Whole Lotta Rosé

It's astonishing how little of the new Westgate holds any interest for me.  I'm not moaning, they can build a big shopping centre of they like, I'm not exactly against it, it's just there was essentially nothing in the whole place I wanted to look at.  Except for the noodle place.  But there was a queue for that, so I didn't bother.  It's strange to think I shall never visit the place again - perhaps the cinema, I suppose.  

NB The library doesn't count.

PROTECTION SPELLS/ SLONK/ KATE STAPLEY, Divine Schism, Library, 7/12/17

We’ve seen metallers destroy a lager crate in minutes, and Gnawa musicians take turns onstage to sip strong, sweet tea, but we can’t recall ever seeing a line-up where every performer is getting squiffy on rosé.  And if we have, it was probably not on one of the coldest nights of the year.  First to take time between pink slurps to sing a few songs is Bristol’s Kate Stapley, last seen in Oxford as part of fuzzy pop act Spring Break.  An acoustic performance reveals the lyricism in her songs, where long lines swirl like smoke around jazz-tinged chords.  Stand-out piece “Laburnum” has the cracked bombast of Jeff Buckley, and at other times the calmer wisdom of Joni Mitchell takes over.  With approximately half the lyrics about empty houses, and no fewer than two songs about dementia, this should be an unremittingly bleak set, but it’s quietly life affirming.

Fellow Bristolian Slonk has a louder, more aggressive style – or perhaps it’s just evidence of an extra 30 minutes on the Mateus.  He has a slack, yet melodic voice, as if the young Dylan had been in thrall to J Mascis rather than W Guthrie, and is not scared of wilder dynamics than your average solo strummer.  Moments in the set recall Jeffrey Lewis or anti-folk originator Lach, but in “I’m Pursuing A Career Outside Of Conveyancing” Slonk most resembles the melancholic rage of Hamell On Trial.  It’s an enjoyable set, though by the end the industrial-strength nanny goat vibrato and predictable distortion pedal stomps do start to grate.

This duo’s called Protection Spells, but they’re not really witches, right?  Right?  Because from the outset, their spooky, woozily gaseous half-songs do seem like esoteric rituals (eye of newt, and ton of reverb).  No sooner has the arcane mood of “respecting the darkness of the woods” been set, than one of the members swaps guitar for drums, and despite a strange jerky Thunderbirds style, actually plays crisp and sparsely funky rhythms.  Alright, if they’re not witches, can we at least decide whether this London band are a micro-Devo, a pocket Cocteaus or a Toytown Lynch soundtrack?  Oh, who cares, just enjoy it.  Could we interest you in some rosé?