I'm off on my holidays for a week or so, so this'll be the last post for a little bit. Go and look at Alastair's page instead, over there on the right>>>
He has some Lonely Island videos for you to chuckle at.
SEXY BREAKFAST/ THE EVENINGS/ DIATRIBE - Klub Kakafanney, Wheatsheaf, 12/03
Diatribe look like the quintessential young, local support act. They've got the vast rack of guitar pedals, all of which sound identical; they've got the obligatory Cheech & Chong reference; they've got a mate in the audience whom they namecheck; they've got that strange mixture of self-consciousness and insouciance. Still, for all these signifiers of newness, they're entirely capable of warming up tonight's crowd, with some juicy little indie-rock numbers, boasting all the right crunch and bounce. Sadly they haven't yet got many angles to crunch, or much to bounce off, but another few months spent writing some songs with a bit more character might well find them sneaking effortlessly up the bill.
Damn! If I'd brought my I-Spy Book Of Oxford Pop I could have scored a fortune from The Evenings, featuring talent from Suitable Case For Treatment, Eeebleee, Sunnyvale and Sexy Breakfast. But who cares who they are when they make music so abstractedly, hilariously funky? The pre-programmed sections bang away merrily, whilst the rest of them pummel alongside (wlthough not always exactly in time, unfortunately), and, err, that's it. Except that's more than enough for now. Like their spiritual parents Add N To (X) they might want to think about developing their great hulking soundbeasts, and taking them them a bit further. Having said this, the last tune has a neat Rephlexoid synth line, and a the third, with it's deliriously dumb "la la la" chorus resembles a scranky, mud-caked Bentley Rhythm Ace.
My spellchecker doesn't like the word "scranky"; obviously it's never seen The Evenings.
Don't ask me how, but somehow I haven't seen Sexy Breakfast live for about three years, and I didn't much like them then. And now?
Well, the news (to me, at least), is that they sound like Vanilla Fudge. Alternatively, they're like a cross between Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Longpigs, and A-Ha. Indescribable, in other words. They crash through a bunch of their tunes to a healthy, adoring crowd, and it sounds great, throwing in muso workouts, tongue in cheek musical theatre references, and passages of plain, startling beauty in equal measure.
To be honest, I can't entirely comprehend their continuing deification, but the fact remains that, despite my colleague's dissatisfaction with the new recording, Sexy Breakfast are still possibly the best live act in Oxfordshire. But then, you probably already knew this.
Saturday 18 July 2009
Thursday 16 July 2009
Giant Steppers
I have had neither wine nor reggae today. Or the day before. Or the day before. Or the day before. Or the day before. Or the day before. Or the day before. Or the day before. The day before that I think I listened to Sister Nancy.
FEE FI FO FUM – A DAY WITHOUT WINE IS LIKE A DAY WITHOUT REGGAE
We’ve only eve seen Inspector Morse a couple of times. We didn’t live in Oxfordwhen it was first broadcast, and so were denied the pleasure of solving the show’s real mystery: how the hell he managed to drive from Barton to Jericho in under 90 seconds. One episode we do recall was centred around clubbing and ecstasy – in the haze of memory we recall it being somewhat melodramatic in those Leah Betts days, but we do remember a scene in which Morse pays a visit to a rave producer’s impossibly palatial abode. Not finding what he’s after, John Thaw takes a listen to the musician’s latest work in progress and is horrified to find a sample of Bach’s St Matthew’s Passion (or somesuch), spitting out disgustedly, “This is magpie music!”
Well, the poor old detective would have had trouble with the new CD from Thame duo Fee Fi Fo Fum, which is magpie music par excellence. Pretty much all five tracks on the (rather crappily named) EP seem to be created from tiny offcuts from various moments in the history of rock, loosely bolted together. The truly amazing thing is how cohesive and intriguing the result turns out to be. Opener, “Lord Of The Pool” quickly jumps from an insectoid clicking to what we might call the “rockless riff”, and the piece sounds like a whole bunch of AC/DC tunes chopped up on a stuttering train, simple rock heaviosity laid bare without any of the balls and bolshiness or rock heroics. Not that’s it’s arid and knowing, either…in fact, the playing is endearingly loose, coming on like the inverse of 50 Ft Panda’s clinical high speed canter through rock stances. FFFF go for the fold and tear approach, rather than the guillotine’s slice, and this is what stops their music turning into a scholarly introvert mess, a maximalist bedroom rock fantasy for sub-Zappa misfits.
Take “Wisdom Soup”, for example. Within the first 30 seconds the guitar style has leapt from a Graham Coxon mega-delay effect, to a glistening neo-African chime, to a Southern fired rock fuzz. You couldn’t call it a desperately neat composition, but neither does it feel arbitrary – the image that comes to mind is one of a designer flipping through swathes of material, searching for exactly the right texture.
It’s a fascinating release, and it’s hard to say how exactly it works so well: it sounds neither rehearsed nor improvised, neither dumbass nor arch, neither punk nor prog. Time will tell whether there’s anything further to be mined from this stream (there are only so many things one can do with guitar and drums, and FFFF seem to have done most of them within 21 minutes), but for now enjoy a quality release that seems to be outside of any local school or trend.
Oh, and if you’re asking, we’ll have Montepulciano d’Abruzzo and Tenor Saw, thanks.
FEE FI FO FUM – A DAY WITHOUT WINE IS LIKE A DAY WITHOUT REGGAE
We’ve only eve seen Inspector Morse a couple of times. We didn’t live in Oxfordwhen it was first broadcast, and so were denied the pleasure of solving the show’s real mystery: how the hell he managed to drive from Barton to Jericho in under 90 seconds. One episode we do recall was centred around clubbing and ecstasy – in the haze of memory we recall it being somewhat melodramatic in those Leah Betts days, but we do remember a scene in which Morse pays a visit to a rave producer’s impossibly palatial abode. Not finding what he’s after, John Thaw takes a listen to the musician’s latest work in progress and is horrified to find a sample of Bach’s St Matthew’s Passion (or somesuch), spitting out disgustedly, “This is magpie music!”
Well, the poor old detective would have had trouble with the new CD from Thame duo Fee Fi Fo Fum, which is magpie music par excellence. Pretty much all five tracks on the (rather crappily named) EP seem to be created from tiny offcuts from various moments in the history of rock, loosely bolted together. The truly amazing thing is how cohesive and intriguing the result turns out to be. Opener, “Lord Of The Pool” quickly jumps from an insectoid clicking to what we might call the “rockless riff”, and the piece sounds like a whole bunch of AC/DC tunes chopped up on a stuttering train, simple rock heaviosity laid bare without any of the balls and bolshiness or rock heroics. Not that’s it’s arid and knowing, either…in fact, the playing is endearingly loose, coming on like the inverse of 50 Ft Panda’s clinical high speed canter through rock stances. FFFF go for the fold and tear approach, rather than the guillotine’s slice, and this is what stops their music turning into a scholarly introvert mess, a maximalist bedroom rock fantasy for sub-Zappa misfits.
Take “Wisdom Soup”, for example. Within the first 30 seconds the guitar style has leapt from a Graham Coxon mega-delay effect, to a glistening neo-African chime, to a Southern fired rock fuzz. You couldn’t call it a desperately neat composition, but neither does it feel arbitrary – the image that comes to mind is one of a designer flipping through swathes of material, searching for exactly the right texture.
It’s a fascinating release, and it’s hard to say how exactly it works so well: it sounds neither rehearsed nor improvised, neither dumbass nor arch, neither punk nor prog. Time will tell whether there’s anything further to be mined from this stream (there are only so many things one can do with guitar and drums, and FFFF seem to have done most of them within 21 minutes), but for now enjoy a quality release that seems to be outside of any local school or trend.
Oh, and if you’re asking, we’ll have Montepulciano d’Abruzzo and Tenor Saw, thanks.
Tuesday 14 July 2009
Punt 09 Part 2
Back to The Cellar for the home straight, and some molasses thick drone rock from Spiral 25, who turn the venue into a dark womb of numb bliss and stoned paranoia. Their music has definite narcotic nods to the likes of Spiritualized and Loop, and the sound is beautifully controlled, reined in and moving at its own geological pace.
Finally, after what seems like three hours, The Original Rabbit’s Foot Spasm Band take the stage. (Pedant’s note: they’re not strictly a spasm band, as they don’t use home-made instruments). They might not be the greatest band to ever play the Punt, but they are possibly the best closing act, whipping up a frenzy with their self styled “chav jazz” covers of 30’s classics. It’s a wonderful mix of drunken showmanship and muso chops, of rousing singalong choruses and quicksilver brass solos, that has some people dancing on the stage like goons, and others nodding appreciatively in the corner. Then, in a flurry of whinnying trumpet and discarded plastic pint skiffs, we’re suddenly at the end of The Punt, out on the street and wondering why we can’t do this every night. The next morning, of course, the answer is painfully obvious…
Finally, after what seems like three hours, The Original Rabbit’s Foot Spasm Band take the stage. (Pedant’s note: they’re not strictly a spasm band, as they don’t use home-made instruments). They might not be the greatest band to ever play the Punt, but they are possibly the best closing act, whipping up a frenzy with their self styled “chav jazz” covers of 30’s classics. It’s a wonderful mix of drunken showmanship and muso chops, of rousing singalong choruses and quicksilver brass solos, that has some people dancing on the stage like goons, and others nodding appreciatively in the corner. Then, in a flurry of whinnying trumpet and discarded plastic pint skiffs, we’re suddenly at the end of The Punt, out on the street and wondering why we can’t do this every night. The next morning, of course, the answer is painfully obvious…
Punts Drunk
This is a review of this year's Punt festival, an annual Wednesday night pub crawl with random local acts doing sonic things to detract from proper beer drinking. It's like the Camden Crawl but cheaper, in every sense of the word. This is an interesting review, as elements of it appeared in Nightshift and on Oxfordbands, where it was part of an OHM reunion. If only BBC Oxford could have got in on the act, the whole history of my reviews could have been covered.
THE PUNT, various venues, 13/5/09
Matt Kilford gets a lovely big space in Borders to play his set, which is larger than some of the proper venues involved in The Punt. A side benefit of having a shop that hardly stocks any bloody CDs, we guess. We may not be financial gurus, but we honestly can’t fathom how the current difficulties in record retail will be solved by paying premium Oxford rent for a vast floorspace that only stocks about 5 different CDs! Getting involved with The Punt is exactly the kind of thing Border should be doing to drum up local custom, so kudos for that, although they could have kept off the tannoy during songs.
Such interruptions, however, are a source of comedy for Matt, whose wry humour is as much a highlight of his set as his sweet mellifluous voice. He might look rather unprepossessingly like Badly Drawn Mike Gatting, but his voice is not only gorgeous, but has the tiniest jazz and blues traces around the edge, and his guitar technique displays some incredibly subtle embellishments way beyond your average strummer. In fact, we preferred his woozy, hazy slower laments to his upbeat tunes, and it isn’t often we think that about an acoustic balladeer, that’s for damn sure.
By contrast, Bethany Weimers’ set is a riot, her excited guitar attack bursting with flamenco fireworks, and her dynamic singing full of theatre. Bethany has a wide range of vocal techniques in her arsenal, but we aren’t sure that they fully gel, and we feel that she is sometimes left grasping too desperately for the emotional payoff, like a cross between Edie Brickell and Bonnie Langford. She’s at her best when keeping things folky, especially in a sea shanty flavoured ditty about her great-grandparents, with a winning melody oddly reminiscent of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”.
They look quite like Guns ‘N’ Roses, so it’s fitting that Pistol Kixx take to the stage late. OK, ten minutes is hardly in the Chinese Democracy bracket, but every second counts with The Punt’s crazed itinerary. They sound a bit like G’n’R too, although perhaps somewhat more low budget: we’re thinking Dogs D’Amour, The Quireboys or Skid Row, with hair treatments by Mosh ‘N’ Go. It’s been a while since we witnessed such flagrant use of wailing solos or bandanas, and we’re forced to conclude that Pistol Kixx are embarrassingly awful, but also, in some masochistic way, hugely entertaining. Thank you, Sir, may we have another.
Phantom Theory, on the other hand, squeeze the maximum dosage of rock hedonism from the simplest of means. A guitar and drums duo, they have a pleasing line in dirty scuzz rock, something like 50 Foot Panda having their blood replaced with hilbilly hooch by the devil’s dialysis. The effect is enormous, but minimal, like a juggernaut pulling a wheelie, and they have enough ideas to keep the fantastic set fresh as it powers long.
Part of the fun of the Punt is seeing people at gigs beyond the usual inner circle, and this does provide us with the wonderful sight of two girls huddled at the top of the Purple Turtle’s steps, saying “One of the bands is called, like, Beaver Juice”. However, we choose The Cellar instead of Beaver Fuel, where the opening of We Aeronauts’ set is gloriously delicate, a hushed blur of clicking drumsticks, guitar and accordion sounding like soft waves washing a pebbly beach. Although their sound is built on folky intimacy, they occasionally bubble up into a big-boned rock chorus, some bold, simple vocal melodies grasping at the heartstrings like Elbow at their best. A completely unamplified track is a brave move, but they clearly make an impact – on a trip to the toilet mid-set, a chap in the cubicle is unabashedly singing a wordless version of one of their earlier melodies!
Realising we haven’t set foot in the place since last year’s Punt, we wonder why there aren’t more gigs in Thirst Lodge – it’s a neat little room, with a good crisp PA and a wall made entirely from speaker cones. It just needs a good reliable promoter to kick things off. Whilst there we catch up with masked math metal magnates, Dr Slaggleberry, whose intricate arrangements and hard rock savvy are instigating some of the best unfettered dancing this side of The Spasm Band. It’s righteously impressive jazz metal, although, fussy buggers that we are, we’d like it if the guitars were more jazz, and the drums more metal.
A rush to The Wheatsheaf for The Response Collective is a must for a Punt that otherwise threatens to contain no bleeps. Sadly, neither does the set, it being a series of drab vocals atop some stale trip hop loops and loosely post-rock guitars. Spice is added by some proficient scratching, and some moody projected films, but the net effect is a sound that is not only uninspired, but also a few years out of date, which is the closest thing there is to a dance music cardinal sin.
Lack of excitement from The Reponse Collective does give us time to nip back to The Cellar for From Light To Sound. They might have an Oxford track record to rival Roger Bannister’s, but we’d always found their music intriguing rather than exciting. Until tonight that is. The Cellar’s engineer has found them a huge sound, and the music simply soars across the packed venue, all Explosions In The Sky grandeur, Billy Mahonie twistiness and Stereolab intelligence. And they have some proper bleepy noises, at last – when the keyboards aren’t coming on like ELP filtered through Battles, that is. Yes, there are mistakes and technical hitches, but these flash by in an instant, the euphoric effect of the music stays with us all night.
“We play solid metal, for fans of solid metal”, claims Desert Storm’s singer. Well, duh. Luckily the music far outstrips the announcements, and their classic, Pantera-sized rocking is perfect for flagging energy levels. Metal is as metal does, to a certain extent, and Desert Storm don’t rewrite the rulebook, but they do know when to drop in and out, and when to let the music chug on regardless. The playing is all extremely tidy, especially the drums, which are busy but incisive, just how we like them. Special mention for the singer’s long overcoat, which makes him look like a Joy Division fan, even as he growls like a man with a throat made from barbed wire and magma.
THE PUNT, various venues, 13/5/09
Matt Kilford gets a lovely big space in Borders to play his set, which is larger than some of the proper venues involved in The Punt. A side benefit of having a shop that hardly stocks any bloody CDs, we guess. We may not be financial gurus, but we honestly can’t fathom how the current difficulties in record retail will be solved by paying premium Oxford rent for a vast floorspace that only stocks about 5 different CDs! Getting involved with The Punt is exactly the kind of thing Border should be doing to drum up local custom, so kudos for that, although they could have kept off the tannoy during songs.
Such interruptions, however, are a source of comedy for Matt, whose wry humour is as much a highlight of his set as his sweet mellifluous voice. He might look rather unprepossessingly like Badly Drawn Mike Gatting, but his voice is not only gorgeous, but has the tiniest jazz and blues traces around the edge, and his guitar technique displays some incredibly subtle embellishments way beyond your average strummer. In fact, we preferred his woozy, hazy slower laments to his upbeat tunes, and it isn’t often we think that about an acoustic balladeer, that’s for damn sure.
By contrast, Bethany Weimers’ set is a riot, her excited guitar attack bursting with flamenco fireworks, and her dynamic singing full of theatre. Bethany has a wide range of vocal techniques in her arsenal, but we aren’t sure that they fully gel, and we feel that she is sometimes left grasping too desperately for the emotional payoff, like a cross between Edie Brickell and Bonnie Langford. She’s at her best when keeping things folky, especially in a sea shanty flavoured ditty about her great-grandparents, with a winning melody oddly reminiscent of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”.
They look quite like Guns ‘N’ Roses, so it’s fitting that Pistol Kixx take to the stage late. OK, ten minutes is hardly in the Chinese Democracy bracket, but every second counts with The Punt’s crazed itinerary. They sound a bit like G’n’R too, although perhaps somewhat more low budget: we’re thinking Dogs D’Amour, The Quireboys or Skid Row, with hair treatments by Mosh ‘N’ Go. It’s been a while since we witnessed such flagrant use of wailing solos or bandanas, and we’re forced to conclude that Pistol Kixx are embarrassingly awful, but also, in some masochistic way, hugely entertaining. Thank you, Sir, may we have another.
Phantom Theory, on the other hand, squeeze the maximum dosage of rock hedonism from the simplest of means. A guitar and drums duo, they have a pleasing line in dirty scuzz rock, something like 50 Foot Panda having their blood replaced with hilbilly hooch by the devil’s dialysis. The effect is enormous, but minimal, like a juggernaut pulling a wheelie, and they have enough ideas to keep the fantastic set fresh as it powers long.
Part of the fun of the Punt is seeing people at gigs beyond the usual inner circle, and this does provide us with the wonderful sight of two girls huddled at the top of the Purple Turtle’s steps, saying “One of the bands is called, like, Beaver Juice”. However, we choose The Cellar instead of Beaver Fuel, where the opening of We Aeronauts’ set is gloriously delicate, a hushed blur of clicking drumsticks, guitar and accordion sounding like soft waves washing a pebbly beach. Although their sound is built on folky intimacy, they occasionally bubble up into a big-boned rock chorus, some bold, simple vocal melodies grasping at the heartstrings like Elbow at their best. A completely unamplified track is a brave move, but they clearly make an impact – on a trip to the toilet mid-set, a chap in the cubicle is unabashedly singing a wordless version of one of their earlier melodies!
Realising we haven’t set foot in the place since last year’s Punt, we wonder why there aren’t more gigs in Thirst Lodge – it’s a neat little room, with a good crisp PA and a wall made entirely from speaker cones. It just needs a good reliable promoter to kick things off. Whilst there we catch up with masked math metal magnates, Dr Slaggleberry, whose intricate arrangements and hard rock savvy are instigating some of the best unfettered dancing this side of The Spasm Band. It’s righteously impressive jazz metal, although, fussy buggers that we are, we’d like it if the guitars were more jazz, and the drums more metal.
A rush to The Wheatsheaf for The Response Collective is a must for a Punt that otherwise threatens to contain no bleeps. Sadly, neither does the set, it being a series of drab vocals atop some stale trip hop loops and loosely post-rock guitars. Spice is added by some proficient scratching, and some moody projected films, but the net effect is a sound that is not only uninspired, but also a few years out of date, which is the closest thing there is to a dance music cardinal sin.
Lack of excitement from The Reponse Collective does give us time to nip back to The Cellar for From Light To Sound. They might have an Oxford track record to rival Roger Bannister’s, but we’d always found their music intriguing rather than exciting. Until tonight that is. The Cellar’s engineer has found them a huge sound, and the music simply soars across the packed venue, all Explosions In The Sky grandeur, Billy Mahonie twistiness and Stereolab intelligence. And they have some proper bleepy noises, at last – when the keyboards aren’t coming on like ELP filtered through Battles, that is. Yes, there are mistakes and technical hitches, but these flash by in an instant, the euphoric effect of the music stays with us all night.
“We play solid metal, for fans of solid metal”, claims Desert Storm’s singer. Well, duh. Luckily the music far outstrips the announcements, and their classic, Pantera-sized rocking is perfect for flagging energy levels. Metal is as metal does, to a certain extent, and Desert Storm don’t rewrite the rulebook, but they do know when to drop in and out, and when to let the music chug on regardless. The playing is all extremely tidy, especially the drums, which are busy but incisive, just how we like them. Special mention for the singer’s long overcoat, which makes him look like a Joy Division fan, even as he growls like a man with a throat made from barbed wire and magma.
Sunday 12 July 2009
Cemetry Tate
I have nothing to say about this review, I choose to observe a minute's silence to mourn the death of The Port Mahon.
GRAVEPAINTING/ ALEXANDER THOMAS/ EUHEDRAL/ DTV – Permanent Vacation, Port Mahon, 5/3/08
Tabletop improv often has the excitement of its vast range of sound options tempered by the inevitable gap between musical events that is dictated by the time taken to put one thing down and pick another up. Copious use of delay can mask this to a certain extent, but it still imposes a rhythm on the music that can result in predictability. DTV manages to avoid this pitfall, sampling himself bowing strings and bashing metal pipes to create a surprisingly dynamic soundscape that can rush from heavy static to something delicate that sounds like ivory raindrops falling into a tin bucket. This kind performance can be fascinating, but is rarely this exciting.
Euhedral isn’t in our dictionary, but logic dictates it should mean “having pleasing surfaces”. Pretty apt, when his miasma of reverbed voice, rubbed guitar strings and keyboard drones is agreeable, but doesn’t seem to boast much depth, in contrast with other Euhedral gigs we’ve witnessed. Euphonious but hardly euphoric. The final track shows what he can achieve, shoving sandpapery rasps about beneath a slow copter blade pulse to eerie effect.
Some people claim that making music from loop and effect pedals is too easy. Alexander Thomas counters this by only using theremin for his sound sources, which is one of the hardest instruments to play well (if a guitar with no frets sounds difficult, imagine one with no neck or strings either, and that’s how awkward a theremin is to control). Quickly bypassing the B Movie cliches of the instrument, Thomas builds up a sensual series of sonic constructions, that are alternately scouring and beautiful. Unbelievably his last number manages to somehow create crunchy beats from the theremin, and sounds like a lost Mu-Ziq classic. Plus he’s a dapper dresser; there’s too much scruffiness in alt music. All hail.
Gravepaintings have a tough act to follow, and initially their samples of choice – snake charmer reeds and tropical bird warbles – make them sound unpleasantly like a queasy update of World Trancers Loop Guru! Thankfully these elements soon get lost in a vast wave of trouser-flapping noise the likes of which we’re amazed the Port PA can handle. Physically powerful, then, but nothing here to stand out from other droneheads doing the rounds. Gravepaintings’ music may be about building to a climax, but they’re a bit of a squib at the end of a satisfying and eventful evening.
GRAVEPAINTING/ ALEXANDER THOMAS/ EUHEDRAL/ DTV – Permanent Vacation, Port Mahon, 5/3/08
Tabletop improv often has the excitement of its vast range of sound options tempered by the inevitable gap between musical events that is dictated by the time taken to put one thing down and pick another up. Copious use of delay can mask this to a certain extent, but it still imposes a rhythm on the music that can result in predictability. DTV manages to avoid this pitfall, sampling himself bowing strings and bashing metal pipes to create a surprisingly dynamic soundscape that can rush from heavy static to something delicate that sounds like ivory raindrops falling into a tin bucket. This kind performance can be fascinating, but is rarely this exciting.
Euhedral isn’t in our dictionary, but logic dictates it should mean “having pleasing surfaces”. Pretty apt, when his miasma of reverbed voice, rubbed guitar strings and keyboard drones is agreeable, but doesn’t seem to boast much depth, in contrast with other Euhedral gigs we’ve witnessed. Euphonious but hardly euphoric. The final track shows what he can achieve, shoving sandpapery rasps about beneath a slow copter blade pulse to eerie effect.
Some people claim that making music from loop and effect pedals is too easy. Alexander Thomas counters this by only using theremin for his sound sources, which is one of the hardest instruments to play well (if a guitar with no frets sounds difficult, imagine one with no neck or strings either, and that’s how awkward a theremin is to control). Quickly bypassing the B Movie cliches of the instrument, Thomas builds up a sensual series of sonic constructions, that are alternately scouring and beautiful. Unbelievably his last number manages to somehow create crunchy beats from the theremin, and sounds like a lost Mu-Ziq classic. Plus he’s a dapper dresser; there’s too much scruffiness in alt music. All hail.
Gravepaintings have a tough act to follow, and initially their samples of choice – snake charmer reeds and tropical bird warbles – make them sound unpleasantly like a queasy update of World Trancers Loop Guru! Thankfully these elements soon get lost in a vast wave of trouser-flapping noise the likes of which we’re amazed the Port PA can handle. Physically powerful, then, but nothing here to stand out from other droneheads doing the rounds. Gravepaintings’ music may be about building to a climax, but they’re a bit of a squib at the end of a satisfying and eventful evening.
Thursday 9 July 2009
The Blizzard Of Zod
I went to see this because my mate Russ wanted to, and he reviewed it himself (probably online somewhere, if you're prepared to make the effort). This was a few months before their monster hit, "Run", and I'd never heard of SNow Patrol, but they were fine, & I'm sure I'd have written the same if I'd seen them 6 months later, although I may have included a sentence along the lines of "Stop playing that bloody song I bloody hear every ten bloody minutes! You know, the one about the lighter, or something".
SNOW PATROL/ THE UNISEX/ THE LAKE AT DIVERS' POINT - The Zodiac, 10/03
The Lake At Divers' Point is a great name for a band. In fact, I like it so much I think I'm going to type it again.
The Lake At Divers' Point,
Ah, yes, that was fun...and filled a bit of space because, frankly, there isn't much to say about this slightly poppy indie threepiece. The most interesting elements are the little tempo changes, although ironically these tend to be the least well executed. They aren't bad, but there are far too many bands sounding like this, and, as Samuel L. Jackson once said, personality goes a long way.
Tonight The Unisex is a revelation. But not in a good way, so if I find their publicist has used that as a quote I'll - well, I'll be very upset. They're revelatory because they explain why I never liked The Hives much, by providing the missing link between today's New Wave of New Wave of New Wave acts, and Menswe@r.
On the rock side they have some sprightly little guitar solos, and an organ that screams "Garage rock!". On the pop side they have a singer in (and out of) a lousy shirt who could be doing "flounce" in a game of charades, and a load of old Kinks/music hall rhythms sounding like the sickly karaoke offspring of "Sunday Sunday" and "Daydreamer". And that stupid Britpop name. In fairness they're jaunty, likable, and energetic, but The Unisex sounds like a band that missed the bus. A big, red, swingin' cartoon London bus, presumably.
Snow Patrol can't really go too wrong after this warm up, and they proceed to not go too wrong pretty effectively. The way the guitars chug through the chords, and the keyboards come over spiky yet wistful, whilst the vocals sneak up in a friendly manner almost reminds me of Grandaddy - albeit a big anthemic Grandaddy who don't look like they live in a shack made of Miller cans and scrap tarpaulin.
When the chips are down, it's just Evening Session indie, and is hardly opriginal, but the guitars lock and swirl together pretty neatly, and the singer is a lovable chap. I can't explain the ecstatic response the huge crowd gives them, but Snow Patrol delivers a fair set of alt-anthems of the type that Northern Ireland seems to specialise in. Satisfying.
SNOW PATROL/ THE UNISEX/ THE LAKE AT DIVERS' POINT - The Zodiac, 10/03
The Lake At Divers' Point is a great name for a band. In fact, I like it so much I think I'm going to type it again.
The Lake At Divers' Point,
Ah, yes, that was fun...and filled a bit of space because, frankly, there isn't much to say about this slightly poppy indie threepiece. The most interesting elements are the little tempo changes, although ironically these tend to be the least well executed. They aren't bad, but there are far too many bands sounding like this, and, as Samuel L. Jackson once said, personality goes a long way.
Tonight The Unisex is a revelation. But not in a good way, so if I find their publicist has used that as a quote I'll - well, I'll be very upset. They're revelatory because they explain why I never liked The Hives much, by providing the missing link between today's New Wave of New Wave of New Wave acts, and Menswe@r.
On the rock side they have some sprightly little guitar solos, and an organ that screams "Garage rock!". On the pop side they have a singer in (and out of) a lousy shirt who could be doing "flounce" in a game of charades, and a load of old Kinks/music hall rhythms sounding like the sickly karaoke offspring of "Sunday Sunday" and "Daydreamer". And that stupid Britpop name. In fairness they're jaunty, likable, and energetic, but The Unisex sounds like a band that missed the bus. A big, red, swingin' cartoon London bus, presumably.
Snow Patrol can't really go too wrong after this warm up, and they proceed to not go too wrong pretty effectively. The way the guitars chug through the chords, and the keyboards come over spiky yet wistful, whilst the vocals sneak up in a friendly manner almost reminds me of Grandaddy - albeit a big anthemic Grandaddy who don't look like they live in a shack made of Miller cans and scrap tarpaulin.
When the chips are down, it's just Evening Session indie, and is hardly opriginal, but the guitars lock and swirl together pretty neatly, and the singer is a lovable chap. I can't explain the ecstatic response the huge crowd gives them, but Snow Patrol delivers a fair set of alt-anthems of the type that Northern Ireland seems to specialise in. Satisfying.
Tuesday 7 July 2009
Pariah Carefree
Well, I was clearly in a good mood when I wrote this one. Sometimes you're just generally well disposed towards a nice friendly piece of pop music.
ODD ONES OUT – demo
Recent internet waffle has maintained that the predilection of Oxford’s reviewers for leftfield music is killing the local scene. Grade A nonsense, of course, but interestingly here’s a band that are about as far from the experimental as they can get, and yet we don’t think they’re bad at all. Yes, despite the name, Odd Ones Out play some of the most unchallenging melodic rock in town, but they play it so jauntily it’s pretty hard to bear any ill will towards them. Aside from some annoying Aaahs lifted from “La Bamba”, ”Rollin’ On” pretty much does what it’s name suggests, chugging by at a friendly lope and making some perfectly pleasant noises whilst about it. It would take a hard heart not to find a little something to like here. “Taking In The Sunshine” is better still, a Scouse rock ballad that could easily have sprung from a lost La’s session. “Floating away on a sunbeam” may not be the most startlingly original imagery we’ve heard from a band, but the music makes a fair representation of the ride, and it’s a pretty pleasant place to be.
Admittedly, “Serge Fontaine” is as sludgy and dull as a newsprint marshmallow, and “Mr.Critic” is a fairly anonymous blues shuffle (plus the title puts us in mind of the abomination that is “Mr Writer” by Stereophonics, though we can’t really hold that against it), but we’re happy to make time for Odd Ones Out. Aside from the odd overly accented rock drawl in the vocals, nothing on this demo sounds in the least forced, and that’s the band’s real strength: there are surprisingly few acts who can just plug in and sound as charmingly natural as this. “Mr. Critic, I’ve heard just about enough of you,” they sing at the end of the demo. Kind of begs the question why they sent the demo to us in the first place, but we don’t care – think what they may about us, we’ll be happy to see what Odd Ones Out do next.
ODD ONES OUT – demo
Recent internet waffle has maintained that the predilection of Oxford’s reviewers for leftfield music is killing the local scene. Grade A nonsense, of course, but interestingly here’s a band that are about as far from the experimental as they can get, and yet we don’t think they’re bad at all. Yes, despite the name, Odd Ones Out play some of the most unchallenging melodic rock in town, but they play it so jauntily it’s pretty hard to bear any ill will towards them. Aside from some annoying Aaahs lifted from “La Bamba”, ”Rollin’ On” pretty much does what it’s name suggests, chugging by at a friendly lope and making some perfectly pleasant noises whilst about it. It would take a hard heart not to find a little something to like here. “Taking In The Sunshine” is better still, a Scouse rock ballad that could easily have sprung from a lost La’s session. “Floating away on a sunbeam” may not be the most startlingly original imagery we’ve heard from a band, but the music makes a fair representation of the ride, and it’s a pretty pleasant place to be.
Admittedly, “Serge Fontaine” is as sludgy and dull as a newsprint marshmallow, and “Mr.Critic” is a fairly anonymous blues shuffle (plus the title puts us in mind of the abomination that is “Mr Writer” by Stereophonics, though we can’t really hold that against it), but we’re happy to make time for Odd Ones Out. Aside from the odd overly accented rock drawl in the vocals, nothing on this demo sounds in the least forced, and that’s the band’s real strength: there are surprisingly few acts who can just plug in and sound as charmingly natural as this. “Mr. Critic, I’ve heard just about enough of you,” they sing at the end of the demo. Kind of begs the question why they sent the demo to us in the first place, but we don’t care – think what they may about us, we’ll be happy to see what Odd Ones Out do next.
Saturday 4 July 2009
Yo, Goldrush The Show!
So, here's a sad day - the very last of the reviews I wrote for OHM. Admittedly, I don't own every issue, so I may have missed one. If you think there's a review from the OHM days I should post, get in touch. Thank you for flying Porcine Airways! Anyway, this is from the very best OHM issue, where we managed to review very nearly every act on the Truck bill in a madly choreographed dance of the notebooks. Sadly, not every act I reviewed is here, since there were some acts that were reviewed by more than one of us, and I've long since lost my original copy (so has Dan the editor) so all you'll get are the bits that saw print. The only good bit I can remember on the discard pile was a review of Red Star Cycle, but I'll keep that to myself as I might use the same gag for some other act in the future! Always recycle, kids!
TRUCK FESTIVAL, Hill Farm, Steventon, 6/04
Heavy rock is more about phrasing and tone than composition, and Days Of Grace are experts. Think the melodic end of metal. Think soaring vocal lines. Don't think emo, no matter what images I'm creating. Think QOTSA play Pantera. Think, "that singer needs to wear a belt".
Developing in oddly contradictory directions, Trademark continue to produce ever more theatrical and elaborate stageshows, and ever more honed and elegant songs. Like breaking your heart whilst appearing on 80s teatime BBC fodder The Adventure Game.
Charming, talented, summery, melodic, the men behind the festival itself - Goldrush are in some ways the best band in Oxfordshire. Yet sadly they bore me rigid. That Travis and The Chills are household names and Goldrush aren't is an injustice; that I'm even mentioning them in the same sentence illustrates the problem. Still, they couldn't play a bad set at Truck if their lives depended on it.
Lucky Benny sounds like a bizarre sexual position, but is actually a jazz-funk outfit. They're sometimes stodgy, sometimes firy. The bassist is good. Err, that's it.
Some huge voiced, super-sincere Dubliner is singing folky dirges about the poor and paeans to positivity, which must be rubbish, right? So why am I almost crying? Either I'm incredibly tired, or Damien Dempsey is a huge talent. Or both.
Tabla? Hurdy-gurdy? Politico-poetry? Some rainy mid-eighties GLC fundraiser is missing Inflatable Buddha! When they get abstract ("Fat Sex") it works wonderfully, when they play straight songs ("White Rabbit") it's flat hippy mulch.
Bert Kampfaert gabba - get in! nervous_testpilot provides the second great performance of the weekend, mangling samples and rhythms into a sproingy tech-tapestry. Slightly too irreverent for me (last year's set had subtle melodies hidden away), but his "action-packed mentalist brings you the strawberry jams" approach satisifes. Bloop.
One year on, Captive State kick even harder. The warm jazz rhythms are bolstered by the meaty horn parts, and draped in fluent rhymes and zig-zag scratch patterns, and the crowd responds rapturously. Forget the slightly crass lyrics, this band is delicious.
Even though they're a pop band, undertheigloo remind me of electronica. Their brittle cramped songs are like the raw material from which Boards Of Canada distill their tunes, or the base ingredient to Four Tet's organic shuffle. Pity they play so clunkily. Maybe next time...
Beware of geeks bearing riffs! A Scholar & A Physician have brung the noise, toybox style. Cutesier than a Puzzle Bobble marathon in a Haribo warehouse, they somehow manage to convince us that if enough people play enough crappy instruments, then even stupid music is a glorious victory. Clever.
There's an angry little New Yorker smoking furiously and telling awful jokes like it's The Improv in 1986; now he's singing a flacid relationship revenge song. Right, I'm off. Hold on, that last bit was funny...now he's singing something incredibly touching. Lach is ultimately moving, likable and acidly funny, but, man, he started badly.
Damn, Thomas Truax is too popular for this tiny acoustic tent. Damn, they're running late. Damn, MC Lars is on in a minute. Let's assume Truax is as much a damn genius as ever.
TRUCK FESTIVAL, Hill Farm, Steventon, 6/04
Heavy rock is more about phrasing and tone than composition, and Days Of Grace are experts. Think the melodic end of metal. Think soaring vocal lines. Don't think emo, no matter what images I'm creating. Think QOTSA play Pantera. Think, "that singer needs to wear a belt".
Developing in oddly contradictory directions, Trademark continue to produce ever more theatrical and elaborate stageshows, and ever more honed and elegant songs. Like breaking your heart whilst appearing on 80s teatime BBC fodder The Adventure Game.
Charming, talented, summery, melodic, the men behind the festival itself - Goldrush are in some ways the best band in Oxfordshire. Yet sadly they bore me rigid. That Travis and The Chills are household names and Goldrush aren't is an injustice; that I'm even mentioning them in the same sentence illustrates the problem. Still, they couldn't play a bad set at Truck if their lives depended on it.
Lucky Benny sounds like a bizarre sexual position, but is actually a jazz-funk outfit. They're sometimes stodgy, sometimes firy. The bassist is good. Err, that's it.
Some huge voiced, super-sincere Dubliner is singing folky dirges about the poor and paeans to positivity, which must be rubbish, right? So why am I almost crying? Either I'm incredibly tired, or Damien Dempsey is a huge talent. Or both.
Tabla? Hurdy-gurdy? Politico-poetry? Some rainy mid-eighties GLC fundraiser is missing Inflatable Buddha! When they get abstract ("Fat Sex") it works wonderfully, when they play straight songs ("White Rabbit") it's flat hippy mulch.
Bert Kampfaert gabba - get in! nervous_testpilot provides the second great performance of the weekend, mangling samples and rhythms into a sproingy tech-tapestry. Slightly too irreverent for me (last year's set had subtle melodies hidden away), but his "action-packed mentalist brings you the strawberry jams" approach satisifes. Bloop.
One year on, Captive State kick even harder. The warm jazz rhythms are bolstered by the meaty horn parts, and draped in fluent rhymes and zig-zag scratch patterns, and the crowd responds rapturously. Forget the slightly crass lyrics, this band is delicious.
Even though they're a pop band, undertheigloo remind me of electronica. Their brittle cramped songs are like the raw material from which Boards Of Canada distill their tunes, or the base ingredient to Four Tet's organic shuffle. Pity they play so clunkily. Maybe next time...
Beware of geeks bearing riffs! A Scholar & A Physician have brung the noise, toybox style. Cutesier than a Puzzle Bobble marathon in a Haribo warehouse, they somehow manage to convince us that if enough people play enough crappy instruments, then even stupid music is a glorious victory. Clever.
There's an angry little New Yorker smoking furiously and telling awful jokes like it's The Improv in 1986; now he's singing a flacid relationship revenge song. Right, I'm off. Hold on, that last bit was funny...now he's singing something incredibly touching. Lach is ultimately moving, likable and acidly funny, but, man, he started badly.
Damn, Thomas Truax is too popular for this tiny acoustic tent. Damn, they're running late. Damn, MC Lars is on in a minute. Let's assume Truax is as much a damn genius as ever.
Thursday 2 July 2009
Berk Is The Curse Of The Strumming Classes
Bit of an overcooked intro to this one, but I guess it's an interesting area. I know I'm childish, but I do like the image of Sol Le Witt smoking a chalice with The Wailers in the government yard in Trenchtown
MICHAEL BERK/ AMRIT SOND/ ROLAND CHADWICK – The X, 2/11/07
We’re suspicious of quality. Spend too long creating quality music and you might find you’ve forgotten to include anything else; it might be OK for fitted carpets, but makes for the sort of vapid music that is only enjoyed by people who get excited about the mechanics of their heated windscreens. This is art not athletics, and whereas art should probe new regions, quality can only be judged against itself. So, we wouldn’t normally get bogged down with technique – as the conceptual artist Sol Le Witt said, “banal ideas cannot be rescued by beautiful execution” – and yet tonight’s guitarists marry astonishing technical agility with the ability to make exciting music.
Roland Chadwick opens his set with some slide blues, that leaves a lot more space than most players would dare. It’s sadly let down by his slurred voice, that spews out a Mississippi glossolalia, from which bubble random phrases like “mistreated” and “Kansas City”, like a hot serving of cliché gumbo. Thankfully, he soon moves on to Spanish guitar that he picks, thumps and generally bullies to make delightful neo-flamenco. A vocal Spaniard in the house, initially wary, ends up giving a one man standing ovation.
Amrit Sond’s first two numbers, by contrast, don’t evoke much of a reaction. They’re intricate and well constructed, but sound like they should be aural wallpaper for a wildlife documentary. Suddenly he plays us “Rigid Geometry”, a piece that takes the phrase “extended technique” and garrottes it with an abused G string. It took three years to write, nearly as long to tune up for, it sounds like Derek Bailey playing Xenakis and it’s frankly incredible. The final track, a plucked nugget of cubist lute music, is also good, and if some of the set got mired, the highlights seared like fireworks.
Michael Berk’s ability could make other guitarists weep. But, although his tracks like “Trenchfoot” are as complex and intense as any Venetian Snares 12”, Michael is truly great because he never loses sight of what makes a song work - he plays every bloody note of “Bohemian Rhapsody” (we mean all the instruments and vocals) with the concentration and deftness of Andres Segovia playing Bach. It’s not ironic or kitsch, however, and makes Rodrigo Y Gabriela look like busking chancers. A version of “No Woman No Cry” dissects the song completely, but somehow keeps Marley’s simple emotion burning. Sol Le Witt would have lit a fat one, wiped away a tear, and nodded approval.
MICHAEL BERK/ AMRIT SOND/ ROLAND CHADWICK – The X, 2/11/07
We’re suspicious of quality. Spend too long creating quality music and you might find you’ve forgotten to include anything else; it might be OK for fitted carpets, but makes for the sort of vapid music that is only enjoyed by people who get excited about the mechanics of their heated windscreens. This is art not athletics, and whereas art should probe new regions, quality can only be judged against itself. So, we wouldn’t normally get bogged down with technique – as the conceptual artist Sol Le Witt said, “banal ideas cannot be rescued by beautiful execution” – and yet tonight’s guitarists marry astonishing technical agility with the ability to make exciting music.
Roland Chadwick opens his set with some slide blues, that leaves a lot more space than most players would dare. It’s sadly let down by his slurred voice, that spews out a Mississippi glossolalia, from which bubble random phrases like “mistreated” and “Kansas City”, like a hot serving of cliché gumbo. Thankfully, he soon moves on to Spanish guitar that he picks, thumps and generally bullies to make delightful neo-flamenco. A vocal Spaniard in the house, initially wary, ends up giving a one man standing ovation.
Amrit Sond’s first two numbers, by contrast, don’t evoke much of a reaction. They’re intricate and well constructed, but sound like they should be aural wallpaper for a wildlife documentary. Suddenly he plays us “Rigid Geometry”, a piece that takes the phrase “extended technique” and garrottes it with an abused G string. It took three years to write, nearly as long to tune up for, it sounds like Derek Bailey playing Xenakis and it’s frankly incredible. The final track, a plucked nugget of cubist lute music, is also good, and if some of the set got mired, the highlights seared like fireworks.
Michael Berk’s ability could make other guitarists weep. But, although his tracks like “Trenchfoot” are as complex and intense as any Venetian Snares 12”, Michael is truly great because he never loses sight of what makes a song work - he plays every bloody note of “Bohemian Rhapsody” (we mean all the instruments and vocals) with the concentration and deftness of Andres Segovia playing Bach. It’s not ironic or kitsch, however, and makes Rodrigo Y Gabriela look like busking chancers. A version of “No Woman No Cry” dissects the song completely, but somehow keeps Marley’s simple emotion burning. Sol Le Witt would have lit a fat one, wiped away a tear, and nodded approval.
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