In October, Klub
Kakofanney celebrates its 22nd anniversary. Just think about that for a moment. 22 years of monthly events. In a culture where nights like My Friends
Stopped Coming After Three Events Productions, This Is Harder Than It Looks
Promotions, and What Does “Budget” Mean Again? Incorporated come and go, the
idea of a promoter lasting more than 6 months is barely conceivable, and yet
Phil Freizinger and Sue Smith, two bedraggled punk hippy renegades, have
managed to put on events for over two decades that are surprising, engaging and
welcoming. And sometimes rubbish,
granted, but often one of the best nights out in Oxford. Join them at The Wheatsheaf for 3 days on the
first weekend in October, and on the first Friday of every month thereafter. You’ll find an eclectic range of performances,
a quirkily friendly atmosphere, and dancing so clunky it looks like it was
choreographed by George Romero.
Phil and Sue can also be
caught most weekends in some benighted Oxfordshire pub or other plying their
trade with The Mighty Redox. It’s a
presumptuous adjective to have in the name, but their woozy syrup of
psychedelia, funk, blues and Gong-scented silliness really is a powerful
pick-me-up. There aren’t many bands who
can throw squealing guitar workouts, harrowing banshee howls and even bass
solos at rural bar-proppers and not only get away unscathed, but actually make
them frug like fools by the end of mammoth sets. If you’ve been doing something for 22 years,
you’re either doing it right, or are oblivious to what you’re doing wrong;
either way, we’ll be there to do it too.
SUPERFOOD/ ARTCLASSSINK/ GUS ROGERS, DHP, Art Bar, 14/10/13
Kill Murray are unable to perform because of illness, so
vocalist Gus Rogers fills in solo, strumming a fuzzy guitar over what could be
A-Ha backing tracks, and singing in a high, delicate slur, like the ghost of a
tramp. Gig cancellation is pandemic in this town, so we applaud Gus’
decision to perform under straitened circumstances. It’s impressive that
one track even sounds quite spell-binding, even as it’s depressing that there
are trendy types all over the shop offering essentially the same half-baked
fare and garnering plaudits from every angle.
Never trust a restaurant where the main menu is more than
two pages. Chefs should be celebrating what they do best, not
offering everything in a desperate attempt to please the world.
Artclasssink approach music like a beered-up posse at such an establishment,
ordering willy-nilly, and suggesting “just put it all in the middle, mate, and
we’ll mix and match”. And so Joy Division portentousness scratches
against glistening Cocteaus guitar, whilst Mansun choruses straddle mall-rock
thumping. That it makes no sense is its charm, but when the band lose
their rhythm or let their composure slip – worryingly regularly – it’s as if
that dining party were passing out one by one.
Birmingham’s Superfood are an up-and-coming band.
You can tell because the tracks on their Soundcloud have so many celebratory
comments that listening to them creates a pop-up strobe effect that burns the
word “sick” onto your retinas. Sadly, this online fever has not
translated to a large turnout, which is a shame, as it feels as though the band
would thrive on a vibrant crowd. Their rhythms are insistent, but lithe
and bouncy, and the vocals are approachable and warm, and they look as though
they’re just waiting for the next good time to catalyse. The songs sound
like Ride without the pedals mixed with first album Blur, which is fine, even
if they also resemble The Bluetones with alarming regularity. It would be
supercilious to claim that a young band can’t find inspiration from the music
of the mid-90s, but it would be nice to see these decent musicians stretching
themselves. After all, look at the back page of this magazine:
Britpop clearly hasn’t yet finished eating itself.
