Bloody hell, this one's a bit long, isn't it? I guess that comes from describing fleetfooted experimental music made by musicians you can't see at all (the Port was tiny, you could fit about 70 people in there, and I was at the back). Anyway, there's a decent bit of writing stuck in here somewhere, underneath about 300 extra words, so do your own editing. Hey, interactive 21st century entertainment!
JACK ROSE/ CHRIS CORSANO/LAST OF THE REAL HARDMEN – Vacuous Pop, Port Mahon, 13/2/06
According to press, Last Of The Real Hardmen is the solo project of Chris Summerlin, guitarist from Oxfordbands favourites Lords, so why is there two people on stage? Are we to believe that the drummer is just hired help, working at the dictates of the guitarist? Seems unlikely, as the drums dominate this set for the most part, at least in terms of volume, scattering jittery beats all over some pleasant guitar figures and sounding like a bunch of moths trapped in a contact-miked paper lampshade. Anyone who saw the wonderful collision between Gary Smith and Shoji Haino in this venue last year might have an idea of what this music is about – hyper-active rhythms scuttling over guitar curlicues quivering on the edge of feedback – though this set was not quite so convincing. There was a wider palette in operation though, as crackling loops made beds for the guitar, oddly reminiscent of some of Bill Frisell’s work and at one point a metallophonic pitched percussion passage broke in, gloriously. If, like me, you fancy the sound of 5 tartrazined tots running amok in a gamelan, then you’d be very happy.
Most interesting in some ways was the final section, featuring yearning whalecry guitar lines and thudding repetition that seemed to be simultaneously eerily delicate and dumbly rockin’. No sleep till Twin Peaks! Perhaps this was the flaw of the admittedly impressive show: the best parts were the crescendos, as is the case in so much music, from abstract jazz to suburban metal. Still, even if the structure of the set was a touch predictable, the general effect could be quite spellbinding.
Speaking of structure, it occurs to me that free improv can often rely on dynamic techniques as hackneyed as the worst Stiltskin aping pseudo-grunge band, and I must have heard the hum-skitter-bash progression almost as many times as the quiet-loud-quiet trick. Improvising drummer Chris Corsano certainly doesn’t fall into that trap, turning in a set that keeps folding back on itself and changing direction on a sixpence. Initially he’s weaving a beguiling net of tones from scraped strings, but before you know it he’s bashing percussive phrases together like a slapdash carpenter and on occasion it sounds like he’s herding wayward beats like an exhausted sheepdog, barely managing to stay seated in his stool with the exertion.
“An intimate performance” is an overused phrase, and is often a euphemism to mean that a singer lacking vocal projection is playing a badly publicised gig. However, the sight of Corsano playing on the hoof so close to a wall of intent scrutineers is an inspiring one, that made me wish I’d made the effort to push to the front. Of course, had I been able to see everything I would have known that the penultimate piece probably wasn’t the sound of Corsano blowing a shawm into a hoover whilst rubbing a balloon, but that’s just what it sounded like. Anyone who thinks that drums solos are a chance to pop to the loo in mid-80s style stadium gigs should track this man down, then simply sit back and enjoy.
Pelt member Jack Rose rounded the evening off with a quiet, more sedate but no less intense affair, picking at his guitar in an intricate downhome upmountain manner. Many reference points jump to mind, but ultimately Rose is just a representative of a long tradition of Americana, and any names that I might bring up are just individual bubbles that have popped up from the long flowing river of US guitar music. If that sounds an overly Romantic notion, well, this is the sort of music to make one feel misty eyed and introspective. If you must have a reference point, Rose plays a very neat little John Fahey number, which produces an enormous cheer, and gives an indication of his style.
One fascinating element of this music is the lack of nostalgia on display. There are obvious touches of country blues in this music, but it’s unsentimental (which is not the same as unemotional) and doesn’t seem to be retreading a tired path like much of the urban blues that is the dominant strain nowadays. To put it another way, it’s very hard to imagine a B. B. King imitator holding so many people in rapt attention after two freeform sets, nor is it easy to envisage Oxford’s more experimental musicians (members of The Holiday Stabbings, Sunnyvale and The Thumb Quintet were in evidence, for example) finding so much to revel in at The Bully’s Monday Blues. Perhaps this is the definition of a living tradition, as opposed to a formulaic rehash.
Or perhaps Rose is just a very talented finger-pick guitarist, and I’m getting carried away. Any road, it’s a lovely way to spend half an hour, and it’s another victory for Vacuous Pop. It’s pleasing that VP has been voted best promoter two years running on this site, as many of their events probe the less well known areas of modern music...or in this case timeless music. That listeners recognise the work that goes into these gigs, and not only samples but warmly embraces them is one of the things that makes Oxford a pleasant musical environment. And if you want to see what makes it a less pleasant environment, just click a little further upscreen and pay a visit to the message board!
Tuesday 31 March 2009
Friday 27 March 2009
Temporal Uncertainty
I have no idea when this was from. The edition of OHM inexplicably has no date on the front (it also has no writer credits for each review, for some reason). It does claim to be Volume II, Issue 2, but then so did the one I was looking at last time I posted from OHM, so who's to say? Bloody amateurs.
Klub Kak again, I'm so predictable, aren't I? The Smug Jugglers, by the way, were an atrocious band, but they were nice guys who used to fill in for KK whenever anyone pulled out, which is why I've seen them all too many times. Suitable Case were an amazing Beefheartian gospel metal band, whose singer Liam (now in Mephisto Grande, an amazing Beefheartian gospel - you get the idea) has some gnashers missing. Wierdly, Rus from Phyal ended up in Eduard Soundingblock, another post-SCFT act. Endlessly fascinating, I'm sure.
Oh, look at that, Lagrima pop up again. I used to like them, but they've spit up now (literally: they were a couple).
LAGRIMA/PHYAL, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, Feb 2004?
Off once again to the wonderful Klub Kakofanney, Oxford's longest running live music night. You never know quite what you'll get at Kak - except that there's about a 50/50 chance that The Smug Jugglers are playing - which is part of the pleasure. Lagrima start the evening, and do it extremely well, tickling the small crowd with a handful of light, sublte, slightly flamecoid jazz-folk numbers. The vocals are warm, smoky and deliciously low and intimate, even if the body they come out of looks like it would be more comfortable some place else; the acoustic guitar is beautifully played, with so many counterpoint lines and percussive elements it sounds like a whole band's locked in the fretboard. I've a sneaking suspicion that they let their talent do the work occasionally, and it would be nice to hear some risks taken in the more straightforward tunes, but they certainly go down pleasantly with a pint of Guinness, that's for sure.
Phyal, by contrast, trade a neat line in Market Town Metal. Admittedly I've invented that genre, but you get the idea: tuneful heavy rock performed with gusto, led by a singer who's clearly studied The I-Spy Book Of Rock-Chickery quite closely. The first, and best, song with its tight funky rhythm section, sounds a little like the Chili Peppers wrestling with Evanescence over an antediluvian goth tune.
There's a mid-90s concern with a vocal melody on display, but it's bolstered with some firy guitar work, which keeps things interesting, although pretty much all the songs seem to carve the same sort of shape, and a little time spent arranging might move Phyal up a gear. Still, if Suitable Case For Treatment are too noisy for you, why not give Phyal a testdrive? They have a more melodic approach and all their own teeth.
Klub Kak again, I'm so predictable, aren't I? The Smug Jugglers, by the way, were an atrocious band, but they were nice guys who used to fill in for KK whenever anyone pulled out, which is why I've seen them all too many times. Suitable Case were an amazing Beefheartian gospel metal band, whose singer Liam (now in Mephisto Grande, an amazing Beefheartian gospel - you get the idea) has some gnashers missing. Wierdly, Rus from Phyal ended up in Eduard Soundingblock, another post-SCFT act. Endlessly fascinating, I'm sure.
Oh, look at that, Lagrima pop up again. I used to like them, but they've spit up now (literally: they were a couple).
LAGRIMA/PHYAL, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, Feb 2004?
Off once again to the wonderful Klub Kakofanney, Oxford's longest running live music night. You never know quite what you'll get at Kak - except that there's about a 50/50 chance that The Smug Jugglers are playing - which is part of the pleasure. Lagrima start the evening, and do it extremely well, tickling the small crowd with a handful of light, sublte, slightly flamecoid jazz-folk numbers. The vocals are warm, smoky and deliciously low and intimate, even if the body they come out of looks like it would be more comfortable some place else; the acoustic guitar is beautifully played, with so many counterpoint lines and percussive elements it sounds like a whole band's locked in the fretboard. I've a sneaking suspicion that they let their talent do the work occasionally, and it would be nice to hear some risks taken in the more straightforward tunes, but they certainly go down pleasantly with a pint of Guinness, that's for sure.
Phyal, by contrast, trade a neat line in Market Town Metal. Admittedly I've invented that genre, but you get the idea: tuneful heavy rock performed with gusto, led by a singer who's clearly studied The I-Spy Book Of Rock-Chickery quite closely. The first, and best, song with its tight funky rhythm section, sounds a little like the Chili Peppers wrestling with Evanescence over an antediluvian goth tune.
There's a mid-90s concern with a vocal melody on display, but it's bolstered with some firy guitar work, which keeps things interesting, although pretty much all the songs seem to carve the same sort of shape, and a little time spent arranging might move Phyal up a gear. Still, if Suitable Case For Treatment are too noisy for you, why not give Phyal a testdrive? They have a more melodic approach and all their own teeth.
Thursday 26 March 2009
Hard Pill To Swallow
Right, I'm in a hurry tonight, so we'll keep it simple: a recent review, from Nightshift, of three acts: good, so-so, and rubbish. The most fun ratio for a reviewer, really.
THE MEDICINE/ THE MOUNTAIN PARADE/ DUOTONE - Coo Coo Club, Jericho Tavern, 10/1/09
The sonic pairing in the name is presumably that of acoustic guitar and ‘cello, but Duotone is a one man operation, and that man is Barney Morse-Brown. With the aid of a loop pedal Barney strings together some meltingly gorgeous licks and melodic fragments, until his music sounds alternately like Nick Drake in a hall of mirrors, and Sibelius’ “Swan Of Tuonela” caressed by Arthur Russell’s sleepy ghost. The only weak point in a stunning set is the vocal: Barney’s voice, whilst not unpleasant, has all the power and resilience of wet tissue paper, and can’t find a comfortable place in the intricately constructed musical skeins. To be honest, there’s no need to even open your mouth when your ‘cello sings like this, and you’d wait a long long time to see a musician with such a wealth of subtle phrasing opening a gig. Everyone should see Duotone, whether they’re introspective folkies, classical vultures, melodic pop kids or post-rock clever dicks, it’s a treat.
The Mountain Parade’s set is roughly a Concerto For Trumpet, Melodica, Cardigans And Standing Around Sheepishly. Think of the twee-est thing you can, multiply it by glitter to the power of homemade badges, and go from there. The music is quite pleasing – something like Belle & Sebastian at a toddler group – but the performance is so cutesy and ramshackle the only possible reactions are gooey condescension (“How sweet”), or towering rage (“Try to look like you’re making a bloody effort!”). Singer Roxy has a clear limpid voice, and some of the songs are good, especially the history of “Shackleton Bewley, Explorer Extraordinaire”, but whilst we’re not insistent that every gig is a sweat drenched hell pit, we’d rather not feel as if we were watching someone else’s kids in the infant school nativity.
No hint of the unrehearsed or whimsical as The Medicine crack into a tight set of bluesy, roadhouse rock yarns. The playing is faultless, with especial mention for Joel Bassuk’s incisive drumming, but although we have a lot of respect for leader Matt Sage, both for his acoustic performances and his running of the excellent Catweazle and Big Village promotions, the gig gets tedious after about a song and a half. The third number is approximately The Beatles’ “Don’t Let Me Down” as performed by the band who do the incidental music on Friends, whereas the majority of it resembles Bob Dylan’s Oh Mercy LP without the mysterious alchemy that makes it a Dylan album, and whilst we’re not insistent that every show is a heart-rending exploration of the soul, we’d rather not feel as if we were watching someone else’s Dads in a garish small town covers bar on a slow Wednesday.
THE MEDICINE/ THE MOUNTAIN PARADE/ DUOTONE - Coo Coo Club, Jericho Tavern, 10/1/09
The sonic pairing in the name is presumably that of acoustic guitar and ‘cello, but Duotone is a one man operation, and that man is Barney Morse-Brown. With the aid of a loop pedal Barney strings together some meltingly gorgeous licks and melodic fragments, until his music sounds alternately like Nick Drake in a hall of mirrors, and Sibelius’ “Swan Of Tuonela” caressed by Arthur Russell’s sleepy ghost. The only weak point in a stunning set is the vocal: Barney’s voice, whilst not unpleasant, has all the power and resilience of wet tissue paper, and can’t find a comfortable place in the intricately constructed musical skeins. To be honest, there’s no need to even open your mouth when your ‘cello sings like this, and you’d wait a long long time to see a musician with such a wealth of subtle phrasing opening a gig. Everyone should see Duotone, whether they’re introspective folkies, classical vultures, melodic pop kids or post-rock clever dicks, it’s a treat.
The Mountain Parade’s set is roughly a Concerto For Trumpet, Melodica, Cardigans And Standing Around Sheepishly. Think of the twee-est thing you can, multiply it by glitter to the power of homemade badges, and go from there. The music is quite pleasing – something like Belle & Sebastian at a toddler group – but the performance is so cutesy and ramshackle the only possible reactions are gooey condescension (“How sweet”), or towering rage (“Try to look like you’re making a bloody effort!”). Singer Roxy has a clear limpid voice, and some of the songs are good, especially the history of “Shackleton Bewley, Explorer Extraordinaire”, but whilst we’re not insistent that every gig is a sweat drenched hell pit, we’d rather not feel as if we were watching someone else’s kids in the infant school nativity.
No hint of the unrehearsed or whimsical as The Medicine crack into a tight set of bluesy, roadhouse rock yarns. The playing is faultless, with especial mention for Joel Bassuk’s incisive drumming, but although we have a lot of respect for leader Matt Sage, both for his acoustic performances and his running of the excellent Catweazle and Big Village promotions, the gig gets tedious after about a song and a half. The third number is approximately The Beatles’ “Don’t Let Me Down” as performed by the band who do the incidental music on Friends, whereas the majority of it resembles Bob Dylan’s Oh Mercy LP without the mysterious alchemy that makes it a Dylan album, and whilst we’re not insistent that every show is a heart-rending exploration of the soul, we’d rather not feel as if we were watching someone else’s Dads in a garish small town covers bar on a slow Wednesday.
Tuesday 24 March 2009
The Giddy Goatee
This is a review of a promoter whose gigs I've really enjoyed on many occasions, but the night in question was a bit dank. All those good gigs I saw with pen safely in pocket, & then I go and review this one. So, you can probably taste the conflict betwen wanting to be nice about the organisors, and wanting to be nasty about the acts.
I've kept the "house style"micro-paragraphs this time, just so you can see how the BBC editor used to post the reviews. No matter how glib and pithy I tried to be, I was apparently always too long winded and obtuse, so he hacked the copy into tiny bites of prose. Semi-colons got chopped regularly. Probably fair, I'm a bastard for convoluted, multi-clause sentences, but on the other hand, I think it's best to imagine your readers have got beyond The Magic Faraway Tree in terms of reading comprehension. Actually, this review, like a lot of my BBC efforts, is pretty poor: was this because it was early in my (ha!) career, or because I was trying, and failing, to write like somebody from Look In to keep the powers that be happy?
THE BROTHERS OF INVENTION/EMILY ROLT/LAGRIMA/FATALLY YOURS, Beard Musuem, The Purple Turtle, 11/04
Maybe it's the name, but I always imagined Fatally Yours were a goth band. Perhaps they are normally, but in semi-acoustic formation they sound like an American chart indie band circa 1999, with hints of 70s AM pop. Which is better than it sounds, actually.
There's a pleasant warmth to their two guitar sound and they have a decent clutch of songs - though, whatever your politics, the Iraq song is a royal duffer. Despite the fact that he looks nothing like him, something in the singer's mannerisms (and eyebrows) reminds me of Morrissey. Not that he sounds like Morrissey...he sounds like an American chart indie singer circa 1999. Which is again better than I'm implying.
It's a good little set, and if that sounds patronising, remember that Beard Museum is, by definition, a little gig. Most enjoyable.
Acoustic duo Lagrima has a bunch of songs that sound like 50s jazz stanbards you can't quite place. Whilst this means they don't pack too many surprises, it does mean they come across as elegant and immediate.
The guitarist is incredibly fluent, and the singer, despite her obvious nerves, has a delicious, smoky voice, that really cuts into the heart of the compositions. Their first song features the repeated refrain "Easy", and that's my minor gripe with them: I'd love to see them stray from the path and develop their sound. It's as if they know that anything they do is effortlessly lovely, so play it safe.
Still, if "effortlessly lovely" is my harshest criticism, I think we're onto a winner here...
Emily Rolt is an incredible singer...and by "incredible" I mean "extremely able" rather than "any good". Like many RnB types, warbling Emily seems to have confused vocal dexterity with the ability to interpret a lyric. The again, when a song basically consists of the words "beautiful, beautiful love" repeated for about a week, maybe there's nowhere to go.
I've never liked it much, but Coldplay's "Yellow" does not automatically become more emotionally charged if you play it really slowly and never come close to singing the melody. Emily's constantly singing
.............................and up here
down here
...................................................and over there
for no clear reason. Except that she can, I suppose.
In all fairness, millions of people will love her, and she won't disappoint them, but I need something more.
Emily is great at what she does. Then again, so was jack The Ripper.
ddly, when The Brothers Of Invention took the stage I whispered to my friend, "They look like Maroon 5". "More like Toploader," he replied.
Well, blow me if they don't sound like a cross betwen the two. Their bouncy jazz-pop is fine, but Curiosity has already killed the cat, don't let it kill me too.
At least, this was my first reaction, but by the end of the set they'd just about salvaged it, with some entertaining lite funk tunes, and some neat keyboard playing, so let's average it out to polite ambivalence.
Another varied and interesting line-up from The Beard Museum - far more than just an acoustic night.
I've kept the "house style"micro-paragraphs this time, just so you can see how the BBC editor used to post the reviews. No matter how glib and pithy I tried to be, I was apparently always too long winded and obtuse, so he hacked the copy into tiny bites of prose. Semi-colons got chopped regularly. Probably fair, I'm a bastard for convoluted, multi-clause sentences, but on the other hand, I think it's best to imagine your readers have got beyond The Magic Faraway Tree in terms of reading comprehension. Actually, this review, like a lot of my BBC efforts, is pretty poor: was this because it was early in my (ha!) career, or because I was trying, and failing, to write like somebody from Look In to keep the powers that be happy?
THE BROTHERS OF INVENTION/EMILY ROLT/LAGRIMA/FATALLY YOURS, Beard Musuem, The Purple Turtle, 11/04
Maybe it's the name, but I always imagined Fatally Yours were a goth band. Perhaps they are normally, but in semi-acoustic formation they sound like an American chart indie band circa 1999, with hints of 70s AM pop. Which is better than it sounds, actually.
There's a pleasant warmth to their two guitar sound and they have a decent clutch of songs - though, whatever your politics, the Iraq song is a royal duffer. Despite the fact that he looks nothing like him, something in the singer's mannerisms (and eyebrows) reminds me of Morrissey. Not that he sounds like Morrissey...he sounds like an American chart indie singer circa 1999. Which is again better than I'm implying.
It's a good little set, and if that sounds patronising, remember that Beard Museum is, by definition, a little gig. Most enjoyable.
Acoustic duo Lagrima has a bunch of songs that sound like 50s jazz stanbards you can't quite place. Whilst this means they don't pack too many surprises, it does mean they come across as elegant and immediate.
The guitarist is incredibly fluent, and the singer, despite her obvious nerves, has a delicious, smoky voice, that really cuts into the heart of the compositions. Their first song features the repeated refrain "Easy", and that's my minor gripe with them: I'd love to see them stray from the path and develop their sound. It's as if they know that anything they do is effortlessly lovely, so play it safe.
Still, if "effortlessly lovely" is my harshest criticism, I think we're onto a winner here...
Emily Rolt is an incredible singer...and by "incredible" I mean "extremely able" rather than "any good". Like many RnB types, warbling Emily seems to have confused vocal dexterity with the ability to interpret a lyric. The again, when a song basically consists of the words "beautiful, beautiful love" repeated for about a week, maybe there's nowhere to go.
I've never liked it much, but Coldplay's "Yellow" does not automatically become more emotionally charged if you play it really slowly and never come close to singing the melody. Emily's constantly singing
.............................and up here
down here
...................................................and over there
for no clear reason. Except that she can, I suppose.
In all fairness, millions of people will love her, and she won't disappoint them, but I need something more.
Emily is great at what she does. Then again, so was jack The Ripper.
ddly, when The Brothers Of Invention took the stage I whispered to my friend, "They look like Maroon 5". "More like Toploader," he replied.
Well, blow me if they don't sound like a cross betwen the two. Their bouncy jazz-pop is fine, but Curiosity has already killed the cat, don't let it kill me too.
At least, this was my first reaction, but by the end of the set they'd just about salvaged it, with some entertaining lite funk tunes, and some neat keyboard playing, so let's average it out to polite ambivalence.
Another varied and interesting line-up from The Beard Museum - far more than just an acoustic night.
Saturday 21 March 2009
Thorn in my side
Here's a record review from Oxfordbands from July last year, of local post rock trio Hretha - I don't normally like this sort of stuff, there's too much of it around, but there's something about this CD that just works for me. The proposed parlour game in the first sentence is really only for Oxford music scenesters...then again, surely there's nobody from elsewhere bothering to read this...?
The pun in the title refers to the now anitquated letter in Hretha's name, that looks a little like a D, much used in Old English, and still used in Iceland. Except, it kind of doesn't because a Thorn is a similar "th" type letter that looks like a P with an extra stalk at the top; the D with a line through it is actually called an Eth, pronounced to rhyme with the 1st syllable in "leather", and I couldn't think of a pun for that. It's not a sound we use much in English. Some Spaniards sort of do when they say a word ending in -ez, don't they?
Like Cardinal Ximenez, his name is such good fun to say; if I were to be tortured to death under flimsy pretences by a vicious religious zealot, I'd like it to be him.
HRETHA – EP ONE
This week’s cocktail hour bagatelle is to imagine a version of 80s teen stalwart The Breakfast Club with Oxford bands recast as the central characters. We shan’t spoil the fun by making any suggestions, but we do feel that we can envisage a denouement in which acts find unlikely kinship in those from different genres, having spent a few evenings listening to the new Hretha EP. Judged by their live shows, we’ve always had Hretha (and yes, it is a “th” sound, even though it might look like a “d”, just admit you aren’t as orthographically astute as we) pegged as a straight up post rock trio. You know the sort: pretty good musicians, lots of instrumental fiddliness, dynamics instead of compositions. Their intricately cross-stitched guitar skeins have kept us diverted for half an hour here and there, but we’ve never felt them working too deeply into the consciousness. This EP changes all that with a collection of emotive instrumentals that can only be called wordless songs, and we find that our minds are drifting towards many of our favourite balladeers, even as it throws up the obvious references, such as Mogwai or Billy Mahonie.
“Knowing How To Carry” is a snowy waste of a tune, and buoys you aloft on the swell of a heart-rending melody; in much the same way as Oxford stalwarts The Workhouse do, Hretha manage here to communicate acres of emotion without resorting to verbal communication. The ‘cello may be something of a post-rock cliché, but the way its weary melody pulls against the funerary plod of the drums is quite gorgeous. We feel honour bound to use words like “glacial”, “shimmering”, “hyperborean” and lots of others we found in a dusty file marked “4AD” in the back of the NME storeroom. Sadly the rock out payoff is somewhat generic and unsatisfying, but the track still exhibits a delicacy their live shows have never captured.
No such criticisms of “Little Knows (Gino)” which doesn’t spend all its energies trying to be epic, and channels them all into just being a lovely wash of sound, in which wispy net curtains of guitar flap lazily in the breeze and a heavily reverbed elfin choir laments in the background. Again, there’s a vintage feel to the music, and it could easily be fitted into an odd space between Robert Fripp and Channel Light Vessel. Featherlight, brief, but far from forgettable.
We’re on more solid post-rock territory with “New Pastures”, which is probably the CD’s low point, even though it’s immaculately played; this is simply because it sounds like so many other bands doing the rounds, especially in the Battles flavoured three note motif at the opening, played in such clipped tones it sounds almost like a harpsichord. Even here, however, Hretha manage some surprises, as a brief interlude of dumb monolithic thrashing that wouldn’t embarrass local sludge metallers Beard Of Zeuss falls away to reveal a stately undead march, with plenty of tickled cymbal and amp fuzz. Eventually the density builds up to an overloaded climax that wouldn’t feel too out of place with Brian May soloing over the top before finally dying out to cluster of clicks and chitters (which may be down to a rather scuffed CD, we’ll admit, but it sounds good).
So there you go, plangent threnodies, wordless paeans, and cock rocking, all things we never thought Hretha dealt in until we heard the EP. “Repays repeated listens” is another cliché we found languishing in the NME vaults; they definitely don’t use that one anymore, they’re too buys trying to get you to throw all your records away and buy new ones every 2 months.
The pun in the title refers to the now anitquated letter in Hretha's name, that looks a little like a D, much used in Old English, and still used in Iceland. Except, it kind of doesn't because a Thorn is a similar "th" type letter that looks like a P with an extra stalk at the top; the D with a line through it is actually called an Eth, pronounced to rhyme with the 1st syllable in "leather", and I couldn't think of a pun for that. It's not a sound we use much in English. Some Spaniards sort of do when they say a word ending in -ez, don't they?
Like Cardinal Ximenez, his name is such good fun to say; if I were to be tortured to death under flimsy pretences by a vicious religious zealot, I'd like it to be him.
HRETHA – EP ONE
This week’s cocktail hour bagatelle is to imagine a version of 80s teen stalwart The Breakfast Club with Oxford bands recast as the central characters. We shan’t spoil the fun by making any suggestions, but we do feel that we can envisage a denouement in which acts find unlikely kinship in those from different genres, having spent a few evenings listening to the new Hretha EP. Judged by their live shows, we’ve always had Hretha (and yes, it is a “th” sound, even though it might look like a “d”, just admit you aren’t as orthographically astute as we) pegged as a straight up post rock trio. You know the sort: pretty good musicians, lots of instrumental fiddliness, dynamics instead of compositions. Their intricately cross-stitched guitar skeins have kept us diverted for half an hour here and there, but we’ve never felt them working too deeply into the consciousness. This EP changes all that with a collection of emotive instrumentals that can only be called wordless songs, and we find that our minds are drifting towards many of our favourite balladeers, even as it throws up the obvious references, such as Mogwai or Billy Mahonie.
“Knowing How To Carry” is a snowy waste of a tune, and buoys you aloft on the swell of a heart-rending melody; in much the same way as Oxford stalwarts The Workhouse do, Hretha manage here to communicate acres of emotion without resorting to verbal communication. The ‘cello may be something of a post-rock cliché, but the way its weary melody pulls against the funerary plod of the drums is quite gorgeous. We feel honour bound to use words like “glacial”, “shimmering”, “hyperborean” and lots of others we found in a dusty file marked “4AD” in the back of the NME storeroom. Sadly the rock out payoff is somewhat generic and unsatisfying, but the track still exhibits a delicacy their live shows have never captured.
No such criticisms of “Little Knows (Gino)” which doesn’t spend all its energies trying to be epic, and channels them all into just being a lovely wash of sound, in which wispy net curtains of guitar flap lazily in the breeze and a heavily reverbed elfin choir laments in the background. Again, there’s a vintage feel to the music, and it could easily be fitted into an odd space between Robert Fripp and Channel Light Vessel. Featherlight, brief, but far from forgettable.
We’re on more solid post-rock territory with “New Pastures”, which is probably the CD’s low point, even though it’s immaculately played; this is simply because it sounds like so many other bands doing the rounds, especially in the Battles flavoured three note motif at the opening, played in such clipped tones it sounds almost like a harpsichord. Even here, however, Hretha manage some surprises, as a brief interlude of dumb monolithic thrashing that wouldn’t embarrass local sludge metallers Beard Of Zeuss falls away to reveal a stately undead march, with plenty of tickled cymbal and amp fuzz. Eventually the density builds up to an overloaded climax that wouldn’t feel too out of place with Brian May soloing over the top before finally dying out to cluster of clicks and chitters (which may be down to a rather scuffed CD, we’ll admit, but it sounds good).
So there you go, plangent threnodies, wordless paeans, and cock rocking, all things we never thought Hretha dealt in until we heard the EP. “Repays repeated listens” is another cliché we found languishing in the NME vaults; they definitely don’t use that one anymore, they’re too buys trying to get you to throw all your records away and buy new ones every 2 months.
Thursday 19 March 2009
In Pine Effect
Here's a review from OHM Vol 2, Issue 2. I wrote an epic 3 reviews for that issue, so I've started with the worst one. Just so you have something to look forward to, like. I seem to recall that there was a another sentence at the end of the review, another "What we learned" type sententious sign off, that got missed from the printed edition somehow. Buggered if I remember what it was.
Rod Y Gab are huge now, but when I saw them I was one of about 20 people actually listening, the rest of the crowd were just yapping away; these same idiots are probably shelling out £25 for a chance to actually watch them now. People are stupid.
COURTNEY PINE/ RODRIGO Y GABRIELA, The Zodiac, 4/2/04
Rodrigo Y Gabriela came from Mexico, armed with two Spanish guitars. It's clearly pretty hard to amplify two acoustic guitars in The Zodiac, so their set was accompanied by chattering, belching and mobile phone bleeps. Those of us who actually wanted to hear the music ended up at the front, straining froward to hear everything...I seemed to be the only one scribbling things on a bit of paper though...
Anyway, the effort was repaid by the duo, who spent thirty minutes spinning intricate webs of what I'll arbitrarily call avant-flamenco. They played with great subtlety of touch, but were not always polite nor delicate: indeed, the music seemed to be an intriguing mixture of Metallica, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Rodriguez! Occasionally the writing felt rather episodic, as if we were watching two talented musicians doing exercises. Still, even then the emphasis was firmly on the "talented", and their Bream-meets-Satriani stylings were beguiling.
We're lucky enough to have some very able guitarists in this town, from Sedwards to Ulph to Ilett Jr., but it's refreshing to see acoustic playing of such wit and elegance. What we learned: 1) It's worth concentrating for music of this calibre. 2) "Smoke On The Water", "Take Five" and "Seven Nation Army" have more in common than we thought...
The band Courtney Pine led onstage was a much rootsier proposition than on his last few visits to Oxford; no sequencers, no DJ, no guest vocalists, just an old-fashioned backline. They weren't the most exciting rhythm section ever, but they earned their keep, especially the bassist. The drums were sadly marred by a terrible boxy sound, as if he were playing from a crate in Gene Krupa's basement.
Cameron Pierre's guitar spotlights were elegant, but wandered just the wrong side of the elevator door. Best supporting actor gong surely goes to Dennis Rollins on the trombone, boasting a lovely rubbery sound, tinged in equal parts by classic reggae and old-style music hall. Honestly. But what did Courtney sound like? Well, despite early solos feeling somewhat tacked together, he soon hit his stride, and whenever he picked up that keening soprano sax, he always seemd to play twice as well.
I always said that a jazz band should be a single many-limbed gestalt entity, and whilst this may say more about an interest in SF than jazz, Pine's combo weren't quite gelling. Until about two thirds of the way in, that is: their reverb heavy take on "Redemption Song" was too sugary for my taste, but somehow its quiet intensity brought the band to a higher level. I think they realised it too, as immediately Pine burst with a renewed energy, stalking the stage, blowing some volatile and intelligent lines around an increasingly funky backline. The gig had been fine up till then, but suddenly it was joyous.
Rod Y Gab are huge now, but when I saw them I was one of about 20 people actually listening, the rest of the crowd were just yapping away; these same idiots are probably shelling out £25 for a chance to actually watch them now. People are stupid.
COURTNEY PINE/ RODRIGO Y GABRIELA, The Zodiac, 4/2/04
Rodrigo Y Gabriela came from Mexico, armed with two Spanish guitars. It's clearly pretty hard to amplify two acoustic guitars in The Zodiac, so their set was accompanied by chattering, belching and mobile phone bleeps. Those of us who actually wanted to hear the music ended up at the front, straining froward to hear everything...I seemed to be the only one scribbling things on a bit of paper though...
Anyway, the effort was repaid by the duo, who spent thirty minutes spinning intricate webs of what I'll arbitrarily call avant-flamenco. They played with great subtlety of touch, but were not always polite nor delicate: indeed, the music seemed to be an intriguing mixture of Metallica, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Rodriguez! Occasionally the writing felt rather episodic, as if we were watching two talented musicians doing exercises. Still, even then the emphasis was firmly on the "talented", and their Bream-meets-Satriani stylings were beguiling.
We're lucky enough to have some very able guitarists in this town, from Sedwards to Ulph to Ilett Jr., but it's refreshing to see acoustic playing of such wit and elegance. What we learned: 1) It's worth concentrating for music of this calibre. 2) "Smoke On The Water", "Take Five" and "Seven Nation Army" have more in common than we thought...
The band Courtney Pine led onstage was a much rootsier proposition than on his last few visits to Oxford; no sequencers, no DJ, no guest vocalists, just an old-fashioned backline. They weren't the most exciting rhythm section ever, but they earned their keep, especially the bassist. The drums were sadly marred by a terrible boxy sound, as if he were playing from a crate in Gene Krupa's basement.
Cameron Pierre's guitar spotlights were elegant, but wandered just the wrong side of the elevator door. Best supporting actor gong surely goes to Dennis Rollins on the trombone, boasting a lovely rubbery sound, tinged in equal parts by classic reggae and old-style music hall. Honestly. But what did Courtney sound like? Well, despite early solos feeling somewhat tacked together, he soon hit his stride, and whenever he picked up that keening soprano sax, he always seemd to play twice as well.
I always said that a jazz band should be a single many-limbed gestalt entity, and whilst this may say more about an interest in SF than jazz, Pine's combo weren't quite gelling. Until about two thirds of the way in, that is: their reverb heavy take on "Redemption Song" was too sugary for my taste, but somehow its quiet intensity brought the band to a higher level. I think they realised it too, as immediately Pine burst with a renewed energy, stalking the stage, blowing some volatile and intelligent lines around an increasingly funky backline. The gig had been fine up till then, but suddenly it was joyous.
Tuesday 17 March 2009
Punt In The Mirror
So, this year's Nightshift Punt festival was announced yesterday, to the usual moans, arguments, and shockingly punctuated internet missives. In celebration, here's the first Punt I ever reviewed...or at least, the first full night I did (The Punt being a glorified Oxford music pub crawl). I did review 3 acts, I think, the year before, but that review has been lost, along with many others. Try to contain your devastation, please.
Parts of this review were printed in Nightshift and www.oxfordbands.com, but some are being seen for the first time. Try to contain your devastation, please.
THE PUNT, various venues, 10/5/06
For the truest response to the Punt’s opening acts, at Borders bookshop, we should probably get the coffee sippers and meandering browsers to write the review. Whilst the pastoral strummings of last year’s performers probably didn’t impinge too much on a quiet flick through a slim volume of verse, I suspect that this year’s more angular sets might have raised a few eyebrows amongst the store’s afternoon clientele. It’s not just his horizontal guitar technique that makes Ally Craig stand out from the acoustic crowd, it’s the fact that his intricate music owes far more to Slint and Sonic Youth (namechecked in the lyrics) than to Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell. Some of his songs were as spiky and awkward as the Finnish verbs in the lexicons beside me, and his guitar playing had a tensile attack not normally associated with singer-songwriters, but Ally’s warm voice stopped anything getting overly austere and calculated. Perhaps there was one gratuitous falsetto break too many, but ultimately this was a perfect opening to the evening, from an outstanding local talent.
Ally stayed on stage and was joined by a ‘cellist, to accompany Rebecca Mosley. Her vocal style may be a little more in the acoustic singer tradition than Ally’s, but her intelligently awkward compositions continue the trend he set. It’s as if Rebecca is performing a set of soaring love songs, only to be undercut by Ally’s dissonant guitar picking and enveloped in sheets of wonderfully sour ‘cello. Occasionally the ornate arrangements get a little too much, like a room crowded with art deco furnishings, and not every song has the flowing ease of Ally’s set, but Rebecca’s prog acoustica approach is refreshing blast for anyone bored with the current proliferation of acoustic balladeers.
In the over lit and reverb drenched school hall that is Jongleurs, Witches’ trumpet led pop gets a bit oppressive, and starts to sound like a Northern colliery garage band. Perhaps their baroque arrangements are hard to reproduce live, or perhaps it’s the unfortunate booming acoustic that makes them sound like Belle & Sebastian playing Slowdive, but this performance can’t match the grandeur of Witches’ recordings. Things work best when they find some space, letting a subtle glockenspiel lead the tunes, and giving room to some surprisingly melodious vocals. It’s very good stuff, but hear them on record to get the full effect.
Speaking of being better on disc, here come Xmas Lights. It’s a paradox that metal, like hip hop and reggae, is a genre that relies in the passion and intensity of its performance, yet oddly tends to fare better in the studio than on the stage. Seeing as Xmas Lights boast local isolationist soundscaper Umair Chaudry in their lineup, they’ve set themselves an impossible task to recreate the claustrophobic intensity of their recordings live. But they do have a bloody good stab at it. As in stab, rend, tear and, quite possibly, devour. Xmas Lights produce some seriously brutal metal, the pummelling force of which is only matched by the underlying exactness of the construction. Not only that, their lead vocalist has got a serious scream in his armoury, which marks itself indelibly on your eardrums long after the set has concluded.
In a brief visit to The Purple Turtle we discover a few minutes of Dusty Sound System, who bring a nice, relaxed campfire feel to proceedings, as they drift unconcernedly into songs and openly wonder where the other members of the band can have got to. Nothing revolutionary, maybe, but I wish Goldrush could capture some of this lackadaisical attitude, it’s very hard to dislike.
What was I saying about live hip hop? Zuby gets it right, not overloading the performance, just getting back to the basics of rap: some head nodding loops and a tight MC in the spotlight. Whilst he doesn’t get the crowd he deserves, the emptiness of the room lets us hear Zuby in all his wordy glory (if there’s one thing that’s pointless, it’s rap where you can’t make out the rhymes). Big Speakers are great in their very British way, but it’s amazing to hear such assured mainstream rap in li’l old Oxford, and Zuby has all the braggadocio and swagger of American hip hop, plus he’s got the flow to match, shooting off quick fire rhymes with barely a pause. Not surprising that he advocates that we wear a “lyric-proof vest”, then. His sometime vocal accompanist is also a delight, curtailing an excellent, jerky style so as not to over egg the pudding. Too shiny and clean for some tastes, perhaps, but Zuby deserves support for bringing us the sort of music you won’t hear in Oxford every day.
And at the other end of the scale, we have the more abstract stylings of Asher Dust. Using beats with more than a hint of Aphex acid, interjecting some lovely raggafied singing and stalking the stage with his dapper hat, there’s a little hint of Buck 65 cabaret to AJ. Not that it’s all a joke – there’s a suppressed violence to the impassioned vocals for all the lo-fi feel of his stage show. At times it reaches a level of intensity to almost match the humid fug of The Wheatsheaf. Again, perhaps the live arena isn’t the best place to meet them, but Asher Dust boasts some fascinating compositions that switch styles without warning.
My mate advises me that 100 Bullets Back are like “The Pet Shop Boys crossed with Franz Ferdinand. They’re alright”. Well, that’s my review written, cheers very much. With stuttering new wave guitars, pumping synth lines and bouncy, shouty vocals there’s plenty to like about 100 Bullets Back, especially at this time of night, when the beers and the running around town start to take joint effect. The preppy look of the band gives them a slight 6th form common room feel, which is at once endearingly energetic and slightly forced. They may not be quite the sum of their parts, but the parts are so great it doesn’t matter a great deal, especially not on a night like this.
You’ve got to see a band that The Holiday Stabbings have described as “loud and a bit abstract”, so it’s Deguello next. The tempo is doomily slow, the riffs are monolithic, and the style is definitely Stoner. With extra stones. And such hair! It’s like the sweepings from a busy barber’s glued onto the skeletal remains of a metal gig. I can easily imagine a situation in which this band could eat us alive, but tonight it just doesn’t seem to fit together. I suspect that this music demands complete attention and immersion to work, and I fear my palette is getting a touch jaded by this point, but there’s a secret part of me that would rather be watching Phyal.
“Funk: jazz’s deformed cousin”. That’s how The Mighty Boosh described it, and there’s a lot of truth in this, which is why Jaberwok don’t hit the spot as well as they used to. Their acid funk instrumentals with widescreen Floyd moments are toe-tappingly decent, but they seem to have lost any sense of focus or development that they once had, which is where they could take a leaf from the jazz tome. It’s all impeccably performed and crowd pleasing, but somehow they’ve become rather unexcitingly easy on the ear. If they ever make elevators big enough for fifty people to dance stupidly in, I daresay Jaberwok will be on the PA.
“Easy on the ear” is a phrase you won’t often see connected to gabba massacre The Nailbomb Cults. The Sound Of Music and Lulu are sliced and diced into supersize me breakbeats and swathes of digital noise by one man and his musical Moulinex of destruction to impressive effect. The sneaking feeling that there could be more to this music than an endless string of mentalist tropes is easily counterbalanced by the density of the sound, the nearest musical equivalent to the Alien facehuggers that Oxford has to offer. It’s fitting that a set that mangles and samples such a vast array of sources should conclude what has been one of the most eclectic and varied Punts yet, and it proves yet again what a diverse and healthy scene we have at the moment.
Parts of this review were printed in Nightshift and www.oxfordbands.com, but some are being seen for the first time. Try to contain your devastation, please.
THE PUNT, various venues, 10/5/06
For the truest response to the Punt’s opening acts, at Borders bookshop, we should probably get the coffee sippers and meandering browsers to write the review. Whilst the pastoral strummings of last year’s performers probably didn’t impinge too much on a quiet flick through a slim volume of verse, I suspect that this year’s more angular sets might have raised a few eyebrows amongst the store’s afternoon clientele. It’s not just his horizontal guitar technique that makes Ally Craig stand out from the acoustic crowd, it’s the fact that his intricate music owes far more to Slint and Sonic Youth (namechecked in the lyrics) than to Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell. Some of his songs were as spiky and awkward as the Finnish verbs in the lexicons beside me, and his guitar playing had a tensile attack not normally associated with singer-songwriters, but Ally’s warm voice stopped anything getting overly austere and calculated. Perhaps there was one gratuitous falsetto break too many, but ultimately this was a perfect opening to the evening, from an outstanding local talent.
Ally stayed on stage and was joined by a ‘cellist, to accompany Rebecca Mosley. Her vocal style may be a little more in the acoustic singer tradition than Ally’s, but her intelligently awkward compositions continue the trend he set. It’s as if Rebecca is performing a set of soaring love songs, only to be undercut by Ally’s dissonant guitar picking and enveloped in sheets of wonderfully sour ‘cello. Occasionally the ornate arrangements get a little too much, like a room crowded with art deco furnishings, and not every song has the flowing ease of Ally’s set, but Rebecca’s prog acoustica approach is refreshing blast for anyone bored with the current proliferation of acoustic balladeers.
In the over lit and reverb drenched school hall that is Jongleurs, Witches’ trumpet led pop gets a bit oppressive, and starts to sound like a Northern colliery garage band. Perhaps their baroque arrangements are hard to reproduce live, or perhaps it’s the unfortunate booming acoustic that makes them sound like Belle & Sebastian playing Slowdive, but this performance can’t match the grandeur of Witches’ recordings. Things work best when they find some space, letting a subtle glockenspiel lead the tunes, and giving room to some surprisingly melodious vocals. It’s very good stuff, but hear them on record to get the full effect.
Speaking of being better on disc, here come Xmas Lights. It’s a paradox that metal, like hip hop and reggae, is a genre that relies in the passion and intensity of its performance, yet oddly tends to fare better in the studio than on the stage. Seeing as Xmas Lights boast local isolationist soundscaper Umair Chaudry in their lineup, they’ve set themselves an impossible task to recreate the claustrophobic intensity of their recordings live. But they do have a bloody good stab at it. As in stab, rend, tear and, quite possibly, devour. Xmas Lights produce some seriously brutal metal, the pummelling force of which is only matched by the underlying exactness of the construction. Not only that, their lead vocalist has got a serious scream in his armoury, which marks itself indelibly on your eardrums long after the set has concluded.
In a brief visit to The Purple Turtle we discover a few minutes of Dusty Sound System, who bring a nice, relaxed campfire feel to proceedings, as they drift unconcernedly into songs and openly wonder where the other members of the band can have got to. Nothing revolutionary, maybe, but I wish Goldrush could capture some of this lackadaisical attitude, it’s very hard to dislike.
What was I saying about live hip hop? Zuby gets it right, not overloading the performance, just getting back to the basics of rap: some head nodding loops and a tight MC in the spotlight. Whilst he doesn’t get the crowd he deserves, the emptiness of the room lets us hear Zuby in all his wordy glory (if there’s one thing that’s pointless, it’s rap where you can’t make out the rhymes). Big Speakers are great in their very British way, but it’s amazing to hear such assured mainstream rap in li’l old Oxford, and Zuby has all the braggadocio and swagger of American hip hop, plus he’s got the flow to match, shooting off quick fire rhymes with barely a pause. Not surprising that he advocates that we wear a “lyric-proof vest”, then. His sometime vocal accompanist is also a delight, curtailing an excellent, jerky style so as not to over egg the pudding. Too shiny and clean for some tastes, perhaps, but Zuby deserves support for bringing us the sort of music you won’t hear in Oxford every day.
And at the other end of the scale, we have the more abstract stylings of Asher Dust. Using beats with more than a hint of Aphex acid, interjecting some lovely raggafied singing and stalking the stage with his dapper hat, there’s a little hint of Buck 65 cabaret to AJ. Not that it’s all a joke – there’s a suppressed violence to the impassioned vocals for all the lo-fi feel of his stage show. At times it reaches a level of intensity to almost match the humid fug of The Wheatsheaf. Again, perhaps the live arena isn’t the best place to meet them, but Asher Dust boasts some fascinating compositions that switch styles without warning.
My mate advises me that 100 Bullets Back are like “The Pet Shop Boys crossed with Franz Ferdinand. They’re alright”. Well, that’s my review written, cheers very much. With stuttering new wave guitars, pumping synth lines and bouncy, shouty vocals there’s plenty to like about 100 Bullets Back, especially at this time of night, when the beers and the running around town start to take joint effect. The preppy look of the band gives them a slight 6th form common room feel, which is at once endearingly energetic and slightly forced. They may not be quite the sum of their parts, but the parts are so great it doesn’t matter a great deal, especially not on a night like this.
You’ve got to see a band that The Holiday Stabbings have described as “loud and a bit abstract”, so it’s Deguello next. The tempo is doomily slow, the riffs are monolithic, and the style is definitely Stoner. With extra stones. And such hair! It’s like the sweepings from a busy barber’s glued onto the skeletal remains of a metal gig. I can easily imagine a situation in which this band could eat us alive, but tonight it just doesn’t seem to fit together. I suspect that this music demands complete attention and immersion to work, and I fear my palette is getting a touch jaded by this point, but there’s a secret part of me that would rather be watching Phyal.
“Funk: jazz’s deformed cousin”. That’s how The Mighty Boosh described it, and there’s a lot of truth in this, which is why Jaberwok don’t hit the spot as well as they used to. Their acid funk instrumentals with widescreen Floyd moments are toe-tappingly decent, but they seem to have lost any sense of focus or development that they once had, which is where they could take a leaf from the jazz tome. It’s all impeccably performed and crowd pleasing, but somehow they’ve become rather unexcitingly easy on the ear. If they ever make elevators big enough for fifty people to dance stupidly in, I daresay Jaberwok will be on the PA.
“Easy on the ear” is a phrase you won’t often see connected to gabba massacre The Nailbomb Cults. The Sound Of Music and Lulu are sliced and diced into supersize me breakbeats and swathes of digital noise by one man and his musical Moulinex of destruction to impressive effect. The sneaking feeling that there could be more to this music than an endless string of mentalist tropes is easily counterbalanced by the density of the sound, the nearest musical equivalent to the Alien facehuggers that Oxford has to offer. It’s fitting that a set that mangles and samples such a vast array of sources should conclude what has been one of the most eclectic and varied Punts yet, and it proves yet again what a diverse and healthy scene we have at the moment.
Sunday 15 March 2009
(More) Bully For You
Here's another old BBC Oxford review, which I thought might be interesting as an alternate review of Trademark to that posted below, and Luke Smith surprisingly gets referenced too. OK, OK, I just picked it at random from the pile. The mystique has been shattered. Are you happy now?
The tone is very glib, but that was the style the editor wanted back in the day. Interestingly, I have reinstated some Knightmare references that the editor cut out, probably rightly. Also, Alternative Carpark were never heard of again in this fair town, so presumably 6 months did very little.
SCHMOOF/ ALTRNATIVE CARPARK/ TRADEMARK, The Bullingdon Arms
Onstage Trademark look young, intelligent, eager, and - let's be honest - a bit geeky, like the three lads who sat in the studio on Knightmare. Except they've got loads of synths. Elegant oscillator pop is what they purvey, in a classic Human League mould, but with some slightly more contemporary rhythm tracks: 1982 vs. 2003, in labcoats. A messy "What I Wanted", complete with random stylophone crackles notwithstanding, tonight's performance is exemplary, the beautiful "Sine Love" being the pinnacle.
They've had mixed reviews on this site recently, but to be honest they blew me away: Spellcasting D-I-S-M-I-S-S.
Aha, I've got your number, Alternative Carpark: the name comes from an old Not The Nine O'Clock News sketch about youth TV. Knowing this probably makes me a geek too: Spellcasting...
They perform some pretty effective metallic grunge, with Luke Smith's rockin' younger brother on (mighty fine) vocals, and a guitarist with all the Van Halen/Vai hammerons you could want...which is maybe slightly fewer than he played, but what the hell.
"Graffiti Foetus" (yes, honestly) is a good tune, as is the third one...I don't know the name, but I could make one up, if you want. "Blacklung Crackworm"? "Nazi Medicine Lecture"? The net result is entertaining, if somewhat 2D, and in need of a bit of honing. Let's see what 6 months can do for them.
Schmoof certainly get full marks for presentation: A name that sounds like sickly bear-shaped confectionary, some bright Spectrum loading screen projections, a mid 80s Swedish synthrocker and a lycra vixen all add up to shameless pop fun. Their songs, about chocolate, sex and disco dancing have some pleasingly prehistoric backing tracks, with beats as blocky as a Ceephax graphic, but I'm afraid the tricks, though well turned, get old swiftly, and the flat vocals eventually grate. Fun, but a band to see once only.
Schmoof's singer describes the night as a "synth-metal sandwich", which is true, but really, Trademark are the meat, Carpark a spicy relish, and Schmoof the slightly starchy bread.
The tone is very glib, but that was the style the editor wanted back in the day. Interestingly, I have reinstated some Knightmare references that the editor cut out, probably rightly. Also, Alternative Carpark were never heard of again in this fair town, so presumably 6 months did very little.
SCHMOOF/ ALTRNATIVE CARPARK/ TRADEMARK, The Bullingdon Arms
Onstage Trademark look young, intelligent, eager, and - let's be honest - a bit geeky, like the three lads who sat in the studio on Knightmare. Except they've got loads of synths. Elegant oscillator pop is what they purvey, in a classic Human League mould, but with some slightly more contemporary rhythm tracks: 1982 vs. 2003, in labcoats. A messy "What I Wanted", complete with random stylophone crackles notwithstanding, tonight's performance is exemplary, the beautiful "Sine Love" being the pinnacle.
They've had mixed reviews on this site recently, but to be honest they blew me away: Spellcasting D-I-S-M-I-S-S.
Aha, I've got your number, Alternative Carpark: the name comes from an old Not The Nine O'Clock News sketch about youth TV. Knowing this probably makes me a geek too: Spellcasting...
They perform some pretty effective metallic grunge, with Luke Smith's rockin' younger brother on (mighty fine) vocals, and a guitarist with all the Van Halen/Vai hammerons you could want...which is maybe slightly fewer than he played, but what the hell.
"Graffiti Foetus" (yes, honestly) is a good tune, as is the third one...I don't know the name, but I could make one up, if you want. "Blacklung Crackworm"? "Nazi Medicine Lecture"? The net result is entertaining, if somewhat 2D, and in need of a bit of honing. Let's see what 6 months can do for them.
Schmoof certainly get full marks for presentation: A name that sounds like sickly bear-shaped confectionary, some bright Spectrum loading screen projections, a mid 80s Swedish synthrocker and a lycra vixen all add up to shameless pop fun. Their songs, about chocolate, sex and disco dancing have some pleasingly prehistoric backing tracks, with beats as blocky as a Ceephax graphic, but I'm afraid the tricks, though well turned, get old swiftly, and the flat vocals eventually grate. Fun, but a band to see once only.
Schmoof's singer describes the night as a "synth-metal sandwich", which is true, but really, Trademark are the meat, Carpark a spicy relish, and Schmoof the slightly starchy bread.
The Royal Scam
Here's one of those funny reviews that you find yourself writing at this level. It's a decent record, and deserves praise, but to be honest I know I'll never listen to it again in my life. Ever. Striking the correct tone can be tough, and my favoured technique is normally to balance the positive criticism with some stupid flight of fancy just so everyone knows the review has a sense of perspective...by not exhibiting any.
I'm not sure that makes any sense. Anyway, they're a decent band - they're a fuck sight better than the Noel Gallagher CD that came free with the papers, that I'm listening to whilst I type. Jesus, even as I wrote that Paul Weller came on and made things worse. I need tea.
THE DIRTY ROYALS - Demo
It completely amazes us that so many people turn away from folk music as boring – you just have to listen to the lyrics for a generous serving murder, rape, bargaining devils, and lashings and lashings of real ale. Like Nick Cave before them, The Dirty Royals seem to have taken inspiration from old folk broadsides for their sterling crime ballad, “Josephine”, which tells us what a scrape the eponymous heroine has got herself into with her nefarious activities, and the narrator poses the only rational escape plan – a suicide pact. Fantastic stuff. Musically it’s a bit of a treat too, bundling excitable drums behind supple Rickenbacker-like guitar and clear vocal harmonies that spring from the politer suburbs on the outskirts of psychedelia. A slightly tasteless, if technically proficient, bit of wailing guitar does stick its oar in when not needed, but otherwise this is a tune with a pretty righteous shimmy, and we’re definitely admirers.
“Back For More” opens with a similar guitar sound, that could well be Peter Buck on an early R.E.M. record, and also has some pretty winsome close harmonies, but is a somewhat more restrained affair and has just a bit too much of an anodyne college rock kick to it, and The Dirty Royals lose points for putting us in mind of Hootie & The Blowfish after at least a decade of blissful amnesia.
We’re back on track with “Cover Up The Sun”, however, and we wish our stereo had surround sound, so we could sneak round the back of the guitar part and see if it has “Property of The Byrrds, do not remove” stamped on it. What the hell, it’s a pretty harmless bit of borrowing, and the tune has a devil-may-care 60s pop bounce to it that puts us in mind of The B-52s and locals Shirley, when they’re having fun and aren’t trying to be all grown up on us. In all honesty, it’s easy to imagine this tune soundtracking a montage in an early 90s rom-com in which the hapless yet lovable hero has to tidy up his frat house, in order to make it look like a snug restaurant, to charm the Dean’s strait-laced daughter. If that sounds a bit glib, hell, it’s pretty glib music, airy, light and infectious, and we give it a goofy smile and a thumbs up. We can also imagine it all being a bit of a blast live. Uh oh, the Dean’s coming, we’ve got to run off and hide the stuffed moose head we stole from his office to win a keggers bet. All good harmless hi-jinks; are you ready with the accompaniment, Dirty Royals?
I'm not sure that makes any sense. Anyway, they're a decent band - they're a fuck sight better than the Noel Gallagher CD that came free with the papers, that I'm listening to whilst I type. Jesus, even as I wrote that Paul Weller came on and made things worse. I need tea.
THE DIRTY ROYALS - Demo
It completely amazes us that so many people turn away from folk music as boring – you just have to listen to the lyrics for a generous serving murder, rape, bargaining devils, and lashings and lashings of real ale. Like Nick Cave before them, The Dirty Royals seem to have taken inspiration from old folk broadsides for their sterling crime ballad, “Josephine”, which tells us what a scrape the eponymous heroine has got herself into with her nefarious activities, and the narrator poses the only rational escape plan – a suicide pact. Fantastic stuff. Musically it’s a bit of a treat too, bundling excitable drums behind supple Rickenbacker-like guitar and clear vocal harmonies that spring from the politer suburbs on the outskirts of psychedelia. A slightly tasteless, if technically proficient, bit of wailing guitar does stick its oar in when not needed, but otherwise this is a tune with a pretty righteous shimmy, and we’re definitely admirers.
“Back For More” opens with a similar guitar sound, that could well be Peter Buck on an early R.E.M. record, and also has some pretty winsome close harmonies, but is a somewhat more restrained affair and has just a bit too much of an anodyne college rock kick to it, and The Dirty Royals lose points for putting us in mind of Hootie & The Blowfish after at least a decade of blissful amnesia.
We’re back on track with “Cover Up The Sun”, however, and we wish our stereo had surround sound, so we could sneak round the back of the guitar part and see if it has “Property of The Byrrds, do not remove” stamped on it. What the hell, it’s a pretty harmless bit of borrowing, and the tune has a devil-may-care 60s pop bounce to it that puts us in mind of The B-52s and locals Shirley, when they’re having fun and aren’t trying to be all grown up on us. In all honesty, it’s easy to imagine this tune soundtracking a montage in an early 90s rom-com in which the hapless yet lovable hero has to tidy up his frat house, in order to make it look like a snug restaurant, to charm the Dean’s strait-laced daughter. If that sounds a bit glib, hell, it’s pretty glib music, airy, light and infectious, and we give it a goofy smile and a thumbs up. We can also imagine it all being a bit of a blast live. Uh oh, the Dean’s coming, we’ve got to run off and hide the stuffed moose head we stole from his office to win a keggers bet. All good harmless hi-jinks; are you ready with the accompaniment, Dirty Royals?
Tuesday 10 March 2009
A Hayward Gallery
Here's a Nightshift review from last year, picked at random from the pile. It's about someone famous (ish) doing unfamous things, which is far more interesting than people who are post-famous doing half dead things, which is what we often get here in the provinces (don't ever get me started about the true awfulness of gigs by Womack & Womack, or The Nashville Teens). It was a good night.
NB The Wheatsheaf is a central rock toilet venue in Oxford; West oxford is where all the tofu and cycling co-op hippies in oxford live (all the mescaline, cider and dubplate hippies live in East Oxford); Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes was an early 90s Saturday morning cartoon; Oliver Postgate was a much missed children's TV genius; Dom Lash pops up on this month's Wire cover CD; Shellac are a North American alternative rock band; "noirish" refers to the Film Noir cinematic movement; Oxford is a small university town in the south west corner of the midlands of the United Kingdom; do let me know if these explicatory notes become annoying...
OXFORD IMPROVISORS FEAT CHARLES HAYWARD, Oxford Improvisors, Port Mahon, 8/10/08
You never know it all. We recently witnessed The Wheatsheaf’s engineer and landlord – who’ve presumably seen a thing or two – reduced to silent incredulity by a recording of free vocalist Phil Minton. Whilst volume and rebellion have been co-opted and flimsily assimilated by an ever more voracious mainstream, free improv remains capable of causing incomprehension, smothered giggles, and irate walkouts that metal, punk or techno can rarely inspire…which is not to say many of its adherents are bent upon creating a counter-cultural broadside; in fact, tonight’s chatty coterie of relaxed, primarily middle aged listeners looks tellingly like the AGM of some West Oxford allotment. All of which is a way of observing that Oxford Improvisers is something all too rare: a group unassumingly playing music for themselves, but with no hint of exclusivity or insularity. You’re all welcome, so long as you listen. Tonight’s show features This Heat member Charles Hayward, but we shan’t mention his past again, as this gig bears the same resemblance to a rock legend headline showcase that a side salad bears to Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes.
Atmosphere aside, the music is also impressive. The opening duo loses John Grieve’s noirish sax under Chris Brown’s guitar, which sounds like an ill-thought out parade of pedal effects, but Brown redeems himself with some later longwavy treble tones that wouldn’t sound out of place on a lost Oliver Postgate project, with inventive double bass accompaniment from Dom Lash (who improbably also plays with charmless cock rockers, The Treat). Pete McPhail is superb throughout, whether clicking his unblown flute or enlivening the final blowing session with some keening emotive flights, clean shafts of sound amid the skronking morass.
Hayward himself veers gloriously from near-silent stone rubbing to skittering hi-hat tapping, via sententious (if vague) pronouncements on atomic physics and heavyweight thumping a la Shellac’s Todd Trainer. He even stops mid-solo to tell a little muso anecdote. Conversation of a musical sort when he plays with the other performers, somehow allowing everybody space without ever falling into the background.
There’s a danger that descriptions of improv can become mere lists of tricks and techniques, making it all sound aridly academic; however, this is music making in its most intimate, unpretentious, social guise, which is something we thought was unheard of in Oxford. You never know it all.
NB The Wheatsheaf is a central rock toilet venue in Oxford; West oxford is where all the tofu and cycling co-op hippies in oxford live (all the mescaline, cider and dubplate hippies live in East Oxford); Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes was an early 90s Saturday morning cartoon; Oliver Postgate was a much missed children's TV genius; Dom Lash pops up on this month's Wire cover CD; Shellac are a North American alternative rock band; "noirish" refers to the Film Noir cinematic movement; Oxford is a small university town in the south west corner of the midlands of the United Kingdom; do let me know if these explicatory notes become annoying...
OXFORD IMPROVISORS FEAT CHARLES HAYWARD, Oxford Improvisors, Port Mahon, 8/10/08
You never know it all. We recently witnessed The Wheatsheaf’s engineer and landlord – who’ve presumably seen a thing or two – reduced to silent incredulity by a recording of free vocalist Phil Minton. Whilst volume and rebellion have been co-opted and flimsily assimilated by an ever more voracious mainstream, free improv remains capable of causing incomprehension, smothered giggles, and irate walkouts that metal, punk or techno can rarely inspire…which is not to say many of its adherents are bent upon creating a counter-cultural broadside; in fact, tonight’s chatty coterie of relaxed, primarily middle aged listeners looks tellingly like the AGM of some West Oxford allotment. All of which is a way of observing that Oxford Improvisers is something all too rare: a group unassumingly playing music for themselves, but with no hint of exclusivity or insularity. You’re all welcome, so long as you listen. Tonight’s show features This Heat member Charles Hayward, but we shan’t mention his past again, as this gig bears the same resemblance to a rock legend headline showcase that a side salad bears to Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes.
Atmosphere aside, the music is also impressive. The opening duo loses John Grieve’s noirish sax under Chris Brown’s guitar, which sounds like an ill-thought out parade of pedal effects, but Brown redeems himself with some later longwavy treble tones that wouldn’t sound out of place on a lost Oliver Postgate project, with inventive double bass accompaniment from Dom Lash (who improbably also plays with charmless cock rockers, The Treat). Pete McPhail is superb throughout, whether clicking his unblown flute or enlivening the final blowing session with some keening emotive flights, clean shafts of sound amid the skronking morass.
Hayward himself veers gloriously from near-silent stone rubbing to skittering hi-hat tapping, via sententious (if vague) pronouncements on atomic physics and heavyweight thumping a la Shellac’s Todd Trainer. He even stops mid-solo to tell a little muso anecdote. Conversation of a musical sort when he plays with the other performers, somehow allowing everybody space without ever falling into the background.
There’s a danger that descriptions of improv can become mere lists of tricks and techniques, making it all sound aridly academic; however, this is music making in its most intimate, unpretentious, social guise, which is something we thought was unheard of in Oxford. You never know it all.
Up, Russell & Out
This is a review I did for OHM with my chum Russell Barker (see link to the right). This kind of double-teamed review was the sort of wilfully unprofessional and unwieldy thing we used to do all the time at OHM, just because there were no rules. There was also no money and no mutual comprehension of the concept "deadline", but that's part of the fun of this kind of endeavour.
In retrospect I don't think this particular example of the dialogue review works very well, mostly because Russ and I have such different styles: he's far more considered and impartial, and tends to tell readers stuff like the names of songs, the instrumentation and what the music sounds like. You know, things they want to know. Fools.
The other thing to notice is how much better I am....let's see if he's bothered to read this!
PINEY GIR/ TRADEMARK/ DAVID K FRAMPTON, The Cellar, 21/10/03
DM: They can take my vocal FX unit when they pry it from my cold dead fingers, so I'm predisposed to like David K Frampton, even though this isn't a very successful set. Treated vocals float over little synth loops and cracking 808-type beats, and as such there are more handclaps from the drum machine than from the crowd - draw your own conclusions.
Such is their inherent theatricality, Trademark work better on larger, less intimate stages. And also because Oli is the clumsiest frontman in town, so the more space between his feet and the leads, the better. If you don't yet know, they produce mighty electro-cabaret about human frailty and elementary physics. Tonight's show is their normal labcoated synth-driven joypop, with the addition of a giant perspex plug and an elegant fairytale about destructive interference.
RB: It's true, Trademark's sound seems cramped by the low ceilinged venue. "Stay Professional" struggles to break free of its shackles but "Sine Love" is the sad beautiful tale it always is despite the constrictions imposed upon it. They climax with a new tune which starts out like a synth powered rocker before slipping back into the Trademark style we know and love.
DM: There are three words I promised I wouldn't write in this review. Two of them are "Elfin" and "Bjork", but since I've used them now, what the hell! Take one ex-Vic 20 vocalist, add some toy keyboards, melodica and sweet little songs and you get the general idea of Piney Gir. The sparse sound alternately evokes the ghost of Pram, and a coy, non-swearing Peaches. Somewhat twee for many, perhaps, but I'm happy. "Twee" was the third word, by the way.
RB: There was definitely something bewitching about Piney that overcame the tweeness. Silly little things like forgetting to plug in till halfway through the first song and announcing a song in bossanova style, then struggling to find the right switch on her keyboard. Her face lights up when the rhythm kicks in. She manages to find a suitable saccharine high level and pushes it to the limit without overloading us with sugar coated candyness. And anyone who ends their set with a slow gyrating version of "Let's Get Physical" gets my vote.
In retrospect I don't think this particular example of the dialogue review works very well, mostly because Russ and I have such different styles: he's far more considered and impartial, and tends to tell readers stuff like the names of songs, the instrumentation and what the music sounds like. You know, things they want to know. Fools.
The other thing to notice is how much better I am....let's see if he's bothered to read this!
PINEY GIR/ TRADEMARK/ DAVID K FRAMPTON, The Cellar, 21/10/03
DM: They can take my vocal FX unit when they pry it from my cold dead fingers, so I'm predisposed to like David K Frampton, even though this isn't a very successful set. Treated vocals float over little synth loops and cracking 808-type beats, and as such there are more handclaps from the drum machine than from the crowd - draw your own conclusions.
Such is their inherent theatricality, Trademark work better on larger, less intimate stages. And also because Oli is the clumsiest frontman in town, so the more space between his feet and the leads, the better. If you don't yet know, they produce mighty electro-cabaret about human frailty and elementary physics. Tonight's show is their normal labcoated synth-driven joypop, with the addition of a giant perspex plug and an elegant fairytale about destructive interference.
RB: It's true, Trademark's sound seems cramped by the low ceilinged venue. "Stay Professional" struggles to break free of its shackles but "Sine Love" is the sad beautiful tale it always is despite the constrictions imposed upon it. They climax with a new tune which starts out like a synth powered rocker before slipping back into the Trademark style we know and love.
DM: There are three words I promised I wouldn't write in this review. Two of them are "Elfin" and "Bjork", but since I've used them now, what the hell! Take one ex-Vic 20 vocalist, add some toy keyboards, melodica and sweet little songs and you get the general idea of Piney Gir. The sparse sound alternately evokes the ghost of Pram, and a coy, non-swearing Peaches. Somewhat twee for many, perhaps, but I'm happy. "Twee" was the third word, by the way.
RB: There was definitely something bewitching about Piney that overcame the tweeness. Silly little things like forgetting to plug in till halfway through the first song and announcing a song in bossanova style, then struggling to find the right switch on her keyboard. Her face lights up when the rhythm kicks in. She manages to find a suitable saccharine high level and pushes it to the limit without overloading us with sugar coated candyness. And anyone who ends their set with a slow gyrating version of "Let's Get Physical" gets my vote.
Sunday 8 March 2009
Sing When You're Grinning
Here's the first ever review I wrote. It's not even a whole review, just a handful of words about the headline act. Essentially I was at a gig when aquaintance and BBC Oxford reviewer Jeremy Stern said he had to run off (an urgent date with sitting around on his arse was clashing with his duties, I suspect) and would I mind finishing the review for him. Well, I had a crack, and they liked it so much they phoned me up to ask me to write more (even though I thought - and still think - it was a crappy piece of writing). I used to write tons for them - one review a week, pretty much - but after about a year I drifted off towards OHM and Nightshift. Don't remember why, precisely.
Anyway, the BBC site is still going, you can click the link on the right if you like. I've got to say the website is pretty duff nowadays - no real opinion offered nor any spark in the writing, and in terms of news it's not even particularly up to date nor detailed. Having said that, nowadays it's effectively an advert for Oxford Introducing (FKA The Download), a local music radio show that's a decent listen. So, tune in, but don't bother checking the site, I'd counsel.
By the way, Dog were the band supporting HTG. They're still going, believe it or not, although they're called The Gog now. Played last night, I believe. Ooh, syncronicity. HTG are long gone. Also, I'd completely forgotten Jamie Theakston existed - God he used to be everywhere!
HENCE THE GRIN, Gappy Tooth Industries, The Wheatsheaf , 11/02
Hence The Grin are a neat little power pop trio, with the emphasis placed squarely on the pop. They initially have a hard time making their mark after Dog's dada theatrics: Stu, the singer, looks like Jamie Theakston, and is quietly affable (a bit like Jamie Theakston); the bassist resembles a disgruntled skinhead, but soon turns out to be quietly affable as well; the drummer appears polite. So much for image.
However, anyone who gives some attention to their tightly wound melodic offerings is won over, and the dance floor soon fills up again. The music is deceptively simple, great vocal melodies (delivered in a powerful, mid-80s yelp) riding a chugging three piece buzz, but there's always a little something to surprise. "Bag Of Worries" is the key: the lyrics consist solely of the word "Pap!"; bass rumbles fuzzily; drums kick; guitar twangs.
It's like surf guitar...without the surf! Estuary insrumentals, anyone? Inlet rock? Hence The Grin don't do anything as you'd expect them to: when the crowd shouts "Encore" Stu drifts into a discussion with the audience about the French language. Eventually of course they play a final tune. Of course it rocks like the others. Grins all round, then.
Anyway, the BBC site is still going, you can click the link on the right if you like. I've got to say the website is pretty duff nowadays - no real opinion offered nor any spark in the writing, and in terms of news it's not even particularly up to date nor detailed. Having said that, nowadays it's effectively an advert for Oxford Introducing (FKA The Download), a local music radio show that's a decent listen. So, tune in, but don't bother checking the site, I'd counsel.
By the way, Dog were the band supporting HTG. They're still going, believe it or not, although they're called The Gog now. Played last night, I believe. Ooh, syncronicity. HTG are long gone. Also, I'd completely forgotten Jamie Theakston existed - God he used to be everywhere!
HENCE THE GRIN, Gappy Tooth Industries, The Wheatsheaf , 11/02
Hence The Grin are a neat little power pop trio, with the emphasis placed squarely on the pop. They initially have a hard time making their mark after Dog's dada theatrics: Stu, the singer, looks like Jamie Theakston, and is quietly affable (a bit like Jamie Theakston); the bassist resembles a disgruntled skinhead, but soon turns out to be quietly affable as well; the drummer appears polite. So much for image.
However, anyone who gives some attention to their tightly wound melodic offerings is won over, and the dance floor soon fills up again. The music is deceptively simple, great vocal melodies (delivered in a powerful, mid-80s yelp) riding a chugging three piece buzz, but there's always a little something to surprise. "Bag Of Worries" is the key: the lyrics consist solely of the word "Pap!"; bass rumbles fuzzily; drums kick; guitar twangs.
It's like surf guitar...without the surf! Estuary insrumentals, anyone? Inlet rock? Hence The Grin don't do anything as you'd expect them to: when the crowd shouts "Encore" Stu drifts into a discussion with the audience about the French language. Eventually of course they play a final tune. Of course it rocks like the others. Grins all round, then.
Thursday 5 March 2009
Shelley Shome Mishtake
Another recent one. This is a record review from www.oxfordbands.com. It's fun writing for this site, which is a nice neat source of info, opinion and rampant argument, because you have a little more freedom than in a magazine: unspecified word counts, the chance to argue about your reviews online with the performers, carte blanche in general. Be nice if they paid me, though.
Record reviews are good because you don't have to leave the couch, but the onus is greater - you have to listen to every nuance & think about it, no excuses for missing anything as there is in the live arena. The reader knows you've had leisure to digest the recording, and you should reflect that with cogent thoughts about every facet of the record. That's the theory; I like to write about how crap the cover art is and then make some stuff up about the music and nip down the pub. Seems to work.
DIAL F FOR FRANKENSTEIN - DEMO
This demo comes on a Woolworth’s Worthit! CDR, which is just about as good a symbol of low budget, doomed effort as we can come up with. Luckily, Dial F For Frankenstein’s recording is far from a failure; in fact, it’s a cocksure burst of indie rock with plenty of potential and a scattering of neat moments and good ideas, that’s ultimately not got the songwriting ability to underwrite the evident promise.
Between the opening guitar part of “Substance”, which is rather wonderfully like Johnny Marr playing Bauhaus, and the authentic fuddlydumph that John Peel would identify as completing “Headcase”, there are individual enticing moments, but the tracks themselves are instantly forgettable. It’s a ripe, jaunty burst of – well, nothing much, really. Not unpleasant in the least, but they probably work better live than on record. The CD closer “Red Song” is better, with some wonderful vocals stuck between a listless squeal and reigned in raunch that immediately recalls the excellent performance on the debut Strokes LP, but it’s still ultimately half a song.
It’s left to “Remedy” to indicate what Dial F could really be capable of in the future. It’s built on a sprightly lurch between two frets, with a tastefully lofi vocal alleging “it’s 1995” – quite apposite, as the tune resembles like one of the better tracks from the second, less effete and mannered, wave of Britpop. The rhythm section stalks onward with a wonderful compressed energy, and when the (possibly ironic) exhortation comes in to “Dance, you fuckers”, we feel Dial F have got a fighting chance of getting their wish. So, not the greatest demo we’ve ever heard, but hugely encouraging al the same, especially for a youthful group – they’re playing neatly together, creating a well thought out, coherent sound and they have the makings of a vocalist who’s able to carry a song, even if he’s not likely to be swooping the octaves. (Why are there so few good singers around? We don't care what their range is, we just want someone with panache, a basic grasp of interpreting a lyric, an understanding of where their voice fits in the music, or at the very least a funny hat and an unhealthy impetus to act the giddy goat). The question is whether Dial F are able to develop the compositional chops to keep the energy going; we’ve no idea of the odds, but we look forward to finding out.
Record reviews are good because you don't have to leave the couch, but the onus is greater - you have to listen to every nuance & think about it, no excuses for missing anything as there is in the live arena. The reader knows you've had leisure to digest the recording, and you should reflect that with cogent thoughts about every facet of the record. That's the theory; I like to write about how crap the cover art is and then make some stuff up about the music and nip down the pub. Seems to work.
DIAL F FOR FRANKENSTEIN - DEMO
This demo comes on a Woolworth’s Worthit! CDR, which is just about as good a symbol of low budget, doomed effort as we can come up with. Luckily, Dial F For Frankenstein’s recording is far from a failure; in fact, it’s a cocksure burst of indie rock with plenty of potential and a scattering of neat moments and good ideas, that’s ultimately not got the songwriting ability to underwrite the evident promise.
Between the opening guitar part of “Substance”, which is rather wonderfully like Johnny Marr playing Bauhaus, and the authentic fuddlydumph that John Peel would identify as completing “Headcase”, there are individual enticing moments, but the tracks themselves are instantly forgettable. It’s a ripe, jaunty burst of – well, nothing much, really. Not unpleasant in the least, but they probably work better live than on record. The CD closer “Red Song” is better, with some wonderful vocals stuck between a listless squeal and reigned in raunch that immediately recalls the excellent performance on the debut Strokes LP, but it’s still ultimately half a song.
It’s left to “Remedy” to indicate what Dial F could really be capable of in the future. It’s built on a sprightly lurch between two frets, with a tastefully lofi vocal alleging “it’s 1995” – quite apposite, as the tune resembles like one of the better tracks from the second, less effete and mannered, wave of Britpop. The rhythm section stalks onward with a wonderful compressed energy, and when the (possibly ironic) exhortation comes in to “Dance, you fuckers”, we feel Dial F have got a fighting chance of getting their wish. So, not the greatest demo we’ve ever heard, but hugely encouraging al the same, especially for a youthful group – they’re playing neatly together, creating a well thought out, coherent sound and they have the makings of a vocalist who’s able to carry a song, even if he’s not likely to be swooping the octaves. (Why are there so few good singers around? We don't care what their range is, we just want someone with panache, a basic grasp of interpreting a lyric, an understanding of where their voice fits in the music, or at the very least a funny hat and an unhealthy impetus to act the giddy goat). The question is whether Dial F are able to develop the compositional chops to keep the energy going; we’ve no idea of the odds, but we look forward to finding out.
Tuesday 3 March 2009
Old Kak
Klub Kak is one of my favourite promoters to review, because even if the acts are average, the organisors and customers tend to be pretty fascinating patchwork of oddity, so there's always something to write about! This is an old article from OHM, a long defunct, but rather good, music magazine
THE EPSTEIN/ TSUNAMI/ TWIZZ TWANGLE, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 3/9/04
Trying to write a critical evaluation of a Twizz Twangle gig is as awkward as jimmying a lock with a lime jelly, and about as useful: Dan Eisenhandler truly ploughs his own furrow, then rolls about in it, howling. Tonight he growls, yelps, parps on a trumpet, creates walls of feedback, crawls on the floor, and generally does whatever comes into his big bald head. His beleaguered backing band is left trying to hold things together, whilst Dan rips apart songs that were barely there in the first place.
Is it any good? No. Of course not. Are you insane? It's a load of old nonsense.
Did I enjoy it, and do I respect Twizz? Yes. Of course. Are you insane? How can one dislike such an unpredictable and joyfully chaotic show? Twizz Twangle is living proof that character and honesty are sometimes the most important things an artist can have. Though some tunes might be useful too, Dan...
After a twangling, Tsunami sound as tight as all hell! And that's fair enough, as they're a nice neat band, some slapdash guitar tuning notwithstanding. The vocalist is the lynchpin, with plenty of charisma and a high, vibrato-laden voice, but the whole bunch are decent performers. To be fair, the songs haven't exactly set up home in my head, though they're perfeclty good - think classic rock with a twist of 80s Bunnymen indie. Tsunami are a great support act; the test now is whether they can develop into something more memorable and move beyond that.
Can someone tell me why there's so much country music in Oxfordshire? Never could fathom that one. Anyway, The Epstein are comfortably top of the bunch (sorry, Goldrush), with a ton of lazy, shimmering songs, hung over rich syrupy vocals and generously coated with slide guitar: who needs authenticity when it sounds this good?
Anyway, by their standards tonight is a slightly messy affair, and the set doesn't quite hang together, but it's still a damned pleasant 45 minutes, with some beautiful melodies. Saddle up the hosses, boys, we're riding the whole herd to Didcot!
THE EPSTEIN/ TSUNAMI/ TWIZZ TWANGLE, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 3/9/04
Trying to write a critical evaluation of a Twizz Twangle gig is as awkward as jimmying a lock with a lime jelly, and about as useful: Dan Eisenhandler truly ploughs his own furrow, then rolls about in it, howling. Tonight he growls, yelps, parps on a trumpet, creates walls of feedback, crawls on the floor, and generally does whatever comes into his big bald head. His beleaguered backing band is left trying to hold things together, whilst Dan rips apart songs that were barely there in the first place.
Is it any good? No. Of course not. Are you insane? It's a load of old nonsense.
Did I enjoy it, and do I respect Twizz? Yes. Of course. Are you insane? How can one dislike such an unpredictable and joyfully chaotic show? Twizz Twangle is living proof that character and honesty are sometimes the most important things an artist can have. Though some tunes might be useful too, Dan...
After a twangling, Tsunami sound as tight as all hell! And that's fair enough, as they're a nice neat band, some slapdash guitar tuning notwithstanding. The vocalist is the lynchpin, with plenty of charisma and a high, vibrato-laden voice, but the whole bunch are decent performers. To be fair, the songs haven't exactly set up home in my head, though they're perfeclty good - think classic rock with a twist of 80s Bunnymen indie. Tsunami are a great support act; the test now is whether they can develop into something more memorable and move beyond that.
Can someone tell me why there's so much country music in Oxfordshire? Never could fathom that one. Anyway, The Epstein are comfortably top of the bunch (sorry, Goldrush), with a ton of lazy, shimmering songs, hung over rich syrupy vocals and generously coated with slide guitar: who needs authenticity when it sounds this good?
Anyway, by their standards tonight is a slightly messy affair, and the set doesn't quite hang together, but it's still a damned pleasant 45 minutes, with some beautiful melodies. Saddle up the hosses, boys, we're riding the whole herd to Didcot!
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