HIgh Windows Of The House Of Usher

I was going to make a joke about buying a piano which was a few millimetres too wide for my house, and being in luck that they had a pre-pared piano...except it turns out that the word "prepared" and the word "pared" are etymologically the same.  Never mind.  Shit joke, anyway.

LARKIN POE/ JESS MORGAN, Empty Room Promotions, Bully, 10/4/15

We tend to celebrate rich and complex voices, but sometimes there’s something to be said for simplicity and clarity.  Jess Morgan’s tones are light and instantly likable, less single malt smoke, more Baileys sweetness, and she has a winning way of delivering a lyric or melodic line (the latter of which her country-tinged ditties are far from short on).  “Connecticut” might be her best tune, a gritty but uplifting tale of low-rent hotels like a slightly morose Sheryl Crow, and if the show tends towards the airily forgettable, affable young ladies with acoustics swarm the circuit in their hordes, and Morgan clearly outstrips the majority.

Despite its tin-eared title, the Ameripolitan movement is a fine thing, saving US roots music from vapid cabaret chicks and Republican pinups whose only link with country is outsized headgear who look like fireman strip-a-grams and, but that’s not to say all commercially-minded Americana is bad.  There are many definitions of “populist”, but one of them is the neo-Benthamite desire to bring pleasure to as many people as possible, which is hard to argue against.  Atlantan sisters Larkin Poe could be ambassadors for this ethos, clearly determined tonight that the entire Bully should have as much fun as they do, and whilst their bluesy country pop might sometimes bring to mind the smooth stadium roots of Alannah Myles, it’s equally aligned with AC/DC – the opener “Wade In The Water” develops into a joyously huge dumbass rocker that could soundtrack a Southern fried reboot of Bill & Ted, and gospel groove “Hey Sinner” stretches stickily like cooling toffee, before mutating into a funkily minimal take on “Black Betty”.  The playing is sharp, especially Megan Lovell’s molten lapsteel solos, and the vocals impressive, but the duo never veer off into empty melisma or fiddly chops if the songs would suffer (and kudos to the one-man backing band, on drums and synth-bass, a clinically relentless mixture of Meg White and Mantronix).

Their three-cover encore might be the sort of thing to win over Terry Wogan’s listeners (“He’s so English” – hilarious), but sells an intelligent, creative and infectiously hedonistic duo short.  Tellingly, they make a point of celebrating the single dancin’ fool in the room vainly trying to turn a polite Oxford crowd into a moshpit: Larkin Poe aren’t afraid of commercial trappings, but beneath beats a heart of purest musical fire

We Need To Talk About Jo(h)n

I Googled Myleene Klass quickly whilst writing this review.  Now I see her knickers in my sidebar whenever I go on Facebook.  It must be by far the most commercially viable thing I've Googled in about 2 years.

LCO SOLOISTS & JONNY GREENWOOD, Beard Museum, St John The Evangelist, 21/2/15

There are a number of people who have taken the sometimes shaky walk between pop and classical but, whether they’re iconoclasts who rubbed against their new world (Zappa), surprising traditionalists (Lord; Sting) or vapid embarrassments (Klass), the popular star generally retains centre stage.  Interestingly, neither Jonny Greenwood nor his promo people have over-publicised his recent compositions for concert hall or celluloid and, whilst this event probably sold out more quickly than your average contemporary music gig, it’s clear that serious (if not necessarily austere) music is the sole focus tonight.  Perhaps we should file Greenwood as “cross-under”.

Tellingly, Jonny isn’t onstage that much, leaving the spotlight to the excellent London Contemporary Orchestra Soloists.  His one solo showcase, Reich’s “Electric Counterpoint” has surprisingly bluesy phrasing, as if yanking the airy serenity of Metheny’s famous version down from the clouds to dingy bars and city streets.  As a composer his work is balanced and varied, highlights being “Miniature”, which adds to tambura drones a cold constellation of Satie piano notes and aching violin that is positively Vaughan Williams, and “Future Markets”, a full throttle dirt-ride for strings like a cross between Bernard Herrmann and Can.  Occasionally the soundtrack origins of much of the music can make it feel a little pat and guilty of emotive signposting, but the sound has a depth and mystery that makes it far more Penderecki than Korngold.  Only “Self-Portrait With Seven Fingers” disappoints, using the audience’s phone-triggered tinny plinks to create a Fisher-Price carillon: the aleatory concept is intriguing, but it’s mostly just annoying.

Although the LCO musicians are a honed ensemble, the night’s highlights come from two solo pieces.  Oliver Coates’s version of cello and effects piece “Love” by Mica Levi takes the blasted romanticism of the original version and emphasises a cheap seasick awkwardness, until it resembles V/Vm tackling Nyman, and Anna Lapwood’s take on Messiaen’s Bachian boogie-woogie pile-up “Les Anges” on the SJE’s organ perfectly mixes the twitchy intricacy with the devotional intent.  That the applause for these two pieces is as warm as that for Jonny’s guitar spot speaks volumes about the quality of these performers, and the open-minds of the audience.

One Alauda

I just watched a film called Octopus 2.  I hadn't watched the first one, but I managed to follow the plot anyway. This review, from the latest Nightshift, features the typo I made, "Glad Plugin".  The editor either didn't notice the missing E, or just assumed it was something cool he'd never heard of.

SKY:LARK/ SCREEN WIVES/ MASIRO, Idiot King, Cellar, 7/2/15

Depending on where you cast your gaze you can see any number of representation of underground music in the media: glossy molls swigging bottled lager and singing along with the next big thing; gorgeous soft-focus festival folkies snapping each other on smart phones; rock-crazed ne’er-do-wells spiralling into drug abuse; Swindon.  But nothing sums it up for us better than the sight of a man dressed only in his pants crawling round a basement stage, trying to gaffer a bass drum back together.  Either side of this dose of literal DIY music, in a necessarily curtailed set, London’s Screen Wives twist out an angular, Fugazoid hardcore that kicks like a hoof to the solar plexus, but has room for cheeky, witty little trills and paradiddles.  The songs are brief, the band hissing short bursts of noise into the venue like a demented Glade Plugin.

Before that, Oxford’s Masiro had treated us to one of their displays of sonic science. The twitchy, multi-part structure of their music is always impressive, like a metal-flavoured Don Caballero, and even like Primus without the schoolyard japes, but they always manage to bring in some melodic or textural originality to save us from mere academic cleverness.  The set is like a spiderweb from a fly’s point of view: intricate, beautiful, sludgy, and completely deadly.

Intricate being one thing we wouldn’t accuse Sky:Lark of trying for.  Over a bed of unwavering feedback, the trio thrash through dense repetitious snarling grooves something like Motorhead with a krautrock fixation.  The best moments of the set are when the vocals bawl and screech over two note unriffs like Finnish minimalists Circle crossed with Megadeth, and the worst moments are when they stop.  There’s the odd snatch of fuzzy melody, but in essence theirs a brief onslaught of brash noise, to finish a night of intriguing, exciting music...and not an iPad or a crackpipe in sight.

Music To Buck An Ear To

I may not have achieved much during January, but I did come up with the name Cloaca Bilk, which any punk bands are welcome to have.

PEERLESS PIRATES/ OUI LEGIONNAIRES, Moshka, Wheatsheaf, 10/1/15

It’s hard to know what to say about Cheltenham’s Oui Legionnaires.  On one hand their twitchy post-rock flavoured emoting feels unexceptional and a good few years out of date, yet on the other they play with ability and passion that demands attention.  On one hand their angsty US yelps sound like Doogie Howser getting snarky with his ISP, yet on the other the insistent cubist guitar parts give them a Cap’n Jazz intensity that keeps them interesting.  On one hand their final off-mike refrain chanting undershoots its mark and falls awkwardly flat, yet on the other their toes inwards, balls of the feet, nervous tic meek-core energy is infectious.  It’s fifty-fifty; we’ll let them play the advantage and see if they can score in future.

Like Post-It notes and selfie sticks, Peerless Pirates’ main idea is so beautifully simple you’re annoyed you didn’t think of it yourself: The Smiths without the egos.  They’ve taken some of Britain’s greatest pop music, and stripped away not only Morrissey’s passive-aggressive poetics, but also Marr’s penchant for guitar hero classic rock chop-wankery; it’s as if the rhythms section ruled The Smiths, and they were always the best ones (smack notwithstanding).  And the true stroke of genius?  They’ve filled the void with pirates.  Pirates are synonymous with fun, where childhood abandon meets hard liquor and entry level cosplay, and pretty much make most things in life more enjoyable.  Over the years Peerless Pirates have become as tight as well-kept rigging and as solid as a hundred year old capstan, and slowly, unobtrusively their indie-shanty schtick has become one of the best nights out in Oxford.  Barring the odd dashes of Tex-Mex hot sauce, their sound has not noticeably developed, but their focus has, and we defy anyone to leave a set like this without a big silly-arse grin.

Plus, because Peerless Pirates were on our radar first, we’re able to dismiss a certain syndicalism and winkie obsessed comedian as a mere sartorial copyist of lead singer Cliff Adams. Revolution?  Maybe later; for now there’s a rum keg to be tapped.

That Petrel Emotion

I bought my first charity shop records of the year this afternoon, and I'll be at my first gig of the year in a few hours.  2015 has, therefore, begun.

I don't think this is a very good review, but my editor seemed pleased enough, so what do I know?

PETRELS, PADDOX, AFTER THE THOUGHT, Pindrop, MAO, 11/12/14

They called it Dronefest.  Hard to argue, as there isn’t a moment tonight when guitars or keys aren’t filling the air with drones.  Before any act has officially started, Lee Riley and members of Flights Of Helios and Masiro are sonically decorating both the venue space and the upstairs bar with thick tones, the sort that soon start to seep into every thought - one of Nightshift’s more wild-eyed writers greets us with “I’ve been here 45 minutes.  It’s brilliant!”   Apparently, lonely souls even continued playing to an empty foyer whilst the acts performed in the basement, although we can’t believe anyone listened (Schroedinger’s remix, anyone?). 

On the stage, After The Thought shifta slow, elegant notes round in the manner of Eno’s Shutov Assembly with early 90s twinkles a la vintage Global Communication, not to mention a penchant for heartbeat rate decay that’s positively Pete Namlook.  Although the set gets pretty claustrophobic and the high tones nag, it also sounds like warm, friendly pop music underneath.  Is Bubblegum Tinnitus a genre?  Or have the drones started to twist our thoughts, like a dystopian 70s alien infiltration.

Our first impression of Paddox is that it’s brave to puncture such prettiness with loosely sprayed static coughs and rusty corvid caws.  Our second thought is that it isn’t brave, but idiotic, and our third that it is clearly unintentional.  The set is awash with technical snafus, bad connections and unwanted hisses, and whilst there are delightful moments, not least a mournful Gavin Bryars violin motif that floats above the pulsing noise (deliberate and otherwise), we’re left feeling we’ve not seen a performance that it would be fair to judge.

Petrels set is inventive and varied, in a fashion that the event’s name might not have implied.  The excellent tonal tapestry brings to mind images of blasted souls trapped in an old Amstrad floppy drive, skirling seabirds enveloped in thick syrup (perhaps in tribute to the stage name) and even some Artificial Intelligence offcuts.  The set ends with a looping emotional chorus, like the refrain from a lost Spring Offensive song slowly disappearing into a searing sunset.  As we leave James Maund is still making guitar noise in the foyer.  Perhaps he’s still there.