with all the emotions. The problem with so much acoustica is that it tends to get mired in one particular zone, whose slogan might be "I'm pretty upset and sorry for myself, but not enought o actually look like I might get of my arse and do anyt bloody thing about it". No chance here, as we're swept from the dark suspicion of Rebecca Mosely's 'cello-spiked "Power In Paper" to the tuneful apology of The Epstein's jewel-like "Leave Yr Light On", floating on neat mandolin lines and breezy backing vocals. Other highpoints are "Games" by Charlotte James, who has managed to extricate herself from the session muso sludge of her live outings, and Ally Craig's charged "Lower Standard" - it may not be his best song, but anyone who can perform with this intensity can aome round and sing the 'phone book to us any time, frankly. Also worthy of mention are "Bluebird" by KTB, which reminds us how lovely a folk vocalist she is for the first time in eons, and Belarus, who turn in a tuneful Keanesque effort which wraps us up lik a blanket...OK, the pattern may not be very interesting, but it makes us fele safe and warm. In fact there are no real failures on this CD, whcih is unusual enough for any compilation, let alone a simple "live lounge" collection like this. Emily Rolt's wispy meanderings still sound pretty vapid nto these ears, but we don't have any urge to smash the furniture this time, so she must be doijng something right, whereas Los Diablos reveal their vocal limitations when shorn of the visuals, which is a pity as "Joan Of Arc" is a strong song, with dense Catholic imagery that recalls Scott Walker in his Seventh Seal mood.
We finish with a track by Richard Walters, one of the city's best singers and a Beard Museum founding follicle to boot. Richard's voice is strange and awkward, like a tiny cowering lizardine creature, but somehoe it manages to scrape past ugliness and achieve real beauty. If there's anyone who epitomises the variety and individuality of Oxford's acoustic scene it's this man, and as the last notes die away we raise a glass to The Download...and to the fact that the song isn't immediately followed by one of Tim's jokes.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
The Bad Siege
That's not actrually how you spell "trebuchet"...
DEATHRAY TREBUCHAY/ STORNOWAY/ JALI FILLI CISSOKHO, Isis Tavern, 12/6/09
“Are you going to the festival?” asks a local to his mate as we cross Iffley Lock. “Are you going to [ironic emphasis] rock out?” Doubt it, chum, for this is a record launch from delicate folkpoppers Stornoway, in the The Isis Tavern’s bucolic grounds, for well-heeled neo-hippies and fragile indie children. So, in place of warm Fosters we got organic ale, in place of tight black jeans we got flouncy floral dresses, and in place of a harried, leather-clad engineer we got – well, some things are constant, perhaps. Kora player Jali Filli Cissokho provides a suitably warm introduction, the sounds from his West African harp growing from tiny wisps of melody to huge clouds of sound as his thumbs writhe around the strings. It’s easy enough to drift away to Cissokho’s gorgeous set, but he’s not pandering to the lentil burger World Music morass, his playing incorporates hard attacks and sudden spasms of notes as well as mellifluous fluidity. This is intricate, intelligent music for active listening, not pallid chillout sessions.
In a near Stalinist act of historical revisionism, Stornoway have announced that “Zorbing” shall be their debut single; any records you may already own by them are the result of fevered imaginations and possible bourgeous deviation, and mention of them will land you swiftly in a Headington Quarry labour camp. Their songs are so timeless, it feels as though Stornoway have been around forever, though it was only three short years ago that we first saw them, playing, in all honesty, an uneven set. They’ve come light years since, but never lost their oddity and awkward affability: after a brief vamping intro their first track tonight is “On The Rocks” a treble-saturated, reverb-drenched fuzz that is like nothing other Oxford bands would write, and is also illogically beautiful – the cymbals sound like jagged ice, the guitar harmonics flash like winter sunlight, and the glorious vocal arches above everything like Rainbow Bridge. The set builds to a restrained climax, and encapsulates everything wonderful about their twitchy bonhomie and nervous charm. They even have a real Zorb terrorising the audience to the front. If you want to break the Oxford pasty, apparently all you need is a giant inflatable Kiwi sphere.
As they look like Dogs D’Amour dressed by Timmy Mallett, and play rag week ska rock, Deathray Trebuchay satisfy those who missed “The Good Fish Guide” from Stornoway’s set. Definitely not us, in other words. But unexpectedly, just by dint of a great bassist, some fluent inventive horn lines, and the fact they’re (whisper it) having fun, this London act wins us over until we’re punching the air to their knockabout jazz punk with the rest of them. Rocking lock man would have approved…unless he was one of the many people phoning in noise complaints, anyway. Childish, of course, but this makes us love the evening even more.
DEATHRAY TREBUCHAY/ STORNOWAY/ JALI FILLI CISSOKHO, Isis Tavern, 12/6/09
“Are you going to the festival?” asks a local to his mate as we cross Iffley Lock. “Are you going to [ironic emphasis] rock out?” Doubt it, chum, for this is a record launch from delicate folkpoppers Stornoway, in the The Isis Tavern’s bucolic grounds, for well-heeled neo-hippies and fragile indie children. So, in place of warm Fosters we got organic ale, in place of tight black jeans we got flouncy floral dresses, and in place of a harried, leather-clad engineer we got – well, some things are constant, perhaps. Kora player Jali Filli Cissokho provides a suitably warm introduction, the sounds from his West African harp growing from tiny wisps of melody to huge clouds of sound as his thumbs writhe around the strings. It’s easy enough to drift away to Cissokho’s gorgeous set, but he’s not pandering to the lentil burger World Music morass, his playing incorporates hard attacks and sudden spasms of notes as well as mellifluous fluidity. This is intricate, intelligent music for active listening, not pallid chillout sessions.
In a near Stalinist act of historical revisionism, Stornoway have announced that “Zorbing” shall be their debut single; any records you may already own by them are the result of fevered imaginations and possible bourgeous deviation, and mention of them will land you swiftly in a Headington Quarry labour camp. Their songs are so timeless, it feels as though Stornoway have been around forever, though it was only three short years ago that we first saw them, playing, in all honesty, an uneven set. They’ve come light years since, but never lost their oddity and awkward affability: after a brief vamping intro their first track tonight is “On The Rocks” a treble-saturated, reverb-drenched fuzz that is like nothing other Oxford bands would write, and is also illogically beautiful – the cymbals sound like jagged ice, the guitar harmonics flash like winter sunlight, and the glorious vocal arches above everything like Rainbow Bridge. The set builds to a restrained climax, and encapsulates everything wonderful about their twitchy bonhomie and nervous charm. They even have a real Zorb terrorising the audience to the front. If you want to break the Oxford pasty, apparently all you need is a giant inflatable Kiwi sphere.
As they look like Dogs D’Amour dressed by Timmy Mallett, and play rag week ska rock, Deathray Trebuchay satisfy those who missed “The Good Fish Guide” from Stornoway’s set. Definitely not us, in other words. But unexpectedly, just by dint of a great bassist, some fluent inventive horn lines, and the fact they’re (whisper it) having fun, this London act wins us over until we’re punching the air to their knockabout jazz punk with the rest of them. Rocking lock man would have approved…unless he was one of the many people phoning in noise complaints, anyway. Childish, of course, but this makes us love the evening even more.
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Weimer Bitter?
I had to go to work today, and I'll have to go again tomorrow, so I'm in no great mood to write loads about this review. Make up your introductions and post them in the comments. I'll pick the best one, and the author will win something brilliant, like a crisp.
The title of this post will only make sense if you know the names of Oxford singer-songwriters, and indeed how to pronounce them properly.
BETHANY WEIMERS demo
What’s the opposite of damning with faint praise? Praising with lax damnation, perhaps. Doesn’t really have the same ring to it, does it? Anyway, whatever it is I’m about to do it to Bethany Weimers. The thing is, everything is relative. Just last week, I was sitting here typing a good review for The Gullivers: theirs wasn’t a perfect record by any means, but it was impressive because they’re moving in the right direction so confidently. By contrast, Bethany is a startling vocal talent, who has turned in a wonderfully assured CD, despite her protestations that it should be treated as “demo quality” only. Trouble is, over the last few years, so many incredibly talented acoustic singer-songwriters have sprung up on Oxford’s open mics and unpretentious gigs such as Beard Museum - anyone who managed to make it to the opening of last week’s Punt in Borders will verify that there is some serious ability out there - and Bethany seems to be somewhat overshadowed at the moment. In another town, or in another era, I’m sure I’d be quick to support Bethany, because she has plenty in her favour, not least a lovely, breathy voice, with an affecting catch at the top end (even if she overdoes it a tad on “Bitter Love”). She can also clearly interpret a lyric, and add drama to her performance in a manner that makes her sound much more mature than her 25 years.
But it’s so bloody dull. Nothing wrong with the songs, per se, but they do tend to pootle round their chord progressions like a one speed bike, and really the only good thing about these pieces is their performance. Like I say, we’ve been spoilt with our acoustic acts recently, but the thing that stands out about a Pike, a Bite, a Craig or a Machine (erm, as in Family) is that the compositions are memorable and well constructed, which makes the beauty of the performance a special bonus. Bethany reminds me of Emily Rolt, another local with a gorgeous voice who’s let down by the mediocrity of her material. True, “Try A Bit” enlivens the demo a touch by injecting a little mariachi fire, and judging from the recording the audience at the live recording of “Listen” are clearly spellbound, but mostly it all drifts past like an attractive but insubstantial fog.
So, you can file this review under Cruel To Be Kind, as it’s all rather loving criticism. Bethany is extremely able, and could easily make a serious mark, but this isn’t the demo to do it. Ultimately, there are two definitions of “excellent”: firstly, something that we feel is great, because it knocks us out, and secondly, something we decide is great, because it’s clearly so much better than lots of the old rubbish in the world. At the moment, Bethany falls into the second category. Still, if “the wrong sort of excellent” is the worst criticism Bethany gets, she’ll do very well for herself. Praising with lax damnation: it’ll be the new craze with kids now, just you wait and see.
The title of this post will only make sense if you know the names of Oxford singer-songwriters, and indeed how to pronounce them properly.
BETHANY WEIMERS demo
What’s the opposite of damning with faint praise? Praising with lax damnation, perhaps. Doesn’t really have the same ring to it, does it? Anyway, whatever it is I’m about to do it to Bethany Weimers. The thing is, everything is relative. Just last week, I was sitting here typing a good review for The Gullivers: theirs wasn’t a perfect record by any means, but it was impressive because they’re moving in the right direction so confidently. By contrast, Bethany is a startling vocal talent, who has turned in a wonderfully assured CD, despite her protestations that it should be treated as “demo quality” only. Trouble is, over the last few years, so many incredibly talented acoustic singer-songwriters have sprung up on Oxford’s open mics and unpretentious gigs such as Beard Museum - anyone who managed to make it to the opening of last week’s Punt in Borders will verify that there is some serious ability out there - and Bethany seems to be somewhat overshadowed at the moment. In another town, or in another era, I’m sure I’d be quick to support Bethany, because she has plenty in her favour, not least a lovely, breathy voice, with an affecting catch at the top end (even if she overdoes it a tad on “Bitter Love”). She can also clearly interpret a lyric, and add drama to her performance in a manner that makes her sound much more mature than her 25 years.
But it’s so bloody dull. Nothing wrong with the songs, per se, but they do tend to pootle round their chord progressions like a one speed bike, and really the only good thing about these pieces is their performance. Like I say, we’ve been spoilt with our acoustic acts recently, but the thing that stands out about a Pike, a Bite, a Craig or a Machine (erm, as in Family) is that the compositions are memorable and well constructed, which makes the beauty of the performance a special bonus. Bethany reminds me of Emily Rolt, another local with a gorgeous voice who’s let down by the mediocrity of her material. True, “Try A Bit” enlivens the demo a touch by injecting a little mariachi fire, and judging from the recording the audience at the live recording of “Listen” are clearly spellbound, but mostly it all drifts past like an attractive but insubstantial fog.
So, you can file this review under Cruel To Be Kind, as it’s all rather loving criticism. Bethany is extremely able, and could easily make a serious mark, but this isn’t the demo to do it. Ultimately, there are two definitions of “excellent”: firstly, something that we feel is great, because it knocks us out, and secondly, something we decide is great, because it’s clearly so much better than lots of the old rubbish in the world. At the moment, Bethany falls into the second category. Still, if “the wrong sort of excellent” is the worst criticism Bethany gets, she’ll do very well for herself. Praising with lax damnation: it’ll be the new craze with kids now, just you wait and see.
Friday, 4 December 2009
Back To The Fuchsia
Originally this review had an extra paragraph, that my editor remove, and on reflection, I think he was right, so into the bin it goes. If you live in Oxon you shoudl check out some OCM gigs, they have some good stuff. I was watching Andrew Poppy last night in a small theatre to write a review, & that was a good change from flat beer & sticky carpets. The gigs don't come cheap, however. Still, I couldn't give a fuck about you lot, I get in free, innit.
POWERPLANT & THE ELYSIAN QUARTET, Oxford Contemporary Music, Jacquelie Du Pre Building, 10/5/07
Your word for the week is synaesthesia, the unusual ability to experience one sense through another. We’ve always wondered how synaesthetes find multimedia son et lumiere shows like tonight’s: “The yellow is out of tune with the bassoon”? Still, they might find a little more to entice than we do in Kathy Hinde’s projections, which are lush but ultimately as memorable or meaningful as the majority of pop videos. Her colleagues in Powerplant (Joby Burgess, percussion, and Matthew Fairclough, machines) make up for this shortfall beautifully. They open with Javier Alvarez’ “Temazcal”, mixing chitinous electronics that sound like Lovecraftian tentacles clawing at shaly beaches, with live rhythms from a single pair of maracas. The piece intelligently finds similarities between the two very different sound sources, and is played with jaw-dropping precision.
“Carbon Copy” loops sounds from improvisations on a Brazilian berimbau, and overlays them with stabbing percussion, ending up sounding uncannily like a drum and bass remix of Aphex Twin’s classic “Digeridoo”. Even better is Burgess’ performance of Steve Reich’s “Electric Counterpoint” on the xylosynth, an instrument that allows metallophone keys to act as midi triggers, producing a vast array of sounds. By performing the piece using vintage synthesiser tones instead of guitar, Powerplant remind us just how much electronic club music has borrowed from Reich over the past twenty years (we’re looking at you, The Orb!). Possibly the best performance we’ve seen this year.
After the interval Powerplant are joined by The Elysian quartet for Ben Foster’s arrangements of Kraftwerk compositions. The electronics are decent enough (even if they will keep breaking down) and the Elysians play with fine dynamic sense, but somehow the two elements don’t mix. The fascinating paradox of Kraftwerk is that their music is simultaneously robotically arid and joyously human, that they create true warmth by eradicating all traces of the flesh from their austerely controlled soundworld. By fudging the arrangements between two camps Foster has reduced Kraftwerk’s masterpieces to a series of pretty tunes. And we have Coldplay to do that for us.
POWERPLANT & THE ELYSIAN QUARTET, Oxford Contemporary Music, Jacquelie Du Pre Building, 10/5/07
Your word for the week is synaesthesia, the unusual ability to experience one sense through another. We’ve always wondered how synaesthetes find multimedia son et lumiere shows like tonight’s: “The yellow is out of tune with the bassoon”? Still, they might find a little more to entice than we do in Kathy Hinde’s projections, which are lush but ultimately as memorable or meaningful as the majority of pop videos. Her colleagues in Powerplant (Joby Burgess, percussion, and Matthew Fairclough, machines) make up for this shortfall beautifully. They open with Javier Alvarez’ “Temazcal”, mixing chitinous electronics that sound like Lovecraftian tentacles clawing at shaly beaches, with live rhythms from a single pair of maracas. The piece intelligently finds similarities between the two very different sound sources, and is played with jaw-dropping precision.
“Carbon Copy” loops sounds from improvisations on a Brazilian berimbau, and overlays them with stabbing percussion, ending up sounding uncannily like a drum and bass remix of Aphex Twin’s classic “Digeridoo”. Even better is Burgess’ performance of Steve Reich’s “Electric Counterpoint” on the xylosynth, an instrument that allows metallophone keys to act as midi triggers, producing a vast array of sounds. By performing the piece using vintage synthesiser tones instead of guitar, Powerplant remind us just how much electronic club music has borrowed from Reich over the past twenty years (we’re looking at you, The Orb!). Possibly the best performance we’ve seen this year.
After the interval Powerplant are joined by The Elysian quartet for Ben Foster’s arrangements of Kraftwerk compositions. The electronics are decent enough (even if they will keep breaking down) and the Elysians play with fine dynamic sense, but somehow the two elements don’t mix. The fascinating paradox of Kraftwerk is that their music is simultaneously robotically arid and joyously human, that they create true warmth by eradicating all traces of the flesh from their austerely controlled soundworld. By fudging the arrangements between two camps Foster has reduced Kraftwerk’s masterpieces to a series of pretty tunes. And we have Coldplay to do that for us.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Corn From The Cobb
This is the sort of thing I love to write & hope you enjoy reading. It's unusual to find reviews of go-nowhere unsigned musicians, unless they're in some sort of hellish local paper/school yearbook love-in, from which critical appraisal has been ousted in favour of some threadbare community spirit. Of course, the best compliment anyone can pay a musician is to actually listen to them, and have the courage to mention things that are shit - that's why I love my editors, they apreciate this is important.
Reviewing The Fall is fun and confirming your understanding of their greatness (or antagonising your woefully misguided opinion of their awfulness, I guess), but it's stuff like this, that anyone who has any experience of the fun and frustration, the excitement and excrutiation of low-level music production will understand, that makes things worthwhile. I would honestly rather be writing about this nobody for free than knocking out 60 words about The Killers for The Sunday Times for a fat cheque. Thanks for reading.
REPORTER, TRANSMISSION & TRUE RUMOUR Demos
Mark Cobb is that most awkward of beasts, a prolific artist. Constantly gigging and recording with a wealth of different projects, Mark simultaneously raises a feeling of marvel at his energy and dedication, and a wish that he’d stop messing about and just settle down to work on something substantial. Because, with some honing of the musical attentions, Mark has the talent to turn out some quality music, but at the moment his output is often saddeningly mediocre. Being mediocre is no crime, of course, but being mediocre with a different band every night of the week probably should be.
Let’s start at the bottom. True Rumour feels something like an acoustic version of Kohoutek (nee Tsunami), probably Mark’s best known endeavour, with guitars jangling and sax bleating away merrily in the background. Said sax ought to be just the foil to Mark’s voice - and it is a great voice, keening and swooping around the melody with a heavy vibrato in a way that recalls such idiosyncratic singers as Michael Stipe and Julian Cope - but as sonic seasoning it falls very flat, tootling aimlessly around the demo like a lost dog. Take “I’m At Zombie” (sic), which mires a powerful vocal performance in a flabby meander of a song. Interest is piqued slightly by some sprightly violin playing and what sounds like it might be mbira on “Rocks & Sunflowers”, but ultimately True Rumour’s demo stands up for itself about as well as damp toast.
Just to show that he can do the hazy campfire bit pretty well at times is a one track demo from Reporter, a recent project with members of The Hank Dogs and Perfect Disaster (both new names to us, we’re ashamed to admit). Featherlight and brief it may be, but this one take acoustic ramble captures the ear immediately. It’s early days yet, but there could be something here worth embellishing.
This crop of demos confirms what we’ve always felt to be the case, that Transmission is definitely Mark’s most successful endeavour. Admittedly the nasal twin guitar solos can piss off back to whatever Lynyrd Skynyrd hole they crawled from, but for the most part the lightly Arabic flourishes and the guitar curlicues suit Mark’s quavering voice more than the clumping indie rhythms of Kohoutek, coaxing an urgent Morroccan wail on “Kings” that outdoes anything else on these recordings. It also occasionally tugs a little string in the back of our minds labelled “Chamfer”, which is no terrible accusation.
Ultimately we’d like Mark to try pushing things a bit more. Of course, we don’t expect Autechre rhythms and Melt Banana guitars to be turning up anytime soon (though we’ll be first in the queue if they do), but the music should have the courage of its convictions: if it’s pop music, write some stellar hooks; if it’s rock music, put some balls into it; if it’s jazzy acoustica, try to get the saxophonist vaguely in tune. When all the intros sound something like “Street Spirit” and all the fortes sound like bad Rolling Stones, you just know there’s an autopilot light flashing in the cockpit. Like the teacher who is harshest on their brightest pupil, this is meant to be loving criticism, but we’ve been waiting a long time for Mark to knuckle down and make the great, soaring music he has in him somewhere. Maybe that will happen someday, or maybe in a few months there’ll be another clutch of perfectly passable and mostly forgettable little demos to chuck into the expanding Cobb file. Maybe Mark doesn’t give a shit about some jumped up little prick on the internet. Yes that seems most likely. But we’re still right.
Reviewing The Fall is fun and confirming your understanding of their greatness (or antagonising your woefully misguided opinion of their awfulness, I guess), but it's stuff like this, that anyone who has any experience of the fun and frustration, the excitement and excrutiation of low-level music production will understand, that makes things worthwhile. I would honestly rather be writing about this nobody for free than knocking out 60 words about The Killers for The Sunday Times for a fat cheque. Thanks for reading.
REPORTER, TRANSMISSION & TRUE RUMOUR Demos
Mark Cobb is that most awkward of beasts, a prolific artist. Constantly gigging and recording with a wealth of different projects, Mark simultaneously raises a feeling of marvel at his energy and dedication, and a wish that he’d stop messing about and just settle down to work on something substantial. Because, with some honing of the musical attentions, Mark has the talent to turn out some quality music, but at the moment his output is often saddeningly mediocre. Being mediocre is no crime, of course, but being mediocre with a different band every night of the week probably should be.
Let’s start at the bottom. True Rumour feels something like an acoustic version of Kohoutek (nee Tsunami), probably Mark’s best known endeavour, with guitars jangling and sax bleating away merrily in the background. Said sax ought to be just the foil to Mark’s voice - and it is a great voice, keening and swooping around the melody with a heavy vibrato in a way that recalls such idiosyncratic singers as Michael Stipe and Julian Cope - but as sonic seasoning it falls very flat, tootling aimlessly around the demo like a lost dog. Take “I’m At Zombie” (sic), which mires a powerful vocal performance in a flabby meander of a song. Interest is piqued slightly by some sprightly violin playing and what sounds like it might be mbira on “Rocks & Sunflowers”, but ultimately True Rumour’s demo stands up for itself about as well as damp toast.
Just to show that he can do the hazy campfire bit pretty well at times is a one track demo from Reporter, a recent project with members of The Hank Dogs and Perfect Disaster (both new names to us, we’re ashamed to admit). Featherlight and brief it may be, but this one take acoustic ramble captures the ear immediately. It’s early days yet, but there could be something here worth embellishing.
This crop of demos confirms what we’ve always felt to be the case, that Transmission is definitely Mark’s most successful endeavour. Admittedly the nasal twin guitar solos can piss off back to whatever Lynyrd Skynyrd hole they crawled from, but for the most part the lightly Arabic flourishes and the guitar curlicues suit Mark’s quavering voice more than the clumping indie rhythms of Kohoutek, coaxing an urgent Morroccan wail on “Kings” that outdoes anything else on these recordings. It also occasionally tugs a little string in the back of our minds labelled “Chamfer”, which is no terrible accusation.
Ultimately we’d like Mark to try pushing things a bit more. Of course, we don’t expect Autechre rhythms and Melt Banana guitars to be turning up anytime soon (though we’ll be first in the queue if they do), but the music should have the courage of its convictions: if it’s pop music, write some stellar hooks; if it’s rock music, put some balls into it; if it’s jazzy acoustica, try to get the saxophonist vaguely in tune. When all the intros sound something like “Street Spirit” and all the fortes sound like bad Rolling Stones, you just know there’s an autopilot light flashing in the cockpit. Like the teacher who is harshest on their brightest pupil, this is meant to be loving criticism, but we’ve been waiting a long time for Mark to knuckle down and make the great, soaring music he has in him somewhere. Maybe that will happen someday, or maybe in a few months there’ll be another clutch of perfectly passable and mostly forgettable little demos to chuck into the expanding Cobb file. Maybe Mark doesn’t give a shit about some jumped up little prick on the internet. Yes that seems most likely. But we’re still right.
Saturday, 28 November 2009
Trust In God But Tie Up Your Camus
The Fall, as you surely all know, are one of the most significant artistic endeavours of the past 50 years. Here's a review of a good gig. The Fall will never make the perfect LP or play the life-changing concert, and that's why they are great, they keep hacking away at their chosen paths, entangled and untrodden. I saw them in Oxford a couple of weeks ago. It was a bit of a mess. I saw them two nights ago in Leamington Spa Assembly Halls (amazing venue, Jesus the O2 Academies up and down the land look so drab by comparison) and it was just glorious. I will always prefer an act that alternately misfire and rockets, to one that smoothly zips slongs. This review was hard to write, as it was diofficult to keep a response to 30 years of The Fall out of it, and it's not one for the annals, but I do like the opening sentence.
THE FALL, Zodiac, 4/07
For over thirty years now The Fall has existed as a belligerently independent fiefdom jostling between the perennially warring kingdoms of Prog and Punk, with Mark E Smith as its twisted jester-prince. A new year brings a new tour and, not uncommonly, a new band, so it’s no shock to discover that Smith’s third wife, keyboard twitcher Elini, is the only person onstage surviving since The Fall’s last Oxford visit, fewer than 18 months ago. Perhaps more surprising is that the new lads are primarily American alt musos and not the sort of “unlearned “ musicians from which Smith has traditionally built his army: guitarist Tim Presley at times indulges in the sort of fiery, Sonic Youth rocking that would have earned earlier band members a severe dressing down. Probably between verses.
Odd frills excepted, however, this is still clearly The Fall as we know them, sludgily pummelling garage guitars, krautische Korg synth buzzes and relentless glam rockabilly drum patterns topped off by an impenetrable, yet oddly mesmerising drawl. Smith’s voice, a long way from his youthful yelp, is a worn piece of shoe leather, cracked and ugly, yet far more malleable than many fresher alternatives. A track like “My Door”, far more satisfying live than on the recent Reformation Post T. L. C. album, reveals just how subtly expressive Smith’s voice can be, once you’ve tuned into the cosmically unmelodic frequency on which he works. Mark may have sadly lost the psychedelic narrative impulse of yore, but it’s been replaced by a quiet vocal intensity.
The Fall is a notoriously uneven band, and one worries that Smith can no longer tell a good gig or a decent album from a bad one, so well drilled are the members into the group’s sound (despite Smith’s allegations that he only recruits non-Fall fans, recent line-ups have clearly done their homework). Ignoring twin basses and some American accents this gig still sounds exactly like The Fall, and the worry lingers that there’s nothing new left to do with the format. Then again “sounds exactly like The Fall” is one of the greatest superlatives in our dogeared critical lexicon, so who’s to complain? And when the band come on for an unsuspected second encore, with house lights up and half the audience already out the door, fuzzily reinterpreting recent favourite “Blindness”, doubts about the continued relevance of The Fall evaporate. And, hey, didn’t Mark audibly thank the audience at one point? Some things do change, after all…
THE FALL, Zodiac, 4/07
For over thirty years now The Fall has existed as a belligerently independent fiefdom jostling between the perennially warring kingdoms of Prog and Punk, with Mark E Smith as its twisted jester-prince. A new year brings a new tour and, not uncommonly, a new band, so it’s no shock to discover that Smith’s third wife, keyboard twitcher Elini, is the only person onstage surviving since The Fall’s last Oxford visit, fewer than 18 months ago. Perhaps more surprising is that the new lads are primarily American alt musos and not the sort of “unlearned “ musicians from which Smith has traditionally built his army: guitarist Tim Presley at times indulges in the sort of fiery, Sonic Youth rocking that would have earned earlier band members a severe dressing down. Probably between verses.
Odd frills excepted, however, this is still clearly The Fall as we know them, sludgily pummelling garage guitars, krautische Korg synth buzzes and relentless glam rockabilly drum patterns topped off by an impenetrable, yet oddly mesmerising drawl. Smith’s voice, a long way from his youthful yelp, is a worn piece of shoe leather, cracked and ugly, yet far more malleable than many fresher alternatives. A track like “My Door”, far more satisfying live than on the recent Reformation Post T. L. C. album, reveals just how subtly expressive Smith’s voice can be, once you’ve tuned into the cosmically unmelodic frequency on which he works. Mark may have sadly lost the psychedelic narrative impulse of yore, but it’s been replaced by a quiet vocal intensity.
The Fall is a notoriously uneven band, and one worries that Smith can no longer tell a good gig or a decent album from a bad one, so well drilled are the members into the group’s sound (despite Smith’s allegations that he only recruits non-Fall fans, recent line-ups have clearly done their homework). Ignoring twin basses and some American accents this gig still sounds exactly like The Fall, and the worry lingers that there’s nothing new left to do with the format. Then again “sounds exactly like The Fall” is one of the greatest superlatives in our dogeared critical lexicon, so who’s to complain? And when the band come on for an unsuspected second encore, with house lights up and half the audience already out the door, fuzzily reinterpreting recent favourite “Blindness”, doubts about the continued relevance of The Fall evaporate. And, hey, didn’t Mark audibly thank the audience at one point? Some things do change, after all…
Friday, 27 November 2009
There's Been A Boulder, Lewis
Stornoway: best pop band in Oxford currently, and lovely chaps to boot. You may have seen them on Later a few weeks ago. Well, they're better in real life, when they aren't shitting themselves...
Stornoway – On The Rocks (Hatpop)
If you can stand talking to one for long enough, sooner or later an estate agent shall tell you that only one thing really matters in selling houses: location. And in music, the most significant element affecting our judgement is context. Change the context and we’ll all think something new about the music. Sloppy funk covers might be fun in a youth club charity battle of the bands, but would seem pretty facile at a state funeral. So much music works differently in the live arena than in the studio – Redox is one of the most entertaining live bands in town, but has anyone listened to the last EP more than once?
It’s with this in mind that we approach the new EP by one of our favourite local acts, Stornoway, because there’s a great big sore thumb sticking out a mile, and that offending digit is EP closer, “The Good Fish Guide”. Quite a good laugh live, with Jon Quin intoning the title like a twisted ringmaster, whilst seven shades of hellish carnival unfold around him, with chanted fish breeds being traded with horse headed jazz (you have to see it to understand), but it’s a bit of a disaster on record. A big clumsy whoop ushers in the song, and already our thoughts are wandering towards The Toy Dolls’ take on “Nellie The Elephant”, and that’s before the verses have nudged our memories towards The Divine Comedy’s “A Seafood Song” and the muted trumpet has caused us to shudder with recollection of The Big Ben Banjo Band. It’s just a bit of a bloody mess, to be frank, with the stagnant air of a failed 5th form revue. Even Jon can’t raise his game, and chooses some “funny” voices for his part, including a woeful 2D Brummie and what might be Rolf Harris. The only good things we can say about “The Good Fish Guide” are that it has a serious ecological message, it raises money for The Marine Conservation Society, and the unexpected quotation of “That’s Entertainment” by The Jam on muted trumpet made us chuckle.
OK, we’ve got that out of the way. Phew. The rest of the EP is thankfully as good as, if not better than, Stornoway’s previous two majestic recordings, and manages to cram a myriad of ideas into each song, without losing sight of Brian Briggs’ gorgeously heroic yet melancholic vocals, that have the bittersweet tenor of a victory song sung by the last soldier standing. “Unfaithful” opens with the sort of tremoloed 50s shoegazing guitar that mid-90s media darlings Madder Rose used to trade in, before a creamy vocal about cars and dreams starts lifting hearts. Just before it can turn into a twee Spruced Springsteen, however, an avalanche of dissonant piano collapses around us with a (sergeant) peppering of fairground melodies.
Even better is “The Pupil Of Your Eye”, which intriguingly mashes together two very different songs, one of which is a Sci-Fi new wave blast about “magnetic fields” and “electric currents”, featuring some fantastic wibbly keys, and the other is a cheeky organ clomp. They’d both be great songs on their own, and illogically they get better in company.
We hear some of the old Stornoway in “Here Comes The Blackout”, all folky guitar, fluid bass, subtle keys and close harmonies, which is a welcome break before the title track, in which Simon & Garfunkel take over a drum and bass session and some incredible cymbal work makes a sound like sunlight glinting from an icicle. Except even better. And after all that we still feel there’s plenty on these four tracks that we haven’t touched on, and that this EP is an embarrassment of riches…whereas the final track is just a bit of an embarrassment. Of course, 95% of people will think exactly the opposite; that’s why the world is beyond hope.
Stornoway – On The Rocks (Hatpop)
If you can stand talking to one for long enough, sooner or later an estate agent shall tell you that only one thing really matters in selling houses: location. And in music, the most significant element affecting our judgement is context. Change the context and we’ll all think something new about the music. Sloppy funk covers might be fun in a youth club charity battle of the bands, but would seem pretty facile at a state funeral. So much music works differently in the live arena than in the studio – Redox is one of the most entertaining live bands in town, but has anyone listened to the last EP more than once?
It’s with this in mind that we approach the new EP by one of our favourite local acts, Stornoway, because there’s a great big sore thumb sticking out a mile, and that offending digit is EP closer, “The Good Fish Guide”. Quite a good laugh live, with Jon Quin intoning the title like a twisted ringmaster, whilst seven shades of hellish carnival unfold around him, with chanted fish breeds being traded with horse headed jazz (you have to see it to understand), but it’s a bit of a disaster on record. A big clumsy whoop ushers in the song, and already our thoughts are wandering towards The Toy Dolls’ take on “Nellie The Elephant”, and that’s before the verses have nudged our memories towards The Divine Comedy’s “A Seafood Song” and the muted trumpet has caused us to shudder with recollection of The Big Ben Banjo Band. It’s just a bit of a bloody mess, to be frank, with the stagnant air of a failed 5th form revue. Even Jon can’t raise his game, and chooses some “funny” voices for his part, including a woeful 2D Brummie and what might be Rolf Harris. The only good things we can say about “The Good Fish Guide” are that it has a serious ecological message, it raises money for The Marine Conservation Society, and the unexpected quotation of “That’s Entertainment” by The Jam on muted trumpet made us chuckle.
OK, we’ve got that out of the way. Phew. The rest of the EP is thankfully as good as, if not better than, Stornoway’s previous two majestic recordings, and manages to cram a myriad of ideas into each song, without losing sight of Brian Briggs’ gorgeously heroic yet melancholic vocals, that have the bittersweet tenor of a victory song sung by the last soldier standing. “Unfaithful” opens with the sort of tremoloed 50s shoegazing guitar that mid-90s media darlings Madder Rose used to trade in, before a creamy vocal about cars and dreams starts lifting hearts. Just before it can turn into a twee Spruced Springsteen, however, an avalanche of dissonant piano collapses around us with a (sergeant) peppering of fairground melodies.
Even better is “The Pupil Of Your Eye”, which intriguingly mashes together two very different songs, one of which is a Sci-Fi new wave blast about “magnetic fields” and “electric currents”, featuring some fantastic wibbly keys, and the other is a cheeky organ clomp. They’d both be great songs on their own, and illogically they get better in company.
We hear some of the old Stornoway in “Here Comes The Blackout”, all folky guitar, fluid bass, subtle keys and close harmonies, which is a welcome break before the title track, in which Simon & Garfunkel take over a drum and bass session and some incredible cymbal work makes a sound like sunlight glinting from an icicle. Except even better. And after all that we still feel there’s plenty on these four tracks that we haven’t touched on, and that this EP is an embarrassment of riches…whereas the final track is just a bit of an embarrassment. Of course, 95% of people will think exactly the opposite; that’s why the world is beyond hope.
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Dublodocus
Right, tonight I havce to write a long overdue review of a new LP, I don't have time to talk about old stuff, so you'll have to just find your own way around without any guidance.
RAGGASAURUS/ VIGILANCE BLACK SPECIAL/ THE TALC DEMONS/ JEREMY HUGHES – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 4/1/08
We’re all justly proud of our music scene, but it’s worth remembering what Oxford is: a small provincial town in a semi-rural county. This means that for every Little Fish bursting into the limelight we have a bunch of market town blues bands dawdling through the classics. It also means we have Klub Kakofanney, a fantastically unglamorous hippy enclave that has been making people happy for as long as anyone can recall, and is about as far from the flick of a cool kid’s haircut as one can get…in fact, half the audience haven’t had a haircut in years. And the other half are bald.
After mightily-bearded Jeremy Hughes has played some intricate little guitar doodles, The Talc Demons take to the stage. Rami’s band are more often found playing interminable jam sets in empty midweek bars, but thankfully they produce a taut, condensed thirty minutes of his own circus freak pop, in which 70s rock clashes with funky reggae. His songs generally boast about 90 words per minute buoyed up by clipped, nasal guitar lines and bouncy rhythms, and they should definitely ditch the dubious covers gigs and concentrate on this quality fare. And change their name, obviously.
Last time we saw Vigilance Black Special they had a trombone and a lonesome Nick Cave swoon to their music; now they have no trombone and sound a bit like a sleepier version of Goldrush, the lyric “too much time kicking around in the half-light” summing the show up nicely. A decent band, with a rich lead vocal, but nothing to get excited about. Vigilance Grey Average.
Raggasaurus are a group who definitely weren’t formed in their stylist’s office: a bunch of stoned looking students playing dub, with a 50 year old Tunisian singing in Arabic over the top, who would have thought it? And who would have thought they would make such excellent music? The horns are acidic and subtly used, the rhythms are spry and infectious, and the bass is simply gigantic, causing glasses to topple to the floor behind the bar. Add some searing vocals, that seem to communicate messages of love and integrity even though nobody understands a blinking word, and the effect is glorious. A wonderful band, likely to enliven many an Oxford weekend, and one unlikely to appear on Skins any time soon.
RAGGASAURUS/ VIGILANCE BLACK SPECIAL/ THE TALC DEMONS/ JEREMY HUGHES – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 4/1/08
We’re all justly proud of our music scene, but it’s worth remembering what Oxford is: a small provincial town in a semi-rural county. This means that for every Little Fish bursting into the limelight we have a bunch of market town blues bands dawdling through the classics. It also means we have Klub Kakofanney, a fantastically unglamorous hippy enclave that has been making people happy for as long as anyone can recall, and is about as far from the flick of a cool kid’s haircut as one can get…in fact, half the audience haven’t had a haircut in years. And the other half are bald.
After mightily-bearded Jeremy Hughes has played some intricate little guitar doodles, The Talc Demons take to the stage. Rami’s band are more often found playing interminable jam sets in empty midweek bars, but thankfully they produce a taut, condensed thirty minutes of his own circus freak pop, in which 70s rock clashes with funky reggae. His songs generally boast about 90 words per minute buoyed up by clipped, nasal guitar lines and bouncy rhythms, and they should definitely ditch the dubious covers gigs and concentrate on this quality fare. And change their name, obviously.
Last time we saw Vigilance Black Special they had a trombone and a lonesome Nick Cave swoon to their music; now they have no trombone and sound a bit like a sleepier version of Goldrush, the lyric “too much time kicking around in the half-light” summing the show up nicely. A decent band, with a rich lead vocal, but nothing to get excited about. Vigilance Grey Average.
Raggasaurus are a group who definitely weren’t formed in their stylist’s office: a bunch of stoned looking students playing dub, with a 50 year old Tunisian singing in Arabic over the top, who would have thought it? And who would have thought they would make such excellent music? The horns are acidic and subtly used, the rhythms are spry and infectious, and the bass is simply gigantic, causing glasses to topple to the floor behind the bar. Add some searing vocals, that seem to communicate messages of love and integrity even though nobody understands a blinking word, and the effect is glorious. A wonderful band, likely to enliven many an Oxford weekend, and one unlikely to appear on Skins any time soon.
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Starski Enterprise
I originally posted this with no introduction, because I forgot. And now I've remembered, I can't be bothered.
MATTHEW KILFORD – HOUSE ON THE HILL
This is a decent one. Opener “Zurich” wafts a rich intimate voice along on some intricate but not overly flashy guitar picking that comes with the barest whiff of early Simon & Garfunkel, some subtle bass accompaniment nudging the whole thing comfortably home in a shade over 3 minutes. Listening leaves a lovely warm tingling glow, like a quality brandy on a cold evening, and Matthew, who was once in local indie plodders Belarus, is clearly some distance ahead of the army of local zombie strummers who feel a strange impetus to whine about loneliness, loss and the fact that Cadbury’s Crème Eggs aren’t as big as they used to be, or whatever crud clogs their emotional development.
“Know By Now” is equally well-bred, but swaps the plucked guitar for chords and a drummer which loses some of the breeziness, but doesn’t mire us too badly, and “Hindsight” opts for a similar, but slightly more bluesy piano led pace, that brings us back to Paul Simon, this time in his solo guise, albeit without the world music/funk/gospel/Chevy Chase. This is the least satisfying track on the EP, but is still far from an embarrassment, and steps sedately along in a rather winning way.
Kilford saves the best till last, the brief title track has a melancholically eternal folk melody, that sounds like something from the Irish diaspora – as much “Fairytale Of New York” as “Willie McBride”. Well shaped as the record is, we’d be lying if we claimed that any of the songs managed to stay in our mind for more than about 7 seconds after they finished, and whilst Kilford has a pleasant, understated voice and some perfectly listenable lyrics, he can’t boast the plangent beauty of Drake, the intensity of Dylan, or the poetry of Cohen. Still, if you wanted a brief aural sorbet to cleanse the ear canals between courses of Autechre, Merzbow and Guitar Wolf, or fancied reminding yourself how well a simple unadorned voice can work, you could do far worse than House On The Hill.
MATTHEW KILFORD – HOUSE ON THE HILL
This is a decent one. Opener “Zurich” wafts a rich intimate voice along on some intricate but not overly flashy guitar picking that comes with the barest whiff of early Simon & Garfunkel, some subtle bass accompaniment nudging the whole thing comfortably home in a shade over 3 minutes. Listening leaves a lovely warm tingling glow, like a quality brandy on a cold evening, and Matthew, who was once in local indie plodders Belarus, is clearly some distance ahead of the army of local zombie strummers who feel a strange impetus to whine about loneliness, loss and the fact that Cadbury’s Crème Eggs aren’t as big as they used to be, or whatever crud clogs their emotional development.
“Know By Now” is equally well-bred, but swaps the plucked guitar for chords and a drummer which loses some of the breeziness, but doesn’t mire us too badly, and “Hindsight” opts for a similar, but slightly more bluesy piano led pace, that brings us back to Paul Simon, this time in his solo guise, albeit without the world music/funk/gospel/Chevy Chase. This is the least satisfying track on the EP, but is still far from an embarrassment, and steps sedately along in a rather winning way.
Kilford saves the best till last, the brief title track has a melancholically eternal folk melody, that sounds like something from the Irish diaspora – as much “Fairytale Of New York” as “Willie McBride”. Well shaped as the record is, we’d be lying if we claimed that any of the songs managed to stay in our mind for more than about 7 seconds after they finished, and whilst Kilford has a pleasant, understated voice and some perfectly listenable lyrics, he can’t boast the plangent beauty of Drake, the intensity of Dylan, or the poetry of Cohen. Still, if you wanted a brief aural sorbet to cleanse the ear canals between courses of Autechre, Merzbow and Guitar Wolf, or fancied reminding yourself how well a simple unadorned voice can work, you could do far worse than House On The Hill.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Alopecia The Action
"That" song is "I Wanna Live In Your Buttcrack", which is how you imagine it but less mature. Harry implausibly were selected to support Girls Aloud (who are pretty great, in case there's any uncertainty) at a Children In Need gig in an RAF base. There, now you know everything.
HARRY ANGEL/ TOUPE/ BEAVER FUEL/ JAMES BELL – Moshka, The Bully, 3/5/08
We’re fascinated by acts that nearly don’t work, performers who skirt the shores of musical embarrassment and somehow arrive safely at the port of artistic integrity. James Bell is a fine example; his supersized, falsetto-heavy cabaret acoustic shows, replete with implausible covers and frenetic leaping, should have all the charm of a precocious toddler, yet somehow he not only escapes with pride intact, but also manages to sneak some powerful emotions into the room. His cover of “Canadee-i-o” may sound like Thin Lizzy, but it reveals a deep fondness for traditional folk song, and “Last Of The Corners” manages to mix Elvis Costello’s lyrical intricacy with authentic Waterboys yearning. A real talent.
That song aside, Leigh Alexander’s songwriting for Beaver Fuel can actually be more subtle than is generally perceived, and he cuts big issues down to size with cheeky verbosity a la Carter USM. Having said that, the new tune is called “Fuck You, I’ve Got Tourettes” so let’s not get carried away. Beaver Fuel is an act that doesn’t normally thrive in the live environment, ending up a stodgy mess. Not tonight, however. Something’s changed in Camp Buttcrack since the lacklustre EP launch scant weeks ago: Leigh’s voice may not be the most versatile in town, but he’s clearly been working on his projection and his lyrics sail clearly over a surprisingly neat and bouncy band. We still wonder whether lumpy punk with Mojo solos is the ideal vehicle for Leigh’s writing, but this is a band improving steadily.
Slap bass. Swearing. Boob jokes. You’re not going to believe us that Southampton’s Toupe are geniuses, are you? Led by stand up comedian Grant Sharkey, they use drums and two basses to create propulsive and surprisingly varied smut funk, coming off like a cross between Frank Zappa and The Grumbleweeds, like a pier-end Primus. Oxymoronically, they survive because they don’t take their silliness too seriously, and goof off more to amuse themselves than to create an air of calculated wackiness – and beneath it all the music is actually superb, with magnificent drumming from Jay Havelock. One of the best bands you’ll see all year, though we know you still don’t believe us.
It’s been two years since we last saw Harry Angel, and we’re glad to report that little has changed. The early Radiohead references may have been swapped for some mid-period Sonic Youth, but otherwise they still spew out fizzing amphetamine goth, a huge wall of irascible noise with Chris Beard’s vocals as a black smear across the front. They also look like they’re playing in the last few seconds of their lives. “Proper rock n roll”, shouts a drunken punter. Girls Aloud must still be getting over it.
HARRY ANGEL/ TOUPE/ BEAVER FUEL/ JAMES BELL – Moshka, The Bully, 3/5/08
We’re fascinated by acts that nearly don’t work, performers who skirt the shores of musical embarrassment and somehow arrive safely at the port of artistic integrity. James Bell is a fine example; his supersized, falsetto-heavy cabaret acoustic shows, replete with implausible covers and frenetic leaping, should have all the charm of a precocious toddler, yet somehow he not only escapes with pride intact, but also manages to sneak some powerful emotions into the room. His cover of “Canadee-i-o” may sound like Thin Lizzy, but it reveals a deep fondness for traditional folk song, and “Last Of The Corners” manages to mix Elvis Costello’s lyrical intricacy with authentic Waterboys yearning. A real talent.
That song aside, Leigh Alexander’s songwriting for Beaver Fuel can actually be more subtle than is generally perceived, and he cuts big issues down to size with cheeky verbosity a la Carter USM. Having said that, the new tune is called “Fuck You, I’ve Got Tourettes” so let’s not get carried away. Beaver Fuel is an act that doesn’t normally thrive in the live environment, ending up a stodgy mess. Not tonight, however. Something’s changed in Camp Buttcrack since the lacklustre EP launch scant weeks ago: Leigh’s voice may not be the most versatile in town, but he’s clearly been working on his projection and his lyrics sail clearly over a surprisingly neat and bouncy band. We still wonder whether lumpy punk with Mojo solos is the ideal vehicle for Leigh’s writing, but this is a band improving steadily.
Slap bass. Swearing. Boob jokes. You’re not going to believe us that Southampton’s Toupe are geniuses, are you? Led by stand up comedian Grant Sharkey, they use drums and two basses to create propulsive and surprisingly varied smut funk, coming off like a cross between Frank Zappa and The Grumbleweeds, like a pier-end Primus. Oxymoronically, they survive because they don’t take their silliness too seriously, and goof off more to amuse themselves than to create an air of calculated wackiness – and beneath it all the music is actually superb, with magnificent drumming from Jay Havelock. One of the best bands you’ll see all year, though we know you still don’t believe us.
It’s been two years since we last saw Harry Angel, and we’re glad to report that little has changed. The early Radiohead references may have been swapped for some mid-period Sonic Youth, but otherwise they still spew out fizzing amphetamine goth, a huge wall of irascible noise with Chris Beard’s vocals as a black smear across the front. They also look like they’re playing in the last few seconds of their lives. “Proper rock n roll”, shouts a drunken punter. Girls Aloud must still be getting over it.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Melanin Seed
Not sure this is such a great review, now I reread it. Valid, but glib. I also haven't been to a Peanut Albinos gig; inb fact, I don't recall seeing one advertised.
PEANUT ALBINOS – FALLING FROM THE SADDLE OF A HIGH HORSE (Demo)
Authenticity, there’s a vexed musical issue. How much does it matter when appropriating sounds and techniques, and at what point can doing something inauthetically become a tradition in its own right? If you want a handy analogue, try the British curry house: despite claims to the contrary stencilled in the bottom of restaurant windows, we all know that the madras you buy on a Friday night is not quite like what has been prepared in Madras for generations, but would it be wrong to say that the British curry menu is now a culinary heritage in its own right; and anyhow, if it tastes good, does it matter?
These thoughts float in the back of the mind as Peanut Albino’s EP opens with “The Most Insignificant Things”, a gorgeous concoction of bass, percussion, mandolin and bowed saw with a distinct North African flavour. However, although it’s probably nothing like what might get played in Tunis on an average evening, it does fit seamlessly into the 60s spy theme exotica sub-genre – think The Man From UNCLE visits Marrakech – and could easily be drawn from the dusty depths of some Ninja Tune artist’s crate marked “Obscure Samples”. Like a good prawn balti, the really significant fact is that it’s deeply satisfying, the bass creating a rubbery backdrop for some plucked strings so clipped and sharp they sound like needles dropping into lakes of crystal. The whole piece exhibits the most wonderful poise and delicacy, when it could so easily have become a knowing pastiche. Follow up “To Be A Number” introduces some vocals and ups the drama quota, but could have come from the same imaginary soundtrack.
“Just Another Day”’s unexpected banjo lope drags us unexpectedly across the globe to some sort of hillbilly campfire, where the rest of the CD seems content to kick back and relax…except the unexpected encroachment of some drunken lumberjacks on the chorus does break the spell somewhat (although the Albinos somehow get away with it). From hereon in we’re in the world of the backyard country ballad, all brushed drums, finger pickin’ banjos, guitar strums and world weary laments. Once again, the sense of restraint and control is quite astonishing, and almost unheard of at this level, but perhaps the compositions are somewhat pedestrian: only “How Do You Sleep My Dear?” makes any sort of bid for the listener’s memory on the EP’s second half, resembling something Springsteen might knock off in one of his quieter moods.
Still, despite the feeling that it slopes off rather unobtrusively after it had started with such colour and tension, this record is still a real treasure with an understated style that’s as unexpected in Oxford as the melange of influences. If they could get a bit of Tom Waits grit into the vocals we could have one of the most intriguing live acts around. Note to self: go to Peanut Albinos gig.
PEANUT ALBINOS – FALLING FROM THE SADDLE OF A HIGH HORSE (Demo)
Authenticity, there’s a vexed musical issue. How much does it matter when appropriating sounds and techniques, and at what point can doing something inauthetically become a tradition in its own right? If you want a handy analogue, try the British curry house: despite claims to the contrary stencilled in the bottom of restaurant windows, we all know that the madras you buy on a Friday night is not quite like what has been prepared in Madras for generations, but would it be wrong to say that the British curry menu is now a culinary heritage in its own right; and anyhow, if it tastes good, does it matter?
These thoughts float in the back of the mind as Peanut Albino’s EP opens with “The Most Insignificant Things”, a gorgeous concoction of bass, percussion, mandolin and bowed saw with a distinct North African flavour. However, although it’s probably nothing like what might get played in Tunis on an average evening, it does fit seamlessly into the 60s spy theme exotica sub-genre – think The Man From UNCLE visits Marrakech – and could easily be drawn from the dusty depths of some Ninja Tune artist’s crate marked “Obscure Samples”. Like a good prawn balti, the really significant fact is that it’s deeply satisfying, the bass creating a rubbery backdrop for some plucked strings so clipped and sharp they sound like needles dropping into lakes of crystal. The whole piece exhibits the most wonderful poise and delicacy, when it could so easily have become a knowing pastiche. Follow up “To Be A Number” introduces some vocals and ups the drama quota, but could have come from the same imaginary soundtrack.
“Just Another Day”’s unexpected banjo lope drags us unexpectedly across the globe to some sort of hillbilly campfire, where the rest of the CD seems content to kick back and relax…except the unexpected encroachment of some drunken lumberjacks on the chorus does break the spell somewhat (although the Albinos somehow get away with it). From hereon in we’re in the world of the backyard country ballad, all brushed drums, finger pickin’ banjos, guitar strums and world weary laments. Once again, the sense of restraint and control is quite astonishing, and almost unheard of at this level, but perhaps the compositions are somewhat pedestrian: only “How Do You Sleep My Dear?” makes any sort of bid for the listener’s memory on the EP’s second half, resembling something Springsteen might knock off in one of his quieter moods.
Still, despite the feeling that it slopes off rather unobtrusively after it had started with such colour and tension, this record is still a real treasure with an understated style that’s as unexpected in Oxford as the melange of influences. If they could get a bit of Tom Waits grit into the vocals we could have one of the most intriguing live acts around. Note to self: go to Peanut Albinos gig.
Saturday, 14 November 2009
Thaumaturge Overkill
Here's my thought for the day, for anyonre who works in publishing, law or the music industry: an infinite number of monkeys may well be able to write Hamlet, but it just takes one lying hyena to make them sign over the rights.
4 OR 5 MAGICIANS/ GRESHAM FLYERS/ WHITE SAILS – Swiss Concrete, Wheatsheaf, 17/4/09
White Sails construct frail, rickety indie edifices that teeter on the edge of collapse, yet somehow stay together. As a band they’re hesitant, but manage to keep the songs afloat, coming across as a YTS version of The Wannadies. Half the songs are performed by Stornoway’s Ollie Steadman, and whilst he won’t be causing Brian Briggs any sleepless nights, his intimate voice sneaks into the songs charmingly, even if he could do with projecting a little more; sadly, other lead vocal duties are taken by Swiss visitor Ulysse Dupasquier, whose weedy, cracked voice is as limp and nourishing as a Little Chef salad garnish, and whose magical inverse stage presence sucks any life out of the band. Some very promising elements on display, but some serious homework to do, too.
Gresham Flyers are named after a vintage pushbike, sell immaculately crafted split EPs with bands called The Pale Corners and Wintergreen, and have songs named “Factory Records Museum” and “Berry Buck Mills Stipe”: exactly what we’d come up with if we wanted to parody a Swiss Concrete booking, basically. But why be cynical, when the performance is such fun, all ungainly spasming, tinny guitars and sherbet lemon keyboards. They remind us by turn of a pre-fame Pulp, The Wedding Present, Bis and Coventry’s Ludicrous Lollipops, a band so obscenely obscure we feel guilty mentioning them. But what better way to describe these indie archaeologists than with a defunct band you’re even less likely to have come across? And they have Fall-referencing coloured vinyl. Bloody great fun.
Intensity levels change for Brighton’s 4 Or 5 Magicians, who play bouncy indie with a shiny, muscular carapace, which is oddly like a hi-octane cross between The Senseless Things and The Foo Fighters. The room may be alarmingly empty in terms of punters, but the band fill every corner with their dense guitars, thumping drums and clean arcing vocal lines. We’ll be honest, we weren’t mad on the songs (although the opener was pleasingly like a steroid pumped A House), but we’re all for any band who can look out into yet another empty, listless toilet venue and play with such passion and joy regardless.
4 OR 5 MAGICIANS/ GRESHAM FLYERS/ WHITE SAILS – Swiss Concrete, Wheatsheaf, 17/4/09
White Sails construct frail, rickety indie edifices that teeter on the edge of collapse, yet somehow stay together. As a band they’re hesitant, but manage to keep the songs afloat, coming across as a YTS version of The Wannadies. Half the songs are performed by Stornoway’s Ollie Steadman, and whilst he won’t be causing Brian Briggs any sleepless nights, his intimate voice sneaks into the songs charmingly, even if he could do with projecting a little more; sadly, other lead vocal duties are taken by Swiss visitor Ulysse Dupasquier, whose weedy, cracked voice is as limp and nourishing as a Little Chef salad garnish, and whose magical inverse stage presence sucks any life out of the band. Some very promising elements on display, but some serious homework to do, too.
Gresham Flyers are named after a vintage pushbike, sell immaculately crafted split EPs with bands called The Pale Corners and Wintergreen, and have songs named “Factory Records Museum” and “Berry Buck Mills Stipe”: exactly what we’d come up with if we wanted to parody a Swiss Concrete booking, basically. But why be cynical, when the performance is such fun, all ungainly spasming, tinny guitars and sherbet lemon keyboards. They remind us by turn of a pre-fame Pulp, The Wedding Present, Bis and Coventry’s Ludicrous Lollipops, a band so obscenely obscure we feel guilty mentioning them. But what better way to describe these indie archaeologists than with a defunct band you’re even less likely to have come across? And they have Fall-referencing coloured vinyl. Bloody great fun.
Intensity levels change for Brighton’s 4 Or 5 Magicians, who play bouncy indie with a shiny, muscular carapace, which is oddly like a hi-octane cross between The Senseless Things and The Foo Fighters. The room may be alarmingly empty in terms of punters, but the band fill every corner with their dense guitars, thumping drums and clean arcing vocal lines. We’ll be honest, we weren’t mad on the songs (although the opener was pleasingly like a steroid pumped A House), but we’re all for any band who can look out into yet another empty, listless toilet venue and play with such passion and joy regardless.
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Fuck
Fuck. I just typed loads then deleted it all by mistake. Fuck, once again. So here's a really recent review that I can just paste from the document. Fuck.
SAMUEL ZASADA – BURIED (demo)
I want to grow up to be
Working 9 till 5
I want to grow up to be
More dead than alive
Samuel Zasada’s latest home recorded EP opens with these lines, and a cynical tale of thwarted youthful aspirations. It’s a nicely put together and surprisingly jolly little tune, and it could be a mixture of Radiohead’s “Fitter Happier” and Karel Fialka’s surprise hit “Hey Matthew” as created by Counting Crows. It’s a decent nugget of rootsy rebellion, but it feels more like something place two thirds of the way through your third album, not as the opening track on a bright new demo.
Luckily, this is soon followed by the best track on the record. “Buried” sounds like some strange Jewish funeral music, with mournful harmonised vocals, the corpse of a klezmer bassline and the slightly saucy sounding line, “Will you part my sea?” Whilst most acoustic singers are sitting around moaning about being a weeny bit lonely, Zasada has cut right to some truly exhausted, lovelorn sentiments here, that are more Thomas Hardy than Damien Rice, thankfully. “Place Your Words In Tune” continues the surprisingly effective dirge-pop mode, with a nice slow build and the most eerie slowly oscillating melodica drone you’re likely to come across. If you slowed this down and put reverb on the reverb it could almost be a lost Michael Gira track.
“Inside A Bomb” is equally bleak, seemingly owing its roots to a Southern prison worksong. It’s another strong performance, harmonica puffing over the top like thick polls of exhaust fumes, and our only criticism is that Zasada’s vocals tend toward a gravelly sincerity that sucks some of the wit and irony out of the lyrics (we’re not entirely sure what’s going on here, but any track this doom-laden that starts “I grazed my knee as a little boy” has got to be a little tongue in cheek, right?). The problem is worse on closer “The Blade That You Hold”, on which the vocal is an angst-ridden groan that resembles a maudlin drunk Tom Jones impersonator. Zasada has a powerful voice, but we prefer it when he doesn’t sing as if he’s trying to impress a listless open mike crowd, and tempers his tone to the subtleties of the music. This is all a little too close to Chad Kroeger for comfort, as Zasada constipatedly keens the refrain “It’s where I take delight”. Ironically, Samuel, it’s the only thing we dislike about an incredibly promising and assured recording. Doesn’t sound like he has much growing up left to do, as an artist.
SAMUEL ZASADA – BURIED (demo)
I want to grow up to be
Working 9 till 5
I want to grow up to be
More dead than alive
Samuel Zasada’s latest home recorded EP opens with these lines, and a cynical tale of thwarted youthful aspirations. It’s a nicely put together and surprisingly jolly little tune, and it could be a mixture of Radiohead’s “Fitter Happier” and Karel Fialka’s surprise hit “Hey Matthew” as created by Counting Crows. It’s a decent nugget of rootsy rebellion, but it feels more like something place two thirds of the way through your third album, not as the opening track on a bright new demo.
Luckily, this is soon followed by the best track on the record. “Buried” sounds like some strange Jewish funeral music, with mournful harmonised vocals, the corpse of a klezmer bassline and the slightly saucy sounding line, “Will you part my sea?” Whilst most acoustic singers are sitting around moaning about being a weeny bit lonely, Zasada has cut right to some truly exhausted, lovelorn sentiments here, that are more Thomas Hardy than Damien Rice, thankfully. “Place Your Words In Tune” continues the surprisingly effective dirge-pop mode, with a nice slow build and the most eerie slowly oscillating melodica drone you’re likely to come across. If you slowed this down and put reverb on the reverb it could almost be a lost Michael Gira track.
“Inside A Bomb” is equally bleak, seemingly owing its roots to a Southern prison worksong. It’s another strong performance, harmonica puffing over the top like thick polls of exhaust fumes, and our only criticism is that Zasada’s vocals tend toward a gravelly sincerity that sucks some of the wit and irony out of the lyrics (we’re not entirely sure what’s going on here, but any track this doom-laden that starts “I grazed my knee as a little boy” has got to be a little tongue in cheek, right?). The problem is worse on closer “The Blade That You Hold”, on which the vocal is an angst-ridden groan that resembles a maudlin drunk Tom Jones impersonator. Zasada has a powerful voice, but we prefer it when he doesn’t sing as if he’s trying to impress a listless open mike crowd, and tempers his tone to the subtleties of the music. This is all a little too close to Chad Kroeger for comfort, as Zasada constipatedly keens the refrain “It’s where I take delight”. Ironically, Samuel, it’s the only thing we dislike about an incredibly promising and assured recording. Doesn’t sound like he has much growing up left to do, as an artist.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Smirk Gently's Holistic Invective Agency
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.
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.
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 Light 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.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Much Ado About Muffin
So, here's the very last scrapings from the BBC barrel. There was one other review I wrote that never got used, about a sax & drums duo, but that's long gone. I recall it was poor anyway, so that's OK. In fact, to be frank, I forget whether I submitted this to the BBC or someone else - all I know is that it never got used, and probably for good reason.
THE MUFFINMEN, Zodiac
Well, the jury's still out on how posterity will treat the musical anomaly that is Frank Zappa. His life's work is a mass of contradictions, with tireless musical invention and a cast itron work ethic on one side, and lame scatalogical humour and sterile, locker room musical athleticism on the other. Any Zappa tribute has a tough job deciding what to include and what to discard.
The fivepiece Muffinmen are a more beefy proposition than John Etheridge's Zappatistas, who played at South Park earlier in the year. They certainly delve straight to the blues heart of "My Guitar Wants To Kill Your Momma", or "Wonderful Wino", a track that sometimes became a piece of absurd cabaret at Zappa's gigs.
They also boast the vocals of Jimmy Carl Black, and original Mother Of Invention, and a confused looking individual - it appears that he might have fallen asleep during the mixdown of Freak Out!, and woken up again five minutes before the gig. Still, it apears he's got the great british 'flu, so we'll let him of singing only a couple of numbers, and sounding more like Beefheart than Zappa.
Even without Black the band get their teeth right into the angular complexities of the Zappa canon, and find plenty of time to unfurl imaginative and exhilirating solos on guitar, trumpet and (best of the bunch) flute.
Veering, as he did, oddly between hardnosed artpunk, and chin-fiddling muso, Zappa's music can be at once fascinating, funky, beautiful and infuriatingly stupid (see the aformentioned six string matricide), and is sometimes difficult work. Still, if you don't enjoy it, blame Frank, don't blame the superb Muffinmen, as light-hearted a bunch of noisy virtuosic Scousers as you're likely to meet.
THE MUFFINMEN, Zodiac
Well, the jury's still out on how posterity will treat the musical anomaly that is Frank Zappa. His life's work is a mass of contradictions, with tireless musical invention and a cast itron work ethic on one side, and lame scatalogical humour and sterile, locker room musical athleticism on the other. Any Zappa tribute has a tough job deciding what to include and what to discard.
The fivepiece Muffinmen are a more beefy proposition than John Etheridge's Zappatistas, who played at South Park earlier in the year. They certainly delve straight to the blues heart of "My Guitar Wants To Kill Your Momma", or "Wonderful Wino", a track that sometimes became a piece of absurd cabaret at Zappa's gigs.
They also boast the vocals of Jimmy Carl Black, and original Mother Of Invention, and a confused looking individual - it appears that he might have fallen asleep during the mixdown of Freak Out!, and woken up again five minutes before the gig. Still, it apears he's got the great british 'flu, so we'll let him of singing only a couple of numbers, and sounding more like Beefheart than Zappa.
Even without Black the band get their teeth right into the angular complexities of the Zappa canon, and find plenty of time to unfurl imaginative and exhilirating solos on guitar, trumpet and (best of the bunch) flute.
Veering, as he did, oddly between hardnosed artpunk, and chin-fiddling muso, Zappa's music can be at once fascinating, funky, beautiful and infuriatingly stupid (see the aformentioned six string matricide), and is sometimes difficult work. Still, if you don't enjoy it, blame Frank, don't blame the superb Muffinmen, as light-hearted a bunch of noisy virtuosic Scousers as you're likely to meet.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Count Boozula
Drunkenstein. What a stupid name, it makes them sound like a sloppy funk covers band at a student disco in 1987. Not a bad band, but they should get someone to work on their PR.
DRUNKENSTEIN – THE INDEPENDENT REPUBLIC OF DRUNKENSTEI (1908) – Rivet Gun Records
This is a very good record – comfortably the pick of our recent review pile – but it does display two huge faults, standing out like a pair of High School Musical deely boppers at a state funeral. Let’s start with the positive, though. First up, the playing is rather wonderful. Both guitars manage to combine rock heaviness with some intriguing curlicues, but the palme d’or belongs to the rhythm section: Snuffy from the much missed Marconi’s Voodoo supplies rich chocolatey bass, equally at home with funky slap figures and metal density, evident in the awkward yet propulsive intros to “Equation” and “Kool Aid”; Tim “Junkie Brush” Lovegrove’s drums are just as enticing, thudding yet precise – even finicky – in a manner that slightly recalls Zappa alumnus Terry Bozzio.
The compositions play well to these strengths, “Doktorr Black” rising from a lightly gothic guitar haze to a sludgy tsunami of noise. “Red Shift” takes a reverse stroll along the same path, opening with a righteous clatter, only to drop suddenly into a slow offbeat lope, in which reggae zombies scuff the aural sediment at the bottom of a trough of grunge rock. In fact, the track changes tempo and direction a number of times, but manages to avoid sounding uncertain or ill-thought out.
Letting all this excellent work down are the twin crimes of forced levity and overstrained vocal cords. The former is best displayed in the Dr Shotover aping spoken introductions to each song, delivered critically by a world-weary incumbent from a gents’ club wingback chair, an example of self-deprecation so contrived that we feel we’re imprisoned in some kerrazy rag week penal colony, a jester’s gulag, in which Pat Sharpe is a grotesque cackling overlord of wacky agony. Tragically this air of silliness over proceedings is not only as funny as a grubby, twitchy child repeatedly demanding you pull his finger on a long bus ride, but it detracts from the EP’s tightly controlled and intelligently constructed music.
Tightly controlled, that is, except for the vocals, our second bugbear. In his previous band, Fork, James Serjeant sang in a quiet insidious whisper, like the secret voice of guilt nagging at your conscience, but in the rather more full-bodied sound of Drunkenstein his voice simply sounds strained and clumsy. Even odder, when the rest of the band join in the effect is even worse, despite the fact Snuffy and Lovegrove have turned in perfectly reasonable lead vocal duties in other bands: we’re all for vocal brutality and a maelstrom of tortured voices, but the caterwauling at the end of “Red Shift” just sounds like cranky toddlers whose bedtime rusk is an hour overdue. The lyrics yelped are no great shakes, either, although they’re passable, Serjeant falling into his old Fork habit of trying to snare large complex concepts in tiny couplets. Take this excerpt from “Kool Aid”, which appears to be about religious cults,
Endless days of summer’s haze
To winter’s chill our souls gave way
Childhood drama, playground games
Isolation in God’s name
Not exactly Oolon Colluphid, is it?
Let’s get this straight: we only harp on about these faults, because the rest of the record is so deeply satisfying. We find a major stumbling block in the flat humour on the EP, but we guess that if you’re prepared to ask for a copy of a CD by a band named Drunkenstein, you’ve already leapt a major hurdle, and if you do there’s an enormous amount to discover on The Independent Republic. Luckily the slim CD casing means that no visitors will be able to see the band’s name on the spine.
DRUNKENSTEIN – THE INDEPENDENT REPUBLIC OF DRUNKENSTEI (1908) – Rivet Gun Records
This is a very good record – comfortably the pick of our recent review pile – but it does display two huge faults, standing out like a pair of High School Musical deely boppers at a state funeral. Let’s start with the positive, though. First up, the playing is rather wonderful. Both guitars manage to combine rock heaviness with some intriguing curlicues, but the palme d’or belongs to the rhythm section: Snuffy from the much missed Marconi’s Voodoo supplies rich chocolatey bass, equally at home with funky slap figures and metal density, evident in the awkward yet propulsive intros to “Equation” and “Kool Aid”; Tim “Junkie Brush” Lovegrove’s drums are just as enticing, thudding yet precise – even finicky – in a manner that slightly recalls Zappa alumnus Terry Bozzio.
The compositions play well to these strengths, “Doktorr Black” rising from a lightly gothic guitar haze to a sludgy tsunami of noise. “Red Shift” takes a reverse stroll along the same path, opening with a righteous clatter, only to drop suddenly into a slow offbeat lope, in which reggae zombies scuff the aural sediment at the bottom of a trough of grunge rock. In fact, the track changes tempo and direction a number of times, but manages to avoid sounding uncertain or ill-thought out.
Letting all this excellent work down are the twin crimes of forced levity and overstrained vocal cords. The former is best displayed in the Dr Shotover aping spoken introductions to each song, delivered critically by a world-weary incumbent from a gents’ club wingback chair, an example of self-deprecation so contrived that we feel we’re imprisoned in some kerrazy rag week penal colony, a jester’s gulag, in which Pat Sharpe is a grotesque cackling overlord of wacky agony. Tragically this air of silliness over proceedings is not only as funny as a grubby, twitchy child repeatedly demanding you pull his finger on a long bus ride, but it detracts from the EP’s tightly controlled and intelligently constructed music.
Tightly controlled, that is, except for the vocals, our second bugbear. In his previous band, Fork, James Serjeant sang in a quiet insidious whisper, like the secret voice of guilt nagging at your conscience, but in the rather more full-bodied sound of Drunkenstein his voice simply sounds strained and clumsy. Even odder, when the rest of the band join in the effect is even worse, despite the fact Snuffy and Lovegrove have turned in perfectly reasonable lead vocal duties in other bands: we’re all for vocal brutality and a maelstrom of tortured voices, but the caterwauling at the end of “Red Shift” just sounds like cranky toddlers whose bedtime rusk is an hour overdue. The lyrics yelped are no great shakes, either, although they’re passable, Serjeant falling into his old Fork habit of trying to snare large complex concepts in tiny couplets. Take this excerpt from “Kool Aid”, which appears to be about religious cults,
Endless days of summer’s haze
To winter’s chill our souls gave way
Childhood drama, playground games
Isolation in God’s name
Not exactly Oolon Colluphid, is it?
Let’s get this straight: we only harp on about these faults, because the rest of the record is so deeply satisfying. We find a major stumbling block in the flat humour on the EP, but we guess that if you’re prepared to ask for a copy of a CD by a band named Drunkenstein, you’ve already leapt a major hurdle, and if you do there’s an enormous amount to discover on The Independent Republic. Luckily the slim CD casing means that no visitors will be able to see the band’s name on the spine.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Nudgefest
Winkstock 2009 never happened. In fact, The Port Mahon closed down instead. That's the influence I have in this town.
WINKSTOCK 08 – Port Mahon/Cellar 13/9/08
Drones. Feedback. Screaming. Things that look temptingly easy for a musician, yet are actually damned hard to pull off. Recitation is another, and so many artists who try talking over music end up as drama school showoffs, or inaudible mumblers. Clara Kindle (actually male), with soft, measured, stately vocals, shows us how well it can be done, and his calm, burnished tones remind us of Meanwhile Back In Communist Russia, Arab Strap and a funeral priest. The looped guitar backing is less assured, but even with a slight reticence the music has a clipped elegance, and sounds how 16th Century troubadours might have done if they had access to infinite delay pedals.
In contrast Joey Chainsaw’s set is a brief, brutal spasm. Bending and bowing his guitar strings with two drumsticks, Chainsaw excitedly slaps out a bunch of sounds, all knit together by a seasick lurching glissando. There are some interesting moments, but it starts to coalesce into something memorable after about 8 minutes, at which point the set abruptly ends. We’d like to have seen this explored further, although punters with fingers firmly in ears may have felt otherwise.
The House Of John Player may have some vocal reverb and delay effects, and a surprisingly tinny acoustic guitar sound, but ultimately the set sounds like yet more singer-songwriter strums from a man with a Paul Weller haircut, which sits oddly on the bill. We’re reminded of the album Brian Eno made with James: some decent textures, but underneath it all the same threadbare songs.
Thankfully we’re soon woken up. The Academy can spend all the money in Oxford on PA equipment, but nothing can ever sound as loud as a full throttle drummer in the Port Mahon, and American Gods boast a very good one. They make a very fine clatter, equal parts Stooges and Thee Headcoats, but with a pop heart beating in the middle – in fact, some of the yearning vocal lines would fit comfortably onto an R.E.M. single, though they’ll probably hate us for writing that.
If Oxford were really big enough to have micro-scenes, You’re Smiling Now But We’ll All Turn Into Demons recall Eynsham, circa 2003, such is their grungy, Dead Meadow rocking. Whilst the latter part of the set features Blue Cheer thrashing and a broken bass drum, it’s the earlier tracks that win us over, woozily sounding like Band Of Gypsies covering Pink Floyd after a few pints of Benylin.
Chops utilise three keyboards, a drum kit and lots of funny bloopy noises to create the theme music to an advert for Finnish marshmallow sweets as imagined by Boredoms, and it’s impossibly brilliant. They’re also full of surprises, the second number - at least, the noise after the first applause - is an octave spanning vamp that resembles Miles Davis’ fusion group having a crack at Add N To (X), whilst they end with a sax-sprinkled Eddie Bo funk tune, resembling a robotic New Orleans bar band. Act of the day, unquestionably.
A run across town to The Cellar is fun, but does taken the momentum from the event. Some haven’t lasted the distance, and Elapse-O start up to a small crowd, although we enjoy them far more than last time. They now seem to play with the programmed beats, rather than near them, and it all has a fuzzy edge to it, like a shoegazing Sunnyvale. The vocals still sound strained, but it’s a decent set.
Shit & Shine may be possibly the best live act we saw last year, but their records are very different affairs, built on queasy synth loops and lofi tape splicings. With a Casio, drumkit and machines Gentle Friendly make a noise that could fit into these records seamlessly. They’re also a touch like Trencher, and a sort of Fisher-Price Fuck Buttons. Most pleasant.
We recently ate some great chilli chicken noodles, eye wateringly spicy, yet with a subtlety of flavour. Manatees’ huge surging roils of sound are similar, in that they’re sonically oppressive, yet musically satisfying. We dutifully wear earplugs, but it’s immaterial, as this bassy rumbling bypasses the tympanum and instead troubles the bowels (much like the noodles, but that’s by the by). Forget the Large Hadron Collider, it’s Melvins onslaughts like this that are likely to produce black holes. We stumble into Cornmarket, reflecting that there’s still 3 hours of DJs to go. They have some stamina, these Winkstock organisers; and a brilliant contacts book. Here’s to Winkstock 2009.
WINKSTOCK 08 – Port Mahon/Cellar 13/9/08
Drones. Feedback. Screaming. Things that look temptingly easy for a musician, yet are actually damned hard to pull off. Recitation is another, and so many artists who try talking over music end up as drama school showoffs, or inaudible mumblers. Clara Kindle (actually male), with soft, measured, stately vocals, shows us how well it can be done, and his calm, burnished tones remind us of Meanwhile Back In Communist Russia, Arab Strap and a funeral priest. The looped guitar backing is less assured, but even with a slight reticence the music has a clipped elegance, and sounds how 16th Century troubadours might have done if they had access to infinite delay pedals.
In contrast Joey Chainsaw’s set is a brief, brutal spasm. Bending and bowing his guitar strings with two drumsticks, Chainsaw excitedly slaps out a bunch of sounds, all knit together by a seasick lurching glissando. There are some interesting moments, but it starts to coalesce into something memorable after about 8 minutes, at which point the set abruptly ends. We’d like to have seen this explored further, although punters with fingers firmly in ears may have felt otherwise.
The House Of John Player may have some vocal reverb and delay effects, and a surprisingly tinny acoustic guitar sound, but ultimately the set sounds like yet more singer-songwriter strums from a man with a Paul Weller haircut, which sits oddly on the bill. We’re reminded of the album Brian Eno made with James: some decent textures, but underneath it all the same threadbare songs.
Thankfully we’re soon woken up. The Academy can spend all the money in Oxford on PA equipment, but nothing can ever sound as loud as a full throttle drummer in the Port Mahon, and American Gods boast a very good one. They make a very fine clatter, equal parts Stooges and Thee Headcoats, but with a pop heart beating in the middle – in fact, some of the yearning vocal lines would fit comfortably onto an R.E.M. single, though they’ll probably hate us for writing that.
If Oxford were really big enough to have micro-scenes, You’re Smiling Now But We’ll All Turn Into Demons recall Eynsham, circa 2003, such is their grungy, Dead Meadow rocking. Whilst the latter part of the set features Blue Cheer thrashing and a broken bass drum, it’s the earlier tracks that win us over, woozily sounding like Band Of Gypsies covering Pink Floyd after a few pints of Benylin.
Chops utilise three keyboards, a drum kit and lots of funny bloopy noises to create the theme music to an advert for Finnish marshmallow sweets as imagined by Boredoms, and it’s impossibly brilliant. They’re also full of surprises, the second number - at least, the noise after the first applause - is an octave spanning vamp that resembles Miles Davis’ fusion group having a crack at Add N To (X), whilst they end with a sax-sprinkled Eddie Bo funk tune, resembling a robotic New Orleans bar band. Act of the day, unquestionably.
A run across town to The Cellar is fun, but does taken the momentum from the event. Some haven’t lasted the distance, and Elapse-O start up to a small crowd, although we enjoy them far more than last time. They now seem to play with the programmed beats, rather than near them, and it all has a fuzzy edge to it, like a shoegazing Sunnyvale. The vocals still sound strained, but it’s a decent set.
Shit & Shine may be possibly the best live act we saw last year, but their records are very different affairs, built on queasy synth loops and lofi tape splicings. With a Casio, drumkit and machines Gentle Friendly make a noise that could fit into these records seamlessly. They’re also a touch like Trencher, and a sort of Fisher-Price Fuck Buttons. Most pleasant.
We recently ate some great chilli chicken noodles, eye wateringly spicy, yet with a subtlety of flavour. Manatees’ huge surging roils of sound are similar, in that they’re sonically oppressive, yet musically satisfying. We dutifully wear earplugs, but it’s immaterial, as this bassy rumbling bypasses the tympanum and instead troubles the bowels (much like the noodles, but that’s by the by). Forget the Large Hadron Collider, it’s Melvins onslaughts like this that are likely to produce black holes. We stumble into Cornmarket, reflecting that there’s still 3 hours of DJs to go. They have some stamina, these Winkstock organisers; and a brilliant contacts book. Here’s to Winkstock 2009.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
Bleep Show
Last night I made two startling observations.
1) The first is about David Mitchell. Now, I have to tread carefully here, as his brother is a very close friend, although I've never met David. My rough take is that he's a wonderful performer, who's never found/written the right material. I've seen a few episodes of That Mitchell & Webb Look, and they were OK, somewhere between the worst of Fry & laurie & the best of Hale & Pace; I've seen a whole two episodes of Peep Show (I'm not really a TV person), and one was very funny whilst the other was really just an old sit com. Take away the swearing and marijuana and it could have been an episode of The Liver Birds or something. With southern accents. And men. Anyway, that's nothing to do with it, my observation is that Mitchell owes his fame, at least in a tiny part, to his amazing eyes. They're so huge and black. I don't mean that he has big, drug-happy pupils, I mean that his eyes are just vast dark balls, like he's been drawn in Japan. Manga face Mitchell, they could call him. Anyway, that's the crux of my observation, that David Mitchell has anime eyeballs.
2) Glory days Pet Shop Boys: Neil Tennant = C3PO, Chris Lowe = R2D2. Tell me I'm wrong.
This review is one of, I think, three that I submitted to BBC Oxford, but that they never used. Yes, that's how pat and generic it is. Enjoy!
CEX/BOVAFLUX/BETA PROPHECY - Remtek/Vacuous Pop, Cellar, 31/8/03
Question: Who the hell goes to a gig on a Sunday night?
Answer: You, if they're all as good as this one.
Remtek and Vacuous Pop have teamed up to bring a selection of cutting edge electronica to The Cellar over the coming weeks, and this is one fine way to start. We warm up with two laptop acts. The first of the two, Beta Prophecy, makes some lush and enveloping - though never overly comforting, let's get that straight - stretched of fuzzy sound, with the help of a guitarist. Oddly, even when the scrunchy beats kick in, it's still static (in both sense of the word). Strangely pleasing.
Bovaflux is more straight ahead, clicking breakbeats and sub-bass from his mouse; it's not unpleasant, but relies a little heavily on ravey tropes, albeit without the recombinant wit of, say, Squarepusher.
Ryan from Baltimore's Kid 606 associates Cex introduces himself in an unforgettable manner, bounding onto the floor in ridiculously heeled trainers, and flying round the crowd spitting out rhymes...aah, you never look bad with a radio mike!
He has the worst haircut of all time, ransom slashes making it look like he's had cranial surgery...maybe he has, but if so, those cortex stretches that deal with language were left well alone by the surgeon's blade, as he rips out what Mark E Smith called "undilutable slang truths".
The beats are more twisted hisses and scrapes athan drums, yet wierdly all the more pounding for it, and Ryan's vocal flow is effortlessly fluid; however, the best tune has sung vox and a more experimental backing, and asks how you can name a town that has been destroyed. I don't know whether this is a comment on "collateral damage", or some interior psychic collapse, but the effect is mesmerising.
In addition to all this we also learn some insights into the world of Cex, including the best description of ugliness ever: "He looks like he was on fire, and someone put him out with a wet chain". More like this please, Remtek. Superb.
1) The first is about David Mitchell. Now, I have to tread carefully here, as his brother is a very close friend, although I've never met David. My rough take is that he's a wonderful performer, who's never found/written the right material. I've seen a few episodes of That Mitchell & Webb Look, and they were OK, somewhere between the worst of Fry & laurie & the best of Hale & Pace; I've seen a whole two episodes of Peep Show (I'm not really a TV person), and one was very funny whilst the other was really just an old sit com. Take away the swearing and marijuana and it could have been an episode of The Liver Birds or something. With southern accents. And men. Anyway, that's nothing to do with it, my observation is that Mitchell owes his fame, at least in a tiny part, to his amazing eyes. They're so huge and black. I don't mean that he has big, drug-happy pupils, I mean that his eyes are just vast dark balls, like he's been drawn in Japan. Manga face Mitchell, they could call him. Anyway, that's the crux of my observation, that David Mitchell has anime eyeballs.
2) Glory days Pet Shop Boys: Neil Tennant = C3PO, Chris Lowe = R2D2. Tell me I'm wrong.
This review is one of, I think, three that I submitted to BBC Oxford, but that they never used. Yes, that's how pat and generic it is. Enjoy!
CEX/BOVAFLUX/BETA PROPHECY - Remtek/Vacuous Pop, Cellar, 31/8/03
Question: Who the hell goes to a gig on a Sunday night?
Answer: You, if they're all as good as this one.
Remtek and Vacuous Pop have teamed up to bring a selection of cutting edge electronica to The Cellar over the coming weeks, and this is one fine way to start. We warm up with two laptop acts. The first of the two, Beta Prophecy, makes some lush and enveloping - though never overly comforting, let's get that straight - stretched of fuzzy sound, with the help of a guitarist. Oddly, even when the scrunchy beats kick in, it's still static (in both sense of the word). Strangely pleasing.
Bovaflux is more straight ahead, clicking breakbeats and sub-bass from his mouse; it's not unpleasant, but relies a little heavily on ravey tropes, albeit without the recombinant wit of, say, Squarepusher.
Ryan from Baltimore's Kid 606 associates Cex introduces himself in an unforgettable manner, bounding onto the floor in ridiculously heeled trainers, and flying round the crowd spitting out rhymes...aah, you never look bad with a radio mike!
He has the worst haircut of all time, ransom slashes making it look like he's had cranial surgery...maybe he has, but if so, those cortex stretches that deal with language were left well alone by the surgeon's blade, as he rips out what Mark E Smith called "undilutable slang truths".
The beats are more twisted hisses and scrapes athan drums, yet wierdly all the more pounding for it, and Ryan's vocal flow is effortlessly fluid; however, the best tune has sung vox and a more experimental backing, and asks how you can name a town that has been destroyed. I don't know whether this is a comment on "collateral damage", or some interior psychic collapse, but the effect is mesmerising.
In addition to all this we also learn some insights into the world of Cex, including the best description of ugliness ever: "He looks like he was on fire, and someone put him out with a wet chain". More like this please, Remtek. Superb.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Chubb Rock?
I'm in a terrible mood tonight. Not that that's your fault, of course, but all the same, I'll keep my mouth shut & get on with the archival shit.
THE KEYZ – SUPERSTAR GAZING (demo)
At first sight we hated this CD – a combination of the cover, which looks like a nineteenth century consumptive has coughed blood all over a Turner tea towel, and that ugly crass Z in the name turned our stomachs. Almost immediately, we opened Nightshift to discover that this Banbury band has won a juicy £15, 000 to spend on recording through www.slicethepie.com. Interest is immediately piqued; it has to be worth hearing, if they’re flying the local flag so successfully. It’s a crying shame, then, that we hate it just as much after playing the bloody thing.
It opens intriguingly enough, “Monkeyfish” wafting out a highly polished guitar swirl that could be from some mid 80s Eric Clapton LP, primed to explode into vastly expensive, sleek pomp rock and supersized blues. Tragically, it just flops into a puddle of laddish ska punk instead. It’s not the worst ska punk we’ve ever heard by a long chalk (it’s a pretty benighted genre, let’s be honest), but it doesn’t have much to say, and even less in the way of character. Apart from sending us scuttling to dig out Twizz Twangle’s evergreen “Monkey Dog”, there’s no real reason for this song to exist on record. Live, maybe; a few beers, a loud enough PA, a frustrating failure to cop off, could all make this third hand bounce sound enticing, but a well played yet vapid studio performance has leeched any tiny fragment of life it may have had.
The next tune starts with the line, “Have I told you about my mate Jack?” Now, perhaps there are some lyricists who could make something of that woefully underpowered salvo: Suggs in his classic era, maybe, or The Small Faces, or perhaps even Mike Skinner, on a good day. But The Keyz are none of these, and this pedestrian opener simply illustrates that The Keyz are a band who have never had an idea of their own – and if they have they’ve quickly covered it up with a guitar overdub lest anyone should point and laugh at them for standing out from the cold grey crowd. Only some fluent piano lines gracefully swooping at the fringes can raise this song from a million others.
At this point we begin to worry that we’re being unfair to a perfectly able band, but the last two tracks take the EP on a shocking downward curve: “Them & Me” starts with the sound of the Bernie Inn pianist having a crack at Michael Nyman, before swamping even that in faceless mid-tempo mush, whilst the title track is like an anodyne advert for life assurance that goes on for over six minutes. We appreciate we sound jealous of The Keyz – and fuck it, we are! Fifteen grand would be appreciated at any time, and we’d be especially chuffed if we were given it for being the best at being average. Of course, they presumably won the prize – voted for blind by the public, I might add, so it’s all above board, unlike many another battle of the bands scam – because they can play. And they can, they can play just fine, so long as your criteria for “fine” don’t stretch beyond the ability to keep in time and balance your volume levels. The Keyz are better than many a band chugging away in the provinces, but a classical musician playing with this little flair and attention would have trouble getting a gig at the WI.
But, hell, if being able to perform the basics of music, without the necessity to come up with anything that demands performance is what you desire, here’s The Keyz. If you fancy awarding the Booker Prize to the writer who can spell the best, knock yourself out. If you want to give Michelin stars to any chef who can prepare food to the basic requirements of the human digestive system, go ahead…but be aware that some of us won’t be joining you in this brave new world without a serious fight.
THE KEYZ – SUPERSTAR GAZING (demo)
At first sight we hated this CD – a combination of the cover, which looks like a nineteenth century consumptive has coughed blood all over a Turner tea towel, and that ugly crass Z in the name turned our stomachs. Almost immediately, we opened Nightshift to discover that this Banbury band has won a juicy £15, 000 to spend on recording through www.slicethepie.com. Interest is immediately piqued; it has to be worth hearing, if they’re flying the local flag so successfully. It’s a crying shame, then, that we hate it just as much after playing the bloody thing.
It opens intriguingly enough, “Monkeyfish” wafting out a highly polished guitar swirl that could be from some mid 80s Eric Clapton LP, primed to explode into vastly expensive, sleek pomp rock and supersized blues. Tragically, it just flops into a puddle of laddish ska punk instead. It’s not the worst ska punk we’ve ever heard by a long chalk (it’s a pretty benighted genre, let’s be honest), but it doesn’t have much to say, and even less in the way of character. Apart from sending us scuttling to dig out Twizz Twangle’s evergreen “Monkey Dog”, there’s no real reason for this song to exist on record. Live, maybe; a few beers, a loud enough PA, a frustrating failure to cop off, could all make this third hand bounce sound enticing, but a well played yet vapid studio performance has leeched any tiny fragment of life it may have had.
The next tune starts with the line, “Have I told you about my mate Jack?” Now, perhaps there are some lyricists who could make something of that woefully underpowered salvo: Suggs in his classic era, maybe, or The Small Faces, or perhaps even Mike Skinner, on a good day. But The Keyz are none of these, and this pedestrian opener simply illustrates that The Keyz are a band who have never had an idea of their own – and if they have they’ve quickly covered it up with a guitar overdub lest anyone should point and laugh at them for standing out from the cold grey crowd. Only some fluent piano lines gracefully swooping at the fringes can raise this song from a million others.
At this point we begin to worry that we’re being unfair to a perfectly able band, but the last two tracks take the EP on a shocking downward curve: “Them & Me” starts with the sound of the Bernie Inn pianist having a crack at Michael Nyman, before swamping even that in faceless mid-tempo mush, whilst the title track is like an anodyne advert for life assurance that goes on for over six minutes. We appreciate we sound jealous of The Keyz – and fuck it, we are! Fifteen grand would be appreciated at any time, and we’d be especially chuffed if we were given it for being the best at being average. Of course, they presumably won the prize – voted for blind by the public, I might add, so it’s all above board, unlike many another battle of the bands scam – because they can play. And they can, they can play just fine, so long as your criteria for “fine” don’t stretch beyond the ability to keep in time and balance your volume levels. The Keyz are better than many a band chugging away in the provinces, but a classical musician playing with this little flair and attention would have trouble getting a gig at the WI.
But, hell, if being able to perform the basics of music, without the necessity to come up with anything that demands performance is what you desire, here’s The Keyz. If you fancy awarding the Booker Prize to the writer who can spell the best, knock yourself out. If you want to give Michelin stars to any chef who can prepare food to the basic requirements of the human digestive system, go ahead…but be aware that some of us won’t be joining you in this brave new world without a serious fight.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
A Good Hard Rogeting
Two points of interest about this review:
1) I don't know of whom I was thinking at the time, but having since heard a decent amount of The Sensational Alex harvey Band, I reckon they're pretty ace.
2) My ex-editor at BBC Oxford disliked this review so much he parodied it in an online review of Foxes! a few weeks later: "There was no chicanery here, it was just three bonhomie types all coeval physically and mentally. They peeled back the patina of the night and enticed the salmagundi of striplings to take their caution and defenestrate it. The lead singer may have been a hobbledehoy - there was something of that about the whole band - but I still found it daedal and not in the slightest rebarbative. Sorry if I've been a little fustian but they deserve the effort". Absolutely wonderful stuff, I was proper chuffed (although "bonhomie" isn't an adjective, and you can't really peel back a patina, if you're reading, Tim).
EMMY THE GREAT/FOXES!, My Analogue, Port Mahon, 6/06
It was once said of Clinic that they make the music that might spring up if The Beatles were wiped from the musical annals, reference points leaping from scratchy blues and lush Phil Spectorisms to Velvet Underground chug and new wave irascibility. A similar thing could be said of newish local act, Foxes! Their set is a rough mix of lindyhopping naivete, ebullient garage bash and no wave loft experiment as performed by local oddballs at some fleabitten village fete. In other words, hugely entertaining, if a tiny bit messy round the edges, with a surprising ear for a tune in evidence, too. John, Paul, George and who?
If ever there was a frustrating genre moniker, it’s “anti-folk”. Coined in earnest, we dare say, but generally read by gig-goers nowadays as “acoustic performer with minimal vocal ability and possible funny trousers”. Despite a couple of breathy quirks in the vocals we’re pleased to announce that London’s Emmy The Great is a long way from this deadening bunch, and is really a straightforward and enormously talented poetic singer-songwriter, who manages to keep a tired and parboiled Port audience in rapt attention. There are a few oddities in the subject matter, but the structure and delivery is as traditionally intimate as any old folkie’s. Imagine a cubist Michelle Shocked.
Admittedly, lines like “a million shadows will all become pregnant or diseased” are more intriguing than they are, err, good, but the majority of Emmy’s compositions are lucid and lovable, and she pulls off the golden songwriter’s trick of sounding completely original and universally relevant at the same time. It’s often patronising to call a performer “charming”, especially if they’re female, but Emmy’s charming set was less like a performance and more like a friendly musical chat in which one participant just happened to stand at the front of the room. Unlike The Sensational Alex Harvey Band or The Legendary Pete Fryer, Emmy The Great has picked up an adjective that we’re not arguing with at all.
1) I don't know of whom I was thinking at the time, but having since heard a decent amount of The Sensational Alex harvey Band, I reckon they're pretty ace.
2) My ex-editor at BBC Oxford disliked this review so much he parodied it in an online review of Foxes! a few weeks later: "There was no chicanery here, it was just three bonhomie types all coeval physically and mentally. They peeled back the patina of the night and enticed the salmagundi of striplings to take their caution and defenestrate it. The lead singer may have been a hobbledehoy - there was something of that about the whole band - but I still found it daedal and not in the slightest rebarbative. Sorry if I've been a little fustian but they deserve the effort". Absolutely wonderful stuff, I was proper chuffed (although "bonhomie" isn't an adjective, and you can't really peel back a patina, if you're reading, Tim).
EMMY THE GREAT/FOXES!, My Analogue, Port Mahon, 6/06
It was once said of Clinic that they make the music that might spring up if The Beatles were wiped from the musical annals, reference points leaping from scratchy blues and lush Phil Spectorisms to Velvet Underground chug and new wave irascibility. A similar thing could be said of newish local act, Foxes! Their set is a rough mix of lindyhopping naivete, ebullient garage bash and no wave loft experiment as performed by local oddballs at some fleabitten village fete. In other words, hugely entertaining, if a tiny bit messy round the edges, with a surprising ear for a tune in evidence, too. John, Paul, George and who?
If ever there was a frustrating genre moniker, it’s “anti-folk”. Coined in earnest, we dare say, but generally read by gig-goers nowadays as “acoustic performer with minimal vocal ability and possible funny trousers”. Despite a couple of breathy quirks in the vocals we’re pleased to announce that London’s Emmy The Great is a long way from this deadening bunch, and is really a straightforward and enormously talented poetic singer-songwriter, who manages to keep a tired and parboiled Port audience in rapt attention. There are a few oddities in the subject matter, but the structure and delivery is as traditionally intimate as any old folkie’s. Imagine a cubist Michelle Shocked.
Admittedly, lines like “a million shadows will all become pregnant or diseased” are more intriguing than they are, err, good, but the majority of Emmy’s compositions are lucid and lovable, and she pulls off the golden songwriter’s trick of sounding completely original and universally relevant at the same time. It’s often patronising to call a performer “charming”, especially if they’re female, but Emmy’s charming set was less like a performance and more like a friendly musical chat in which one participant just happened to stand at the front of the room. Unlike The Sensational Alex Harvey Band or The Legendary Pete Fryer, Emmy The Great has picked up an adjective that we’re not arguing with at all.
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