Trust In God But Tie Up Your Camus

The Fall, as you surely all know, are one of the most significant artistic endeavours of the past 50 years. Here's a review of a good gig. The Fall will never make the perfect LP or play the life-changing concert, and that's why they are great, they keep hacking away at their chosen paths, entangled and untrodden. I saw them in Oxford a couple of weeks ago. It was a bit of a mess. I saw them two nights ago in Leamington Spa Assembly Halls (amazing venue, Jesus the O2 Academies up and down the land look so drab by comparison) and it was just glorious. I will always prefer an act that alternately misfire and rockets, to one that smoothly zips slongs. This review was hard to write, as it was diofficult to keep a response to 30 years of The Fall out of it, and it's not one for the annals, but I do like the opening sentence.

THE FALL, Zodiac, 4/07

For over thirty years now The Fall has existed as a belligerently independent fiefdom jostling between the perennially warring kingdoms of Prog and Punk, with Mark E Smith as its twisted jester-prince. A new year brings a new tour and, not uncommonly, a new band, so it’s no shock to discover that Smith’s third wife, keyboard twitcher Elini, is the only person onstage surviving since The Fall’s last Oxford visit, fewer than 18 months ago. Perhaps more surprising is that the new lads are primarily American alt musos and not the sort of “unlearned “ musicians from which Smith has traditionally built his army: guitarist Tim Presley at times indulges in the sort of fiery, Sonic Youth rocking that would have earned earlier band members a severe dressing down. Probably between verses.

Odd frills excepted, however, this is still clearly The Fall as we know them, sludgily pummelling garage guitars, krautische Korg synth buzzes and relentless glam rockabilly drum patterns topped off by an impenetrable, yet oddly mesmerising drawl. Smith’s voice, a long way from his youthful yelp, is a worn piece of shoe leather, cracked and ugly, yet far more malleable than many fresher alternatives. A track like “My Door”, far more satisfying live than on the recent Reformation Post T. L. C. album, reveals just how subtly expressive Smith’s voice can be, once you’ve tuned into the cosmically unmelodic frequency on which he works. Mark may have sadly lost the psychedelic narrative impulse of yore, but it’s been replaced by a quiet vocal intensity.

The Fall is a notoriously uneven band, and one worries that Smith can no longer tell a good gig or a decent album from a bad one, so well drilled are the members into the group’s sound (despite Smith’s allegations that he only recruits non-Fall fans, recent line-ups have clearly done their homework). Ignoring twin basses and some American accents this gig still sounds exactly like The Fall, and the worry lingers that there’s nothing new left to do with the format. Then again “sounds exactly like The Fall” is one of the greatest superlatives in our dogeared critical lexicon, so who’s to complain? And when the band come on for an unsuspected second encore, with house lights up and half the audience already out the door, fuzzily reinterpreting recent favourite “Blindness”, doubts about the continued relevance of The Fall evaporate. And, hey, didn’t Mark audibly thank the audience at one point? Some things do change, after all…

There's Been A Boulder, Lewis

Stornoway: best pop band in Oxford currently, and lovely chaps to boot. You may have seen them on Later a few weeks ago. Well, they're better in real life, when they aren't shitting themselves...

Stornoway – On The Rocks (Hatpop)

If you can stand talking to one for long enough, sooner or later an estate agent shall tell you that only one thing really matters in selling houses: location. And in music, the most significant element affecting our judgement is context. Change the context and we’ll all think something new about the music. Sloppy funk covers might be fun in a youth club charity battle of the bands, but would seem pretty facile at a state funeral. So much music works differently in the live arena than in the studio – Redox is one of the most entertaining live bands in town, but has anyone listened to the last EP more than once?

It’s with this in mind that we approach the new EP by one of our favourite local acts, Stornoway, because there’s a great big sore thumb sticking out a mile, and that offending digit is EP closer, “The Good Fish Guide”. Quite a good laugh live, with Jon Quin intoning the title like a twisted ringmaster, whilst seven shades of hellish carnival unfold around him, with chanted fish breeds being traded with horse headed jazz (you have to see it to understand), but it’s a bit of a disaster on record. A big clumsy whoop ushers in the song, and already our thoughts are wandering towards The Toy Dolls’ take on “Nellie The Elephant”, and that’s before the verses have nudged our memories towards The Divine Comedy’s “A Seafood Song” and the muted trumpet has caused us to shudder with recollection of The Big Ben Banjo Band. It’s just a bit of a bloody mess, to be frank, with the stagnant air of a failed 5th form revue. Even Jon can’t raise his game, and chooses some “funny” voices for his part, including a woeful 2D Brummie and what might be Rolf Harris. The only good things we can say about “The Good Fish Guide” are that it has a serious ecological message, it raises money for The Marine Conservation Society, and the unexpected quotation of “That’s Entertainment” by The Jam on muted trumpet made us chuckle.

OK, we’ve got that out of the way. Phew. The rest of the EP is thankfully as good as, if not better than, Stornoway’s previous two majestic recordings, and manages to cram a myriad of ideas into each song, without losing sight of Brian Briggs’ gorgeously heroic yet melancholic vocals, that have the bittersweet tenor of a victory song sung by the last soldier standing. “Unfaithful” opens with the sort of tremoloed 50s shoegazing guitar that mid-90s media darlings Madder Rose used to trade in, before a creamy vocal about cars and dreams starts lifting hearts. Just before it can turn into a twee Spruced Springsteen, however, an avalanche of dissonant piano collapses around us with a (sergeant) peppering of fairground melodies.

Even better is “The Pupil Of Your Eye”, which intriguingly mashes together two very different songs, one of which is a Sci-Fi new wave blast about “magnetic fields” and “electric currents”, featuring some fantastic wibbly keys, and the other is a cheeky organ clomp. They’d both be great songs on their own, and illogically they get better in company.

We hear some of the old Stornoway in “Here Comes The Blackout”, all folky guitar, fluid bass, subtle keys and close harmonies, which is a welcome break before the title track, in which Simon & Garfunkel take over a drum and bass session and some incredible cymbal work makes a sound like sunlight glinting from an icicle. Except even better. And after all that we still feel there’s plenty on these four tracks that we haven’t touched on, and that this EP is an embarrassment of riches…whereas the final track is just a bit of an embarrassment. Of course, 95% of people will think exactly the opposite; that’s why the world is beyond hope.

Dublodocus

Right, tonight I havce to write a long overdue review of a new LP, I don't have time to talk about old stuff, so you'll have to just find your own way around without any guidance.

RAGGASAURUS/ VIGILANCE BLACK SPECIAL/ THE TALC DEMONS/ JEREMY HUGHES – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 4/1/08

We’re all justly proud of our music scene, but it’s worth remembering what Oxford is: a small provincial town in a semi-rural county. This means that for every Little Fish bursting into the limelight we have a bunch of market town blues bands dawdling through the classics. It also means we have Klub Kakofanney, a fantastically unglamorous hippy enclave that has been making people happy for as long as anyone can recall, and is about as far from the flick of a cool kid’s haircut as one can get…in fact, half the audience haven’t had a haircut in years. And the other half are bald.

After mightily-bearded Jeremy Hughes has played some intricate little guitar doodles, The Talc Demons take to the stage. Rami’s band are more often found playing interminable jam sets in empty midweek bars, but thankfully they produce a taut, condensed thirty minutes of his own circus freak pop, in which 70s rock clashes with funky reggae. His songs generally boast about 90 words per minute buoyed up by clipped, nasal guitar lines and bouncy rhythms, and they should definitely ditch the dubious covers gigs and concentrate on this quality fare. And change their name, obviously.

Last time we saw Vigilance Black Special they had a trombone and a lonesome Nick Cave swoon to their music; now they have no trombone and sound a bit like a sleepier version of Goldrush, the lyric “too much time kicking around in the half-light” summing the show up nicely. A decent band, with a rich lead vocal, but nothing to get excited about. Vigilance Grey Average.

Raggasaurus are a group who definitely weren’t formed in their stylist’s office: a bunch of stoned looking students playing dub, with a 50 year old Tunisian singing in Arabic over the top, who would have thought it? And who would have thought they would make such excellent music? The horns are acidic and subtly used, the rhythms are spry and infectious, and the bass is simply gigantic, causing glasses to topple to the floor behind the bar. Add some searing vocals, that seem to communicate messages of love and integrity even though nobody understands a blinking word, and the effect is glorious. A wonderful band, likely to enliven many an Oxford weekend, and one unlikely to appear on Skins any time soon.

Starski Enterprise

I originally posted this with no introduction, because I forgot. And now I've remembered, I can't be bothered.

MATTHEW KILFORD – HOUSE ON THE HILL


This is a decent one. Opener “Zurich” wafts a rich intimate voice along on some intricate but not overly flashy guitar picking that comes with the barest whiff of early Simon & Garfunkel, some subtle bass accompaniment nudging the whole thing comfortably home in a shade over 3 minutes. Listening leaves a lovely warm tingling glow, like a quality brandy on a cold evening, and Matthew, who was once in local indie plodders Belarus, is clearly some distance ahead of the army of local zombie strummers who feel a strange impetus to whine about loneliness, loss and the fact that Cadbury’s Crème Eggs aren’t as big as they used to be, or whatever crud clogs their emotional development.

“Know By Now” is equally well-bred, but swaps the plucked guitar for chords and a drummer which loses some of the breeziness, but doesn’t mire us too badly, and “Hindsight” opts for a similar, but slightly more bluesy piano led pace, that brings us back to Paul Simon, this time in his solo guise, albeit without the world music/funk/gospel/Chevy Chase. This is the least satisfying track on the EP, but is still far from an embarrassment, and steps sedately along in a rather winning way.

Kilford saves the best till last, the brief title track has a melancholically eternal folk melody, that sounds like something from the Irish diaspora – as much “Fairytale Of New York” as “Willie McBride”. Well shaped as the record is, we’d be lying if we claimed that any of the songs managed to stay in our mind for more than about 7 seconds after they finished, and whilst Kilford has a pleasant, understated voice and some perfectly listenable lyrics, he can’t boast the plangent beauty of Drake, the intensity of Dylan, or the poetry of Cohen. Still, if you wanted a brief aural sorbet to cleanse the ear canals between courses of Autechre, Merzbow and Guitar Wolf, or fancied reminding yourself how well a simple unadorned voice can work, you could do far worse than House On The Hill.

Alopecia The Action

"That" song is "I Wanna Live In Your Buttcrack", which is how you imagine it but less mature. Harry implausibly were selected to support Girls Aloud (who are pretty great, in case there's any uncertainty) at a Children In Need gig in an RAF base. There, now you know everything.

HARRY ANGEL/ TOUPE/ BEAVER FUEL/ JAMES BELL – Moshka, The Bully, 3/5/08


We’re fascinated by acts that nearly don’t work, performers who skirt the shores of musical embarrassment and somehow arrive safely at the port of artistic integrity. James Bell is a fine example; his supersized, falsetto-heavy cabaret acoustic shows, replete with implausible covers and frenetic leaping, should have all the charm of a precocious toddler, yet somehow he not only escapes with pride intact, but also manages to sneak some powerful emotions into the room. His cover of “Canadee-i-o” may sound like Thin Lizzy, but it reveals a deep fondness for traditional folk song, and “Last Of The Corners” manages to mix Elvis Costello’s lyrical intricacy with authentic Waterboys yearning. A real talent.

That song aside, Leigh Alexander’s songwriting for Beaver Fuel can actually be more subtle than is generally perceived, and he cuts big issues down to size with cheeky verbosity a la Carter USM. Having said that, the new tune is called “Fuck You, I’ve Got Tourettes” so let’s not get carried away. Beaver Fuel is an act that doesn’t normally thrive in the live environment, ending up a stodgy mess. Not tonight, however. Something’s changed in Camp Buttcrack since the lacklustre EP launch scant weeks ago: Leigh’s voice may not be the most versatile in town, but he’s clearly been working on his projection and his lyrics sail clearly over a surprisingly neat and bouncy band. We still wonder whether lumpy punk with Mojo solos is the ideal vehicle for Leigh’s writing, but this is a band improving steadily.

Slap bass. Swearing. Boob jokes. You’re not going to believe us that Southampton’s Toupe are geniuses, are you? Led by stand up comedian Grant Sharkey, they use drums and two basses to create propulsive and surprisingly varied smut funk, coming off like a cross between Frank Zappa and The Grumbleweeds, like a pier-end Primus. Oxymoronically, they survive because they don’t take their silliness too seriously, and goof off more to amuse themselves than to create an air of calculated wackiness – and beneath it all the music is actually superb, with magnificent drumming from Jay Havelock. One of the best bands you’ll see all year, though we know you still don’t believe us.

It’s been two years since we last saw Harry Angel, and we’re glad to report that little has changed. The early Radiohead references may have been swapped for some mid-period Sonic Youth, but otherwise they still spew out fizzing amphetamine goth, a huge wall of irascible noise with Chris Beard’s vocals as a black smear across the front. They also look like they’re playing in the last few seconds of their lives. “Proper rock n roll”, shouts a drunken punter. Girls Aloud must still be getting over it.

Melanin Seed

Not sure this is such a great review, now I reread it. Valid, but glib. I also haven't been to a Peanut Albinos gig; inb fact, I don't recall seeing one advertised.

PEANUT ALBINOS – FALLING FROM THE SADDLE OF A HIGH HORSE (Demo)


Authenticity, there’s a vexed musical issue. How much does it matter when appropriating sounds and techniques, and at what point can doing something inauthetically become a tradition in its own right? If you want a handy analogue, try the British curry house: despite claims to the contrary stencilled in the bottom of restaurant windows, we all know that the madras you buy on a Friday night is not quite like what has been prepared in Madras for generations, but would it be wrong to say that the British curry menu is now a culinary heritage in its own right; and anyhow, if it tastes good, does it matter?

These thoughts float in the back of the mind as Peanut Albino’s EP opens with “The Most Insignificant Things”, a gorgeous concoction of bass, percussion, mandolin and bowed saw with a distinct North African flavour. However, although it’s probably nothing like what might get played in Tunis on an average evening, it does fit seamlessly into the 60s spy theme exotica sub-genre – think The Man From UNCLE visits Marrakech – and could easily be drawn from the dusty depths of some Ninja Tune artist’s crate marked “Obscure Samples”. Like a good prawn balti, the really significant fact is that it’s deeply satisfying, the bass creating a rubbery backdrop for some plucked strings so clipped and sharp they sound like needles dropping into lakes of crystal. The whole piece exhibits the most wonderful poise and delicacy, when it could so easily have become a knowing pastiche. Follow up “To Be A Number” introduces some vocals and ups the drama quota, but could have come from the same imaginary soundtrack.

“Just Another Day”’s unexpected banjo lope drags us unexpectedly across the globe to some sort of hillbilly campfire, where the rest of the CD seems content to kick back and relax…except the unexpected encroachment of some drunken lumberjacks on the chorus does break the spell somewhat (although the Albinos somehow get away with it). From hereon in we’re in the world of the backyard country ballad, all brushed drums, finger pickin’ banjos, guitar strums and world weary laments. Once again, the sense of restraint and control is quite astonishing, and almost unheard of at this level, but perhaps the compositions are somewhat pedestrian: only “How Do You Sleep My Dear?” makes any sort of bid for the listener’s memory on the EP’s second half, resembling something Springsteen might knock off in one of his quieter moods.

Still, despite the feeling that it slopes off rather unobtrusively after it had started with such colour and tension, this record is still a real treasure with an understated style that’s as unexpected in Oxford as the melange of influences. If they could get a bit of Tom Waits grit into the vocals we could have one of the most intriguing live acts around. Note to self: go to Peanut Albinos gig.

Thaumaturge Overkill

Here's my thought for the day, for anyonre who works in publishing, law or the music industry: an infinite number of monkeys may well be able to write Hamlet, but it just takes one lying hyena to make them sign over the rights.

4 OR 5 MAGICIANS/ GRESHAM FLYERS/ WHITE SAILS – Swiss Concrete, Wheatsheaf, 17/4/09

White Sails construct frail, rickety indie edifices that teeter on the edge of collapse, yet somehow stay together. As a band they’re hesitant, but manage to keep the songs afloat, coming across as a YTS version of The Wannadies. Half the songs are performed by Stornoway’s Ollie Steadman, and whilst he won’t be causing Brian Briggs any sleepless nights, his intimate voice sneaks into the songs charmingly, even if he could do with projecting a little more; sadly, other lead vocal duties are taken by Swiss visitor Ulysse Dupasquier, whose weedy, cracked voice is as limp and nourishing as a Little Chef salad garnish, and whose magical inverse stage presence sucks any life out of the band. Some very promising elements on display, but some serious homework to do, too.

Gresham Flyers are named after a vintage pushbike, sell immaculately crafted split EPs with bands called The Pale Corners and Wintergreen, and have songs named “Factory Records Museum” and “Berry Buck Mills Stipe”: exactly what we’d come up with if we wanted to parody a Swiss Concrete booking, basically. But why be cynical, when the performance is such fun, all ungainly spasming, tinny guitars and sherbet lemon keyboards. They remind us by turn of a pre-fame Pulp, The Wedding Present, Bis and Coventry’s Ludicrous Lollipops, a band so obscenely obscure we feel guilty mentioning them. But what better way to describe these indie archaeologists than with a defunct band you’re even less likely to have come across? And they have Fall-referencing coloured vinyl. Bloody great fun.

Intensity levels change for Brighton’s 4 Or 5 Magicians, who play bouncy indie with a shiny, muscular carapace, which is oddly like a hi-octane cross between The Senseless Things and The Foo Fighters. The room may be alarmingly empty in terms of punters, but the band fill every corner with their dense guitars, thumping drums and clean arcing vocal lines. We’ll be honest, we weren’t mad on the songs (although the opener was pleasingly like a steroid pumped A House), but we’re all for any band who can look out into yet another empty, listless toilet venue and play with such passion and joy regardless.

Fuck

Fuck. I just typed loads then deleted it all by mistake. Fuck, once again. So here's a really recent review that I can just paste from the document. Fuck.

SAMUEL ZASADA – BURIED (demo)


I want to grow up to be
Working 9 till 5
I want to grow up to be
More dead than alive

Samuel Zasada’s latest home recorded EP opens with these lines, and a cynical tale of thwarted youthful aspirations. It’s a nicely put together and surprisingly jolly little tune, and it could be a mixture of Radiohead’s “Fitter Happier” and Karel Fialka’s surprise hit “Hey Matthew” as created by Counting Crows. It’s a decent nugget of rootsy rebellion, but it feels more like something place two thirds of the way through your third album, not as the opening track on a bright new demo.

Luckily, this is soon followed by the best track on the record. “Buried” sounds like some strange Jewish funeral music, with mournful harmonised vocals, the corpse of a klezmer bassline and the slightly saucy sounding line, “Will you part my sea?” Whilst most acoustic singers are sitting around moaning about being a weeny bit lonely, Zasada has cut right to some truly exhausted, lovelorn sentiments here, that are more Thomas Hardy than Damien Rice, thankfully. “Place Your Words In Tune” continues the surprisingly effective dirge-pop mode, with a nice slow build and the most eerie slowly oscillating melodica drone you’re likely to come across. If you slowed this down and put reverb on the reverb it could almost be a lost Michael Gira track.

“Inside A Bomb” is equally bleak, seemingly owing its roots to a Southern prison worksong. It’s another strong performance, harmonica puffing over the top like thick polls of exhaust fumes, and our only criticism is that Zasada’s vocals tend toward a gravelly sincerity that sucks some of the wit and irony out of the lyrics (we’re not entirely sure what’s going on here, but any track this doom-laden that starts “I grazed my knee as a little boy” has got to be a little tongue in cheek, right?). The problem is worse on closer “The Blade That You Hold”, on which the vocal is an angst-ridden groan that resembles a maudlin drunk Tom Jones impersonator. Zasada has a powerful voice, but we prefer it when he doesn’t sing as if he’s trying to impress a listless open mike crowd, and tempers his tone to the subtleties of the music. This is all a little too close to Chad Kroeger for comfort, as Zasada constipatedly keens the refrain “It’s where I take delight”. Ironically, Samuel, it’s the only thing we dislike about an incredibly promising and assured recording. Doesn’t sound like he has much growing up left to do, as an artist.

Smirk Gently's Holistic Invective Agency

I don't think I meant "titration" here, probably "clinical evaporation" would have been more accurate, but I'm not certain. Fuck chemistry, let's dance.

SMILEX/ HEADCOUNT/ BEELZEBOZO/ DEATH VALLEY RIDERS – Quickfix, Wheatsheaf, 10/7/09


Repetition, like excessive volume, is a musical trick that’s childishly easy to achieve, yet incredibly difficult to pull off convincingly. Death Valley Riders play huge, near static rock instrumentals, with a distant basis in metal, and the merest hint of goth in the bass effects, and come off like Einstellung divided by Nephilim. The ever-chugging longform tracks are doubtless supposed to be monumental, and in a way they are, but that isn’t always impressive: imagine the monolith in 2001 made of, not mysteriously sleek adamantine, but warm guacamole. Ultra-minimal music can be hypnotic, but it can also just be, you know, sort of…long.

Beelzebozo are the residue after a clinical hard rock titration – there’s nothing to their music but thumping drums, ceaseless riffs and silly outfits, leaving us wondering why so many other rockers try to dilute their sound with clumsy extraneous ornaments (rap breaks, hasty electronics, embarassing politics). The band’s Satan-raped conference delegate look, all blood-splattered shirts and battered nametags, is amusing, but doesn’t detract from some high quality rock taken at a stately pace. Glance at their website, and you’ll find it boasts more ideas than most bands get through in a lifetime: their music is harmless levity, but they take it very seriously, which is why we love them.

Three chunky lads playing sweary punk should be tedious, so the fact that Headcount are not only listenable, but also one of this county’s best acts, is frankly astounding. We call it The Tommy Cooper Ratio. So, of course we get lumpy clogged-artery punk frolics, but we get subtlety too, in Stef Hale’s surprisingly delicate drum embellishments (shades of Therapy?, perhaps) and Rob Moss’ increasingly melodic vocals. As befits a band that has been working hard for a decade, it’s admirably mature stuff, and even better, as Moss gives his arse an airing onstage, it’s played by admirably immature people.

The temptation before this gig was to cut up all our old Smilex reviews and stick the words back together in a random order. The downside of being vastly professional and reliable entertainers (and you should see Tom Sharp flying into the set, even though he’s sick as a dog), is that people can get immured to your charms. Intriguingly, this turns out to be a set of new and less familiar material, which allows us to focus once again on what a storming rock band Smilex is. We discover afresh how intense the rhythm section is, and how good Lee Christian can be at performing a song (even whilst he’s flailing about with his top off, like the grotesque child of Iggy Pop and Neil Hannon). A wonderful set by a band we shouldn’t take for granted. But don’t spit on us like that, Lee; Rob’s already brought one arse to the stage, no need to be another.

There's Nothing In It

More thoughts you won't read about musicians you've never heard of.

EMPTY VESSELS - demo

Floppily discordant post-punk with a Duane Eddy twist is normally the kind of thing to get us tapping feet and smashing crockery with gay abandon, and when “Sex Disco” by Empty Vessels starts up it begins to look as though we’re in for something good. Somehow, though, by the time the vocals stroll in, the effect deflates like an unsuccessful soufflé. It’s certainly not that the vocals are poor – although they certainly were when we saw EV live recently – but they seem to be a collection of ticks and mannerisms from a bunch of other singers, without any substance underneath. At any given moment one can be reminded of Bowie, The Kinks, Talking Heads, The Fall or, most powerfully of all, The Psychedelic Furs. But not in a pleasant way. Not in the sort of way in which we’d be happy for EV’s website to quote that sentence as if it were glowing praise, let’s put it like that.

Luckily, the second track swiftly makes up some ground. The drums have receded into the mix, giving the vocal more space for slurs and warbles that, though equally affected, are more consonant with the music, which boasts quietly funky atonal guitar. By the time we’re onto closing track, “If It Came Down To It” the drums have returned but the vocals have wandered off mic, possibly into a studio cupboard. Can’t say we’re mourning with much vigour. The tragedy is, though, that the song is a big ball of early 80s nothing, strumming, jangling and delay pedalling around with no discernible ideas, and at this point we give up all hope, and start smashing the crockery in frustration. Empty Vessels could amuse you for 20 minutes on Sunday afternoon at Truck, but on this evidence they wouldn’t survive too well as the main attraction.

Chromoplasty

Look, I changed the colours. Go, me.

MY MEGA-MELODIC ALL-DAYER, Port Mahon

Promoting gigs is often more a matter of blind hope than financial certainty, but hosting over nine hours of lo-fi performance on Bank Holiday Saturday is simply commercial suicide. Still, we popped along for the first half of My Analogue and Melodic Oxford’s marathon, and discovered some gems, even though we’re pretty sure we were the only non-performing audience member for at least half the time. Dave Griffiths in acoustic mode raised eyebrows from the off, revealing emotional subtleties in his voice rarely evident in Witches’ sonic maelstrom. Arresting, but we still live for sonic maelstroms round here. Proffering rustic guitar strums augmented with frail melodica and glockenspiel, Blanket was never likely to satiate this particular need, but their featherweight pastoralia was lovely. Rather gorgeous on the ear it may be, but trying to actually focus on the music and criticise it proves as tricky as climbing a rice paper staircase. Things fare better on their evocative (and reasonably priced) album.

When Robh Hokum takes to the stage with his acoustic he seems even more awkward than Blanket’s singer, who had the air of a five year old forced to play an angel in the Infants’ Nativity. Quick stage school tip: “I’m this close to vomiting” isn’t an ideal greeting. However, once he starts singing his Americana-brushed songs, any concerns are forgotten. His tiny nylon strung guitar and high reedy voice are so thin and delicate it sounds like someone’s spinning a Depression era 78 onstage, to surprisingly engrossing effect.

Twee will rock you! Synth-poppers Life With Bears have grabbed the guitars to become Socks & Shoes for some inept three chord proto-punk with childlike lyrics, something like The Shaggs meets Rod, Jane & Freddy. It’s bloody great fun, but probably not much else. HIV apologise for their offensive name, but they needn’t worry, their tedious improv rock is offensive enough on its own, a dire mirror image of The Evenings’ brilliance, which is tragic as the members are in wonderful bands too numerous to mention. Some light-hearted unpretentious banter softens the blow, but HIV could have internet moles feverishly typing “Clique”. Caps lock on, naturally. Warbly crooner Wolf Tracks is so ear-manglingly awful we’re ecstatic that we catch a few minutes of Onions For Eyes before departure, and leaving during their carny roustabout 2 Unlimited cover makes us want to stay awhile. Which, after over five hours in The Port, is really the biggest compliment we can give this intriguing, if uneven festival.

The Demon Barbie

This review was fun to write. The jury's out on whether it will be fun to read.

THE MILE HIGH YOUNG TEAM/ HOUSE OF BLUE DOLLS/ BACK POCKET PROPHET – Grinning Spider, The X, 4/10/07

Likable. It’s a positive adjective, to be sure, but not one that you’d really want associated with your metal band: it’s more the sort of word you expect to be applied to a floppy-eared dog, or a backward farmhand. Be that as it may, Back Pocket Prophet’s classic NWOBHM fuzz and thump is just the tonic to raise a smile and a warm glow. This – go on, let’s say it - likable trio is so friendly and comfy, you see, even if it’s also tight and loud, full of meaty riffs and nourishing marrowbone jelly.

Of course, we could sit here and tell you all about how Back Pocket Prophet’s music was a big hairy cliché without too much in the realms of originality or adventurousness, but that would be to ignore the glaring fact that their set was foot tapping, head nodding, beer guzzling good fun, and that we’ll deck anyone who says different (unless they’re as big as the drummer of course). Furthermore, you’ve got to wonder why other metal bands don’t dip into Christianity for their lyrical content, the New Testament is such a great source of heavy rock tropes: betrayal; sacrifice; rising from the dead; parties with unlimited free booze.


The House Of Blue Dolls (1978) was a lacklustre soft porn horror, modelled loosely on Andre De Toth’s House Of Wax and apparently scripted solely from offcuts from other recent chillers. When an erotic wax sculptor (you know, there’s one in every town) is maimed in an implausible collapse of his studio, he animates his creations and sends them off to kill all his enemies…sexily, which is obviously the most efficient way. What we get, therefore, is a loosely clipped together series of mini-episodes, far too slight to be called portmanteaux, and a bunch of bouncy 70s boobs, which are about as arousing as support hosiery. Peter Cushing, presumably skint since Hammer ground to a halt two years before, looks deeply uncomfortable as the inexplicably ubiquitous chimney sweep, but retains a shred of dignity by being the only male in the film not to be involved in some lame romp with a waxy Benny Hill “bird”. From www.thegildedfang.com, cult horror reviews online.

Oh, OK. We made that up. I guess our mind was wandering during House Of Blue Dolls’ somewhat lumpy set. Their music is nothing if not adventurous, welding rock, blues, funk and jazz together with noteworthy musical ability (the rhythm section particularly impress), but, like Boris Johnson’s hair, it seems that there’s no way of making it actually work together.

All this would be fine, and we’d be happy to wait until HOBD found their inner Zappa, were it not for the annoyingly strident female vocals. Up and down she goes, honking out huge notes exactly when the music would benefit from a little subtlety, with a horrible stage school emotiveness that reminds us of long gone local blusterers X-Hail, just when we’d managed to expunge them from our memories. So, the lesson is, ditch the Bonnie Tyler vocals and work on the promising arrangements. Otherwise we’re sending out the waxworks, right?


Thankfully, we soon see drummer Dario using his powers for good, as The Mile High Young Team take to the stage. They have the smallest crowd of the night, which just goes to show that nearly everyone in the world is stupid, as they’re clearly the best act on the bill. We’ll be the first to admit that their recorded work drifts past us a little, but in the live arena the intricate, articulate rock constructions are fascinating, whilst the teasing melodies swirl around the consciousness.

If the Blue Dolls’ singer was still in the room, she could have learnt a lifetime of lessons from Emily Davis’ poised performance, which delicately imbues the vocal lines with stately presence, without ever feeling that the songs are being milked for their emotional content. One lyric that jumps out at us is “it strikes you just a glancing blow”, because this is exactly what MHYT’s performance does: it doesn’t feel the need to grab you by the lapels and slap you in the face, but sneaks up on you before unexpectedly clipping you from behind. And when the boys join in the vocals for a crescendo the Team do, in their own quiet way, actually rock pretty hard.

We can highly recommend this band to anyone who likes their pop music cultured and well-groomed. Admittedly a few keyboard twiddles seemed unnecessary and clumsy, but they were perhaps filling in for the sadly absent ‘cellist; also, once or twice the rhythmic restraint can make the songs feel a little distant, which is a pity. Still, we thoroughly enjoyed the set, even if just occasionally, like Peter Cushing, we weren’t really feeling anything.

The Effects Of Urban Light Pollution?

This is a short review, of just one act. So, read it, it won't kill you. Saying you think think Clunes' Reggie Perrin is better than Rossiter's, that might kill you.

AND NO STAR, Zodiac, 10/04

Four lads amble onstage. They aren't particularly old, and look nervous. The bass doesn't work. Someone mumbles. Embarrassment. Okay, we know what to expect here, don't we? Inept Oasisisms or identikit punk waffle.

Wrong! And No Star's first number is so assured and imposing there's a suspicion that the opening fumbles were some eleborate joke. A fizzing sherbet bomb of guitar noise is launched at us, only to be immediately replaced by an ornery patchwork of strange time signatures and awkward arpeggios. Musically it's firmly in the tradition of local mathlords Youth Movie Soundtrack Strategies, augmented with the sort of abrasive dirty rocking we might associate with Sonic Youth (and even as I type that I realise where And No Star got their name).

The set is primarily instrumental, whihc is fortunate as the vocals are frankly dire. Not that they're strictly necessary when the music is so beguilingly intricate. Despite a raging desire to snip some mic cables, my only concern is that, underneath the superbly performed wonky arrangements, some of the core muscial material is somewhat hackneyed. The first track is built on a melodic motif that could be the TVAM theme, for God's sake. Pebble Mill post-rock anyone? Thought not. And No Star need to get some fresher compositions to get their teeth into. But what lovely sharp teeth they are.