Ain't Nothin' Goin' On But Parent

This is a bit late, I was without wifi over Christmas.  I'd love to say this was because I was visiting relatives in far-flung Bogota, or something exciting, but actually the phone line got cut when snipping down ivy.  Happy new year, and that.

MOTHER/ FLAT LAGER, Engage Events, Wheatsheaf, 14/12/19

Bands can spend thousands procuring industry advice on how to conduct themselves, from stage presentation to the minutiae of social media communications, but we will suggest Flat Lager’s approach as a pretty solid one, and won’t even send you an invoice: bundle onstage looking like a dog’s dinner that even the dog has turned its nose up at, wear a T-shirt reading simply “EAT SHIT”, and dive straight into a punky bunfight of a track which is basically “Louie Louie”.  The band’s take on grin-wearing garagey punk includes some almost funky drums, and jerky switches that they don’t always hit, but which work all the same, so that they mostly resemble EMF trying to become Fontaines DC.  Good solid fun in other words, even if the energy dips in the middle of the set. Our band brand consultancy would further advise them to go offstage having leapt about whilst nicking “I Wanna Be Your Dog”...but seems they’ve worked that out themselves.

Mother have also thought about their presentation, coming onto a dark stage lit by two long and slightly wobbly looking tube lights, possibly left over from the time Blue Peter taught us how to recreate Luc Besson’s Subway. Still, the set dressing is the only negative in 45 minutes of lovely, taut, serrated rock.  Each song seems to leap off the stage like a spawn-hungry salmon flinging itself up a waterfall, vocal melodies engaging and straightforward, like those of vintage Ride, and the music concrete-heavy but light on its feet.  The rhythm section, featuring Easter Island Statues and Max Blansjaar drummer Thomas Hitch, is incredibly powerful, bringing a supple groove to the songs – imagine Big Audio Dynamite or Tackhead with the hip hop dialled down and Jimmy Page riffs filling the gaps.  There are perhaps moments when the vocals could have a little more character, but this is music of heft and texture, rather than pop storytelling, so it’s no biggy (and, if in doubt, bring out a megaphone).  Mother have already come on impressively since we saw them 6 months ago, and a brand new song is tonight’s highpoint, so it’s not too hard to imagine them as serious contenders in 2020.  Screw the brand, let’s make some noise.

And Mick Navigate?

Let's be honest, there are so many childhood TV references in here, the review might as well have been written by Peter Kay, but I still like it.  There are some amazing photos of the night, by Fyrefly Pothography, which I'm sure you could locate online if were less lazy than I.

PADDY STEER/ MANDRAKE HANDSHAKE, Upcycled Sounds, Tap Social Movement 8/11/19

Whilst good bands can survive with awful names – Fuck Buttons?  Prefab Sprout?  The bloody Beatles? – it’s always nice when saying the name out loud doesn’t make you want to immediately apologise, or change your entire social circle out of shame.  For this reason, we are glad that one of the most interesting Oxford bands to arise in the last year are no longer called (shudder) Knobblehead.  Fortunately, the newly christened Mandrake Handshake are still an expansive ramshackle collective with a fine line in hypnotic slowburns and they still have a man who looks like James Acaster in a Grant Wood painting on tambourine and unsettling falsetto.  Some of their early furry freak bothering has been judiciously pruned, and they now ride gloriously sleek, machine-oiled psych grooves into the sunset, like Stereolab with the Marxism and Cluster replaced by mescaline and granola. 

By contrast, Paddy Steer couldn’t be messier, looking like a half-mad shaman mage who is kept in the basement of Flourish & Blotts and only let out after closing to catch scampering pamphlets, sitting amongst vast electronic devices that couldn’t look more home-made if he’d glued macaroni to the edges.  Musically it’s also a slapdash bricolage, fat Egyptian Lover basslines snaking through Jean Jacques Perrey bloop-showers whilst floppy, funky drums try vainly to hold things together. Sometimes it sounds like three “Rockit” era Herbie Hancocks obliviously occupying the same point in space time, and sometimes it sounds like a half drunk Daft Punk jamming with Old Gregg, but it is never less than spell-binding.  If some pieces resemble a confused man in a Gallifreyan collar trying to invoke the early 80s with barely recalled themes to Sorry, Roobarb and Kick Start played on broken machinery, well, perhaps that’s exactly what they are, but whether the drastic envelopes applied to sequenced riffs and sudden spasms of spring reverb are uncontrolled or artfully assembled it’s a trip.  Join us in the crowd when he next comes to town – we’ll be the ones in the home-sculpted papier mache Metal Mickey head-dress.