This review appears in the current issue of Nightshift. The editor forwarded me an email that one of the musicians sent him, making their feeling clear about this review. I was tempted to post it here, but then I though, let's not. After all, I'm not here to argue with anyone, and if someone doesn't like my tastes and my writing style, good on them. So, some truly mystifying punctuation aside, I'm happy enough with the email.
There are two issues that are interesting, though. Fristly, our chum (who shall remain anonymous), wrote, "Slating every band is quite easy to do, so i will look forward to reading a hyped review. But first, a bigger, better magazine must approve of the act. Then he can make a u-turn and try and keep up as much as his acute and narrow mind will allow. Enthusiastically claiming to have supported said act from the very beggining. I could be wrong, but this tends to be the case with small time talentless writers", and followed it up with, "Writing in magazines such as Nightshift isn't i imagine at the top of his ambitions, but he has punched well above his weight to even get that far".
The intriguing truth si that, irrespective of whether inability woudl preclude it, I have literally no desire to write for a "proper" magazine. Writing for Nightshift is the perfect job, precisely because I never have to worry about the kind of editorial or self-imposed volte faces alluded to in the first point. Unfortunately, no matter whether they were the most lauded act in the country, three of the acts in this review would be poor (although they range from lovably not quite there to hilariously atrocious), and it's great to be able to write for people who let you writer about no-mark Oxon acts and huge touring beasts and judge them in the same fashion.
Course, the thing that annoyed me about the review was that the editor got Artclasssink's name wrong. Typical.
There you go, a rather serious intro today - normal service shall resume. In fact, I'm just listening a K-Tel disco comp from a stack of vuinyl I have been gifted: "Naughty Naughty Naughty" by Joy sarney has a part for Mr Punch. Classy.
NUCLEAR SKYLINE/ VERY NICE HARRY/ ARTCLASSSINK/ THE JUKES, It’s All About The Music, Bully, 9/2/12
It’s All About The Music, as the promoter’s name would have it. Watching a band like The Jukes, you wish it were about something else, for once. Lightshow; dancing gimps; contentious race politics. Anything to distract from their atonal chugging guff, that’s like the Portsmouth Sinfonia playing Franz Ferdinand. A trumpet adds a little James-esque flourish, but the gig is unsalvageable.
“It’s a very very very nice song”, announce Artclasssink, before launching into something. They’re confident and audacious, we like that. They’re also wrong, of course. Like a desperate pool player, smacking the white up the table in blind hope, they shoot at various styles – Psych? Funk? Skank? Shoegaze? – but tend to end up muddled after a minute or so, looking to the incomprehensible vocal yelps to drag the song home. Yet there’s something lovable about this band, not least their evident self-belief. We feel musicians should grow up in public, so good on you, Artclasssink. Now get better.
Very Nice Harry shine in this company, with a highly polished melodic set of energetic, atmospheric pop. They’re at their least convincing when trying to be Foals (as is everyone except Foals, let’s be honest), but when they create more space in the music, with some neat delay pedal use, and drizzle it with Blake’s 7 synths, they boast some really quite impressive, dynamic songs, allowing Sam McNeill’s lithe, clear vocal lines a chance to unfurl. Very promising. Do you know what I mean, Harry?
Nuclear Skyline look excitingly like a greasy rockabilly bassist has gatecrashed a teenage grunge act, but they sound like any other clod-hopping, inexperienced punk band. Good spirited fun, of course, but lacking in anything memorable to balance the lack of musical prowess. Currently it’s brash and ballsy but not very interesting. They’ve got a Black Flag T-shirt and a shiny double bass, though. We’re sure they’ll come up with something, given time.
Thursday, 1 March 2012
Tuesday, 28 February 2012
Quicksilver Medal
In one of the worst lyrics I've ever heard, John Lennon states, "a working class hero is something to be". I guess, but so is a lollipop lady, a rapist or an Iberian ribbed newt. He may as well have said, "a noun is a word that repesents a person, concept or thing". Anyway, here's an unrelated review.
THE WILD MERCURY SOUND/ DANCE A LA PLAGE/ LEWIS WATSON, Daisy Rodgers, Jericho, 24/2/12
Daisy Rodgers is doing something special. Every month their events, centred round the more accessible end of indie rock, are not only well-constructed and friendly, but encourage packed houses that must make musicians, customers and other promoters happy, surprised and murderously envious respectively. Tonight’s gig is no exception, a cohesive, amiable concert with a spectacular turnout, marred only by the typical Jericho curse of ceaselessly yabbering punters drowning out the quieter acts. So, we push to the front of the newly painted venue (now with the added vibe of a 1970s mental hospital), to hear Lewis Watson.
This young singer has apparently achieved over two million hits on YouTube. We admit to finding this slightly mystifying, but then again, we don’t quite see the attraction of Charlie’s finger appetite either. Lewis certainly has a very strong voice, with an impressive ability to phrase lines mellifluously, adding a little portamento at emotive moments. It’s a likable set, and impressively a Paolo Nutini cover fits snugly next to his own songs; on the down side, of course this means his songs sound like Paolo Nutini’s. Watson has a very significant talent, and we look forward to seeing him develop, but at the moment his music sounds too much like a Starbuck’s playlist to truly excite us. It’s early days, we could well be eating our words in no time.
Unlike Lewis, Dance A La Plage sound as though they’re fully developed already, with a supremely confident and veruca sock tight set of bouncy disco indie. This is a band that has clearly identified its sound, and worked hard to hone it in the live arena, with the strident vocals, the rubberised bass and the guitar-to-the-chin twiddles all inch perfect. Pity that it does exactly nothing for us, being not exactly bad, but aridly, sterilely forgettable. When the singer introduces an untitled track with the slip, “This one doesn’t have a song yet”, we conclude that old Freud knew a thing or two. Dance A La Plage clearly hit the spot for a number of people, but to us they’ll forever exist in the long dark Regional Battle Of The Bands Heat of the soul. Fair’s fair, they’d probably walk it.
A fizzing burst of guitar noise introduces The Wild Mercury Sound’s set, and whilst it’s hardly Merzbow, it sounds like pure energy after a polite evening. They play a full-blooded set mixing blues rock tall tales with emotive stadium paeans, and manage to pull off the all too rare trick of sounding enormous without simply turning the volume to the top, and this control allows the excellent, lightly yearning vocals space to soar. Perhaps the young, fresh-faced lads are a little clean cut to make this sort of emotional music work, and sometimes you want less Doogie Howser and more Howlin’ Wolf, but it’s nothing a decade or so of hard living and bad loving won’t cure. A rousing end to a decent night.
THE WILD MERCURY SOUND/ DANCE A LA PLAGE/ LEWIS WATSON, Daisy Rodgers, Jericho, 24/2/12
Daisy Rodgers is doing something special. Every month their events, centred round the more accessible end of indie rock, are not only well-constructed and friendly, but encourage packed houses that must make musicians, customers and other promoters happy, surprised and murderously envious respectively. Tonight’s gig is no exception, a cohesive, amiable concert with a spectacular turnout, marred only by the typical Jericho curse of ceaselessly yabbering punters drowning out the quieter acts. So, we push to the front of the newly painted venue (now with the added vibe of a 1970s mental hospital), to hear Lewis Watson.
This young singer has apparently achieved over two million hits on YouTube. We admit to finding this slightly mystifying, but then again, we don’t quite see the attraction of Charlie’s finger appetite either. Lewis certainly has a very strong voice, with an impressive ability to phrase lines mellifluously, adding a little portamento at emotive moments. It’s a likable set, and impressively a Paolo Nutini cover fits snugly next to his own songs; on the down side, of course this means his songs sound like Paolo Nutini’s. Watson has a very significant talent, and we look forward to seeing him develop, but at the moment his music sounds too much like a Starbuck’s playlist to truly excite us. It’s early days, we could well be eating our words in no time.
Unlike Lewis, Dance A La Plage sound as though they’re fully developed already, with a supremely confident and veruca sock tight set of bouncy disco indie. This is a band that has clearly identified its sound, and worked hard to hone it in the live arena, with the strident vocals, the rubberised bass and the guitar-to-the-chin twiddles all inch perfect. Pity that it does exactly nothing for us, being not exactly bad, but aridly, sterilely forgettable. When the singer introduces an untitled track with the slip, “This one doesn’t have a song yet”, we conclude that old Freud knew a thing or two. Dance A La Plage clearly hit the spot for a number of people, but to us they’ll forever exist in the long dark Regional Battle Of The Bands Heat of the soul. Fair’s fair, they’d probably walk it.
A fizzing burst of guitar noise introduces The Wild Mercury Sound’s set, and whilst it’s hardly Merzbow, it sounds like pure energy after a polite evening. They play a full-blooded set mixing blues rock tall tales with emotive stadium paeans, and manage to pull off the all too rare trick of sounding enormous without simply turning the volume to the top, and this control allows the excellent, lightly yearning vocals space to soar. Perhaps the young, fresh-faced lads are a little clean cut to make this sort of emotional music work, and sometimes you want less Doogie Howser and more Howlin’ Wolf, but it’s nothing a decade or so of hard living and bad loving won’t cure. A rousing end to a decent night.
Monday, 20 February 2012
Reinventing The Peel
This is the first time I've ever reviewed a piece of theatre. I think it probably shows. And this was mostly a man playing records, God knows what I'd do if faced with Two Gentlemen Of Verona.
JOHN PEEL’S SHED – JOHN OSBOURNE (North Wall)
We first heard “politics” by Girls At Our Best in 1995. Mark Radcliffe opened his Radio One night-time show with that and Wire’s “Our Swimmer” one summer night, we’re pretty certain. We recall it vividly because Radcliffe’s graveyard slot show used to keep us sane when we worked nights in a document archivist’s warehouse. This is relevant because, not only is john Osbourne’s one man show partly about the power of radio to lift the soul whilst doing mindless, poorly paid work, but also “Politics” is the song that’s playing as the North Wall’s house lights go down.
And, yes, frankly any stage show that starts with the performer sitting amongst a carpet of vinyl, spinning tunes whilst the audience files in, and sharing little facts on a vintage overhead projector, is already a hit with us. All these records came from a large box of vinyl Osbourne won in a competition to write a slogan for the John Peel show (including a tantalising LP by Oizone, a punk Boyzone tribute), but anyone dreading – or even hoping for - a Peel-obsessed troglodyte’s celebration of obscure U-Roy versions, or Hefner B-sides, couldn’t be more wrong. Despite the title, this excellent show is less about the great Mr Ravenscroft himself, and more about the importance of radio to people’s lives, and how this cherished medium is rarely discussed or celebrated.
John Peel’s Shed only has a few proper jokes (and one of those was cribbed from Terry Wogan), yet the audience is constantly somewhere between a warm smile and a hearty guffaw, because Osbourne’s delivery is so natural and unaffected: it’s not a slick, predictable comic monologue, it’s more like a cheery chat with someone on a long train journey who unexpectedly shares most of your views. When he stumbles over his words, or fluffs Jo Whiley’s name at a pivotal moment in the script, it only endears him to us more. The only downside of the show is that you want to join in the conversation, and spin a platter of your own.
Osbourne is at his best when he’s passionate about his subjects. His wide-eyed joy at describing Resonance FM’s Me & My Floor, a show in which a child mikes his house carpet for half an hour a day, makes it sound like the greatest piece of conceptual radio ever created. Similarly, Tommy Boyd is someone we have cast into the awkward dustbin of childhood TV memories, along with Gaz Topp and Kate Copstick, and yet Osbourne is such an admirer he’s dubbed Boyd “the Peel of talk”, for his Human Zoo show on TalkSport. You can also feel his disappointment and anger when he discusses second rate, homogenous culture, a trap commercial radio falls into at a depressing rate (although Radio One is far from immune). It made us think of the aftermath of Peel’s death, and the way it was handled by the BBC. Celebrating Peel’s work doesn’t just mean playing “Teenage Kicks” and The White Stripes every ten minutes, and mentioning – but, of course, not broadcasting – The Fall and Captain Beefheart, it means keeping an open mind and a curious set of ears, and ignoring bullshit on every side. For all Osbourne’s celebration of radio, we were reminded that there’s still no substitute for John Peel on national radio, and for anything like his unpretentious inquisitiveness you have to explore Resonance, or perhaps Norwich’s Future FM, where Osbourne broadcast shows exploring the Peel box (download at www.johnpeelsshed.com).
What was the slogan that won Osbourne this vinyl treasure trove? “Records you want to hear, played by a man who wants you to hear them”. It’s actually quite sad that this isn’t the rubric of all music broadcasting, but this wonderful show staves off bland corporate gloss for one more night. Highly recommended.
JOHN PEEL’S SHED – JOHN OSBOURNE (North Wall)
We first heard “politics” by Girls At Our Best in 1995. Mark Radcliffe opened his Radio One night-time show with that and Wire’s “Our Swimmer” one summer night, we’re pretty certain. We recall it vividly because Radcliffe’s graveyard slot show used to keep us sane when we worked nights in a document archivist’s warehouse. This is relevant because, not only is john Osbourne’s one man show partly about the power of radio to lift the soul whilst doing mindless, poorly paid work, but also “Politics” is the song that’s playing as the North Wall’s house lights go down.
And, yes, frankly any stage show that starts with the performer sitting amongst a carpet of vinyl, spinning tunes whilst the audience files in, and sharing little facts on a vintage overhead projector, is already a hit with us. All these records came from a large box of vinyl Osbourne won in a competition to write a slogan for the John Peel show (including a tantalising LP by Oizone, a punk Boyzone tribute), but anyone dreading – or even hoping for - a Peel-obsessed troglodyte’s celebration of obscure U-Roy versions, or Hefner B-sides, couldn’t be more wrong. Despite the title, this excellent show is less about the great Mr Ravenscroft himself, and more about the importance of radio to people’s lives, and how this cherished medium is rarely discussed or celebrated.
John Peel’s Shed only has a few proper jokes (and one of those was cribbed from Terry Wogan), yet the audience is constantly somewhere between a warm smile and a hearty guffaw, because Osbourne’s delivery is so natural and unaffected: it’s not a slick, predictable comic monologue, it’s more like a cheery chat with someone on a long train journey who unexpectedly shares most of your views. When he stumbles over his words, or fluffs Jo Whiley’s name at a pivotal moment in the script, it only endears him to us more. The only downside of the show is that you want to join in the conversation, and spin a platter of your own.
Osbourne is at his best when he’s passionate about his subjects. His wide-eyed joy at describing Resonance FM’s Me & My Floor, a show in which a child mikes his house carpet for half an hour a day, makes it sound like the greatest piece of conceptual radio ever created. Similarly, Tommy Boyd is someone we have cast into the awkward dustbin of childhood TV memories, along with Gaz Topp and Kate Copstick, and yet Osbourne is such an admirer he’s dubbed Boyd “the Peel of talk”, for his Human Zoo show on TalkSport. You can also feel his disappointment and anger when he discusses second rate, homogenous culture, a trap commercial radio falls into at a depressing rate (although Radio One is far from immune). It made us think of the aftermath of Peel’s death, and the way it was handled by the BBC. Celebrating Peel’s work doesn’t just mean playing “Teenage Kicks” and The White Stripes every ten minutes, and mentioning – but, of course, not broadcasting – The Fall and Captain Beefheart, it means keeping an open mind and a curious set of ears, and ignoring bullshit on every side. For all Osbourne’s celebration of radio, we were reminded that there’s still no substitute for John Peel on national radio, and for anything like his unpretentious inquisitiveness you have to explore Resonance, or perhaps Norwich’s Future FM, where Osbourne broadcast shows exploring the Peel box (download at www.johnpeelsshed.com).
What was the slogan that won Osbourne this vinyl treasure trove? “Records you want to hear, played by a man who wants you to hear them”. It’s actually quite sad that this isn’t the rubric of all music broadcasting, but this wonderful show staves off bland corporate gloss for one more night. Highly recommended.
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Basement, How Low Can You Go?
Speaking of Big Bang Theory, as we were, it reminded me of Friends. Not the jokes, just the architecture. Do all apartment buildings in America have a large flat on the left of the staircase, and a smaller one on the right? Seems an odd design. Also, can people weho make their money as waiters, physics researchers, occasional actors, cooks, and so on really afford these lopsided apartments?
And why do they both loook like a set from Space Hulk from the corridor, huge grey reinforced doors and dingy corridors? They look lovely from the inside.
Hmmm....
THE CELLAR FAMILY – FLAB EP (Download)
“I am an anarchist”.
Punk is about the antisocial, whether it’s Johnny Rotten’s heroic, neo-Romantic reactionary stance, painting himself as a twisted urchin version of Milton’s Satan, or your bog standard punk tearaway, using rebellion as an excuse to get smashed and not wash (and the hippies already had that down, ironically). The Cellar Family, comfortably one of the best acts to emerge from Oxford in the past two years, have a far more interesting take. On this EP, from the awkward Thomas the Tubercular Tank Engine chuffing of the opening, to the closing greasy feedback 17 minutes later, the tone is not antisocial, but asocial.
Like Seven’s reverse-Buddhist villain John Doe, or a slightly deranged Nazi scientist, the narrative voice of a Cellar Family song balances visceral disgust with a rigorously dispassionate eye: it’s no coincidence that the EP is bookended by tracks called “Oestrogen” and “Testosterone”. This is not a love song, it’s a bloody biology lesson. Possibly extremely bloody. In a gallery of sociopathic rogues, “My Love Is Everlasting” may well tell of a deranged serial rapist-murderer (whatever, it certainly won’t be on Julio Iglesias’ setlist any time soon), and “Secret Admirer” is a stalker’s paean, crooning “nobody watches you more than I do”, along with a dubious celebration of “child-bearing hips”, which can’t help but bring to mind P J Harvey. Alternating between moments of dark comedy and harrowing viscerality, The Cellar Family has found a new way of embodying punk’s antagonistic stance.
Likewise, the music has more going on than might be immediately obvious in a bludgeoning punk racket. The drums are frantic yet tight, tumbling through the songs like Karl Burns on the early Fall recordings, and the way that Jamie Harris’ guitar slurs and bends the rhythms remind us unexpectedly of Graham Coxon on later Blur albums. This record shows how many more ideas TCF have beyond the punk template. “My Love Is Everlasting” is a spiky update of The Blue Orchids’ spindly groove, whereas “What Did I Ever Do To You?” is a wash of reverse reverb vocals, sub-aquatic bass and misty drums that sounds an awful lot like Pram, until the dyspeptic burst of the chorus rears its head briefly. Whilst Mclusky is still an obvious reference point, The Cellar Family have developed enough to offer a lyrical grimace and musical inventiveness all their own, and have possibly made one of Oxford’s records of the year in the process.
And why do they both loook like a set from Space Hulk from the corridor, huge grey reinforced doors and dingy corridors? They look lovely from the inside.
Hmmm....
THE CELLAR FAMILY – FLAB EP (Download)
“I am an anarchist”.
Punk is about the antisocial, whether it’s Johnny Rotten’s heroic, neo-Romantic reactionary stance, painting himself as a twisted urchin version of Milton’s Satan, or your bog standard punk tearaway, using rebellion as an excuse to get smashed and not wash (and the hippies already had that down, ironically). The Cellar Family, comfortably one of the best acts to emerge from Oxford in the past two years, have a far more interesting take. On this EP, from the awkward Thomas the Tubercular Tank Engine chuffing of the opening, to the closing greasy feedback 17 minutes later, the tone is not antisocial, but asocial.
Like Seven’s reverse-Buddhist villain John Doe, or a slightly deranged Nazi scientist, the narrative voice of a Cellar Family song balances visceral disgust with a rigorously dispassionate eye: it’s no coincidence that the EP is bookended by tracks called “Oestrogen” and “Testosterone”. This is not a love song, it’s a bloody biology lesson. Possibly extremely bloody. In a gallery of sociopathic rogues, “My Love Is Everlasting” may well tell of a deranged serial rapist-murderer (whatever, it certainly won’t be on Julio Iglesias’ setlist any time soon), and “Secret Admirer” is a stalker’s paean, crooning “nobody watches you more than I do”, along with a dubious celebration of “child-bearing hips”, which can’t help but bring to mind P J Harvey. Alternating between moments of dark comedy and harrowing viscerality, The Cellar Family has found a new way of embodying punk’s antagonistic stance.
Likewise, the music has more going on than might be immediately obvious in a bludgeoning punk racket. The drums are frantic yet tight, tumbling through the songs like Karl Burns on the early Fall recordings, and the way that Jamie Harris’ guitar slurs and bends the rhythms remind us unexpectedly of Graham Coxon on later Blur albums. This record shows how many more ideas TCF have beyond the punk template. “My Love Is Everlasting” is a spiky update of The Blue Orchids’ spindly groove, whereas “What Did I Ever Do To You?” is a wash of reverse reverb vocals, sub-aquatic bass and misty drums that sounds an awful lot like Pram, until the dyspeptic burst of the chorus rears its head briefly. Whilst Mclusky is still an obvious reference point, The Cellar Family have developed enough to offer a lyrical grimace and musical inventiveness all their own, and have possibly made one of Oxford’s records of the year in the process.
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
Horror Novel
Another review, obviously. What were you expecting?
NEW NOVETA/ LISTING SHIPS/ MANACLES OF ACID – Neural Ohmlette, MAO, 27/1/12
Let’s just clear up a few things before we start.
1) Now they’ve moved the cafe upstairs, Modern Art Oxford is a fantastic gig venue, low, sweaty and loud, but with a handy airy upstairs that sells nice coffee. More events should happen here.
2) There’s a reason why most side projects aren’t in the spotlight.
3) Neural Ohmlette is a hideous name for a promoter, it sounds like something Ozric Tentacles discarded as an LP title. Let’s never talk of it again.
Watching Manacles Of Acid, you wonder, who exactly is being manacled? Does it mean heavy, controlling music, to enslave us on the dancefloor (or something equally retro-dystopian) or does it refer to the constrictions inherent in using vintage hardware? Not sure either of them work, really: the music is surprisingly airy and attractive, despite jackboot kickdrums and inevitable acid swampgas bubbles, and the sonic palette is intricate and varied enough to put any number of SoundCloud-vomiting brosteppers to shame. Literally anything with a 303 squelchline sounds great to us, but in fact Manacles Of Acid are at their very best when they veer closer to Bellevue techno than pure acid – both the opening and closing moments of this set remind us of the great Model 500. An act that originally looked like a music shop worker’s sly joke is bearing unexpected fruit. Let’s hope they’re rifling through the Derrick May and Drexciya twelve inches for inspiration as we speak.
Tonight Listing Ships fail wholly to convince us. Not only do the drums appear to falter uncharacteristically once or twice, but an annoying mix of earth hum and bass feedback mires a band that has a much better grasp of interesting dynamics than the vast majority of krauting post-rockers. Because of this we find ourselves concentrating less on the Godzilla lumber of tracks like “100 Gun Ship”, and on lighter touches we’d previously missed: a synth organ part that sounds like mid-80s Tangerine Dream, a death disco rhythm that seems to cross ESG with Joy Division. A compromised set by a very strong band.
We saw Maria & The Mirrors at last year’s Supernormal festival, and were suitably floored by their glam tribal hedonism, so we leapt at the chance to see them in Oxford. We soon discovered we were actually seeing a spin-off called New Noveta, but hopes were still high. However, New Noveta are not so much a spin off as a deliberate miscue and a white ball in someone’s Bacardi, taking the digital noise underpinning Maria & The Mirrors, and using it as the backdrop for some ritualistic performance art that boils down to two women wrestling in a puddle of fruit and raw fish. As a spectacle – not to mention an olfactory experience – it certainly has a power that very few gigs can match, and inevitably an image resembling Tweedledee and Tweedeldum bickering over the remains of Luke Skywalker’s eviscerated tauntaun hangs in the mind’s eye for a while, but the entire experience is only partly satisfying.
Firstly, lose the strobe: unless it’s the 60s or you’re David Lynch, strobe lights are a tired signifier of chaos, and are far more annoying than they are thrilling. Secondly, is ten minutes really enough to justify a headline appearance? Thirdly, we do get bored of half-naked body-based performance: in the past feminist performance artists returned to their bodies in desperation that all traditional media were tainted by association with a patriarchal art history, whereas Viennese Actionism saw the corporeal as a final frontier in visceral, confrontational art – but performance nowadays often means arsing about with some flesh on display, and it gets dull quickly. Fourthly, the musical aspect of the show is thin, at best, and what promises to be an industrial soundscape soon becomes a forgettable hiss.
Actually, fifthly, you know what? Ten minutes was plenty. An act worth witnessing, perhaps, but not one worth celebrating
NEW NOVETA/ LISTING SHIPS/ MANACLES OF ACID – Neural Ohmlette, MAO, 27/1/12
Let’s just clear up a few things before we start.
1) Now they’ve moved the cafe upstairs, Modern Art Oxford is a fantastic gig venue, low, sweaty and loud, but with a handy airy upstairs that sells nice coffee. More events should happen here.
2) There’s a reason why most side projects aren’t in the spotlight.
3) Neural Ohmlette is a hideous name for a promoter, it sounds like something Ozric Tentacles discarded as an LP title. Let’s never talk of it again.
Watching Manacles Of Acid, you wonder, who exactly is being manacled? Does it mean heavy, controlling music, to enslave us on the dancefloor (or something equally retro-dystopian) or does it refer to the constrictions inherent in using vintage hardware? Not sure either of them work, really: the music is surprisingly airy and attractive, despite jackboot kickdrums and inevitable acid swampgas bubbles, and the sonic palette is intricate and varied enough to put any number of SoundCloud-vomiting brosteppers to shame. Literally anything with a 303 squelchline sounds great to us, but in fact Manacles Of Acid are at their very best when they veer closer to Bellevue techno than pure acid – both the opening and closing moments of this set remind us of the great Model 500. An act that originally looked like a music shop worker’s sly joke is bearing unexpected fruit. Let’s hope they’re rifling through the Derrick May and Drexciya twelve inches for inspiration as we speak.
Tonight Listing Ships fail wholly to convince us. Not only do the drums appear to falter uncharacteristically once or twice, but an annoying mix of earth hum and bass feedback mires a band that has a much better grasp of interesting dynamics than the vast majority of krauting post-rockers. Because of this we find ourselves concentrating less on the Godzilla lumber of tracks like “100 Gun Ship”, and on lighter touches we’d previously missed: a synth organ part that sounds like mid-80s Tangerine Dream, a death disco rhythm that seems to cross ESG with Joy Division. A compromised set by a very strong band.
We saw Maria & The Mirrors at last year’s Supernormal festival, and were suitably floored by their glam tribal hedonism, so we leapt at the chance to see them in Oxford. We soon discovered we were actually seeing a spin-off called New Noveta, but hopes were still high. However, New Noveta are not so much a spin off as a deliberate miscue and a white ball in someone’s Bacardi, taking the digital noise underpinning Maria & The Mirrors, and using it as the backdrop for some ritualistic performance art that boils down to two women wrestling in a puddle of fruit and raw fish. As a spectacle – not to mention an olfactory experience – it certainly has a power that very few gigs can match, and inevitably an image resembling Tweedledee and Tweedeldum bickering over the remains of Luke Skywalker’s eviscerated tauntaun hangs in the mind’s eye for a while, but the entire experience is only partly satisfying.
Firstly, lose the strobe: unless it’s the 60s or you’re David Lynch, strobe lights are a tired signifier of chaos, and are far more annoying than they are thrilling. Secondly, is ten minutes really enough to justify a headline appearance? Thirdly, we do get bored of half-naked body-based performance: in the past feminist performance artists returned to their bodies in desperation that all traditional media were tainted by association with a patriarchal art history, whereas Viennese Actionism saw the corporeal as a final frontier in visceral, confrontational art – but performance nowadays often means arsing about with some flesh on display, and it gets dull quickly. Fourthly, the musical aspect of the show is thin, at best, and what promises to be an industrial soundscape soon becomes a forgettable hiss.
Actually, fifthly, you know what? Ten minutes was plenty. An act worth witnessing, perhaps, but not one worth celebrating
Sunday, 29 January 2012
Hearth Hearted
Big Bang Theory, I meant, of course, in the last post.
Not like when a soldier dies, the bit below.
Anyway, here's a record review from this month's Nightshift, amazingly the first ever to have no live reviews. This means I gave the only actual bad review in the whole issue, excluding the demo pages. Yay.
SHAKER HEIGHTS – SITTING IN THE FIRE (Download single)
This single features “exclusive artwork based on the music”. It’s a line drawing of a man staring at a wall in an empty room. Yep, that’s roughly how it makes us feel, too. The single is not precisely bad – it’s well made and shows evidence of talent – but it is dully anonymous. The title track starts with good ingredients, a maudlin country-inflected vocal and some pleasing keyboard embellishments, but doesn’t know what to do with them. After a repeating these fragments a few times, the song drifts to a halt, like a finance administrator who realises that people stopped listening to his quarterly sales report half way through.
The B-side “Poised As Robots” is apparently “attack-rock”, if the press release is to be believed, although in reality it chugs along cosily like a vintage traction engine. It’s a simple heartfelt tune that’s far superior to the A side, but it still has trouble asserting itself. It’s as if the band have no faith in what they’re doing. So, we’ve got about one twelfth of a Beautiful South song coupled with a self-conscious Then Jericho track. Hmm, might take a look at that wall for a bit.
Not like when a soldier dies, the bit below.
Anyway, here's a record review from this month's Nightshift, amazingly the first ever to have no live reviews. This means I gave the only actual bad review in the whole issue, excluding the demo pages. Yay.
SHAKER HEIGHTS – SITTING IN THE FIRE (Download single)
This single features “exclusive artwork based on the music”. It’s a line drawing of a man staring at a wall in an empty room. Yep, that’s roughly how it makes us feel, too. The single is not precisely bad – it’s well made and shows evidence of talent – but it is dully anonymous. The title track starts with good ingredients, a maudlin country-inflected vocal and some pleasing keyboard embellishments, but doesn’t know what to do with them. After a repeating these fragments a few times, the song drifts to a halt, like a finance administrator who realises that people stopped listening to his quarterly sales report half way through.
The B-side “Poised As Robots” is apparently “attack-rock”, if the press release is to be believed, although in reality it chugs along cosily like a vintage traction engine. It’s a simple heartfelt tune that’s far superior to the A side, but it still has trouble asserting itself. It’s as if the band have no faith in what they’re doing. So, we’ve got about one twelfth of a Beautiful South song coupled with a self-conscious Then Jericho track. Hmm, might take a look at that wall for a bit.
Tuesday, 17 January 2012
The Acquitable Snowman?
I just watched a whole episode of The Big Bang. It's actually relatively amusing.
Unrelated question: should one put lemons in the fruit bowl?
UNPUNISHED MONSTERS – UNPUNISHED MONSTERS EP (Download)
The electronic side project is becoming as much of a rock cliché as the garish wedding, the spell in rehab and the ill-advised clothing range, but there is some good material being made by rockers who find a freedom in front of the PC that they don’t get in the rehearsal studio. After five minutes of racking our brains to identify the vocalist on this EP, Google told us it was Gus Rogers from Dial F For Frankenstein and Kill Murray, and, along with George Hopcroft, he has created an interesting adjunct to the speed-indie intensity of those bands. Unpunished Monsters’ sound springs from the ersatz sleaze of Prince-influenced club music from the last gasps of the 1980s, adding some drunken dizziness, and it’s utterly beguiling, at least when it doesn’t get overly wry.
“Palace Guards” is a wonderful opener, ladling a robo-lothario vocal onto a tweaked Frankie Knuckles keyboard part until the whole gloriously fake cocktail has the rubbery whiff of post-human lovin’ best exhibited by Jamie Principle’s “Baby Wants To Ride”. There’s more android soul in the EP’s high point, “Moon Dance”, where a seditiously sexy croon rides a woozy, swingbeat rhythm, something like a new wave Jamie Lidell. Some Plone-like metallophone parts tumble in the background, underpinning a tale a tale of teenage boredom that may have come from a Dead Jerichos song:
We go down to the playground for somewhere to drink
And I will fight you like a caveman, too wired to think
It’s a fascinatingly immersive little song, imbued with the cheap tedium of a youth spent in the suburbs, and balances the more dance oriented tracks on the record, such as “Day Dreamer”, which sounds like a euphoric remix of some minor alternative hit, and could comfortably sit in many a contemporary DJ set.
The record isn’t all perfect. “Negative Capability” starts well as a post-Numan thump, but doesn’t have enough going on to fill three minutes (plus the link to Keats is unfathomable), whereas “Neon Lung” is too arch, a winking “The 80s are so, like, old” concoction of electro-funk keys, trashy guitar and treated vocals slapped between a tired vocal sample and some arbitrary drum ‘n’ bass. No sleep till Shoreditch. But these lowpoints are heavily outweighed by the brash tartiness of Unpunished Monsters’ best music, like a sonic version of heavily daubed mascara. We hope this collaboration isn’t a one off, and we won’t be surprised to find that “Moon Dance” ends up one of our favourite Oxford tunes of 2012. Download for free, and start mixing the pina coladas with ketamine today!
Unrelated question: should one put lemons in the fruit bowl?
UNPUNISHED MONSTERS – UNPUNISHED MONSTERS EP (Download)
The electronic side project is becoming as much of a rock cliché as the garish wedding, the spell in rehab and the ill-advised clothing range, but there is some good material being made by rockers who find a freedom in front of the PC that they don’t get in the rehearsal studio. After five minutes of racking our brains to identify the vocalist on this EP, Google told us it was Gus Rogers from Dial F For Frankenstein and Kill Murray, and, along with George Hopcroft, he has created an interesting adjunct to the speed-indie intensity of those bands. Unpunished Monsters’ sound springs from the ersatz sleaze of Prince-influenced club music from the last gasps of the 1980s, adding some drunken dizziness, and it’s utterly beguiling, at least when it doesn’t get overly wry.
“Palace Guards” is a wonderful opener, ladling a robo-lothario vocal onto a tweaked Frankie Knuckles keyboard part until the whole gloriously fake cocktail has the rubbery whiff of post-human lovin’ best exhibited by Jamie Principle’s “Baby Wants To Ride”. There’s more android soul in the EP’s high point, “Moon Dance”, where a seditiously sexy croon rides a woozy, swingbeat rhythm, something like a new wave Jamie Lidell. Some Plone-like metallophone parts tumble in the background, underpinning a tale a tale of teenage boredom that may have come from a Dead Jerichos song:
We go down to the playground for somewhere to drink
And I will fight you like a caveman, too wired to think
It’s a fascinatingly immersive little song, imbued with the cheap tedium of a youth spent in the suburbs, and balances the more dance oriented tracks on the record, such as “Day Dreamer”, which sounds like a euphoric remix of some minor alternative hit, and could comfortably sit in many a contemporary DJ set.
The record isn’t all perfect. “Negative Capability” starts well as a post-Numan thump, but doesn’t have enough going on to fill three minutes (plus the link to Keats is unfathomable), whereas “Neon Lung” is too arch, a winking “The 80s are so, like, old” concoction of electro-funk keys, trashy guitar and treated vocals slapped between a tired vocal sample and some arbitrary drum ‘n’ bass. No sleep till Shoreditch. But these lowpoints are heavily outweighed by the brash tartiness of Unpunished Monsters’ best music, like a sonic version of heavily daubed mascara. We hope this collaboration isn’t a one off, and we won’t be surprised to find that “Moon Dance” ends up one of our favourite Oxford tunes of 2012. Download for free, and start mixing the pina coladas with ketamine today!
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