The first nasty review I ever wrote! Not that I'm ever nasty, just generous, fair, or incisively correct.
ESKIMO/ONZICUBE/ET AL, The Wheatsheaf, 11/02
Proceedings begin pleasantly with a selection of acoustic songwriter types. It's strummy, it's croony, it's my-woman-done-left-me, and it's rather refreshingly unaffected. Some fine vocal performances, but the pick of the bunch is Gerry Hughes who delivers three tunes, including a fantastically slurred, assured reading of Tom Waits' "Ice Cream Man".
Posters outside the venue boast "extended support from Onzicube". When they wander offstage after about 20 minutes you wonder what they normally perform. Haikus? What we get, however briefly, is a nice loose bundle of acoustic bluesy oddments, with some strange almost post-rock angularities. I'd describe it as Bert Jansch meets Tortoise, if I thought you'd believe me for a second.
Ultimately they are let down by some sloppy rhythmic playing: the percussionist drifts into clumsy flutters, sounding like a squid in a washing machine full of tambourines, and the guitarist is exceptionaly wayward. A little judicious rehearsal could pay dividends.
A little judicious fashion advice could help Eskimo: the singer has one of those risible Craig David skintight hats, that look like the verucca socks kids had for school swimming lessons. However, considering they play the sort of anodyne MOR dreck you might get piped into your bedroom if Alan Partridge were Big Brother, headgear is the least of their worries.
The problem is that Eskimo are "entertainers", mixing their own featherlight numbers with "a few you might recognise". As such they are less a band, more the result of market research. The pianist has a ridiculous mobile disco voice, announcing "a little song by Mr. Lenny Kravitz". I keep expecting him to joke about the bride's father , until I remember where I am.
To give Eskimo their due, they play well, and the vocals are immaculate. I suppose that if you like Toploader, you'll love it - the crowd does. Just leave me out of it.
Did I mention the hat?
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Thursday, 25 June 2009
The Dusk Brothers
Oh dear, I'm in a hurry again. Here's an Oxfordbands review from a couple of years ago. It was all Dunkirk spirit that night as ace local fest Truck had been cancelled due to Biblical weather. I was happy, as it meant I could go after I'd been away when it was postponed. I flew to Europe the morning after this gig. I was hungover.
THE EVENINGS/ KING FURNACE/ BEAR IN THE AIR – GRINNING SPIDER, THE X, 20/7/07
Following monstrous downpours, and just hours after the news that Truck has been postponed, it’s pleasing to see so many of Oxford’s music fans prepared to make the trip to The X, to share a beer and commiserate over the sudden death of a long anticipated weekend.
Plenty of opportunity for commiseration during Bear In The Air’s set, because it does very little to impinge on your consciousness, despite the volume. With tinkly high keys and emotive vocals always fluttering at the edge of falsetto, Bear In The Air are essentially a pub rock version of Muse. Some of their songs could perhaps be twisted into an entertaining Bond theme bombast, if only their performance wasn’t so sludgy, and Bear In The Air are resolutely earthbound. Sorry, that’s an obvious gag – but not nearly so obvious as their arrangements.
Thank heaven for King Furnace, then, who bring some sense of occasion back to the stage, along with entertaining rock pomp. With a vocalist who looks like BBC man Tim Bearder’s cooler brother (actually, doesn’t Tim already have one of those?) prancing around the stage howling out some foot tapping cock rock, a nice sprightly drummer and a guitarist with a full-fat sound, King Furnace are guaranteed to keep you amused, even if they’re unlikely to change any lives along the way. The whole pantomime affair brings back rather fond memories of Marconi’s Voodoo. Good stuff.
We’ve said it many a time, but The Evenings are one of our favourite local acts, always up for a bit of reinvention. Until recently they’d taken rather a lengthy hiatus and now they’ve returned as a trio, with a clutch of new material. When not acting the giddy goat, Seb’s keyboards are still a winning mixture of cheap rave and Vangelis, whilst Jo is currently playing bass with far more authority than the old days, and it seems that stripping down the lineup has worked well. The newer songs have a surprisingly lyrical bent, all slowly evolving vocal melodies and lovelorn melancholy, and they fit rather well with the electro rock backing we know so well.
But, perhaps this new found delicacy needs a better voice to carry it through. Nothing wrong with Mark’s voice, really, but it doesn’t really have the malleability to truly coax the beauty from the melodies, nor the character to capture the emotion of the lyrics. Plus, we don’t want anything to detract Mark from playing drums, as he does this so bloody well, displaying fluidity and power simultaneously. A couple of criticisms, then, but The Evenings are still up there with the best.
THE EVENINGS/ KING FURNACE/ BEAR IN THE AIR – GRINNING SPIDER, THE X, 20/7/07
Following monstrous downpours, and just hours after the news that Truck has been postponed, it’s pleasing to see so many of Oxford’s music fans prepared to make the trip to The X, to share a beer and commiserate over the sudden death of a long anticipated weekend.
Plenty of opportunity for commiseration during Bear In The Air’s set, because it does very little to impinge on your consciousness, despite the volume. With tinkly high keys and emotive vocals always fluttering at the edge of falsetto, Bear In The Air are essentially a pub rock version of Muse. Some of their songs could perhaps be twisted into an entertaining Bond theme bombast, if only their performance wasn’t so sludgy, and Bear In The Air are resolutely earthbound. Sorry, that’s an obvious gag – but not nearly so obvious as their arrangements.
Thank heaven for King Furnace, then, who bring some sense of occasion back to the stage, along with entertaining rock pomp. With a vocalist who looks like BBC man Tim Bearder’s cooler brother (actually, doesn’t Tim already have one of those?) prancing around the stage howling out some foot tapping cock rock, a nice sprightly drummer and a guitarist with a full-fat sound, King Furnace are guaranteed to keep you amused, even if they’re unlikely to change any lives along the way. The whole pantomime affair brings back rather fond memories of Marconi’s Voodoo. Good stuff.
We’ve said it many a time, but The Evenings are one of our favourite local acts, always up for a bit of reinvention. Until recently they’d taken rather a lengthy hiatus and now they’ve returned as a trio, with a clutch of new material. When not acting the giddy goat, Seb’s keyboards are still a winning mixture of cheap rave and Vangelis, whilst Jo is currently playing bass with far more authority than the old days, and it seems that stripping down the lineup has worked well. The newer songs have a surprisingly lyrical bent, all slowly evolving vocal melodies and lovelorn melancholy, and they fit rather well with the electro rock backing we know so well.
But, perhaps this new found delicacy needs a better voice to carry it through. Nothing wrong with Mark’s voice, really, but it doesn’t really have the malleability to truly coax the beauty from the melodies, nor the character to capture the emotion of the lyrics. Plus, we don’t want anything to detract Mark from playing drums, as he does this so bloody well, displaying fluidity and power simultaneously. A couple of criticisms, then, but The Evenings are still up there with the best.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Horticulture Club
What can I say about this one? A tiny festival on an allotment, how can you possibly dislike that?
ELDER STUBBS FESTIVAL, ELDER STUBBS ALLOTMENT, 21/8/04
You'd have to boast a heart hewn from cold, unloving rock not to be tempted by a music festival held in a Cowley allotment: if you can't relax with music and poetry amongst the cabbages and frankly terrifying pagan sculptures of Elder Stubbs on a sunny day, I have no hope for you. And at 50p entry, it's something of a bargain!
Skeleton Crew impress immediately with their medieval folk and early music performances. Now, I don't know my sackbut from my serpent, or my pavanne from my galliard, but the sound was enticing, albeit fighting a losing battle with the noise of a bustling cafe.
I'm guessing, from looking at the four of them, that The Noisy Oysters are a family who prefer to play klezmer classics of an evening instead of watching reality TV. Good choice. Their set is somewhat hesitant, but manages ot deliver the goods eventually.
At first glance Jeremy Hughes' guitar instrumentals just sound like somebody practising, doodling around some little trills and getting that muscle memory programmed in. Maybe it was the dappled sunlight and the tin of beer, but today it all made perfect sense, and his cyclical compositions transported us away on light and nimble melodies.
Next up regulars from local pub The Exeter Hall knocked out a couple of tunes each. Quality varied, but the spirit shone through.
When did you last see a table and sitar duo reviewed in Oxford? Proving that there's more to acoustic music than strumming hippies anbd self-pitying wastrels, Pandit Kailash Pawar & Chris Hills perform an hour of traditional ragas. Again, I'm no expert, but the music was spellbinding, if not always as fluid as it might be. Still, considering they hadn't met till that day, and Hills was playing pieces he'd never heard before, you've got to give them credit.
Mark Ginsberg is wearing a polka dot shirt whilst playing pier-end covers on an antediluvian organ. Clearly it's rubbish, but somehow those old bossa nova rhythm presets really kick, in a hissing Autechral fashion...plus his cover of "Purple Haze" reveals he isn't taking this too seriously either...
If Kenny Everett were recording a sketch about washed up 70s rockers, he'd copy Hawkwind alumnus Hugh Lloyd-Langton exactly. He's got the dangling fag, the Rod Stewart hairdo, the stoned chuckle and the leopard print waistcoat. He appears to be completely wasted. He's also got the bluesy Pagesque technique on his acoustic guitar to just about get away with it. A fine exemplum for the avoidance of drugs; nearly as fine as the surrounding sculptures.
Inflatable Buddha could be astonishing, but they don't know their own strengths. They boast weird instrumentation, a freaky stage presence and a ranting poet, yet they insist on performing rock tunes, despite the fact that the rhythm section has no bite and the vocalist can't sing (also for a poet his diction is awful, but we'll ignore that). "I Met A Girl" might make sense if Dive Dive played it, but Buddha should stick to the acid cabaret they know: "Fat Sex" and the one about boiling frogs, now there's some real character.
In a flurry of fiddle-licked hoedown punk, Some Dogs finish the afternoon. They display far more energy than ability (except for the sizzling violinist) but it seems to fit. As they say, if you don't like it, go ask for your 50p back! Nope, money well spent I say, as was the Le Tigre CD I picked up for 20p on a charity stall. A great day out, and I haven't even mentioned the marrow auction, the Backroom Poets, the Oxford Drum Troupe, the oldest-of-schools electro DJ or the free pinball. Prize produce all round!
ELDER STUBBS FESTIVAL, ELDER STUBBS ALLOTMENT, 21/8/04
You'd have to boast a heart hewn from cold, unloving rock not to be tempted by a music festival held in a Cowley allotment: if you can't relax with music and poetry amongst the cabbages and frankly terrifying pagan sculptures of Elder Stubbs on a sunny day, I have no hope for you. And at 50p entry, it's something of a bargain!
Skeleton Crew impress immediately with their medieval folk and early music performances. Now, I don't know my sackbut from my serpent, or my pavanne from my galliard, but the sound was enticing, albeit fighting a losing battle with the noise of a bustling cafe.
I'm guessing, from looking at the four of them, that The Noisy Oysters are a family who prefer to play klezmer classics of an evening instead of watching reality TV. Good choice. Their set is somewhat hesitant, but manages ot deliver the goods eventually.
At first glance Jeremy Hughes' guitar instrumentals just sound like somebody practising, doodling around some little trills and getting that muscle memory programmed in. Maybe it was the dappled sunlight and the tin of beer, but today it all made perfect sense, and his cyclical compositions transported us away on light and nimble melodies.
Next up regulars from local pub The Exeter Hall knocked out a couple of tunes each. Quality varied, but the spirit shone through.
When did you last see a table and sitar duo reviewed in Oxford? Proving that there's more to acoustic music than strumming hippies anbd self-pitying wastrels, Pandit Kailash Pawar & Chris Hills perform an hour of traditional ragas. Again, I'm no expert, but the music was spellbinding, if not always as fluid as it might be. Still, considering they hadn't met till that day, and Hills was playing pieces he'd never heard before, you've got to give them credit.
Mark Ginsberg is wearing a polka dot shirt whilst playing pier-end covers on an antediluvian organ. Clearly it's rubbish, but somehow those old bossa nova rhythm presets really kick, in a hissing Autechral fashion...plus his cover of "Purple Haze" reveals he isn't taking this too seriously either...
If Kenny Everett were recording a sketch about washed up 70s rockers, he'd copy Hawkwind alumnus Hugh Lloyd-Langton exactly. He's got the dangling fag, the Rod Stewart hairdo, the stoned chuckle and the leopard print waistcoat. He appears to be completely wasted. He's also got the bluesy Pagesque technique on his acoustic guitar to just about get away with it. A fine exemplum for the avoidance of drugs; nearly as fine as the surrounding sculptures.
Inflatable Buddha could be astonishing, but they don't know their own strengths. They boast weird instrumentation, a freaky stage presence and a ranting poet, yet they insist on performing rock tunes, despite the fact that the rhythm section has no bite and the vocalist can't sing (also for a poet his diction is awful, but we'll ignore that). "I Met A Girl" might make sense if Dive Dive played it, but Buddha should stick to the acid cabaret they know: "Fat Sex" and the one about boiling frogs, now there's some real character.
In a flurry of fiddle-licked hoedown punk, Some Dogs finish the afternoon. They display far more energy than ability (except for the sizzling violinist) but it seems to fit. As they say, if you don't like it, go ask for your 50p back! Nope, money well spent I say, as was the Le Tigre CD I picked up for 20p on a charity stall. A great day out, and I haven't even mentioned the marrow auction, the Backroom Poets, the Oxford Drum Troupe, the oldest-of-schools electro DJ or the free pinball. Prize produce all round!
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Funicle For A Friend
I quite like this review, it's amusing, and sums up for me what was great about many of the gigs at the late lamented Port Mahon: no rules, no inhibitions, no audience, no profits, no pretensions. Bliss. Seeing as we're all about the asides in this review, here's an un related slice of life. Last night on the way back from a gig I was listening to my pre-Pod (AKA Sony Walkman), which has one of those Bass Boost buttons that they used to have. I discovered that if you use this facility whilst listening to early Sebadoh it just makes the lo fi tape hiss really really loud. So I did. It was like Lou Barlow was playing to me from the bottom of a large vat of screwed up tracing paper.
WIRE ROOMS/ DIE_FUNKT/ EGYPTIAN DEATH/ FROGSPAWN – Off Field, Port Mahon, 15/6/08
No matter how great they were, every urban bluesman who survived after 1960 turned in some flabby music. However, those who were least guilty were John Lee Hooker and the recently departed Bo Diddley, whose recordings remained energising whilst their counterparts traded graceless solos, because they never strayed far from those simple rhythmic patterns which speak so directly to our primal side. Frogspawn’s Diddley tribute is deeply aware of the power of that classic beat, and drops into ace Bo shuffles just when you think the guitar and drums duo have lost their way: seriously, this set starts like a bad photocopy of Hella, with all the gradations smudged out, and ends up a clinically rocking delight, with big riffs and beery growling vocals (aside: is singing off-mike to alt rock what vocoders are to house?). Joyous stuff.
Despite admitting they were unhappy with the gig, Egyptian Death continue the high standard, slowly coaxing a queasy hum of white noise and vocal ululations whilst crouched around a variety of sound sources (aside: is sitting in a huddle to drone improv what foot-on-monitor is to cock rock?). The rather wonderful effect is like a sonic version of that endless uncomfortable moment when you realise you’ve forgotten someone’s name whilst introducing them. To a cyborg.
Far less subtlety from Die_funkt, who is billed as minimal techno, but whose set is busier than Ricardo Villalobos or Basic Channel, even whilst it lacks the complexity of Warptronica or the structural savvy of Detroit. As arid beats go it’s fine, if better when keeping to an electro pulse and avoiding IDM stutters, but Die_funkt (aside: is the underscore to techno what the umlaut is to metal?) loses us completely when he starts stuffing tired beats behind Joy Division, Sabbath and The Human League. Yuk.
Thankfully, Wire Rooms’ set is brilliant…even though they’re truthfully quite crap. Imagine some youthclub punks jamming with Suicide, but add hilariously lopsided dancing, keyboards that make Les Dawson look like Vladimir Horowitz and the sound of some crash cymbals running the 100m hurdles (no aside: we can’t tear attention away from this maelstrom). Wire Rooms are deeply likable, which can so often be better than merely being any good.
WIRE ROOMS/ DIE_FUNKT/ EGYPTIAN DEATH/ FROGSPAWN – Off Field, Port Mahon, 15/6/08
No matter how great they were, every urban bluesman who survived after 1960 turned in some flabby music. However, those who were least guilty were John Lee Hooker and the recently departed Bo Diddley, whose recordings remained energising whilst their counterparts traded graceless solos, because they never strayed far from those simple rhythmic patterns which speak so directly to our primal side. Frogspawn’s Diddley tribute is deeply aware of the power of that classic beat, and drops into ace Bo shuffles just when you think the guitar and drums duo have lost their way: seriously, this set starts like a bad photocopy of Hella, with all the gradations smudged out, and ends up a clinically rocking delight, with big riffs and beery growling vocals (aside: is singing off-mike to alt rock what vocoders are to house?). Joyous stuff.
Despite admitting they were unhappy with the gig, Egyptian Death continue the high standard, slowly coaxing a queasy hum of white noise and vocal ululations whilst crouched around a variety of sound sources (aside: is sitting in a huddle to drone improv what foot-on-monitor is to cock rock?). The rather wonderful effect is like a sonic version of that endless uncomfortable moment when you realise you’ve forgotten someone’s name whilst introducing them. To a cyborg.
Far less subtlety from Die_funkt, who is billed as minimal techno, but whose set is busier than Ricardo Villalobos or Basic Channel, even whilst it lacks the complexity of Warptronica or the structural savvy of Detroit. As arid beats go it’s fine, if better when keeping to an electro pulse and avoiding IDM stutters, but Die_funkt (aside: is the underscore to techno what the umlaut is to metal?) loses us completely when he starts stuffing tired beats behind Joy Division, Sabbath and The Human League. Yuk.
Thankfully, Wire Rooms’ set is brilliant…even though they’re truthfully quite crap. Imagine some youthclub punks jamming with Suicide, but add hilariously lopsided dancing, keyboards that make Les Dawson look like Vladimir Horowitz and the sound of some crash cymbals running the 100m hurdles (no aside: we can’t tear attention away from this maelstrom). Wire Rooms are deeply likable, which can so often be better than merely being any good.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Zombie Radio
This is one of the last BBC reviews I did, if not the final installment. I remember writing this, feeling fed up with the micro-paragraphs and forced levity, & deciding to look elsewhere for someone to write for. Not that this excuses my woeful sub-Blackadder stick gags. Urgh.
MARCONI'S VOODOO/ FEEDBACK CITIZENS - Secret Hearts Club, Bully, 3/03
Entering the inaugral Secret Hearts Club night I find that everyone is dressed in smart 60s suits. Everyone. Glancing down at my scruffy shirt, panic hits. Is there a dress code? Have I committed some terrible faux pas, like attending an ambient dub festival without any Rizla, or going to a Stereophonics concert with an ounce of intelligence? They'll see me for the impostor I truly am!
Luckily, the room is soon filled with other unkempt individuals. Still, the organisors clearly want a real event, fusing natty dressing, funky DJs and quality performances. It looks as though they may succeed.
Feedback Citizens are one tight band. If you can go out in Oxford on a Thursday evening and find a fivepiece more slick and well rehearsed playing support, you're very lucky. They bounce around sassily, plaing immaculately, with more confident vigour than you could shake a stick at...even if you were uncontested international stick shaking champion 4 years consecutively.
Underneath the great playing and synchronised pouting, though, the songs themselves are mostly forgettable. The buzzing keyboard adds a slight garage edge, and the drums are a smidgin glam, but FBC are like the band whose name you can't remember from an NME Brats tour ten years ago. Some of the songs have so few surprises that even novice stick-shakers needn't break a sweat.
One of the tricks I've always loved is basslines that start leading the melody. I'm thinking Peter Hook, and occasionally Snuffy from Marconi's Voodoo. However, this is the ONLY point of intersection between Marconi's Voodoo and New Order, unless New Order have become a blistering funk-metal cabaret behind my back.
If you want a man stalking round the stage, playing silly hard rock extravagances, looking like a drug-addled General Custer and talking nonsense, this is the band for you; if you don't want that then you should seriously reevaluate your desires.
The whole noisy shebang probably wouldn't work if they weren't all three very talented players: it's the musical equivalent of keeping a straight face. Not that there are many straight faces tonight, on or off stage. Which is the general idea, I suppose.
MARCONI'S VOODOO/ FEEDBACK CITIZENS - Secret Hearts Club, Bully, 3/03
Entering the inaugral Secret Hearts Club night I find that everyone is dressed in smart 60s suits. Everyone. Glancing down at my scruffy shirt, panic hits. Is there a dress code? Have I committed some terrible faux pas, like attending an ambient dub festival without any Rizla, or going to a Stereophonics concert with an ounce of intelligence? They'll see me for the impostor I truly am!
Luckily, the room is soon filled with other unkempt individuals. Still, the organisors clearly want a real event, fusing natty dressing, funky DJs and quality performances. It looks as though they may succeed.
Feedback Citizens are one tight band. If you can go out in Oxford on a Thursday evening and find a fivepiece more slick and well rehearsed playing support, you're very lucky. They bounce around sassily, plaing immaculately, with more confident vigour than you could shake a stick at...even if you were uncontested international stick shaking champion 4 years consecutively.
Underneath the great playing and synchronised pouting, though, the songs themselves are mostly forgettable. The buzzing keyboard adds a slight garage edge, and the drums are a smidgin glam, but FBC are like the band whose name you can't remember from an NME Brats tour ten years ago. Some of the songs have so few surprises that even novice stick-shakers needn't break a sweat.
One of the tricks I've always loved is basslines that start leading the melody. I'm thinking Peter Hook, and occasionally Snuffy from Marconi's Voodoo. However, this is the ONLY point of intersection between Marconi's Voodoo and New Order, unless New Order have become a blistering funk-metal cabaret behind my back.
If you want a man stalking round the stage, playing silly hard rock extravagances, looking like a drug-addled General Custer and talking nonsense, this is the band for you; if you don't want that then you should seriously reevaluate your desires.
The whole noisy shebang probably wouldn't work if they weren't all three very talented players: it's the musical equivalent of keeping a straight face. Not that there are many straight faces tonight, on or off stage. Which is the general idea, I suppose.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
I've Just Invented The Word "Paupette". In My Head.
This review isn't really up to standard, having reread it. Gets the point acrioss, but hardly memorably, wouldn't you say? If I didn't know better I'd say it was from the old BBC days. Still, we all have off nights; it's not as if some cunt has been unreasonable enough to judge my entire output on the strength of it. Imagine, what sort of scum would do something like that?
Charlottefield split up approximately 20 minutes after this review was published, so there's the reverse Midas touch in evidence once again.
CHARLOTTEFIELD/ ACTION BEAT/ THEO - Poor Girl Noise, The Wheatsheaf, Feb08
Like the first snowfall of the year, live looping is a minor miracle that never fails to impress. Theo once again proves how useful a tool an infinite delay pedal can be in his opening bars, twining thick guitar lines together to create a wiry cord of dense riffing. Then he drops the guitar and starts slipping some chunky drums behind the loops. The resulting noise is clinical but remorselessly insistent and effective, something akin to AC/DC tunes under construction on the Cowley car plant's conveyors. A secret part of us wonders what it might sound like if we could have drums and guitar at once (you know, like a band), and whether there might be another way of ending a piece than simply overloading the pedal and puffing out a hiss of white noise, but this ultimately feels like cavilling. Go and see Theo, his music amply repays the patience needed to watch its genesis.
Adventurous locals might like to think of Action Beat as a cross between The Corvids' kraut thump and the fuzzed reproach of The Holiday Stabbings. The aural density of the thunderous noise initially excites, but the (unreasonably short) set ultimately fails to convince: too regulated to be an eviscerating noise, but too messy to succeed through hypnotic repetition. You could have the time of your life watching Einstellung or Ascension, but it appears that they don't mix well.
Let's get one thing out of the way before we go any further: Ashley Marlowe, Charlottefield's drummer, is phenomenal. He powers into the kit with force yet restraint, and the contrast between prog embellishment and punk incision reminds us of Karl Burns' work on the first Fall album. Frankly, for the first ten minutes of the set we barely noticed the rest of the band. Eventually our senses returned to normal, and we discover that the band make a most pleasant sound, shot through with flashes of Fugazi and tiny flecks of Part Chimp whilst a monolithic bass gels it all together. However, just as we had them pegged as a riotously adept and entertainingly generic alt.rock act, things start to shift. Slowly the music is changing gear, until finally we are left in the midst of endless deserts of guitar tones with deft cymbal flicks dancing above them. After a simply wonderful set, it's easy to see why Charlottefield are always so welcome in Oxford, and we wonder how we've managed to miss them before.
Charlottefield split up approximately 20 minutes after this review was published, so there's the reverse Midas touch in evidence once again.
CHARLOTTEFIELD/ ACTION BEAT/ THEO - Poor Girl Noise, The Wheatsheaf, Feb08
Like the first snowfall of the year, live looping is a minor miracle that never fails to impress. Theo once again proves how useful a tool an infinite delay pedal can be in his opening bars, twining thick guitar lines together to create a wiry cord of dense riffing. Then he drops the guitar and starts slipping some chunky drums behind the loops. The resulting noise is clinical but remorselessly insistent and effective, something akin to AC/DC tunes under construction on the Cowley car plant's conveyors. A secret part of us wonders what it might sound like if we could have drums and guitar at once (you know, like a band), and whether there might be another way of ending a piece than simply overloading the pedal and puffing out a hiss of white noise, but this ultimately feels like cavilling. Go and see Theo, his music amply repays the patience needed to watch its genesis.
Adventurous locals might like to think of Action Beat as a cross between The Corvids' kraut thump and the fuzzed reproach of The Holiday Stabbings. The aural density of the thunderous noise initially excites, but the (unreasonably short) set ultimately fails to convince: too regulated to be an eviscerating noise, but too messy to succeed through hypnotic repetition. You could have the time of your life watching Einstellung or Ascension, but it appears that they don't mix well.
Let's get one thing out of the way before we go any further: Ashley Marlowe, Charlottefield's drummer, is phenomenal. He powers into the kit with force yet restraint, and the contrast between prog embellishment and punk incision reminds us of Karl Burns' work on the first Fall album. Frankly, for the first ten minutes of the set we barely noticed the rest of the band. Eventually our senses returned to normal, and we discover that the band make a most pleasant sound, shot through with flashes of Fugazi and tiny flecks of Part Chimp whilst a monolithic bass gels it all together. However, just as we had them pegged as a riotously adept and entertainingly generic alt.rock act, things start to shift. Slowly the music is changing gear, until finally we are left in the midst of endless deserts of guitar tones with deft cymbal flicks dancing above them. After a simply wonderful set, it's easy to see why Charlottefield are always so welcome in Oxford, and we wonder how we've managed to miss them before.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Piece Of Pierce
A completely stupid, but amusing little review for OHM. There was also a whole bit about ha'pennies, farthings, tanners and other Victorian coinage, that the editor cut and I shall too. It was, frankly, agonisingly unfunny nonsense.
SPIRITUALIZED/ DAVID VINER - Brookes SU, 5/2/04
As I walk into Brookes signs warn, "This show will contain extreme strobe lights". Excellent! Strobes they indeed had, bloody great big ones too. But before the meltdown, David Viner kicked off with some Dylanish songs on his guitar. That's "Dylanish" as in "no discernible melody and featuring lyrics about whiskey" as opposed to "towering musical genius". Glad we cleared that up. He's not bad, but can't seem to get into the zone, and all his whoops and hollers, which should be spine-tinglingly visceral, just sound silly. One song proclaims, "It's nobody's business what I do". Let's keep it that way, eh?
Jason Pierce's lazer guided troubadours have been enraging record buyers for some time now: some of their music is mercurial, huge, and life-affirmingly psychedelic, whilst some is stodgy indie-gospel, as over-produced and underwhelming as any 80s Pink Floyd or Van Morrison LP. Tonight's show thankfully veers towards the former category for the most part. There are shadowy hunched figures, a glockenspiel, racks of effects pedals, swathes of keyboard schmuzz, hypnotic drums and litres of dry ice. Oh, and those bloody big strobes.
Grandiloquent music on an epic scale - how can you lose? You can't, really, but even as we stood, eyes closed, bathed in sound, the nagging worry was that Spiritualized, with zillions of pounds worth of stage equipment, can't quite reach the peaks that Spacemen 3 scaled on tuppence ha'penny.
There were joyful moments: "Electricity", the opener; the new single (though surely it's basically "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream"?); the "Cop Shoot Cop" saxfest; "Come Together", one of the few songs ever where the audience sings along to the guitar part, not the vocal; the segue between "Let It Glide" and "Let It Flow", which settled into three minutes of abstract tones before being born again in a new guise, like Dr Who. But there weren't quite enough of these moments to change this from a good gig to a glorious gig, and sometimes the bloody big strobes were more intoxicating than the music. In honour of this I shall summatrise in strobe:
It w s a pr t y gr at g g, b t did 't re ch th ps ch del c he gh s it co ld h v , wh c is a p ty. Tr p y, h h?
SPIRITUALIZED/ DAVID VINER - Brookes SU, 5/2/04
As I walk into Brookes signs warn, "This show will contain extreme strobe lights". Excellent! Strobes they indeed had, bloody great big ones too. But before the meltdown, David Viner kicked off with some Dylanish songs on his guitar. That's "Dylanish" as in "no discernible melody and featuring lyrics about whiskey" as opposed to "towering musical genius". Glad we cleared that up. He's not bad, but can't seem to get into the zone, and all his whoops and hollers, which should be spine-tinglingly visceral, just sound silly. One song proclaims, "It's nobody's business what I do". Let's keep it that way, eh?
Jason Pierce's lazer guided troubadours have been enraging record buyers for some time now: some of their music is mercurial, huge, and life-affirmingly psychedelic, whilst some is stodgy indie-gospel, as over-produced and underwhelming as any 80s Pink Floyd or Van Morrison LP. Tonight's show thankfully veers towards the former category for the most part. There are shadowy hunched figures, a glockenspiel, racks of effects pedals, swathes of keyboard schmuzz, hypnotic drums and litres of dry ice. Oh, and those bloody big strobes.
Grandiloquent music on an epic scale - how can you lose? You can't, really, but even as we stood, eyes closed, bathed in sound, the nagging worry was that Spiritualized, with zillions of pounds worth of stage equipment, can't quite reach the peaks that Spacemen 3 scaled on tuppence ha'penny.
There were joyful moments: "Electricity", the opener; the new single (though surely it's basically "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream"?); the "Cop Shoot Cop" saxfest; "Come Together", one of the few songs ever where the audience sings along to the guitar part, not the vocal; the segue between "Let It Glide" and "Let It Flow", which settled into three minutes of abstract tones before being born again in a new guise, like Dr Who. But there weren't quite enough of these moments to change this from a good gig to a glorious gig, and sometimes the bloody big strobes were more intoxicating than the music. In honour of this I shall summatrise in strobe:
It w s a pr t y gr at g g, b t did 't re ch th ps ch del c he gh s it co ld h v , wh c is a p ty. Tr p y, h h?
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Illuminati On
I've seen From Light To Sound again since this review was written, and they were already about 15 times better. Really great stuff. I intend to take all credit for this.
FROM LIGHT TO SOUND/ THIN GREEN CANDLES, The Wheatsheaf, 14/3/09
A conspiracist who believed in an Oxford clique would be appalled by tonight’s lineup, a mixture of promoter, reviewer, celebrated musician and message board urchin, who are nearly all in other local projects. Grand esoteric cabal or not, even our paranoid theorist would admit that it was a strong evening’s music.
Thin Green Candles is the laptop work of one man, performed live with a further four musicians, who are presumably there because some undying Rock School niggle dictates that you’re not in a real band until you have real instruments, but who in reality just muddle along to some decent electronica. Take “Good Dead”, a lively kickdrum thumper with some raspily distorted Kaoss squiggles sounding like an old acid house record played down a CB, to which the live ensemble add little, aside from horrible headgear. In fairness, the occasional vocals are sweetly melodic, and the bass has a fruitiness that the synthesised music can’t capture, but the guitar is especially clumsy, frequently falling into default Pink Floyd arpeggios. Tellingly, on the final piece the band messes up, coming out of synch with the laptop, and by necessity comes up with an intriguingly noisy solution to ending the track. “Honour your mistakes as hidden intentions”, as Brian Eno might counsel.
By contrast, From Light To Sound’s music is impeccably put together, thoughtfully arranged and expertly dynamically controlled. This band’s members may have juicy CVs, but it’s still noteworthy how naturally they’re playing together after only a handful of gigs (some over-zealous guitar volume notwithstanding). The rhythm section particularly impresses, Mark Baker bringing an unhurried bass authority from The Workhouse, and Mark “Evenings” Wilden managing to make his drums brutal and cheeky simultaneously. They don’t quite have the compositions as yet to do such a band justice: sometimes their tracks resemble offcuts and scrapings from their parent bands, squeezed together like a frugal ball of soap slivers, whilst at worst they sound like a melange of Audioscope-type bands so obvious we can’t even be bothered to type them. Go on, have a guess.
So, two new bands which are entertaining and enormously promising, even if they might still have some developing to do.But we would say that, wouldn’t we? We’re in the clique.
FROM LIGHT TO SOUND/ THIN GREEN CANDLES, The Wheatsheaf, 14/3/09
A conspiracist who believed in an Oxford clique would be appalled by tonight’s lineup, a mixture of promoter, reviewer, celebrated musician and message board urchin, who are nearly all in other local projects. Grand esoteric cabal or not, even our paranoid theorist would admit that it was a strong evening’s music.
Thin Green Candles is the laptop work of one man, performed live with a further four musicians, who are presumably there because some undying Rock School niggle dictates that you’re not in a real band until you have real instruments, but who in reality just muddle along to some decent electronica. Take “Good Dead”, a lively kickdrum thumper with some raspily distorted Kaoss squiggles sounding like an old acid house record played down a CB, to which the live ensemble add little, aside from horrible headgear. In fairness, the occasional vocals are sweetly melodic, and the bass has a fruitiness that the synthesised music can’t capture, but the guitar is especially clumsy, frequently falling into default Pink Floyd arpeggios. Tellingly, on the final piece the band messes up, coming out of synch with the laptop, and by necessity comes up with an intriguingly noisy solution to ending the track. “Honour your mistakes as hidden intentions”, as Brian Eno might counsel.
By contrast, From Light To Sound’s music is impeccably put together, thoughtfully arranged and expertly dynamically controlled. This band’s members may have juicy CVs, but it’s still noteworthy how naturally they’re playing together after only a handful of gigs (some over-zealous guitar volume notwithstanding). The rhythm section particularly impresses, Mark Baker bringing an unhurried bass authority from The Workhouse, and Mark “Evenings” Wilden managing to make his drums brutal and cheeky simultaneously. They don’t quite have the compositions as yet to do such a band justice: sometimes their tracks resemble offcuts and scrapings from their parent bands, squeezed together like a frugal ball of soap slivers, whilst at worst they sound like a melange of Audioscope-type bands so obvious we can’t even be bothered to type them. Go on, have a guess.
So, two new bands which are entertaining and enormously promising, even if they might still have some developing to do.But we would say that, wouldn’t we? We’re in the clique.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
One Horris Race
This is a review that went down well. not only did The Fly quote some of it in their review (lazy beggars, they only have about 50 words to fill & they have to borrow some of mine!) but MC Lars himself referred to it, I'm pretty sure, in a later song about his visit ot the UK: "I got mad props from the BBC". MC Lars (he dropped the Horris) used to be ace, but he's not quite so good now. He got all professional and that, how dull. Still, good luck to him.
MC LARS HORRIS/ CHAMFER - Port Mahon, 3/03
Is The Zodiac too noisy for you? The Wheatsheaf a little too dingy? Try spending a evening at The Port Mahon, one of Oxfordshire's most unusual venues. Imagine a cross between a Victoruian parlour and an Irish scouthut, and you might be halfway there. Bands play through a tiny PA in front of an old fireplace, whilst the audience lounges around on old dining chairs. Any musicians that can't produce an intimate, relaxed armosphere in this setting shoud probably start updating their CVs.
No danger of that tonight, though. I had doubts about Chamfer unplugged, Gabbie's joyously silly keyboard lines being my favourite element of thier music heretofore, but I was happily proved wrong. Frontman Nick sat centre stage (centre hearth?) flanked by bassist and percussionist, and proceeded to play a warm semi-acoustic set, revealing far more subtlety than the electric Chamfer show.
True revelation of the gig, however, was the neat tabla work of the man they call The Guru, whose fluent rhythms are normally lost in the full band line-up. "Some Day", a lightly spikier song thatn their usual roster, stole the show, highlighting the slight predictability of the other tunes, but this is a minor quibble. A friendly, enjoyable set.
If you haven't caught MC Lars Horris during his short stay in Oxford you're a) too late, and b) a fool. This is white collegeboy hip-hop of the highest calibre, with consistently hilarious wordplay and overwrought theatrical delivery. Not that it doesn't get quite funky at times, too. Lars has the irrepressible energy and wondrous expression of a six year old in springtime, and his style is the boho wordsmithery of MC 900 Foot Jesus, Earthling, or any laidback rapper from a decade ago, when the term "trip hop" couild be employed without sniggering.
Sometimes Lars comes on like an engaging streetwise teacher, rapping about important issues: "Certified" is about poolside safety, for God's sake. If Mike D had stood in for Robin Williams, Dead Poets' Society could have sounded like this! And it's not hard to imagine "Rapbeth" roped in to educate 7-11 year olds about Shakespeare. Such Legz-Akimbo-Meets-ninja-Tunes antics should, of corse, be an embarrassment, but Lars' work with the crowd is impeccable - I don't recall ever seeing an audience so fired and involved at an Oxford gig - and he more than gets away with it.
MC Lars is a superb performer, strictly from the street. Sesame Street, that is.
MC LARS HORRIS/ CHAMFER - Port Mahon, 3/03
Is The Zodiac too noisy for you? The Wheatsheaf a little too dingy? Try spending a evening at The Port Mahon, one of Oxfordshire's most unusual venues. Imagine a cross between a Victoruian parlour and an Irish scouthut, and you might be halfway there. Bands play through a tiny PA in front of an old fireplace, whilst the audience lounges around on old dining chairs. Any musicians that can't produce an intimate, relaxed armosphere in this setting shoud probably start updating their CVs.
No danger of that tonight, though. I had doubts about Chamfer unplugged, Gabbie's joyously silly keyboard lines being my favourite element of thier music heretofore, but I was happily proved wrong. Frontman Nick sat centre stage (centre hearth?) flanked by bassist and percussionist, and proceeded to play a warm semi-acoustic set, revealing far more subtlety than the electric Chamfer show.
True revelation of the gig, however, was the neat tabla work of the man they call The Guru, whose fluent rhythms are normally lost in the full band line-up. "Some Day", a lightly spikier song thatn their usual roster, stole the show, highlighting the slight predictability of the other tunes, but this is a minor quibble. A friendly, enjoyable set.
If you haven't caught MC Lars Horris during his short stay in Oxford you're a) too late, and b) a fool. This is white collegeboy hip-hop of the highest calibre, with consistently hilarious wordplay and overwrought theatrical delivery. Not that it doesn't get quite funky at times, too. Lars has the irrepressible energy and wondrous expression of a six year old in springtime, and his style is the boho wordsmithery of MC 900 Foot Jesus, Earthling, or any laidback rapper from a decade ago, when the term "trip hop" couild be employed without sniggering.
Sometimes Lars comes on like an engaging streetwise teacher, rapping about important issues: "Certified" is about poolside safety, for God's sake. If Mike D had stood in for Robin Williams, Dead Poets' Society could have sounded like this! And it's not hard to imagine "Rapbeth" roped in to educate 7-11 year olds about Shakespeare. Such Legz-Akimbo-Meets-ninja-Tunes antics should, of corse, be an embarrassment, but Lars' work with the crowd is impeccable - I don't recall ever seeing an audience so fired and involved at an Oxford gig - and he more than gets away with it.
MC Lars is a superb performer, strictly from the street. Sesame Street, that is.
Saturday, 6 June 2009
The Betty Ford Salon
Blimey, I should be on some sort of retainer from Klub Kak, I've reviewed them so often. I never realised until I started this blog how regularly I'd ended up there. I guess it's just the furry freaky friendly hippy atmosphere they nurture. Evan last night, I was reviewing a night at The Jericho, and snuck into KK afterwards to catch the last act. An Oxford institution, indupitably.
JUNKIE BRUSH/SACRED DISORDER/ REVEREND MOONSHINE - Klub Kakofanney, Wheatsheaf, 4/3/05
I promuise it's not just the antipodean accent, but Reverend Moonshine remind me a lot of Nick Cave. Must be the knowingly dark theatrical monologues and the slurred songspiel. Their twin acoustic guitar lineup is elementary but effective, and their songs of booze and frustration are beautifully augmented by a delicate jazz trumpet that I'm duty bound to describe as "smoky" (Reviewer statute 124/B/11). In all honesty, some of the tracks are somewhat wonkily delivered, and perhaps the second guitar should stick to bass frequencies, but they do have bags of character, which goes an awful long way.
Sacred Disorder are an odd proposition as they all sound like they're playing in wildly disparate bands. I guess you'd call it stoner rock, but the vocals (rhyming "pariah" with "messiah") and guitar (shredding and arpeggiating away) are pure metal, whilst the drummer plays neanderthally simply, as if he were auditioning for Finnish uber-minimalists Circle, and the bassist whacks out a sticky root note sludge with a definite goth flavour. A strange brew. I'm not saying they can't play - they're actually a pretty solid little unit - but the effect is so schizophrenic I don't know what to think. Like a disturbed child's Cray-Pas illustrations, they have a wierdly compelling fascination, but at the moment the jury's out on whether they're actually any good.
Junkie Brush are often billed as punk, but I'm not sure: punk was always at least 50% cabaret, and there's nothing cartoonish about this band. Their dense, excitable missives remind me far more of U.S. hardcore: more straight edge than The U-Bends, let's say. So there are no solos, no math rock breaks (though there is an unexpected blues interlude) and definitely no sensitive ballads. Just supercharged howls of righteous ire.
And Junkie Brush do it exceptionally well. The third number (which isn't called "Drunken Cunt", despite what a drunken...person in the audience would have us believe) is especially searing and vitriolic, but over 45 minutes they never flag. To be fair, I find this music something like a tartazine rush: all very manic and exhilirating, but the effect runs out slightly before the set does. Still, if you like your meat raw and clinically served, book a table Chez Brosse and you'll go hoe very happy indeed.
JUNKIE BRUSH/SACRED DISORDER/ REVEREND MOONSHINE - Klub Kakofanney, Wheatsheaf, 4/3/05
I promuise it's not just the antipodean accent, but Reverend Moonshine remind me a lot of Nick Cave. Must be the knowingly dark theatrical monologues and the slurred songspiel. Their twin acoustic guitar lineup is elementary but effective, and their songs of booze and frustration are beautifully augmented by a delicate jazz trumpet that I'm duty bound to describe as "smoky" (Reviewer statute 124/B/11). In all honesty, some of the tracks are somewhat wonkily delivered, and perhaps the second guitar should stick to bass frequencies, but they do have bags of character, which goes an awful long way.
Sacred Disorder are an odd proposition as they all sound like they're playing in wildly disparate bands. I guess you'd call it stoner rock, but the vocals (rhyming "pariah" with "messiah") and guitar (shredding and arpeggiating away) are pure metal, whilst the drummer plays neanderthally simply, as if he were auditioning for Finnish uber-minimalists Circle, and the bassist whacks out a sticky root note sludge with a definite goth flavour. A strange brew. I'm not saying they can't play - they're actually a pretty solid little unit - but the effect is so schizophrenic I don't know what to think. Like a disturbed child's Cray-Pas illustrations, they have a wierdly compelling fascination, but at the moment the jury's out on whether they're actually any good.
Junkie Brush are often billed as punk, but I'm not sure: punk was always at least 50% cabaret, and there's nothing cartoonish about this band. Their dense, excitable missives remind me far more of U.S. hardcore: more straight edge than The U-Bends, let's say. So there are no solos, no math rock breaks (though there is an unexpected blues interlude) and definitely no sensitive ballads. Just supercharged howls of righteous ire.
And Junkie Brush do it exceptionally well. The third number (which isn't called "Drunken Cunt", despite what a drunken...person in the audience would have us believe) is especially searing and vitriolic, but over 45 minutes they never flag. To be fair, I find this music something like a tartazine rush: all very manic and exhilirating, but the effect runs out slightly before the set does. Still, if you like your meat raw and clinically served, book a table Chez Brosse and you'll go hoe very happy indeed.
Thursday, 4 June 2009
A Terminally Negative Review
The other review from the issue of O to the H to the motherfucking M (homeboy) that had no date. Or any writer credits. Embarrassing. But it did have a cartoon on the back of my good chum Alastair (see link to the right) nailed to a cross and talking about Goblin soundtracks and Spaceballs, so it's all good. Can't believe I thought the laptopia line was clever, and as for the summing up...
CATHODE - Oxford Contemporary Music, Modern Art Oxford, Feb04?
This is the latest in Oxford Contemporary Music's latest short series of concerts at Modern Art Oxford, and it promises music and visuals from Cathode. Maybe one day in a dream world (a laptopia?) everyone will carry a little computer around and be able to trigger fascinating audio and visual at the flick of a mouse, but as yet performances of this sort seem to be let down by one of the elemtents.
For Cathode, it's the visuals that disappoint. They're quite pleasant, as a bunch of fuzzily pretty abstracts generally are, but they aren't startlingly original, and don't bear any relation to the music. Never mind, though, because the music has plenty to offer on its own terms. Presented as one continuous track, it covers a wide range of techno and its subsidiary genres. The first piece (or at least the first ten minutes or so) has its roots in the late '90s Warp output (don't they all?), but added some interesting treatments of the style typified by Mego, or Mille Plateaux. High pitched squeaks flashed on the ears like light refelcted from icicles, whilst scuffed clicks nagged the edges. The effect was spellbinding.
Sadly, the next 35 minutes never quite lived up to this opening salvo, being hampered by slightly more obvious rhythmic loops, and mildly poppy keyboard sounds. The worst moments arrived when the fat fours bass drum kicked in, leaving the performer no other developmental options than volume, which became overbearing in the small MAO cafe. Still, if we forgive a handful of lumpy drum machine patterns, Cathode is an artist with a firm grasp of a vast range of textures and sonorities, and one more capable than most of constructing longform musical narratives without getting lost or going in circles. I'd recommend going to see him, or any of the enlighteneing MAO events.
CATHODE - Oxford Contemporary Music, Modern Art Oxford, Feb04?
This is the latest in Oxford Contemporary Music's latest short series of concerts at Modern Art Oxford, and it promises music and visuals from Cathode. Maybe one day in a dream world (a laptopia?) everyone will carry a little computer around and be able to trigger fascinating audio and visual at the flick of a mouse, but as yet performances of this sort seem to be let down by one of the elemtents.
For Cathode, it's the visuals that disappoint. They're quite pleasant, as a bunch of fuzzily pretty abstracts generally are, but they aren't startlingly original, and don't bear any relation to the music. Never mind, though, because the music has plenty to offer on its own terms. Presented as one continuous track, it covers a wide range of techno and its subsidiary genres. The first piece (or at least the first ten minutes or so) has its roots in the late '90s Warp output (don't they all?), but added some interesting treatments of the style typified by Mego, or Mille Plateaux. High pitched squeaks flashed on the ears like light refelcted from icicles, whilst scuffed clicks nagged the edges. The effect was spellbinding.
Sadly, the next 35 minutes never quite lived up to this opening salvo, being hampered by slightly more obvious rhythmic loops, and mildly poppy keyboard sounds. The worst moments arrived when the fat fours bass drum kicked in, leaving the performer no other developmental options than volume, which became overbearing in the small MAO cafe. Still, if we forgive a handful of lumpy drum machine patterns, Cathode is an artist with a firm grasp of a vast range of textures and sonorities, and one more capable than most of constructing longform musical narratives without getting lost or going in circles. I'd recommend going to see him, or any of the enlighteneing MAO events.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Absolutely Frabjous!
I think this was only my second Nightshift review. The Brotherton bit was, probably rightly, excised from the printed version.
JABERWOK/ RICHARD BROTHERTON/ WHERE I'M CALLING FROM, G Bar, Delicious Music, 10/04
The Daily Mail might be certain that exams are getting easier, but here at Miserable Critics Central it's as tough as ever to get a good review, even if you're still at school. Luckily, Where I'm Calling From score higly on any scale, and considering they're only 17, that's a real achievement.
The performance is good rather than outstanding, but they have a wealth of songwriting ideas and are honing a most individual voice for themselves. It's a sensitive but muscular indie sound, a chunky cross between Belle & Sebastian and The Wedding Present: one tune even sounds like "Brimful Of Asha" rewritten by The Smiths, which is a great concept. Granted, there are faults - some clunky rhythm work, a few Idlewild doldrums, the singer's infuriating mannerisms - but I'll forgive them. Call me patronising, but it's refreshing to see teenagers making such interesting, assured music.
Richard Brotherton thankfully leaves The Gs at home and plays an acoustic blues set. Can;t tell you more as WICF's friends talked loufly all the way through. Knew I hated kids really.
Funk zen teaches, "first learn how to play, Groovehopper, then learn when not to play". Jaberwok have missed the second clause, attempting music built entirely from crescendoes. Don't they know the best dance music is based on anticipation? Still, they may lack restraint, but their acid jazz meets P-funk set is enjoyable. Perhaps the instrumental section fares best, improbably melding JTQ, Baby Ford and Pink Floyd, and rugs begin to be cut.
All good, and slightly ordinary, fun, but then from nowhere the band morphs into a supertight acid-frazzled beast for the last three numbers, getting twice as intrictae and five times as funky without warning. So I cross out all my notes and watch those rugs getting properly shredded. It goes to show you never can tell, as old folk like me sometimes say.
JABERWOK/ RICHARD BROTHERTON/ WHERE I'M CALLING FROM, G Bar, Delicious Music, 10/04
The Daily Mail might be certain that exams are getting easier, but here at Miserable Critics Central it's as tough as ever to get a good review, even if you're still at school. Luckily, Where I'm Calling From score higly on any scale, and considering they're only 17, that's a real achievement.
The performance is good rather than outstanding, but they have a wealth of songwriting ideas and are honing a most individual voice for themselves. It's a sensitive but muscular indie sound, a chunky cross between Belle & Sebastian and The Wedding Present: one tune even sounds like "Brimful Of Asha" rewritten by The Smiths, which is a great concept. Granted, there are faults - some clunky rhythm work, a few Idlewild doldrums, the singer's infuriating mannerisms - but I'll forgive them. Call me patronising, but it's refreshing to see teenagers making such interesting, assured music.
Richard Brotherton thankfully leaves The Gs at home and plays an acoustic blues set. Can;t tell you more as WICF's friends talked loufly all the way through. Knew I hated kids really.
Funk zen teaches, "first learn how to play, Groovehopper, then learn when not to play". Jaberwok have missed the second clause, attempting music built entirely from crescendoes. Don't they know the best dance music is based on anticipation? Still, they may lack restraint, but their acid jazz meets P-funk set is enjoyable. Perhaps the instrumental section fares best, improbably melding JTQ, Baby Ford and Pink Floyd, and rugs begin to be cut.
All good, and slightly ordinary, fun, but then from nowhere the band morphs into a supertight acid-frazzled beast for the last three numbers, getting twice as intrictae and five times as funky without warning. So I cross out all my notes and watch those rugs getting properly shredded. It goes to show you never can tell, as old folk like me sometimes say.
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