An Event That's Above The Standard

A lot of this appears in the new Nutshaft, with extra words form my good friend Sam Shepherd.  There is a little bonus material here, but for mreasons of space - also, there were a good few strong acts I saw and didn;t write up in the first place, such is the wealth of joy to be found at Supernormal.  I urge everyone reading this to go next year (unless it means I can't get a ticket).

SUPERNORMAL, Braziers Park, Ipsden, 4-6/8/17

Four years ago we helped a man looking for a bus stop in Oxford.  He’d come from the midlands to attend his first Supernormal, so we were in fact able to accompany him right to the festival gate.  Within one hour of arriving at this year’s event, he barrels over and shakes our hand vigorously, just like the last two years.  This tells you three things about Supernormal: it’s very small and intimate; it is more friendly than a Quaker meeting house made from MDMA; most people who attend once are instant converts, returning every year.  Matana Roberts, in her excellent solo sax concert (part Coltrane spirit quest, part New Orleans gutbucket grit, with sententious spoken interjections a la Laurie Anderson) celebrates the event, noting the open-minded nature and the pleasing lack of security: “You’ve embraced the freedom but are recognising the boundaries”.  Aside from a rumour that some toilets are closed because someone had made a s(h)ite specific artwork having confused Pat McGeown with Cy Twombly, it appears that she was right, those people who believe anything goes are also those most likely to be considerate of their effect on others.  And, as usual, the effect of Supernormal on us was joyous, disorienting and inspiring.

Not Sorry admittedly ease us in gently, sounding like lackadaisical PG Tips chimps tired after a hard day moving wardrobes, playing half-speed Talking Heads lit-funk.  Lush Worker soon ups the ante, with a landslide of guitar skree and gravel.  Like the famous image of the duck/rabbit this is simultaneously blissfully soothing and aggressively coruscating, depending on how you squint your ears.

Just as the red kites swirling above the field were introduced to the area having nearly become extinct, Supernormal has managed to locate the last bleeding pair of infamous COUM Transmissions performers to perform some pieces for the first time in 40 years.  COUM Flakes’ first number consists of someone resembling Transformers era Orson Welles doing a Tom Waits song, with the flatbed trucks and strippers replaced by Nazi war criminals.  Despite obtuse lyrics about torturing prisoners or advert voiceovers having a barney, the music is pleasingly approachable, Gene Krupa tom tattoos underpinning warm chords that recall early Pink Floyd (more of them later).

Next in the Cthulhu cathedral structure called The Vortex, home of the multimedia immersion, Rapid Eye Electronics Ltd present a twisted government information film in which Black Dog electronica spooks itself in a hall of mirrors whilst convoluted regulations for duels are presented over images of vintage dancers.  It’s like a paranormal Public Service Broadcasting featuring Elizabeth Price (and with better beats).

C Joynes turns out not to be an operetta about Ernie Wise’s hairpiece – keep up at the back – but a fantastic solo guitarist, tangling English folk tunes into Fahey skeins and snaggles.  An arrangement of the “Whittlesea Straw Bear Tune”reminds us of walking folk guitar encyclopaedia Duck Baker’s trad revisions, whilst a snippy plucking technique has whiffs of stylists as varied as Davy Graham and James Blood Ulmer.  A bird flies into the medieval barn in which we’re sitting, duetting with an intriguing arrangement of “Someone To Watch Over Me”, as if to flip the Venerable Bede’s analogy: life is short, but you can make some pretty amazing things whilst it happens.

There’s often a patronising, belittling air when African music is described as raw – the noble savage myth doesn’t become any more palatable with added tape hiss – but sometimes raw is the only word that will serve, and Ghana’s King Ayisoba’s set is as infectiously bludgeoning as the heaviest hardcore band to grace the Shed stage . On record Ayisoba dips into hip hop and highlife, but here we just have mantric chanting, hammering riffs from the two string kologo, relentless percussion and some sort of transverse didgeridoo we can’t identify that sounds like God blowing his nose.  Unstoppable.

Eric Chenaux’s set opens with some abstract wah wah guitar, like the soundtrack to a Futurist porn film (“I’ve come to fix your washing machine and/or insane death device”), and it’s fascinating, but his voice floors us, a truly stunning, sweet soul croon made for serenading the dawn.  With the seasick guitar underneath, it’s like listening to Marvin Gaye record the little known LP No, Seriously, What The Actual Fuck Is Going On??

Surprsingly, Wolf Eyes leave the sonic excoriation behind, in favour of thoughtful vistas.  Even so, it’s hard to work out where the sounds are coming from, with a sax that sounds like a synth, and crunchy guitar tones embracing the Lou Reed style blasted poetry.  The set is still shocking, though, because of the flagrant double denim.   

Tirikilatops’ colour saturated Timmy Mallett mania is a little too much for the start of Sunday, so we locate a comfy set in the refined environs of Braziers House for Steve Beresford & Colin Webster.  Beresford is using the house piano, but spends most of his time plucking the innards, or playing with a portable Toys R Us of devices, although a few bars of random tango surprise us; Webster starts with rusty gate sax, before apparently exploring every tone - and detachable part - of his saxophone.