The Rillet Wild Show

This will probably be my last post until after the Easter weekend. I would wish my regular readership a pleasant break, but half of them will be with me in the interim...

SPRING OFFENSIVE/ LIBELULA/ SMILING PIRATES – FAB, Jericho, 31/7/09


Despite the fact that this is their first gig, Smiling Pirates have already been through a few bands names – they’re billed on the posters as Neon Candlelight (shrug), and before that they were allegedly Kaleidovision (retch). But, call them what you want, what they really are is a mess, albeit a promising and likable one. They start out with big blocky piano parts and reverby guitar lines, an approximation of Keane and Sigur Ros at the bottom of a flooded mineshaft, but from there they swiftly move to their one discernible rhythm, the dark disco canter of many a band with Joy Division and Gang Of Four in their influence list. They’re a little like a Tesco Value version of Doves, and, although starting and finishing aren’t performing concepts they’ve really nailed, some of the middles are quite good. Their songs are like budget Jaffa Cakes, in that sense.

Promise is on display here, as well as a kind of affable unpretentiousness that wins them points, but there are a coupe of issues Smiling Pirates could do with addressing: a) the drummer, who throws himself at his skins with a frantic and barely rhythmic desperation during the crescendoes, thus looking like he’s playing Daley Thompson’s Decathlon (or Eddie Kidd’s Jump Challenge, for those who grew up with the BBC B), and b) the fact that the vocalist probably wants to be likened to Ian Curtis, but in actuality looks like a man trying not to make eye contact with the drunk skinhead at the bus stop, and has a voice like a bored supermarket announcer, even whilst his songs collapse around his ears. Clean up on aisle 3.

Londoners Libelula (it’s Spanish for “Dragonfly”, apparently, and has nothing to do with female anatomy, despite a heckle) have lots of differently shaped keyboards and some excellent syn-drums and create a humming pop buzz, roughly equivalent to The Human League with contemporary disco dolly vocals, or a Phildickian timeslip collaboration between the early OMD and already forgotten hitmakers Kosheen. The effect is rather lovely, due in no small part to Sarah Villaraus’ adaptable, but not overcooked, diva vocals, and her nice golden boots; in fact, at first there was a fear that the impressive vocals would be too emotive for the sparsely robotic technopop around which they twined, but then they played “Mountains”, a lithe Goldfrappian iceskate around chiming metallophone loops, and our final doubts were put to rest. They even have a dark minded tune that recalls the clumsy breakbeats of “Charley” era Prodigy, and even Kickin Vinyl hardcore mainstay, The Scientist. It’s heartening to see an act with unashamed commercial intent, who also have some clear ability with a tune, and enough ideas to keep miserable scribbling journos happy. Best of British to you, boys and girls.

Talking of commercial impact, Spring Offensive are a band who look as though they are only months away from an adulatory V festival set and an NME cover story, and they’re simply playing a debut EP launch at The Jericho. They’re tightly drilled rousing indie band, with tiny puzzle pop inflections, whose greatest strength is their fluent and witty use of rhythms (here’s a band who can make a three beat cowbell fill funkier than most overweight soul acts doing the rounds). The vocalist boasts a strong voice, but like so many current bands he belts things out in a yearning, fists aloft style that sounds like he’s in the audience singing along to his favourite tunes, as opposed to performing a song, and when the rest of the band come in on backing vocals they may as well be singing “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow”. We think they have better vocal arrangements in them somewhere, but for now, this egalitarian terrace singalong style at least sounds completely contemporary.

However, underneath all the high guitar strap Foals twiddles, and clever rhythmic tics, Spring Offensive are a thinly disguised folkpop outfit, chock full of bolshily literate songs something akin to a Stornoway who can talk to girls. And if lovely indie lilt “The Cable Routine” is their “Unfaithful” and an almost Chumbawambafied pecuniphagous* ditty about a man consuming his own wallet is their “We Are The Battery Human”, sadly they have a “Good Fish Guide”, in the shape of “1066”, an unfunny retelling of the battle of Hastings.

So, drop the second rate student humour. Drop the homemade T-shirts that make you look like a Why Don’t You? version of The Manics. From thereon in there’s no need to change anything, Spring Offensive, as you are a wonderful, euphoric, twitchily danceable new Oxford band, ands we wish you all the success in the world.




*It means “Money eating”; or at least it should, there’s obviously no such word.

An OFF Night

I've just realised that this is the second time I've reviewed The Braindead Collective, and the second time that Human Leaguer Phil Oakey's fringe has been mentioned. The oddest thing is that one of the Collective is bassist (and one of Oxford's best and most understated musicians, in my non-humble opinion), Phil Oakley. Coincidence, or labyrinthine sub-conscious connection?

THOMAS TRUAX/ ERIC CHENAUX/ THE BRAINDEAD COLLECTIVE/ LUM COL CON PIX – OFFshoot, Holywell, 6/3/10


OFFshoot is the Oxford Folk Festival fringe. Well, in fringe terms Lum Col Con Pix make Phil Oakey look like Duncan Goodhew, we haven’t the merest conception how they relate to folk music in any form, as they hover styli above record decks, using the natural warp of vinyl to create jagged loops. It’s fascinating that the layered fragments are of a similar brief length, yet have such different sonic qualities, and the set feels intriguingly like battling through a blizzard of cracked Lego blocks.

Improv scamps The Braindead Collective play traditional and well known themes tonight and, the odd synth burr or hushed scuffle aside, sound like a slightly augmented pub song session – which is no bad thing, and the set is gorgeous, especially a plangent take on Mercury Rev’s “Holes”, Chris “Harry Angel” Beard’s delicate voice sounding like Art Garfunkel bounced to us from the surface of the moon.

Toronto’s Eric Chenaux has a warm intimate voice and a neat lutelike guitar plucking technique, but he doesn’t leave a huge impression. His songs are decent, but feel as though the salient points are all missing, like a half-sucked sweet. Pleasant? Definitely. Interesting? Let’s just say, on the fringe.

Despite his famed mechanical instruments, like the product of dusty frontier cybernetics, it’s easy to see a link between Thomas Truax and folk, his songs all have the easy narrative drive of Cash, and the downhome grotesquery of Waits. This is an intermittently successful show by his standards, but the mixture of eloquent storytelling and clunky cabaret wins out. He embodies folk as low-end showbiz, rather than heartfelt cri de coeur: Furry Lewis jamming at a medicine show, not Ewan MacColl rallying the workers. With his joco-futurist noise makers and his twists on rock and blues stylings, Truax makes the whole of the twentieth century into a carny freakshow: no wonder he made that David Lynch tribute album.

A Flash In The Pandemic

I've just found this review. I think it was written for BBC Oxford years ago (the TOTP and Lavigne references date it hugely), but that the Truax part wasn't used, which is why most of it was recycled for later reviews. Oddly, I reviewed Truax again for this month's Nightshift, and I'll post that on Saturday, just so you can see that I generally repeat myself tediously - I mean, I'm gloriously consistent.

The Epstein-Barr Virus Band dropped 3/5 of their name soon after this.

Oh, the review is rubbish, by the way, no wonder I'd forgotten about it. Atrocious ending.

THE EPSTEIN-BARR VIRUS BAND, SCHWERVON, THOMAS TRUAX, Trailerpark, The Cellar

You've got to love Thomas truax.

Not just because he plays grimy pieces of grotesque Americana, like a nice neat Tom Waits after a bucketfull of Lockets, but because of his wonderful homemade instruments. Sister Spinster is a clanking mechanical drum machine, based around an old pram wheel, and is the sort of thing that might have transpired had Hary Partch been involved in designing the Roland 707.

I'm not even going to begin to describe The Hornicator - part instrument, part sculpture, part headgear - but I'll tell you that when if goes through a giant delay pedal, it sounds like Portishead as prodiced by Wilf Lunn from The Great Egg Race.

Over these queasy, lurching rhythms we find twisted vignettes about the fictional municipality of Wowtown. Now, if there were any justice in the world Truax would have a huge hit, and perform "The Fish" on Top Of The Pops, and every kid would have a Wowtown T-shirt.

Then, to make this fantasy even remotely plausible, he'd be instantly forgotten, and, in twenty years, the ability to recognise a Hornicator would be pop quiz gold dust, like correctly spelling "Sk8rboi".

Schwervon have a man with a guitar, a girl on drums, and a bunch of trashy blues progressions. but I'm not going to mention The White Stripes, because a) they'r eprobably fed up with it, and c) The Stripes hardly invented the concept of lo-fidelity, hi-octane garage punk, now did they?

The clattering workouts are relatively inept, but they're pretty endearing, especially the comical inter-song bickering: Schwervon, the Terry & June of swamprock! Sadly the effect begins to pall after about ten minutes, and attentions begin to wander. Oh, look at that over there...

Is it me, or is there a lot of country rock in Oxfordshire? Not that I mind, it's just unexpected.

Still, The Epstein-Barr Virus Band have got to be one fo the best on offer, cranking out their slide-laden laments with great aplomb. Alright, precious few boundaries are being broken here, but the songs burst out and envelop the room like warm zephyrs, so who's worrying?

They have slight trouble with the quieter bluegreass number, "Leave Your Light On", but generally they truck along fine. With lines like "If I can't have the one I love, I don't want no one at all," they even manage to get away with real cliches. I wonder whether I can: EBVB are a darn good toe-tappin' li'l band.

Apparently not...

Never Mind The Parabolics

I found a piece of paper, scrawled on over ten years ago during a stoned viewing of schools TV late at night. It read, "Nine times dark is death". I used to write down everything. Can't be arsed now. Don't smoke dope any more either. I think I'm probably at about 5 times dark just now.

MOUNTED INSANITY CANNON - SHORT CONTROLLED BURSTS FROM... (Foulharmonic)

A "mini-album"? No shit! Eight tracks in less than five and a half minutes - that's 17 seconds shorter than Napalm Death's infamous 1987 Peel session. This recording may go through "mini-" and come out on the sparse side of "micro-", but let's not complain. There are plenty of local bands whom we'd love to see make records as short as this! Brief it may be, but Mounted Insanity Cannon's latest is dense too, squeezing in cheap beats, vocal howls, metal guitars and more distrorted noise than a Merzbow boxset. Well, maybe not quite, but this record is one big pitted, tarnished blob of sound that feels like it ought to leave a greasy residue around the ears.

This is MIC's strength, but their weakness as well. True, information comes thick and fast and it's all very thrilling in a way, but sometimes the music just feels like a bunch of unfinished sketches or half-arsed gags. "TV Remote" mostly consists of fragmented samples from some idle channel hopping minute, which is about as close to a sampling cliche as you can get without promising a journey into sound. Once man's insanity is another man's inanity.

If only the tracks were given time to develop, this music could be a glorious noise. The most fully formed piece on the record, "Conflict Desert Swing" sounds something like Middle Eastern funk outfit The Baghdaddies under nine fathoms of sonic soup, or Cab Calloway dropped unceremoniously into some demon dimension equivalent of the Gulf War. In some ways I'd rather listen to this idea developed and intensified for the entire five minutes. The accompanying press release promises a forthcoming "big band live show", which might be a little more satisfying than this blinking blipvert recording. The final track is entitled "Open With A Joke". Well, feel free, my dear Cannons, but try to make sure you've got something more substantial to follow up with, otherwise it all feels a bit pointless. Mounted Insanity Cannon have got the skills and imagination to make a truly coruscating and brain mangling record, but sadly this isn't it.

Klepto & Son

A recent Oxfordbands review. It seems like an age since I wrote a good review for them. Not my fault everyons is shit, is it?

THE DACOITS – THE DACOITS



“God only knows what I’m talking about,” sings Carrie Rossiter on “Keep On Moving”, and the answer seems to be Nothing Much. Lyrically this a poor album, nothing but hackneyed goth-lite imagery of blasted trees and crawling spiders mixed with meaningless crumbs swiped from fairytales, palmistry and other simple mythologies. In fact, the ill thought out jumble of emotive tropes looks more like a checklist of rough ideas for an over-funded music video from 1994 as the record progresses, which tells you all you need to know about the record: it’s large, it’s well made, and it’s oh so hollow inside.

Despite the promise of the ghostly reverb and hyperventilating guitar gasps of opener “Black Dog”, we’re dumped in the sonic realm of clean MTV gothery: Garbage looms large over the LP, but we also get hints of Hole in “Turn You On”, and even Heart, in the blustery conclusion of ”Holy Man”; “Raze It To The Ground” tells of a small white pill, which may or may not be jagged, and “Home By Twelve” tips the hat to some of P J Harvey’s lesser lyrical efforts. “Threaten to take you under the water/ I’ll be your lover, I’ll be your daughter” opines Rossiter, meaningless lyrics laden down by shiny pseudo-sexuality – thin doggerel meets Kim Cattrall.

So, we have some meaningless ditties in an infuriating mid-nineties style, where Smashing Pumpkins are a watchword for exciting leftfield rock music, and yet there is definitely something to be excited by nevertheless. Keyboard player Peter George Rowe’s production is outstanding. Seriously we can’t think of a self-funded record that’s come our way in recent years that sounds so impressive as this; you’d be forgiven for thinking that a floundering major label had thrown several SUVs full of cash at this thing, it feels so impeccably put together. Furthermore, some of the arrangements and extra-musical guitar noise touches are gorgeous, from the bouncy Stranglers bass weaving a perfect hammock for breathy vocals on “Driving In Your Car” to the eerie underwater kick-drum intro to “Woman On The Wheel”. Whilst we don’t really care whether we ever hear any more form The Dacoits, we would bow down in thanks if Rowe got behind the desk for every demo recording that comes our way.

Ultimately this is a record for people who want to feel they’re listening to something edgy and alternative, but don’t want to be troubled by rock energy or songs that actually mean anything. The album would doubtless go down a treat with the vapid yet frighteningly pally financial advisors who are all over bank adverts nowadays, as they relax their empty High Street souls after a hard day’s simpering. It’s like a horrible scene from the opening of a British rom com, four hapless yet well-groomed young chaps turning up at a campsite laden down with fantastic gadgets and expensive outdoors accoutrements but no essentials (“Hang on, I thought you were bringing the tent”); The Dacoits have made an astonishing album, but nobody’s remembered to bring any bloody songs along. Might have left them in the “house made from glass”, behind the “burnt out shadows”, just next to the “mirrored cross”, eh.

Les Mix

This is the second review in which I've used the phrase "Suicide's plastic Elvis shimmy"! I think I just forgot the second time that I'd put it in a review already. I've also knowingly described Baby Gravy's sound as reminiscent of "Gwen Stefani's striplit mall pop" twice, and that was just because I like the sound of it. Sue me. I'll give you 100% of the income from both reviews, if you like.

SMILEX - SMILEX VS OXFORD (Quickfix Recordings)

Remix albums are alwaysa hall of mirrors for the listener, especially the reviewer, unless they're pretty deeply au fait with the styles of all involved: to whom, exactly, is one listening at any given moment, the mixer or the mixee? Smilex amplify the problem, because they haven't exactly released that much material in their own right as yet. In our case, there is an immediate difficulty, in that although we've enjoyed Smilex shows on a few occasions, they tend to blur into one big, damp maelstrom of rock noise and exposed flesh, laced once or twice with a few drops of blood. To be frank we don't recall precisely which song is which. None of this makes the LP any less enjoyable, but it does make the review process something of a minefield. Plus there's only a finite number of times we can type the words "Smilex remix" without it starting to look like joke Latin.

But enough of our problems. You could certainly imagine worse subjects for the remix treatment than Smilex, as their music has an immediately recognisable character, but is pretty simple in construction, all wham, bam thank you ladyboy pseudo-ma'am. This undoubtedly makes the pieces easier to deconstruct.

It's fascinating to see the different approaches on display, some adorning and accessorising the original music, while others rip it to shreds and stitch it back together in grotesque new forms. The first two mixes on the CD, perhaps wisely, choose the former option, boywithatoy sticking beats behind "Quickfix", and The Evenings turning "Sex 4 Sale" into a frenzied chipmunk cabaret. Conversely, The Gentleman Distortionist somehow manages to find a hands aloft, whistle crew pleaser in 16 second miniature "Kidz Klub 666", whereas The Beta Prophecy turn "P.V.C." into a crunchy industrial plod, something like Aphex Twin's "Ventolin" played at half speed. Most extreme of all is Sunnyvale's completely abstract attack on "Noize", which has Smilex reincarnated as tiny worms, crawling through the dense loam of some dank forest floor. It's absolutely superb, but the question remains whether this is a Smilex remix, or a new track sampling a few Smilex moments. A pointless question, we suppose. The Young Knives' mix of "She Won't Get out Of Bed", is one of the most intriguing on offer, surprisingly managing to sound very little like Smilex or TYK, merging a hissy disco pulse with touches of Suicide's plastic Elvis shimmy.

Ultimately Smilex Vs Oxford is rather an odd proposition if you;re looking for that elusive Smilex album, as most of the acts tend to pull the material too far from its source (and if you can tell that the three mixes of "Spike My Drink" are based on the same composition in a blind trial, you should probably just walk straight to the Oxford Music Faculty and pick up your doctorate). Having said that, as a listening experience, this is a wonderful twisted record, which works excellently as a snapshot of what Oxford's more leftfield electronic experimenters are up to: in fact, if there were something from nervous_testpilot and a representative from the My Initials Club label here, we'd almost have a prospectus for Oxford bleepery. Oh, and it's for charity too, raising money for the John Radcliffe's new Children's Hospital...though this record is likely to send most children into hiding under the bedclothes, wailing for the bad men to go away. On reflection, not enough reviews end like that.

Truck 2006 Pt 3

We seem to spend a lot of time arguing with people in this town that funk and groove based music can be worth a listen. New Zealand’s Katchafire, however, won’t be convincing anyone, with their noodly Kenny G reggae lite. Introduced as the act that have travelled the furthest to play for us, oddly they’re the act who inspire us to get the furthest away as soon as they start playing…

What went wrong with The Young Knives? A few years ago they were the best band in Oxford, now they’re slightly dull Evening Session cannon fodder…and the Evening Session doesn’t even exist anymore. They don’t play a bad set, but all the old quirks seem to have been ironed out of the tracks, until the highlights of the set are the puerile banter between tunes. We’re still pleased and proud of them, but they don’t do much for us anymore.

It gets to that time on Sunday afternoon when your ears become blasé and we rush between all the stages in ten minutes. Manic Cough are a cross between Harlette and the Schla La Las which is briefly amusing, but ultimately hollow. The September Gurls are all men and play harmless countryish stuff (and here’s Joe Bennett again!), whilst The Research do what they normally do, which feels too twee for this time of day. So we finish off our festival with The Ralfe Band, who showcase some noirish, piano led songs of mystery (literally - we can’t decipher a blooming word). If it sometimes feels like music from Nick Cave’s elevator, when they bring on the percussion and kick out with a cross between “Misirlou” and “Maigret’s Revolver” as performed in a Polish brothel, they get a huge thumbs up. Or at least they would, if we had the strength to move our arms.

So it’s down the road for a last couple of pints before hopping on the last bus back to Oxford. It’s been yet another glorious Truck, and we’ll be back next year. But get some more real ales in next time, eh?

Truck 2006 pt 2

Of course, the upside is that we get to catch the end of Luke Smith’s set, and the Truck without Luke would be like Christmas without It’s Wonderful Life. As ever he’s heartwarming, hilarious and cosy, even with his new rock (ahem) trio, but the best part is watching the joyous faces of Smith neophytes. You can almost see them thinking, “a cross between Richard Stillgoe and Eddie Izzard with his Dad on drums, who’d have thought that would work?”.

Chris TT has been described as the indie Luke Smith, but he has weightier subjects to pursue than tea and girlfriends, touching on ecology and politics in simple acoustic thrashes. If you can envisage an English Hammell On Trial you may have the right idea – the tunes aren’t quite as good, but he manages to attack his songs with the same vigour, and throw in serious issues without coming off as a facile rock preacher. It’s no mystery why Chris is a Truck mainstay.

It says a lot about the eclecticism of Truck that we can rush from one festival favourite in the form of Chris, to another in the shape of nervous_testpilot. Truck without Paul Taylor would be like Christmas without “It’s a Wonderful Life”, played backwards in Satan’s breakcore bass palace. This year he’s married the thumping beats of last year with the sample heavy gabba mash up of previous incarnations, into a surprisingly coherent half hour. Truly wonderful, but are we the only ones to slightly miss the elegiac melodies of his first …Module… album? Checking the mosh happy Trailerpark, we guess the answer’s yes.

Dancing of a different sort over at The Epstein’s place. Getting more elaborate and noisier with each gig they do (this set features The Drugsquad’s Stef on guitar/mandolin/banjo and a searing mariachi brass section) they still manage to retain the untroubled country lope at the heart of the songs. They rightly go down a storm, bringing the crowd to a rousing finish with a great country tune called “Dance The Night Away”. Well, it makes up for the rubbish one, doesn’t it?

Had we known it was one of their last ever gigs we might have pushed to the front for Suitable Case For Treatment’s set, but instead we give up on the crowds and pop along to see Trademark. Whilst their new album is an adventurous step forward, the songs don’t come across so immediately in a live setting (excepting the monster that is “Over And Over”), so it’s the older tunes that fare the best. But no two Trademark gigs are really the same, and this one ends with a massed choir and an inexplicable Genesis cover.

SUNDAY

Since Mackating sadly lost their lead singer they’ve turned into a bit of a reggae revue, with featured vocalists of different styles on every tune. Whilst this can make for a bit of a mish mash it keeps things chugging along nicely. Best track in today's tasty set is a dancehall tinged tirade, apparently aimed at Fifty Cent, advising “don’t be a gangster, be a revolutionary”. Sage advice, but it’s Sunday morning, so you’ll understand if we just pass on both options for now.

It’s easy to be critical of performance poetry: 2D politics, bad gags and consonants lots in the sound of spit flecking against a mic. But, we haven’t given up on punk rock just because loads of bands are rubbish, have we? Oh no. Hammer & Tongue have done wonders in Oxford – come on, a spoken word gig at The Zodiac that gets better crowds than most bands, who’s not just a little impressed? – and we’re happy to come and support them briefly over at the Performance Tent. Today’s prize really goes to Sofia Blackwell, who’s always had a little more poise than some of the verbal cowboys, who rounds things off with a neat little piece about how she’ll never write a love poem, which of course turns out to be a beautifully honest little love poem.

This year has really been the coming of age for the acoustic tent, now bigger, better and rebranded The Market Stage. Proof of this is the enormous, attentive crowd for Emmy The Great, which is so big they have to take some of the walls down to let people see. As she snaps at each line like a tiger tearing meat from a carcase (albeit an ever so slightly cutesy tiger) many in this crushed tent decide they’re seeing one of the best shows of the festival quietly unfurl. There are any number of lovely images, but one sticks in our head, “You’re an animated anvil/ I’m an animated duck,” not least because it reminds us of an old Prefab Sprout lyric, “God’s a proud thundercloud/ We are cartoon cats”, and Paddy Macaloon is one of the 80s most under-rated lyricists. Oh yes he is.

Rachel Dadd has a wonderful folk voice, and is ably accompanied by two of her old Whalebone Polly pals, but her set doesn’t seem to have the assurance or character of Emmy’s. It’s mostly pleasant, with everything good and bad that this term conjures up.

When we first saw Captive State, a few Trucks ago, they were a firy jazz hip hop ensemble. Sadly, they soon decomposed into a benefit gig rap band: worthy, summery and mildly funky. Thankfully, they seem to have regrouped somewhat, and have come back fighting. The new material actually seems a bit Massive Attack, with paranoiac queasy bass synths cutting through neat vocal melodies and old fangled dance rhythms. Even the older tunes seem to have been tidied up, and are looking leaner than they have for years. A warm welcome back, though we do think that they could do with a proper singer for the melodic parts, excellent though the frontman is as an MC…oh, and a load of trombone solos.

If Thomas Truax looks a tiny bit tired today, his mechanical bandmate Sister Spinster must have been partying in the Barn till the wee hours, as she sputters, wobbles and eventually cuts out. It may not be the best set he’s ever turned in, but with his homemade instruments and downhome narratives he still holds the crowd in his skinny hands. He’s even commanding enough to do a number unplugged. We don’t mean acoustic, we mean literally unplugged from the PA and wandering around outside the tent. Admit it, we wouldn’t sit there patiently waiting for many other performers, now would we?

Since we last saw Piney Gir she’s inexplicably started looking like Brix Smith and playing light hearted Ernest Tubbs style country. It may not be a very challenging proposition, but her breezy vocal can carry anything – even a duet with charming but tone deaf Truck organiser Edmund, who brought us to tears of laughter with one misplaced “Shoobydoowop”.

Every Truck throws up something wonderful and unexpected. Maybe it’sthe direct sunlight, but this year we find ourselves falling for something that we feel ought to be terrible, in the shape of Babar Luck. He’s a Pakistani Eastender with a line in simple acoustic punk reggae with a “heal the world” type bent, which is the sort of thing we’d normally find painfully trite but Babar’s delivery is so perfect we actually start to believe we can change society with a song. We recommend this heartily, but we’ll never be able to explain what was so good about it. And he has cool mad eyes too. My God, we must be getting old, we’re hanging out at the acoustic stage (oh, alright, we couldn’t be bothered to queue for Chicks On Speed).

A Lorra Lorry Laughs

I missed Truck last year, and by all acounts it was one of the best, so I've already procured my blagger's journalist guest pass for this year's. I'm also going to review Cornbury, which is less exciting (imagine a festival created by the deli counter at Somerfield after 10 minutes looking at the Times colour supplement and a copy of Q from 1991).

Truck 2006, Hill Farm, Steventon


There’s nothing so civilised as sitting out in the sun with a can of beer at midday waiting for a band to come - none of the old smoky backroom ambience for the Truckers. Our festival starts with Technikov, and what may be the sound of a twenty-five year old Wasp synthesiser. Or possibly just the sound of a twenty-five year old wasp. Whichever, there’s plenty of niggling buzzing noise in evidence overlaying a spunky post-punk rhythm. Whilst this style of ranting jerky dissonance is very much Fall funk fodder for a Vacuous Pop frat party, it’s all very well done, and topped off with an eloquent architectural treatise called “No More Fucking Ugly Buildings”, which would get them Prince Charles’ vote if nothing else.

Their rise through the local hierarchy has been such a blur, it can be hard to remember for certain whether Harry Angel are any good or not. A sparking set on the main stage lets us see them in a fresh light. And don’t they look great? They’ve lost most of the early Radiohead flounces that used to define them, and hit the ground running on the dark side of the gothpop fence. If the guitar noise is like a huge slab of concrete then the vocal howls are deep cracks running through it. Melodic, imposing and impressive, Harry Angel sound powerful enough to coax some overcast darkness into the piercing sunshine. Surely not….

Everytime we see The Drugsquad we like them more, and today we’re especially grateful that they’re playing in the most watertight tent of them all as the heavens open. They may have two new members today (one tragically died and one foolishly moved to France) but the gist is the same - country coated ska punk delivered in a manic cutprice cabaret style. Imagine Murph & The Magictones jamming with Merle Haggard and Primus and you’re edging towards it…so long as you add some squeaking, wonky keyboards that could even teach Technikov a thing or two. A year ago we rather dismissively wrote, “it’s good, but it’s not rocket science”. Well, such is the audacity of arrangement underneath the tunes on display today, we’re tempted to imagine some NASA scientist, crouched over racks of monitors, mumbling to himself, “It’s good, but it’s not The Drugsquad”.

A desire to stay dry eventually wins in a battle with our desire to explore the festival, so we end up staying around for Jacob’s Stories, who trade in plangent vocal loops, aching viola and tinkling keys. We’re very annoyed to find that this delicate little show is actually pretty good and rather eerie in the midst of a raging storm, because it stops us using our close, but no sigur gag, which we were so looking forward to.

We suspect that A Silent Film’s first number was intended as epic Radioheaded piano rock, but from the back of a steaming Trailerpark tent complete with sound problems, it sounds oddly stoned and irie, like Muse covering The Orb’s “Towers Of Dub”. An interminable delay wringing rain from the PA later, and we get another track with a whiff of early 70s funk rock about it. It actually sounds very promising, but this is sadly not the gig to start judging. One to stick behind the ear for later, we feel.

More rebellious equipment over at the main stage, where Get Cap, Wear Cape, Fly has given up on his machines and simply strapped on his acoustic for a wee singsong. Pretty decent it is too, but too twee for this rain drenched reviewer, who decides a dancing bear might wake things up.

Oh dear, The Walk Off seem to have grown up. They’re even beginning to look like a real band now, with a sober vocalist and upright musicians. It’s still a damned fine punk trip through the Digital Hardcore mangle, but anyone who remembers the sheer exhilarating chaos of older sets might feel there’s something missing; quite possibly something distilled. But the bear is still the hardest working performer at the festival, and he didn’t even need a soundcheck.

We pop into the end of Danny Wilson’s set, hoping to hear “Mary’s Prayer”, but it turns out there’s just this one feller called Danny, not a troupe mid-80s washouts. Good news too, if what we hear is anything to go by, alovely slice of laidback country, like a barnyard Steve Harley, backed by some serious fiddle by Truck’s very own Joe Bennett.

We think we saw Jakokoyak playing solo earlier in the year, but we can’t be sure because the music we’re hearing today is so vastly different. In fact it’s a sort of tidy dull 80s rock that that Danny Wilson might have enjoyed, hideously reminiscent of an unplugged Aztec Camera. Quick, let’s get some metal down us.

Roughly everyone in Oxford has advised us to see Sow, such is their presence on the scene, even old ladies in Co-op. In a surprisingly sparse barn, however, their lead-heavy music doesn’t have much presence and all sounds somewhat polite and tinny. You can tell that it’s properly brutal stuff though, and it simply makes us even sadder that we missed their Punt performance.

Last year, Motormark entertained us with some camp techno goth tomfoolery. Whilst it at first appears that : ( might do something similar, they merely sound like two members of a tired emo band jamming along to an Amiga. But not as much fun.

We’ve run out of words to describe Fell City Girl. Of course, they’re a sheer joy today as ever, but you’ll know that if you’ve ever seen them; if you haven’t, are you sure you’re reading the right website? As we’ve said before, in a band oozing talent the real secret weapon is Shrek, who looks squashed behind his kit, but can play with startling delicacy. They should put him in the front, there are too many little pipsqueaks in rock anyway.

On record Battles are a glorious prog jazz techno affair, like ELP covering LFO. Unfortunately, from where we’re standing in the clamorous barn they may as well be ELO covering EMF, because all we can hear is a loud hum and some drums. They look like they’re playing a blinder though…the best acid house kraut jazz band we never heard in our lives.

Battle Of The Armbands

I have no data, but I seem to recall this was a Vacuous Pop night. They are usually worth a visit, though Ady doesn't seem to book so many as he used to, sadly. I do remember that the NME put a big picture of The Go Team next to this listing, just to confuse everybody!

I was listening to The Crash Crew just last week, brilliant stuff.

HELP SHE CAN'T SWIM/ CASSETTE FOR CASSETTE/ GO! TEAM GO! - The Wheatsheaf, 17/6/05

The Crash Crew liked them. So did Tele:funken. I like them too. I'm talking about the gloriously wonky and dissonant ice cream van chimes that used to echo through many a sunburned suburban suburb in my youth. For this reason, I find myself liking the keyboards in in tonight's set by Go! Team Go! When their lopsided, detuned innocence is not recalling the warcry of Mr. Whippy, they sound like those dinky baseball match organs that are probably the US equivalent.

Plinks and plonks aside, the show definitely falls on the shambolic side of messy, with untrained vocals yelped willy-nilly over arrhythmic drums and amateurish guitar, but the overall effect is relatively pleasing, and makes you think you're shambling round a youth club in 1986. However, making me think of ice lollies when The Wheatsheaf is this hot shouldn't be allowed.

Cassette For Cassette look very bored onstage. This is because

a) They've been told it's cool to look very bored
b) They're a bit shy, and don't know what to do with themselves
c) They're very bored

Let's hope the answer's b), otherwise I give up on them now, so depressing are the other options.

CFC's songs oscillate between "sparse" and "vacant", sounding something like The Breeders under very heavy sedation, with the announcer from Bank tube station on flat vocals. The syndrum interjections add a neat robotic edge to a few tracks, but the detached and unemotional trick is only ever pulled off by bands that can play very tightly indeed. CFC cannot play play very tightly indeed. Or maybe they can, and they're just too bored to do so. They should be careful they don't spend so much time being bored that the audience gets there first and pisses off somewhere less humid.

Lack of effort is not an accusation you could level against Help She Can't Swim. In a crowded, sweaty venue so warm it makes the B-52's Love Shack look like an industrial meatlocker, HSCS are throwing themselves round the stage and into the music with wild abandon.

I overhear a man claim the band are "the second coming of Bis", and there's definitely more cute indie bumblepop in evidence than you could throw a plastic Miffy hairclip at, but HSCS differ from Go! Team Go! and their ilk by exchanging shambolic for fervent, rehearsing once in a while, and writing the odd tune. Hardly a revelation, then, but they're certainly the only act on tonight to put a little sugary pop verve into my life, whihc is a minor achievement.

Moorcock & Bull

No, of course I've not read loads of Moorcock.

Blush.

THE ELRICS - Demo


Despite the Moorcockian moniker, The Elrics do not sound anything like Hawkwind. No hint of a whooshing keyboard, not the merest sniff of patchouli, nary a glimpse of a naked, gyrating dancer. In fact, on the opener, “She Doesn’t Exist” at least, they sound like simple, leather clad rockers, which is pretty much the antithesis of Tolkien ‘n’ toking hippy excess. The track is a forward driving scuzzy roadhouse chug that inevitably recalls the beercan rock revisionism of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. The vocal is a little adenoidal, and almost sounds like Suede without the drama, but that aside it’s a decent little rocker, and the highpoint on this demo.

Sadly “Living In England” takes us on a downturn, with a light slice of ersatz 60s pop, which might well be playing in the British Home Stores café at this very minute, for all we know. It’s not terrible, but the vocals have moved on to a mid-Atlantic Molko whine, and it shows a pretty powerful lack of inspiration. “It’s easy to forget the world/ When you’re living in England” claim the lyrics – perhaps you can equally mislay any sense of reality when you’re inhabiting some fugue state consisting of flimsy recreations of rock history, hmmm?

“Cynic” is equally artificial, a cheeky piece of frat house fun that bumps along like a happy jalopy filled with mythical spring break revellers, guzzling root beer, mooning vicars and copping a feel on the back seat. Although we’ve pretty much given up on the vocalist by now, the song is functionally pleasant, proffering plenty of solid bass work and some chiming guitar interjections. Weirdly the vocals become far less enraging on “Failure”, and the song is a winning college rock canter that falls short of R.E.M. and ends up hitting The Rembrandts, but is no tragedy for all that. We could imagine hordes swaying and singing along to this in a sweaty club, and even if we can only imagine this happening on the set of Friends, that’s still nothing to be ashamed of.

In the final analysis, The Elrics are something like a second hand car from Exchange & Mart: reliable, smooth-running, likable, perhaps a little clunky and old fashioned, but hard to criticise. If you end up with them you know you’ll have got a good deal, but it won’t stop you remembering that there are better options out there; just bear in mind that it could have ended up much, much worse.

Head Band

Stick it up yer garrett!

THE GULLIVERS – TIME TO TIME (demo)


Though we all aspire to being twisted black-hearted cynics encamped in dark garrets sneering at the menial world’s artistic endeavours, there’s nothing we reviewers actually like more than to watch a band grow and improve, and beneath our stern patrician veneers we all urge to nurture musicians and see them reach greater heights. So it’s with a jubilant spirit that I announce the arrival of the new demo from Bicester punks The Gullivers, comfortably their best recording yet. Their early work was a less than inspiring missive from the overcrowded vandalised playground ruled over by The Libertines, but slowly they’ve been creeping out from under this undesirable shadow and beating their sound into a more cohesive shape.

Special mention must go to vocalist Mark Byrne who sings with a naturally accented honesty and doesn’t try to disguise any lapses in tuning. He has a voice like bruised fruit, forever edging up to the melody then dropping away, sounding oddly like a snotty young version of namesake David Byrne, and this gives The Gullivers a refreshing sense of openness. No posturing here, no showboating, just that pleasurable but all too rare beast called straight up pop-punk, with its heart in the twilight world of suburban ennui.

“Panic, Rush” displays the more melodic side to their writing, but the recording’s title track, with it’s rhythmic bounce and neatly placed handclaps under the choppy guitars, recalls local punks Junkie Brush, albeit with a lighter touch. In fact, as the recording goes by it becomes clear that there’s a pop band hidden in The Gullivers somewhere, and it will be interesting to see whether the sneering nihilism or the whistleable tunes eventually get the upper hand. “Morning After (The Night Before)” has all the Johnny Rotten vocal abrasion you could wish, but somehow it still sounds like the distant cousin of blur’s “Globe Alone”.

This is no tragedy, and the lighter tones make the music that much more individual: only final track, “Hierarchy”, lets us down, plodding along insolently despite the opening bars’ promise to turn into a drizzly cul-de-sac version of “Paint It Black”. So there’s work to be done yet, and I’d be lying if I claimed this were an entirely satisfying, fully-formed band, but things are moving in the right direction with increasing urgency, and who are we to argue with that? The Gullivers already sound like themselves, which is a trick so many bands forget to pull off, that I’m going to sound my support.

That felt good. You know, I think I’ll give the old garret a lick of paint and open the windows.

Nuclear Device?

This is one of those few reviews for which I have an email from the performers, thanking me for the review; not really because I said nice things, but because it was clear I'd listened to the thing. Sad, really, that this needs commenting on, wouldn't you say?

FAMILY MACHINE – YOU ARE THE FAMILY MACHINE (Alcopop)



People generally don’t listen to lyrics. At least not to the verses. Elvis Costello tells stories of late 80’s parents requesting his hit “Veronica” on the radio to celebrate their little princess’ birthday, when it’s actually about Elvis’ Mum going nutty in a nursing home. Ten years later there’s the tale of married couples spinning Baby Bird’s “You’re Gorgeous” at their wedding, despite the fact that even a cursory listen to the seedy storyline would seem to supply a perfectly good reason not to use it as your first dance. (Another being, of course, that it’s shit.)

We can imagine something similar happening to Family Machine’s greatest song, “Flowers By The Roadside”, in which intelligent lyrics probe society’s rituals of remembrance atop one of the catchiest melodies ever produced in Oxford. It even has a bloody whistling break. Is Family Machine - we know it looks stupid without a definite article in front, but that’s how it’s written on the sleeve, and we’re nothing if not anal about stuff like that – trying to smuggle mournful themes into our heads in the disguise of gorgeous pop music? If so, they do a very good job of the disguising: half of this album is heart-breaking melancholy, and the other half is meaningless fluff fun, best seen in “The Do Song”, a nonsensical pop romp which is like a cross between The Wannadies and Francis Lai’s theme to Un Homme & Une Femme.

Opener “Ko Tao” sets the tone, with a lightweight fuzz guitar bounce that recalls T Rex at their least serious. Before we know it, however, we’re immersed in the banjo plucking simplicity of “Burn Like Stars” or the resigned sadness of “Paving Stone Monsters”, which is heart-breaking even though we’re not sure precisely what these ever-present monsters symbolise. Even “Got It Made” undercuts its sampladelic Ninja Tune spy theme air with a widescreen pathos coda that could have come from Ennio Morricone’s most tear-jerking drawer. In fact, it’s only “Lethal Drugs Cocktail” that spoils the mood, coming off as too deliberately matey, like a desperate uncle making bad jokes at a wedding (though we’ll laugh at anything to drown out Baby Bird).

“Did You Leave” is perhaps a summation of the whole album, building an elegiac mood with heavily reverbed melody lines only to suddenly subsume it in bubbly “Ba ba ba” backing vocals. Except that the sadness never quite disappears, even as the grins surface. Maybe Family Machine is saying that melancholia is an undercurrent in even our happiest moments; or maybe the point is that even despair can have a tinge of happiness – it’s joyous to be alive and feel something, even if it’s only misery. Concluding the record with an uncredited lofi instrumental probably indicates that we’re not encouraged to reach definite conclusions about such things.

Beyond all this philosophising, You Are The Family Machine is simply a fantastic relaxed album of semi-acoustic pop, that can make you dance on the tables downing sangria one minute, and slump weeping into your whisky the next. Highly recommended.

Belting It Out

A festival in a Christian youth club. A not particularly interesting review with a shit pun for the title. Hardly a marriage made in heaven.

BELOW THE BELT ALL-DAYER, The Mish, 23/11/08


Never let it be said that we don’t enjoy finding new musical experiences, in addition to the usual Friday night down The Sheaf, but who seriously would have thought we’d find ourselves at an all-dayer on a Sunday. In a youth club! Run by a church!! With no bar!!! Once we got over the weirdness of it all, we decided that The Mish, on St Clements, is a rather lovely little place, with a decent sound system and a relaxed friendly atmosphere. It’s like falling into some alternate universe where The Cellar is clean and comfy, and serves mugs of coffee.

G-Block kick things off with panache, but seem to be suffering from that hip hop epidemic, Crewitis, which causes an uncomfortable swelling of the MC roster. There are so many rappers onstage we don’t even notice one of them till he steps from the shadows to take the mike, and although there’s a wide range of styles on offer, not to mention some real talent bubbling under, the entire set feels unfocused and fragmented, with so many vocalists strung together. A jam on a Fugees rhythm, whilst a little too soft-centred to do them justice, shows what G-Block can do when things are tidied up. Ultimately the set tails off, primarily because one unimaginatively strummed guitar can never take the place of a full fat beat, but there’s more than enough potential here to make it worth remembering the name G-Block.

Sadly Vultures don’t reprise their Charlbury set, but instead opt to play in a two guitar, semi-acoustic duo formation that’s relaxing but hardly revolutionary. The vocals are still sweet and catchy, and it sounds not unlike The La’s playing some sort of post-hoedown chill out session, but this is not the sort of stuff to set your Sunday aflame.

The excellent Jon Fletcher revives proceedings with a show that just oozes gigging experience: it’s not just his assured guitar fingering or his loose unhurried vocals that show he’s a past master at this sort of thing, but it’s the off the cuff banter that draws everyone together and manages to make the event feel like an intimate party for the first time that day….which is exactly how a basement full of sofas and hot chocolate should feel on a cold winter’s day. “Hold My Breath” reminds us of Bert Jansch’s unflustered melancholia, and the whole set balances implausibly between introspection and cheekiness in a thoroughly winning fashion.

Excellence of a different sort when event organisers Baby Gravy take the stage, mixing Gang Of Four’s stutter funk with the glorious vacuity of Gwen Stefani’s strip-lit mall pop. There’s plenty of fuzzy early 80s awkwardness here, of the sort you can find clogging the pages of Artrocker, but there’s also an intensity in the performance that other neo-wave poseurs lack (the effect isn’t harmed by the fact it’s bloody loud!). Admittedly the rhythms sometimes stumble when they should bounce, but when the buzzing keyboards stomp inexorably over everything like a giant BBC “B” sprite and the declamatory vocals start thumping at your eardrums, you know that these tiny details don’t matter.

Mr Shaodow pops up unexpectedly to crack out a tune with Baby Gravy, and treat us to his new single, “Grime”. It such a pleasure to see that his confidence has grown to match his wordplay over the past couple of years, and where once we saw him stuttering like an inexperienced comedian between tracks, now we see him working a room to perfection – even if that room is mostly empty and enjoying a nice sit down.

Rambunctious punk pop should have been the ideal chaser to this heady double act, but somehow Among The Giants have missed the target. The lumpy, chugging music is passable, but is let down by the horrible vocal foghorn honking all over it. If he really tried hard, the singer could sound like a bladdered trucker offering you a fight on George Street, but at the moment he’s slightly less charming. Still, nice to have something to aim for, eh?

Just as our thoughts are turning longingly to a Sunday roast, The Repeats cap the afternoon off immaculately. Imagine, if you will, a fizzy pop version of Talking Heads, sprinkled with rubbery bass and spindly guitar that could have been borrowed from Battles or Foals, but reminds us more of Ghanaian hi-life and township jive. There are even some unexpectedly jaunty keyboards that could have come from some ancient stadium gig by Paul Simon, 10CC or even Genesis. Admittedly, The Repeats have so many ideas laying around they do occasionally trip over them, and the vocalist could probably push himself a touch harder but the whole effect is as intoxicating as you’d expect an arch indie band featuring a cowbell and clave breakdown to be. A band to actively seek out.

And sadly, here our festival ended, though there were four acts left to entertain the crowd – which never got particularly large, but never lost its friendly atmosphere – and we leave the Mish hoping that our next Below The Belt experience is not too far away. And features some beer, naturally.

Crepuscule's Out

Sorry, I'm busting for the loo, got to go.

THE EVENINGS – LET’S GO REMIXED (FREEDOM ROAD)


Local remix projects: collaborative fruit of a fertile scene, or the tarnish on the gate of the clique enclosure? Discuss with reference to the new Evenings remix album.

OK, we’ll spare you the sophomore essay for now, but it is a vexed question, as remix LPs rarely have any internal logic and often come with the lumpy, lopsided feel of a bootleg rather than the balanced, polished heft of a proper album. Most don’t even have the curatorial input of a compilation, as tracks are accrued at various times from disparate sources, which is especially true in the case of this CD, which was a few years in the making. But, despite the imperfections of the form, this is still an intriguing record, and even if it can’t claim to be as successful as Smilex’ recent mixfest, there are still some gems to be discovered.

Not least the very first track, which could well be the best on the entire album. King Of The Rumbling Spires takes “PA” and lays it out on a warm afternoon to meditate as a cowpoke ambles by at a country lope. It brings to mind long forgotten ambient “supergroup” FFWD (which consisted of members The Orb with Robert Fripp and Thomas Fehlmann) and even blissed out Sunday tea new agers Channel Light Vessel. Other successes must be Boy With A Toy’s ruination of “Golf Audience Reaction To Missed Putt” to a hellish miasma of loops (and if you think that’s a criticism, you don’t know us very well!) and nervous_testpilot’s Hammer House Of Hardcore cheap gothic remake of “Pink Breakfast”. The most conceptually intriguing selection is Wendy And The Brain’s take on “SHRR001”, a jokey spoken word interlude on the original album - the string of chopped samples and FX may not be entirely successful, but it’s a darn sight more amusing than the original flat gag.

At the less enticing end of the spectrum, Oliver Shaw doesn’t do much more than play a bit of guitar over the top of “Harness The Yearn” and Smilex don’t make a vast impact on “Lee The Way”, whereas the second mix of “Let’s Go” is…well, put it like this, we listened to this CD without checking the tracklist, so as to be completely impartial in our response, but it didn’t take us long to work out that this was Twizz Twangle’s effort. Huge chunks of the original are brutally intercut with uncomfortable loops from some 80s soul tune and what sound s like it could be R.E.M. Full marks for audacity, but you’ve got to conclude that this is a failure. Perhaps it’s inevitable that a man who’s gloriously incapable of playing a song the same way twice can’t grasp the idea of the remix?

Between these poles there’s much tuneful techno of a diverting nature, which is well worth a listen, even if it’s fails to live up to The Evenings’ wired wonder. Perhaps it’s because there’s a certain undertow of cheap cabaret about the band. From Mark Wilden’s original dream of a supper band called Tony Fucker & The Evenings to their occasional nod towards phone hold muzak melodies, there’s always been a ghost of some Murph & The Magictones monstrosity behind The Evenings’ music. It could be that upsetting the balance of the original material gives this cheese factor a little too much prominence, and thus the lovely “Minerals” finds itself transformed into two forgettable pieces of synth twiddle. Or it could be that in general remixes are on a hiding to nothing, as they either sound too much like the original to be worth it, or too much like the remixer to make much sense. Maybe only someone who’d never heard of The Evenings could give an honest appraisal of this record. Or The Evenings themselves, of course…