Yellow Jack Swing

I just bought a ticket to this year's Audioscope festival in Oxford.  You should too.  Anyway, here's the last ever Ocelot article (from me, I mean, I presume it will carry on without me...although perhaps the pain will prove too much).

There are 6 members of Francis Pugh and the Whisky Singers.  None of them is called Francis Pugh, but they have been in various Oxfordshire bands of quite surprisingly varied styles over the years – you’ll quite probably have heard of some of them, but we won’t waste any time on the past, because the Whisky Singers don’t belong in the past...they belong in an eternal present where rousing folk tunes are sung in warm snugs, effortlessly emotional melodies are projected into the darkness outside, in defiance of bad times, misery and, you know, not being in an inn singing at the top of your lungs.

I’ve seen them play The Jericho Tavern, starting up acoustically in the downstairs bar, and leading listeners up the stairs.  In similarly inventive fashion, they’ve arranged folk pub crawls, where trundles down the roads of East Oxford are interspersed with waystations promising shots and shanties, pints and ballads.  There are some hints of early 70s Dylan about the band’s music, although they shy away from his more esoteric lyrical tangles, but any number of reference points can be drawn up...drawn up, and tossed away again, because any band that takes the best of train whistlin’ American song and melds it with unpretentious British folk traditions will always only be important in the moment, the precise second that the smoky tendrils of song drift out and surround you, the second your voice rises to sing along with songs you never heard before, yet somehow know.

Plus, they’ve got a cornet, that’s pretty cool.

YELLOW FEVER/ BIG TROPICS/ BE GOOD, Daisy Rodgers, Wheatsheaf 12/9/14

In a world that’s increasingly market-tested one of the great pleasures of small gigs is not knowing what to expect.  When Be Good take to the Daisy Rodgers stage, most often frequented by well-kempt indie poppers, we hadn’t predicted reverby late ‘50s balladry that sounds as if it should be about milkshake and eroticised motorbike crashes.  They deliver this post-doo wop very well, throwing in a little surf tremolo, some brash 80s colours and even a droplet of grunge slackness, and if it sometimes feels as though Marty McFly put the band together by nipping into his high school prom at ten year intervals, the effect is surprisingly cohesive: a few more gigs to settle the nerves, and another couple of tunes as strong as “I’d Have Told You Anything” and we could have a real contender.

A few years ago Big Tropics’ sound would have been an eyebrow-raiser too, but inexplicably in recent years the default setting for young bands in this town seems to have become sterilised, wipe-clean soul-pop in the vein of 5 Star and New Edition.  Whilst this isn’t necessarily a bad thing – we’ll take Debbie Gibson over Stevie Ray Vaughan any day – matters aren’t helped by bands like this who churn through up-beat tunes with dead-eyed resignation in place of gay abandon.   Whilst the gratuitous synth parts, straight from the 12” disco mix of the theme from CHiPs, go some way towards excusing the limply anonymous vocals, Big Tropics seem to have forgotten the golden rule of pop performance: always get high off your own supply.  We see a punter at the bar wearing white socks with trousers that are too short, which just about sums them up: it’s fun, it’s retro, but it doesn’t really fit together.

There are no shocks in Yellow Fever’s set.  They’ve become just as excellent a band as we knew they would be when we first saw them a few years ago, finding their teenage feet.  Again their sound, melding chiming hi-life guitar parts to A Certain Ratio style introspective indie-funk, has become more prevalent in the intervening years, but they manage to make the mixture smoother than many, by building it around a core of well-written tunes (indeed, a one-off cover of “Rip It Up And Start Again” fits snugly amongst their best tracks).  The sound has got heavier and denser in recent times, every jam block break counterbalanced by a crushing crescendo, but it’s an unforced charm, a sort of polite insouciance emanating from the stage that really proves how this band has grown in stature.  Like we say, character: it could be the most important thing your band will ever have. 

 

Supernormal 2014 - Saturday Pt 2

Fruit Canoe start well, messing with a vocal sample that might have been taken from a dodgy pyramid selling pitch but it doesn’t look as though anything surprising is going to happen to their averagely decent electronica, so we return to the barn to see vocal improviser Maggie Nicols.  In a world where many musicians make their living on a tedious whirligig of indentikit festival bookings, we can’t help but admire the fact that her bassist/sampler controller is not in the programme because he wasn’t sure he’d find anyone to look after his shitake mushrooms until the last minute.  As it is, his additions are fine, if a bit muddy in the mix, but it is Nicol’s vocal range that captures everyone’s attention.  She doesn’t so much explore a series of tonalities, as a set of characters, breaking into her own songs in a variety of languages, a Glaswegian skipping rhyme, or a stuttering Donald Duck glossolalia along the lines of David Moss.  Her technique is wonderful, and if a cheesy “I love life” reggae tune is too hippy for cynics like us, the set is still fascinating and good-humoured.

Nightshift spent Saturday morning eating bacon sandwiches and relaxing on the sofa - what, you think we’d camp with the proles? - listening to Palehorse’s LP, an excellent take on Slint’s taut rock with bonus heaviosity.   Live they lose this poise somewhat, and the music is far scrappier, but is also possessed of an inspiring energy – when they scream you feel as though you’ve been properly screamed at.  Contrast this with Mob Rules on the same stage earlier, who shot for a kind of Fucked Up hardcore, but had all the vigour and disgust of a Countdown contestant who’s been given three zeds. It’s a pleasing end to the day on the Nest stage, that sadly wouldn’t survive Sunday’s second dose of hideous weather.

Esben & The Witch’s neatly gothic pop theatre proves too calculated at Supernormal, where the truly harrowing will always trump overblown indie incantations, and where you might meet an actual witch, so we try our luck in the bar for the improbably name Unconscious Archives: Spatial.   Admittedly this turns out to be some shapes projected on a sheet whilst someone demonstrates the sound possibilities of the Dragon 64 home computer, but still, they had chairs.

We don’t get to see Sly & The Family Drone, as they set up in the middle of the field, and are surrounded by a ring of spectators, some of whom may have been joining in.  We have no idea where the band ended and the audience began.   We have no idea where soundcheck ended and the set began.  We have no idea where egalitarian abstract noise theatre ended and taking the piss began.  But we did quite enjoy it all from a position a few yards away, even if all we could really hear was one roaring guitar amp and a synthesised bass drum (rhythms optional).

Sadly, we weren’t able to attend Sunday, which is probably for the best as our turn at the Fall karaoke would have beaten all-comers (although as they didn’t name it Mark E. Oke, they don’t deserve our genius).  As a whole the festival supplied a heady mixture of high quality and fascinatingly idiosyncratic failures.  If there were no main stage highlights to come close to Evil Blizzard and Hookworms last year, the barn felt better utilised this time, and it was pleasing that the interesting performances were spread across the site more evenly than in other years.  Our only concern, when settling down to another doom rhythm, another guitar drone and another vocal delay unit is that the line-up is in danger of becoming predictable.  The one simple thing that makes Supernormal better than any other festival in Oxfordshire is that it has not yet become a brand, and doesn’t seek to sell us close-minded lifestyle choices instead of adventures: let’s make sure it stays like that.   Don’t give us what we want, give us what we’ll never forget

Supernormal 2014 - Saturday

We notice in Saturday’s Guardian Guide that Supernormal is singled out, with the description “vaguely leftfield”.  Considering our second day begins in a stone folly in which an old tape of accordion hits plays at random speeds, we wonder exactly what their music editor gets up to of an evening.  This piece is the work of Phantom Chips, who later fill the bar with dark fuzzy noises, and invite an audience member to don an udder cummerbund they’ve created: when the brightly hued cloth nipples are yanked different brands of digital skree erupt from the speakers.  The effect is like a cross between Incapacitants and Nursie from Blackadder, and frankly we’d like to see more of this madness in the bar, which seems to generally consist of a few people jigging about to classic soul tunes during the day.  Mind you, perhaps if there was much more of this the bar staff would revolt – we’ve already noticed that the First Aid tent is next to something called the Shed Sound area, a little gazebo from which the sound of amp hum and vinyl crackle can be heard a pretty much constantly, and we assume the St John’s Ambulance boys were self-medicating by Friday teatime.

Luminous Bodies features members of Supernormal bands Terminal Cheesecake and Part Chimp,. but what we hear is a default “Heart of The Sun” riff sounding like a suburban metal band warming up in the school gym, so we sneak over to see The Wharves instead, who have plenty of Throwing Muses about their warm, simple tunes.  Pity they wander through them so tentatively, like Shaggy and Scooby exploring a haunted mineshaft, but a strong melody will always win points.

On the Braziers House terrace, violinists Benedict Taylor and Hakarl have teamed up with an uncredited saxophonist for a relaxed improvisation, and these purely acoustic one-offs are the sort of thing we’d like to see more of at next year’s festival, there are so many nooks and crannies on the site that could be enlivened by a freeform blowout or a subtle bit of lowercase tinkling.  There are plenty of careering glissandi and percussive tonguing on display, but the music doesn’t sound gimmicky; in fact it reminds us oddly of Benjamin Britten at times...perhaps these are the gulls circling out of shot in Peter Grimes.

Back on the Nest stage, Sex Swing are covering doom trudge drums with bass sax honks and electronics, in a fashion that’s neither swinging nor erotic, but quite diverting all the same.  The whole set sounds like a didgeridoo reliving a harrowing post-gig night at the Holiday Inn with Rolf Harris.

Charismatic Megafauna apparently formed at last year’s festival.  We wonder whether they’ve actually met since.  Their show involves the three of them bashing out elementary rhythms and chanting clumsily, and is a good few rehearsals away from being convincing.  Reverse cheerleading, we suppose, but also sadly the reverse of any good.

We leave Henry Blacker and their incredibly entertaining rock chugs, something like a heavy Ten Benson, to see a rare performance inside Braziers House.  When punters at many festivals are content to sit playing hacky sack by their tents, or swilling in the beer tent until it gets late enough for someone famous, it’s truly heartening to see a wave of listeners stream through the door to see a solo piano piece by MXLX.  From our position in the doorway, we can’t see a single ivory, but the sound has a pleasing, if unrevolutionary, Philip Glass air, with a dash of Charlemagne Palestine’s intense key-pounding.

It’s only a short hop from there to the Barn, where Seth Ayyaz is vibrating a bunch of contact miked percussion.  After a few minutes we’re about to walk out when we suddenly start hearing massed church organs singing in the drones and loops, and before we know it our ears are filled with birdsong, Satanic mills, laughing policemen – either he’s an adept at sonic craftsmanship, or we have a very fertile imagination.  Later, the FX pedals come into play, adding a K K Null air to proceedings, although some breathy shakuhachi lines keep the music earthy.

According to the programme (and we know how reliable that can be) one of Fish Police is autistic.  Well, seeing as they’re about the only band on the Nest Stage that knows how to do an efficient soundcheck and start on time, perhaps they should have booked a few more.   Once we’re over the disappointment that they aren’t a themed tribute band (“Good evening, my name’s Sting Ray...”), we enjoy a thoroughly funky slice of urban pop, that moves between Starsky & Hutch synth and loping Arrested Development  good vibes by way of Prince’s smooth sleaze – rather refreshingly shiny and slick at a festival that can be somewhat doom-happy.

This being Supernormal, we expected Horseloom to be a vast device made out of surgical trusses that recreated the sound of pack animals dying in the Somme.  It’s actually man named Steve Malley, a single acoustic guitar and some lovely, mellifluous Martin Simpson style folk tunes.  He’s not afraid of a little Bert Jansch percussiveness to keep the songs dramatic, and even a tiny splash John Fahey dissonance to keep the senses keen, but for the most part the pieces are played with a limpid simplicity that makes this quite possibly the set of the weekend.  Perhaps his voice, though warm an unhurried, is a little pedestrian, but the playing is a sheer joy.

Breathless are a let-down after that.  We suppose their messy take on clean FM pop sounds can be likened to Maps, or the hypnogogic pop crew, but what they really sound like is some shut0in from 1985 recording Robbie Robertson covers on a C60 in his bed sit, because he thinks Paul Young has possessed his Goblin Teasmaid.

Flying Standard

Here's a review that I wrote for Nightshift.  A lot of it found its way into those lovely, offwhite pages, but some of it is being seen here for the first time.  Sunday's stuff ina  day or two; my colleague Sam Shepherd had to finish it off with some words about Sunday, as I couldn't make it.  There's also something I bashed out over a tinny at Cowley Road Carnival, from The Ocelot (my final piece should be in the current edition).

If there’s one concept set steadfastly in the foundation of grassroots music, it’s that covers band are awful.  Soulless.  Unworthy.  Just shit.  But, contentious though it might be, I feel that this platinum rule can sometimes be broken, and it’s possible to play another’s compositions and still be artistically valid.  Take Jacqueline Du Pre; she could squeeze more originality and invention into 8 bars than most denizens of Oxfordshire will manage in a career of writing original songs (and, let’s be honest, if you’ve heard B B King, Ed Sheeran and The Arctic Monkeys, you’ve effectively already heard 25% of all songs – ahem – written in the county in the past month).  So, for this reason I’m very happy to devote my column this month over to a band I stumbled across at the Cowley Road Carnival, The Temple Funk Collective, a brass septet (or brass sextet with a drummer, if you like), performing covers and medleys with notable wit and musicianship.  From the moment I heard them sliding “Superstition” effortlessly into the Superman theme, I was convinced the band had no dearth of ideas - phrasing and arrangement take skilful inspiration too, you know.

Highlight of a set of insightful segues was a mega-mash-up of 90s chart dance hits, from 2 Unlimited to Corona via Outhere Brothers, Vengaboys, C & C Music Factory, and a few others my blushing brain won’t dredge up for fear of being thrown out of the music journo fraternity - feel the funky force of those sousaphone basslines!  If you’re reading this infuriated that your proper original band should be on this page, never mind, channel that and write some new songs: remember, it’s I-IV-V, and “baby” rhymes with “maybe”.

SUPERNORMAL, Braziers Pk, 8-10/8/14

Supernormal might be synonymous with petrifying noise and introspective jazz abstraction, but it’s not averse to a few pop thrills.  Take opening act Ravioli Me Away, a charmingly inept pop confection whose first number is not a billion leagues away from Daphne & Celeste’s “Ooh, Stick You”, and who later touch on Italo house and Bow Wow Wow euphoria, with the clunky abandon of Dog Faced Hermans. 

A little of this fun could have enlivened The Jelas’ set, which is all angular intricacy, somewhere between Cap’n Jazz and Badgewearer; the sax attack is effective, but overall the set lacks bite.  Down a muddy slope, that becomes increasingly treacherous as the day progresses, we seek out the barn, a haven for the more refined artistic activity at Supernormal (including a Saturday morning life drawing class), and home for some of this year’s highlights.  Rebecca Lenon’s piece “Diet Terror”, might not be one of them, but the spectacle of someone hitting a floor tom repeatedly below a film of a dog being hoovered whilst somebody wrapped in plastic sits with their back to us is intriguing...although not nearly as entertaining as the panicky looks towards the exit of someone who is worried they might be trapped here for another hour.

Despite the programme leading us to expect something resembling Can, Piper’s Son offer a sort of hobo ambience, piling roots music offcuts together in a fashion which recalls Marc Ribot, which will do just fine instead.  As will the delicious pad thai we slurp down on the way to the main stage.  Supernormal should be celebrated for providing a decent range of food and drink at very reasonable prices when most festivals resemble overcrowded Waitrose gulags around dinnertime.

Misleading krautrock allusions are nothing compared to Moonbow’s programme write-up, which promises choreography, set design and osmology (look it up; we did), whereas what we actually get is two people playing dubby synthesised pop.  What’s wrong with just saying that, eh?  Especially seeing as Moonbow are actually bloody good at it, creating a glistening aura of woozy positivity that’s somewhere between Fixers and a My Little Pony cartoon, sweetened by lovely Omnichord drizzles.  Speaking of drizzles, it’s a bit of a pity that this, some of the summeriest music ever made, is interrupted by the outbreak of an intense downpour that lasts the rest of the evening.

You can tell a lot about a festival in the rain: at some people ignore the music and go play in the mud; at others, everyone goes home or hides in beer tents until someone off the telly comes onstage; at Supernormal it seems to make very little difference, and in fact the crowd watching Brighton’s  Speak Galactic on the Nest Stage seems larger and more effervescent than an hour earlier.  Only fair, as this might well be the act of the day, giving wonky Dinosaur Jr style tunes a sonic makeover with plenty of early techno tricks, in a style we call Slack Electro.  At one point they get a little trendily bombastic, recalling the likes of Cut Copy, but manage to pull it back for more Model 500 grunge.  We wrote a lot more in praise of them in our notebook, but unfortunately it dissolved before we reached the end of the page.  Barberos follow them up, and insanely the crowd is even bigger and more supportive, despite the rain being harder, if anything.  Their triple drumkit avalanche is effective, but what we remember most is the sight of steam billowing from their stockinged heads as they pummel away.

Gnod’s music is seemingly even more soluble than our cheap stationery, fizzing away into a single drone like a Disprin in a kettle.  Whilst their endless thumps, hums and delayed vocals sound pleasant, especially when a Gregorian chant recording is thrown over the top, we’re hard pressed to say it made a vast impression.  Bong, who follow them on the main stage, do the same thing, but make it sound about twenty times better, which is part of the mystery of minimal noise rocking – why is it sometimes electrifying, and sometimes just annoying?  Although we imagine Bong are named after their naughty smoking apparatus of choice, we prefer to imagine they’re referring to the effect of being stuck inside Big Ben at midnight, repetitive clangs destroying your cranium.  We go for a walk in the pitch black trees behind the stage during the set which, with the Old Testament weather still pounding down, feels properly terrifying.

In between the barn offers another highlight in the shape of Sarah Angliss’ automata.  Sadly, some of them have got damp whilst being loaded in, and the set is a little compromised, but when she uses a theremin as a midi trigger to alter the speed of a vocal sample, whilst her Ealing Feeder carillon plays itself and a robotic crow stares you out, there’s a pier-end eeriness that is unnerving; unnerving in the way a nursery rhyme is scarier than a slasher flick.  A fascinating, unique set, and not one likely to grace many other festival stages this year...unless the instruments get up and crash the bill themselves, which we’re frankly not ruling out.