Purgatory Thinktank

Got to be quick today, I have a house full of visitors and need to go to a wedding soon.  So, commence copy and paste.  I'm, a bit embarassed about the last line in this, but I'll leave it in.  That's what happens when you write reviews on Christmas day after a quick sherry.

LIMBO KIDS – WANDERLUST EP (Own label)

Has someone cool got an uncle who went into a coma in about July 1988?  Because, in Oxford especially, the cool kids seem to be making music that is, not so much generically retro, as deliberately mimetic of this precise period: it’s as if the movers, shakers and Tumblrati were preparing a sonic welcoming committee for somebody’s putative return to consciousness.  This EP (not explicitly released under the Oxonian People’s Front moniker of Blessing Force, but with links to Trophy Wife and Rhosyn, so it’s as near as dammit) is almost comically exact in its recreation of the post-synth pre-rave pop of ’88 and ’89, and yet is, unexpectedly, pretty great.

Limbo Kids – no, sorry, LIMBO\\KIDS, as the record artwork would have it; why have designers started approaching their keyboards like drunken schizophrenics from the seventeenth century, and when the hell will new band names stop looking like swearwords from Asterix? – feature James Hitchman from Alphabet Backwards, and continue his recent quest to reduce pop music to one single, all-engulfing vocal hook.  His part on “Heartshots” is so simple it makes “Blink Of An Eye” sound like “Bohemian Rhapsody”, but it’s woven so well over a funky-ish drummer and fruity organ rhythm that the track doesn’t sound simplistic.  There are strong hints of late ‘80s dancefloor monsters like Jellybean Benitez and even Betty Boo in the backing, but the elegant placement of the vocal lines makes this a surprisingly satisfying piece, capable of inspiring multiple listens.  It should be a hollow pastiche, but emerges against all the odds as an enjoyable song.

The track “Wanderlust” runs tearfully from the club to a draughty teenage garret, but is equally spotless in its vintage, sounding a lot like one of the more melancholic tracks from Prefab Sprout’s From Langley Park To Memphis.  Again, there’s not much material here to play with, but it’s so artfully put together that it feels like a weighty statement, not a sonic souffle.  Rose Dagul’s funeral cortege cello is absolutely perfect in its stately sadness, and we love the ghostly, well-kempt goth air of the lightly reverbed drum machine.

Sadly, the final track breaks the spell somewhat.  “Desire” isn’t dire, but the vocals suddenly sound drab and wheedling, and the whole piece sounds like a pretty dull bit of album track studio confectionary: there’s a reason why Climie Fisher have been forgotten, you know.  Still, we’ll forgive this one misstep if it means we can enjoy the gorgeous cultivated misery of “Wanderlust” again.

Oh, welcome back, uncle.  Did you sleep well?  Yes, Dr Who is still on telly, but we’d better have a chat about Jimmy Saville...

Peephole Skills

Bought the new Scott Walker album today, and a couple of random cheap records by Yacht and John McCusker.  Let's crack open the Harvey's Bristol Cream, for a proper Christmas Eve. 

WELCOME TO PEEPWORLD – CHARM OFFENSIVE (Big Red Sky)

The cover of this EP features a photo of Welcome To Peepworld that’s clearly intended to echo Grant Wood’s painting “American Gothic” (whereas Bert Audubade’s resemblance to a member of Grinderman is probably coincidental). It tells you a lot about a duo that has a traditional craftsman’s touch, and an eye on the darker, sterner side of their craft.  It’s definitely the latter part of the equation that we enjoy, and a couple of tracks here, “All you Need” and “Fool”, are immaculately performed, and wispy sweet, but a little generic.   Things are definitely improved when the mood turns blacker and when Fi McFall pushes her voice beyond its natural warmth into more ravaged tones.  On “Help Me” or the title track she rises to a yearning corncrake screel that teeters on the far edge of melodicism, and the effect is captivating.  At its best, this record reminds us of Kristin Hersh’s early 90s material, simple guitar strumming overlaid by wild-eyed drama and elegantly swelling strings (courtesy of the wonderful Barney Morse-Brown); if it can’t always keep up the emotional intensity, it at least never stumbles into open mike self-pity, and it does boast the best piece of singalong a capella break-up vitriol you’ll hear this year. Charm offensive?  Stick to the bitterness, Peepworld, it’s far more interesting.

Lau Played!

Contemporary World Good: I'm listening to the new Death Grips album, which I downloaded for free.  Why don't you?

Contemporary World Bad:  The new iTunes.  Is that not repulsive?  Maybe it's good if you want to put your earbuds in a cloud and tag each semibreve (or something), but if you just use it to load an iPod and burn CDs, it's a pain in the arse.

LAU – DHP Promotions, Jericho, 16/11/12

Enjoying a pre-gig pint in the Gardener’s Arms, Jericho, we admire the old records displayed round the walls.  What a great way to celebrate vinyl, we think; followed by, well, not as much as actually playing it.  We’re sorely tempted to indulge some proper vinylphilia, and half inch a twelve inch, and that’s the paradox: as soon as you start actively celebrating something, you’re effectively admitting its demise - the living need no eulogies, after all.  Which makes Lau an interesting band.  The gig’s promoters describe them as sounding like Godspeed You! Black Emperor, which they do, but only in the sense that a shrew probably looks like a puma from the point of view of a cuttlefish.  Crazy comparisons aside, it’s quite hard to pigeonhole an eclectic trio that fights hard to walk between the twin evils of preserving folk as a taxidermied museum piece and clogging the arteries of a living tradition with an excess of gloopy crossover syrup. 

And, to a great extent, they succeed.  The playing is impeccable, especially Aidan O’Rourke’s fiddle, the mid-range so creamy and rich, the phrasing so natural, you’d swear it was talking to you, murmuring secrets so comfortingly indulgent they’d make Nigella sound like Dot Cotton.  The atmosphere is wonderful, too: some of the apparent ad libs were probably well aired, but they stopped the gig getting too salon polite or rock pompous.  There are impressive musical twists to discover, “Horizontigo” displaying the clockwork sugar locals might associate with Message To Bears, and “Far From Portland” a stately plucked coda that reminds us unexpectedly of Papa M.  There are also less successful departures from the folk path, like fuzzy laptop snuffles somewhat akin to Four Tet, and it’s frustrating to watch Martin Green leave off the spry accordion lines to tinkle faux-atmospherically at a Rhodes.

Folk trios don’t normally sell out the Jericho, or require much award storage space, so it would be easy to assume that Lau had cynically cross-bred their music to make it palatable. It would also be downright wrong, as the honest love of what they’re playing oozes from the musicians.  It’s just that, in general, the more folk they are, the more we like them, and the pieces that transport us are “Torsa”, with its lively Scottish rhythms, and Kris Drever’s lovely, straight take on Lal Waterson’s “Midnight Feast”.  Not perfect, then, but still great to see a band with a love of British folk, and wide enough tastes to distract the barman at the Gardener’s whilst we swipe that old Warp EP.

Shallow Phil.

Something something something something pop music.

SUBMOTION ORCHESTRA/ CORNELIA, The Academy, 14/10/12

“I write songs and in turn they rewrite me”.  So claims London-based Swede Cornelia on her Facebook.  It’s a nice sentiment but through the course of her solo show we are diverted, even lightly intrigued, but sadly untransformed.  Her voice is strong, low breathy intimacies turning to bright, harsh aluminium tones at the high end, and her synthesised backing errs on the side of approachable chunky simplicity.  She’s at her best when she rides simple keyboard hums or Omnichord buzzes, bold enunciation and sudden changes in vocal register adding drama (although the kooky, spooky hand jives are too much – Hot Gossip disbanded years ago, you know).  But we’ve seen a lot of theatrical, artfully coiffured women channel their cyber-Kate Bush over electronic beats and, likable though the set is, by the end we’re just a bit Bjored.

Seven people are not an orchestra: fact.  No surprise that Submotion Orchestra has hit on the term, though, as their whole show is about justifying electronic comedown music through the supposed authentication of live musicianship, climbing out of the chillout room and into the salon.  And that’s all well and good, but the trouble is that crass, clumsy downtempo pop sounds equally facile when played by a Leeds (ahem) orchestra as it does bashed together in FruityLoops, and aside from the odd dubstep-inspired chunk of bassweight, Submotion’s thin ditties mostly resemble offcuts from the catalogues of Curiosity and Morcheeba remixed by Alex Reece.  The playing is technically strong, especially the percussion and flugelhorn, but unlike the best dance productions the music has no poise, no sense of space or balance, it’s just an endless smug celebration of proper musoship for its own dubious sake: look, Ma, both hands.   Ironically, the band’s best weapon is its singer, who has a sweet voice slightly reminiscent of Lamb’s Lou Rhodes, and her parts are smothered in clumsy digital delay.  It’s like they’re doing things arsefacewards solely to annoy us. 

The harsh truth about Submotion is that they sound like Sting’s backing band cutting loose and jamming at soundcheck, when he’s not looking (probably out back, doing the Downward Dog on a mound of quinoa and lutes).  We don’t know whether we’re writing this review or whether this review is writing us, but we know we’re bored with this vapid, self-conscious stodge.

Sungs Frum An Urt Gullery

This is quite a wordy review.  Lots of sophomoric chat about the nature of live performance.  Don't read it if you're hoping I'm going to be describing Grace Exley's bared midriff in great detail, and if you don't like old men moaning about the price of beer.

I listened to Pieces In A Moden Style by William 0rbit (sic) today,. having bought it in a charity shop.  Jesus, it's worse than I expected: how can you make Barber, Cage, Satie and Vivaldi all sound the same?  And so horrible?  If you see it in the charity shop I shall return it to, I advise you leave it on the shelf.  

THE GOGGENHEIM/ THE LAMPOST GULLIVERS/ VIENNA DITTO/ FRANCIS PUGH & THE WHISKY SINGERS, Stone Free, The Jericho, 6/10/12

We’re just buying our first overpriced beer at the Jericho’s main bar, when suddenly a lilting little country ditty, in a sort of cleaned up jugband style, wafts pleasingly past our ears.  It’s Francis Pugh & The Whisky Singers, a quartet that has elected to start its set in the downstairs bar, perhaps hoping to lead the drinkers, Pied Piper style, into the upstairs venue.  Predictably, we are the entirety of their entourage as they take to the stairs.  In the venue, they continue to play unplugged, in the middle of the room, which creates a delightful intimacy, even if they could do with learning how to project the vocals.  The material is enjoyable, high quality country tunes with a small hint of self-effacing wit, as if they know that four young chaps from Oxfordshire can never really play in this downhome style without a sly wink.  The trumpet parts are the secret ingredient, not least because they carry so clearly without amplification; and did we hear an unexpected Handel influence at one point?  It’s a good set, and a friendly introduction to the evening, although part of us thinks that, far from being a mildly diverting novelty, people singing unamplified narrative folk songs belong in a provincial pub far more than squid nibbles and Peroni at four pounds forty a fucking pint.

Vienna Ditto may have a sound based on synthesised beats and fuzzy electric guitar, but they retain the unhurried ramshackle air of the Whisky Singers.  Many of their songs marry chunky electro-disco to rockabilly, in a space somewhere between Goldfrapp’s steely sensuality and Imelda May’s glossy gutsiness, with the merest whiff of turn of the century pop sophisticates Shivaree.  This is all well and good, but what truly makes them special - aside from Hatty Taylor’s rich, chanson-style voice – is their relaxed, handmade approach.  Whilst many bands with gorgeous, arcing pop songs like this would have rehearsed them to the hilt and found some session rhythm section types to fill up the sound, Vienna Ditto spend most of the set huddled together over a keyboard and electronics set up, pushing buttons and giggling, like a drunk couple trying to knock up a post-pub dinner on a camping stove.  Writing epic pop songs is a skill; performing them so they feel like wonderful secrets whispered into the audience’s ear is sheer talent.

Speaking of talent, at the beginning of The Lampost Gullivers’ set, we begin to worry that former Suitable Case and Mephisto Grande vocalist Liam Ings-Reeves wasn’t the excellent musician we had him down as, but a cabaret blues growler whose music had been getting slowly less interesting over the years.  Bash bash bash went the bass and drums, snarly-warl went Liam, in his best zombie Tom Waits voice, and it was all perfectly diverting, but not vastly exciting.  About a third of the way into the set, however, we quickly moderated our opinion.  Suddenly, the music took on a lithe, tensile quality, replacing the cartoon bluster of the opening numbers with hypnotic, rubbery rhythms, turning the preacher-rock hollers into sticky, deep-fried krautrock.  By the end of the set, our faith is firmly restored, and we can hear the deft muscularity underpinning even the dirtiest blues clatter.

Pop music, ladies and gentlemen, is and always has been, at least partly, about dressing up funny.  So, fair play to The Goggenheim, who are all garbed as Alex James (possibly), with nice clean flat caps, and are fronted by Grace Exley, in glittery silver affair with vast head-dress, looking like a dancer from a Busby Berkeley musical about Ra the sun god in New York.  Sonically they’re equally theatrical, laying Gong wooziness and affected vocal declamations over thumping drums and disjointed guitar.  At their poppiest, on “Moth”, they sound rather a lot like 80s oddballs Stump, but at their most outlandish they’re simply mystifying: “Ah Samina” consists of an unfathomable chant with false vibrato created by manually wobbling the throat, like a 70s schoolchild pretending to be a Silurian.  It’s not all arsing about, though, and the music would be infuriatingly wacky if it weren’t played so well, with some outstanding metronomic drumming.  You also get the feeling that Grace is continually embodying different characters, rather than just putting on silly voices.  In one song she seems to be subtly detourning blues chauvanism with the words “Gonna see my woman, but she’s a cow”, and in “Housten” she might be cocking a snook at lachrymose country tunes about misfortune and loss by singing of salvaging nick-nacks from a crumbled life.  But, equally, she might not.

The Goggenheim are a fascinating, exciting mix of performance art, punk pop and psychedelia who have tailored their performance to the artificiality of the concert environment: their music thrives on the distancing effect of the boundary between stage and audience as much as The Whisky Singers’ feeds from its removal.  This gig, curated by local music photographer Johnny Moto, seemed designed to explore different ways performers relate to a crowd.  Whether the musicians joined us, engaged us in conversation, gave us antagonistic stares or foxed us with surreal spectacle, we were constantly reminded just what a gig in a small venue can do that no volume of free MP3s and YouTube videos can.