It’s a little sad that, although ostensibly removed from the
external editorial pressures of bullying record companies and advertisers’
grubby expectations, writing about Oxfordshire music continually covers the
same acts. But how can I balance this? If you’ve searched out this
tiny fragment of the magazine, you doubtless already know Spring Offensive are
fantastic. You’ll already have danced drunkenly to a Rabbit Foot Spasm
Band gig. You’ll already have investigated The Cellar Family. You’ll already be uncertain about that new
Foals LP. So, let’s talk about a band from the past.
The Evenings were a noughties collective built around
drummer Mark Wilden. On record they made clean, often melancholic
techno-pop tracks; live, in contrast, they tended to chuck varying
constellations of performers at the same backing tracks in a defiant act of
euphoric stadium dada cabaret (all the musicians were part of a local enclave
who continually guested in each other’s projects, so that going to gigs in that
era felt like a sweatier version of Cloud Atlas). If you enjoyed
The Evenings at the time, you’ll have a favourite moment (toast at Truck,
anyone?). If you missed them, go to www.markwilden.co.uk to see what you
could have won: all the recordings are there to be downloaded for a small
price. Of course, although ex-members
are now in great Oxford acts as diverse as Space Heroes Of The People, Flights
Of Helios, Komrad and The Brickwork Lizards, The Evenings never officially
disbanded. If every Ocelot reader got in
touch...
SEAMING
TO/ KIRA KIRA, OCM, The North Wall, 15/3/13
There’s
a lot to like about Kira Kira’s tribute to Sigridur Nielsdottir, dubbed Grandma
Lo-fi, who made 59 albums in her Icelandic living room in her 70s. Unfortunately, they all happen on the top of
each other, and last about 30 seconds each.
Over the sort of library glitchtronica typical of her label Morr, Kira
Kira throws abstractedly dramatic whispers and indulges in close-miked abuse of
a music box whilst tweaking hisses and hums from eviscerated circuitry. Somewhere
in the flurry of electric crackles, breathy vocals and fragmented beats is some
fantastic music, but it feels as though we’re thumbing through the tesserae,
rather than admiring the mosaic.
Seaming
To and her mother, concert pianist Enloc Wu, perform a song-cycle dedicated to
their (grand)mother. Any fears that this
will be a sincere but sugary affair, like a Race For Life blog set to synth pop
backing, are smashed as the eerie opening vocal collage leads into mysterious
Debussy piano. Judy Kendall’s subtly
allusive lyrics dodge the saccharine too, perhaps addressing cultural changes
in three generations of a Chinese family: “I only look the part in photographs/
this hand me down that doesn’t fit” probably isn’t a line St Winifred’s School
Choir ever sung. To’s vocals are superb,
edging from a steely operatic imperative to a bittersweet jazzy intimacy –
“Through” sounds like “Je Ne Regrette Rien” rewritten by Erik Satie – but it’s
Wu’s piano playing that’s the real revelation.
Every keystroke has its own distinct character, whether she’s whipping
up a blizzard of icy high notes, laying down some stately chords or expertly
mimicking the rhythms of speech like a classically controlled Cecil
Taylor. The downside of this varied
programme is that whenever Wu’s not playing it feels like a wasted opportunity,
although sections like the excellent Caretaker haze of a Guangdong folk tune
lost in electronic mist and e-bowed zither can hold their own. Good to find that artists can approach the
theme of grandparenthood at a level higher than Clive Dunn and Peter Kay.
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