Mug Games

Pretty duff review this. I'm told that there was only one vocalist in The Process. Hmmm.

Also, clearly it's "dolls" closing in for Harry Angel, not "doors, I've realised. Obviously.



VARIOUS - FRESH FACES FOR THE MODERN AGE (Rivet Gun)

Local compilations are seemingly proliferating across Oxfordshire at an ever-increasing rate. With so many to choose from, the most pertinent question is how they should function: are they best designed as a random promotional snapshot of the county's musical landscape, or do they make a greater impression when constructed as a cohesive album? There's something to be said for both approaches, but it's a fact that those compilations that cast their net in the tightest arc are the most successful.

With that apparently in mind, Fresh Faces collects music solely from the forgotten realm of heavy rock, nestling somewhere between the extremes of metal's sonic assault and the abstract art-noise rock kingdom. The fact that all the acts are represeneted by at least two tracks adds to the impression that this album is a considered statement, not a ragabag snatch of pals. OK, so the CD is well put together, but is the music any good? Let's start at the bottom, then.

Their frankly embarrassing sleevenotes tell us that "journalists seem to think they are the poets", so just to avoid any confusing interjections from my starving muse, let's keep things simple: Verbal Kink aren't very good. True, the band have left behind the castoff grunge sounds of old for something a little more rhythmically intircate, but even at their best the compositions sound bolted together rather than well arranged. The true drawback is the vocals, however, which are petulantly adenoidal on "Tramazapan Alcohol Suntan" and a weedy scream on "Skeleton Dance".

The Process are the only band here to flirt with metal, and again they're let down by the vocals, if not quite so shockingly as Verbal Kink. They employ the nu-metal tag team of meldoic singer, with a tendency to drift towards rap phrasing, and impenetrable growly monster. Neither vocalist is that shoddy individually, but they just don't gel that well, especially on "Proud To Be", which is strong at either end, but flaccid in the middle, like an old hammock.

Phyal up the ante somewhat, but they're an illogical proposition, being a good band playing rubbish music. How do you judge a tight and exciting live band with a striking frontwoman whose every alternate song sounds like Lita Ford's "Kiss Me Dealdy"? Just shrug your shoulders, shake your hair and go along with it, I guess, and dumb anthem "Crude" (sample lyric: "dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty thing") would be the ideal soundtrack. Isn't there a little fourth former from 1987 in all of us somewhere?

Strike a light, guv'nor! Tim Lovegrove from Junkie Brush comes across as incredibly British amongst all the mid-Atlantic accents on this record. Not that we're mocking, as a natural singing voice is one of the things that make Junkie Brush a refreshingly honest, no nonsense band. Straight up, well played, head pummelling punk rock is always a pleasure, even if the recorded tracks lack their live bite, especially "Problem-Reaction-Solution". "Monkey Grinder" has more of a brooding quality, and the quieter delivery stops them from falling into a declamatory Sham 69 pothole and keeps interest levels raised.

The true heroes of this CD are Harry Angel. Ironically, they're probably the least rock of all the bands, yet they cast the most menacing shadow. Live favourite "Death Valley Of The Dolls" is an over-excited yelping little thing, borne up by sprightly snare heavy fills, and its sparse tale of red eyes, unanswered calls and doors closing in creates an atmopshere of suspicion. The much vaunted Pablo Honey influence is evident on "Striptease", where the falsetto elisions are a joy, deliberately edging up to each note like a film noir fink sidling out of a bar room brawl. Harry Angel have acheived what so many face-painted, snarling metallers miss: they are genuinely unnerving, and hugely entertaining.

It's unlikely that we'll see a better compilation of these sorts of bands emerging in the foreseeable future (until Fresh Faces Volume 2, of course), so if you have a taste for more concise song-based rock, we'd advise tracking down a copy.

Ghost To Show

Most eye-grindingly annoying phrase for me this week: "The single got to number four in the top twenty". No it never, it got to number four in the top everything, what's the point of bringing twenty into it, you feebleton? It got to number 4 in the top whatever number you care to name that isn't one, two or three, right? Right! Prick.

Hope you're all well.


PHANTOM THEORY/ GUNNING FOR TAMAR – SPLIT SINGLE (A Mother Python Records)

There is probably nothing on this earth as indie as a split single. Not a plastic hairclip, not a hand-made fanzine, not a nursed pint of cider, not even an inability to deal with elementary social niceties. The split single talks of shared ideals in a hostile corporate world, it points towards impoverished yet dedicated artists sharing the financial burden of pressing, and it occasionally hints at musicians who are too ramshackle to even manage two tracks worth releasing.

But why release a split single now? Now, when the finances and mechanics of doing so are much less intimidating, when your one good song can, indeed, be released on its own for download without anyone feeling short-changed. Presumably it’s because two bands feel a deep affinity, so it’s odd when the links aren’t immediately obvious to the listener. Behind the gorgeous sleeve of this CD (an ink drawing of a Napoleonic horse’s head perched precariously above two street-sweeper’s carts) lurk two very different bands.

Phantom Theory is the tougher of the two, with a wiry awkwardness in the guitar lines and a heftily bludgeoned drumkit revelling in some neat Fall meets Sonic Youth bashing. “Trancedog” has one foot in the hasty garage maelstrom of early Jon Spencer and manages to give a paucity of lyrical content some sense of narrative with some dense dynamics. “Playground” is intermittently a little like Nirvana’s “Love Buzz”, albeit with the stabilisers just removed, and a feeling of defiant, wobbly chutzpah. These tracks are unlikely to demand the opening of a new wing of the Rock N Roll Hall Of Fame, but they may well soundtrack a fair few opened beers, which is good enough for us.

Gunning For Tamar are more self-conscious. Their titles are needlessly ornate and the playing has a straitlaced repressed fell that robs some of their potential power. There’s a yearning neo-emo feel to “The Organs. The Senses. The Muscles. The Memories” a little like a miniature Biffy Clyro, and a fast fading recollection of Intentions Of An Asteroid. It’s a decent track, but never really lifts off or feels as visceral as the title would imply. The superior “Norse Blood” lashes into a strange rockin’ canter – it’s like a cross between Iron Maiden and Billy Mahonie. Well, not really, but it is an intriguing little tune whose repetitions are half art twiddling and half dumbass mall rock. Either way, it’s not as desperately emotive as “The Organs…”, and we’d like to hear more.

It’s a strong release for two newish local acts, but, if you want to be old fashioned about it, Gunning For Tamar are definitely the B Side to this single. Of course, the truly indier-than-thou would always listen to the B Side at least as much as the A, eh?

Pico The Pops

No time, new PC to set up. Pip pip.

WALTER PICO – MY ALTER EGO (Crazyworm Records)


“This ‘taster’ EP is to help prepare you nice folks for the release of the forthcoming album”, read the sleevenotes. Taster EP? There are eleven tracks. What’s your definition of a full-length project, Pico, the bleeding Ring cycle? My Alter Ego may not be an EP in length, but it is in scope, as the tracks are mostly collections of doodles, concepts and ideas stretched too far – which is not to say that ideas are bad, but this feels far more like a private demo, not a finished release; or perhaps we should see it in the hip hop tradition of a mixtape, something between a demo, an album and an annoying advert.

There are two approaches on this record. The first is a sampladelic selection of semi-ironic instrumentals, mixing louche hip hop beats with easy listening: no prizes for guessing which vintage TV theme “Hipkirk & Hopkirk (Deceased)” sticks some drippy beats behind, and “Let’s Get Together” uses samples from “Wishin’ & Hopin’” and –zounds! – the funky drummer break. Listening to these tracks is like sitting on a lumpy beanbag in a student flat smoking a woefully rolled joint. In 1995. Retro trip hop stylings, perhaps, but really not so much a journey into sound as a dawdle round the bus stop of cliche.

So, Pico isn’t much of a producer, but thankfully the other element of this record is some strong rapping. “What Do You Know?” has a gorgeous cheeky flow that recalls the Native Tongues movement (although the organ motif’s enormous resemblance to De La Soul’s “Potholes In My Lawn” probably possibly has something to do with it). A more obvious influence is early Eminem (you know, when he was slick and funny and not embarrassing us all with protracted neurotic therapy sessions like an unfunny Woody Allen on Oprah Winfrey). “The New Breed” has a vocal that bounces along like a rubber rabbit, and “The DIY Method” tells the tale of a hard-working rap mastermind rising up the ranks that isn’t a million miles from “Lose Yourself” - even going so far as to use the phrase “back to the lab”. These are definitely Pico’s best lyrics, too, telling of “A big mouth/ It was something else, it was enormous/ Could swallow alcohol, a dictionary and thesaurus”.

“I can’t believe what just came out of your mouth” claim The Next Big Thing on the back cover - but we’d like to have been shocked or surprised just once. “What Do You Know?” likens his music to his “diary”, and he alleges that Walter Pico is an “alter ego”, yet we get no insights into the artist and there are no real glimpses of some Slim Shady rap persona to entertain, disgust and challenge. All we get is some drab backing and some good rapping. Of course, good rapping is something to be celebrated in Oxford, as it doesn’t come round very often, but until he stretches himself Pico isn’t doing much worthy of his talents.

Whether or not you choose to file this record as an EP or an LP, you can file it under “Highly Promising”…but you’ll never listen to it again.

All We Hear Is Radio Gagarin

I've been looking at lots of fine art over the past week. It seems to me that if you only had old masters ot judge by, you'd soon reach the conclusion that the Dutch are the ugliest people in the world by several orders of magnitude.


SPACE HEROES OF THE PEOPLE – DANCING ABOUT ARCHITECTURE EP

The great thing about Space Heroes Of The People was always the delicate sense of balance. In their music organic live rhythms circled sequenced synth tones warily, thumping tech-tribal simplicity sat facing musical eloquence in an eternal blinking contest. When they lost live drummer Lizz last year we wondered how they’d fill the gap without toppling the precarious Jenga edifice of their music, and the answer is they’ve not bothered..

They’ve gloriously, wonderfully, inspirationally just done bugger all. Whilst the live show might be bolstered by what old thespians might call some business with a floor tom and Wii remote, on record they’ve simply turned up the keyboards, robotised the vocals are further 20% and made the songs even more linear than before. Jo Edge’s basslines chug along ineluctably like a perpetual motion machine built by the SNCF and the synths buzz with regimental fury like massed Stasi bees. On EP highpoint “Engineers” they deal with the fact that the song is a deliriously self-parodic vocodered Numan chant by…changing to German half way through. Talk about making peace with the cliches of the genre. This isn’t so much setting out your stall, as jumping all over it covered in tin foil shouting “Bloop bloop I’m a cyborg”.

Although the vocoder does weigh slightly heavily on the record, and we wish that Tim Day would let a little more of his natural voice onto the music, this EP is inane and ridiculous, but absolutely fantastic. “Skylon” threatens to morph into Joy Division’s “Atmosphere” (albeit without the faux-existential histrionics), “The Modernist Disco” is the record’s low point, but it still manages to sound like 90s trancers Gat Décor remixing some harpsichord heavy 60s spy theme for Jean-Michel Jarre’s garden party, and “Mr Atomic” is a cybernetic mantra that sounds like an early Underworld tune with the buzzer from Catchphrase sprinkled liberally over the top, which can only mean electro-nirvana.

Thirty years ago music like this sounded like the icy steel of a bleak future; ten years ago we listened to it with charmed retro-condescension; now we finally have enough distance from the birth of synth pop and industrial dance to realise that this band is simply fucking ace, now, then or in eons to come. It’s good, and it is right.

Playing The Giddy Zygote

There are only two types of metal: very very good and very very bad. If you plotted a chart of the quality of all metal in history, you'd find a black huddle in the centre of the page, and a dispersing field about the rest of the sheet, with a ring of empty space where all the bands that make you say "s'alright" would live. I call it the "shrug polo of metal response".

This review is not of a metal band.


FOETUS 502 – SEPTOLOGY (Eyeless Records triple CD)

Yep, you read that right, triple CD. And it’s not even Foetus 502’s first three disc pack! To be honest, the idea of listening to all of Foetus 502 creator Robert Ridley-Shackleton’s releases consecutively would break the strongest of wills; add Leo McKern shouting “Why did you resign?” every 4 bars and we’d crack in no time. But does this have any value as music, as opposed to maverick interrogation tool?

In tiny doses, yes. The Foetus 502 sound is astoundingly simple, just some hissing drum machine rhythms that sound like hundreds of tiny aerosol deoderants sprayed in formation, overlaid with occasional one finger keyboard and repetitive vocal slurs, howls and whispers. It doesn’t take a musicology doctorate to identify a Suicide influence, but it has been wrapped in tape hiss and - possibly wilful - ineptitude. Ridley-Shackleton is a fine artist, so we suspect that Foetus 502 is a character he has created, and that his career is best viewed as a protracted performance piece, but we may be wrong and perhaps the work is entirely sincere. Either way, these are the slipshod cassette creations of a branchline misfit woefully deluded that he is a pop star; he doubtless lives off Microchips and Pop Tarts, and talks to a faded poster of Shakin’ Stevens whilst waiting for that inevitable telegram from David Geffen. The vocals are probably meant to capture an elemental sensuality, somewhere between Elvis, Iggy and Prince, but, in their adenoidal mid-Atlantic yelp, sound more like a primary school kid playing The A Team at break time.

One way to leaven the draining experience of listening to this three hour plus set, is to make it a game of Hunt The EP. There’s about 20 minutes of good quality music hidden in here: “Renegade” is a slightly alarming Chuck Norris enthusiast spouting non sequiturs over what might be the sound of a helicopter blowing its nose; “Teeth” is an unnerving tale of dental damage accompanied by some elementary pause button tape manipulation; “Mark Of The Wolves” is a cheeky ersatz sex funk recalling Baby Ford; “Party” has an insistent white noise rhythm, and seems to parody a thousand lamely Dionysian club tracks, not least Kraze’s 1988 anthem of the same name (“Toffee apples for everyone!”). The trouble is that these moments of fun are surrounded by overlong forays into the same shallow pool of ideas, truly horrible four track a cappella doodles and some sublimely inessential no-fi live recordings.

We admire Eyeless. Their home made web-distributed ethic perfectly side-steps the stumbling music industry, and they have released some great records, especially those by New York’s delicate Peace For Old Ghosts, and Vileswarm, featuring label boss David K Frampton and Lee Riley from Euhedral. However, this set is evidence of what can go wrong with that business model, where everything is permitted, necessity dictates nothing, and “editing” is a dirty word. Still, if you’re looking for an easy job, why not see whether Foetus 502 is advertising for a studio cleaner? Presumably the cutting room floor is spotless, and the bins probably don’t need emptying too often either.

Wilkinson Soared

I feel remarkably chipper for a man who did the entire Punt, from 19.00 to 00.45. I think the secret is to drink halves. Mind you, having bought my first drink in the monstrously overpriced Malmaison, halves were all I could afford!

This review is boring, sorry about that. Oh, by the way, pocket knives are great...

PETER WILKINSON – DEMO


Press releases and demo covering letters can contain the most startling load of old bollocks. More often than not we’re confronted with meaningless bombast, horrible mixed metaphors and enough typos and grammatical errors to make an Open View editorial look like a legal document. The Peter Wilkinson Group (well, let’s be frank, “duo” is the word you’re searching for, Pete) are different though, informing us simply that they play original songs, that they’re based in Southampton and Oxford and that they “formed in December 2005 when I wrote some songs and thought they were good”. Now, this could mean that Peter had written scads of songs previously before consigning them to the bin, but we prefer to imagine him suddenly grasped by inspiration one afternoon, picking up a pen and phoning an accompanist mate. Because, really, that’s the beauty of being a singer-songwriter: there’s no need for days spent in rehearsal and arrangement, no need for hours wasted waiting for the bloody drummer to show up, you can just grab a guitar and throw down any passing experience, catching it fresh before the moment passes.

Peter’s songs are evidence of the strengths of this approach. Nothing here is overworked, especially not the jauntily picked guitar, and the lyrics are neither trite cliché nor pompous poetry, managing to capture an emotion in neat simplicity. Opener “Party” sums a up a sudden outburst of frustration with “I can’t even think for TV sound” but it’s the recording’s centrepiece, “My Wife”, that truly sends shivers. Written from the point of view of an old man caring for his Alzheimer’s stricken partner, this could easily be a messy affair, tugging needily on the heartstrings. However, by concentrating the majority of the song on the couple’s past, Peter doesn’t leave the listener feeling bullied into an emotional response. “Our children have got children now” is one of those elegant lines that tell us more than verses full of dense details possibly could, and when the punchline finally comes, the unsentimental starkness of the words “I just carried her from the bathroom” could fair bring a tear to the eye.

Peter has certainly found a deft verbal economy that makes his songs come alive, but he’s perhaps a better composer than performer. His voice is open and likable, but delivers in an odd mid-Atlantic accent we’re guessing isn’t 100% authentic, plus he tends to lose his pitching on the low notes, to occasionally jarring effect. Oddly, the vocals fare best on the most intricate piece, “Ballad Of Confusion”. With it’s unexpected jazzy chords and sudden changes of dynamic, this song perhaps fancies itself as a bit of a Jeff Buckley special, but it somehow feels a little over-egged (though it’s certainly electric guitarist Malcolm Levitt’s finest moment). Apparently plans are afoot to expand this outfit to a full size band. It’ll be interesting to see what happens, but part of us wants to see Peter keep knocking out the beautifully simple narratives, and unpretentiously finding that he thinks they’re “good”. Because we do too.

Loaf Comes Quackly, Whatever You Do

I've been offline for a little over a week. Well, sorry to my regular readers (phphpffffhhfrt), but you'll probably get 3 posts out of me then I'm off for another week or so. In the interests of half arsed efforts, here's a revuiew most of you wil already have read from the latest Nightshift. See some of you at Punt tomorrow? We've probably never met, but that won't stop the drunken camarederie, eh?


DUCK BAKER, Phoenix Picturehouse, 19/4/10


Every two-bit mouse-clicker has had a crack nowadays at a “soundtrack to an imaginary film”, but watching a gig in a cinema with no projections is something else. Surreally, Virginian guitarist Duck Baker plays beneath the huge white expanse of the unused screen, on a little stool so that we can only see his twitching moustachioed head, like some strange Beckett play about a disembodied downhome musician.

Thankfully, Baker’s affable presence defuses the environmental oddity, and the show is half concert, half rambling, fascinating lecture on The Roots & Branches Of American Music, to quote his latest album title. He’s an urbane and jovial raconteur – to be honest, if there hadn’t been a timetable to keep, he’d probably still be sitting in the foyer now, chatting to the listeners during the interval – and he makes some insightful comments (Scott Joplin is the jazz J S Bach, in Duck’s world, which actually makes perfect sense), but the night is really about the music.

Unlike many fingerstyle guitarists, who use their impressive technique to create a mellifluous and hollow new age waft, Baker really attacks the music, burrs and percussive snaps from his strings interjecting rudely into delicate licks. Baker plays a wide range of material, highlights being a Salif Keita number and his own gospel whirlwind “Blood Of The Lamb”, but every tune is a rumble down a rocky road in an old jalopy: listen to the way in which he stretches the melody in “For Dancers Only”, and you might be forgiven for thinking he’s trying to recall how it goes, or check out the amazing way he dissects Chuck Berry’s dumbass “Maybelline” like James Blood Ulmer deconstructing an Ornette Coleman number.

Baker’s knowledge of American music, as well as related work from Europe and Africa, is encyclopaedic, but this respect for the material doesn’t stop him adding his own idiosyncracies. He adapts tunes written for banjo, piano, fiddle and The Duke Ellington Orchestra, but never tries to emulate artists, no matter how highly he regards them. Duck Baker is something rare, especially in roots circles: an expert who isn’t a purist. Or perhaps he’d rather just be called a musician.

Billy Vanilla

I'm rubbish at reviewing jazz, despite the fact that I listen to a fair amount. See below. I'm fucking atrocious at reviewing classical, despite the vast amount I play nowadays. So, back to the sticky carpeted indie dives for me, I suppose.


BILLY COBHAM, THE ZODIAC, 18/10/06 (Oxford Contemporary Music)


“There’s a top five list of drummers. Then there’s a separate column that just says: ’Cobham’”. So said Al Cisneros from stoner metal duo Om in a recent interview. Praise from a surprising source, perhaps, but then Cobham always was Miles Davis’ most solid drummer, especially when compared to Tony Williams’ shivering jitter. In tonight’s collaboration with Cuban son outfit Asere, which dates back to WOMAD 2002, Cobham once again proves he has a weighty authority behind the traps that isn’t easily matched.

The best evidence is the very first number, a slow and rather polite latin tune that comes to life about halfway through when Cobham starts dropping some depth charges. Sure, the first couple of minutes weren’t unpleasant, with trumpeter Micehl Padron, who is probably Asere’s star, unfurling some supple airy lines like Dizzy Gillespie at half speed, but the game is raised when Cobham deposits chunky breaks that feel about to burst out of the seams of the tune. To these ears the perky rhythms of Cuban music often recall a panting dog, a little too eager to please - “Are we having fun guys? Are we, huh??” – and this band manage to avoid this excitability with some well-fed rhythms. Cobham doesn’t play fast, or loud, or flashy, he just plays...fat. Throughout the night we witness what starts out as fairly generic, and even coffee table, latin music slowly morphing into something a little more intriguing. It’s an impressive trick…but perhaps not as impressive as dispensing with the coffee table altogether.

The highlights of the evening were definitely the sparser arrangements. One song was led by bongos and cajon, which gave the band room to breathe. Another clave led piece boasted shifting rhythms swirling around each other like heady incense. But the real gem was the percussive trio that played immediately after the break (and whilst we’re on the subject, do you really need a forty minute break when the whole gig’s over by ten thirty, boys?). It’s a rock truism that the drum solo is always the most boring part of any concert, but tonight five minutes spent in the solo company of Cobham is more interesting than the whole first half put together, and when he’s joined by percussionist and bassist for another improvised rhythmic gumbo the stakes are raised again. When the rest of Asere file on once more, the soundfield seems clogged and stodgy, and it’s something of an anti-climax, despite some charming vocals.

Ultimately, Cobham and Asere make a good Cuban band. No complaints about good bands of course, but it’s not nearly as exciting as it should be; there are moments in the gig where a truly exciting dialogue promises to occur, only to be swept away the all-levelling party rhythms of the pieces. A perfectly enjoyable gig, then, but what we’d really like to do is get Cobham down at the Port Mahon with a couple of mates, and just tell him to play whatever came into his head for a few hours, then we’d see something truly exciting. But he’d probably have to bring a slightly smaller kit or there’d be no room for an audience…