I think this is the first time I reviewed The Drug Squad. The housebound and insane who plan to read every post on this blog may wish to chart the change in my appreciation of the band as years go by - I really had to battle through my preconceptions to reach the conclusion that they are (or were, maybe, I think they're on another extended hiatus) a fantastic band, with a lot more ideas than many a po-faced post-rock trendypants combo.
Anyway, this is the usual lazy BBC guff I used to churn out: bad review, clumsy chumminess, Klub bloody Kak again...
THE DRUGSQUAD/ REDOX/ HARRY ANGEL - Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 7/04
You want snare-stabbed amphetipop? You want Harry Angel, then. Their eerie yet agressive tracks are like being pelted with large black rubber bricks. Bricks made in 1981, naturally. Hardware problems aside, this is a tentative performance, and I'd guess it's an early show for them: certainly the two guitars could often be utilised more originally. Still, there's plenty of talent here - especially in Chris Beard, who has the potential makings of a powerful vocalist. Worth watching out for.
Despite a near namesake, Redox is NOT a relaxing bath - more like an invigorating cold shower! In case you don't yet know, these half punk/half hippy staples of the Oxford music scene play psych blues workouts of some energy. It's the kicking rhythm section; it's the soaring FX-laden guitar of Phil Fryer; it's the frankly insane vocals (Sue Smith=Grace Slick + Janis Joplin + Ari Up). As the organisors, they happily step in tonight after a cancellation, and we're happy too. they even play two new songs.
They sound like the old songs, but who cares?
The Drugsquad has been away for a couple of years, but people seem happy to have them back. There are lots of them, they look like "characters", and they may or may not be stoned. Now, considering that this genre (ska-punk, we guess) is a fair way from my favourites, The Drugsquad do a pretty nifty job of making me nod and wobble appreciatively.
Whilst the lead singer can't really sing, he makes up for it in charisma, and the band is nice and tight, in a pleasingly loose way, if you follow me. Numbers like "Happy Pill" get The Wheatsheaf bouncing, but the true stars are the two-man brass section who play acid horn stabs, spiralling sax breaks and searing trumpet solos at every opportunity.
And, yes, I do know that the saxophone is actually a woodwind, thank you very much...
Saturday, 30 May 2009
Thursday, 28 May 2009
The Deaf Watchmaker
If you read this and get excited about The Port Mahon, I'm afraid it hasn't existed since last December. If you read this and get excited about a song based around God's camera, I'm afraid the song actually turned out to be about Mr T Walpole, mentioned in the first paragraph. If you read this and think it's shit, I'm afraid that www.oxfordbands.com is still going strong, and I still write reviews for them.
THE BLACK WATCH/ PAT FISH/ ANTON BARBEAU/ THE NEW MOON - The Port Mahon, 14/7/05
They're all out tonight. Local madcap poet Terry Walpole is gyrating about brandishing a hefty crucifix. A white-haired gent is sitting with his ear pressed against the PA cabinet, like a master safe-cracker. A man next to me has come up to see the bands "in case any of them sound like The Saw Doctors". It's warming up to be a fun night.
The New Moon opens proceedings. I'm starting to warm to their acoustic cabaret, which wobbles continually between the sentimental and the cerebral. With songs about "dark matter" and God's Kodak (possibly), they look and sound like two chemistry teachers who have thought up a double act in a desperate attempt to interest the class, then realised they have a real knack for performing and thrown away the old textbooks and retort stands.
Am I getting carried away with that image? Well, it's that sort of night. Next up we have US visitor Anton Barbeau. How he survives in laidback California I'll never know - he'd look excitable at a convention of extreme caffeine abusers in a room with a very hot floor. Bounding around the stage, swinging his tiny guitar and barely getting his words out in a flurry of excitement, he cuts an imposing figure. But despite the slightly overbearing zaniness, his songs actually have an unexpected melodic elegance, recalling the better pop of the early 70s: the main reference that popped into my head was George Harrison. Oh, and The Grumbleweeds.
Pat Fish used to be The Jazz Butcher, and made a bout a million albums years ago, most notably for Creation. He's still going strong, knocking up backing tracks in his house and performing songs for us on his guitar - in fact, he only dredges up one old Butcher tune. The rhythms are hardly the height of technology - it sounds like he made them on an Amiga - but the simplicity and homeliness add to the effect. A few tracks veer close to sounding like muzak versions of New Order, but in general the communicative effect of these well-written songs trumps the paucity of the sonic palette. A warm welcome back.
Finally, one fifth of The Black Watch - a cult band, apparently - takes the stage. Again, "unpretentious" is probably the best word to describe the show. That's "unpretentious", but definitely not "unintelligent" or "unadventurous". Perhaps the songs were a little less immediate than anybody else's tonight, but they were presented with such humourous camp sincerity that concentration isn't a chore.
All the acts tonight are wrestling something unique from the sparsest of materials, and I can't help but be reminded of the improvised music of the previous night. You know, for all its limitations, sometimes The Port Mahon seems like the best venue in town.
Oh yes, Saw Doctors man enjoyed it in the end, too.
THE BLACK WATCH/ PAT FISH/ ANTON BARBEAU/ THE NEW MOON - The Port Mahon, 14/7/05
They're all out tonight. Local madcap poet Terry Walpole is gyrating about brandishing a hefty crucifix. A white-haired gent is sitting with his ear pressed against the PA cabinet, like a master safe-cracker. A man next to me has come up to see the bands "in case any of them sound like The Saw Doctors". It's warming up to be a fun night.
The New Moon opens proceedings. I'm starting to warm to their acoustic cabaret, which wobbles continually between the sentimental and the cerebral. With songs about "dark matter" and God's Kodak (possibly), they look and sound like two chemistry teachers who have thought up a double act in a desperate attempt to interest the class, then realised they have a real knack for performing and thrown away the old textbooks and retort stands.
Am I getting carried away with that image? Well, it's that sort of night. Next up we have US visitor Anton Barbeau. How he survives in laidback California I'll never know - he'd look excitable at a convention of extreme caffeine abusers in a room with a very hot floor. Bounding around the stage, swinging his tiny guitar and barely getting his words out in a flurry of excitement, he cuts an imposing figure. But despite the slightly overbearing zaniness, his songs actually have an unexpected melodic elegance, recalling the better pop of the early 70s: the main reference that popped into my head was George Harrison. Oh, and The Grumbleweeds.
Pat Fish used to be The Jazz Butcher, and made a bout a million albums years ago, most notably for Creation. He's still going strong, knocking up backing tracks in his house and performing songs for us on his guitar - in fact, he only dredges up one old Butcher tune. The rhythms are hardly the height of technology - it sounds like he made them on an Amiga - but the simplicity and homeliness add to the effect. A few tracks veer close to sounding like muzak versions of New Order, but in general the communicative effect of these well-written songs trumps the paucity of the sonic palette. A warm welcome back.
Finally, one fifth of The Black Watch - a cult band, apparently - takes the stage. Again, "unpretentious" is probably the best word to describe the show. That's "unpretentious", but definitely not "unintelligent" or "unadventurous". Perhaps the songs were a little less immediate than anybody else's tonight, but they were presented with such humourous camp sincerity that concentration isn't a chore.
All the acts tonight are wrestling something unique from the sparsest of materials, and I can't help but be reminded of the improvised music of the previous night. You know, for all its limitations, sometimes The Port Mahon seems like the best venue in town.
Oh yes, Saw Doctors man enjoyed it in the end, too.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Narc Psychoses
This is probably the only record review I did for OHM. No idea why that should be, I think I was always at the bar whenever the CDs were handed out, or something. This is, err, short.
THE DRUGSQUAD - FAT FISH (Demo)
A drunk man with a cane keeps falling over.
Now, that's not too funny to read, but on screen it's a classic Charlie Chaplin routine. You get a similar problem with translation when lively party bands come offstage to make recordings, and ska-punk fools The Drugsquad are no exception. No matter how hard they play "Speed Queen", for example, the laundrophiliac* mariachi tune is a shadow of its live self.
Still, there's plenty to like in the stabbing horns, the abrasive drumming and the wonky keyboards, redolent of Steve Naive at his most irreverent: only the vocals don't quite convince. So, don't buy the demo, but see them live, and meet the title track in the flesh, where it sounds like a ditty from Playschool gone very bad. Imagine Floella Benjamin and Brian Cant full of cheap speed and tequila. Now try to stop...
*In love with a washing machine.
THE DRUGSQUAD - FAT FISH (Demo)
A drunk man with a cane keeps falling over.
Now, that's not too funny to read, but on screen it's a classic Charlie Chaplin routine. You get a similar problem with translation when lively party bands come offstage to make recordings, and ska-punk fools The Drugsquad are no exception. No matter how hard they play "Speed Queen", for example, the laundrophiliac* mariachi tune is a shadow of its live self.
Still, there's plenty to like in the stabbing horns, the abrasive drumming and the wonky keyboards, redolent of Steve Naive at his most irreverent: only the vocals don't quite convince. So, don't buy the demo, but see them live, and meet the title track in the flesh, where it sounds like a ditty from Playschool gone very bad. Imagine Floella Benjamin and Brian Cant full of cheap speed and tequila. Now try to stop...
*In love with a washing machine.
Saturday, 23 May 2009
There's A Pnak To It
Over at www.oxfordbands.com there's a Punt review by some of the old OHM writers, and it's the first time we've worked together for about 5 years. Exciting stuff. Not for you, for us. A little. Briefly.
Anyway, here's a slight Nightshift review from a little over a year ago - seems like the other day. Also, policemen look young now, Wagon Wheels used to nbe much bigger and Tom Baker was the best Dr Who. Time for my nap...
ELAPSE-O/ PLEASE/ PNAK – Coo Coo Club & Permanent Vacation, The Bully, 6/12/07
We’ve often supposed that Autechre came up with their song titles when they were losing at Scrabble - “Of course it’s a word, it’s a track on our new album!” – and Pnak must have got their name from the same place. Names, however, seem unimportant when the first track consists of gloriously greasy electronic tones smeared over some sprightly drumming, and sounds like Fripp & Eno’s No Pussyfooting being played at the same time as Teach Yourself Afrobeat. A couple of vocal loops aside this sets the tone for the whole of Pnak’s deeply satisfying performance. The abstract tones that are generated from a single Casio keyboard are incredibly visceral and inventive, and even if the drums could do with being a little more decisive, the effect is a surefire winner.
The more pronounceable Please use two tremolo-heavy guitars and a pounding drumkit to make the sort of cross-eyed rockabilly you might get if The Blue Orchids tried to play The Shadows. We find ourselves deeply in favour of this, at least until one of them starts singing, and a random selection of squeaks, groans and burps gets in the way of what could be knockout instrumentals. Shut your mouth, boy, and you’ve got a hell of a band.
Local experimental favourites Elapse-O get rid of the drums, and play seriously fuzzed and reverbed guitar and bass over chugging pre-recorded rhythms, whilst the odd 50s ultra-slapback vocal makes an appearance. The formula is one part shoegazing hum to two parts Suicide’s plastic Elvis trundle, which ought to be a recipe for sonic success, but ends up dull, grey and rather annoying. Perhaps the slightly flat sound of a nearly empty Bully sucked some of the life from the set, but it doesn’t look as though they had much suckable life at the outset. This gig didn’t entice, excite or develop, it just elapsed.
Oh.
Anyway, here's a slight Nightshift review from a little over a year ago - seems like the other day. Also, policemen look young now, Wagon Wheels used to nbe much bigger and Tom Baker was the best Dr Who. Time for my nap...
ELAPSE-O/ PLEASE/ PNAK – Coo Coo Club & Permanent Vacation, The Bully, 6/12/07
We’ve often supposed that Autechre came up with their song titles when they were losing at Scrabble - “Of course it’s a word, it’s a track on our new album!” – and Pnak must have got their name from the same place. Names, however, seem unimportant when the first track consists of gloriously greasy electronic tones smeared over some sprightly drumming, and sounds like Fripp & Eno’s No Pussyfooting being played at the same time as Teach Yourself Afrobeat. A couple of vocal loops aside this sets the tone for the whole of Pnak’s deeply satisfying performance. The abstract tones that are generated from a single Casio keyboard are incredibly visceral and inventive, and even if the drums could do with being a little more decisive, the effect is a surefire winner.
The more pronounceable Please use two tremolo-heavy guitars and a pounding drumkit to make the sort of cross-eyed rockabilly you might get if The Blue Orchids tried to play The Shadows. We find ourselves deeply in favour of this, at least until one of them starts singing, and a random selection of squeaks, groans and burps gets in the way of what could be knockout instrumentals. Shut your mouth, boy, and you’ve got a hell of a band.
Local experimental favourites Elapse-O get rid of the drums, and play seriously fuzzed and reverbed guitar and bass over chugging pre-recorded rhythms, whilst the odd 50s ultra-slapback vocal makes an appearance. The formula is one part shoegazing hum to two parts Suicide’s plastic Elvis trundle, which ought to be a recipe for sonic success, but ends up dull, grey and rather annoying. Perhaps the slightly flat sound of a nearly empty Bully sucked some of the life from the set, but it doesn’t look as though they had much suckable life at the outset. This gig didn’t entice, excite or develop, it just elapsed.
Oh.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Cache On Demand
Another godawful review from the BBC days. Rubbishness all my own work, incidentally, I'm not trying to blame the editor. I can't remember this band at all, bar the name. Luckily I wrote a vague and unmemorable review to match.
CACHE - The Wheatsheaf, 4/03
There's a sizable knot of people snugly standing in The Wheatsheaf waiting for the arrival of Cache. Support act Oakland Majesty Revival has warmed everyone up nicely with their bluesy 70s style pop show, and a selection of tunes far more neat and compact than their unwieldy name.
The crowd are pretty soon entranced, though, by the opening bars of Cache's first number, "Alchemical Cruise". Their stock in trade is a spangly, slow burning jazz club pop, with some quiet beautiful and sultry vocals. As such there's a touch of Eddi Reader, a whole swathe of Edie Brickell, and even a hint of Lloyd Cole.
The songs are built around both acoustic and muted electric guitars backed up by a selection of subtle sounds from the keyboards, and a couple of recorder and trumpet breaks, both played by the singer.
Lovely stuff, in short, but sometimes lovely just isn't enough. Maybe it's my jaded ears, but after the first few tracks "subtle" became "overly polite", ethereal edged towards "pedestrian", and "snug and lowlit" decayed into "dingy and crowded".
Cache are very talented musicians and songwriters who are clearly on top of their game. Unfortunately, their game at times resembles a drizzly no score draw. Perhaps with some more training they might suprise us next season. Perhaps they should work on stamina, as legs seemed to tire rather swiftly.
Perhaps this metaphor has gone on long enough - I don't even know anything about football.
CACHE - The Wheatsheaf, 4/03
There's a sizable knot of people snugly standing in The Wheatsheaf waiting for the arrival of Cache. Support act Oakland Majesty Revival has warmed everyone up nicely with their bluesy 70s style pop show, and a selection of tunes far more neat and compact than their unwieldy name.
The crowd are pretty soon entranced, though, by the opening bars of Cache's first number, "Alchemical Cruise". Their stock in trade is a spangly, slow burning jazz club pop, with some quiet beautiful and sultry vocals. As such there's a touch of Eddi Reader, a whole swathe of Edie Brickell, and even a hint of Lloyd Cole.
The songs are built around both acoustic and muted electric guitars backed up by a selection of subtle sounds from the keyboards, and a couple of recorder and trumpet breaks, both played by the singer.
Lovely stuff, in short, but sometimes lovely just isn't enough. Maybe it's my jaded ears, but after the first few tracks "subtle" became "overly polite", ethereal edged towards "pedestrian", and "snug and lowlit" decayed into "dingy and crowded".
Cache are very talented musicians and songwriters who are clearly on top of their game. Unfortunately, their game at times resembles a drizzly no score draw. Perhaps with some more training they might suprise us next season. Perhaps they should work on stamina, as legs seemed to tire rather swiftly.
Perhaps this metaphor has gone on long enough - I don't even know anything about football.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
No Mo', Please
Last night's Eurovision was good fun, eh? Thank God that UK atrocity didn't win, I'd have had to have emigrated. Anyone else notice that the Finnish vocalist looked like a cross between Eminem and Tommy Boyd?
Anyway, here's an old review from when The X was a fun pub where they had free music, before it became a flashy proper music venue. After this, of course, it became a bankrupt proper music venue, and then a terribly terribly run music venue, and now it's a curry house. Quite a good one, I'm told.
If you're wondering, Mac is a local live sound engineer who is absolutely lovely, but could duff the likes of me up in about 6 seconds flat.
MOFO, The X, 29/2/05
Mofo is a terrible name for a band. Then agian with its wigga air of bullishness, unsubtlety and inauthenticity, maybe it's a an excellent name for a terrible band. I hesitate to give them a bad review, because the drummer is one of the hardest looking men I've ever seen (imagine Mac after a serious course of steroids and a couple of deep fried feral leopards), but the truth must be told.
Mofo is a classic rock covers band. Now, I often find myself defending the principle of covers bands: from the classical recital to the jazz standard, to punk's ravaging of the rock 'n' roll songbook, there are many ways in which a musician can perform familiar material and make it matter. However, welding feet to monitors, hiring a dry ice machine and stomping through a bunch of predictable rockers with all the grace and elegance of a beery burp is not one of them.
But nobody's told Mofo yet. Yes, they can clearly play well, but they're so anonymous that they may actually have forgotten their own names. The vocalist is even worse, reminding me of local horror Pete Fryer. In fairness, he can sing a little better than Fryer, but shares with him a complete lack of charm and musical interpretation.
Listen, The Darkness may not be the greatest joke that post-modern pop has come up with, but surely opening your set with a sodden rendition of "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" by a man with no falsetto must be classed as missing the point. Similarly, "All Along The Watchtower" is a song that was forged in the mystic crucible of Dylan and mutated in the fuilthy laboratory of Hendrix - making it sound like a cross between Gary Moore and Whitesnake should be a capital offence.
In fact, every song sounds like a cross between Gary Moore and Whitensake, and one gets the impression that Mofo really can't tell the difference between the swagger of The Stones, the sneer of The Pistols and the hilarity of Motley Crue...which has got to be a drawback for a covers band, wouldn't you think? Never has the phrase "culturally bankrupt" seemed so apposite.
Then again, it's Saturday night, we're down the pub, entry was free, the band are passable and the tunes are good: maybe, just maybe, it's me that's missing the point after all...
Anyway, here's an old review from when The X was a fun pub where they had free music, before it became a flashy proper music venue. After this, of course, it became a bankrupt proper music venue, and then a terribly terribly run music venue, and now it's a curry house. Quite a good one, I'm told.
If you're wondering, Mac is a local live sound engineer who is absolutely lovely, but could duff the likes of me up in about 6 seconds flat.
MOFO, The X, 29/2/05
Mofo is a terrible name for a band. Then agian with its wigga air of bullishness, unsubtlety and inauthenticity, maybe it's a an excellent name for a terrible band. I hesitate to give them a bad review, because the drummer is one of the hardest looking men I've ever seen (imagine Mac after a serious course of steroids and a couple of deep fried feral leopards), but the truth must be told.
Mofo is a classic rock covers band. Now, I often find myself defending the principle of covers bands: from the classical recital to the jazz standard, to punk's ravaging of the rock 'n' roll songbook, there are many ways in which a musician can perform familiar material and make it matter. However, welding feet to monitors, hiring a dry ice machine and stomping through a bunch of predictable rockers with all the grace and elegance of a beery burp is not one of them.
But nobody's told Mofo yet. Yes, they can clearly play well, but they're so anonymous that they may actually have forgotten their own names. The vocalist is even worse, reminding me of local horror Pete Fryer. In fairness, he can sing a little better than Fryer, but shares with him a complete lack of charm and musical interpretation.
Listen, The Darkness may not be the greatest joke that post-modern pop has come up with, but surely opening your set with a sodden rendition of "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" by a man with no falsetto must be classed as missing the point. Similarly, "All Along The Watchtower" is a song that was forged in the mystic crucible of Dylan and mutated in the fuilthy laboratory of Hendrix - making it sound like a cross between Gary Moore and Whitesnake should be a capital offence.
In fact, every song sounds like a cross between Gary Moore and Whitensake, and one gets the impression that Mofo really can't tell the difference between the swagger of The Stones, the sneer of The Pistols and the hilarity of Motley Crue...which has got to be a drawback for a covers band, wouldn't you think? Never has the phrase "culturally bankrupt" seemed so apposite.
Then again, it's Saturday night, we're down the pub, entry was free, the band are passable and the tunes are good: maybe, just maybe, it's me that's missing the point after all...
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Carina Community
The edition of OHM I have in my hand claims this gig was at The Wheatsheaf, but I'm pretty certain it was downstairs at The Zodiac. I'm also pretty certain none of you are going to check.
I'd like to see The Honeymoon Machine again, but only if they were supporting The Family Machine, before finishing the bill with Divorce Device, the only obstacle to making this plan a glorious reality is the fact that Divorce Device don't actually exist, and never have.
CARINA ROUND/ THE HONEYMOON MACHINE - The Zodiac, 26/1/04
The Honeymoon Machine plays rock music with its roots in the fuzzy flurry of the late 60s. Not that they sound like the punky garage attendants that populate the current New Wave Of New Wave Of New Wave Of Etc, they're far more straightforward than that: witness the devil sympathising "Woo Woo"s or the pounding non-nonsense drums. Full marks, incidentally, to the excitable bassist who is NOTHING but limbs. The tunes themselves could do with a few more ideas, all things considered; the third track, "Angie", is a slow rock trudge, enlivened by the sound of a cat playing with a ball of string tied to a theremin, but mostly there's a stolid late Oasis clunk underpinning the set, which tends to bog them down somewhat.
That's the objective review. My subjective opinion is that it was fucking boring, a turgid dollop of mindless unsubtle plodrock dirge. Secretly I don't like rock music, you see. At least 50% of the greatest music I've ever heard has been rock music, but I still don't like it. Wierd, huh? Anyway, no time to discuss it now...
If the words "P. J. Harvey" were ever floated on the stock market, I'd avise Carina Round to invest heavily in shares, as she'd clean up on review references alone. Not as much as P. J. Harvey herself, but still. For Carina, Polly Harvey is less a reference point than an anchor, a lodestone. Which is a tad unfair, as Carina has a character all of her own, with a little gothic sass underpinning her well-worked rock vaudeville epics. She's got the vocal ambidexterity to leap around in pitch and style, too, which helps the theatrical effect no end. But it all still sounds a lot like P. J. Harvey.
Ultimately, she isn't as good as Harvey. Polly Jean's show is a gloriously taut athletic distillation of the sounds (and sexual politics) of the entire history of rock music - which I don't like...err, never mind that for now - whilst Carina's still has a little excess flab here and there. However, there's an awful lot to like in Carina, not to mention her tight and elegant backing band. And she does an eight minute long Pixies cover! I've personally never been to a bad gig that featured the line "Losing my penis to a whore with disease," and tonight hasn't bucked that trend.
I'd like to see The Honeymoon Machine again, but only if they were supporting The Family Machine, before finishing the bill with Divorce Device, the only obstacle to making this plan a glorious reality is the fact that Divorce Device don't actually exist, and never have.
CARINA ROUND/ THE HONEYMOON MACHINE - The Zodiac, 26/1/04
The Honeymoon Machine plays rock music with its roots in the fuzzy flurry of the late 60s. Not that they sound like the punky garage attendants that populate the current New Wave Of New Wave Of New Wave Of Etc, they're far more straightforward than that: witness the devil sympathising "Woo Woo"s or the pounding non-nonsense drums. Full marks, incidentally, to the excitable bassist who is NOTHING but limbs. The tunes themselves could do with a few more ideas, all things considered; the third track, "Angie", is a slow rock trudge, enlivened by the sound of a cat playing with a ball of string tied to a theremin, but mostly there's a stolid late Oasis clunk underpinning the set, which tends to bog them down somewhat.
That's the objective review. My subjective opinion is that it was fucking boring, a turgid dollop of mindless unsubtle plodrock dirge. Secretly I don't like rock music, you see. At least 50% of the greatest music I've ever heard has been rock music, but I still don't like it. Wierd, huh? Anyway, no time to discuss it now...
If the words "P. J. Harvey" were ever floated on the stock market, I'd avise Carina Round to invest heavily in shares, as she'd clean up on review references alone. Not as much as P. J. Harvey herself, but still. For Carina, Polly Harvey is less a reference point than an anchor, a lodestone. Which is a tad unfair, as Carina has a character all of her own, with a little gothic sass underpinning her well-worked rock vaudeville epics. She's got the vocal ambidexterity to leap around in pitch and style, too, which helps the theatrical effect no end. But it all still sounds a lot like P. J. Harvey.
Ultimately, she isn't as good as Harvey. Polly Jean's show is a gloriously taut athletic distillation of the sounds (and sexual politics) of the entire history of rock music - which I don't like...err, never mind that for now - whilst Carina's still has a little excess flab here and there. However, there's an awful lot to like in Carina, not to mention her tight and elegant backing band. And she does an eight minute long Pixies cover! I've personally never been to a bad gig that featured the line "Losing my penis to a whore with disease," and tonight hasn't bucked that trend.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
The Prong Remains The Same
Do you know, when I looked at this review, I had no recollection of writing it. None whatever. Although wierdly I recall the actual gig quite well. Funny how the old mind works, eh? This, if I remember correctly (and we've proved there's no guarantee of that) was the last time I saw Fork, as they split up soon after. Pity, they were just beginning to get good. Still, all together now: This could be the last tine...
FORK/ SHIRLEY/ EMERALD SKY/ THE RELATIONSHIPS – THE X 17/11/06
Exquisitely English indie janglers The Relationships write the most perfect pop songs in Oxford. They look like they presented schools’ science programmes in 1983, but they create the sort of elegant chiming little anthems that may have sprung up if The Byrds, R.E.M.and Noel Coward had all been signed to Postcard Records. Their inherent politeness does risk being as rock and roll as crustless cucumber sarnies, but is salvaged by the fine balance between the writing’s crafted melancholy and the barely controlled rock beast that is drummer Tim Turan. OK, they’re not as good on stage as they are on record, but very few in this town are likely ever to be.
Emerald Sky are a Cambridge-based female cock rock trio (notebooks out, anatomists) who seem to play Oxford every twenty minutes. Clearly certain promoters hear more in their AC/DC Zepellin approximations than we. Their full fat hammer-on rocking is amusing enough, but palls after repeated hearings. Emerald Sky are admittedly fun, but so is drunken Twister, and we wouldn’t give that a good review.
We’ve been fairly lukewarm in our reception of Shirley in the past, and we’d just like to say this: we were wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Shirley are a brilliant party band. Whilst it’s tough for demi-Gods like us to admit mistakes, the blow is softened by some of the most infectiously euphoric cod-latin pop-rock on the planet. Replete with piercing snare stabs and helium-light acoustic riffing, Shirley’s songs are tight, bouncy and compact enough to make Buddy Holly look like King Crimson. Admittedly the vocals don’t quite gel tonight, but the rhythm section sounds crisper than ever. We even tapped our feet for a bit, readers, it was that enjoyable.
Fork have been confusing audiences for a while now, by fusing six-string funk basslines onto tinny little punk frames. If this sounds like a recipe for a huge mess, for a while it was, but Fork have been improving steadily over the past year. This is partly due to the addition of Tim from Junkie Brush on drums, who adds not only a much needed sense of structure, but also cheeky roto-tom action. Also, leader James Serjeant has seemingly realised that he has a negligible range and changed his vocals to a malevolent hiss that works remarkably well. Yes, they could do with more like the abstract lounge-jazz of “How Do I Get Out Of Here?”, but Fork are moving in the right direction: if they aren’t quite there yet, we’re at least enjoying the ride.
FORK/ SHIRLEY/ EMERALD SKY/ THE RELATIONSHIPS – THE X 17/11/06
Exquisitely English indie janglers The Relationships write the most perfect pop songs in Oxford. They look like they presented schools’ science programmes in 1983, but they create the sort of elegant chiming little anthems that may have sprung up if The Byrds, R.E.M.and Noel Coward had all been signed to Postcard Records. Their inherent politeness does risk being as rock and roll as crustless cucumber sarnies, but is salvaged by the fine balance between the writing’s crafted melancholy and the barely controlled rock beast that is drummer Tim Turan. OK, they’re not as good on stage as they are on record, but very few in this town are likely ever to be.
Emerald Sky are a Cambridge-based female cock rock trio (notebooks out, anatomists) who seem to play Oxford every twenty minutes. Clearly certain promoters hear more in their AC/DC Zepellin approximations than we. Their full fat hammer-on rocking is amusing enough, but palls after repeated hearings. Emerald Sky are admittedly fun, but so is drunken Twister, and we wouldn’t give that a good review.
We’ve been fairly lukewarm in our reception of Shirley in the past, and we’d just like to say this: we were wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Shirley are a brilliant party band. Whilst it’s tough for demi-Gods like us to admit mistakes, the blow is softened by some of the most infectiously euphoric cod-latin pop-rock on the planet. Replete with piercing snare stabs and helium-light acoustic riffing, Shirley’s songs are tight, bouncy and compact enough to make Buddy Holly look like King Crimson. Admittedly the vocals don’t quite gel tonight, but the rhythm section sounds crisper than ever. We even tapped our feet for a bit, readers, it was that enjoyable.
Fork have been confusing audiences for a while now, by fusing six-string funk basslines onto tinny little punk frames. If this sounds like a recipe for a huge mess, for a while it was, but Fork have been improving steadily over the past year. This is partly due to the addition of Tim from Junkie Brush on drums, who adds not only a much needed sense of structure, but also cheeky roto-tom action. Also, leader James Serjeant has seemingly realised that he has a negligible range and changed his vocals to a malevolent hiss that works remarkably well. Yes, they could do with more like the abstract lounge-jazz of “How Do I Get Out Of Here?”, but Fork are moving in the right direction: if they aren’t quite there yet, we’re at least enjoying the ride.
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Just Your Average Review Referencing Merzbow, Chuckie Egg And Robin's Nest...
Like a revisionist historian, or Stalinist clerk, I've ruthlessly edited this review, dropping phrases, restoring bits left out by the original editor,and even writing some new lines that amused me. Fuck it, I'm listening to John Coltrane and am therefore suffused with the spirit that I can do whatever I want.
Post-Dubstar band Client didn't get anywhere, I was therefore right. Never forget this fact.
CLIENT/PINEY GIR/ A SCHOLAR & A PHYSICIAN - Zodiac, 3/04
Talk about biting off more than you can chew. Musically speaking, A Scholar And A Physician have tried to swallow in one mouthful the sort of foot-long hot dog that TV leads me to believe New Yorkers eat for every meal. They have far too many instruments onstage, from guitars to electronics to banjos, and their spaceman headgear, whilst striking, makes it hard for them to move around with any pace. One small step for a man, one agonising pause for a bloke in a silly costume.
Still, even with these setbacks they manage to make a pretty fascinating noise. Their main trick is to take rinkydink keyboard melodies, pitched somewhere between 70s sitcom Robin's Nest and ancient computer game Chuckie Egg, and proceed to throw funny noises at it until it collapses in submission. It's the sort of thing Wire editors listen to when they're hungover and can't face another Merzbow CD.
Somewhat overly cute, then, but enticing all the same. Their last song proclaims, "I'm just like you". No you're not, synthboy, no you're not - that's why it's fun.
Did I call ASAP cute? Then I've got no words left to describve the lovely Piney Gir. She used to be in Mute band Vic 20, but is now going it alone. She plays tidy little preset pop numbers on her toy keyboard, with occasional help from the members of ASAP. The references are French chanson, 70s MOR and, of course, 80s synthpop, but they all come out of the Pineytron sounding equally sweet, cuddly and yummily synthetic. Her victory is that this primary-coloured 2D sound dosesn't become wearing, and keeps on delighting, which is mostly down to her voice, which has more to it than is originally obvious. Dreamy, though the final megaphone rant cover of "My Generation" soon wakes us up.
Fresh from daytime Radio 1 play, Client drop into The Zodiac with some, ahem, electroclash stompers, seemingly about either sex or the service industry. It's a far cry from Dubstar. With their drab olive bouses, deadpan vocals and regimented elctro riffs, Client's effect is as joyless and austere as a fire safety lecture in a Polish gulag. The sparseness is alluring...for the first couple of tracks. Sadly, the lack of musical variety begins to bore, and the two frontwomen start to look less like erotic matriachs and more like blank-eyed checkout girls. There could be something here, but they'll have to stretch themselves a lot more first.
Post-Dubstar band Client didn't get anywhere, I was therefore right. Never forget this fact.
CLIENT/PINEY GIR/ A SCHOLAR & A PHYSICIAN - Zodiac, 3/04
Talk about biting off more than you can chew. Musically speaking, A Scholar And A Physician have tried to swallow in one mouthful the sort of foot-long hot dog that TV leads me to believe New Yorkers eat for every meal. They have far too many instruments onstage, from guitars to electronics to banjos, and their spaceman headgear, whilst striking, makes it hard for them to move around with any pace. One small step for a man, one agonising pause for a bloke in a silly costume.
Still, even with these setbacks they manage to make a pretty fascinating noise. Their main trick is to take rinkydink keyboard melodies, pitched somewhere between 70s sitcom Robin's Nest and ancient computer game Chuckie Egg, and proceed to throw funny noises at it until it collapses in submission. It's the sort of thing Wire editors listen to when they're hungover and can't face another Merzbow CD.
Somewhat overly cute, then, but enticing all the same. Their last song proclaims, "I'm just like you". No you're not, synthboy, no you're not - that's why it's fun.
Did I call ASAP cute? Then I've got no words left to describve the lovely Piney Gir. She used to be in Mute band Vic 20, but is now going it alone. She plays tidy little preset pop numbers on her toy keyboard, with occasional help from the members of ASAP. The references are French chanson, 70s MOR and, of course, 80s synthpop, but they all come out of the Pineytron sounding equally sweet, cuddly and yummily synthetic. Her victory is that this primary-coloured 2D sound dosesn't become wearing, and keeps on delighting, which is mostly down to her voice, which has more to it than is originally obvious. Dreamy, though the final megaphone rant cover of "My Generation" soon wakes us up.
Fresh from daytime Radio 1 play, Client drop into The Zodiac with some, ahem, electroclash stompers, seemingly about either sex or the service industry. It's a far cry from Dubstar. With their drab olive bouses, deadpan vocals and regimented elctro riffs, Client's effect is as joyless and austere as a fire safety lecture in a Polish gulag. The sparseness is alluring...for the first couple of tracks. Sadly, the lack of musical variety begins to bore, and the two frontwomen start to look less like erotic matriachs and more like blank-eyed checkout girls. There could be something here, but they'll have to stretch themselves a lot more first.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
Saw Point
The last Oxfordbands review I posted had a stupid pun about Gok Wan in the title. Later that night I had to write a new review, & Mr W popped into my head again, so into the review he went. Wouldn't be a problem, if I hadn't mentioned him again at a barbecue on Sunday, now my wife thinks I have a strange obsession with the man! In a bid to put this unhealthy fixation behind me, here is the latest Oxfordbands review.
MODERN CLICHES – YOU GOT TO TELL ME/THE SAME PLACE (Crash Records)
The band’s called Modern Cliches but, to be frank, the cliches they trade in are pretty threadbare. This young band may have a selling point, but it’s not modernity, that’s for damned sure; if these guys are modern, then we can expect to see Gok Wan parading round prime time in an Elizabethan ruff and codpiece combo any day now. So, OK, they may not be startlingly original, and they may not be any where near the cutting edge (or even in the same cutlery drawer), but this is far from an unpleasant little record.
Modern Cliches’ reference points - or should we say, theft victims - are they same as they have been for the rest of the band’s existence, from back in the days when they were misguidedly known as Inacun (which is only a letter or so away from being rather rude…like Gok Wan). The Jam are clearly writer Phil Warson’s gods, with perhaps some place in the lower pantheon for The Beatles (non-experimental mood) and The Kinks (early material only). Every little rhythmic twitch and shudder on “You Got To Tell Me” has The Jam smeared all over it, and is thus chunky but satisfying, like crinkle-cut chips. The melody line is pleasant, rather than striking, but the trio band manage to come up with enough breaks and developments to hold interest, without over-balancing what’s a nice, compact little pop song.
“The Same Place” fares slightly less well, mostly because the vocal doesn’t really have the emotional punch to pull off the melancholic verse melody, nor the intimate doo-wop nods in the chorus.It’s not a bad tune, but rather runs out of ideas half way though and lumbers out of frame with some pretty leaden chords, and resolutely unrocking cymbal crashes. Still, we’d give this a grudging thumbs up, if it weren’t for the line,
As you breathe out the steam out of your mouth
Lets you know that you’re a reflection of the weather,
which not only does some pretty severe grammatical GBH to the language, but also confuses steam with water vapour, before wrapping it all up with an unfathomable bit of guff poetry.
Modern Cliches are an enjoyable band live, with a no frills approach to pop similar to that peddled by the slightly more well known Vultures, but this single hasn’t caught much of that. Too polite to be joyful pop, too simple to be muso rock, and too lumpy to be drivetime MOR, this record never really finds its place. Would it be painfully predictable if we said they should aim for the former category, get hopped up on strong coffee and cheap schnapps and record their next record in a haunted basement at double speed? Hmmm, cliches all round, it would appear.
MODERN CLICHES – YOU GOT TO TELL ME/THE SAME PLACE (Crash Records)
The band’s called Modern Cliches but, to be frank, the cliches they trade in are pretty threadbare. This young band may have a selling point, but it’s not modernity, that’s for damned sure; if these guys are modern, then we can expect to see Gok Wan parading round prime time in an Elizabethan ruff and codpiece combo any day now. So, OK, they may not be startlingly original, and they may not be any where near the cutting edge (or even in the same cutlery drawer), but this is far from an unpleasant little record.
Modern Cliches’ reference points - or should we say, theft victims - are they same as they have been for the rest of the band’s existence, from back in the days when they were misguidedly known as Inacun (which is only a letter or so away from being rather rude…like Gok Wan). The Jam are clearly writer Phil Warson’s gods, with perhaps some place in the lower pantheon for The Beatles (non-experimental mood) and The Kinks (early material only). Every little rhythmic twitch and shudder on “You Got To Tell Me” has The Jam smeared all over it, and is thus chunky but satisfying, like crinkle-cut chips. The melody line is pleasant, rather than striking, but the trio band manage to come up with enough breaks and developments to hold interest, without over-balancing what’s a nice, compact little pop song.
“The Same Place” fares slightly less well, mostly because the vocal doesn’t really have the emotional punch to pull off the melancholic verse melody, nor the intimate doo-wop nods in the chorus.It’s not a bad tune, but rather runs out of ideas half way though and lumbers out of frame with some pretty leaden chords, and resolutely unrocking cymbal crashes. Still, we’d give this a grudging thumbs up, if it weren’t for the line,
As you breathe out the steam out of your mouth
Lets you know that you’re a reflection of the weather,
which not only does some pretty severe grammatical GBH to the language, but also confuses steam with water vapour, before wrapping it all up with an unfathomable bit of guff poetry.
Modern Cliches are an enjoyable band live, with a no frills approach to pop similar to that peddled by the slightly more well known Vultures, but this single hasn’t caught much of that. Too polite to be joyful pop, too simple to be muso rock, and too lumpy to be drivetime MOR, this record never really finds its place. Would it be painfully predictable if we said they should aim for the former category, get hopped up on strong coffee and cheap schnapps and record their next record in a haunted basement at double speed? Hmmm, cliches all round, it would appear.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
Redox Bath
It does seem as though I've done a lot of reviews at Klub Kak gigs over the years, doesn't it? This is another 2nd rate review, with a pig awful opening salvo. My editors were clearly very forgiving (or desperate) in those days.
VIGILANCE BLACK SPECIAL/ REDOX/ OPAQUE - Klub Kakofanney, 7/11/03
There's probably a picture of Opaque in the dictionary under "Variable". Except who ever heard of a dictionary with pictures? Maybe an encyclopaedia - although they don't tend to define adjectives...anyway, Opaque's accordion-driven folk-pop is of mixed quality: half slinky Cajun slither (Yay!), and half creaky, crusty drop-in centre dirge (Boo!). Aside from a few rhythm section clunkers, the vocals are the main problem, yowled with the self conscious sincerity you might expect from a singing picket line. Having said that, their penultimate tune is a Madness style rocker, and it's worth remembering that this is their first gig. Why not give them a try?
It's pretty hard to dislike Phil and Sue, the Kakafanneers, because they tirelessly promote music with an infectious enthusiasm. Still, Redox, their occasional hippy-punk-blues-folk band, can easily stand on its own merits, thank you. Tonight the storming phased guitar howls, the psychedelic projections, the skintight drumming (from studio legend Tim Turan, no less) and the sense of barely controlled chaos inspire thoughts of what Warhol's Exploding Plastic Inevitable would have been like if it were invented in a barn in Wantage. They even boast that rarest of beasts, a decent didjeridoo player. Support them, because Redox is a local treasure, and what's more, they aren't surrounded by gawking tourists for five months of the year.
Vigilance Black Special remind me of The Rock Of Travolta. Whoooah, there, post-rockers - it's only because everybody in the county seems to love them, but to me they're terribly workmanlike and unimaginative. VBS are dark noir-country balladeers, something akin to a spooky Goldrush without the swagger or beautiful vocals, or a Nick Cave without the stage presence or tunes. There's nothing fundamentally wrong with that, but there doesn't appear to be much to add. The trombone is a lovely touch, admittedly, but only highlights the lack of imagination in the rest of the music.
If this were thier debut, I'd say that there was plenty of potential, but the fact is that they've been around for yonks, and still sound as tedious as they did when I saw them at The Point over three years ago. Nothing special.
Saturday, 2 May 2009
Periodic Table For Two
An old Nightshift review, showing that we writers do like a bit of simple fun sometimes, it's not all art noise, unrock, trickstep and single malt, you know. The X is a much missed Oxford venue. Alison, the landlady, read this review and thought the last line was a jibe at UTE for recycling bad 80s rock. Well, they do sort of do that, but this was simply a comment on how bloody messy it is in the UK. Hardly a biting social indictment, but there you go...
UNITING THE ELEMENTS, Exeter Hall 7/7/06
You may find a section in your local record shop called “World Music”. To be honest, it’s pretty meaningless genre, and I for one have never heard music from any other planets, despite owning albums by David Bowie and Sun Ra. It’s also arbitrary which local styles are allowed entry into the World enclave: if Nigerian blues and Cuban jazz are recognised neo-folk micro-genres, why not Glaswegian indie or Mitteleuropean stadium rock? It is the latter that Uniting The Elements arrive toting, and whilst this ought to be enough to send us all home feeling nauseous, there’s something in the quality of UTE’s superb performance that excuses cardinal taste crimes. Scarlet haired and spring-loaded vocalist Dawn boasts an impressively agile, strident voice, and guitarist Ola may have a full armoury of classic rock tricks and giant amps, but it’s the drummer who steals the show, spraying beats like an out of control holepunch even whilst she bolsters everything with rigid steely rhythms. It’s a praiseworthy performance by anyone’s standards, but nobody that slim and delicate has any business making like a punk John Bonham for forty minutes!
Musically, UTE keep the surprises to a minimum: of course the ballads are a bit rubbish, of course the electronic backing track is occasionally tacky, of course the lyrics work better when they’re enquiring whether you wouldn’t be averse to punching the air than when they’re cogitating life’s mysteries. But this is party music, and shouldn’t be scrutinised too closely. Better to remember that UTE quit their jobs in Germany to live in a caravan, playing 250+ gigs a year, and surely nobody with a tiny hint of rock romance in them can deny a little respect for that. A grotesque cross between The Quireboys and Rednex, UTE are as ridiculous as No Doubt and as two-dimensional as The Archies…but, fuck me, I’m a convert. It’s time to get drunk, put on implausible outfits and dance in a field. Just remember to recycle your rubbish, though, we’re in Europe now…
UNITING THE ELEMENTS, Exeter Hall 7/7/06
You may find a section in your local record shop called “World Music”. To be honest, it’s pretty meaningless genre, and I for one have never heard music from any other planets, despite owning albums by David Bowie and Sun Ra. It’s also arbitrary which local styles are allowed entry into the World enclave: if Nigerian blues and Cuban jazz are recognised neo-folk micro-genres, why not Glaswegian indie or Mitteleuropean stadium rock? It is the latter that Uniting The Elements arrive toting, and whilst this ought to be enough to send us all home feeling nauseous, there’s something in the quality of UTE’s superb performance that excuses cardinal taste crimes. Scarlet haired and spring-loaded vocalist Dawn boasts an impressively agile, strident voice, and guitarist Ola may have a full armoury of classic rock tricks and giant amps, but it’s the drummer who steals the show, spraying beats like an out of control holepunch even whilst she bolsters everything with rigid steely rhythms. It’s a praiseworthy performance by anyone’s standards, but nobody that slim and delicate has any business making like a punk John Bonham for forty minutes!
Musically, UTE keep the surprises to a minimum: of course the ballads are a bit rubbish, of course the electronic backing track is occasionally tacky, of course the lyrics work better when they’re enquiring whether you wouldn’t be averse to punching the air than when they’re cogitating life’s mysteries. But this is party music, and shouldn’t be scrutinised too closely. Better to remember that UTE quit their jobs in Germany to live in a caravan, playing 250+ gigs a year, and surely nobody with a tiny hint of rock romance in them can deny a little respect for that. A grotesque cross between The Quireboys and Rednex, UTE are as ridiculous as No Doubt and as two-dimensional as The Archies…but, fuck me, I’m a convert. It’s time to get drunk, put on implausible outfits and dance in a field. Just remember to recycle your rubbish, though, we’re in Europe now…
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