TRUCK, 2003: SUNDAY
Start your day the broken machinery way! nervous_testpilot is one man and a lot of wiring, making fine noises in the venetian-aphex-pusher-ziq jittercut style, and finishing with a gabba mix of Morrissey and Queen.
Anyone who thinks that electronic music is easy should see this man's fingers fly around the machines, like Ruben Gonzalez as court stenographer. Wonderful and sometimes slightly frightening sounds.
Lo-fi? God, Lesbo Pig make Vic 20 look like Pink Floyd! They're three girls, a guitar and some toy percussion, none of which are played with any noticeable ability. Add some half remembered, flat vocals about fauxmosexuality and labial discomfort and there you have it.
Very endearing, in an infant nativity sort of way, but, ultimately, a load of old nonsense.
Live hip-hop troupe Captive State give the tent soundperson some trouble: they're far too big for the stage, and have more equipment than you can imagine. They also have trouble with distorting bass, which turns summery jazz-hop into a ribb-shattering womb of J. Saul Kane dirt.
No matter, though, because the music is superbly executed, with a fantastically punching horn section and great MCing. Plus, it's their first gig, which can only bode well.
More horns from Misty's Big Adventure. In fact the whole band are tight, but almost indescribable. Imagine some parlour song pianio, dissonant backing vocals and random keyboard sounds underneath silly, childlike soungs about biscuit tins and the like. Imagine Rod, Jane & Freddy infused with the spirit of The Mothers Of Invention round at Viv Stanshall's house. Oh yes, and imagine a man in a big suit made of gloves who does approximately nothing.
Perhaps it wouldn't work in a dank club, but in the glorious sunshine, who's to complain?
I don't think Vera Cruise would work anywhere, for me at least. There's nothing wrong with them, and they're tight and well-rehearsed but the slightly grunge-laced rock songs don't find anything new to say.
A man next to me in the crowd says, "They sound like loads of bands whom I can't even be bothered to remember," which probably sums it up. Foursquare harmless rock with plenty of pedal stamping. Ho hum.
If Captive State gave the soundman a hard job, Thomas Truax steals the prize, playing homemade instruments built from scrap with occasional guitar and keyboard. These go through a giant fx/delay pedal, to build queasy, lurching soundscapes, atop which Thomas recites some odd vignettes about a fictional place called Wowtown.
I'm not even going to begin to describe the hornicator, part instrument, part sculpture, part headgear, but suffice to say this is the most unpredicatble set seen all weekend.
Musical ineptitude? The Zoltan-Kodaly School For Girls make Lesbo Pig look like Pink Floyd...which must make Vic 20 look like...oh, never mind.
Four women in school uniform play pop songs on the recorder. Badly. They are later joined by someone playing headmaster for a seeedy "Je T'aime, Moi Non Plus". A lot of people enjoyed this hilarious set. Then again, alot of people enjoy anything that features four women in school uniform...
Not sure about Meanwhile, Back In Communist Russia on the main stage. Full marks for their audacity, playing if anything more delicately and quietly than usual, but I still would rather have seen them in a dark, damp place.
You probably know the score: woman recites bleak poetic fragments whilst the band chug through the chords, throwing in odd noises occasionally. It seemed harder to build an atmosphere in the evening sun, as MBICR have a fundamentally claustrophobic sound, and some of the keyboards sounded light and airy, trather than menacing, but a good gig all the same.
However, my dear, smoking is bad for you; and affected smoking is very lazy stagecraft.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
The Feast Of Steventon
This is my first Truck review, at my second Truck (it being a rather lovely litle festival on a farm in Oxon, if you don't know). Some of this was used on the BBC Oxford site at the time, but not all of it - none of the Sunday review was published for example, so if you've been waiting 6 years to see what I think about Lesbo Pig, the long period in the wilderness is over! I shall miss Truck this year, having been to the last seven, so I may post all the reviews in the run up. Not all the acts I saw were reviewed here, unlike in later years, but this is still pretty comprehensive.
Some rubbish jokes and ultra-short paragraphs, as was the BBC Ox remit, but some interesting thoughts nonetheless.
TRUCK, 2003: SATURDAY
I'm lost. All the stage times have changed completely and I don't know who I'm watching. I turn up at the tent for Vic 20, only to find Bussy, a group of super-talented Frenchmen with a fine clarinetist and a ridiculously good guitarist.
Their songs about pestilence, dominion and battrachian medieval jesters seethe and burn smokliy around the whispered monologues, reminding me of a jazz version of Swans. Highly recommended...should you live in France.
Winnebago Deal keep us waiting for quite a while, but when they crack straight into a rifferama that doesn't let up for 45 minutes the whole Barn erupts into a happy frenzy.
If you've never seen them before, rest assured that they sound exactly as you'd expect: it's only guitar, drums and a whole heap of metal savvy, after all. It's a dense and exciting sound, and WD's victory is that one never wonders where the rest of the band is. Still, like a Belgian choclate it's a bit too rich for my taste, and I can only handle about 20 minutes at a time without feeeling aurally overstuffed.
What the? Hours later, here's Vic 20! They are a super lo-fi electropop outfit, nudging tunes around with medieval synths and covering them in big, sweet, simple vocal melodies. With a singer somewhere between Laetitia Stereolab and Bjork, they're definitely the cutest band of the weekend, but were never cloying.
Highlight was "I Kissed A Girl". Sapphic electro: how can you lose?
You can't be too critical of a Goldrush set at Truck; it's their festival, after all, and a mighty fine weekend it is too. It would be like going to the Royal Variety Performance and giving the queen a bad review.
Anyway, Goldrush are far too professional and talented to play a bad set. This is probably the most relaxed performance I've seen from them, with a bit more power in the sound: maybe they'd spent the day in the Barn and had been infused with rock noise by a sort of osmosis. Or something.
Their greatest strength is the voice, husky and keening without sounding theatrical or stretched, and sitting so neatly on its cushion of country-tinged guitar. To be honest, I've never found the actual songs themselves that interesting, so I'm not overwhelmed...but I'm relatively whelmed all the same.
Whelmed? What am I talking about? Now, where's that beer tent...
Some rubbish jokes and ultra-short paragraphs, as was the BBC Ox remit, but some interesting thoughts nonetheless.
TRUCK, 2003: SATURDAY
I'm lost. All the stage times have changed completely and I don't know who I'm watching. I turn up at the tent for Vic 20, only to find Bussy, a group of super-talented Frenchmen with a fine clarinetist and a ridiculously good guitarist.
Their songs about pestilence, dominion and battrachian medieval jesters seethe and burn smokliy around the whispered monologues, reminding me of a jazz version of Swans. Highly recommended...should you live in France.
Winnebago Deal keep us waiting for quite a while, but when they crack straight into a rifferama that doesn't let up for 45 minutes the whole Barn erupts into a happy frenzy.
If you've never seen them before, rest assured that they sound exactly as you'd expect: it's only guitar, drums and a whole heap of metal savvy, after all. It's a dense and exciting sound, and WD's victory is that one never wonders where the rest of the band is. Still, like a Belgian choclate it's a bit too rich for my taste, and I can only handle about 20 minutes at a time without feeeling aurally overstuffed.
What the? Hours later, here's Vic 20! They are a super lo-fi electropop outfit, nudging tunes around with medieval synths and covering them in big, sweet, simple vocal melodies. With a singer somewhere between Laetitia Stereolab and Bjork, they're definitely the cutest band of the weekend, but were never cloying.
Highlight was "I Kissed A Girl". Sapphic electro: how can you lose?
You can't be too critical of a Goldrush set at Truck; it's their festival, after all, and a mighty fine weekend it is too. It would be like going to the Royal Variety Performance and giving the queen a bad review.
Anyway, Goldrush are far too professional and talented to play a bad set. This is probably the most relaxed performance I've seen from them, with a bit more power in the sound: maybe they'd spent the day in the Barn and had been infused with rock noise by a sort of osmosis. Or something.
Their greatest strength is the voice, husky and keening without sounding theatrical or stretched, and sitting so neatly on its cushion of country-tinged guitar. To be honest, I've never found the actual songs themselves that interesting, so I'm not overwhelmed...but I'm relatively whelmed all the same.
Whelmed? What am I talking about? Now, where's that beer tent...
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Cock's Passion Fix
Something bang up to date this time, a review that turned up at www.oxfordbands.com the other day. Recently every slightly unfavourable review has generated a stream of discussion on the site, often criticising the writer, but not this one, by which I assume everyone in Oxford thinks it's a crap song. I guess some truths are self evident.
Not only do I mention the people's heroine, Susan Boyle, in the review, but your title today puns on Gok Wan's TV fluff. This is probably the most mainstream pair of references I have ever made, or shall hereafter.
JOZ & DJ MARCUS – PASSION (Crash Records)
We wanted to like this, honest we did. Whilst we don’t precisely get tired of punk fuzz, post rock clatter, indie shuffle and acoustic lament, we do wonder sometimes what else is hiding out there in Oxford music: the worry is that this site is perceived as a rock forum, whereas it’s meant to encompass every facet of local music. Yes, even commercial dance music is fine by us, like this slightly measly one track single which has its sights set firmly on the hit parade (albeit the hit parade about 6 years ago). Trouble is, our joy at receiving a review record outside of our milieu is tempered by the fact that it’s absolute rubbish.
The delayed electric piano and the Balearic synthesised guitar intro is passable, if completely hackneyed, and we will admit to being generally well disposed to the George Street oompah of the metronomic 4/4 bass buzz that underpinned so many radio friendly club tunes a few years ago, but any semblance of dancefloor power is clinically excised from the music the second Jo Paulden’s vocals start. You can see her, dolled up and waggling her blonde locks around on their video, but like an anti-matter Susan Boyle, the noise she makes is probably one of the least emotive sounds on the planet. And, before you start reaching for the mascara and Human League albums, we don’t mean to say this is icily cool, Teutonic, robot chic, we simply mean that the singing is flat, lifeless and without the merest ounce of…oh, what’s the word? Oh yes, passion.
Passion which is “burning deep inside”, sings Paulden, but the only type of burning we can think of that would sound so singularly unexciting would be the burning of this bloody CD. Even then we’d feel a hint of guilt at wasting the world’s resources so unnecessarily, whereas Joz & DJ Marcus clearly have no communicable human emotions whatsoever. So, the track plods on, layering synths and dropping parts in and out, trying vainly to create tension, but the whole affair is dead in the water from the first few bars. We’re eager to hear from any local musicians who make commercial music, we don’t think it’s a crime per se, and we appreciate a varied scene, but please leave music as drab as this in whatever sticky pool of Bacardi Breezer it counts as home. And we do mean that passionately.
Not only do I mention the people's heroine, Susan Boyle, in the review, but your title today puns on Gok Wan's TV fluff. This is probably the most mainstream pair of references I have ever made, or shall hereafter.
JOZ & DJ MARCUS – PASSION (Crash Records)
We wanted to like this, honest we did. Whilst we don’t precisely get tired of punk fuzz, post rock clatter, indie shuffle and acoustic lament, we do wonder sometimes what else is hiding out there in Oxford music: the worry is that this site is perceived as a rock forum, whereas it’s meant to encompass every facet of local music. Yes, even commercial dance music is fine by us, like this slightly measly one track single which has its sights set firmly on the hit parade (albeit the hit parade about 6 years ago). Trouble is, our joy at receiving a review record outside of our milieu is tempered by the fact that it’s absolute rubbish.
The delayed electric piano and the Balearic synthesised guitar intro is passable, if completely hackneyed, and we will admit to being generally well disposed to the George Street oompah of the metronomic 4/4 bass buzz that underpinned so many radio friendly club tunes a few years ago, but any semblance of dancefloor power is clinically excised from the music the second Jo Paulden’s vocals start. You can see her, dolled up and waggling her blonde locks around on their video, but like an anti-matter Susan Boyle, the noise she makes is probably one of the least emotive sounds on the planet. And, before you start reaching for the mascara and Human League albums, we don’t mean to say this is icily cool, Teutonic, robot chic, we simply mean that the singing is flat, lifeless and without the merest ounce of…oh, what’s the word? Oh yes, passion.
Passion which is “burning deep inside”, sings Paulden, but the only type of burning we can think of that would sound so singularly unexciting would be the burning of this bloody CD. Even then we’d feel a hint of guilt at wasting the world’s resources so unnecessarily, whereas Joz & DJ Marcus clearly have no communicable human emotions whatsoever. So, the track plods on, layering synths and dropping parts in and out, trying vainly to create tension, but the whole affair is dead in the water from the first few bars. We’re eager to hear from any local musicians who make commercial music, we don’t think it’s a crime per se, and we appreciate a varied scene, but please leave music as drab as this in whatever sticky pool of Bacardi Breezer it counts as home. And we do mean that passionately.
Saturday, 25 April 2009
Archi(v)e Bronson
I wanted to show you something today, only to find I have no copy of it! An email has been sent to the OHM editor, I wonder whether it will turn up. So, here's something small from OHM for you: scholars of this site may wish to trace the change from the 1st person singular to plural in my reviewing style over the past 6 years, there may be a doctorate in it.
CLINIC/ THE ARCHIE BRONSON OUTFIT, The Zodiac, 4/7/04
I see Dr. Feelgood played by mendicant chimps...which means I see The Archie Bronson Outfit playing thier neanderthal blues boogie. In the dim light of a novelty swan-shaped lamp they plough their simple furrow: imagine a backwoods Ten Benson, or a Kings Of Leon made entirely of dirty breezeblocks, and you get the idea.
Whilst not revolutionary the effect is quite powerful, morphing from ratcheting blues blunder to slug disco and beyond. Worsth 30 minutes of anybody's time, though perhaps not too much more.
If you don't know by now, Clinic deal in all the simple trash of rock history: lo fi rhythm 'n' blues, pre-Beatles pop, VU drone and electro crud, all rolled together in pounding 2/4 rhythms. Somehow, though, tonight's gig doesn't hit the spot.
I don't want to give them a bad review as I can't put my finger on what was wrong - it wasn't the performance, or the sound, and I don't think it was my ears, but last time they played here Clinic produced some of the most frightening and enthralling music in Britain, whilst tonight they were simply entertaining.
Maybe it was the overwrought op art video projections, which were far less effective than the dusky spotlight and triumvirate of oscilloscopes that greeted us two years ago. If you'd never heard of Clinic, I'm sure this gig was beautiful, but to the old admirers amongst us it lacked something. Only the final track of the main set, which locked Philip Glass in a tiny Casio-filled roadhouse, really hit the spot. As Roy Walker said, "It's good, but it's not right".
CLINIC/ THE ARCHIE BRONSON OUTFIT, The Zodiac, 4/7/04
I see Dr. Feelgood played by mendicant chimps...which means I see The Archie Bronson Outfit playing thier neanderthal blues boogie. In the dim light of a novelty swan-shaped lamp they plough their simple furrow: imagine a backwoods Ten Benson, or a Kings Of Leon made entirely of dirty breezeblocks, and you get the idea.
Whilst not revolutionary the effect is quite powerful, morphing from ratcheting blues blunder to slug disco and beyond. Worsth 30 minutes of anybody's time, though perhaps not too much more.
If you don't know by now, Clinic deal in all the simple trash of rock history: lo fi rhythm 'n' blues, pre-Beatles pop, VU drone and electro crud, all rolled together in pounding 2/4 rhythms. Somehow, though, tonight's gig doesn't hit the spot.
I don't want to give them a bad review as I can't put my finger on what was wrong - it wasn't the performance, or the sound, and I don't think it was my ears, but last time they played here Clinic produced some of the most frightening and enthralling music in Britain, whilst tonight they were simply entertaining.
Maybe it was the overwrought op art video projections, which were far less effective than the dusky spotlight and triumvirate of oscilloscopes that greeted us two years ago. If you'd never heard of Clinic, I'm sure this gig was beautiful, but to the old admirers amongst us it lacked something. Only the final track of the main set, which locked Philip Glass in a tiny Casio-filled roadhouse, really hit the spot. As Roy Walker said, "It's good, but it's not right".
Thursday, 23 April 2009
The Melody Haunts My Revelry
Bloody blimey space invaders, I've been busy today! At work, at home, on the way to my bi-annual haircut, I've been running about like a mad bugger. Not a terrible thing, I like a busy life, but I'm feeling the effect now. Anyway, here's one from a few years ago.
Oh, just in case it looks weird, "PMT" is a music hardware shop in Oxford. It stand for Professional Music Tehcnology; if you think the acronym is embarrassing, you should see the fucking logo.
SLEEPS IN OYSTERS/ THE SILKROOM/ AMBERSTATE - Melodic Oxford, Port Mahon, 5/06
Melody in music works like plot in fiction: it's not essential, but it can be a useful entrance point, and, if done well, is a joy in its own right. Melodic Oxford is cleverly arranging events that explore how wide a variety of musicians have a melodic sensibility at work. With supper jazz drums, sub-aquatic bass, langourous vocals and keys that lalternate between ridiculous Rick Wakeman-style arpeggios and sonar blips (mostly produced by slapping a vocoder mike), Amberstate serve up smouldering tunes like a lo-fi Smoke City. If you like the thought of the second Lamb album made in a garden shed, give them a whirl and go home happy.
Oddly, The Silkroom seem to run on melodic empty. They sound like Franz Ferdinand with three quarters of the songs removed, so to make up for this dearth they play ridiculously loud and put the vocals through some effects. Sadly, all the pedals in PMT couldn't disguise the singer's two-note youth club blurt, and the set feels lax and flabby. They could have a future making Billy Mahonie-style stop-start music, but tonight we infinitely preferred the stop.
Sleeps In Oysters refresh our waning Sunday spirits with an intriguing set. They have enough fuzzy loops and glitches to make Sunnyvale blush, yet they embellish them with gorgeous tuneful figures on toy glockenspiels and such, like a Fisher Price Sigur Ros. The glacial female vocal lines are a treat too, though the male counterpart is a little nasal. Their racks of equipment test the Port's sticky tape sound system, but they shouldn't let it get to them so obviously, as their music is joyous.
Oh, just in case it looks weird, "PMT" is a music hardware shop in Oxford. It stand for Professional Music Tehcnology; if you think the acronym is embarrassing, you should see the fucking logo.
SLEEPS IN OYSTERS/ THE SILKROOM/ AMBERSTATE - Melodic Oxford, Port Mahon, 5/06
Melody in music works like plot in fiction: it's not essential, but it can be a useful entrance point, and, if done well, is a joy in its own right. Melodic Oxford is cleverly arranging events that explore how wide a variety of musicians have a melodic sensibility at work. With supper jazz drums, sub-aquatic bass, langourous vocals and keys that lalternate between ridiculous Rick Wakeman-style arpeggios and sonar blips (mostly produced by slapping a vocoder mike), Amberstate serve up smouldering tunes like a lo-fi Smoke City. If you like the thought of the second Lamb album made in a garden shed, give them a whirl and go home happy.
Oddly, The Silkroom seem to run on melodic empty. They sound like Franz Ferdinand with three quarters of the songs removed, so to make up for this dearth they play ridiculously loud and put the vocals through some effects. Sadly, all the pedals in PMT couldn't disguise the singer's two-note youth club blurt, and the set feels lax and flabby. They could have a future making Billy Mahonie-style stop-start music, but tonight we infinitely preferred the stop.
Sleeps In Oysters refresh our waning Sunday spirits with an intriguing set. They have enough fuzzy loops and glitches to make Sunnyvale blush, yet they embellish them with gorgeous tuneful figures on toy glockenspiels and such, like a Fisher Price Sigur Ros. The glacial female vocal lines are a treat too, though the male counterpart is a little nasal. Their racks of equipment test the Port's sticky tape sound system, but they shouldn't let it get to them so obviously, as their music is joyous.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
A PAINFULLY POOR PIECE OF WRITING
Christ alive, this is a terrible review. I almost gave up whilst typing it up. How depressing. At least I'm better now than I was then.
The running "joke" is embarassing, frankly.
DIE PRETTY/ TARTFUEL/ VERBAL KINK/ DREAMLAB - The Wheatsheaf, 5/03
Hard to recall in these slick automated times, but electronic music was once closely allied to new wave, and synthpop was punk's natural (Oedipal) bedfellow. Watch Dreamlab play and the link is reforged in a whirl of buzzing Casios and yapping vocals.
One man, one minidisc and two keyboards are all that's needed to fuel this rhythmic tirade. To be honest, sometimes it's a bit of a mess, but what matters is that Rob from Dreamlab's performance is completely honest: he doesn't care whether anyone gets it, or whether he's cool (he's not), he just dives in and plays. And he plays some pretty chunky Numan/Foxx stompers, which can't be bad.
Verbal Kink rock along pleasantly enough, but their vocals let them down, and they aren't overburdened with ideas. It's diverting stuff but doesn't really stand up to close scrutiny. Of course, the simple solution is "Don't scrutinise, then", but, hey! I'm a critic. Scrutiny is my job. Not that it's my real job, you understand, but for the purposes of this...
Where was I? Oh, yes: Verbal Kink. Their bassist really should break a string more often, as the ensuing song was more spacious and better for it.
Worse then second rate singer are good singers who don't bother singing, but just shout all the time, and Tartfuel has one of those. Nowt wrong with shouting, of course, as Frank Black, Kurt Cobain, Mark E Smith and Captain Beefheart could testify, but it's a skill just like any other - most people just can't do it very well.
Beyond that Tartfuel are a much more confident and, presumably, experienced outfit than Verbal Kink, and their performance is so much the neater...which is a pity, because it wasn't as interesting. Does that sound patronising? But I'm a critic, patronising is my job. Not that it's my real...
Oh, yes: Tartfuel. Tame the singer, write a few new songs and wash your hair, then we'll see.
Die Pretty, on the other hand, have no homework to do. This, their farewell Oxford gig, is the essence of rock music: take some sweaty people in leather, and have them play visceral driving music. No, it's not very complex, but as the set continues the sequenced drums become more and more insistent, the volume keeps edging up another notch, and the singer gets increasingly animated, and the crowd responds. It really is an art form that lives in the exhilirating moment, and difficult nto describe, the effect is truly electric. But I'm a critic. Describing things is my...
Oh, yes: Die Pretty. A sleazy treat that will be sadly missed.
The running "joke" is embarassing, frankly.
DIE PRETTY/ TARTFUEL/ VERBAL KINK/ DREAMLAB - The Wheatsheaf, 5/03
Hard to recall in these slick automated times, but electronic music was once closely allied to new wave, and synthpop was punk's natural (Oedipal) bedfellow. Watch Dreamlab play and the link is reforged in a whirl of buzzing Casios and yapping vocals.
One man, one minidisc and two keyboards are all that's needed to fuel this rhythmic tirade. To be honest, sometimes it's a bit of a mess, but what matters is that Rob from Dreamlab's performance is completely honest: he doesn't care whether anyone gets it, or whether he's cool (he's not), he just dives in and plays. And he plays some pretty chunky Numan/Foxx stompers, which can't be bad.
Verbal Kink rock along pleasantly enough, but their vocals let them down, and they aren't overburdened with ideas. It's diverting stuff but doesn't really stand up to close scrutiny. Of course, the simple solution is "Don't scrutinise, then", but, hey! I'm a critic. Scrutiny is my job. Not that it's my real job, you understand, but for the purposes of this...
Where was I? Oh, yes: Verbal Kink. Their bassist really should break a string more often, as the ensuing song was more spacious and better for it.
Worse then second rate singer are good singers who don't bother singing, but just shout all the time, and Tartfuel has one of those. Nowt wrong with shouting, of course, as Frank Black, Kurt Cobain, Mark E Smith and Captain Beefheart could testify, but it's a skill just like any other - most people just can't do it very well.
Beyond that Tartfuel are a much more confident and, presumably, experienced outfit than Verbal Kink, and their performance is so much the neater...which is a pity, because it wasn't as interesting. Does that sound patronising? But I'm a critic, patronising is my job. Not that it's my real...
Oh, yes: Tartfuel. Tame the singer, write a few new songs and wash your hair, then we'll see.
Die Pretty, on the other hand, have no homework to do. This, their farewell Oxford gig, is the essence of rock music: take some sweaty people in leather, and have them play visceral driving music. No, it's not very complex, but as the set continues the sequenced drums become more and more insistent, the volume keeps edging up another notch, and the singer gets increasingly animated, and the crowd responds. It really is an art form that lives in the exhilirating moment, and difficult nto describe, the effect is truly electric. But I'm a critic. Describing things is my...
Oh, yes: Die Pretty. A sleazy treat that will be sadly missed.
Saturday, 18 April 2009
Charlbury Pt 2
CHARLBURY RIVERSIDE 2008
SUNDAY
Strolling past a random tent we find wizard-bearded Jeremy Hughes picking out some bucolic instrumentals on his guitar. He’s not officially part of the lineup, but frankly he’s better than at least half of the stuff we saw yesterday, and five minutes in his company is five minutes well spent. Plus you can’t deny he looks the part. It’s a neat start to a far more satisfying day of music; plus the sun stays out. It’s not the sort of thing we’d normally do, but permit us to quote a poem, in full:
The music comes and goes on the wind,
Comes and goes on the brain.
This was Thom Gunn’s take on Jefferson Airplane, and it could easily refer to The Tim May Band’s set on the main stage Their lilting folky AOR is expertly controlled and performed with some panache, but ultimately proves too polite to make much impression on us, even whilst we have to give them credit for their chops. The lyric “Nice to meet you, I must be going”, however, reminds us painfully of Phil Collins, so they blow it at the last hurdle.
I suppose it’s unhealthy prejudice, but forgive us for thinking that Tamara Parsons-Baker was going to be chortling jodhpurred lass singing nasal, plummy songs about palomino geldings. Imagine our surprise in being confronted with a beautifully clear voice that trickles through the air like a limpid stream above some subtle guitar. The first name that springs to mind is Laima Bite, even though some of the wispy Global Traveller lyrics remind us more of Jessica Goyder. There’s a slight danger of the featherlight tunes getting lost in the breeze, but this is still a great little start to the Second Stage’s day.
Vultures quickly ramp up the tempo with a series of early 60s pop nuggets that have approximately one riff and about 5 lyrics between them. This is not a criticism, in case you were concerned, and it’s like early Kinks played with Arctic Monkeys bounce and insouciance. There’s something about the way the drummer innocently stabs at the snare like it’s 1963 rather than whacking round the toms like it’s 1975 that puts a huge spring in our step.
The farcically named Bommerillo would have to do a lot to kill our mood, and their generic country rock is well turned and cheery even as it’s forgettable. On a Truck stage this wouldn’t last five minutes, but for now it’ll serve. A charming Californian bluegrass banjo player pours us a glass of homebrew and explains that US folk songs are exactly the same as English folksongs, “except at the end they hang the fucker”. Goodbye moral ambiguity. It turns out that Americans wanted simple endings long before Hollywood arrived.
We chat to Banjo Boy quite happily during Bourbon Roses’ set, as their straight up blues has little to offer, beyond some really rather decent harp playing (you know which sort of harp, don’t make me come down there). Once again, dubious non-native accents seem to be pretty common here on the Second Stage – we wonder if American folk musicians try to pretend that they’re Cornish…or whether we should "hang the fucker"
“Tell me, Captain Strange, won’t you be my lover?”. This next band might have taken their name from “I Lost My Heart To A Starship Trooper”, one of our favourite camp SciFi disco romps (believe me, we’ve got a list), but they haven’t quite captured the fun with their sax-flecked ska-tinged cabaret rock. It’s quite like The Drugsquad with half the band missing, and maybe some fleshing out of the sound could reap dividends.The spirit is there, but most of the music isn’t.
We’re not 100% convinced by Stuart Turner’s growly voice – remember, we saw Mephisto Grande right here just 24 hours ago – but his chugging rockabilly guitar, replete with slapback sound, is a cracker. Banjo Boy offers Seasick Steve as a reference point, which can hardly be sneezed at – we certainly respect Stuart’s ability to lock into a groove and let his rhythms do the talking.
Toby is “the hottest new talent to come out of Oxford this year,” according to the MC. Never heard of him, we must admit. We do love to discover other pockets of music fan beyond our immediate East Oxford Mafia circle, but in this case they’re welcome to keep Toby. The boy can sing, we’ll give him that, but his dull slightly latin songs recall Ben Harper at his weediest, and even Jack Johnson (anecdote: a couple of years ago we overheard two teenage girls in a record shop excitedly discussing their purchase of the Jack Johnson album; we thought they meant the Miles Davis LP of the same name, and were on the brink of deciding that the young weren’t complete idiots, until we discovered he was just some strumming fucker). Toby’s music is accomplished, but only the way that building a model of Minas Tirith from lolly sticks is: accomplished, but pointless and faintly embarrassing. For a performer who’s not yet old enough to visit the beer tent, he has plenty of talent, but at the moment it is being squandered.
We should have watched Gunbunny instead, who seem to have improved roughly tenfold, if the brief snatch of their set we caught was indicative. Seriously tight and meaty grunge, it sounds like all of Mudhoney’s Superfuzz Bigmuff played at once. Do people still call this The Eynsham Sound?Hang on, did they ever call it The Eynsham Sound outside of our tiny mind?
Chantelle Pike has all sorts of elisions and vocal trills in her arsenal, but never pushes them too far, like certain R n B divas we could mention (at least we would if we could tell which one was which). Maybe her songs aren’t all winners, but “Save Me” for one puts us happily in mind of Juliet Turner, and she deserves her high billing.
Before the main stage home stretch we pop in on Deviant Amps, whose cheeky monkey zydeco pop is 50% The Ralfe Band, and 50% a bloody big mess. Good fun, though, and the Klub Kak contingent are dancing in force, which is entertainment in itself.
With their theatrical pomp, natural sense of drama and Woody’s intricate keys, Borderville burst onto the stage like a cross between ELP and Alvin Stardust. We’ll be frank, we have seen better sets from them, but full marks for the audacity of playing a lachrymose “Send In The Clowns” to an audience who were expecting to leap about to The (cancelled) Moneyshots…and then following it up with some Leonard Cohen. So, not up to their own high standard, but still light years ahead of most of the lineup.
It’s left to Witches to wrap up proceedings. At first we thought they’d blown it, the opening two numbers sounding rather like empty stadium bombast, but thankfully they soon settled into their dark, brooding mariachi menace; in fact they build to quite some heights of intensity, Dave at one point hopping round the stage waving some red maracas, looking for all the world like an air traffic controller who’s busting for the loo. “In The Chaos Of A Friday Night” is a jet black lump of insidious passion, which is balanced by a harpsichord led tune that comes off like a baroque consort playing 80s Tangerine Dream, and over it all Benek’s trumpet lines arc poetically. There aren’t many local bands who could take lineup changes in their stride like this and still keep soaring onwards.
And with that, it’s off to the station to get the train (except we find a lift on the way, woohoo!), satisfied with another Charlbury. We can’t pretend the music was as good as last year, and as noted The Beard Museum’s input was much mourned, but still we appreciate the enormous effort that has gone into creating a free weekend of entertainment, just for us. And, criticisms aside, we’d far rather be here for nowt than in Wakestock for £100+. We’ll be there in 2009, maybe we’ll bump into some of you; watch out for Banjo Boy’s homebrew, though, it’s a bit cheeky.
SUNDAY
Strolling past a random tent we find wizard-bearded Jeremy Hughes picking out some bucolic instrumentals on his guitar. He’s not officially part of the lineup, but frankly he’s better than at least half of the stuff we saw yesterday, and five minutes in his company is five minutes well spent. Plus you can’t deny he looks the part. It’s a neat start to a far more satisfying day of music; plus the sun stays out. It’s not the sort of thing we’d normally do, but permit us to quote a poem, in full:
The music comes and goes on the wind,
Comes and goes on the brain.
This was Thom Gunn’s take on Jefferson Airplane, and it could easily refer to The Tim May Band’s set on the main stage Their lilting folky AOR is expertly controlled and performed with some panache, but ultimately proves too polite to make much impression on us, even whilst we have to give them credit for their chops. The lyric “Nice to meet you, I must be going”, however, reminds us painfully of Phil Collins, so they blow it at the last hurdle.
I suppose it’s unhealthy prejudice, but forgive us for thinking that Tamara Parsons-Baker was going to be chortling jodhpurred lass singing nasal, plummy songs about palomino geldings. Imagine our surprise in being confronted with a beautifully clear voice that trickles through the air like a limpid stream above some subtle guitar. The first name that springs to mind is Laima Bite, even though some of the wispy Global Traveller lyrics remind us more of Jessica Goyder. There’s a slight danger of the featherlight tunes getting lost in the breeze, but this is still a great little start to the Second Stage’s day.
Vultures quickly ramp up the tempo with a series of early 60s pop nuggets that have approximately one riff and about 5 lyrics between them. This is not a criticism, in case you were concerned, and it’s like early Kinks played with Arctic Monkeys bounce and insouciance. There’s something about the way the drummer innocently stabs at the snare like it’s 1963 rather than whacking round the toms like it’s 1975 that puts a huge spring in our step.
The farcically named Bommerillo would have to do a lot to kill our mood, and their generic country rock is well turned and cheery even as it’s forgettable. On a Truck stage this wouldn’t last five minutes, but for now it’ll serve. A charming Californian bluegrass banjo player pours us a glass of homebrew and explains that US folk songs are exactly the same as English folksongs, “except at the end they hang the fucker”. Goodbye moral ambiguity. It turns out that Americans wanted simple endings long before Hollywood arrived.
We chat to Banjo Boy quite happily during Bourbon Roses’ set, as their straight up blues has little to offer, beyond some really rather decent harp playing (you know which sort of harp, don’t make me come down there). Once again, dubious non-native accents seem to be pretty common here on the Second Stage – we wonder if American folk musicians try to pretend that they’re Cornish…or whether we should "hang the fucker"
“Tell me, Captain Strange, won’t you be my lover?”. This next band might have taken their name from “I Lost My Heart To A Starship Trooper”, one of our favourite camp SciFi disco romps (believe me, we’ve got a list), but they haven’t quite captured the fun with their sax-flecked ska-tinged cabaret rock. It’s quite like The Drugsquad with half the band missing, and maybe some fleshing out of the sound could reap dividends.The spirit is there, but most of the music isn’t.
We’re not 100% convinced by Stuart Turner’s growly voice – remember, we saw Mephisto Grande right here just 24 hours ago – but his chugging rockabilly guitar, replete with slapback sound, is a cracker. Banjo Boy offers Seasick Steve as a reference point, which can hardly be sneezed at – we certainly respect Stuart’s ability to lock into a groove and let his rhythms do the talking.
Toby is “the hottest new talent to come out of Oxford this year,” according to the MC. Never heard of him, we must admit. We do love to discover other pockets of music fan beyond our immediate East Oxford Mafia circle, but in this case they’re welcome to keep Toby. The boy can sing, we’ll give him that, but his dull slightly latin songs recall Ben Harper at his weediest, and even Jack Johnson (anecdote: a couple of years ago we overheard two teenage girls in a record shop excitedly discussing their purchase of the Jack Johnson album; we thought they meant the Miles Davis LP of the same name, and were on the brink of deciding that the young weren’t complete idiots, until we discovered he was just some strumming fucker). Toby’s music is accomplished, but only the way that building a model of Minas Tirith from lolly sticks is: accomplished, but pointless and faintly embarrassing. For a performer who’s not yet old enough to visit the beer tent, he has plenty of talent, but at the moment it is being squandered.
We should have watched Gunbunny instead, who seem to have improved roughly tenfold, if the brief snatch of their set we caught was indicative. Seriously tight and meaty grunge, it sounds like all of Mudhoney’s Superfuzz Bigmuff played at once. Do people still call this The Eynsham Sound?Hang on, did they ever call it The Eynsham Sound outside of our tiny mind?
Chantelle Pike has all sorts of elisions and vocal trills in her arsenal, but never pushes them too far, like certain R n B divas we could mention (at least we would if we could tell which one was which). Maybe her songs aren’t all winners, but “Save Me” for one puts us happily in mind of Juliet Turner, and she deserves her high billing.
Before the main stage home stretch we pop in on Deviant Amps, whose cheeky monkey zydeco pop is 50% The Ralfe Band, and 50% a bloody big mess. Good fun, though, and the Klub Kak contingent are dancing in force, which is entertainment in itself.
With their theatrical pomp, natural sense of drama and Woody’s intricate keys, Borderville burst onto the stage like a cross between ELP and Alvin Stardust. We’ll be frank, we have seen better sets from them, but full marks for the audacity of playing a lachrymose “Send In The Clowns” to an audience who were expecting to leap about to The (cancelled) Moneyshots…and then following it up with some Leonard Cohen. So, not up to their own high standard, but still light years ahead of most of the lineup.
It’s left to Witches to wrap up proceedings. At first we thought they’d blown it, the opening two numbers sounding rather like empty stadium bombast, but thankfully they soon settled into their dark, brooding mariachi menace; in fact they build to quite some heights of intensity, Dave at one point hopping round the stage waving some red maracas, looking for all the world like an air traffic controller who’s busting for the loo. “In The Chaos Of A Friday Night” is a jet black lump of insidious passion, which is balanced by a harpsichord led tune that comes off like a baroque consort playing 80s Tangerine Dream, and over it all Benek’s trumpet lines arc poetically. There aren’t many local bands who could take lineup changes in their stride like this and still keep soaring onwards.
And with that, it’s off to the station to get the train (except we find a lift on the way, woohoo!), satisfied with another Charlbury. We can’t pretend the music was as good as last year, and as noted The Beard Museum’s input was much mourned, but still we appreciate the enormous effort that has gone into creating a free weekend of entertainment, just for us. And, criticisms aside, we’d far rather be here for nowt than in Wakestock for £100+. We’ll be there in 2009, maybe we’ll bump into some of you; watch out for Banjo Boy’s homebrew, though, it’s a bit cheeky.
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