I make no secret of thr fact that I'm monstrously hungover an have a very busy day ahead, so here's a recent review of a great LP, now I'll go and have a nice lie down.
BORDERVILLE – JOY THROUGH WORK
No-one would have believed, in the last years of the twentieth century, that ornate, theatrical pop music would ever be seen again. Whilst Travis was paving the featureless yellow path that led to Coldplay’s ubiquity, the ears of the scene were either tuned to dour, po-faced post-rock expanses in the form of Mogwai and Godspeed or the mumbled introspection of Low and The Tindersticks. And yet, some survived who believed in the power of drama, who revelled in the communicative possibilities of façade and pretence, who felt that musical invention was better shown by intricate, intelligent orchestration than by the portentous length of tracks (or their titles). And slowly, and surely, they drew their plans against us.
Whilst cabaret pop hasn’t precisely taken over the world, Borderville’s gloriously over-reaching debut album seems a perfect zeitgeist Polaroid, a record so theatrical it should come with a glossy programme and an unfeasibly overpriced ice cream. And it’s an incredible piece of work, welding Bowie’s cracked actor dramatics to off-Broadway torch songs, with crescendos direct from Queen’s halcyon days. Joe Swarbrick may not have the most agile - or even tuneful - voice in town, but he may well have the most expressive, alternating between stage whisper and Christ-pose rock howl to wring every ounce of emotion from elaborate rock opera opuses. The wonderful “Short Sharp Shock” is a prime example, capturing the whiff of deflated expectations as a band packs up after a show, offsetting some emotive, barely pitched yelps with massed Original Cast Recording backing vocals. Everything about this surprisingly varied LP is overdone to a T, and Borderville have clearly realised that, whilst sincerity and chest-bashing might do the trick, emotions can be far more powerfully expressed if we all realise they’re artificial. The mask is always more frightening once you know it’s a mask.
The rest of the band is also superb, dealing in the wild dynamic variations that can only be achieved with sensitively controlled ensemble playing. Keyboard player “Woody” Woodhouse deserves especial praise for his improbably fluent runs across the ivories, the synth whoops of live favourite “Glambulance”, the tipsy stumbling solo of “Lover, I’m Finally Through” and the jerky mazurka of “Short Sharp Shock” particularly standing out. What’s most impressive about the record is how much variation the band achieves with a relatively sparse sonic palette: it would have been all too easy to drench everything in swooning strings and ersatz effects, but Borderville have retained the sound of a simple rock quartet and pushed it into some intriguing places
No matter how unfair we find it, most of the world considers every damn person in Oxford to be a limp-wristed, pretentious, teddy-clutching silver spoon sucker, honking away about Byron and ponies. A review of Winnebago Deal some years ago in the NME said something like, “What are you lot so grumpy about? Was your 15th century quad not properly manicured this morning?” Yes, even the whiskey-soaked death-grunge hollers of two hairy creatures from darkest Eynsham brought forth plummy images from Uncle Monty’s most rose-tinted recollections. We feel that, if this is how the world sees us, we should embrace it. We’ve already given the world the preppy Bowdlerised art-funk of Foals and Stornoway’s warm-jumpered folk poetry, let’s complete the picture with Borderville’s greasepainted bombast. Cherish them.
Saturday 19 December 2009
Thursday 17 December 2009
Panzer People
The opening paragraph was cut for publication. Fair enough, can't say it adds much to the review, but I do like to cover every act on the bill, it just seems lazy not to...plus the first band on is regularly the best. Is that because I get bored/drunk/cynical as the night progresses, or that accomplished, popular performers don't interest me that much? Questions questions.
THAT FUCKING TANK/ MONSTER KILLED BY LASER/ IVY’S ITCH/ BALLS DEEP, Poor Girl Noise, Wheatsheaf, 15/8/09
Bass and drums duo Balls Deep create all the thump and buzz one would expect from a PGN opening act. The amp-vibrating bass burr sounds wonderful, like Mechagodzilla snoring after a few pints, and a jugband cowbell section is well placed, but neither the performance nor the compositions offer a justification for the stark focus of a rhythm section duet. Fine for a second gig, but nothing special yet.
Since we last saw Ivy’s Itch they’ve changed, perhaps in the way a red giant changes into a white dwarf. Everything is heavier, denser and more oppressive. Gone are the spacious goth passages, replaced by mismatched metal pummelling topped with orc tantrum vocal tirades. The sound is fascinatingly agressive, akin to Babes In Toyland folded intricately in on themselves like an autist’s bus ticket. It’s a brilliant set, and made even more intriguing by the degree to which Eliza Gregory’s outfit and mannerisms remind us of Morwenna Banks as the five year old on Absolutely.
Aside from a slightly messy synth noodle intro, which sounds as though two kittens had got loose in Klaus Schulze’s studio, Yorkshire’s Monster Killed By Laser produce a proggy breed of contemporary instrumental rock that often sounds enticingly like Dark Side Of The Moon reinterpreted by Mudhoney. At times they can become overly introspective, and spend too much energy focussed on miniature twiddles like some post-Slint version of Sky, but in general they produce an impressively well-structured take on wordless post-rock. Plus the guitarist’s waistcoat and gestures make him look like an amateur magician, perhaps they could incorporate some conjuring into the show.
Having heard Leeds’ That Fucking tank on record, we’d dismissed them as one more guitar and drums act littering the byways and culs-de-sac of hipster rock. Seeing them live is a different matter altogether. Ignoring a stately guitar intro that sounds strangely like Dowland, their music is dirt simple, primarily just straightforward rhythms and two or three note motifs, but they perform it with such energy, tension and elasticity that they could spearhead a Bungee Rock movement. It’s sets like this that remind us why we spend so much time in dark cellars and drizzly paddocks, as a great performance holds pleasures no recording can possibly capture. Perhaps not the best band in the world, but one of those lovely gigs that justifies all the night buses, tinnitus and bad plastic pints we endure in the search for exciting music.
THAT FUCKING TANK/ MONSTER KILLED BY LASER/ IVY’S ITCH/ BALLS DEEP, Poor Girl Noise, Wheatsheaf, 15/8/09
Bass and drums duo Balls Deep create all the thump and buzz one would expect from a PGN opening act. The amp-vibrating bass burr sounds wonderful, like Mechagodzilla snoring after a few pints, and a jugband cowbell section is well placed, but neither the performance nor the compositions offer a justification for the stark focus of a rhythm section duet. Fine for a second gig, but nothing special yet.
Since we last saw Ivy’s Itch they’ve changed, perhaps in the way a red giant changes into a white dwarf. Everything is heavier, denser and more oppressive. Gone are the spacious goth passages, replaced by mismatched metal pummelling topped with orc tantrum vocal tirades. The sound is fascinatingly agressive, akin to Babes In Toyland folded intricately in on themselves like an autist’s bus ticket. It’s a brilliant set, and made even more intriguing by the degree to which Eliza Gregory’s outfit and mannerisms remind us of Morwenna Banks as the five year old on Absolutely.
Aside from a slightly messy synth noodle intro, which sounds as though two kittens had got loose in Klaus Schulze’s studio, Yorkshire’s Monster Killed By Laser produce a proggy breed of contemporary instrumental rock that often sounds enticingly like Dark Side Of The Moon reinterpreted by Mudhoney. At times they can become overly introspective, and spend too much energy focussed on miniature twiddles like some post-Slint version of Sky, but in general they produce an impressively well-structured take on wordless post-rock. Plus the guitarist’s waistcoat and gestures make him look like an amateur magician, perhaps they could incorporate some conjuring into the show.
Having heard Leeds’ That Fucking tank on record, we’d dismissed them as one more guitar and drums act littering the byways and culs-de-sac of hipster rock. Seeing them live is a different matter altogether. Ignoring a stately guitar intro that sounds strangely like Dowland, their music is dirt simple, primarily just straightforward rhythms and two or three note motifs, but they perform it with such energy, tension and elasticity that they could spearhead a Bungee Rock movement. It’s sets like this that remind us why we spend so much time in dark cellars and drizzly paddocks, as a great performance holds pleasures no recording can possibly capture. Perhaps not the best band in the world, but one of those lovely gigs that justifies all the night buses, tinnitus and bad plastic pints we endure in the search for exciting music.
Tuesday 15 December 2009
Pre-Budgie Report
One of no fewer than 4 Gullivers EP reivews I've done for Oxfordbands. I didn't get passed ther most recent, the editor did it instead. not sure whether I should be upset that they broke the chain, or thankful that I don't have to thinkof things to say about the same band all the time.
THE GULLIVERS – EP
The Gullivers is a band that has been improving at a pleasing rate over the past couple of years, and yet their development has been entirely qualitative: they’ve improved their knockabout punk pop, but haven’t seen fit to alter the blueprint any. That is, until this new, that demonstrates just how great they can be, as well as showing up their very real flaws.
What truly knocks us for six is the understated melancholy of opening tune, “Forever”. Yes, it has short vocal lines, and insistent new wave drums, but there’s no hint of the scruffy urchin bluster that made earlier recordings sound like glue sniffing takes on “You’ve Got To Pick A Pocket Or Two”. In its place we find a mature resignation in the performance, especially the vocals – check the wonderfully world weary way that Mark Byrne intones the hook “This is history”. In their older, Sex Pistols influenced days the band would have declaimed this as a nihilistic statement, whereas now it sounds more like a guilty admission, and is all the stronger for it. In fact, this song is surprisingly beautiful.
“Majesty” continues the high quality, melding the punk music hall feel of earlier Gullivers material (listen to that vintage Stranglers bassline) with their newfound introspection: an emotive synthesised french horn part suddenly gives way to a surprise bumpalong chorus, with conversationally chanted vocals that remind us most unexpectedly of Shakespeare’s Sister! It doesn’t sound a thing like them, of course, but it is a decent tune.
Sadly, “The Fun We Have…” sees them lose it completely. Never the tightest band in the county, it’s the vocals that put many people off The Gullivers, Byrne displaying such a heroic inability to hold down a melody he sometimes sounds like an effete Mark E. Smith. Not only does he fail monumentally to stay in tune on this track, but the backing vocals sound like someone half-arsedly calling the cat from the studio door. Add to that a loping rhythm that plods along like a wooden-legged postman and you’ve got a track that reveals all the band’s faults and none of their charm.
Things improve slightly with “Chemicals” (hang on a mo, wasn’t the last EP called Chemicals, even though this track wasn’t on it? And this EP doesn’t even have a name, though it does have a photo of some suburban budgies). The contrast between a bouncy handclap and brittle guitar intro and a dissonant march is neat, but should probably be played slightly more tidily to really work, plus the vocals, whilst better than the previous track, don’t come close to the wonderful ennui of the opener. Still, the line “Your absence of evidence is not evidence for absence” is one of those pop moments that seem to carry much more weight of meaning that they ought, and put us in mind briefly of early Wire lyrics, even if the music drifts from our consciousness pretty soon afterwards.
So, an uneven record, but one containing the best track The Gullivers have yet committed to wax, and one displaying hints for a very interesting future, even as it clings on to clunky remnants of the past: the rough and tumble playground feel is departing, but The Gullivers are still tottering a tiny bit in their grown up clothes. Fuck it, we don’t want to end the review on a bad note – let’s play “Forever” again and let its wan, autumnal half-smile win us over once more.
THE GULLIVERS – EP
The Gullivers is a band that has been improving at a pleasing rate over the past couple of years, and yet their development has been entirely qualitative: they’ve improved their knockabout punk pop, but haven’t seen fit to alter the blueprint any. That is, until this new, that demonstrates just how great they can be, as well as showing up their very real flaws.
What truly knocks us for six is the understated melancholy of opening tune, “Forever”. Yes, it has short vocal lines, and insistent new wave drums, but there’s no hint of the scruffy urchin bluster that made earlier recordings sound like glue sniffing takes on “You’ve Got To Pick A Pocket Or Two”. In its place we find a mature resignation in the performance, especially the vocals – check the wonderfully world weary way that Mark Byrne intones the hook “This is history”. In their older, Sex Pistols influenced days the band would have declaimed this as a nihilistic statement, whereas now it sounds more like a guilty admission, and is all the stronger for it. In fact, this song is surprisingly beautiful.
“Majesty” continues the high quality, melding the punk music hall feel of earlier Gullivers material (listen to that vintage Stranglers bassline) with their newfound introspection: an emotive synthesised french horn part suddenly gives way to a surprise bumpalong chorus, with conversationally chanted vocals that remind us most unexpectedly of Shakespeare’s Sister! It doesn’t sound a thing like them, of course, but it is a decent tune.
Sadly, “The Fun We Have…” sees them lose it completely. Never the tightest band in the county, it’s the vocals that put many people off The Gullivers, Byrne displaying such a heroic inability to hold down a melody he sometimes sounds like an effete Mark E. Smith. Not only does he fail monumentally to stay in tune on this track, but the backing vocals sound like someone half-arsedly calling the cat from the studio door. Add to that a loping rhythm that plods along like a wooden-legged postman and you’ve got a track that reveals all the band’s faults and none of their charm.
Things improve slightly with “Chemicals” (hang on a mo, wasn’t the last EP called Chemicals, even though this track wasn’t on it? And this EP doesn’t even have a name, though it does have a photo of some suburban budgies). The contrast between a bouncy handclap and brittle guitar intro and a dissonant march is neat, but should probably be played slightly more tidily to really work, plus the vocals, whilst better than the previous track, don’t come close to the wonderful ennui of the opener. Still, the line “Your absence of evidence is not evidence for absence” is one of those pop moments that seem to carry much more weight of meaning that they ought, and put us in mind briefly of early Wire lyrics, even if the music drifts from our consciousness pretty soon afterwards.
So, an uneven record, but one containing the best track The Gullivers have yet committed to wax, and one displaying hints for a very interesting future, even as it clings on to clunky remnants of the past: the rough and tumble playground feel is departing, but The Gullivers are still tottering a tiny bit in their grown up clothes. Fuck it, we don’t want to end the review on a bad note – let’s play “Forever” again and let its wan, autumnal half-smile win us over once more.
Saturday 12 December 2009
Hound Of The Underground
I reckon this review is somewhat hard on Dog Show, they were a good fun band.Pehaps their relentless merry-go-round of bleeps doesn't sit well with an old freidn in town and copious amounts of red wine. It's a pretty god read, however, I'm quite proud of this one.
DOG SHOW/THE KEYBOARD CHOIR/PAGAN WANDERER LU, Big Hair, Cellar, 2/5/09
Pagan Wanderer Lu’s songs are tiny crystallised nuggets of excellence, hand turned clusters of bleepy melody and literate lyrics so exquisite they should be sold from some impossibly cool boutique. Every tidy tune is catchy but creakily skewed, as if Stephen Merritt had been bashing fragments of song together after some violent pop holocaust. Pity that the live show isn’t too captivating, really. The vocals are a tad lifeless, and the guitar sounds clumsy and nasal amongst the quaint electronic backing, so we have to pay close attention to get the most out of the compositions. They are well worth it, though, especially the last number, a wonky Mario World bounce featuring the award winning line, “Christians like you are why God made lions”. Why aren’t there more lyricists like this around?
After the Oxford Radcliffe Hopsitals Trust, The Keyboard Choir must be this city’s primary employer. There are loads of them, and we’re not sure they’re all the same ones as last time, but they come together to buzz, fuzz, flutter and chuckle with a panoply of synths. We heartily applaud the undertaking involved in getting this huge band onstage to make keyboard noises that everyone probably assumes are all on tape anyway. The music takes in everything that’s great about electronic sound, from Messaien’s ondes martenot to microhouse, via Delia Derbyshire and Tangerine Dream, and the only part we take issue with are the rather shopworn, cliched spoken samples. They end with what sounds like something from The Orb’s forgotten Pomme Fritz LP versioned by Klaus Schulze and Sven Vath. Endearingly illogical.
What with their live drums, endlessly arpeggiating keyboards and slightly crappy flashing sculpture, Dog Show are pretty much what a band from “The Future” would look like on some low budget British sci fi show from the mid ‘70s (they wanted Roger Moore but ended up with Simon MacCorkindale; Nigel Havers puts in a good cameo, but Michael Elphick is woefully miscast). The set varies between pumping electro euphoria and a slightly annoying fairground jauntiness, until we don’t know whether stick on an Altern8 facemask or join the candy floss queue. In many ways this is like music for excitable children, on a constant sugary high and with a relentless, if somewhat gauche, melodic logic that just keeps going and going and bloody well going. Watching Dog Show is like endlessly riding the waltzer; refreshing and liberating, but you know that sooner or later you’re going to start feeling sick.
DOG SHOW/THE KEYBOARD CHOIR/PAGAN WANDERER LU, Big Hair, Cellar, 2/5/09
Pagan Wanderer Lu’s songs are tiny crystallised nuggets of excellence, hand turned clusters of bleepy melody and literate lyrics so exquisite they should be sold from some impossibly cool boutique. Every tidy tune is catchy but creakily skewed, as if Stephen Merritt had been bashing fragments of song together after some violent pop holocaust. Pity that the live show isn’t too captivating, really. The vocals are a tad lifeless, and the guitar sounds clumsy and nasal amongst the quaint electronic backing, so we have to pay close attention to get the most out of the compositions. They are well worth it, though, especially the last number, a wonky Mario World bounce featuring the award winning line, “Christians like you are why God made lions”. Why aren’t there more lyricists like this around?
After the Oxford Radcliffe Hopsitals Trust, The Keyboard Choir must be this city’s primary employer. There are loads of them, and we’re not sure they’re all the same ones as last time, but they come together to buzz, fuzz, flutter and chuckle with a panoply of synths. We heartily applaud the undertaking involved in getting this huge band onstage to make keyboard noises that everyone probably assumes are all on tape anyway. The music takes in everything that’s great about electronic sound, from Messaien’s ondes martenot to microhouse, via Delia Derbyshire and Tangerine Dream, and the only part we take issue with are the rather shopworn, cliched spoken samples. They end with what sounds like something from The Orb’s forgotten Pomme Fritz LP versioned by Klaus Schulze and Sven Vath. Endearingly illogical.
What with their live drums, endlessly arpeggiating keyboards and slightly crappy flashing sculpture, Dog Show are pretty much what a band from “The Future” would look like on some low budget British sci fi show from the mid ‘70s (they wanted Roger Moore but ended up with Simon MacCorkindale; Nigel Havers puts in a good cameo, but Michael Elphick is woefully miscast). The set varies between pumping electro euphoria and a slightly annoying fairground jauntiness, until we don’t know whether stick on an Altern8 facemask or join the candy floss queue. In many ways this is like music for excitable children, on a constant sugary high and with a relentless, if somewhat gauche, melodic logic that just keeps going and going and bloody well going. Watching Dog Show is like endlessly riding the waltzer; refreshing and liberating, but you know that sooner or later you’re going to start feeling sick.
Thursday 10 December 2009
Man Cannot Live On Bearder Lone
Despite what I said here, I think The Download (or Oxford Introducing, as it has been renamed in some horrific national rebranding) is quite good nowadays. The real irony is that in criticising it I've turned in a very dull review. Cliche-ridden guff, isn't it? Sorry about that.
V/A - THE DOWNLOAD SESSIONS (BBC)
It can be tough to know how to judge things sometimes, if they're good ideas. No one could possible deny that it's wonderful that the BBC have foudn an hour a week in their schedules to devote to local music, but aren't a lot of people quietly wondering if The Download couldn't be a tiny bit better? Well, whatever the consensus, with this showcase album Bearder & Co. have hit absolute gold, turning in a varied and impressive collection of acoutis cmusic that touches many bases.
It also pleasingly tinkers with all the emotions. The problem with so much acoustica is that it tends to get mired in one particular zone, whose slogan might be "I'm pretty upset and sorry for myself, but not enought o actually look like I might get of my arse and do anyt bloody thing about it". No chance here, as we're swept from the dark suspicion of Rebecca Mosely's 'cello-spiked "Power In Paper" to the tuneful apology of The Epstein's jewel-like "Leave Yr Light On", floating on neat mandolin lines and breezy backing vocals. Other highpoints are "Games" by Charlotte James, who has managed to extricate herself from the session muso sludge of her live outings, and Ally Craig's charged "Lower Standard" - it may not be his best song, but anyone who can perform with this intensity can aome round and sing the 'phone book to us any time, frankly. Also worthy of mention are "Bluebird" by KTB, which reminds us how lovely a folk vocalist she is for the first time in eons, and Belarus, who turn in a tuneful Keanesque effort which wraps us up lik a blanket...OK, the pattern may not be very interesting, but it makes us fele safe and warm. In fact there are no real failures on this CD, whcih is unusual enough for any compilation, let alone a simple "live lounge" collection like this. Emily Rolt's wispy meanderings still sound pretty vapid nto these ears, but we don't have any urge to smash the furniture this time, so she must be doijng something right, whereas Los Diablos reveal their vocal limitations when shorn of the visuals, which is a pity as "Joan Of Arc" is a strong song, with dense Catholic imagery that recalls Scott Walker in his Seventh Seal mood.
We finish with a track by Richard Walters, one of the city's best singers and a Beard Museum founding follicle to boot. Richard's voice is strange and awkward, like a tiny cowering lizardine creature, but somehoe it manages to scrape past ugliness and achieve real beauty. If there's anyone who epitomises the variety and individuality of Oxford's acoustic scene it's this man, and as the last notes die away we raise a glass to The Download...and to the fact that the song isn't immediately followed by one of Tim's jokes.
V/A - THE DOWNLOAD SESSIONS (BBC)
It can be tough to know how to judge things sometimes, if they're good ideas. No one could possible deny that it's wonderful that the BBC have foudn an hour a week in their schedules to devote to local music, but aren't a lot of people quietly wondering if The Download couldn't be a tiny bit better? Well, whatever the consensus, with this showcase album Bearder & Co. have hit absolute gold, turning in a varied and impressive collection of acoutis cmusic that touches many bases.
It also pleasingly tinkers with all the emotions. The problem with so much acoustica is that it tends to get mired in one particular zone, whose slogan might be "I'm pretty upset and sorry for myself, but not enought o actually look like I might get of my arse and do anyt bloody thing about it". No chance here, as we're swept from the dark suspicion of Rebecca Mosely's 'cello-spiked "Power In Paper" to the tuneful apology of The Epstein's jewel-like "Leave Yr Light On", floating on neat mandolin lines and breezy backing vocals. Other highpoints are "Games" by Charlotte James, who has managed to extricate herself from the session muso sludge of her live outings, and Ally Craig's charged "Lower Standard" - it may not be his best song, but anyone who can perform with this intensity can aome round and sing the 'phone book to us any time, frankly. Also worthy of mention are "Bluebird" by KTB, which reminds us how lovely a folk vocalist she is for the first time in eons, and Belarus, who turn in a tuneful Keanesque effort which wraps us up lik a blanket...OK, the pattern may not be very interesting, but it makes us fele safe and warm. In fact there are no real failures on this CD, whcih is unusual enough for any compilation, let alone a simple "live lounge" collection like this. Emily Rolt's wispy meanderings still sound pretty vapid nto these ears, but we don't have any urge to smash the furniture this time, so she must be doijng something right, whereas Los Diablos reveal their vocal limitations when shorn of the visuals, which is a pity as "Joan Of Arc" is a strong song, with dense Catholic imagery that recalls Scott Walker in his Seventh Seal mood.
We finish with a track by Richard Walters, one of the city's best singers and a Beard Museum founding follicle to boot. Richard's voice is strange and awkward, like a tiny cowering lizardine creature, but somehoe it manages to scrape past ugliness and achieve real beauty. If there's anyone who epitomises the variety and individuality of Oxford's acoustic scene it's this man, and as the last notes die away we raise a glass to The Download...and to the fact that the song isn't immediately followed by one of Tim's jokes.
Tuesday 8 December 2009
The Bad Siege
That's not actrually how you spell "trebuchet"...
DEATHRAY TREBUCHAY/ STORNOWAY/ JALI FILLI CISSOKHO, Isis Tavern, 12/6/09
“Are you going to the festival?” asks a local to his mate as we cross Iffley Lock. “Are you going to [ironic emphasis] rock out?” Doubt it, chum, for this is a record launch from delicate folkpoppers Stornoway, in the The Isis Tavern’s bucolic grounds, for well-heeled neo-hippies and fragile indie children. So, in place of warm Fosters we got organic ale, in place of tight black jeans we got flouncy floral dresses, and in place of a harried, leather-clad engineer we got – well, some things are constant, perhaps. Kora player Jali Filli Cissokho provides a suitably warm introduction, the sounds from his West African harp growing from tiny wisps of melody to huge clouds of sound as his thumbs writhe around the strings. It’s easy enough to drift away to Cissokho’s gorgeous set, but he’s not pandering to the lentil burger World Music morass, his playing incorporates hard attacks and sudden spasms of notes as well as mellifluous fluidity. This is intricate, intelligent music for active listening, not pallid chillout sessions.
In a near Stalinist act of historical revisionism, Stornoway have announced that “Zorbing” shall be their debut single; any records you may already own by them are the result of fevered imaginations and possible bourgeous deviation, and mention of them will land you swiftly in a Headington Quarry labour camp. Their songs are so timeless, it feels as though Stornoway have been around forever, though it was only three short years ago that we first saw them, playing, in all honesty, an uneven set. They’ve come light years since, but never lost their oddity and awkward affability: after a brief vamping intro their first track tonight is “On The Rocks” a treble-saturated, reverb-drenched fuzz that is like nothing other Oxford bands would write, and is also illogically beautiful – the cymbals sound like jagged ice, the guitar harmonics flash like winter sunlight, and the glorious vocal arches above everything like Rainbow Bridge. The set builds to a restrained climax, and encapsulates everything wonderful about their twitchy bonhomie and nervous charm. They even have a real Zorb terrorising the audience to the front. If you want to break the Oxford pasty, apparently all you need is a giant inflatable Kiwi sphere.
As they look like Dogs D’Amour dressed by Timmy Mallett, and play rag week ska rock, Deathray Trebuchay satisfy those who missed “The Good Fish Guide” from Stornoway’s set. Definitely not us, in other words. But unexpectedly, just by dint of a great bassist, some fluent inventive horn lines, and the fact they’re (whisper it) having fun, this London act wins us over until we’re punching the air to their knockabout jazz punk with the rest of them. Rocking lock man would have approved…unless he was one of the many people phoning in noise complaints, anyway. Childish, of course, but this makes us love the evening even more.
DEATHRAY TREBUCHAY/ STORNOWAY/ JALI FILLI CISSOKHO, Isis Tavern, 12/6/09
“Are you going to the festival?” asks a local to his mate as we cross Iffley Lock. “Are you going to [ironic emphasis] rock out?” Doubt it, chum, for this is a record launch from delicate folkpoppers Stornoway, in the The Isis Tavern’s bucolic grounds, for well-heeled neo-hippies and fragile indie children. So, in place of warm Fosters we got organic ale, in place of tight black jeans we got flouncy floral dresses, and in place of a harried, leather-clad engineer we got – well, some things are constant, perhaps. Kora player Jali Filli Cissokho provides a suitably warm introduction, the sounds from his West African harp growing from tiny wisps of melody to huge clouds of sound as his thumbs writhe around the strings. It’s easy enough to drift away to Cissokho’s gorgeous set, but he’s not pandering to the lentil burger World Music morass, his playing incorporates hard attacks and sudden spasms of notes as well as mellifluous fluidity. This is intricate, intelligent music for active listening, not pallid chillout sessions.
In a near Stalinist act of historical revisionism, Stornoway have announced that “Zorbing” shall be their debut single; any records you may already own by them are the result of fevered imaginations and possible bourgeous deviation, and mention of them will land you swiftly in a Headington Quarry labour camp. Their songs are so timeless, it feels as though Stornoway have been around forever, though it was only three short years ago that we first saw them, playing, in all honesty, an uneven set. They’ve come light years since, but never lost their oddity and awkward affability: after a brief vamping intro their first track tonight is “On The Rocks” a treble-saturated, reverb-drenched fuzz that is like nothing other Oxford bands would write, and is also illogically beautiful – the cymbals sound like jagged ice, the guitar harmonics flash like winter sunlight, and the glorious vocal arches above everything like Rainbow Bridge. The set builds to a restrained climax, and encapsulates everything wonderful about their twitchy bonhomie and nervous charm. They even have a real Zorb terrorising the audience to the front. If you want to break the Oxford pasty, apparently all you need is a giant inflatable Kiwi sphere.
As they look like Dogs D’Amour dressed by Timmy Mallett, and play rag week ska rock, Deathray Trebuchay satisfy those who missed “The Good Fish Guide” from Stornoway’s set. Definitely not us, in other words. But unexpectedly, just by dint of a great bassist, some fluent inventive horn lines, and the fact they’re (whisper it) having fun, this London act wins us over until we’re punching the air to their knockabout jazz punk with the rest of them. Rocking lock man would have approved…unless he was one of the many people phoning in noise complaints, anyway. Childish, of course, but this makes us love the evening even more.
Saturday 5 December 2009
Weimer Bitter?
I had to go to work today, and I'll have to go again tomorrow, so I'm in no great mood to write loads about this review. Make up your introductions and post them in the comments. I'll pick the best one, and the author will win something brilliant, like a crisp.
The title of this post will only make sense if you know the names of Oxford singer-songwriters, and indeed how to pronounce them properly.
BETHANY WEIMERS demo
What’s the opposite of damning with faint praise? Praising with lax damnation, perhaps. Doesn’t really have the same ring to it, does it? Anyway, whatever it is I’m about to do it to Bethany Weimers. The thing is, everything is relative. Just last week, I was sitting here typing a good review for The Gullivers: theirs wasn’t a perfect record by any means, but it was impressive because they’re moving in the right direction so confidently. By contrast, Bethany is a startling vocal talent, who has turned in a wonderfully assured CD, despite her protestations that it should be treated as “demo quality” only. Trouble is, over the last few years, so many incredibly talented acoustic singer-songwriters have sprung up on Oxford’s open mics and unpretentious gigs such as Beard Museum - anyone who managed to make it to the opening of last week’s Punt in Borders will verify that there is some serious ability out there - and Bethany seems to be somewhat overshadowed at the moment. In another town, or in another era, I’m sure I’d be quick to support Bethany, because she has plenty in her favour, not least a lovely, breathy voice, with an affecting catch at the top end (even if she overdoes it a tad on “Bitter Love”). She can also clearly interpret a lyric, and add drama to her performance in a manner that makes her sound much more mature than her 25 years.
But it’s so bloody dull. Nothing wrong with the songs, per se, but they do tend to pootle round their chord progressions like a one speed bike, and really the only good thing about these pieces is their performance. Like I say, we’ve been spoilt with our acoustic acts recently, but the thing that stands out about a Pike, a Bite, a Craig or a Machine (erm, as in Family) is that the compositions are memorable and well constructed, which makes the beauty of the performance a special bonus. Bethany reminds me of Emily Rolt, another local with a gorgeous voice who’s let down by the mediocrity of her material. True, “Try A Bit” enlivens the demo a touch by injecting a little mariachi fire, and judging from the recording the audience at the live recording of “Listen” are clearly spellbound, but mostly it all drifts past like an attractive but insubstantial fog.
So, you can file this review under Cruel To Be Kind, as it’s all rather loving criticism. Bethany is extremely able, and could easily make a serious mark, but this isn’t the demo to do it. Ultimately, there are two definitions of “excellent”: firstly, something that we feel is great, because it knocks us out, and secondly, something we decide is great, because it’s clearly so much better than lots of the old rubbish in the world. At the moment, Bethany falls into the second category. Still, if “the wrong sort of excellent” is the worst criticism Bethany gets, she’ll do very well for herself. Praising with lax damnation: it’ll be the new craze with kids now, just you wait and see.
The title of this post will only make sense if you know the names of Oxford singer-songwriters, and indeed how to pronounce them properly.
BETHANY WEIMERS demo
What’s the opposite of damning with faint praise? Praising with lax damnation, perhaps. Doesn’t really have the same ring to it, does it? Anyway, whatever it is I’m about to do it to Bethany Weimers. The thing is, everything is relative. Just last week, I was sitting here typing a good review for The Gullivers: theirs wasn’t a perfect record by any means, but it was impressive because they’re moving in the right direction so confidently. By contrast, Bethany is a startling vocal talent, who has turned in a wonderfully assured CD, despite her protestations that it should be treated as “demo quality” only. Trouble is, over the last few years, so many incredibly talented acoustic singer-songwriters have sprung up on Oxford’s open mics and unpretentious gigs such as Beard Museum - anyone who managed to make it to the opening of last week’s Punt in Borders will verify that there is some serious ability out there - and Bethany seems to be somewhat overshadowed at the moment. In another town, or in another era, I’m sure I’d be quick to support Bethany, because she has plenty in her favour, not least a lovely, breathy voice, with an affecting catch at the top end (even if she overdoes it a tad on “Bitter Love”). She can also clearly interpret a lyric, and add drama to her performance in a manner that makes her sound much more mature than her 25 years.
But it’s so bloody dull. Nothing wrong with the songs, per se, but they do tend to pootle round their chord progressions like a one speed bike, and really the only good thing about these pieces is their performance. Like I say, we’ve been spoilt with our acoustic acts recently, but the thing that stands out about a Pike, a Bite, a Craig or a Machine (erm, as in Family) is that the compositions are memorable and well constructed, which makes the beauty of the performance a special bonus. Bethany reminds me of Emily Rolt, another local with a gorgeous voice who’s let down by the mediocrity of her material. True, “Try A Bit” enlivens the demo a touch by injecting a little mariachi fire, and judging from the recording the audience at the live recording of “Listen” are clearly spellbound, but mostly it all drifts past like an attractive but insubstantial fog.
So, you can file this review under Cruel To Be Kind, as it’s all rather loving criticism. Bethany is extremely able, and could easily make a serious mark, but this isn’t the demo to do it. Ultimately, there are two definitions of “excellent”: firstly, something that we feel is great, because it knocks us out, and secondly, something we decide is great, because it’s clearly so much better than lots of the old rubbish in the world. At the moment, Bethany falls into the second category. Still, if “the wrong sort of excellent” is the worst criticism Bethany gets, she’ll do very well for herself. Praising with lax damnation: it’ll be the new craze with kids now, just you wait and see.
Friday 4 December 2009
Back To The Fuchsia
Originally this review had an extra paragraph, that my editor remove, and on reflection, I think he was right, so into the bin it goes. If you live in Oxon you shoudl check out some OCM gigs, they have some good stuff. I was watching Andrew Poppy last night in a small theatre to write a review, & that was a good change from flat beer & sticky carpets. The gigs don't come cheap, however. Still, I couldn't give a fuck about you lot, I get in free, innit.
POWERPLANT & THE ELYSIAN QUARTET, Oxford Contemporary Music, Jacquelie Du Pre Building, 10/5/07
Your word for the week is synaesthesia, the unusual ability to experience one sense through another. We’ve always wondered how synaesthetes find multimedia son et lumiere shows like tonight’s: “The yellow is out of tune with the bassoon”? Still, they might find a little more to entice than we do in Kathy Hinde’s projections, which are lush but ultimately as memorable or meaningful as the majority of pop videos. Her colleagues in Powerplant (Joby Burgess, percussion, and Matthew Fairclough, machines) make up for this shortfall beautifully. They open with Javier Alvarez’ “Temazcal”, mixing chitinous electronics that sound like Lovecraftian tentacles clawing at shaly beaches, with live rhythms from a single pair of maracas. The piece intelligently finds similarities between the two very different sound sources, and is played with jaw-dropping precision.
“Carbon Copy” loops sounds from improvisations on a Brazilian berimbau, and overlays them with stabbing percussion, ending up sounding uncannily like a drum and bass remix of Aphex Twin’s classic “Digeridoo”. Even better is Burgess’ performance of Steve Reich’s “Electric Counterpoint” on the xylosynth, an instrument that allows metallophone keys to act as midi triggers, producing a vast array of sounds. By performing the piece using vintage synthesiser tones instead of guitar, Powerplant remind us just how much electronic club music has borrowed from Reich over the past twenty years (we’re looking at you, The Orb!). Possibly the best performance we’ve seen this year.
After the interval Powerplant are joined by The Elysian quartet for Ben Foster’s arrangements of Kraftwerk compositions. The electronics are decent enough (even if they will keep breaking down) and the Elysians play with fine dynamic sense, but somehow the two elements don’t mix. The fascinating paradox of Kraftwerk is that their music is simultaneously robotically arid and joyously human, that they create true warmth by eradicating all traces of the flesh from their austerely controlled soundworld. By fudging the arrangements between two camps Foster has reduced Kraftwerk’s masterpieces to a series of pretty tunes. And we have Coldplay to do that for us.
POWERPLANT & THE ELYSIAN QUARTET, Oxford Contemporary Music, Jacquelie Du Pre Building, 10/5/07
Your word for the week is synaesthesia, the unusual ability to experience one sense through another. We’ve always wondered how synaesthetes find multimedia son et lumiere shows like tonight’s: “The yellow is out of tune with the bassoon”? Still, they might find a little more to entice than we do in Kathy Hinde’s projections, which are lush but ultimately as memorable or meaningful as the majority of pop videos. Her colleagues in Powerplant (Joby Burgess, percussion, and Matthew Fairclough, machines) make up for this shortfall beautifully. They open with Javier Alvarez’ “Temazcal”, mixing chitinous electronics that sound like Lovecraftian tentacles clawing at shaly beaches, with live rhythms from a single pair of maracas. The piece intelligently finds similarities between the two very different sound sources, and is played with jaw-dropping precision.
“Carbon Copy” loops sounds from improvisations on a Brazilian berimbau, and overlays them with stabbing percussion, ending up sounding uncannily like a drum and bass remix of Aphex Twin’s classic “Digeridoo”. Even better is Burgess’ performance of Steve Reich’s “Electric Counterpoint” on the xylosynth, an instrument that allows metallophone keys to act as midi triggers, producing a vast array of sounds. By performing the piece using vintage synthesiser tones instead of guitar, Powerplant remind us just how much electronic club music has borrowed from Reich over the past twenty years (we’re looking at you, The Orb!). Possibly the best performance we’ve seen this year.
After the interval Powerplant are joined by The Elysian quartet for Ben Foster’s arrangements of Kraftwerk compositions. The electronics are decent enough (even if they will keep breaking down) and the Elysians play with fine dynamic sense, but somehow the two elements don’t mix. The fascinating paradox of Kraftwerk is that their music is simultaneously robotically arid and joyously human, that they create true warmth by eradicating all traces of the flesh from their austerely controlled soundworld. By fudging the arrangements between two camps Foster has reduced Kraftwerk’s masterpieces to a series of pretty tunes. And we have Coldplay to do that for us.
Tuesday 1 December 2009
Corn From The Cobb
This is the sort of thing I love to write & hope you enjoy reading. It's unusual to find reviews of go-nowhere unsigned musicians, unless they're in some sort of hellish local paper/school yearbook love-in, from which critical appraisal has been ousted in favour of some threadbare community spirit. Of course, the best compliment anyone can pay a musician is to actually listen to them, and have the courage to mention things that are shit - that's why I love my editors, they apreciate this is important.
Reviewing The Fall is fun and confirming your understanding of their greatness (or antagonising your woefully misguided opinion of their awfulness, I guess), but it's stuff like this, that anyone who has any experience of the fun and frustration, the excitement and excrutiation of low-level music production will understand, that makes things worthwhile. I would honestly rather be writing about this nobody for free than knocking out 60 words about The Killers for The Sunday Times for a fat cheque. Thanks for reading.
REPORTER, TRANSMISSION & TRUE RUMOUR Demos
Mark Cobb is that most awkward of beasts, a prolific artist. Constantly gigging and recording with a wealth of different projects, Mark simultaneously raises a feeling of marvel at his energy and dedication, and a wish that he’d stop messing about and just settle down to work on something substantial. Because, with some honing of the musical attentions, Mark has the talent to turn out some quality music, but at the moment his output is often saddeningly mediocre. Being mediocre is no crime, of course, but being mediocre with a different band every night of the week probably should be.
Let’s start at the bottom. True Rumour feels something like an acoustic version of Kohoutek (nee Tsunami), probably Mark’s best known endeavour, with guitars jangling and sax bleating away merrily in the background. Said sax ought to be just the foil to Mark’s voice - and it is a great voice, keening and swooping around the melody with a heavy vibrato in a way that recalls such idiosyncratic singers as Michael Stipe and Julian Cope - but as sonic seasoning it falls very flat, tootling aimlessly around the demo like a lost dog. Take “I’m At Zombie” (sic), which mires a powerful vocal performance in a flabby meander of a song. Interest is piqued slightly by some sprightly violin playing and what sounds like it might be mbira on “Rocks & Sunflowers”, but ultimately True Rumour’s demo stands up for itself about as well as damp toast.
Just to show that he can do the hazy campfire bit pretty well at times is a one track demo from Reporter, a recent project with members of The Hank Dogs and Perfect Disaster (both new names to us, we’re ashamed to admit). Featherlight and brief it may be, but this one take acoustic ramble captures the ear immediately. It’s early days yet, but there could be something here worth embellishing.
This crop of demos confirms what we’ve always felt to be the case, that Transmission is definitely Mark’s most successful endeavour. Admittedly the nasal twin guitar solos can piss off back to whatever Lynyrd Skynyrd hole they crawled from, but for the most part the lightly Arabic flourishes and the guitar curlicues suit Mark’s quavering voice more than the clumping indie rhythms of Kohoutek, coaxing an urgent Morroccan wail on “Kings” that outdoes anything else on these recordings. It also occasionally tugs a little string in the back of our minds labelled “Chamfer”, which is no terrible accusation.
Ultimately we’d like Mark to try pushing things a bit more. Of course, we don’t expect Autechre rhythms and Melt Banana guitars to be turning up anytime soon (though we’ll be first in the queue if they do), but the music should have the courage of its convictions: if it’s pop music, write some stellar hooks; if it’s rock music, put some balls into it; if it’s jazzy acoustica, try to get the saxophonist vaguely in tune. When all the intros sound something like “Street Spirit” and all the fortes sound like bad Rolling Stones, you just know there’s an autopilot light flashing in the cockpit. Like the teacher who is harshest on their brightest pupil, this is meant to be loving criticism, but we’ve been waiting a long time for Mark to knuckle down and make the great, soaring music he has in him somewhere. Maybe that will happen someday, or maybe in a few months there’ll be another clutch of perfectly passable and mostly forgettable little demos to chuck into the expanding Cobb file. Maybe Mark doesn’t give a shit about some jumped up little prick on the internet. Yes that seems most likely. But we’re still right.
Reviewing The Fall is fun and confirming your understanding of their greatness (or antagonising your woefully misguided opinion of their awfulness, I guess), but it's stuff like this, that anyone who has any experience of the fun and frustration, the excitement and excrutiation of low-level music production will understand, that makes things worthwhile. I would honestly rather be writing about this nobody for free than knocking out 60 words about The Killers for The Sunday Times for a fat cheque. Thanks for reading.
REPORTER, TRANSMISSION & TRUE RUMOUR Demos
Mark Cobb is that most awkward of beasts, a prolific artist. Constantly gigging and recording with a wealth of different projects, Mark simultaneously raises a feeling of marvel at his energy and dedication, and a wish that he’d stop messing about and just settle down to work on something substantial. Because, with some honing of the musical attentions, Mark has the talent to turn out some quality music, but at the moment his output is often saddeningly mediocre. Being mediocre is no crime, of course, but being mediocre with a different band every night of the week probably should be.
Let’s start at the bottom. True Rumour feels something like an acoustic version of Kohoutek (nee Tsunami), probably Mark’s best known endeavour, with guitars jangling and sax bleating away merrily in the background. Said sax ought to be just the foil to Mark’s voice - and it is a great voice, keening and swooping around the melody with a heavy vibrato in a way that recalls such idiosyncratic singers as Michael Stipe and Julian Cope - but as sonic seasoning it falls very flat, tootling aimlessly around the demo like a lost dog. Take “I’m At Zombie” (sic), which mires a powerful vocal performance in a flabby meander of a song. Interest is piqued slightly by some sprightly violin playing and what sounds like it might be mbira on “Rocks & Sunflowers”, but ultimately True Rumour’s demo stands up for itself about as well as damp toast.
Just to show that he can do the hazy campfire bit pretty well at times is a one track demo from Reporter, a recent project with members of The Hank Dogs and Perfect Disaster (both new names to us, we’re ashamed to admit). Featherlight and brief it may be, but this one take acoustic ramble captures the ear immediately. It’s early days yet, but there could be something here worth embellishing.
This crop of demos confirms what we’ve always felt to be the case, that Transmission is definitely Mark’s most successful endeavour. Admittedly the nasal twin guitar solos can piss off back to whatever Lynyrd Skynyrd hole they crawled from, but for the most part the lightly Arabic flourishes and the guitar curlicues suit Mark’s quavering voice more than the clumping indie rhythms of Kohoutek, coaxing an urgent Morroccan wail on “Kings” that outdoes anything else on these recordings. It also occasionally tugs a little string in the back of our minds labelled “Chamfer”, which is no terrible accusation.
Ultimately we’d like Mark to try pushing things a bit more. Of course, we don’t expect Autechre rhythms and Melt Banana guitars to be turning up anytime soon (though we’ll be first in the queue if they do), but the music should have the courage of its convictions: if it’s pop music, write some stellar hooks; if it’s rock music, put some balls into it; if it’s jazzy acoustica, try to get the saxophonist vaguely in tune. When all the intros sound something like “Street Spirit” and all the fortes sound like bad Rolling Stones, you just know there’s an autopilot light flashing in the cockpit. Like the teacher who is harshest on their brightest pupil, this is meant to be loving criticism, but we’ve been waiting a long time for Mark to knuckle down and make the great, soaring music he has in him somewhere. Maybe that will happen someday, or maybe in a few months there’ll be another clutch of perfectly passable and mostly forgettable little demos to chuck into the expanding Cobb file. Maybe Mark doesn’t give a shit about some jumped up little prick on the internet. Yes that seems most likely. But we’re still right.
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