By Any Other Name, Would Sound As Sweet

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!