Here's today's critmungous archive review. I've edited out the bit where I erroneously claimed that Linda Lusardi played euphonium.
HAMMER VS THE SNAKE – GOODS (LOSSLESS RECORDS)
We first came across Hammer VS The Snake at a University Battle Of The Bands, where they lit up proceedings by bringing some fizzy synth abandon to the MOR indie drudgery that had enslaved most other entrants. They didn’t win, because they were pretty bad musicians, but the concept was worth celebrating. Eighteen months on and things are much the same. HVTS have polished themselves up to a certain extent, but a whiff of the ramshackle remains.
Culpability for this lingering “not quite” air is best laid at the feet of the drummer, who probably wants to play with a lively punk funk twitch but comes across as a man who can barely hold a rhythm, so spastic is the result. It wouldn’t matter so much if he hadn’t mixed his snare at weapons grade level. Once past these percussive foibles moments of the material are quite decent, opener “Blame” proffering tinny synth buzzes and some classily incomprehensible Adam Ant yelping (do I hear the lyric “Shall I hiccough my cereal”? Is jentacular regurgitation what all the kids are into these days?) that’ll do nicely, thank you. “Watcha Need” has a shouted section that could make it a forerunner in the hunt to find a theme tune for a remake of Why Don’t You?, which is something we don’t get to write every day.
But when these quirky moments of intrigue pass, the songs as a whole do feel somewhat thin: mouth-watering keyboard spangs and rubbery vocals tend to give way to insubstantial wanderings that bring to mind a lukewarm Hot Chip. Final track “Life And Times” is a simpler guitar strum that recalls Pluto Monkey, and that’s a pleasant change, but it’s too little too late. We need bands like HVTS. We need them to inject character into the often homogenous world of local rock music. We need them to highlight the tedium of most Battle Of The Bands entrants. We need their puppet-jerk music to make people dance like awkward animations. But we do need them to make better records if we’re ever to love them.
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Pocket Knives
Just found this review. It was submitted to Oxfordbands.com, but never used. It's not great, to be frank. There are still not enough Steely Dan covers in the world of indie pop.
THE YOUNG KNIVES/ THE EVENINGS/ THE THUMB QUINTET, Audioscope, Port Mahon
The Thompson Twins. Ben Folds Five. The Thumb Quintet: all bands who can't count their own members. Yes, there are only two in The Thumb Quintet (although there are four thumbs) and they each have a guitar. On the basis of tonight's performance, however, they don't need the extra members.
Ben from eeebleee and a chap from Cardboard (both were in X-1, unless I'm much mistaken) have clearly been listening to a bit of Fahey and Jansch lately, and have swapped their noisy amps for some countrified acoustic fingerpicking. Perhaps at times it isn't perfectly fluid but the playing is still beautiful, galloping rhythms suddenly turning up amongst clusters of plucked motifs, and the botleneck slide parts are achingly lovely. I hope that this is more than a one-off arrangement, boys.
Local acts that shouldn't work at an acoustic night? Well, nervous_testpilot would have quite some trouble, and I'd love to see Winnebago Deal attempt to play with a lute and some bongos, but The Evenings would have to come high on the list, right? Wrong!
Proving once again that they are the most original and resourceful band in town, Mark Wilden and his merry troubadours exchange the synths and breakbeats for glockenspiels, sax and percussion. Somehow their funky dance silliness mutates softly into a warm, organic bramble of sound. And silliness.
The first number is subtle and intoxicating, bobbing on Jo Guest's bowed bass; before we know it, everything's pounding and surprisingly loud; next they turn all melancholic and intense: this gig has it all. I also feel they're all concentrating a little harder than recent gigs (Truck, for example). Hell, they even do a cover of "Born Slippy" and it almost works.
The Young Knives are the only act on who don't meet the problems set by the acoustic dictum head on. They don't play badly, and they're as entertaining as ever, complete with funny headwear and the best Scrabble monologue in pop history, but tonight they're just a lesser version of themselves. Like watching Delicatessen or something equally cinemtically lush on a tiny B/W portable, this gig is fine, but necessarily a compromise.
They aren't the greatest singers in town either, are they? Still, always nice to hear a Steely Dan cover, that's something you don't come across enough nowadays. Or ever, come to think of it.
THE YOUNG KNIVES/ THE EVENINGS/ THE THUMB QUINTET, Audioscope, Port Mahon
The Thompson Twins. Ben Folds Five. The Thumb Quintet: all bands who can't count their own members. Yes, there are only two in The Thumb Quintet (although there are four thumbs) and they each have a guitar. On the basis of tonight's performance, however, they don't need the extra members.
Ben from eeebleee and a chap from Cardboard (both were in X-1, unless I'm much mistaken) have clearly been listening to a bit of Fahey and Jansch lately, and have swapped their noisy amps for some countrified acoustic fingerpicking. Perhaps at times it isn't perfectly fluid but the playing is still beautiful, galloping rhythms suddenly turning up amongst clusters of plucked motifs, and the botleneck slide parts are achingly lovely. I hope that this is more than a one-off arrangement, boys.
Local acts that shouldn't work at an acoustic night? Well, nervous_testpilot would have quite some trouble, and I'd love to see Winnebago Deal attempt to play with a lute and some bongos, but The Evenings would have to come high on the list, right? Wrong!
Proving once again that they are the most original and resourceful band in town, Mark Wilden and his merry troubadours exchange the synths and breakbeats for glockenspiels, sax and percussion. Somehow their funky dance silliness mutates softly into a warm, organic bramble of sound. And silliness.
The first number is subtle and intoxicating, bobbing on Jo Guest's bowed bass; before we know it, everything's pounding and surprisingly loud; next they turn all melancholic and intense: this gig has it all. I also feel they're all concentrating a little harder than recent gigs (Truck, for example). Hell, they even do a cover of "Born Slippy" and it almost works.
The Young Knives are the only act on who don't meet the problems set by the acoustic dictum head on. They don't play badly, and they're as entertaining as ever, complete with funny headwear and the best Scrabble monologue in pop history, but tonight they're just a lesser version of themselves. Like watching Delicatessen or something equally cinemtically lush on a tiny B/W portable, this gig is fine, but necessarily a compromise.
They aren't the greatest singers in town either, are they? Still, always nice to hear a Steely Dan cover, that's something you don't come across enough nowadays. Or ever, come to think of it.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
You Need Arms
Brakspear hangover. New Fall LP on fat double vinyl. Planning tonight's gig. Oddly pleasant Saturday afternoon.
THIS TOWN NEEDS GUNS – HIPPY JAM FEST (THE LIKES OF WHICH HAS NEVER BEEN SEEN BEFORE) (Big Scary Monsters)
Having spent an evening in a field with Redox, we feel we’re qualified to comment on this sort of thing: whatever they may promise, This Town Needs Guns have not recorded much of a hippy jam fest. In fact, with its elegant dynamics and controlled emotional outbursts TTNG’s music is about as far from a stoned freeform ramble as it’s possible to get, which is probably the point. We may as well get the Fell City Girl reference out of the way now. Yes, TTNG emerged at the same Battle Of The Bands, and, yes, they yank some of the same emotirock chains, but TTNG have replaced Fell City Girl’s nebula-sized progpop choruses with the sort of glacial melancholy that underpinned undertheigloo’s recent Circlesend album.
The title track opens in the middle of choppy waters courtesy of a clinically rocking guitar that oddly recalls Days Of Grace. If the seas are becalmed for some quite lovely vocals immediately after, it doesn’t take an aged seadog to tell that the storm’s brewing on the horizon again. It’s an effective chunk of wideangled pop, oscillating between serene folky lacunae and tom-thumping crescendos that actually work, lifting the emotional level of the song. Our only complaint is that the louder vocals sound like they’re snatching swiftly at the notes, like an unfit man touching his toes for a microsecond. We’ve got an excellent vocal reference point to use here, but we promised not to mention a certain band again.
“Denial Adams” just sounds like a more successful rewrite of the opener – far from being repetitive it makes a pleasing balance, and the voice sails across the sound with far more authority. It’s in the sense of brooding menace that this track succeeds, some simple strings adding a treacherous undertow to the delicate rhythms. The piano parts do tinkle slightly redundantly, and threaten to step over into Keane territory on some unpleasant occasions, but this aside the song is hugely successful.
CD bonus “Like Romeo & Juliet” – but, err, you get a free CD copy whenever you buy the 7” anyway, which is a pretty wayward marketing technique – flits by pleasantly, but pretty much sounds like offcuts from all their other songs swept form the rehearsal room floor and squeezed together like slivers of soap, and some well-controlled drum work can’t lift the song into anything very memorable. A very assured record, then, from a band that are improving in leaps and bounds, and our only major criticism is a slight feeling of bluster around the music, that feels too eager to get straight into pushing the emotional buttons. Let the songs stretch out a little, give them time to breathe, and who knows what might happen? Oh, and think of a better title next time, for God’s sake.
THIS TOWN NEEDS GUNS – HIPPY JAM FEST (THE LIKES OF WHICH HAS NEVER BEEN SEEN BEFORE) (Big Scary Monsters)
Having spent an evening in a field with Redox, we feel we’re qualified to comment on this sort of thing: whatever they may promise, This Town Needs Guns have not recorded much of a hippy jam fest. In fact, with its elegant dynamics and controlled emotional outbursts TTNG’s music is about as far from a stoned freeform ramble as it’s possible to get, which is probably the point. We may as well get the Fell City Girl reference out of the way now. Yes, TTNG emerged at the same Battle Of The Bands, and, yes, they yank some of the same emotirock chains, but TTNG have replaced Fell City Girl’s nebula-sized progpop choruses with the sort of glacial melancholy that underpinned undertheigloo’s recent Circlesend album.
The title track opens in the middle of choppy waters courtesy of a clinically rocking guitar that oddly recalls Days Of Grace. If the seas are becalmed for some quite lovely vocals immediately after, it doesn’t take an aged seadog to tell that the storm’s brewing on the horizon again. It’s an effective chunk of wideangled pop, oscillating between serene folky lacunae and tom-thumping crescendos that actually work, lifting the emotional level of the song. Our only complaint is that the louder vocals sound like they’re snatching swiftly at the notes, like an unfit man touching his toes for a microsecond. We’ve got an excellent vocal reference point to use here, but we promised not to mention a certain band again.
“Denial Adams” just sounds like a more successful rewrite of the opener – far from being repetitive it makes a pleasing balance, and the voice sails across the sound with far more authority. It’s in the sense of brooding menace that this track succeeds, some simple strings adding a treacherous undertow to the delicate rhythms. The piano parts do tinkle slightly redundantly, and threaten to step over into Keane territory on some unpleasant occasions, but this aside the song is hugely successful.
CD bonus “Like Romeo & Juliet” – but, err, you get a free CD copy whenever you buy the 7” anyway, which is a pretty wayward marketing technique – flits by pleasantly, but pretty much sounds like offcuts from all their other songs swept form the rehearsal room floor and squeezed together like slivers of soap, and some well-controlled drum work can’t lift the song into anything very memorable. A very assured record, then, from a band that are improving in leaps and bounds, and our only major criticism is a slight feeling of bluster around the music, that feels too eager to get straight into pushing the emotional buttons. Let the songs stretch out a little, give them time to breathe, and who knows what might happen? Oh, and think of a better title next time, for God’s sake.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Riverside 2009 Pt 3
Next up, Ginger Toddler Rucksack Headbutt. No, not the latest Poor Girl Noise booking, just a thing that happened whilst we were laying back watching Two Fingers Of Firewater. And, hey, it’s a festival, if you want to express yourself by bashing our bag about, feel free – decent soundtrack to do it to, as well. We could talk about Two Fingers’ dry humour, their contempo-country lope, their chiming pedal steel or their ‘60s rock touches (we heard the odd waft of Love in the climax), but all we can think about is their wah-wah mandolin.
The Epstein has long been a favourite of ours, and it’s been a long while since we saw them, but at first our rendezvous wasn’t too joyous. The opening two numbers just didn’t grasp us, and seemed overly polished and polite after Two Fingers. Thankfully, “Black Dog” gets things back on track, Stefan Hamilton’s electric banjo scuttles drawing us in, and Oli Wills’ easy, fruity vocal grasping us by the hand and leading us down some dusty mesa. Even if it’s not their finest set, their encore was the track of the weekend, despite an awkward false start, a monolithic sonic surge creating valleys in its wake.
And after that, Liddington were a disappointment, to put it mildly. All the things that have been alleged about Inlight, and against which we have (partly) defended them, ring clear and true of Liddington: empty, vacuous stadium pop, with no discernible character and a vocal that is drab and lifeless just when the music is crying out for something, anything, to lift it out of the slough of over-amped indie balladeers swamping our nation’s musical profile. And, yet again, we feel bored stupid by the giant gestures that the music is trying to make: what’s wrong with you lot? Are you so concerned that your point won’t get across that you have to make it as big and obvious as possible? What are you, a pop band or air traffic controllers? After all, you don’t find us standing dead centre of the stage miming an elaborately theatrical yawn to show how little we’re enjoying the set, do you? OK, OK, Liddington aren’t the worst band of the day (no kilts, see), and a few of the keyboard sounds were well chosen, but by this time we really need something to engage us, and not a whole bunch of vapid honks that sound like old Huey Lewis tunes left out in Chris Martin’s allotment for twenty years until every glint of colour has been bleached out, and nothing is left but the clumsy shell.
But, this brief concluding burst of rage notwithstanding, this has been an excellent festival. It’s our third Riverside, and the first at which we’ve felt that the two stages have been equally interesting. Once again, the effort of putting on this event for free is an astonishing thought to contemplate, and whilst we wish that the organisers could try paddling outside of their safety zones, we’re always happy to roll up our trouserlegs and join them for a dip. Book us in a Diplomat’s Coffee, we’ll be there as soon as the doors open in 2010.
The Epstein has long been a favourite of ours, and it’s been a long while since we saw them, but at first our rendezvous wasn’t too joyous. The opening two numbers just didn’t grasp us, and seemed overly polished and polite after Two Fingers. Thankfully, “Black Dog” gets things back on track, Stefan Hamilton’s electric banjo scuttles drawing us in, and Oli Wills’ easy, fruity vocal grasping us by the hand and leading us down some dusty mesa. Even if it’s not their finest set, their encore was the track of the weekend, despite an awkward false start, a monolithic sonic surge creating valleys in its wake.
And after that, Liddington were a disappointment, to put it mildly. All the things that have been alleged about Inlight, and against which we have (partly) defended them, ring clear and true of Liddington: empty, vacuous stadium pop, with no discernible character and a vocal that is drab and lifeless just when the music is crying out for something, anything, to lift it out of the slough of over-amped indie balladeers swamping our nation’s musical profile. And, yet again, we feel bored stupid by the giant gestures that the music is trying to make: what’s wrong with you lot? Are you so concerned that your point won’t get across that you have to make it as big and obvious as possible? What are you, a pop band or air traffic controllers? After all, you don’t find us standing dead centre of the stage miming an elaborately theatrical yawn to show how little we’re enjoying the set, do you? OK, OK, Liddington aren’t the worst band of the day (no kilts, see), and a few of the keyboard sounds were well chosen, but by this time we really need something to engage us, and not a whole bunch of vapid honks that sound like old Huey Lewis tunes left out in Chris Martin’s allotment for twenty years until every glint of colour has been bleached out, and nothing is left but the clumsy shell.
But, this brief concluding burst of rage notwithstanding, this has been an excellent festival. It’s our third Riverside, and the first at which we’ve felt that the two stages have been equally interesting. Once again, the effort of putting on this event for free is an astonishing thought to contemplate, and whilst we wish that the organisers could try paddling outside of their safety zones, we’re always happy to roll up our trouserlegs and join them for a dip. Book us in a Diplomat’s Coffee, we’ll be there as soon as the doors open in 2010.
Riverside 2009 Pt 2
After a quick burst of Winnebago Deal’s palate cleansing bludgeon, we check in with Oxfordshire’s other favourite duo, as Little Fish crank up on the main stage. Reviewing them makes us feel like some Oxford music Grinch – no matter how good they clearly are, nor how entertaining their set is, we just can’t see them conquering the world and changing the face of music as we know it, as so many people seem to expect. A topic for another day, perhaps, as they certainly don’t put a foot wrong onstage (although not talking breathless nonsense about chickens between every song might be nice), and Juju and Nez are definitely the only people performing today who look like they were born to be onstage: they manage to eclipse the spectacle of Smilex’ caffeinated cabaret just by, you know, being there. In fact, far from being the authors of life affirming pop anthems, we think of Little Fish more as old fashioned craftspeople. The songs are pretty much all two chord bashes, with little more than repeated blues rock yelps over the top, and they don’t really say or do anything at all, but they are gorgeously honed and shaped and whittled to perfection. Less like the universal soul poetry of the much referenced Patti Smith, then, and more analogous to expert niche electronica producers, creating generic yet immaculate music for the discerning connoisseur.
“We’re very lucky to have them,” announces the Riverside MC about the closing act. Wait, is it a reunited Morrissey and Marr? Has Beefheart been coaxed out of retirement? No, it’s Tristan & The Troubadours, some lads from down the road. Keep some perspective, love. But admittedly they’ve come a very long way since they opened the main stage two years ago, and now offer a very confident set, replete with literate lyrics and interesting arrangements, something like Belle & Sebastian’s early effete library pop filtered through the matinee rock of locals Witches and Borderville. Very good indeed, and a fitting end to what had been a hugely satisfying afternoon of music – and all for blinking free, lest we forget. Some acts made more impression than others admittedly, but there was literally nothing on the bill deserving harsh criticism, and it was a pleasure from start to finish. The effort that goes into the festival should be applauded by all right-minded music fans.
Sunday
What could be more Gallic than a stripy top, an accordion and a Jacques Brel cover? Except for singing in like, French, and Les Clochards do that too. But even if you’re semi-bilingual, like us, there’s tons to enjoy here, from the intimate vocals to the tight, buoyant drumming, to the rich chocolaty bass, which wraps round us on “Lavinia”. Like The Relationships, a band with whom they share a close history, Les Clochards show that you don’t have to be like Tristan & The Troubadours, and fill your lyrics with death, ravens and black portent to be poetic, a well phrased piece of story telling can cut right to the quick. Pound for pound Sunday’s lineup wasn’t a patch on Saturday’s, but Les Clochards quietly turned in one of the sets of the weekend to a smattering of listeners.
Oh, fuck off! Look, we like covers bands in principle, we like ska and punk, we even like fun every once in awhile, but the repugnantly named When Alcohol Matters come from that horrible school of non-thought stating that a complete absence of talent and ideas are instantly justified by putting on some silly clothes. So, here we go, one of WAM is wearing a red beret and a kilt. Wild. The new wave era tunes they play are generally fine – “Geno”, “Too Much, Too Young”, and so on – and the dual saxes aren’t bad, but the rhythms are sluggish and the vocals are just terrible. Talk about a paucity of ideas: simply playing songs you quite like doesn’t make you a good band, especially if you don’t play them very well. Still, a kilt. Just imagine.
Anyway, if you really want to know when alcohol maters, talk to some of the revellers about their attempts to smuggle it onto the site! Some were successful, but Banjo Boy, our homebrew proffering chum from last year, was stopped at the gate with four cans of beer, so he just stood there in front of the entrance and drank them one after the other. Before lunch. You have to admire that sort of behaviour…unless you’re a hepatologist.
Over on the second stage young Chipping Norton outfit Relay may not be laden down by new ideas, but they’re worth a hundred WAMs. Most of their songs are lean and poppy jaunts very much on the vein of Arctic Monkeys, but when they strip things down they have quite a subtle touch, and Jamie Biles has the beginnings of a pleasant indie croon.
“Hi, I’m Judi, and I’m fourteen,” says Judi Luxmoore of Judi & The Jesters. And then she says it again. It’s either an apology in advance, or an attempt to make your friendly neighbourhood hatchetman reviewer look deep into his dark soul. And, no, we’re not in the business of destroying the dreams of nervous teenagers who have bit the bullet and climbed onstage, so let’s get this over with. The Jesters play dirt simple lightly countrified songs, that are part Kitty Wells, and part “The Wheels On The Bus Go Round & Round”, and once she gets warmed up Judi has a pleasing voice. There’s a huge amount of potential here, but let’s be straight, at the moment that’s all there is, and Judi’s presence on the bill is something of an indulgence. Worth investigating in a couple of years, perhaps, and definitely worth investigating if the alternative is WAM.
A walk back to the main stage really brings home how very different in size the two stages are. We wonder how many festival goers never even get past the toilet block over the weekend. Anyway, Alan Fraser is getting the benefit of the excellent PA on the main stage, and his jazz sax floats across the crowd with crystal clear sound. His tone is amazing, so pure and smooth, but the set itself is a real old West Coast jazz dawdle, like Stan Getz locked in an old folks home store cupboard and half buried under discarded surgical trusses. As the set progresses Fraser starts to bring out some interesting low end honks and rasps, and a decent swipe at Miles’ “All Blues” mean we almost let him get away with it, until his sanctimonious sign off, “Thanks for listening, those of you who were listening and not just hearing”. And there we were waiting for you to start playing, and not just making the right sounds. Supercilious old trout.
We’ve got a bit muddled, but we think the band we drop in on back at the second stage briefly is Man Make Fire. How about Man Throw All Your Instruments On It Whilst He There, if the limp soggy rendition of “Purple Haze” is anything to go by. Time for a swift exit.
Back To Haunt Us, Part Four: billypure make mention of our review of last year’s festival during their main stage set, and our allegation that they want to be The Waterboys. Well, that’s not quite what we meant, but they do knock out the same Waterboys cover version and unless we misheard, it sounds as though they actually got their name from the lyrics, so we reckon they’re being a bit defensive. Anyway, the song actually sounds lacklustre amongst some of their own, and their arrangement of “The Raggle Taggle Gypsy” is a searing folk rock delight. It’s a chirpy, chunky set, with some useful fiddle parts, and we enjoy it enormously. Does remind us a little of another band, though…oh, what are they called again…
Rob Stevenson from A Silent Film is firmly in the same breed as Juju from Little Fish, he looks so relaxed prowling around on the huge stage you’d think he was born and raised there. They play a textbook set of wide-armed emotirock (featuring a genius reworking of Underworld’s “Born Slippy”), Rob’s warm, falsetto-happy voice twining gorgeously around his keyboard lines (a synth in the body of a parlour upright piano, nice touch). No offence meant to the man, but our favourite track is the opener during which the guitarist is busy trying to sort out his hardware, and we get a spacious marimba led tune, as some of the music felt clogged and overly rich. And that’s our only criticism: ASF are like Inlight - although clearly so much better - in that their songs are all huge and simple, as if they’re trying to create music that can be seen from space. Look, we’re just over here, a few feet away, no need to telegraph the emotions, just let them happen. When the scale is brought down a peg or two, this band is disarmingly impressive.
“We’re very lucky to have them,” announces the Riverside MC about the closing act. Wait, is it a reunited Morrissey and Marr? Has Beefheart been coaxed out of retirement? No, it’s Tristan & The Troubadours, some lads from down the road. Keep some perspective, love. But admittedly they’ve come a very long way since they opened the main stage two years ago, and now offer a very confident set, replete with literate lyrics and interesting arrangements, something like Belle & Sebastian’s early effete library pop filtered through the matinee rock of locals Witches and Borderville. Very good indeed, and a fitting end to what had been a hugely satisfying afternoon of music – and all for blinking free, lest we forget. Some acts made more impression than others admittedly, but there was literally nothing on the bill deserving harsh criticism, and it was a pleasure from start to finish. The effort that goes into the festival should be applauded by all right-minded music fans.
Sunday
What could be more Gallic than a stripy top, an accordion and a Jacques Brel cover? Except for singing in like, French, and Les Clochards do that too. But even if you’re semi-bilingual, like us, there’s tons to enjoy here, from the intimate vocals to the tight, buoyant drumming, to the rich chocolaty bass, which wraps round us on “Lavinia”. Like The Relationships, a band with whom they share a close history, Les Clochards show that you don’t have to be like Tristan & The Troubadours, and fill your lyrics with death, ravens and black portent to be poetic, a well phrased piece of story telling can cut right to the quick. Pound for pound Sunday’s lineup wasn’t a patch on Saturday’s, but Les Clochards quietly turned in one of the sets of the weekend to a smattering of listeners.
Oh, fuck off! Look, we like covers bands in principle, we like ska and punk, we even like fun every once in awhile, but the repugnantly named When Alcohol Matters come from that horrible school of non-thought stating that a complete absence of talent and ideas are instantly justified by putting on some silly clothes. So, here we go, one of WAM is wearing a red beret and a kilt. Wild. The new wave era tunes they play are generally fine – “Geno”, “Too Much, Too Young”, and so on – and the dual saxes aren’t bad, but the rhythms are sluggish and the vocals are just terrible. Talk about a paucity of ideas: simply playing songs you quite like doesn’t make you a good band, especially if you don’t play them very well. Still, a kilt. Just imagine.
Anyway, if you really want to know when alcohol maters, talk to some of the revellers about their attempts to smuggle it onto the site! Some were successful, but Banjo Boy, our homebrew proffering chum from last year, was stopped at the gate with four cans of beer, so he just stood there in front of the entrance and drank them one after the other. Before lunch. You have to admire that sort of behaviour…unless you’re a hepatologist.
Over on the second stage young Chipping Norton outfit Relay may not be laden down by new ideas, but they’re worth a hundred WAMs. Most of their songs are lean and poppy jaunts very much on the vein of Arctic Monkeys, but when they strip things down they have quite a subtle touch, and Jamie Biles has the beginnings of a pleasant indie croon.
“Hi, I’m Judi, and I’m fourteen,” says Judi Luxmoore of Judi & The Jesters. And then she says it again. It’s either an apology in advance, or an attempt to make your friendly neighbourhood hatchetman reviewer look deep into his dark soul. And, no, we’re not in the business of destroying the dreams of nervous teenagers who have bit the bullet and climbed onstage, so let’s get this over with. The Jesters play dirt simple lightly countrified songs, that are part Kitty Wells, and part “The Wheels On The Bus Go Round & Round”, and once she gets warmed up Judi has a pleasing voice. There’s a huge amount of potential here, but let’s be straight, at the moment that’s all there is, and Judi’s presence on the bill is something of an indulgence. Worth investigating in a couple of years, perhaps, and definitely worth investigating if the alternative is WAM.
A walk back to the main stage really brings home how very different in size the two stages are. We wonder how many festival goers never even get past the toilet block over the weekend. Anyway, Alan Fraser is getting the benefit of the excellent PA on the main stage, and his jazz sax floats across the crowd with crystal clear sound. His tone is amazing, so pure and smooth, but the set itself is a real old West Coast jazz dawdle, like Stan Getz locked in an old folks home store cupboard and half buried under discarded surgical trusses. As the set progresses Fraser starts to bring out some interesting low end honks and rasps, and a decent swipe at Miles’ “All Blues” mean we almost let him get away with it, until his sanctimonious sign off, “Thanks for listening, those of you who were listening and not just hearing”. And there we were waiting for you to start playing, and not just making the right sounds. Supercilious old trout.
We’ve got a bit muddled, but we think the band we drop in on back at the second stage briefly is Man Make Fire. How about Man Throw All Your Instruments On It Whilst He There, if the limp soggy rendition of “Purple Haze” is anything to go by. Time for a swift exit.
Back To Haunt Us, Part Four: billypure make mention of our review of last year’s festival during their main stage set, and our allegation that they want to be The Waterboys. Well, that’s not quite what we meant, but they do knock out the same Waterboys cover version and unless we misheard, it sounds as though they actually got their name from the lyrics, so we reckon they’re being a bit defensive. Anyway, the song actually sounds lacklustre amongst some of their own, and their arrangement of “The Raggle Taggle Gypsy” is a searing folk rock delight. It’s a chirpy, chunky set, with some useful fiddle parts, and we enjoy it enormously. Does remind us a little of another band, though…oh, what are they called again…
Rob Stevenson from A Silent Film is firmly in the same breed as Juju from Little Fish, he looks so relaxed prowling around on the huge stage you’d think he was born and raised there. They play a textbook set of wide-armed emotirock (featuring a genius reworking of Underworld’s “Born Slippy”), Rob’s warm, falsetto-happy voice twining gorgeously around his keyboard lines (a synth in the body of a parlour upright piano, nice touch). No offence meant to the man, but our favourite track is the opener during which the guitarist is busy trying to sort out his hardware, and we get a spacious marimba led tune, as some of the music felt clogged and overly rich. And that’s our only criticism: ASF are like Inlight - although clearly so much better - in that their songs are all huge and simple, as if they’re trying to create music that can be seen from space. Look, we’re just over here, a few feet away, no need to telegraph the emotions, just let them happen. When the scale is brought down a peg or two, this band is disarmingly impressive.
Riverside Is Painless
The harpsichord was once described as a "cage of flies". Apparently this is suposed to be a bad thing. Madness. I love a bit of harpsichord, me, the more like an insect prison the better.
RIVERSIDE FESTIVAL, Mill Field, Charlbury, 20-1/6/09
Saturday
Back To Haunt Us, Part One: A year ago we saw Jeremy Hughes busking before the 2008 festival started, and suggested that he was better than many of the official artists. We’re certainly not deluded enough to think that his presence as half of Moon Leopard has anything to do with that observation, but they are the ideal opener to the festival, encapsulating the strengths of this year’s best bookings: approachable, handmade, rootsy, melodic and with a pleasing absence of pretension. The aforementioned Hughes (who looks like a gentle cross between a blasted hippy and Dumbledore’s understudy – you’d recognise him even if you don’t know him) adds chiming, lucent guitar lines to Julie Burrett’s rhythm and vocals on a selection of relaxed Americana tunes. The set might contain more noodles than Norris McWhirter’s chilli ramen, and Burrett’s voice may occasionally drop into a mildly grating whinny, but they do manage to turn “Big Yellow Taxi” into a subtle waft, hanging in the air like a Texarkana blacktop heathaze, and many moments of the performance are implausibly lovely.
The Inventions Of Jerry Darge is a glorious development on Moon Leopard’s opening gambit, taking us further into the mid-west, and playing an even more ethereal set. Theirs is a blurred, intoxicating sonic mist, sounding like a sleepy mixture of country balladry and vintage shoegaze. Gram Parsons fronts Slowdive, if you will, with added ‘cello and a guitar with tolling bells dangling from the headstock. A barely audible vocal even adds to the woozy effect. We’re so floored by the allegation that this is a Deguello side project that we check the programme twice and order a strong coffee.
Ah, yes, the coffee. Non-musical festival highlight is the excellently named Diplomat’s Coffee, served by a dapper, well-spoken chap with a gentility that belies the drizzly surroundings. Presumably a Rocher pyramid is available on demand. We chat about whether the toddlers in the crèche adjacent to his stand will prove louder and more difficult to handle than the musicians on the stage opposite. Probably a draw, all things considered.
Ex-members of Mondo Cada shock us slightly less than the Deguello boys with new act Ruins. They play deep fried, artery clogging rock, with plenty of passion and intensity. However, not only does the under-powered vocal mike cause them more detriment than Jerry Darge, but the bass and drums duo is becoming an increasingly over-stuffed corner of the rock spectrum, and they may have to come up with something else to make a mark. A decent listen all the same.
“No one can hear you scream”, alleges Thin Green Candles’ Elm Street referencing track. That’s as may be – it certainly sounds like none of the band can hear each other, such are the wild variations in tuning and time-keeping. But whilst “tidy”, or even “vaguely proficient”, are terms highly unlikely to be applied to TGC in the foreseeable future, their twisted, hallucinogenic, paranoid techno rock actually gains from being a bit out of whack. Listening to their set is like watching a 3D film without the special glasses – you’re not likely to follow the plot, but you might have a whale of a time all the same.
We’d completely forgotten we saw Jamie Foley’s adequate semi-acoustic rock combo, until we wrung the beer out of the notebook. That probably speaks volumes, though what we can actually recall was pleasant enough. The fader for the vocal channel seemed to have been located by this time, but the effect was negligible, as the singing was an incomprehensible slur somewhere between Damien Rice and Rab C Nesbitt. The last tune reminded us unexpectedly of Pearl Jam, and we conclude that it’s all decent, but not for us.
Music For Pleasure were forced to pull out of the gig, so Dave Bowmer is promoted to the main stage, widdling away on his Chapman stick, whilst a chum clatters about on a percussion rack that seems to primarily constructed from biscuit tins and washing up liquid bottles, placing him equidistant between Pink Floyd’s Nick Mason and Blue Peter’s Yvette Fielding. Pretty easy to ridicule this sort of polite mid-80s fusion (especially when they have a reggae tune celebrating hippy Volkswagen vans called – wait for it – “V Dub”), but the playing is able without being ostentatious, and the arrangements are intricate without being poncy, and Dave ends up as our surprise hit of the weekend.
“This does sound very heavy, but it’s certainly not classical,” says a man walking near us back towards the second stage, who has clearly misread the programme slightly. This turns out to be the sound of Punt favourites Desert Storm, who turn in some top notch, Pantera influenced metal. “Roaches feed on my brain,” growls Matt Ryan; we dare say, but they’ll probably find your black gravelly larynx less digestible.
There are three glaring reasons why you shouldn’t name your band Flutatious: 1) It’s a frankly unforgivable pun, 2) “Flautatious” would be more eloquent, if you really must go down that drab route, and 3) it’s liable to be misspelt in listings until the end of time. Lo and behold, the official Riverside T-shirt claims that “Flutations” played, although seeing as this was just one of a wopping seven errors, we suppose it’s immaterial. They’re a surprisingly good band, though, cooking up a crusty shuffle that loosely recalls Afro-Celt Soundsystem, with plenty of firy folky fiddle and (duh) flute. Unlikely to make the transition for balmy afternoon field to dank city centre basement well, but plenty of fun at the time.
Back To Haunt Us, Part Two: Just a few weeks ago we claimed that given a large enough festival stage, Inlight could make a huge impact. Well, OK, we didn’t find ourselves transported with bliss at the section of their set we caught, but it was a good listen. They do have a well thought out, wide-angled sound, that’s neither over-egged nor emptily bombastic, but once again we felt that the songs lacked depth, even if they were well-played. A note on the Wishing Tree read “I wish the world were one big sweet”. If you think like this, you’ll adore Inlight; if you find the very concept of a Wishing Tree to be fatuous claptrap, then you can come and scowl in the corner with us.
Back To Haunt US, Part Three: In last year's review we hoped that Death Of A Small Town (FKA script) could hold onto their rhythm section for long enough to get their wonderful baroque pop across to the people of Oxfordshire. Sadly personal issues mean that the whole band can’t be present today, but Pete Moore and Corinne Clark put in the effort and turn up with an unrehearsed set of songs for piano and guitar. Several thousand marks out of ten for not letting the organisers down, but the reserved, slightly hesitant set won’t be one for the annals.
A recent viewing of the 2004 Riverside DVD reminded us how good Smilex can be, but this year’s show blew that old recording out of the water. Recent claims that their show is becoming more grown up and less theatrical only serve to remind us that everything’s relative: yes, there is no full frontal nudity or bloodshed during the performance, but the rest of their comicbook punk maelstrom is all present and correct, thankfully. Mind you, Lee Christian’s eye-jarring lime shirt and purple satin jacket make him look like a gameshow host in Hades, and we almost prefer him half naked. Almost. Anyway, none of that matters when the music is so great, with sleazerock hooks tossed onto monumental glam punk rhythms, and Tom Sharp’s formidable guitar (his technical ability is sorely under-rated, but then again does a band that looks like a massacre in clown town want people stroking chins over their technique?). Even if they don’t like the music, locals can amuse themselves by shouting “Sorry, Trev” every time Lee swears.
RIVERSIDE FESTIVAL, Mill Field, Charlbury, 20-1/6/09
Saturday
Back To Haunt Us, Part One: A year ago we saw Jeremy Hughes busking before the 2008 festival started, and suggested that he was better than many of the official artists. We’re certainly not deluded enough to think that his presence as half of Moon Leopard has anything to do with that observation, but they are the ideal opener to the festival, encapsulating the strengths of this year’s best bookings: approachable, handmade, rootsy, melodic and with a pleasing absence of pretension. The aforementioned Hughes (who looks like a gentle cross between a blasted hippy and Dumbledore’s understudy – you’d recognise him even if you don’t know him) adds chiming, lucent guitar lines to Julie Burrett’s rhythm and vocals on a selection of relaxed Americana tunes. The set might contain more noodles than Norris McWhirter’s chilli ramen, and Burrett’s voice may occasionally drop into a mildly grating whinny, but they do manage to turn “Big Yellow Taxi” into a subtle waft, hanging in the air like a Texarkana blacktop heathaze, and many moments of the performance are implausibly lovely.
The Inventions Of Jerry Darge is a glorious development on Moon Leopard’s opening gambit, taking us further into the mid-west, and playing an even more ethereal set. Theirs is a blurred, intoxicating sonic mist, sounding like a sleepy mixture of country balladry and vintage shoegaze. Gram Parsons fronts Slowdive, if you will, with added ‘cello and a guitar with tolling bells dangling from the headstock. A barely audible vocal even adds to the woozy effect. We’re so floored by the allegation that this is a Deguello side project that we check the programme twice and order a strong coffee.
Ah, yes, the coffee. Non-musical festival highlight is the excellently named Diplomat’s Coffee, served by a dapper, well-spoken chap with a gentility that belies the drizzly surroundings. Presumably a Rocher pyramid is available on demand. We chat about whether the toddlers in the crèche adjacent to his stand will prove louder and more difficult to handle than the musicians on the stage opposite. Probably a draw, all things considered.
Ex-members of Mondo Cada shock us slightly less than the Deguello boys with new act Ruins. They play deep fried, artery clogging rock, with plenty of passion and intensity. However, not only does the under-powered vocal mike cause them more detriment than Jerry Darge, but the bass and drums duo is becoming an increasingly over-stuffed corner of the rock spectrum, and they may have to come up with something else to make a mark. A decent listen all the same.
“No one can hear you scream”, alleges Thin Green Candles’ Elm Street referencing track. That’s as may be – it certainly sounds like none of the band can hear each other, such are the wild variations in tuning and time-keeping. But whilst “tidy”, or even “vaguely proficient”, are terms highly unlikely to be applied to TGC in the foreseeable future, their twisted, hallucinogenic, paranoid techno rock actually gains from being a bit out of whack. Listening to their set is like watching a 3D film without the special glasses – you’re not likely to follow the plot, but you might have a whale of a time all the same.
We’d completely forgotten we saw Jamie Foley’s adequate semi-acoustic rock combo, until we wrung the beer out of the notebook. That probably speaks volumes, though what we can actually recall was pleasant enough. The fader for the vocal channel seemed to have been located by this time, but the effect was negligible, as the singing was an incomprehensible slur somewhere between Damien Rice and Rab C Nesbitt. The last tune reminded us unexpectedly of Pearl Jam, and we conclude that it’s all decent, but not for us.
Music For Pleasure were forced to pull out of the gig, so Dave Bowmer is promoted to the main stage, widdling away on his Chapman stick, whilst a chum clatters about on a percussion rack that seems to primarily constructed from biscuit tins and washing up liquid bottles, placing him equidistant between Pink Floyd’s Nick Mason and Blue Peter’s Yvette Fielding. Pretty easy to ridicule this sort of polite mid-80s fusion (especially when they have a reggae tune celebrating hippy Volkswagen vans called – wait for it – “V Dub”), but the playing is able without being ostentatious, and the arrangements are intricate without being poncy, and Dave ends up as our surprise hit of the weekend.
“This does sound very heavy, but it’s certainly not classical,” says a man walking near us back towards the second stage, who has clearly misread the programme slightly. This turns out to be the sound of Punt favourites Desert Storm, who turn in some top notch, Pantera influenced metal. “Roaches feed on my brain,” growls Matt Ryan; we dare say, but they’ll probably find your black gravelly larynx less digestible.
There are three glaring reasons why you shouldn’t name your band Flutatious: 1) It’s a frankly unforgivable pun, 2) “Flautatious” would be more eloquent, if you really must go down that drab route, and 3) it’s liable to be misspelt in listings until the end of time. Lo and behold, the official Riverside T-shirt claims that “Flutations” played, although seeing as this was just one of a wopping seven errors, we suppose it’s immaterial. They’re a surprisingly good band, though, cooking up a crusty shuffle that loosely recalls Afro-Celt Soundsystem, with plenty of firy folky fiddle and (duh) flute. Unlikely to make the transition for balmy afternoon field to dank city centre basement well, but plenty of fun at the time.
Back To Haunt Us, Part Two: Just a few weeks ago we claimed that given a large enough festival stage, Inlight could make a huge impact. Well, OK, we didn’t find ourselves transported with bliss at the section of their set we caught, but it was a good listen. They do have a well thought out, wide-angled sound, that’s neither over-egged nor emptily bombastic, but once again we felt that the songs lacked depth, even if they were well-played. A note on the Wishing Tree read “I wish the world were one big sweet”. If you think like this, you’ll adore Inlight; if you find the very concept of a Wishing Tree to be fatuous claptrap, then you can come and scowl in the corner with us.
Back To Haunt US, Part Three: In last year's review we hoped that Death Of A Small Town (FKA script) could hold onto their rhythm section for long enough to get their wonderful baroque pop across to the people of Oxfordshire. Sadly personal issues mean that the whole band can’t be present today, but Pete Moore and Corinne Clark put in the effort and turn up with an unrehearsed set of songs for piano and guitar. Several thousand marks out of ten for not letting the organisers down, but the reserved, slightly hesitant set won’t be one for the annals.
A recent viewing of the 2004 Riverside DVD reminded us how good Smilex can be, but this year’s show blew that old recording out of the water. Recent claims that their show is becoming more grown up and less theatrical only serve to remind us that everything’s relative: yes, there is no full frontal nudity or bloodshed during the performance, but the rest of their comicbook punk maelstrom is all present and correct, thankfully. Mind you, Lee Christian’s eye-jarring lime shirt and purple satin jacket make him look like a gameshow host in Hades, and we almost prefer him half naked. Almost. Anyway, none of that matters when the music is so great, with sleazerock hooks tossed onto monumental glam punk rhythms, and Tom Sharp’s formidable guitar (his technical ability is sorely under-rated, but then again does a band that looks like a massacre in clown town want people stroking chins over their technique?). Even if they don’t like the music, locals can amuse themselves by shouting “Sorry, Trev” every time Lee swears.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
We Dig Hag Production
Folk Festival: very good; Lou Reed's Metal Machine Trio: just about passable; Duck Baker's Roots & Branches Of American Music show: ace. Busy weekend.
WITCHES – IN THE CHAOS OF A FRIDAY NIGHT
Confession time. I never understood the attraction of eeebleee. For all the talk of understated folk balladry, all I heard were half-hearted drum machine pop songs nervously performed, something like a mixture of OMD after they were interesting and a particularly timid rabbit. I appreciate I’m the probably the only person in the Thames Valley who thinks this, but I stand by my opinion.
Well, we can argue about that if you like – hey, it’s the internet, that’s what it’s for, arguments and porn – but it’s far more pressing at the moment to concentrate on the fact that this recording by the newly expanded version of Witches, is absolutely superb, against all my expectations. Melodic, intricate, noisy, emotionally direct, this record is a multi-layered joy. Hell, even the cover is lovely, a sticky cross between Robert Rauschenberg and Kurt Schwitters.
Early Belle & Sebastian is undoubtedly the first reference point within easy reach, but this only tells half the story. Yes, as on records such as The Boy With The Arab Strap, Witches marry tuneful frailty with ornate arrangements, and there’s a pungent whiff of sordid low life about the subject matter (is it me, or is there something sleazy going down in the distorted melee of “Liked The Teacher’s Hair”?), but Witches throw a whole slew of fresh ideas into the pot to brew up something enigmatic and individual. The title track welds a loping, trumpet-led tune onto a propulsive bassline, rather like Tindersticks indulging in a krautrock binge, and “Putting You Back In The Ground” is a pastoral ramble bolstered by a dirty percussion loop, which unexpectedly ends in a sort of lo-fi digi-dub rhythm. I never thought I’d jotting “Arab Strap” and “Zion Train” next to each other in review notes, but that’s Witches for you, full of surprising touches.
Perhaps the best track is “I Wish I Could Lead The Life You Lead”, which is odd because the wistful piano song at its centre is closest to the old eeebleee territory. Still, it boasts the strongest vocal performance from Dave Griffiths - who has never been the most agile singer in town, to be frank - not to mention some gorgeous analogue synth washes, the musical equivalent of a slow motion film of waves breaking, backed by a colliery band style brass part. This mournful, sepia song seems at odds with the title of the record: forget Friday night madness, this is the beautifully melancholic sound of sad Sundays lost in a musty library of arcana. Most importantly, all these varied sounds and influences are artfully deployed. Where many bands would shove elements together randomly (and eclecticism is never its own justification, any more than dogged traditionalism is), Witches build a composite and very moving structure. If this is witchcraft, direct me to the coven forthwith.
WITCHES – IN THE CHAOS OF A FRIDAY NIGHT
Confession time. I never understood the attraction of eeebleee. For all the talk of understated folk balladry, all I heard were half-hearted drum machine pop songs nervously performed, something like a mixture of OMD after they were interesting and a particularly timid rabbit. I appreciate I’m the probably the only person in the Thames Valley who thinks this, but I stand by my opinion.
Well, we can argue about that if you like – hey, it’s the internet, that’s what it’s for, arguments and porn – but it’s far more pressing at the moment to concentrate on the fact that this recording by the newly expanded version of Witches, is absolutely superb, against all my expectations. Melodic, intricate, noisy, emotionally direct, this record is a multi-layered joy. Hell, even the cover is lovely, a sticky cross between Robert Rauschenberg and Kurt Schwitters.
Early Belle & Sebastian is undoubtedly the first reference point within easy reach, but this only tells half the story. Yes, as on records such as The Boy With The Arab Strap, Witches marry tuneful frailty with ornate arrangements, and there’s a pungent whiff of sordid low life about the subject matter (is it me, or is there something sleazy going down in the distorted melee of “Liked The Teacher’s Hair”?), but Witches throw a whole slew of fresh ideas into the pot to brew up something enigmatic and individual. The title track welds a loping, trumpet-led tune onto a propulsive bassline, rather like Tindersticks indulging in a krautrock binge, and “Putting You Back In The Ground” is a pastoral ramble bolstered by a dirty percussion loop, which unexpectedly ends in a sort of lo-fi digi-dub rhythm. I never thought I’d jotting “Arab Strap” and “Zion Train” next to each other in review notes, but that’s Witches for you, full of surprising touches.
Perhaps the best track is “I Wish I Could Lead The Life You Lead”, which is odd because the wistful piano song at its centre is closest to the old eeebleee territory. Still, it boasts the strongest vocal performance from Dave Griffiths - who has never been the most agile singer in town, to be frank - not to mention some gorgeous analogue synth washes, the musical equivalent of a slow motion film of waves breaking, backed by a colliery band style brass part. This mournful, sepia song seems at odds with the title of the record: forget Friday night madness, this is the beautifully melancholic sound of sad Sundays lost in a musty library of arcana. Most importantly, all these varied sounds and influences are artfully deployed. Where many bands would shove elements together randomly (and eclecticism is never its own justification, any more than dogged traditionalism is), Witches build a composite and very moving structure. If this is witchcraft, direct me to the coven forthwith.
Saturday, 17 April 2010
Mute & Brutal
Off to the Folk Festival again soon. Bellowhead were pretty sweet last night.
DOMES OF SILENCE – TEMPLE OF THE WASP (download single)
The press release for this new single by the local stalwarts of heavy thump suggests a new genre to encompass the sound, “Brutal Beat”. Hmm, not bad, but we’re not entirely convinced, because if there’s one thing this record isn’t, it’s brutal. It’s loud and dense, we’ll give you that, but it has no aggression, and is all the better for it.
The A side trudges along like a stoned troll, a big low greasy riff dragging itself over fat steady drums. The effect is a mixture of Blue Cheer’s narcotic sludge rock and the deep fried stylings of mid-period Primal Scream. We rather like the tone of the track, its inexorable motion and a lack of ornamentation that becomes almost psychedelic as the time goes by. There is not a shred of raging brutality here, but there is the sort of slow uncaring power exhibited by geological pressure – who needs anger or violence when you have mass?
Having said this there are some very neat little guitar overdubs to stop the tune being crushed by its own weight, and companion track “Bad Wisdom” chops along at a slightly sprightlier pace, proving that Domes Of Silence have their eyes on the rock market, not the cowled arty enclaves of avant metal. We shan’t claim these hunks of weighty grunge are anything revolutionary, but we do enjoy the music’s lead-heavy presence and respect the single-mindedness that has gone into the impeccable recording. Turn it up loud, nod your head and just give in to the trundling juggernaut groove. Beats brutality.
DOMES OF SILENCE – TEMPLE OF THE WASP (download single)
The press release for this new single by the local stalwarts of heavy thump suggests a new genre to encompass the sound, “Brutal Beat”. Hmm, not bad, but we’re not entirely convinced, because if there’s one thing this record isn’t, it’s brutal. It’s loud and dense, we’ll give you that, but it has no aggression, and is all the better for it.
The A side trudges along like a stoned troll, a big low greasy riff dragging itself over fat steady drums. The effect is a mixture of Blue Cheer’s narcotic sludge rock and the deep fried stylings of mid-period Primal Scream. We rather like the tone of the track, its inexorable motion and a lack of ornamentation that becomes almost psychedelic as the time goes by. There is not a shred of raging brutality here, but there is the sort of slow uncaring power exhibited by geological pressure – who needs anger or violence when you have mass?
Having said this there are some very neat little guitar overdubs to stop the tune being crushed by its own weight, and companion track “Bad Wisdom” chops along at a slightly sprightlier pace, proving that Domes Of Silence have their eyes on the rock market, not the cowled arty enclaves of avant metal. We shan’t claim these hunks of weighty grunge are anything revolutionary, but we do enjoy the music’s lead-heavy presence and respect the single-mindedness that has gone into the impeccable recording. Turn it up loud, nod your head and just give in to the trundling juggernaut groove. Beats brutality.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Saw Point
Saw Point! Saw, as in David, but also saw as in "having seen" - ie, I understood the value of the record I was reviewing, or "saw the point"; furthermore, it's a pun on "sore point", in that I had a bone to pick with Mr Saw. I man, come on, SAW POINT, pretty decent, eh?
OK, OK, it's a rubbish title. I spent most of my day on trains, and the rest drinking black ncoffee in nasty Pumpkin cafes on train stations, and I'm kind of wired, tired and tedious to know at the moment. Still, a weekend at Oxford's Folk Festival followed by a rush to a night with Lou Reed's Metal Machine trio should sort me out.
Edit: Fuck me. not only is Saw Point shit pun, but I've just reaslised I used it already.
Sigh.
DAVID SAW – BROKEN DOWN FIGURE (Iris Records)
David Saw stands out from any other Aylesbury singer you care to mention, in that his website blurb was written by Carly Simon. Sadly, despite her performing pedigree, it transpires that her puff biogs are as boring and unenticing as any other on the ‘net. Simon’s presence stops you in your tracks, but doesn’t deliver, and listening to this record has a pretty similar effect. What knocks you for six is the quality of Saw’s voice: his performance is rich and intimate, able to sound emotional without being miserable, and has a quietly poetic twist like he’s Ed Harcourt’s sensitive brother; what deflates the effect is the sadly pedestrian nature of the songs. “Don’t Call” is a great example, Saw singing with unhurried, assured phrasing to a neat little acoustic ballad atop a wash of jazz brush drums. It’s a delightful little opener and only spoilt by the presence of the recurring line “I can’t walk backwards”. Why ever not, Dave, it’s not hard? Or is this just a half considered attempt at symbolic writing?
All right, simmer down, we know a single undercooked image isn’t a hanging offence, but Saw follows this up with “Simple Song”, a drab ditty to file along with Daniel Powter’s unforgiveable “Bad Day”. “I love you like a melody running through my head” sings our lad, and yet ironically has managed to create the Platonic ideal of a humdrum forgettable piece of acoustic guff that is probably the hold music at Hell’s call centre.
Elsewhere, gorgeous singing is devalued by uninspired songwriting. “All At Sea” has a nice polished Nick Drake sound and reminds us happily of Stephen Duffy in his latter day acoustic mode, but the nautical imagery is hackneyed to the point of meaningless transparency. This is the sort of glorious song that should have a reviewer weeping into their thesaurus, but as it is Saw may as well be singing the menu from his local Chinese (and leaving out the Szechuan dishes in case things get a bit too exciting). The title track is somewhat better, bobbing along atop an emotive string arrangement, but jaunty barrelhouse lollop, “Buy My Record” is just annoying. And anyway, the lyric “Buy my record from a record store” is pretty outmoded - the sort of people who’d want Saw’s music would be those who downloaded a single track because they heard it on Scrubs.
What we have here is a well made record with a tasteful cover by a highly talented vocalist backed by some sympathetic musicians, which is scuppered against all the odds by an all-pervasive air of banality. We notice that Fairground Attraction’s Mark Nevin was involved in the recording; if only Saw were given a song of the quality of “A Smile In A Whisper” or 50s pop throwback “Perfect”, he could overtake Radio Two singlehandedly. We’re sorry to be so hard on an artist who has so much going for him…but if this review makes you angry, David, for God’s sake write a song about it. Write a song about anything, man, but stop paddling in these safe rockpools, you should be riding the breakers into the glorious sunset.
Look, we can do crap seaside imagery too, see how annoying it is?
OK, OK, it's a rubbish title. I spent most of my day on trains, and the rest drinking black ncoffee in nasty Pumpkin cafes on train stations, and I'm kind of wired, tired and tedious to know at the moment. Still, a weekend at Oxford's Folk Festival followed by a rush to a night with Lou Reed's Metal Machine trio should sort me out.
Edit: Fuck me. not only is Saw Point shit pun, but I've just reaslised I used it already.
Sigh.
DAVID SAW – BROKEN DOWN FIGURE (Iris Records)
David Saw stands out from any other Aylesbury singer you care to mention, in that his website blurb was written by Carly Simon. Sadly, despite her performing pedigree, it transpires that her puff biogs are as boring and unenticing as any other on the ‘net. Simon’s presence stops you in your tracks, but doesn’t deliver, and listening to this record has a pretty similar effect. What knocks you for six is the quality of Saw’s voice: his performance is rich and intimate, able to sound emotional without being miserable, and has a quietly poetic twist like he’s Ed Harcourt’s sensitive brother; what deflates the effect is the sadly pedestrian nature of the songs. “Don’t Call” is a great example, Saw singing with unhurried, assured phrasing to a neat little acoustic ballad atop a wash of jazz brush drums. It’s a delightful little opener and only spoilt by the presence of the recurring line “I can’t walk backwards”. Why ever not, Dave, it’s not hard? Or is this just a half considered attempt at symbolic writing?
All right, simmer down, we know a single undercooked image isn’t a hanging offence, but Saw follows this up with “Simple Song”, a drab ditty to file along with Daniel Powter’s unforgiveable “Bad Day”. “I love you like a melody running through my head” sings our lad, and yet ironically has managed to create the Platonic ideal of a humdrum forgettable piece of acoustic guff that is probably the hold music at Hell’s call centre.
Elsewhere, gorgeous singing is devalued by uninspired songwriting. “All At Sea” has a nice polished Nick Drake sound and reminds us happily of Stephen Duffy in his latter day acoustic mode, but the nautical imagery is hackneyed to the point of meaningless transparency. This is the sort of glorious song that should have a reviewer weeping into their thesaurus, but as it is Saw may as well be singing the menu from his local Chinese (and leaving out the Szechuan dishes in case things get a bit too exciting). The title track is somewhat better, bobbing along atop an emotive string arrangement, but jaunty barrelhouse lollop, “Buy My Record” is just annoying. And anyway, the lyric “Buy my record from a record store” is pretty outmoded - the sort of people who’d want Saw’s music would be those who downloaded a single track because they heard it on Scrubs.
What we have here is a well made record with a tasteful cover by a highly talented vocalist backed by some sympathetic musicians, which is scuppered against all the odds by an all-pervasive air of banality. We notice that Fairground Attraction’s Mark Nevin was involved in the recording; if only Saw were given a song of the quality of “A Smile In A Whisper” or 50s pop throwback “Perfect”, he could overtake Radio Two singlehandedly. We’re sorry to be so hard on an artist who has so much going for him…but if this review makes you angry, David, for God’s sake write a song about it. Write a song about anything, man, but stop paddling in these safe rockpools, you should be riding the breakers into the glorious sunset.
Look, we can do crap seaside imagery too, see how annoying it is?
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
The Pink Pounding
I'm moving furniture tonight, no time to chat.
ARIEL PINK/ BELONG/ THE WARM/ DIVINE COILS – Vacuous Pop, Port Mahon 7/6/06
Whilst we confess to not being able to tell the difference between Divine Coils and The Holiday Stabbings, we’re very happy to be back in their company whoever they are. Tonight their drone-centred music is based on bowed cymbal and heavily treated guitar playing (which seems to be a throwback to their old Fencott Disaster hardcore days in terms of hair waggling if not sound), and it flows over us in one long reverberant wash. What’s interesting is how much variation they can find in their explorations: last time we saw them it was in a forest of sound, full of peaks and troughs, whereas this time they’ve opted for a single sticky wave of feedback inflected tones that lays heavy on the stifling air. It may have stumbled a couple of times, but this improvised set is a pleasure. Richard James once went surfing on sine waves; tonight Divine Coils are surfing on molasses.
With two buzzing keyboards and a sprightly rock drummer, it’s easy to dismiss Tokyo visitors The Warm as a simple distillation of a droning synth band, a sort of Divide N By (X). A couple of numbers in, however, and their cheeky tunes and Juno 60 rave arpeggios start to creep in, whilst the drumming increases in intensity, and it’s clear that The Warm have a lot of ideas simmering away. They’re at their best when they find a little space, where the vocalist stops shouting and drops into a clunky hip hop style to let the humming synths do the talking. Surprises might not be high on their agenda, but there’s more than enough passion, wit and flagrant use of Korg’s wibbliest buttons to make up for that. Highly recommended.
Belong take us back to the textural immersion of Divine Coils, if not so successfully. Leaking white noise from laptop and guitar, they might be compared to Fennesz...but only in the way that every rock band in Wantage could be compared to Black Sabbath. Of course, it’s all lovely in its way, and it’s hard to dislike huge swathes of warm granular noise in any situation, but, like the projected films of light reflecting on water, it all feels uninspired and a teensy bit trite. Belong’s music can engulf you like a warm bath, which is a nice way to spend 25 minutes, but who ever gave a bath a good review?
Ariel Pink appear to consist of a keyboard player, a (surprisingly decent) bassist, some sort of hideous Camp Cobain vocalist figure in a grotesque cardigan, and some backing tracks of breezy 80s AM pop. Well, that’s OK. Everyone likes breezy AM pop, don’t they? Well, not when it sounds like it’s played by tipsy bears wearing oven gloves, no. It’s hard to put into cold hard text just how badly this show fails, but unless you relish the thought of Tiffany castoffs played by Twizz Twangle’s deafened offspring you’d best steer clear. The live mixing element is potentially interesting, as parts of the song drop out unexpectedly whilst random noises are pushed to LED burning limits, but it really needs a better sound system to have any hope of working. The irony is that the songs, so far as we can tell, are pleasant (if featherlight) little toetappers but they’re so subsumed in wilful ineptitude, trying to pick out the compositions is like a tedious game of aural Where’s Wally. These are either spectacularly clumsy musicians or self-conscious experimenters who are trying too hard in all the wrong areas. Vacuous Pop, indeed...
ARIEL PINK/ BELONG/ THE WARM/ DIVINE COILS – Vacuous Pop, Port Mahon 7/6/06
Whilst we confess to not being able to tell the difference between Divine Coils and The Holiday Stabbings, we’re very happy to be back in their company whoever they are. Tonight their drone-centred music is based on bowed cymbal and heavily treated guitar playing (which seems to be a throwback to their old Fencott Disaster hardcore days in terms of hair waggling if not sound), and it flows over us in one long reverberant wash. What’s interesting is how much variation they can find in their explorations: last time we saw them it was in a forest of sound, full of peaks and troughs, whereas this time they’ve opted for a single sticky wave of feedback inflected tones that lays heavy on the stifling air. It may have stumbled a couple of times, but this improvised set is a pleasure. Richard James once went surfing on sine waves; tonight Divine Coils are surfing on molasses.
With two buzzing keyboards and a sprightly rock drummer, it’s easy to dismiss Tokyo visitors The Warm as a simple distillation of a droning synth band, a sort of Divide N By (X). A couple of numbers in, however, and their cheeky tunes and Juno 60 rave arpeggios start to creep in, whilst the drumming increases in intensity, and it’s clear that The Warm have a lot of ideas simmering away. They’re at their best when they find a little space, where the vocalist stops shouting and drops into a clunky hip hop style to let the humming synths do the talking. Surprises might not be high on their agenda, but there’s more than enough passion, wit and flagrant use of Korg’s wibbliest buttons to make up for that. Highly recommended.
Belong take us back to the textural immersion of Divine Coils, if not so successfully. Leaking white noise from laptop and guitar, they might be compared to Fennesz...but only in the way that every rock band in Wantage could be compared to Black Sabbath. Of course, it’s all lovely in its way, and it’s hard to dislike huge swathes of warm granular noise in any situation, but, like the projected films of light reflecting on water, it all feels uninspired and a teensy bit trite. Belong’s music can engulf you like a warm bath, which is a nice way to spend 25 minutes, but who ever gave a bath a good review?
Ariel Pink appear to consist of a keyboard player, a (surprisingly decent) bassist, some sort of hideous Camp Cobain vocalist figure in a grotesque cardigan, and some backing tracks of breezy 80s AM pop. Well, that’s OK. Everyone likes breezy AM pop, don’t they? Well, not when it sounds like it’s played by tipsy bears wearing oven gloves, no. It’s hard to put into cold hard text just how badly this show fails, but unless you relish the thought of Tiffany castoffs played by Twizz Twangle’s deafened offspring you’d best steer clear. The live mixing element is potentially interesting, as parts of the song drop out unexpectedly whilst random noises are pushed to LED burning limits, but it really needs a better sound system to have any hope of working. The irony is that the songs, so far as we can tell, are pleasant (if featherlight) little toetappers but they’re so subsumed in wilful ineptitude, trying to pick out the compositions is like a tedious game of aural Where’s Wally. These are either spectacularly clumsy musicians or self-conscious experimenters who are trying too hard in all the wrong areas. Vacuous Pop, indeed...
Saturday, 10 April 2010
The Quack In Space
Welcome one and all to another critical bubble from the silty word swamps of Murphy. And an especial welcome to all Oriental spambots out there, we love you guys.
RUBBER DUCK – demo
It sometimes feels that there’s precious little between some of the bands we come across, but Rubber Duck have one thing that sets them apart before they start playing, in that three quarters of them are Italian, which is pretty unusual around here. One of these visitors, Rosario Glorioso is celebrated on their covering letter as a “Musical drummer”. Err, as opposed to what? An architectural drummer? Philological? Episcopalian? Believe me, we’ve got a nice long list of amusing percussive adjectives built up whilst listening to Rudder Duck’s first track, because there wasn’t much else in evidence to occupy the mind or lift the spirit. It’s been a rum old time for demos, and this doesn’t do much to lift the bar, a clump of vague ramshackle funk rock. “Let’s get the party started” exhorts vocalist and composer Wojtek Domagalski. After you, boys, after you.
Thankfully it all picks up pretty swiftly thereafter and so long as we ignore this introductory stillbirth, Rubber Duck have left us with a diverting, if unspectacular demo. Track two (no names supplied) is the best thing on offer. The rap is OK (well, just about) but the song is buoyed by an infectiously cheeky organ riff and a surprisingly taut and funky horn section. My God how we love horn sections, and this one doesn’t overstay it’s welcome at all, stabbing into the music with precision. Our feet are tapping, and we’re not even beginning to think about adjectives. Track three is a little less exciting, but it’s still a decent enough little groove. Admittedly, Jaberwok could knock this into a cocked Jamiroquai hat (and if it happened to take the little twat out at the same time, we wouldn’t be running to dial 999) but this passes the time pleasantly.
Track four and it’s slinky 70s spy theme keys proves that RD have a knack of embellishing their tunes with interesting elements, even if the songs themselves are hardly revolutionary. It also implies that keys/electronics player Alain Torri may be the most exciting member of the band. The letter doesn’t make any mention of timeframes, but we suspect that RD is a relatively new band, so we’ll rein the judgment in for now. Like the Beard Of Zeuss demo we recently stumbled across, this is one to file under “Wait and see”, and if this record doesn’t prick up the ears as much as BOZ, it still reminds us that there may be a little mileage left in just plugging in and having a funky good time. All right, this demo definitely doesn’t make us want to get up and feel like a sex machine, but it doesn’t make us feel like the twisted miseries we normally are, so that’s a point in its favour whatever its obvious faults.
RUBBER DUCK – demo
It sometimes feels that there’s precious little between some of the bands we come across, but Rubber Duck have one thing that sets them apart before they start playing, in that three quarters of them are Italian, which is pretty unusual around here. One of these visitors, Rosario Glorioso is celebrated on their covering letter as a “Musical drummer”. Err, as opposed to what? An architectural drummer? Philological? Episcopalian? Believe me, we’ve got a nice long list of amusing percussive adjectives built up whilst listening to Rudder Duck’s first track, because there wasn’t much else in evidence to occupy the mind or lift the spirit. It’s been a rum old time for demos, and this doesn’t do much to lift the bar, a clump of vague ramshackle funk rock. “Let’s get the party started” exhorts vocalist and composer Wojtek Domagalski. After you, boys, after you.
Thankfully it all picks up pretty swiftly thereafter and so long as we ignore this introductory stillbirth, Rubber Duck have left us with a diverting, if unspectacular demo. Track two (no names supplied) is the best thing on offer. The rap is OK (well, just about) but the song is buoyed by an infectiously cheeky organ riff and a surprisingly taut and funky horn section. My God how we love horn sections, and this one doesn’t overstay it’s welcome at all, stabbing into the music with precision. Our feet are tapping, and we’re not even beginning to think about adjectives. Track three is a little less exciting, but it’s still a decent enough little groove. Admittedly, Jaberwok could knock this into a cocked Jamiroquai hat (and if it happened to take the little twat out at the same time, we wouldn’t be running to dial 999) but this passes the time pleasantly.
Track four and it’s slinky 70s spy theme keys proves that RD have a knack of embellishing their tunes with interesting elements, even if the songs themselves are hardly revolutionary. It also implies that keys/electronics player Alain Torri may be the most exciting member of the band. The letter doesn’t make any mention of timeframes, but we suspect that RD is a relatively new band, so we’ll rein the judgment in for now. Like the Beard Of Zeuss demo we recently stumbled across, this is one to file under “Wait and see”, and if this record doesn’t prick up the ears as much as BOZ, it still reminds us that there may be a little mileage left in just plugging in and having a funky good time. All right, this demo definitely doesn’t make us want to get up and feel like a sex machine, but it doesn’t make us feel like the twisted miseries we normally are, so that’s a point in its favour whatever its obvious faults.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Pint O' Stella Overdrive
I realised recently that "musketeer" means "soldier with a musket". Kind of blindingly obvious, right? But I'd never made the connection before. Speaking of an interest in words, here's a review of Oxford's top rockingest librarian, Richard Ramage's last vinyl outing.
THE RELATIONSHIPS – SPACE (Big Red Sky)
“We grew weary of boutiques…”
It’s not often we make much mention of lyrics in our reviews - mostly because there are hardly any good lyricists, in Oxfordshire or beyond – but The Relationships’ Richard Ramage is a truly outstanding writer, and this LP is his best batch yet, as Captain Beefheart might observe. All you need to know about Ramage’s poetic incision is present in the record’s opening line: yes, it’s a wry summation of mood changes at the end of the 60s, but it’s the immaculately affected tone of the word that makes “grew weary” infinitely better than “got tired”, revealing just how well honed the writing is. The song it introduces, “Space Race”, is an odd image of an “alternate present”, as SF aficionados would have it, a quick sketch of a Britain that diverged from our history at that very moment of “weariness”, and beat the Yanks to the moon. “We were singing Rule Britannia as we conquered space”, declaims the chorus, but despite this huge difference in our pasts, the UK of “Space Race” feels remarkably similar to our own, a floundering nation buoyed up by misty celebrations of past achievement:
The flag and the flower
Designs on a dishcloth
The Post Office Tower
Is ready for liftoff
It’s a golden age
This is roughly “This Is A Low”, Blur’s gorgeous realisation that the Britain they and so many others have celebrated is nothing but a fumble of nostalgia and faded souvenirs, with a sci fi twist. Or, perhaps it’s Philip K Dick’s Man In The High Castle redrafted by Philip Larkin.
Astronautical subject matter aside, “Space Race” is a wonderful opener to the album, because it introduces the record’s themes of imagined pasts, escapism and secret worlds. It is swiftly followed by “Soft Rock Canyon”, a more earthbound tale of a bored suburban girl dreaming of a mythical America, with its imagined freedoms and its balmy summer nights. Tim Turan’s drums on this are lovely, incredibly busy and jazzy and – amusingly – a fair few leagues away from a soft rock pulse.
“Her Constituency” is another standout track, featuring another hazily created utopian England and a hustings romance that sees the narrator seemingly as in love with his political paramour as he is with his conception of democracy. The love interest MP (whom we can’t help imagining as Barbara Castle…though of course she could easily be Maggie) enters the song “stately as a galleon, my lady all in jewels and shells” making her seem like some rural seat version of Boticelli’s Venus. Later we hear of “Spices from the New World/ A fanfare from the morning sun”, which continues the lush Renaissance imagery, although the ironic reality at this election meal would probably some coronation chicken sandwiches on a church hall trestle table.
The romance – albeit a quiet drawing room romance built on respect and companionship, rather than passion – seems inextricably bound up with national feeling, and again we have an image of a lost world, a Britain in which politics is always fair, humane and egalitarian, and the best woman wins.
“Victorian Seance” (featuring the best use of the word “antimacassars” in pop history) makes the other worlds theme literal, and “Time In The World” begins with the line, “We lived in the garden”, wafting up images of Cottingley fairies and childhood hideaways. It’s a song about growing up, and could be a rewrite of “Hide And Seek”, from the last LP, as told from the inside, a realisation that childhood can never be regained as explained by the kids who “moved to London”. The claim that they “put up a map of Middle Earth” in the hidey hole is doubly distancing – a fictional land as worshipped by a long lost innocent hippy breed.
Throughout these wonderful songs a series of paeans for lost nations are created, countries of jeeps and melodic rock, countries of crumpets and curates unfurling the bunting, countries of Empire pink starcharts tacked up in studies. They’re all presented with the mixture of melancholy and national pride that suffuse tales of King Arthur or Robin Hood, and are all delivered in an understated poetic hush. Stipe meets Betjeman, if you will.
Even by The Relationships’ standards, the music is mostly unadventurous, a mixture of classic indie winsomeness and 60s simplicity. This doesn’t mean it’s unpleasant, and there are some notably lovely chiming guitar parts from Angus Stevenson, but anybody who’s heard previous Relationships records should find themselves on very common ground. Also, perhaps “Clockwork Toy” and “Astrological Hotel” are somewhat forgettable. However, as the record finishes with “The Eternal Colonel”, an upwardly surging bundle of psychedelic pop which is essentially a comfy Oxford remake of The Byrds’ “Eight Miles High” (and should therefore have been called “Five Mile Drive”), perhaps The Relationships shall have some musical surprises for us next time. So long as they keep writing pop songs as gorgeous and intelligent as these, any exciting arrangements are just a bonus. We shall never grow weary of them.
THE RELATIONSHIPS – SPACE (Big Red Sky)
“We grew weary of boutiques…”
It’s not often we make much mention of lyrics in our reviews - mostly because there are hardly any good lyricists, in Oxfordshire or beyond – but The Relationships’ Richard Ramage is a truly outstanding writer, and this LP is his best batch yet, as Captain Beefheart might observe. All you need to know about Ramage’s poetic incision is present in the record’s opening line: yes, it’s a wry summation of mood changes at the end of the 60s, but it’s the immaculately affected tone of the word that makes “grew weary” infinitely better than “got tired”, revealing just how well honed the writing is. The song it introduces, “Space Race”, is an odd image of an “alternate present”, as SF aficionados would have it, a quick sketch of a Britain that diverged from our history at that very moment of “weariness”, and beat the Yanks to the moon. “We were singing Rule Britannia as we conquered space”, declaims the chorus, but despite this huge difference in our pasts, the UK of “Space Race” feels remarkably similar to our own, a floundering nation buoyed up by misty celebrations of past achievement:
The flag and the flower
Designs on a dishcloth
The Post Office Tower
Is ready for liftoff
It’s a golden age
This is roughly “This Is A Low”, Blur’s gorgeous realisation that the Britain they and so many others have celebrated is nothing but a fumble of nostalgia and faded souvenirs, with a sci fi twist. Or, perhaps it’s Philip K Dick’s Man In The High Castle redrafted by Philip Larkin.
Astronautical subject matter aside, “Space Race” is a wonderful opener to the album, because it introduces the record’s themes of imagined pasts, escapism and secret worlds. It is swiftly followed by “Soft Rock Canyon”, a more earthbound tale of a bored suburban girl dreaming of a mythical America, with its imagined freedoms and its balmy summer nights. Tim Turan’s drums on this are lovely, incredibly busy and jazzy and – amusingly – a fair few leagues away from a soft rock pulse.
“Her Constituency” is another standout track, featuring another hazily created utopian England and a hustings romance that sees the narrator seemingly as in love with his political paramour as he is with his conception of democracy. The love interest MP (whom we can’t help imagining as Barbara Castle…though of course she could easily be Maggie) enters the song “stately as a galleon, my lady all in jewels and shells” making her seem like some rural seat version of Boticelli’s Venus. Later we hear of “Spices from the New World/ A fanfare from the morning sun”, which continues the lush Renaissance imagery, although the ironic reality at this election meal would probably some coronation chicken sandwiches on a church hall trestle table.
The romance – albeit a quiet drawing room romance built on respect and companionship, rather than passion – seems inextricably bound up with national feeling, and again we have an image of a lost world, a Britain in which politics is always fair, humane and egalitarian, and the best woman wins.
“Victorian Seance” (featuring the best use of the word “antimacassars” in pop history) makes the other worlds theme literal, and “Time In The World” begins with the line, “We lived in the garden”, wafting up images of Cottingley fairies and childhood hideaways. It’s a song about growing up, and could be a rewrite of “Hide And Seek”, from the last LP, as told from the inside, a realisation that childhood can never be regained as explained by the kids who “moved to London”. The claim that they “put up a map of Middle Earth” in the hidey hole is doubly distancing – a fictional land as worshipped by a long lost innocent hippy breed.
Throughout these wonderful songs a series of paeans for lost nations are created, countries of jeeps and melodic rock, countries of crumpets and curates unfurling the bunting, countries of Empire pink starcharts tacked up in studies. They’re all presented with the mixture of melancholy and national pride that suffuse tales of King Arthur or Robin Hood, and are all delivered in an understated poetic hush. Stipe meets Betjeman, if you will.
Even by The Relationships’ standards, the music is mostly unadventurous, a mixture of classic indie winsomeness and 60s simplicity. This doesn’t mean it’s unpleasant, and there are some notably lovely chiming guitar parts from Angus Stevenson, but anybody who’s heard previous Relationships records should find themselves on very common ground. Also, perhaps “Clockwork Toy” and “Astrological Hotel” are somewhat forgettable. However, as the record finishes with “The Eternal Colonel”, an upwardly surging bundle of psychedelic pop which is essentially a comfy Oxford remake of The Byrds’ “Eight Miles High” (and should therefore have been called “Five Mile Drive”), perhaps The Relationships shall have some musical surprises for us next time. So long as they keep writing pop songs as gorgeous and intelligent as these, any exciting arrangements are just a bonus. We shall never grow weary of them.
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Foggy Notion
Mr Clegg, Mr Compo and Ms Batty were unable to attend this gig, I suppose...
MR FOGG/ BRAINDEAD COLLECTIVE/ TARIK BESHIR, Pindrop/Kicking Ink, UPP, 17/9/09
When internet promotion for a gig describes it as a “cosmic event” and an “amazing astral vibez show” featuring “projections from the ether” expectations are low – surely we’re either going to be dumped amongst a teeming mass of well-medicated hippies attempting to marry us off to Princess Leyline in a giant naked healing ceremony, or in a hideously knowing Shoreditch preenfest. As it is, despite one preposterous neo-Oakey fringe flapping gratuitously, this turns out to be a friendly evening of approachable music. The ethos is best encapsulated by Brickwork Lizard Tarik Beshir, who plays songs on his oud accompanied by fiddle and qanun, a large plucked dulcimer. Beshir doesn’t boast the ghostly keening tone of great North African singers, but his quiet voice adds to the conversational feel of the set. Where the ambience is uncomplicated, the music is anything but, fragments of melody mutating like fractals, and fiddle lines arcing away gloriously.
Once, when musicians wanted a busman’s holiday, playing outside their normal bands, they’d start covers acts. Now they all choose free improv. Fears that Braindead Collective - featuring members of Guillemots, Keyboard Choir, Joe Allen Band, etc -would be a smug bundle of poorly placed skronks are dashed by their opening salvo, a Godspeed-plays-the-spectralists cluster of wafts and pulses. The set may be improvised, but it’s built on small packets of horn melody and bolstered by groovy basslines and tap-tempo laptop effects, until it ends up resembling the jazzier end of the Ninja Tunes catalogue: The Cinematic Orchestra without the rustle of Rizlas, perhaps, or Mr Scruff through a refracting lens. Surprisingly coherent.
Mr Fogg’s post-Radiohead glitch-pop is the most conventional fare on tonight’s bill, but he makes up for it by squeezing at least three sets’ worth of rock cliché into his performance. Musically it’s all rather good, some well written laptop pop songs performed with the broad strokes of the contemporary “mainstream alternative” (think Four Tet versioned by Muse), and there are some great arrangements, especially the gorgeous trombone interjections, but the effect is scuppered by thirty minutes of desperate rockist posing and manic “good evening Wembley” gurning. We’re the sort of people to find all stadium postures pretty ridiculous, but what looks dumb in Budokan is almost unbearable in a slowly emptying provincial cinema. Go see Mr Fogg, but take a blindfold to enjoy the experience.
MR FOGG/ BRAINDEAD COLLECTIVE/ TARIK BESHIR, Pindrop/Kicking Ink, UPP, 17/9/09
When internet promotion for a gig describes it as a “cosmic event” and an “amazing astral vibez show” featuring “projections from the ether” expectations are low – surely we’re either going to be dumped amongst a teeming mass of well-medicated hippies attempting to marry us off to Princess Leyline in a giant naked healing ceremony, or in a hideously knowing Shoreditch preenfest. As it is, despite one preposterous neo-Oakey fringe flapping gratuitously, this turns out to be a friendly evening of approachable music. The ethos is best encapsulated by Brickwork Lizard Tarik Beshir, who plays songs on his oud accompanied by fiddle and qanun, a large plucked dulcimer. Beshir doesn’t boast the ghostly keening tone of great North African singers, but his quiet voice adds to the conversational feel of the set. Where the ambience is uncomplicated, the music is anything but, fragments of melody mutating like fractals, and fiddle lines arcing away gloriously.
Once, when musicians wanted a busman’s holiday, playing outside their normal bands, they’d start covers acts. Now they all choose free improv. Fears that Braindead Collective - featuring members of Guillemots, Keyboard Choir, Joe Allen Band, etc -would be a smug bundle of poorly placed skronks are dashed by their opening salvo, a Godspeed-plays-the-spectralists cluster of wafts and pulses. The set may be improvised, but it’s built on small packets of horn melody and bolstered by groovy basslines and tap-tempo laptop effects, until it ends up resembling the jazzier end of the Ninja Tunes catalogue: The Cinematic Orchestra without the rustle of Rizlas, perhaps, or Mr Scruff through a refracting lens. Surprisingly coherent.
Mr Fogg’s post-Radiohead glitch-pop is the most conventional fare on tonight’s bill, but he makes up for it by squeezing at least three sets’ worth of rock cliché into his performance. Musically it’s all rather good, some well written laptop pop songs performed with the broad strokes of the contemporary “mainstream alternative” (think Four Tet versioned by Muse), and there are some great arrangements, especially the gorgeous trombone interjections, but the effect is scuppered by thirty minutes of desperate rockist posing and manic “good evening Wembley” gurning. We’re the sort of people to find all stadium postures pretty ridiculous, but what looks dumb in Budokan is almost unbearable in a slowly emptying provincial cinema. Go see Mr Fogg, but take a blindfold to enjoy the experience.
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