Canon & Fall

The Oxford Fringe Preview Comedy Festival starts on Friday, and runs throughout July.  I urge you to buy a ticket or two, some of the shows are going to be excellent.

THE AUTUMN SAINTS – WIND BURN & BROKEN OAK (Man In The Moon Records)

‘I Am The Gadfly’, the second track on The Autumn Saints' debut album, has a title that looks like it belongs to a 300-year-old folk tune, and a guitar part that bears a strong - though almost certainly coincidental - resemblance to lesser-known Fall song ‘Green Eyed Loco-Man’. It’s a strange contrast, but one which sums up the band’s unique sound, which might best be described as a good-natured tussle between windswept Americana and the mournfully literate end of early-80s indie and post-punk. This is embodied in frontperson Britt Strickland, whose doleful North Carolinian vocal sounds as though it should be hollering a lament from an Appalachian foothill, but whose reverby 8-string bass resembles Adam Clayton auditioning for Bauhaus. 

The twelve tracks of this recording offer some prime examples of their approach, from ‘Up In Rags’, which sounds like something from folk melancholia classic Fables Of The Reconstruction by fellow Southern gothic poets R.E.M. as played by Simple Minds at the world’s biggest stadium, to heavy-set paean to simple traditions ‘Greenhorn’ (though your cloth-eared and somewhat peckish reviewer heard it as “cream horn”).  There are also hints of 50s balladry on tracks like ‘She Wanders Out’ and ‘Too Late Tonight’ which give a dewy-eyed nod to the likes of Dion and Del Shannon, rock ‘n’ roll’s original sadbois. The only track that doesn’t quite gel is ‘The Lieutenant’, an awkward plod which doesn’t seem sure whether it wants to start a hoedown at a barn dance or sport a back-comb at The Batcave, but this is the exception on a very strong album, which doesn’t sound quite like anything previously released in the history of Oxford. Or possibly anywhere.

Split and Run?

Looks as though I neglected to upload this at the time.  Better late than etc.

MELT BANANA/ SHAKE CHAIN, Divine Schism, The Bully, 3/4/22

Depending on where they’re standing in the venue, the time it takes people to notice Kate Mahony varies. The rest of Shake Chain take to the stage and strike up a buzzing hypnotic rhythm, with no frills or fripperies, but enough focus to keep it interesting, but eventually you spot Mahony, scrunched in a coat, writhing agonisingly slowly through the crowd, some rough beast crawling towards The Bullingdon to be born. And, once they take the stage, looking studiedly bemused throughout the set, Mahony’s vocals are the unfiltered wailings of a neonate, primal howls that, if they are forming words, have sheared the edges off most of them in the journey from the hindbrain to the mic so you’d never know. There’s nothing weak and mewling about the performance, though, and Mahony as Id Vicious overlays the band’s raw and elemental rock mantras, so that it all sounds like The Nightingales haunted by a poltergeist. Amongst this glorious skree there’s a surprisingly groovy number, where a garage gogo beat accompanies the repeated cry “You’re running me over!”, like something from the soundtrack to Kill Bill. If Bill were already dead. And so were everyone else.

In contrast, Melt Banana’s show starts with the minimum of fanfare. The Tokyo duo simply take to the stage, quietly set up in front of a bank of amps the size of a Transit van, and then immediately and efficiently commence pummelling. The constituent parts are straightforward – intense beats triggered by a glowing handheld device that looks like a novelty TV remote, Ichiro Agata’s razorwire guitar parts, and Yasuko Onuki’s high-octane yelping – but over an hour they are mixed, merged and shuffled like the deck of steamboat cardsharp. In fact, despite the relentless hammering, the thing one takes away from this set is just how intricate and lithe the performance is, best evidenced in a quickfire parade of seven Napalm Death-length microsongs. Onuki’s vocals, although clearly influenced by hardcore, have an elasticity that places them nearer to funk or rap, and Agata’s guitar-playing, as well as being phenomenal, is not afraid to pull back from the cascades of noise for some classic rocking: we hear a riff AC/DC would be proud to own, and a chug with which Lemmy would gladly share a bottle. As the closer, ‘Infection Defective’, with its rolling Massive Attack bassline and icy crystal shards of guitar attest, Melt Banana shoot for your head, your heart, and your dancing feet at once. And all of them are killing blows.

The Touré Party

I started off thinking I wouldn't have enough to say about this album, and ended up really enjoying the review (though it is partly about how I don't quite have enough to say about it).  Good record, either way.

VIEUX FARKA TOURÉ – LES RACINES (World Circuit)

In the film Best In Show, Parker Posey’s highly strung lawyer character is desperately trying to replace a dog toy shaped like a bee. A hapless pet shop worker tries to suggest a fish, a parrot or a bear in a bee costume, and faces a full on adult tantrum for explaining that, although we know those toys are not bees, “the dog will respond to the stripes”. Often when faced with an album like this, a Western Anglophone might feel like that dog: without a knowledge of the language(s) used and only an imperfect grasp of the musical traditions within which the performers are working, all we have left are responses to the colours and textures. This is a little ironic, as Vieux Farka Touré – son of the late maestro Ali Farka Touré, who did more than anyone to bring the music of Mali to Europe – has named the album Les Racines, or “the roots”, coming closer to his father’s milieu than on previous solo albums, and has noted that, “In Mali many people are illiterate and music is the main way of transmitting information and knowledge. My father fought for peace and as artists we have an obligation to educate about the problems facing our country and to rally people and shepherd them towards reason.”   

But if we’re going to respond to context-hazy colours and textures, then these are some bloody good ones to start with. Interestingly, this is Vieux’s first album on World Circuit, the label that brought his father to the ears of the world, so perhaps it’s a return to roots familial as well as cultural. Roots can’t live without the soil, and Les Racines is certainly earthier than his last album, 2017’s Samba which was strong, but a bit too polished and four-square, with chunky rhythms seemingly aimed at a festival knees-up; you can certainly dance to some of Les Racines, but you’re at least as likely to sit in rapt concentration to the intricate licks and flourishes of these prime examples of songhai desert blues. Vieux has been called “The Hendrix of the Sahara”, but despite sharing with Jimi a naturalness in his phrasing, where solos and runs feel as instinctive as breathing, stylistically he owes more to BB King, alternating mellifluous thoughtfully placed notes with brief panting runs. You can hear this in 'Gabou Ni Tie', which also features a scrabbled chime tone that shares a sonic space to Roger McGuinn’s solo in 'Eight Miles High'.

Although Touré’s playing is gorgeous throughout, this album is an ensemble piece, with special mention for Madou Sidiki Diabaté’s kora which adds extra waterfalls of notes, and Madou Traore’s breathy flute, which adds swirling dimensions behind the call and response of 'Ngala Kaourene', like a more agile and focussed krautrock flute noodler; the album even features guest guitar spots for Amadou Bagayoko, of Amadou & Mariam fame. The stand-out example of ensemble playing may well be 'L'Âme', a tribute to Touré’s father, which begins with some crabbed, jerky guitar scribbles that could have come from an early noughties post-rock act, and proceeds to build the most delicate skein of notes, including a juicy organ. The players keep to the barest bones of the structure, and there’s rarely fewer than three instruments exploring lines at any one time, yet it’s not a cacophony or a shapeless jam, there’s focus and rigour in the playing that might remind some people of vintage Ornette Coleman passages.

There are some strong vocal tracks on the album, particularly the fluent yet grizzled 'Lahidou' which laments the existence of betrayal and false promise in the world, but it’s the instrumentals which really shine. The title track starts with a spaghetti western flourish before glittering cascades of notes begin to tumble, like the most refreshing spring shower in history. The chord progression is simple and melancholy, and could have come from an early R.E.M. track. The track is four minutes long, but frankly it could play all afternoon and you’d be left thinking it was too short. There will be parts of this album’s roots that those outside Mali can never fully comprehend, but regardless of your entry level, you’ll be certain that those roots are still strong and bearing exquisite fruit.

Decelerate & Lyle

This was an intriguing one.  I actually liked Slow Down, Molasses less than comes across in the review - they were fine, it all just felt third-hand - I decided to be generous; however, it was only when thinking about the gig that I realised just how much I'd enjoyed Savage Mansion.  Wish I'd bought a CD now...

SLOW DOWN MOLASSES/ SAVAGE MANSION/ DOGMILK, Divine Schism, Florence Park Community Centre, 6/5/22

If you go back and watch the first series of Blackadder, it’s quite surprising how much that defines the show is absent: Baldrick is clever, the filming is lush and expensive, and there are extended riffs on Shakespeare instead of cunning plans. There’s a similar pilot-episode pleasure in seeing a decent band early on – whilst you know they’ll improve, witnessing ideas being tested and explored is a privilege. Dogmilk, featuring ex-members of Slate Hearts and Easter Island Statues, have only played a handful of shows, and are standing in tonight at late notice, and they try on a handful of styles during their short set: grunge via 90s teen soundtracks, garage rock, Cure-style lamenting, uptight punk funk, an even a one-minute country-skank through ‘You’ve Got A Friend In Me’. Most likely their eclectic sound will settle in the coming months, but wherever they land will be a pleasure if it involves a band this sharp and crisp.

If Dogmilk are crisp, Glasgow’s Savage Mansion are Findus Crispy Pancakes cooked in Crisp ‘n’ Dry by Quentin Crisp on St Crispin’s Day. This performance is gloriously tight, and the music infectious, the band generally following a pretty well-defined route, with solid, harmonically straightforward chugging supporting sprechgesang verses and punchily sung short choruses, putting them next door to the wonderful A House. Like The Nightingales, they know how to squeeze a good riff dry, and like Jonathan Richman, they know how to deliver elegant narrative lyrics without being self-consciously arty. You may find yourself thinking of Dylan, Jeffrey Lewis, and Luke Haines. You may find yourself imagining Wet Leg as arranged by Glenn Tilbrook. And you may ask yourself, how come I never heard of this band before?

Saskatchewan’s Slow Down, Molasses are one of a handful of acts to have released music through tonight’s promoter, Divine Schism. Theirs is a more raucous, thrashy and transatlantic sound than what we’ve heard so far tonight, like goth-psych rockers Darker My Love recreated in the minds of Gnasher and Gnipper. Black-clad, and not afraid of a burning avalanche of guitar noise, the band feel pretty exciting in this bright, cosy community centre – we spot an organisor glancing at a decibel count early on – and they bounce between grubby but honed Mission Of Burma rock and the less aggressive end of hardcore, falling somewhere between the rosters of Matador and Dischord. They know precisely how to make ears ring and heads nod, and if they don’t quite make hearts leap, they’re still welcome visitors 4,000 miles from home.