Well, this is the only record review I've ever done for Nightshift. I must have got excited by the prospect, because I wrote something pretty florid. But, hey, it's a very nice record, and sometimes I'm just in a good mood, I guess.
THE WORKHOUSE – FLYOVER
Last month’s cover story aside, The Workhouse is Oxford’s great forgotten band. Despite ten years of beautiful music, they rarely seem to be discussed, don’t appear in any pundit’s Top Local Acts list, and to our knowledge are yet to instigate reams of grammatically dubious yabber on the city’s internet message boards. Whilst this is partly due a sporadic gig schedule and a generally unassuming nature (come on, they look like old rockabillies who should be clogging up Cornmarket, not a vital force in new music) this record should hopefully bring them a whole raft of new admirers even as it jogs more age-ravaged memories.
Flyover, like most of their work, shows strong textural sensibilities along with a penchant for racks of guitar pedals with big dials reading “scintillate”. The first references to spring to mind are, as ever, The Cocteau Twins and their 4AD cousins, but something in the stringent, even brutal, sparseness on display proves there’s more to it than that: Liz Fraser’s emotive glossolalia would sound bombastic amongst the glacial severity of Flyover’s hyperborean sonic architecture. Opener “Chancers” is a stately waltzing shimmer that could easily soundtrack the death dance at the end of The Seventh Seal, whereas “Sellafield” has a widescreen Morricone austerity that recalls obscure East European ambienteers The Ecstasy Of Saint Theresa. It’s not all icy emptiness, though, and despite the paucity of vocals this album is packed with songs, such as “Twinkling Lights”, boasting a simple heart-tugging melody worthy of Kraftwerk.
It could be claimed that The Workhouse’s output is a dispassionate essay in the distanced and clinical, but it’s all so oddly moving. The German Romantics knew that nothing said so much about humanity than huge paintings of uncaring mountainsides, and so The Workhouse realise that dignified melancholy can touch the listener more than countless emo screamers in Clubs That Cannot Be Numbered. It’s time for Oxford’s Nick Hornbies to rewrite their lists of favourite bands. Just watch that the tearstains don’t smudge the ink, Flyover can sneak up and have that effect. Do excuse us we..we think we’ve got something in our eye…
Tuesday 29 September 2009
Saturday 26 September 2009
Stompin' At The Sav(el)oy
Hello, dear friends, valued strangers and evil spam spewing web-bots, and welcome once more to the David Murphy archives. Here's a review of Top 20 botherers Hot Chip from way before they were famous and the miniature monkey was yet to be wound. They were...quite good. Worth waiting for that verdict, I think you'll agree.
PS Although the BBC editor at the time published this claiming it was a gig at The Bully, this was incorrect. Also, I'm sure I originally indicated in thge copy who promoted the gig, and I think it may have been Vacuous Pop, but I'm not certain enough after all these years to say for certain.
HOT CHIP/ PINEY GIR/ NERVOUS_TESTPILOT, Wheatsheaf, 8/04
Anyone who says electronic music is always the same has got nervous_testpilot to answer to. Not that this would be too frightening as the pilot is quite small and, err, nervous, but the point is that Paul Taylor has the itelligence and musical imagination to make every performance completely different, in a way no supposedly exciting rock band could dream of.
After the tympanic scouring doled out at Truck, tonight he's gone for the danceably melodic. God, give some of those tunes a remix by Fatboy or Sash! and they'd be Top 10 material! Highlights are a crisp "Raiders Of The Lost ARP" and his trademark Queen-mangling gabba finale - OK, it's obvious, but it's so damned well done.
Speaking of doing things well, let us consider Exhibit B, Piney Gir. In lesser hands her kindergarten Korg schtick might wear thin, but underneath the playground melodies reclines a vocalist of great ability and discipline. Add to this A Scholar & A Physician's incisive and elegant production, whicc resists the urge to be too silly (except on a punk "My Genreration" cover, which palls on the second hearing), and everything in Camp Gir looks rosy. Having said this, I can imagine many people being left cold by tonight's textbook performance. I just can't imagine it would be much fun being them.
I'm uncertain about Hot Chip. They look like a mixture of The Beastie Boy's younger brothers and Cabaret Voltaire's chemistry teachers, and they sound like The Bloodhound Gang playing Prince's songs on Chicory Tip's keyboards. Their fiveman wall of electronic funk resembles a Benny Hill sketch about electro.
Trouble is, their suburban sleaze entreaties are sometimes full of wit, and sometimes and overstretched joke; some of the parping synth textures are clever and outrageously funky, whilst some are thin and annoying. Still, I'll be there to watch them next time, and I suppose any performance that leaves an old cynic like me so intrigued must be counted as a victory.
PS Although the BBC editor at the time published this claiming it was a gig at The Bully, this was incorrect. Also, I'm sure I originally indicated in thge copy who promoted the gig, and I think it may have been Vacuous Pop, but I'm not certain enough after all these years to say for certain.
HOT CHIP/ PINEY GIR/ NERVOUS_TESTPILOT, Wheatsheaf, 8/04
Anyone who says electronic music is always the same has got nervous_testpilot to answer to. Not that this would be too frightening as the pilot is quite small and, err, nervous, but the point is that Paul Taylor has the itelligence and musical imagination to make every performance completely different, in a way no supposedly exciting rock band could dream of.
After the tympanic scouring doled out at Truck, tonight he's gone for the danceably melodic. God, give some of those tunes a remix by Fatboy or Sash! and they'd be Top 10 material! Highlights are a crisp "Raiders Of The Lost ARP" and his trademark Queen-mangling gabba finale - OK, it's obvious, but it's so damned well done.
Speaking of doing things well, let us consider Exhibit B, Piney Gir. In lesser hands her kindergarten Korg schtick might wear thin, but underneath the playground melodies reclines a vocalist of great ability and discipline. Add to this A Scholar & A Physician's incisive and elegant production, whicc resists the urge to be too silly (except on a punk "My Genreration" cover, which palls on the second hearing), and everything in Camp Gir looks rosy. Having said this, I can imagine many people being left cold by tonight's textbook performance. I just can't imagine it would be much fun being them.
I'm uncertain about Hot Chip. They look like a mixture of The Beastie Boy's younger brothers and Cabaret Voltaire's chemistry teachers, and they sound like The Bloodhound Gang playing Prince's songs on Chicory Tip's keyboards. Their fiveman wall of electronic funk resembles a Benny Hill sketch about electro.
Trouble is, their suburban sleaze entreaties are sometimes full of wit, and sometimes and overstretched joke; some of the parping synth textures are clever and outrageously funky, whilst some are thin and annoying. Still, I'll be there to watch them next time, and I suppose any performance that leaves an old cynic like me so intrigued must be counted as a victory.
Thursday 24 September 2009
Band Done Average
This one caused some pretty epic debate about the nature and role of criticism. If you want to take a look at the various arguments have a snoop at the www.oxfordbands.com archives. Or, to save time, you could just agree with me, becuase I'm right.
BOY DID GOOD – ENEMIES & FRIENDS (demo)
Irate musicians will often attack a bad review for the lack of “constructive criticism”, which seems to be a serious misreading of the function of sites like this. Surely critics aren’t writing for the benefit of the artists (who really ought to just jack it in if they don’t already think their work is excellent), but for our peers, other potential listeners. So, although it may come up in the course of proceedings, how to make music better is of less importance to us than explaining what’s wrong in the first place. Besides, the easiest way to make most God forsaken demos better is simply to press Eject and then try to forget the whole sorry affair.
All of which preamble sounds worrying like the buffer zone before a complete critical disembowelling for the execrably named Boy Did Good, but the squeamish amongst you can rest assured that this won’t happen. What we’re getting at is wondering whether, in this case, we have any real connection with our peers at all. We suppose the pertinent question is, “Do you want to hear some average, but not unpleasant, indie rocking?” If the answer’s “Yes please”, then Boy Did Good are the ones for you; if not…well, let’s leave them to it, it’s a pretty harmless occupation, all things considered.
If you want to know what flavours of not unpleasant indie rocking BDG trade in, we can tell you that “Characters & Pieces” has a skipping beat that reminds us a little of the baggy era, without the stoned charm, and that The Arctic Monkeys and The Kaiser Chiefs are momentarily brought to mind. With the exception of some incredibly sludgy, almost dubstep style, bass interjections, the song has very little to claim your attention, though there may be some foot tapping in evidence.
“That Girl Is Dangerous” starts more promisingly, with a tinny one chord strum, some more suet bass and thumping toms; just when it threatens to become hypnotically heavy, it steps up into a forgettable new wave trot, and our mind starts to wander once again. The rhythmic playing throughout the demo is very tight, the vocals are perfectly acceptable, if lacking in character, and there are some interesting breaks, fills and tacets, but the song in its entirety is as unimposing as the clichéd femme fatale lyrics.
A comparable tom pattern underpins “You, Me & The Other Three”, which uses a similar alternating rhythm guitar trick to the last tune. In fact, a couple of shimmering chords aside, this is just the last song remade from another perspective, as we learn that “that boy is trouble”. Something average remade less interestingly with the sex roles inverted, what does that remind us of? Oh, yes, Grease II.
If BDG want some of that mythical constructive criticism, it all depends on what they want to achieve. If they want to be a world class band of professional musicians, we’d encourage them to think about every single note they play and lyric they write, and immediately excise anything that sounds threadbare and second hand. Eventually, after much graft, they may come up with something exciting. If they just want to have a laugh, play some gigs here and there, and sink some beers, then we’ve nothing to add: it’s all fine. Keep at it. Hell, it’s probably alright live. Not sure we’ll be making the pilgrimage to Reading to find out, however.
BOY DID GOOD – ENEMIES & FRIENDS (demo)
Irate musicians will often attack a bad review for the lack of “constructive criticism”, which seems to be a serious misreading of the function of sites like this. Surely critics aren’t writing for the benefit of the artists (who really ought to just jack it in if they don’t already think their work is excellent), but for our peers, other potential listeners. So, although it may come up in the course of proceedings, how to make music better is of less importance to us than explaining what’s wrong in the first place. Besides, the easiest way to make most God forsaken demos better is simply to press Eject and then try to forget the whole sorry affair.
All of which preamble sounds worrying like the buffer zone before a complete critical disembowelling for the execrably named Boy Did Good, but the squeamish amongst you can rest assured that this won’t happen. What we’re getting at is wondering whether, in this case, we have any real connection with our peers at all. We suppose the pertinent question is, “Do you want to hear some average, but not unpleasant, indie rocking?” If the answer’s “Yes please”, then Boy Did Good are the ones for you; if not…well, let’s leave them to it, it’s a pretty harmless occupation, all things considered.
If you want to know what flavours of not unpleasant indie rocking BDG trade in, we can tell you that “Characters & Pieces” has a skipping beat that reminds us a little of the baggy era, without the stoned charm, and that The Arctic Monkeys and The Kaiser Chiefs are momentarily brought to mind. With the exception of some incredibly sludgy, almost dubstep style, bass interjections, the song has very little to claim your attention, though there may be some foot tapping in evidence.
“That Girl Is Dangerous” starts more promisingly, with a tinny one chord strum, some more suet bass and thumping toms; just when it threatens to become hypnotically heavy, it steps up into a forgettable new wave trot, and our mind starts to wander once again. The rhythmic playing throughout the demo is very tight, the vocals are perfectly acceptable, if lacking in character, and there are some interesting breaks, fills and tacets, but the song in its entirety is as unimposing as the clichéd femme fatale lyrics.
A comparable tom pattern underpins “You, Me & The Other Three”, which uses a similar alternating rhythm guitar trick to the last tune. In fact, a couple of shimmering chords aside, this is just the last song remade from another perspective, as we learn that “that boy is trouble”. Something average remade less interestingly with the sex roles inverted, what does that remind us of? Oh, yes, Grease II.
If BDG want some of that mythical constructive criticism, it all depends on what they want to achieve. If they want to be a world class band of professional musicians, we’d encourage them to think about every single note they play and lyric they write, and immediately excise anything that sounds threadbare and second hand. Eventually, after much graft, they may come up with something exciting. If they just want to have a laugh, play some gigs here and there, and sink some beers, then we’ve nothing to add: it’s all fine. Keep at it. Hell, it’s probably alright live. Not sure we’ll be making the pilgrimage to Reading to find out, however.
Tuesday 22 September 2009
Truck 2008 Pt 4
We wait for a while for Cats In Paris. Presumably they’re still there, as after ten minutes there’s not even mike or lead brought onstage. Good DJs and amusingly wrecked dancers to entertain us, luckily.
Pete Kember, AKA Sonic Boom is one of the big names of the festival, and has made some of the most amazing psychedelic music we own. He begins his performance as part of Spectrum with a slow simple keyboard piece, underpinned by elementary drum machine. It actually sounds rather like Jean-Michel Jarre, in a good way, and draws us into a head nodding state of bliss. Once his rhythm section get onstage, they start doing something that sounds like The Shadows in a wind tunnel, with some slightly unconvincing vocals. Seeing as our indie legends quota hasn’t been good this weekend, we quit while we’re ahead and nip off to see Thomas Truax.
Five years ago we saw Truax play to handful of bemused listeners on this very spot, but now he’s one of the most popular acts on the bill. Thirty minutes isn’t really long enough to get to grips with his Tom Waits on The Great Egg Race marriage of American grotesquerie and homemade instruments, but it’s interesting that one of the biggest cheers is for the bitter sweet “The Butterfly & The Entomologist”, played with a handheld battery fan and a guitar, showing that Truax has songwriting abilities to back up his post-industrial carny routines.
Following some tent dismantling operations, we arrive halfway through YACHT’s set, where two people are taking a bizarre Q&A session. Thankfully this is dispensed with forthwith in favour of a sort of new wave disco rock that sounds like a contemporary electro take on Arthur Russell, overtopped with ranting vocals that remind us of Talking Heads in the way disconnected comments are pushed together to make implausible sense. The statements “I married a doctor”, “It’s better than awkward silence” and “I used to live a in a psychic city” linger in the mind after the show, as if to be decoded like arcane jottings. We’ve seen a million bands who do live vocals over backing tracks, but YACHT are the first act in a long time to marry compositional ability to stage performance successfully: seriously, the robot Pan’s People interpretations of the programmed sounds are beautifully controlled, and probably just as hard to perform as actually playing the music would be. So we go home feeling we’ve seen one of the festival’s best and most unexpected sets.
Which is of course what Truck’s all about. The overall music quality this year was phenomenally high, and the ambience was always friendly and tolerant. Yes, the ticket price has gone up, but it’s still peanuts compared to the huge cost of Weakstock, for example – and it has a vicar serving ice cream instead of a giant energy drink logo, which would you prefer? We’re sorry we doubted you, Truck; see you next year.
Pete Kember, AKA Sonic Boom is one of the big names of the festival, and has made some of the most amazing psychedelic music we own. He begins his performance as part of Spectrum with a slow simple keyboard piece, underpinned by elementary drum machine. It actually sounds rather like Jean-Michel Jarre, in a good way, and draws us into a head nodding state of bliss. Once his rhythm section get onstage, they start doing something that sounds like The Shadows in a wind tunnel, with some slightly unconvincing vocals. Seeing as our indie legends quota hasn’t been good this weekend, we quit while we’re ahead and nip off to see Thomas Truax.
Five years ago we saw Truax play to handful of bemused listeners on this very spot, but now he’s one of the most popular acts on the bill. Thirty minutes isn’t really long enough to get to grips with his Tom Waits on The Great Egg Race marriage of American grotesquerie and homemade instruments, but it’s interesting that one of the biggest cheers is for the bitter sweet “The Butterfly & The Entomologist”, played with a handheld battery fan and a guitar, showing that Truax has songwriting abilities to back up his post-industrial carny routines.
Following some tent dismantling operations, we arrive halfway through YACHT’s set, where two people are taking a bizarre Q&A session. Thankfully this is dispensed with forthwith in favour of a sort of new wave disco rock that sounds like a contemporary electro take on Arthur Russell, overtopped with ranting vocals that remind us of Talking Heads in the way disconnected comments are pushed together to make implausible sense. The statements “I married a doctor”, “It’s better than awkward silence” and “I used to live a in a psychic city” linger in the mind after the show, as if to be decoded like arcane jottings. We’ve seen a million bands who do live vocals over backing tracks, but YACHT are the first act in a long time to marry compositional ability to stage performance successfully: seriously, the robot Pan’s People interpretations of the programmed sounds are beautifully controlled, and probably just as hard to perform as actually playing the music would be. So we go home feeling we’ve seen one of the festival’s best and most unexpected sets.
Which is of course what Truck’s all about. The overall music quality this year was phenomenally high, and the ambience was always friendly and tolerant. Yes, the ticket price has gone up, but it’s still peanuts compared to the huge cost of Weakstock, for example – and it has a vicar serving ice cream instead of a giant energy drink logo, which would you prefer? We’re sorry we doubted you, Truck; see you next year.
Truck 2008 Pt 3
And onto Sunday...Oh, This Is Seb Clarke turned out to be anything but, but I never found out who they actually were, so I'm leaving that bit in.
Chefs will tell you that many different dishes can be created with the same base sauce. Mephisto Grande are like that. As a duo they’ve got the basic recipe down - free reed drones, brimstone Beefheart growls and bludgeoning rhythms – but today they’re augmented with skronking sax and members of The Oxford Gospel Choir for a dense slab of Pentecostal rock, featuring the best cover of “Frere Jacques” ever. If the vicar of Steventon had got on stage during this and announced we were all going to hell, the local church would have been filled with repentant sinners by tea time.
This Is Seb Clarke have some excellent burgundy Beatles suits, and create some decent straight up trio rock that’s a bit like half of The Hives, but the programme had promised us 12 piece horn driven heaven, so we slope off feeling hard done by.
If anyone wasn’t sure what a kora was, Jali Filli Cissokho explained it to us; he then explained how one plays it with four digits, just in case nobody was yet flawed by the man’s talents. The rippling cascades of notes he plucks from this African harplike instrument are as succulent as they are impressive, and can seem heartbeat simple or cortex complex depending on where one focuses. Perhaps his voice, though sweet, is a little limited, but then again as he comes from the story-telling griot tradition, maybe understanding the lyrics would have helped. It hardly matters when you can lose your Sunday afternoon exhaustion in this impeccable playing. If you saw anyone walking round Truck with their jaws dangling open, they probably hadn’t got over Cissokho’s set yet.
On Sunday the Pavilion was given over to Piney Gir. Not wanting to venture in between sets in case she makes us do cross stitch or dress up as a raccoon, we edge into a strange hinterland at the edge of the campsite, full of non-musical attractions, including craft demonstrations, a cycle powered entertainment system (sadly closed at the time) and a little hut where a frankly petrifying man attempted to draw us in for some lessons in “woooing” (sic) whilst scratchy easy listening played. We also get to see the large number of Truckers who like to hang out in the campsite all day, playing footie and strumming guitars: quite an expensive way to camp out with your mates, but each to their own. In search of another subset of Truckers, some children explain that the playbus is fun, but would be better if it drove around, and that Truck is a good festival because they “saw a tractor”.
We return in time for Bordervillle, who are excellently dressed as if they’ve come from a time travelling wedding, except Joe Swarbrick who looks like a boy band Edward Scissorhands. Dead Kids should be watching this outstanding set – this is how you do pastiche and genre melding. In some ways it’s a parody of 70s pomp bands like Queen, and Broadway musicals, but it’s also a celebration of what can be great about those things, presented with imagination and a well-rehearsed flow. The sort of arch and theatrical act that makes you want to describe them like a Victorian playbill: “A vaudevillian confection of sonorous majesty” it is, then.
Luke Smith’s set is delayed because of generator problems. Doesn’t matter, we’re happy just to stand and listen to him talk, seeing as he’s the most erudite and charming man at the festival. The music might well be somewhat derriere garde, stemming from music hall ditties and 70s MOR, but as an extension of Luke’s chummy personality it works perfectly. Nobody else here would pen a tune like “You’ll Never Stop People Being Gits”, ridicule their bassist, take the piss out of audience singalongs, and still come out looking like the nicest man in town.
We’ve always admired KTB, but never really been that excited by her. Good, therefore, to see her as part of the excellent folk quartet Little Sister, doling out melismatic harmonies, acoustic tapestries and hot Appalachian fiddle licks. They somehow manage to get some of the audience doing forward rolls round the field, which is no mean feat when we’re this tired.
Les Clochards are sadly not mentioned in the programme, and misadvertised outside the Pub Tent, so it’s not surprising they start playing to a mere scattering of listeners. Their tasty Gallic café indie sound soon draws in passers by, however, because nobody could resist that mix of syrupy vocal, French accordion and fluid bass. Also, that’s Peter Momtchiloff from Talulah Gosh and Heavenly on guitar, should you have your I Spy Book Of Jangle Pop on you.
“Come and see The Nuns tomorrow”, says a flier tout on Saturday. Your smug reviewer answers, “OK, as long as they’re an all female tribute to The Monks”. “Yes,” she replies, “yes they are.” Put us in our place, didn’t it? If you don’t know who The Monks are, you’re stupid. They are one of the finest alternative rock bands, and quite possibly the first. They started in Germany in the early 60s in an attempt to create an anti-matter Beatles, and they’ve influenced approximately everyone who’s any good, ever. They’re the only band better than The Fall, according to Mark E Smith, which is unprecedented praise. The Nuns’ set is good, but doesn’t quite capture the full distorted grandeur of the originals. A celebration of, rather than an alternative to, The Monks.
Neil Halstead, from Slowdive, feels somewhat guilty about playing acoustic guitar on the shoegazing bill. “I don’t even have a pedal,” he admits. No matter as he performs lovely smoky wisps of song that keeps the small crowd happy. Nothing onstage to explain why he’s held in reverence, perhaps, but something rather lovely all the same.
Scotland’s Camera Obscura are so twee and melodic, we imagine that Swiss Concrete are backstage with their diary open ready to catch them. At times they’re like The Sundays, but more twee, or like The Cowboy Junkies, but more twee. They’re good, but they’re really twee. There’s no synonym for “twee” so we’d better stop now.
Ulrich Schnauss fills the barn with delicious vox humana keyboard washes and synth squiggles, which are underpinned by drum parts, until he sounds like a cross between Klaus Schulze and 808 State. The trouble is that the beats sound kind of tired, especially in the Barn’s reverb, and it may have been better to let the drones do the talking.
Chefs will tell you that many different dishes can be created with the same base sauce. Mephisto Grande are like that. As a duo they’ve got the basic recipe down - free reed drones, brimstone Beefheart growls and bludgeoning rhythms – but today they’re augmented with skronking sax and members of The Oxford Gospel Choir for a dense slab of Pentecostal rock, featuring the best cover of “Frere Jacques” ever. If the vicar of Steventon had got on stage during this and announced we were all going to hell, the local church would have been filled with repentant sinners by tea time.
This Is Seb Clarke have some excellent burgundy Beatles suits, and create some decent straight up trio rock that’s a bit like half of The Hives, but the programme had promised us 12 piece horn driven heaven, so we slope off feeling hard done by.
If anyone wasn’t sure what a kora was, Jali Filli Cissokho explained it to us; he then explained how one plays it with four digits, just in case nobody was yet flawed by the man’s talents. The rippling cascades of notes he plucks from this African harplike instrument are as succulent as they are impressive, and can seem heartbeat simple or cortex complex depending on where one focuses. Perhaps his voice, though sweet, is a little limited, but then again as he comes from the story-telling griot tradition, maybe understanding the lyrics would have helped. It hardly matters when you can lose your Sunday afternoon exhaustion in this impeccable playing. If you saw anyone walking round Truck with their jaws dangling open, they probably hadn’t got over Cissokho’s set yet.
On Sunday the Pavilion was given over to Piney Gir. Not wanting to venture in between sets in case she makes us do cross stitch or dress up as a raccoon, we edge into a strange hinterland at the edge of the campsite, full of non-musical attractions, including craft demonstrations, a cycle powered entertainment system (sadly closed at the time) and a little hut where a frankly petrifying man attempted to draw us in for some lessons in “woooing” (sic) whilst scratchy easy listening played. We also get to see the large number of Truckers who like to hang out in the campsite all day, playing footie and strumming guitars: quite an expensive way to camp out with your mates, but each to their own. In search of another subset of Truckers, some children explain that the playbus is fun, but would be better if it drove around, and that Truck is a good festival because they “saw a tractor”.
We return in time for Bordervillle, who are excellently dressed as if they’ve come from a time travelling wedding, except Joe Swarbrick who looks like a boy band Edward Scissorhands. Dead Kids should be watching this outstanding set – this is how you do pastiche and genre melding. In some ways it’s a parody of 70s pomp bands like Queen, and Broadway musicals, but it’s also a celebration of what can be great about those things, presented with imagination and a well-rehearsed flow. The sort of arch and theatrical act that makes you want to describe them like a Victorian playbill: “A vaudevillian confection of sonorous majesty” it is, then.
Luke Smith’s set is delayed because of generator problems. Doesn’t matter, we’re happy just to stand and listen to him talk, seeing as he’s the most erudite and charming man at the festival. The music might well be somewhat derriere garde, stemming from music hall ditties and 70s MOR, but as an extension of Luke’s chummy personality it works perfectly. Nobody else here would pen a tune like “You’ll Never Stop People Being Gits”, ridicule their bassist, take the piss out of audience singalongs, and still come out looking like the nicest man in town.
We’ve always admired KTB, but never really been that excited by her. Good, therefore, to see her as part of the excellent folk quartet Little Sister, doling out melismatic harmonies, acoustic tapestries and hot Appalachian fiddle licks. They somehow manage to get some of the audience doing forward rolls round the field, which is no mean feat when we’re this tired.
Les Clochards are sadly not mentioned in the programme, and misadvertised outside the Pub Tent, so it’s not surprising they start playing to a mere scattering of listeners. Their tasty Gallic café indie sound soon draws in passers by, however, because nobody could resist that mix of syrupy vocal, French accordion and fluid bass. Also, that’s Peter Momtchiloff from Talulah Gosh and Heavenly on guitar, should you have your I Spy Book Of Jangle Pop on you.
“Come and see The Nuns tomorrow”, says a flier tout on Saturday. Your smug reviewer answers, “OK, as long as they’re an all female tribute to The Monks”. “Yes,” she replies, “yes they are.” Put us in our place, didn’t it? If you don’t know who The Monks are, you’re stupid. They are one of the finest alternative rock bands, and quite possibly the first. They started in Germany in the early 60s in an attempt to create an anti-matter Beatles, and they’ve influenced approximately everyone who’s any good, ever. They’re the only band better than The Fall, according to Mark E Smith, which is unprecedented praise. The Nuns’ set is good, but doesn’t quite capture the full distorted grandeur of the originals. A celebration of, rather than an alternative to, The Monks.
Neil Halstead, from Slowdive, feels somewhat guilty about playing acoustic guitar on the shoegazing bill. “I don’t even have a pedal,” he admits. No matter as he performs lovely smoky wisps of song that keeps the small crowd happy. Nothing onstage to explain why he’s held in reverence, perhaps, but something rather lovely all the same.
Scotland’s Camera Obscura are so twee and melodic, we imagine that Swiss Concrete are backstage with their diary open ready to catch them. At times they’re like The Sundays, but more twee, or like The Cowboy Junkies, but more twee. They’re good, but they’re really twee. There’s no synonym for “twee” so we’d better stop now.
Ulrich Schnauss fills the barn with delicious vox humana keyboard washes and synth squiggles, which are underpinned by drum parts, until he sounds like a cross between Klaus Schulze and 808 State. The trouble is that the beats sound kind of tired, especially in the Barn’s reverb, and it may have been better to let the drones do the talking.
Truck 2008 Pt 2
The Family Machine have always looked to us like lovable scamps in a 90s British romcom, around whom everything goes wrong, but who come up affably smiling. In the midst of some random sound engineering, the unflaggable cheeriness of the band makes us assume that Hugh Grant is taking notes in the wing. After all the problems, it’s a glorious set from some of Oxford’s best songwriters, all lachrymose acoustic laments undercut with a plucky determination – we imagine a video of slow motion clips of missed penalities, fluffed catches and other sports failures to “The Do Song”, intercut with footage of Jamie Hyatt winking from the bleachers.
Was it really less than two years ago since we saw Rolo Tomassi at The Port Mahon as part of a single figure crowd? In a packed Barn they get a heroes’ welcome. This is, of course all good and proper, because their maximalist metal constructions are simply amazing, with intricate drums, throat shredding screaming and even more buzzy keyboards that are only a curry away from being Rick Wakeman, which seems to be a theme of the Barn today. The dexterity involved in the performance is incredible, but it doesn’t get in the way of the riotous passion on show. They do a track that sounds like “Eye Of The Tiger” remade by Napalm Death and Goblin. If you want more than that in your life you are greedy beyond belief.
Having read some embarrassing nonsense following Jay-Z’s Glastonbury booking that music festivals aren’t the place for hip hop, it’s a joy to see the Beat Hive jam packed fro Mr Shaodow’s frenetic set. He’s clearly happy too: much as we love his music, we’ve always felt that his shows can be somewhat nervous and twitchy. Clearly the adoring reception has pushed him to greater things, as he prowls the stage, ranting into two mikes simultaneously and generally sending a tent full of dancers insane, whilst never missing a syllable of his excellent lyrics. Asher Dust helps out with the odd piece of singing and a nice red hat, but this is Shaodow’s hour, and he deserves it.
When you see someone in a scarlet astronaut suit playing limp, Bowie-ish country songs out of tune and saying garbage like “I fell in the whoop-de-doo” and, “show me love, you kitty cats”, you begin to think that it must be an elaborate musical prank. We still don’t know if Y is a serious musician or a practical joker – either way, it’s a shit way to spend your life.
“Next on ITV3, When Irony Goes Bad, this week featuring rubbish band Dead Kids”. The spectacle of men dressed like The Quireboys who play songs that all sound like Van Halen’s “Jump” without the subtlety, and smothered with crap synths and tinny guitars is enough to sap the strength. Dead Kids look like something that was cut from Nathan Barley as being too awful to even satirise. Terrible shouty singer too. OK, we’re prepared to believe it’s a bit of harmless fun; but if anyone over the age of 14 tries to tell you this is punk attitude, kill them. Kill them, for they shall never know better.
Martin Simpson has a taste for language, introducing his set with a discussion of the adjectives “bucolic” and “crepuscular”, and clearly relishing the visceral imagery of his opening traditional ballad, lingering over the phrase “the bloody steel”. He also languidly enjoys every line of a bottleneck tune, which reminds us that the blues is an intelligent narrative music, not just an excuse to show your beery market town mates how fast your left hand can go. Of course, Simpson’s guitar playing is also phenomenal, varying from lutelike delicacy to swift percussive passages via sleazy Chicago blues, but he never milks it, always letting the song lead the way. He was playing The Albert Hall for the Proms the day after, we feel lucky to have caught him somewhere so intimate. Not to mention bucolic.
Some competent folk rock from Texas’ Okkervil River, who know how to do lush and full blooded, their line up including two keyboards and occasional trumpet. At times they resembled The Arcade Fire without the Biblical bits, but far too often they just passed the time. We asked three people in the crowd who they sounded like, and nobody could actually come up with a name; this means either Okkervil River are trailblazing geniuses, or forgettably generic. Make your own minds up.
We’re slightly suspicious of the Don’t Look Back movement in which acts perform their pivotal albums. When it was announced that The Lemonheads would do the excellent It’s a Shame About Ray at Truck, the first thing that sprang to mind is that it’s 27 minutes long: in their billed show they could have played it three times, and left space to mime turning over the record. As it is, they crack through the album, minus a couple of tracks, in record time, and it feels something like a contractual obligation. After a couple of minutes, Evan Dando comes on for a solo reading of Smudge’s excellent “Outdoor Type” and “Being Around”, before the band return in a seemingly much more relaxed frame of mind for another thirty minutes or so of superior playing. The problem is that these were never main stage songs, they’re vulnerable, retiring, lovable (and probably stoned) little tunes that are most likely happier out of the limelight: as is Evan, who seems unappreciative of the crowd and mutters barely a word. Not really a disappointment, then, but great as these songs are, the show added nothing to them.
Was it really less than two years ago since we saw Rolo Tomassi at The Port Mahon as part of a single figure crowd? In a packed Barn they get a heroes’ welcome. This is, of course all good and proper, because their maximalist metal constructions are simply amazing, with intricate drums, throat shredding screaming and even more buzzy keyboards that are only a curry away from being Rick Wakeman, which seems to be a theme of the Barn today. The dexterity involved in the performance is incredible, but it doesn’t get in the way of the riotous passion on show. They do a track that sounds like “Eye Of The Tiger” remade by Napalm Death and Goblin. If you want more than that in your life you are greedy beyond belief.
Having read some embarrassing nonsense following Jay-Z’s Glastonbury booking that music festivals aren’t the place for hip hop, it’s a joy to see the Beat Hive jam packed fro Mr Shaodow’s frenetic set. He’s clearly happy too: much as we love his music, we’ve always felt that his shows can be somewhat nervous and twitchy. Clearly the adoring reception has pushed him to greater things, as he prowls the stage, ranting into two mikes simultaneously and generally sending a tent full of dancers insane, whilst never missing a syllable of his excellent lyrics. Asher Dust helps out with the odd piece of singing and a nice red hat, but this is Shaodow’s hour, and he deserves it.
When you see someone in a scarlet astronaut suit playing limp, Bowie-ish country songs out of tune and saying garbage like “I fell in the whoop-de-doo” and, “show me love, you kitty cats”, you begin to think that it must be an elaborate musical prank. We still don’t know if Y is a serious musician or a practical joker – either way, it’s a shit way to spend your life.
“Next on ITV3, When Irony Goes Bad, this week featuring rubbish band Dead Kids”. The spectacle of men dressed like The Quireboys who play songs that all sound like Van Halen’s “Jump” without the subtlety, and smothered with crap synths and tinny guitars is enough to sap the strength. Dead Kids look like something that was cut from Nathan Barley as being too awful to even satirise. Terrible shouty singer too. OK, we’re prepared to believe it’s a bit of harmless fun; but if anyone over the age of 14 tries to tell you this is punk attitude, kill them. Kill them, for they shall never know better.
Martin Simpson has a taste for language, introducing his set with a discussion of the adjectives “bucolic” and “crepuscular”, and clearly relishing the visceral imagery of his opening traditional ballad, lingering over the phrase “the bloody steel”. He also languidly enjoys every line of a bottleneck tune, which reminds us that the blues is an intelligent narrative music, not just an excuse to show your beery market town mates how fast your left hand can go. Of course, Simpson’s guitar playing is also phenomenal, varying from lutelike delicacy to swift percussive passages via sleazy Chicago blues, but he never milks it, always letting the song lead the way. He was playing The Albert Hall for the Proms the day after, we feel lucky to have caught him somewhere so intimate. Not to mention bucolic.
Some competent folk rock from Texas’ Okkervil River, who know how to do lush and full blooded, their line up including two keyboards and occasional trumpet. At times they resembled The Arcade Fire without the Biblical bits, but far too often they just passed the time. We asked three people in the crowd who they sounded like, and nobody could actually come up with a name; this means either Okkervil River are trailblazing geniuses, or forgettably generic. Make your own minds up.
We’re slightly suspicious of the Don’t Look Back movement in which acts perform their pivotal albums. When it was announced that The Lemonheads would do the excellent It’s a Shame About Ray at Truck, the first thing that sprang to mind is that it’s 27 minutes long: in their billed show they could have played it three times, and left space to mime turning over the record. As it is, they crack through the album, minus a couple of tracks, in record time, and it feels something like a contractual obligation. After a couple of minutes, Evan Dando comes on for a solo reading of Smudge’s excellent “Outdoor Type” and “Being Around”, before the band return in a seemingly much more relaxed frame of mind for another thirty minutes or so of superior playing. The problem is that these were never main stage songs, they’re vulnerable, retiring, lovable (and probably stoned) little tunes that are most likely happier out of the limelight: as is Evan, who seems unappreciative of the crowd and mutters barely a word. Not really a disappointment, then, but great as these songs are, the show added nothing to them.
Abingdon's Starting To Happen
Most of this review was used in Nightshift's 4 page report on the festival, but some of it has never been seen before. Be still, my beating heart.
TRUCK 2008, Hill Farm, Steventon
After last year’s festival, we really thought Truck had jumped the shark. Naturally, rescheduling was out of their control, but the general feeling was that the lineup was predictable and uninspired, and that Truck had been gradually ossifying into a noisy convalescent home for tedious country musicians. This year, however, turned out to be the best Truck for a long time. The lineup was pruned of some of the incumbents, but there was still a pleasant smattering of Truck favourites on offer; the site had been rethought but still kept to the familiar blueprint; and, most importantly, the atmosphere was wonderful. It’s so gladdening to see people going rubber-limb loopy in The Beat Hive before eating doughnuts and then sitting quietly to enjoy something acoustic at the Market Stage. More than anything else this year we got the impression that Truckers were open to all manner of different performances, and this was reflected in some surprising, but refreshing thematic booking policies, such as Crossword Records’ abstract hip-hop showcase, or the Sonic Cathedral shoegazing celebration. It was the sort of weekend to make anyone wax lyrical…anyone apart from Evan Dando, anyway…
Implausibly, our festival begins with a band from Hong Kong. DP is a guitar and drums scuzz riffing concotion, who make a great noise, but essentially feel like half of a good rock band. AC without the DC.
Vacuous Pop’s well received line-up begins with Load.Click.Shoot whose bandy-legged disco pop sends hordes of kids in horrible plastic shades, who look like extras from Weird Science, into a dancing frenzy. Is this because the band are good (which they are, with their snotty take on Foals-esque puzzle pop and excellent naughty schoolboy keyboards), or because these guys have been cocked for some day-glo musical fun all morning? Load, click, shoot indeed.
Hey, the naughty schoolboy has been doing his homework. Alphabet Backwards’ keyboard player shares a cheeky Korg buzz with the previous band, but plays it spiced with nonchalantly adept arpeggios and Herbie Hancock twiddles. The two singers may look like a cut-budget children’s presenters (Magpie, not Blue Peter; Look In, not Smash Hits), but they play impossibly, gorgeously, heart-burstingly jolly acoustic-led pop that would sound as at home in the Top 40 as it would at a drunken barndance.
A spot of lunch later The European Union provides our first visit to The Market Stage, once again the most comfy part of Truck, with the most reliable sound. Sadly, although European Union were billed as sounding like Nirvana we turn up to a minimal folk pop song played by sleepy robots. Thereafter they step up into a trudge down The Band’s avenue, good ol’ boys chord progressions overlaid with hammered elementary piano and drawled self-conscious vocals. Passable.
Admittedly it’s not our dream of a collaboration between Bellowhead and Fuck Buttons, but Buttonhead’s set starts incredibly, a repeated wordless three note vocal motif over some complex pomp rock that sounds like Philip Glass’ Einsten On The Beach played by Magma. Except that it also sounds like Godspeed You! Black Emperor played by Emerson, Lake & Palmer. Amazing. However, after a while the focus gets lost somewhere to the left of the kitchen sink, and the show becomes a valiant, but ultimately unsatisfying mashup; we would have stuck it out to the end anyway, of the falsetto vocals weren’t so tooth-pullingly terrible.
In diametric opposition to their look-at-me name, Holton’s Opulent Oog supply us with an untroubled, unobtrusive country lope. Pliant and friendly, perhaps, but with all the chutzpah of a shy 7 year old forced to recite in Sunday school. Of course, complaining about country pop at Truck is like shouting for “Born To be Wild” at Glyndebourne, so we’ll just edge away, quietly.
Over on the main stage, Little Fish are winning a small army of new fans. Aside from being musically spotless, Juju and Nez are rare in looking as though they were born to be onstage – even on the main stage, it’s rare to see an act that you can’t tear your eyes from. But, would it be terribly party-pooping of us to suggest that they write some more songs? There’s some padding in their repertoire, and the world doesn’t need another rock twopiece unless they’re very, very good. Worries for another day, perhaps, for now it’s another Fish victory.
There’s nothing precisely wrong with Green As A Primary’s melding of Mogwai and Prefuse 73, but this downtempo mood music is so fussily exact that it reminds us of bad cappuccino, polished foyers, overpriced theatre bars and aging bachelors trying to look urban and sophisticated in Stoke Newington. Could well sell millions, then…
“Who’s ready for some ramshackle, drunken, atonal, clueless, shambolic, dated indie, then?!” Perhaps it’s a good thing they don’t really go for MCs at Truck, as there’d be no real way of introducing “pop legends” The Television Personalities and their agonising set. Imagine a bad Go Betweens rip off encoded, bounced off the surface of Mars, and then reassembled in a brewery with half the data missing or corrupt. “Embarrasing” is the only word that serves.
Having found ourselves caught between two randomly scurrying children who appear to be demonstrating Brownian Motion for the deaf on the way back from the tea tent, we return to the main stage for Emmy The Great, who was a highlight of Truck 06. Sadly her music’s become more polite and tidy in the interim and this set turns into a nondescript wash of general pleasantness. Still, she’s retained an ear-catching literacy in her lyrics, and a delivery that seems to be intelligently hectoring and monstrously cute simultaneously, rather like losing a theological debate to a Care Bear.
TRUCK 2008, Hill Farm, Steventon
After last year’s festival, we really thought Truck had jumped the shark. Naturally, rescheduling was out of their control, but the general feeling was that the lineup was predictable and uninspired, and that Truck had been gradually ossifying into a noisy convalescent home for tedious country musicians. This year, however, turned out to be the best Truck for a long time. The lineup was pruned of some of the incumbents, but there was still a pleasant smattering of Truck favourites on offer; the site had been rethought but still kept to the familiar blueprint; and, most importantly, the atmosphere was wonderful. It’s so gladdening to see people going rubber-limb loopy in The Beat Hive before eating doughnuts and then sitting quietly to enjoy something acoustic at the Market Stage. More than anything else this year we got the impression that Truckers were open to all manner of different performances, and this was reflected in some surprising, but refreshing thematic booking policies, such as Crossword Records’ abstract hip-hop showcase, or the Sonic Cathedral shoegazing celebration. It was the sort of weekend to make anyone wax lyrical…anyone apart from Evan Dando, anyway…
Implausibly, our festival begins with a band from Hong Kong. DP is a guitar and drums scuzz riffing concotion, who make a great noise, but essentially feel like half of a good rock band. AC without the DC.
Vacuous Pop’s well received line-up begins with Load.Click.Shoot whose bandy-legged disco pop sends hordes of kids in horrible plastic shades, who look like extras from Weird Science, into a dancing frenzy. Is this because the band are good (which they are, with their snotty take on Foals-esque puzzle pop and excellent naughty schoolboy keyboards), or because these guys have been cocked for some day-glo musical fun all morning? Load, click, shoot indeed.
Hey, the naughty schoolboy has been doing his homework. Alphabet Backwards’ keyboard player shares a cheeky Korg buzz with the previous band, but plays it spiced with nonchalantly adept arpeggios and Herbie Hancock twiddles. The two singers may look like a cut-budget children’s presenters (Magpie, not Blue Peter; Look In, not Smash Hits), but they play impossibly, gorgeously, heart-burstingly jolly acoustic-led pop that would sound as at home in the Top 40 as it would at a drunken barndance.
A spot of lunch later The European Union provides our first visit to The Market Stage, once again the most comfy part of Truck, with the most reliable sound. Sadly, although European Union were billed as sounding like Nirvana we turn up to a minimal folk pop song played by sleepy robots. Thereafter they step up into a trudge down The Band’s avenue, good ol’ boys chord progressions overlaid with hammered elementary piano and drawled self-conscious vocals. Passable.
Admittedly it’s not our dream of a collaboration between Bellowhead and Fuck Buttons, but Buttonhead’s set starts incredibly, a repeated wordless three note vocal motif over some complex pomp rock that sounds like Philip Glass’ Einsten On The Beach played by Magma. Except that it also sounds like Godspeed You! Black Emperor played by Emerson, Lake & Palmer. Amazing. However, after a while the focus gets lost somewhere to the left of the kitchen sink, and the show becomes a valiant, but ultimately unsatisfying mashup; we would have stuck it out to the end anyway, of the falsetto vocals weren’t so tooth-pullingly terrible.
In diametric opposition to their look-at-me name, Holton’s Opulent Oog supply us with an untroubled, unobtrusive country lope. Pliant and friendly, perhaps, but with all the chutzpah of a shy 7 year old forced to recite in Sunday school. Of course, complaining about country pop at Truck is like shouting for “Born To be Wild” at Glyndebourne, so we’ll just edge away, quietly.
Over on the main stage, Little Fish are winning a small army of new fans. Aside from being musically spotless, Juju and Nez are rare in looking as though they were born to be onstage – even on the main stage, it’s rare to see an act that you can’t tear your eyes from. But, would it be terribly party-pooping of us to suggest that they write some more songs? There’s some padding in their repertoire, and the world doesn’t need another rock twopiece unless they’re very, very good. Worries for another day, perhaps, for now it’s another Fish victory.
There’s nothing precisely wrong with Green As A Primary’s melding of Mogwai and Prefuse 73, but this downtempo mood music is so fussily exact that it reminds us of bad cappuccino, polished foyers, overpriced theatre bars and aging bachelors trying to look urban and sophisticated in Stoke Newington. Could well sell millions, then…
“Who’s ready for some ramshackle, drunken, atonal, clueless, shambolic, dated indie, then?!” Perhaps it’s a good thing they don’t really go for MCs at Truck, as there’d be no real way of introducing “pop legends” The Television Personalities and their agonising set. Imagine a bad Go Betweens rip off encoded, bounced off the surface of Mars, and then reassembled in a brewery with half the data missing or corrupt. “Embarrasing” is the only word that serves.
Having found ourselves caught between two randomly scurrying children who appear to be demonstrating Brownian Motion for the deaf on the way back from the tea tent, we return to the main stage for Emmy The Great, who was a highlight of Truck 06. Sadly her music’s become more polite and tidy in the interim and this set turns into a nondescript wash of general pleasantness. Still, she’s retained an ear-catching literacy in her lyrics, and a delivery that seems to be intelligently hectoring and monstrously cute simultaneously, rather like losing a theological debate to a Care Bear.
Saturday 19 September 2009
Chick Korea?
You said I was ill and you were not wrong. Urgh, I feel like crap. Here's an anonymous old BBC review to make us both feel slightly worse.
WARHEN/ PHYAL/ FORK, Oxfam benefit, Bully, 7/04
Calling your music "prog punk" is rather like calling it "chalky cheese" - a contradiction in terms. With Fork it really means "new wave with a few extras". Most afecting in parts, but hard to get a handle on tonight. The main problem is the lead guitarist, who is as loud as the rest of the band put together. At least. This wouldn't matter so much if the vocals weren't whispered in a menacing rasp, and the squealing licks deflated the effect somewhat.
Ultimately the best tracks were those where they open the rock and roll throttle, or strip things down to an ominous pulse spiced with eerie murmuring. In other words, the tracks with the fewest prog elements. Someone is missing the point here: question is, is it me or Fork?
Phyal can be relied on to produce a good show, that's a given. Their sound is simple, if fabulously unfashionable: a tranche of funk, a soupcon of mild goth, all floating in a bouillabaisse of oldschool metal. Rather like German band Uniting The Elements, who recently visited The Zodiac, Phyal banish any worries about musical naffness with a searing theatrical performance. Glenda is a committed hair-flailing frontwoman and the band is compact and forceful. They could maybe do with an extra string to their song-writing bow, but they're certainly worth watching.
Where did all those Supergrass comparisons come from? OK, Warhen are young, a trio, and full of beans, but that's where it ends. Aerosmith, AC/DC and Cream are more useful reference points. It's silly, it's adolescent, it's resolutely dumb but Warhen's marriage of 70s cock rock and punk attack is great fun. They play well tonight too, though the tiny powerhoue drummer steals the show, as ever. Maybe the music doesn't linger in the memory, but for 30 minutes Warhen were captivating. Now, if only they could learn some interesting stage banter...
WARHEN/ PHYAL/ FORK, Oxfam benefit, Bully, 7/04
Calling your music "prog punk" is rather like calling it "chalky cheese" - a contradiction in terms. With Fork it really means "new wave with a few extras". Most afecting in parts, but hard to get a handle on tonight. The main problem is the lead guitarist, who is as loud as the rest of the band put together. At least. This wouldn't matter so much if the vocals weren't whispered in a menacing rasp, and the squealing licks deflated the effect somewhat.
Ultimately the best tracks were those where they open the rock and roll throttle, or strip things down to an ominous pulse spiced with eerie murmuring. In other words, the tracks with the fewest prog elements. Someone is missing the point here: question is, is it me or Fork?
Phyal can be relied on to produce a good show, that's a given. Their sound is simple, if fabulously unfashionable: a tranche of funk, a soupcon of mild goth, all floating in a bouillabaisse of oldschool metal. Rather like German band Uniting The Elements, who recently visited The Zodiac, Phyal banish any worries about musical naffness with a searing theatrical performance. Glenda is a committed hair-flailing frontwoman and the band is compact and forceful. They could maybe do with an extra string to their song-writing bow, but they're certainly worth watching.
Where did all those Supergrass comparisons come from? OK, Warhen are young, a trio, and full of beans, but that's where it ends. Aerosmith, AC/DC and Cream are more useful reference points. It's silly, it's adolescent, it's resolutely dumb but Warhen's marriage of 70s cock rock and punk attack is great fun. They play well tonight too, though the tiny powerhoue drummer steals the show, as ever. Maybe the music doesn't linger in the memory, but for 30 minutes Warhen were captivating. Now, if only they could learn some interesting stage banter...
Thursday 17 September 2009
Tamara Never Dies
Right, I'm in a real old hurry again tonight, got to be out of the house soon, so here's a new review that was posted this very day at Oxfordbands. How exasperatingly contemporary!
TAMARA PARSONS-BAKER – DEMO
The second half of this demo is noticeably superior to the first. The vocals are sweeter and far better controlled, the arrangements are neater, the songs are approachable and lucid, and the melodies are flowing without being too intrusive. It’s very good solid acoustic singer-songwriter fare, and it’s butt-numbingly tedious.
“You’ve Failed” isn’t too bad, being a lightly pretty little confessional that’s a smidgen like Laima Bites’ early recordings, without the sparkle. “Sore Kara” is a run of the mill lament enlivened fractionally by some decent double-tracked vocals, and “This Is My Image” is an anonymous ditty with some off the peg blues twiddles, and a frustrating deliberate breathy high end crack in the vocals that is so prevalent nowadays as some sort of signifier of intensity (damn you, Morissette!). The voice is sweet and crisp and attention grabbing without being imposing, but it’s singing nothing of any import in the least memorable way. This is the sort of music to make thoughtless old men in empty open mic bars mumble “She’s not bad” into their slowly supped pints, and the sort of music to depress us woefully at the lack of ambition: before we know it we’re cleaning our keyboard with a retractable pencil instead of focussing on the music.
However, flip back to the start of the CD, and the opening trio of tracks is far more enticing, even though they’re less polished, more awkward, and perhaps not completely ready to be heard. The tone is bleak, empty and melancholy, and Parsons-Baker’s voice has so much more character, if it perhaps exhibits less control. “To Possess” is sparse, dessicated and surprisingly hypnotic – there’s not much to it, but it seems to fit together with a cold logic, like a Japanese garden in the dead of winter. The epic “It’s What We Do”, at nearly eight minutes long, is even more fascinating in its starkness and simplicity, just a spare bass and some guitars which either chime gothically or strum with the heartless efficiency of the executioner’s axe. The vocal is deadeyed and hollow even as it’s lush and folky, Parsons-Baker managing somehow to sound like a mixture of Nico and Eddi Reader. The lyrics are pretty generic (and is that really a line about “scrambled eggs”?), but that doesn’t detract overly from the effect.
“Airs Collide” has a second male voice, and some drums, but just doesn’t quite seem to hang together. We like the continual two note ostinato that underpins the verses, but the chorus seems tacked on. There’s nothing wrong here, but the song lacks the power of the last two, it feels over-egged (scrambled or otherwise). Somewhere in these opening tracks is a show-stopping voice of defeated souls, and a music of existential doom, although it’s not quite ready yet. Our advice would be drop the pretty stuff, we’ve heard it a million times; get some properly striking lyrics written; develop the dark, bruising, autumnal delivery; throw the blues fills onto the fire; douse the fire and sit in a freezing garret feeling lonely; listen to some recent P J Harvey and turn of the millennium Nick Cave; weep a lot. That way, perhaps Parsons-Baker could create the sort of music to make sensitive young men in empty attic rooms nod quietly and avoid eye contact over their untouched lime sodas.
Well, we never said there was any fame and glory in this game, did we?
TAMARA PARSONS-BAKER – DEMO
The second half of this demo is noticeably superior to the first. The vocals are sweeter and far better controlled, the arrangements are neater, the songs are approachable and lucid, and the melodies are flowing without being too intrusive. It’s very good solid acoustic singer-songwriter fare, and it’s butt-numbingly tedious.
“You’ve Failed” isn’t too bad, being a lightly pretty little confessional that’s a smidgen like Laima Bites’ early recordings, without the sparkle. “Sore Kara” is a run of the mill lament enlivened fractionally by some decent double-tracked vocals, and “This Is My Image” is an anonymous ditty with some off the peg blues twiddles, and a frustrating deliberate breathy high end crack in the vocals that is so prevalent nowadays as some sort of signifier of intensity (damn you, Morissette!). The voice is sweet and crisp and attention grabbing without being imposing, but it’s singing nothing of any import in the least memorable way. This is the sort of music to make thoughtless old men in empty open mic bars mumble “She’s not bad” into their slowly supped pints, and the sort of music to depress us woefully at the lack of ambition: before we know it we’re cleaning our keyboard with a retractable pencil instead of focussing on the music.
However, flip back to the start of the CD, and the opening trio of tracks is far more enticing, even though they’re less polished, more awkward, and perhaps not completely ready to be heard. The tone is bleak, empty and melancholy, and Parsons-Baker’s voice has so much more character, if it perhaps exhibits less control. “To Possess” is sparse, dessicated and surprisingly hypnotic – there’s not much to it, but it seems to fit together with a cold logic, like a Japanese garden in the dead of winter. The epic “It’s What We Do”, at nearly eight minutes long, is even more fascinating in its starkness and simplicity, just a spare bass and some guitars which either chime gothically or strum with the heartless efficiency of the executioner’s axe. The vocal is deadeyed and hollow even as it’s lush and folky, Parsons-Baker managing somehow to sound like a mixture of Nico and Eddi Reader. The lyrics are pretty generic (and is that really a line about “scrambled eggs”?), but that doesn’t detract overly from the effect.
“Airs Collide” has a second male voice, and some drums, but just doesn’t quite seem to hang together. We like the continual two note ostinato that underpins the verses, but the chorus seems tacked on. There’s nothing wrong here, but the song lacks the power of the last two, it feels over-egged (scrambled or otherwise). Somewhere in these opening tracks is a show-stopping voice of defeated souls, and a music of existential doom, although it’s not quite ready yet. Our advice would be drop the pretty stuff, we’ve heard it a million times; get some properly striking lyrics written; develop the dark, bruising, autumnal delivery; throw the blues fills onto the fire; douse the fire and sit in a freezing garret feeling lonely; listen to some recent P J Harvey and turn of the millennium Nick Cave; weep a lot. That way, perhaps Parsons-Baker could create the sort of music to make sensitive young men in empty attic rooms nod quietly and avoid eye contact over their untouched lime sodas.
Well, we never said there was any fame and glory in this game, did we?
Tuesday 15 September 2009
Twinge Kingdom Valley
One of Picture Book is the offspring of Kid Creole, of Coconuts fame. That's a solid gold fact you can take to the bank...if the bloke at the bar who told me was telling the truth.
THE ORIGINAL RABBIT’S FOOT SPASM BAND/ SPACE HEROES OF THE PEOPLE/ PICTURE BOOK – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 6/2/09
At their best Leeds’ Picture Book are a cross between Lamb and Sade (as in “Smooth Operator”, not “120 Days Of Sodom”), at their worst they’re a load of old balaerics. They do show plenty of rhythmic inventiveness in their sleek techno pop, and a nice line in flatulent 80s keyboards, but the vocals aren’t able to breathe life into the songs; if they had an Alison Goldfrapp or a Roisin Murphy hamming it up we might be talking. Having said this, the last two tracks blow the rest of the set out of the water, the finale pitching keening violin against the synth hum, and single “Strangers” is a fussy bustle of dubstep keys and exuberant syn-drums that are half Karl Bartos and half Tito Puente. More like that, please.
Space Heroes Of The People have always been about balance. Their music is live enough to feel organic, and programmed enough to seem inhuman; the sound is minimalist enough to be hypnotic, but compact enough to class them as an ace pop band. It’s a tough tightrope to walk, but tonight they nonchalantly saunter across, possibly stopping midway for a somersault or two. Perhaps it was the live vocals, perhaps it was the unexpectedly meaty Sabbathesque half time sections, perhaps it was the righteously hefty sound that the engineer coaxed from them, but this was a superb set. We just can’t shake the image of Maggie Philbin coming onstage halfway through “Barbie Is A Robot” to explain what a vocoder is.
The Original Rabbit’s Foot Spasm Band are not at all original, but everything else about them is fantastic. They play 30s jazz songs, but we feel as if we’re in a sordid sweaty speakeasy, not some horrific sanitised tea dance. These songs (“Mack The Knife”, “The Sheik Of Araby”) are about sex, narcotics and impossibly louche tailoring, and they should be treated with the dirt they deserve, not emasculated by legions of function jazzers. The Spasmers get to grips with the soul of the music through riotous trumpet, rasping sax, and by being heroically, Biblically, drunk. This, my friends is the authentic sound of New Orleans…possibly during the hurricane.
THE ORIGINAL RABBIT’S FOOT SPASM BAND/ SPACE HEROES OF THE PEOPLE/ PICTURE BOOK – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 6/2/09
At their best Leeds’ Picture Book are a cross between Lamb and Sade (as in “Smooth Operator”, not “120 Days Of Sodom”), at their worst they’re a load of old balaerics. They do show plenty of rhythmic inventiveness in their sleek techno pop, and a nice line in flatulent 80s keyboards, but the vocals aren’t able to breathe life into the songs; if they had an Alison Goldfrapp or a Roisin Murphy hamming it up we might be talking. Having said this, the last two tracks blow the rest of the set out of the water, the finale pitching keening violin against the synth hum, and single “Strangers” is a fussy bustle of dubstep keys and exuberant syn-drums that are half Karl Bartos and half Tito Puente. More like that, please.
Space Heroes Of The People have always been about balance. Their music is live enough to feel organic, and programmed enough to seem inhuman; the sound is minimalist enough to be hypnotic, but compact enough to class them as an ace pop band. It’s a tough tightrope to walk, but tonight they nonchalantly saunter across, possibly stopping midway for a somersault or two. Perhaps it was the live vocals, perhaps it was the unexpectedly meaty Sabbathesque half time sections, perhaps it was the righteously hefty sound that the engineer coaxed from them, but this was a superb set. We just can’t shake the image of Maggie Philbin coming onstage halfway through “Barbie Is A Robot” to explain what a vocoder is.
The Original Rabbit’s Foot Spasm Band are not at all original, but everything else about them is fantastic. They play 30s jazz songs, but we feel as if we’re in a sordid sweaty speakeasy, not some horrific sanitised tea dance. These songs (“Mack The Knife”, “The Sheik Of Araby”) are about sex, narcotics and impossibly louche tailoring, and they should be treated with the dirt they deserve, not emasculated by legions of function jazzers. The Spasmers get to grips with the soul of the music through riotous trumpet, rasping sax, and by being heroically, Biblically, drunk. This, my friends is the authentic sound of New Orleans…possibly during the hurricane.
Saturday 12 September 2009
Bellends In Their Own Lifetime
The first review that was ever commissioned from me. A wierd line up, to be sure, but kind of intriguing. A relatively anonymous piece of writing, but passable, excepting the embarrassing Mondeo "joke". On the plus side, I can guarantee that this review doesn't mention The Beatles at any point.
THE LEGENDARY BOOGIEMEN/ BRIDGE/ MORSO, The Bully 28/1/03
Morso look like thay could have come straight from central casting as "the three piece support band". Except they're good. Little things put them above their peers: the vocals are strident, and well phrased; the drummer plays hard, but still has a good grasp of musical space; the bassist's backing vocals aren't just in tune, but are as good as the lead (albeit with the same silly American drawl).
Don't unfurl the bunting just yet, though, Morso do have limitations. Some songs get lost in a fallow college rock wasteland, and there's too much sloppy wah-wah plugging gaps like musical Polyfilla. But Morso are worth seeing.
Like Rich Tea biscuits, Bridge are pleasant, but inherently unexciting. Two keyboards tinkle away most of the time, over polite Radio 2 rhythms, whilst Marc Cohn, Billy Joel and even Gilbert O'Sullivan seem to be recurrent reference points. Bridge take us on a brisk jolly trot through the lot, and it's occasionally bracing, but the scenery ain't up to much.
Ultimately Bridge are neat, tidy, shiny and efficient, like a Ford Mondeo - you'll have to make up your own minds whether this is a desriable state for a pop band. They also have some extremely trite lyrics, my own personal favourite being, "So sue me, sweet lady". Maybe if I mention Mondeos enough Ford will send me one...
The Legendary Boogiemen aren't legendary, but they do boogie. And that's about all they do. It's roadhouse blues for boozing truckers, with all the subtlety this implies. Like a lukewarm Canned heat, a shallow Deep Purple and a skimmed Cream by turns, no matter what style they try, the tipsy sergeant major on drums plays exactly the same beat, and soon enough the guitarists launch into finesse-free solos, making Bully Jazzman Denny Illett look like the apex of pith and concision.
All this while the singer stumbles about confused, looking like Ronald Rreagan at a rave. They play a lumpen "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean". They play "Strange Brew", which sounds exactly the same. They even play the Top Gear theme. For what seems like twenty minutes. They're obviously adept musicians but this merely compounds the offence. Only two sorts of people will like the Boogiemen: those who have never had an idea in their heads, and those who have never heard rock music. And maybe the very very drunk. Rubbish. Unlike the Ford Mondeo.
THE LEGENDARY BOOGIEMEN/ BRIDGE/ MORSO, The Bully 28/1/03
Morso look like thay could have come straight from central casting as "the three piece support band". Except they're good. Little things put them above their peers: the vocals are strident, and well phrased; the drummer plays hard, but still has a good grasp of musical space; the bassist's backing vocals aren't just in tune, but are as good as the lead (albeit with the same silly American drawl).
Don't unfurl the bunting just yet, though, Morso do have limitations. Some songs get lost in a fallow college rock wasteland, and there's too much sloppy wah-wah plugging gaps like musical Polyfilla. But Morso are worth seeing.
Like Rich Tea biscuits, Bridge are pleasant, but inherently unexciting. Two keyboards tinkle away most of the time, over polite Radio 2 rhythms, whilst Marc Cohn, Billy Joel and even Gilbert O'Sullivan seem to be recurrent reference points. Bridge take us on a brisk jolly trot through the lot, and it's occasionally bracing, but the scenery ain't up to much.
Ultimately Bridge are neat, tidy, shiny and efficient, like a Ford Mondeo - you'll have to make up your own minds whether this is a desriable state for a pop band. They also have some extremely trite lyrics, my own personal favourite being, "So sue me, sweet lady". Maybe if I mention Mondeos enough Ford will send me one...
The Legendary Boogiemen aren't legendary, but they do boogie. And that's about all they do. It's roadhouse blues for boozing truckers, with all the subtlety this implies. Like a lukewarm Canned heat, a shallow Deep Purple and a skimmed Cream by turns, no matter what style they try, the tipsy sergeant major on drums plays exactly the same beat, and soon enough the guitarists launch into finesse-free solos, making Bully Jazzman Denny Illett look like the apex of pith and concision.
All this while the singer stumbles about confused, looking like Ronald Rreagan at a rave. They play a lumpen "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean". They play "Strange Brew", which sounds exactly the same. They even play the Top Gear theme. For what seems like twenty minutes. They're obviously adept musicians but this merely compounds the offence. Only two sorts of people will like the Boogiemen: those who have never had an idea in their heads, and those who have never heard rock music. And maybe the very very drunk. Rubbish. Unlike the Ford Mondeo.
Thursday 10 September 2009
The Bristle Sound
Sometimes you get a demo from a band called something like Beard Of Zeuss, and just know you'll be in provincial unsigned hard rock purgatory...and then it turns out to be quite good fun. At the very least, provincial unsigned hard rock purgatory is more intriguing than global mass marketed hard rock hell, eh, kids? Blaaagh.
BEARD OF ZEUSS – DEMO
Never let it be said that we consider lavish recording to be essential for good music. God knows we’ve heard more than enough demos on which hours of studio time have entirely failed to mask a complete lack of musical ability. Still, the new recording from the excellently mis-spelled Beard Of Zeuss is so lo-fi we feel we ought to just scribble this review on a sheet of bog roll and nail it to a small tree, rather than disseminate it efficiently through the internet, just to get our own back. However, once we’ve fought past the “minidisc in a corner” production values, it becomes evident that BOZ make a very pleasant – if deeply unoriginal – rock noise.
The Beard’s postal address is in Enstone, but we begin to wonder whether this isn’t a typo for Eynsham, so neatly does the music resemble the sludged up grungecore that has spilt from that area over the past few years. The songs follow a simple blueprint: clumping metal rhythms drenched with huge grubby riffs that are the aural equivalent of radioactive industrial sludge, all topped off with a sort of Texan barroom growl grunting on about…well, frankly, we’ve not the foggiest. Like we say, nothing you haven’t heard before, but BOZ have plenty of power in their sound, and manage to hold the attention despite the woeful recording. Though, sadly “Medieval Rape Song” doesn’t sound as good on record as it did in our head. So, we’ll give them a tentative thumbs up for now, and sit back to wait for a proper demo…or, we suspect, a live sampling would probably get the point across better. Perhaps just after some sort of Speed Bourbon Guzzling Pageant might be the ideal slot.
Speaking of booze, ultimately BOZ are like homebrewed hillbilly hooch: unrefined and ugly, but intoxicating all the same. The indecipherable vocal “Blaaagh” that closes track one pretty much sums up the dumb appeal of this demo, and Zeus knows there are plenty of pompous recordings in the world that could be livened up with a well placed “blaaagh”.
BEARD OF ZEUSS – DEMO
Never let it be said that we consider lavish recording to be essential for good music. God knows we’ve heard more than enough demos on which hours of studio time have entirely failed to mask a complete lack of musical ability. Still, the new recording from the excellently mis-spelled Beard Of Zeuss is so lo-fi we feel we ought to just scribble this review on a sheet of bog roll and nail it to a small tree, rather than disseminate it efficiently through the internet, just to get our own back. However, once we’ve fought past the “minidisc in a corner” production values, it becomes evident that BOZ make a very pleasant – if deeply unoriginal – rock noise.
The Beard’s postal address is in Enstone, but we begin to wonder whether this isn’t a typo for Eynsham, so neatly does the music resemble the sludged up grungecore that has spilt from that area over the past few years. The songs follow a simple blueprint: clumping metal rhythms drenched with huge grubby riffs that are the aural equivalent of radioactive industrial sludge, all topped off with a sort of Texan barroom growl grunting on about…well, frankly, we’ve not the foggiest. Like we say, nothing you haven’t heard before, but BOZ have plenty of power in their sound, and manage to hold the attention despite the woeful recording. Though, sadly “Medieval Rape Song” doesn’t sound as good on record as it did in our head. So, we’ll give them a tentative thumbs up for now, and sit back to wait for a proper demo…or, we suspect, a live sampling would probably get the point across better. Perhaps just after some sort of Speed Bourbon Guzzling Pageant might be the ideal slot.
Speaking of booze, ultimately BOZ are like homebrewed hillbilly hooch: unrefined and ugly, but intoxicating all the same. The indecipherable vocal “Blaaagh” that closes track one pretty much sums up the dumb appeal of this demo, and Zeus knows there are plenty of pompous recordings in the world that could be livened up with a well placed “blaaagh”.
Tuesday 8 September 2009
Delegates' Sound Of Thunder
There is a barely forgivable number of puns in one paragraph of this review, but then, start a silly band and you get a silly review, silly.
THE DEPUTEES/ THE VICARS OF TWIDDLY/ THE HALCYONS – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 5/12/08
“Crisis? What crisis?” Despite a spate of small venue closures, and the recent ruling that all British journalism must contain the phrase “credit crunch” every hundred words, The Wheatsheaf is crammed before nine o’clock. Such is the power of Klub Kak, who effortlessly fill venues with a startling mixture of trendies and hairies, of preening youths and hoary old men, despite the fact their lineups look like they were worked out on the back of a beermat the night before. If you don’t love the Klub, you’ve either not experienced it, or you’re hollow inside.
he Halcyons play two sorts of tune, either ballsy torch songs smothered in fruity organ and vox humana keyboards as heard through a giant filter stamped “1987”, or excellent squelchy dance rock numbers, that could easily be the theme to some lost Logan’s Run spin off mini-series. It’s a hugely promising set, and our only criticism is that they can come off as a clinical take on day-glo hedonism, like the bands in the bar on Buffy; with a little polishing they could produce an insistent but spacious muso-pop eeriness, like the bands in the bar on Twin Peaks. But with more silly synth noises, natch.
As most enlightened sociologists and historians have observed, all the major movements in rock history can be reduced to the desire to dress up funny, which is where The Vicars Of Twiddly score highly, decked in a variety of elaborate Catholic vestments. They also rack up points for slapping out rocking swamp surf - if that’s not an aqueous paradox - somewhere between Dick Dale and The Cramps, which could soundtrack a lost ecclesiastical Tarantino flick (Pulpit Fiction, anyone?). Of course, every single riff and trick is shamelessly nicked, but no mater how many unoriginal sins The Vicars commit, they’re great fun, and why pontificate when we can dance like goons?
The Deputees struggle to follow the idiosyncratic supports, and their vivacious guitar pop sounds too straightforward, even when the co-opt a B-52s bounce. Sadly, the vocals let the team down too, alternating between a distended groan and the sound of Eddie Izzard’s “small yappy type dog”. This is a pity, as the songs themselves are well-turned and thoughtful, evinced by a Flying Burrito Bros cover, but tonight the quality compositions get lost in a slightly flaccid performance: it’s The Vicars Of Twiddly in reverse.
THE DEPUTEES/ THE VICARS OF TWIDDLY/ THE HALCYONS – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 5/12/08
“Crisis? What crisis?” Despite a spate of small venue closures, and the recent ruling that all British journalism must contain the phrase “credit crunch” every hundred words, The Wheatsheaf is crammed before nine o’clock. Such is the power of Klub Kak, who effortlessly fill venues with a startling mixture of trendies and hairies, of preening youths and hoary old men, despite the fact their lineups look like they were worked out on the back of a beermat the night before. If you don’t love the Klub, you’ve either not experienced it, or you’re hollow inside.
he Halcyons play two sorts of tune, either ballsy torch songs smothered in fruity organ and vox humana keyboards as heard through a giant filter stamped “1987”, or excellent squelchy dance rock numbers, that could easily be the theme to some lost Logan’s Run spin off mini-series. It’s a hugely promising set, and our only criticism is that they can come off as a clinical take on day-glo hedonism, like the bands in the bar on Buffy; with a little polishing they could produce an insistent but spacious muso-pop eeriness, like the bands in the bar on Twin Peaks. But with more silly synth noises, natch.
As most enlightened sociologists and historians have observed, all the major movements in rock history can be reduced to the desire to dress up funny, which is where The Vicars Of Twiddly score highly, decked in a variety of elaborate Catholic vestments. They also rack up points for slapping out rocking swamp surf - if that’s not an aqueous paradox - somewhere between Dick Dale and The Cramps, which could soundtrack a lost ecclesiastical Tarantino flick (Pulpit Fiction, anyone?). Of course, every single riff and trick is shamelessly nicked, but no mater how many unoriginal sins The Vicars commit, they’re great fun, and why pontificate when we can dance like goons?
The Deputees struggle to follow the idiosyncratic supports, and their vivacious guitar pop sounds too straightforward, even when the co-opt a B-52s bounce. Sadly, the vocals let the team down too, alternating between a distended groan and the sound of Eddie Izzard’s “small yappy type dog”. This is a pity, as the songs themselves are well-turned and thoughtful, evinced by a Flying Burrito Bros cover, but tonight the quality compositions get lost in a slightly flaccid performance: it’s The Vicars Of Twiddly in reverse.
Saturday 5 September 2009
Cutting Words
I'm in a better mood today, even if I still feel a bit crappy. Who cares if not many people read the site? I still get a lot of hits from returning viewers, so consider yourselves in a select club. Anyway, to reward you here's some more shite from the old BBC days. One of my very first reviews, my 3rd I think. And yes, Oxfordbands used to promote, and now don't but do print my reviews. Very insular and confusing, I'll admit. The Rock Of Travolta were a very popular local post-rock type act that I never cared for. Also, the mention of Nightshift predates my writing for it, if you care to follow along and add this review to your free wallchart at home.
THE YOUNG KNIVES/ INTENTIONS OF AN ASTEROID/ JARCREW, Oxfordbands, The Wheatsheaf, 2/03
Any gig that features a vocalist jumping through the crowd like a clockwork monkey whilst other band members tumble around the stage Keystone Cops style is going to be relatively memorable, even if the tunes aren't. Luckily Jarcrew manage to indulge in such tomfoolery whilst grinding out some enticing, complex music. They've played recently with Alec Empire, and I imagine Mr. Digital Hardcore was right at home with their incandescent (slightly adolescent?) energy, love of righteous noise and eclectic musical references.
Most tracks run like this: the keyboard/minidisc offers up doodles from a variety of genres (I spotted electro, glitchtronica, dub, Sun Ra space washes and Stereolab chugalong), before the rest of the band pummel the poor thing to the floor with a pounding, but controlled and intricate, cacophony. It's like some mad Welsh sound assassins trashing an office party at The Wire. It's like a buig, ballsy riff-happy version of Melt Banana. It's also a damned good show.
Intentions Of An Asteroid own so many guitars they have a guitar tech stood at the side of the stage, with the self-conscious air of a man in a urinal queue, which pretty much sums them up. There's nothing wrong with their emo-ish power pop, but it looks and sounds a tad flat after Jarcrew.
It's spirited stuff, though, with a raw searching voal, twin guitar attack, and a touch of early Manics round the chorus area, all served in a neat, clatering parcel by four men jerking energetically on the spot, like the plastic dancing flowers sold in service stations. Unfortunately this wasn't their night, but next time it might just be.
The Young Knives sound like The Pixies, Wire and Pere Ubu. Anyone from Nightshift reading this will be shouting, "We said that first!", but it's true, TYK sound exactly like The Pixies, Wire and Pere Ubu. (Unlike, say The Rock Of Travolta, who are alleged to sound like Add N To (X) and Godspeed..., but actually sound like asome blokes playing along with A-Proto-Tune-A-Day). Not that there's any problem with this, and TYK supply taut, angular new wave excellence like it's their birthright.
It sounds superb: you probably either already know this, or have at least read it countless times before, so I'll surge ahead. George Orwell once wrote about Dickens that his architecture was poor, but his gargoyles glorious. TYK are similar. Little elements are truly special - the martial snare rattle in "Kramer Vs Kramer", the clothes, the bit that goes "J-j-j-j-j-john" - but perhaps, underneath, the songs are a bit obvious, or derivative. Then again, who cares? Do yourself a favour, go see The Young Knives. Or read Dickens.
THE YOUNG KNIVES/ INTENTIONS OF AN ASTEROID/ JARCREW, Oxfordbands, The Wheatsheaf, 2/03
Any gig that features a vocalist jumping through the crowd like a clockwork monkey whilst other band members tumble around the stage Keystone Cops style is going to be relatively memorable, even if the tunes aren't. Luckily Jarcrew manage to indulge in such tomfoolery whilst grinding out some enticing, complex music. They've played recently with Alec Empire, and I imagine Mr. Digital Hardcore was right at home with their incandescent (slightly adolescent?) energy, love of righteous noise and eclectic musical references.
Most tracks run like this: the keyboard/minidisc offers up doodles from a variety of genres (I spotted electro, glitchtronica, dub, Sun Ra space washes and Stereolab chugalong), before the rest of the band pummel the poor thing to the floor with a pounding, but controlled and intricate, cacophony. It's like some mad Welsh sound assassins trashing an office party at The Wire. It's like a buig, ballsy riff-happy version of Melt Banana. It's also a damned good show.
Intentions Of An Asteroid own so many guitars they have a guitar tech stood at the side of the stage, with the self-conscious air of a man in a urinal queue, which pretty much sums them up. There's nothing wrong with their emo-ish power pop, but it looks and sounds a tad flat after Jarcrew.
It's spirited stuff, though, with a raw searching voal, twin guitar attack, and a touch of early Manics round the chorus area, all served in a neat, clatering parcel by four men jerking energetically on the spot, like the plastic dancing flowers sold in service stations. Unfortunately this wasn't their night, but next time it might just be.
The Young Knives sound like The Pixies, Wire and Pere Ubu. Anyone from Nightshift reading this will be shouting, "We said that first!", but it's true, TYK sound exactly like The Pixies, Wire and Pere Ubu. (Unlike, say The Rock Of Travolta, who are alleged to sound like Add N To (X) and Godspeed..., but actually sound like asome blokes playing along with A-Proto-Tune-A-Day). Not that there's any problem with this, and TYK supply taut, angular new wave excellence like it's their birthright.
It sounds superb: you probably either already know this, or have at least read it countless times before, so I'll surge ahead. George Orwell once wrote about Dickens that his architecture was poor, but his gargoyles glorious. TYK are similar. Little elements are truly special - the martial snare rattle in "Kramer Vs Kramer", the clothes, the bit that goes "J-j-j-j-j-john" - but perhaps, underneath, the songs are a bit obvious, or derivative. Then again, who cares? Do yourself a favour, go see The Young Knives. Or read Dickens.
Thursday 3 September 2009
Kicks Like Lemuel
Can't be bothered to write anything much here today. I feel crappy, & pretty much nobody reads this site anyway, so let's all conserve our energies.
THE GULLIVERS – AMBULANCE EP
Staring from the window whilst this EP was playing, we witnessed the pretty unwholesome Great British winter, a storm lashing away against the panes, and it seemed as good a time as any to talk about bad weather imagery in the history of pop. Hard rock can barely move for storm images, from the mighty Lightning Bolt to “heavy metal thunder”, but how about breakcore as the sonic equivalent of hailstones? Or acoustic singer songwriters as an annoying drizzle – any takers? And by that logic, The Gullivers’ latest offering, released today, is rather wonderfully akin to being lost in an eerie fog.
Which isn’t something we thought we’d be writing, frankly, when we heard their first demo, a snotty yet slightly spineless sliver of short trousered punk, which was amusing enough, but hardly on nodding terms with concepts such as subtlety or melancholy, yet the Ambulance EP boasts more in common with the glacial soundscapes of The Workhouse than it does the loud and rude affront of Headcount. Drums are slow and deliberately unemotive, the bass plods a defeated march, and guitars are suspended in cold reverb. Within this sonically misty dream landscape wander Mark Byrne’s vocals like a shelled shocked warrior, covered in contusions and abrasions, drenched in world weariness. Interestingly the vague but allusive lyrics keep referring to moments of crisis – “alarm bells ring”, “the ceiling caves in on us” – but this record is the sound of quiet resignation, not spasming panic, and this paradox is what makes The Gullivers such an excellent local act.
OK, there are a few minor quibbles. The rhythm playing is occasionally fractionally sloppy, especially in “Neptune”’s tempo changes (and it’s so much easier to spot when playing music of this restraint and delicacy, rather than the hell for leather punk racket of old); the Joy Division keyboards at the end of said tune are a tiny bit unoriginal; and the backwards coda after “Silhouette” is just plain hackneyed. Also, although the performances on this recording exude studied melancholia, sometimes in the live arena Byrne’s vocals simply sound messy, but none of this matters when we can float in the icy stasis of the title track, and lose ourselves in its spectral doom. We’d be going too far to claim that The Gullivers are the new wave version of Burial, whose music reduces rave to a barely present wraith, but there is a similarity in the way they take exuberant, perhaps even dumb, music and distill from it a ghostly sadness. With this record The Gullivers have graduated from “good, for Bicester” to “good for the soul”. Long may their winter last.
THE GULLIVERS – AMBULANCE EP
Staring from the window whilst this EP was playing, we witnessed the pretty unwholesome Great British winter, a storm lashing away against the panes, and it seemed as good a time as any to talk about bad weather imagery in the history of pop. Hard rock can barely move for storm images, from the mighty Lightning Bolt to “heavy metal thunder”, but how about breakcore as the sonic equivalent of hailstones? Or acoustic singer songwriters as an annoying drizzle – any takers? And by that logic, The Gullivers’ latest offering, released today, is rather wonderfully akin to being lost in an eerie fog.
Which isn’t something we thought we’d be writing, frankly, when we heard their first demo, a snotty yet slightly spineless sliver of short trousered punk, which was amusing enough, but hardly on nodding terms with concepts such as subtlety or melancholy, yet the Ambulance EP boasts more in common with the glacial soundscapes of The Workhouse than it does the loud and rude affront of Headcount. Drums are slow and deliberately unemotive, the bass plods a defeated march, and guitars are suspended in cold reverb. Within this sonically misty dream landscape wander Mark Byrne’s vocals like a shelled shocked warrior, covered in contusions and abrasions, drenched in world weariness. Interestingly the vague but allusive lyrics keep referring to moments of crisis – “alarm bells ring”, “the ceiling caves in on us” – but this record is the sound of quiet resignation, not spasming panic, and this paradox is what makes The Gullivers such an excellent local act.
OK, there are a few minor quibbles. The rhythm playing is occasionally fractionally sloppy, especially in “Neptune”’s tempo changes (and it’s so much easier to spot when playing music of this restraint and delicacy, rather than the hell for leather punk racket of old); the Joy Division keyboards at the end of said tune are a tiny bit unoriginal; and the backwards coda after “Silhouette” is just plain hackneyed. Also, although the performances on this recording exude studied melancholia, sometimes in the live arena Byrne’s vocals simply sound messy, but none of this matters when we can float in the icy stasis of the title track, and lose ourselves in its spectral doom. We’d be going too far to claim that The Gullivers are the new wave version of Burial, whose music reduces rave to a barely present wraith, but there is a similarity in the way they take exuberant, perhaps even dumb, music and distill from it a ghostly sadness. With this record The Gullivers have graduated from “good, for Bicester” to “good for the soul”. Long may their winter last.
Wednesday 2 September 2009
Etiquette To Ride
Tum ti tum...
THE DEBRETTS/ HAMMER VS THE SNAKE/ GEORGE PRINGLE – The X, 3/2/07
Diaristic takes of mild debauchery over trendily lo-fi laptop with the odd moment of little girl simplicity thrown in: hey, it’s Lily Allen Ginsberg! Rather, it’s George Pringle with her spoken tales of smoking, frustration and favourite records. We can imagine George sitting on a rumpled bed with a typewriter and hundreds of ashtrays, dreaming that a photographer from The Observer Magazine is snapping from the rafters, like any number of sophomoric hipsters, but she does have a certain something to offer: not least killer lines like “I’m going to kick that indie witch in the tits”. Ultimately George is a much better writer than performer or programmer, and it would be interesting to hear her read without accompaniment…and, err, a little more slowly.
Our recent brush with Hammer Vs The Snake’s recorded work was disappointing, but clearly their New York stutter funk needs to be experienced live. True, the first couple of numbers shared a failing with the EP, in that they couldn’t get going; “fragmented” is one thing, “disconnected” is another, and it’s only the singer’s horrific Giles Brandreth jumper that holds our attention. Given time, however, HVTS come through with cheap Devo gyrations and sly Beastie Boys smirks to unexpectedly win us over.
There’s a big difference between a vocalist and a frontperson, and Vonnie DeBrett is a textbook exemplum. She stalks, screeches, leaps, and – when the music demands it – even sings rather winsomely, holding the audience captive. When Vonnie’s on the prowl you forget the rest of the band.; then again, you probably wouldn’t notice them anyway as The Debretts play astoundingly mediocre new wave, pleasant but utterly anonymous. “You Can’t Fix It” is definitely the best tune, and that’s a cheap peroxide Blondie with little to offer. We’d love to love The Debretts, but they’ll have to write something first. Why not call George Pringle? She’s got loads of lyrics that she doesn't seem to know what to do with.
THE DEBRETTS/ HAMMER VS THE SNAKE/ GEORGE PRINGLE – The X, 3/2/07
Diaristic takes of mild debauchery over trendily lo-fi laptop with the odd moment of little girl simplicity thrown in: hey, it’s Lily Allen Ginsberg! Rather, it’s George Pringle with her spoken tales of smoking, frustration and favourite records. We can imagine George sitting on a rumpled bed with a typewriter and hundreds of ashtrays, dreaming that a photographer from The Observer Magazine is snapping from the rafters, like any number of sophomoric hipsters, but she does have a certain something to offer: not least killer lines like “I’m going to kick that indie witch in the tits”. Ultimately George is a much better writer than performer or programmer, and it would be interesting to hear her read without accompaniment…and, err, a little more slowly.
Our recent brush with Hammer Vs The Snake’s recorded work was disappointing, but clearly their New York stutter funk needs to be experienced live. True, the first couple of numbers shared a failing with the EP, in that they couldn’t get going; “fragmented” is one thing, “disconnected” is another, and it’s only the singer’s horrific Giles Brandreth jumper that holds our attention. Given time, however, HVTS come through with cheap Devo gyrations and sly Beastie Boys smirks to unexpectedly win us over.
There’s a big difference between a vocalist and a frontperson, and Vonnie DeBrett is a textbook exemplum. She stalks, screeches, leaps, and – when the music demands it – even sings rather winsomely, holding the audience captive. When Vonnie’s on the prowl you forget the rest of the band.; then again, you probably wouldn’t notice them anyway as The Debretts play astoundingly mediocre new wave, pleasant but utterly anonymous. “You Can’t Fix It” is definitely the best tune, and that’s a cheap peroxide Blondie with little to offer. We’d love to love The Debretts, but they’ll have to write something first. Why not call George Pringle? She’s got loads of lyrics that she doesn't seem to know what to do with.
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