Something different today, my favourite Oxford records of 2009, as published with other selections on Oxfordbands. The text style of the first line refers ot the fact that Alphabet Backwards' bassist, Josh, was smothered all over billboards, buses and TVs in 2009 as part of one of those infuriating mobile phone ads, in which he talked guff about starting a "super-band", or something equally facile. He is actually a very good musician, but from the ads you'd assume he was just a twat who clumps along to "Smoke On The Water" in his Mum's attic. Hopefully the phone company paid him handsomely for his time, but sadly I imagine he did it for free, the starry-eyed pop flump.
Alphabet Backwards: Alphabet Backwards
gr8 bnd v g pop lol [send to entire address book]
A Scholar & A Physician: She's A Witch
The funnest ball of funny electro fun anywhere in the world this year, from Truck's production go-to boys.
Borderville: Joy Through Work
"A band's reach should exceed its grasp/ Or what's a heaven for?" - Robert Browning (nearly)
Les Clochards: Sweet Tableaux
Oxford's wry Gallic cafe indie children deliver a blinder. Sounds like fat Elvis twatted on creme de menthe and blearily stumbling round the Postcard Records' bordello.
Hretha: Minnows/ Dead Horses
Orthographically frustrating upstarts produce clinical post-rock excellence.
Mephisto Grande: Seahorse Vs The Shrew
A revivalist hymn meeting seen through Lewis Carroll's mescaline kaleidoscope.
The Relationships: Space
Beuatiful chiming indie pop coupled with the most articulate lyricist ever to have flaneured the Cowley Road; think R.E.M.'s Reckoning crossed with Betjeman's Banana Blush, record collectors!
Mr Shaodow: R U Stoopid?
Serious messages, approachable humour, lyrical dexterity. His best yet, and that's some benchmark.
Stornoway: Unfaithful
The startled bunnies of lit-pop had a meteoric year. Let's be honest, you won't get long odds on their debut LP featuring in this list next year...
Vileswarm: Sun Swallows The Stars
An experimental dreamteam of Frampton & Euhedral, offering "doom drone": does exactly what it says on the tombstone.
Showing posts with label A Scholar And A Physician. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A Scholar And A Physician. Show all posts
Saturday, 12 June 2010
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Artic. Monkeys
This is the Truck that nearly didn't happen, the orginal summer date being rained off, and a rescheduled event happening in chilly September. I think I prefer the idea of an autumnal festival - more time to sup soup and be wistful, and fewer oafs swigging cider and doing something gauche like enjoying themselves.
TRUCK 2007, Hill Farm, Steventon
With the reliably infectious sounds of The Drugsquad wafting over the queue, we find our way into the rescheduled Truck, and straight to The Market Stage for Gog, who display their atonal cabaret schtick with lots of volume and a pink wig. They’re like forgotten local oddballs Dog, but not as good…until we see the programme and discover that they are Dog. But not as good. That’s a bit sad, really.
Actress Hands: Thumbs down; pull your fingers out; read the manual. Oh, somebody stop us! Suffice to say that Actress Hands are a dull punky indie band with rubbish guitar solos.
Enemies of lispers the world over, Restlesslist are an unusual bunch. Their first number is a limp, tinny post-rock bounce, a sort of 65 Minutes Of Static, but then they suddenly throw in some big band samples, drag on a trumpet player, and it all sounds rather wonderfully like the incidental music to Batman. Things taper off again, but that’s probably because all the machines break, along with some of the guitar strings.
Coley Park aren’t that bad, they’ve got some decent light rock and a slight country twang, but they make little impact on the consciousness. If Buffy The Vampire Slayer were set in Swindon, these guys would be playing The Bronze.
Jim Protector are a sort of Scandinavian iLiKETRAiNS: well, we dare say they run on time and don’t smell of piss in Northern Europe. Anyway, they’re a diverting act, with a nicely understated drummer.
Country rock is really the lingua franca of Truck, and Babel have a fair crack at it. There’s some enticingly slurred fiddle, but they really take off when they get that floor to the floor hoedown groove going. Hey, look, we’re literally tapping our feet! Now we’re really in the festival vibe!
Do we really want to hear sensitive post-grunge, fronted by a man whose voice cracks every other syllable? We don’t, which is why we shan’t be seeking The Holy Orders out again. We preferred it when the Barn was full of metal bands - even if they were rubbish they were at least unignorable.
We promised ourselves we wouldn’t spend all Truck watching our favourite local bands, and yet somehow here we are before the mighty Stornoway once again. Maybe the main stage sucks a little intimacy from their winsome folk pop, but eco-jazz shuffle "The Good Fish Guide" still sounds gloriously like The Proclaimers played by The Grumbleweeds, via The Divine Comedy, and we leave with a broad smile.
When A Scholar And A Physician rap, it makes Morris Minor & The Majors look like Public Enemy. There are millions of them, and the whole experience is akin to a techno revue performed by the cast of Why Don’t You? Which means it’s mostly dumb, but you’d have to be a pretty miserable soul to actively dislike it.
We’re going to start a support group for people like us who loved Piney Gir’s debut electro album, and have become deeply disillusioned with her myriad novelty projects ever since. Can this cod C&W Roadshow malarkey and get back to the keyboards, woman!
It seems only right that we go and see some properly apocalyptic, hellfire preacher country after that. With the biggest beard at Truck, and the loudest acoustic guitar in the hemisphere, Josh T Pearson smashes out his Bible-black dirges with arresting intensity. The cavernous sound is strangely like Merle Haggard having a crack at dronecore, and as such is the best act so far.
Back at The Market Stage, which incidentally has the best sound and atmosphere of the festival, we find Sam Isaac plying his acoustic pop trade. A touch of ‘cello, and a tiny tinge of Kitchenware Records makes it a sufficiently enjoyable spectacle to detain us for a few tunes.
TRUCK 2007, Hill Farm, Steventon
With the reliably infectious sounds of The Drugsquad wafting over the queue, we find our way into the rescheduled Truck, and straight to The Market Stage for Gog, who display their atonal cabaret schtick with lots of volume and a pink wig. They’re like forgotten local oddballs Dog, but not as good…until we see the programme and discover that they are Dog. But not as good. That’s a bit sad, really.
Actress Hands: Thumbs down; pull your fingers out; read the manual. Oh, somebody stop us! Suffice to say that Actress Hands are a dull punky indie band with rubbish guitar solos.
Enemies of lispers the world over, Restlesslist are an unusual bunch. Their first number is a limp, tinny post-rock bounce, a sort of 65 Minutes Of Static, but then they suddenly throw in some big band samples, drag on a trumpet player, and it all sounds rather wonderfully like the incidental music to Batman. Things taper off again, but that’s probably because all the machines break, along with some of the guitar strings.
Coley Park aren’t that bad, they’ve got some decent light rock and a slight country twang, but they make little impact on the consciousness. If Buffy The Vampire Slayer were set in Swindon, these guys would be playing The Bronze.
Jim Protector are a sort of Scandinavian iLiKETRAiNS: well, we dare say they run on time and don’t smell of piss in Northern Europe. Anyway, they’re a diverting act, with a nicely understated drummer.
Country rock is really the lingua franca of Truck, and Babel have a fair crack at it. There’s some enticingly slurred fiddle, but they really take off when they get that floor to the floor hoedown groove going. Hey, look, we’re literally tapping our feet! Now we’re really in the festival vibe!
Do we really want to hear sensitive post-grunge, fronted by a man whose voice cracks every other syllable? We don’t, which is why we shan’t be seeking The Holy Orders out again. We preferred it when the Barn was full of metal bands - even if they were rubbish they were at least unignorable.
We promised ourselves we wouldn’t spend all Truck watching our favourite local bands, and yet somehow here we are before the mighty Stornoway once again. Maybe the main stage sucks a little intimacy from their winsome folk pop, but eco-jazz shuffle "The Good Fish Guide" still sounds gloriously like The Proclaimers played by The Grumbleweeds, via The Divine Comedy, and we leave with a broad smile.
When A Scholar And A Physician rap, it makes Morris Minor & The Majors look like Public Enemy. There are millions of them, and the whole experience is akin to a techno revue performed by the cast of Why Don’t You? Which means it’s mostly dumb, but you’d have to be a pretty miserable soul to actively dislike it.
We’re going to start a support group for people like us who loved Piney Gir’s debut electro album, and have become deeply disillusioned with her myriad novelty projects ever since. Can this cod C&W Roadshow malarkey and get back to the keyboards, woman!
It seems only right that we go and see some properly apocalyptic, hellfire preacher country after that. With the biggest beard at Truck, and the loudest acoustic guitar in the hemisphere, Josh T Pearson smashes out his Bible-black dirges with arresting intensity. The cavernous sound is strangely like Merle Haggard having a crack at dronecore, and as such is the best act so far.
Back at The Market Stage, which incidentally has the best sound and atmosphere of the festival, we find Sam Isaac plying his acoustic pop trade. A touch of ‘cello, and a tiny tinge of Kitchenware Records makes it a sufficiently enjoyable spectacle to detain us for a few tunes.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Yo, Goldrush The Show!
So, here's a sad day - the very last of the reviews I wrote for OHM. Admittedly, I don't own every issue, so I may have missed one. If you think there's a review from the OHM days I should post, get in touch. Thank you for flying Porcine Airways! Anyway, this is from the very best OHM issue, where we managed to review very nearly every act on the Truck bill in a madly choreographed dance of the notebooks. Sadly, not every act I reviewed is here, since there were some acts that were reviewed by more than one of us, and I've long since lost my original copy (so has Dan the editor) so all you'll get are the bits that saw print. The only good bit I can remember on the discard pile was a review of Red Star Cycle, but I'll keep that to myself as I might use the same gag for some other act in the future! Always recycle, kids!
TRUCK FESTIVAL, Hill Farm, Steventon, 6/04
Heavy rock is more about phrasing and tone than composition, and Days Of Grace are experts. Think the melodic end of metal. Think soaring vocal lines. Don't think emo, no matter what images I'm creating. Think QOTSA play Pantera. Think, "that singer needs to wear a belt".
Developing in oddly contradictory directions, Trademark continue to produce ever more theatrical and elaborate stageshows, and ever more honed and elegant songs. Like breaking your heart whilst appearing on 80s teatime BBC fodder The Adventure Game.
Charming, talented, summery, melodic, the men behind the festival itself - Goldrush are in some ways the best band in Oxfordshire. Yet sadly they bore me rigid. That Travis and The Chills are household names and Goldrush aren't is an injustice; that I'm even mentioning them in the same sentence illustrates the problem. Still, they couldn't play a bad set at Truck if their lives depended on it.
Lucky Benny sounds like a bizarre sexual position, but is actually a jazz-funk outfit. They're sometimes stodgy, sometimes firy. The bassist is good. Err, that's it.
Some huge voiced, super-sincere Dubliner is singing folky dirges about the poor and paeans to positivity, which must be rubbish, right? So why am I almost crying? Either I'm incredibly tired, or Damien Dempsey is a huge talent. Or both.
Tabla? Hurdy-gurdy? Politico-poetry? Some rainy mid-eighties GLC fundraiser is missing Inflatable Buddha! When they get abstract ("Fat Sex") it works wonderfully, when they play straight songs ("White Rabbit") it's flat hippy mulch.
Bert Kampfaert gabba - get in! nervous_testpilot provides the second great performance of the weekend, mangling samples and rhythms into a sproingy tech-tapestry. Slightly too irreverent for me (last year's set had subtle melodies hidden away), but his "action-packed mentalist brings you the strawberry jams" approach satisifes. Bloop.
One year on, Captive State kick even harder. The warm jazz rhythms are bolstered by the meaty horn parts, and draped in fluent rhymes and zig-zag scratch patterns, and the crowd responds rapturously. Forget the slightly crass lyrics, this band is delicious.
Even though they're a pop band, undertheigloo remind me of electronica. Their brittle cramped songs are like the raw material from which Boards Of Canada distill their tunes, or the base ingredient to Four Tet's organic shuffle. Pity they play so clunkily. Maybe next time...
Beware of geeks bearing riffs! A Scholar & A Physician have brung the noise, toybox style. Cutesier than a Puzzle Bobble marathon in a Haribo warehouse, they somehow manage to convince us that if enough people play enough crappy instruments, then even stupid music is a glorious victory. Clever.
There's an angry little New Yorker smoking furiously and telling awful jokes like it's The Improv in 1986; now he's singing a flacid relationship revenge song. Right, I'm off. Hold on, that last bit was funny...now he's singing something incredibly touching. Lach is ultimately moving, likable and acidly funny, but, man, he started badly.
Damn, Thomas Truax is too popular for this tiny acoustic tent. Damn, they're running late. Damn, MC Lars is on in a minute. Let's assume Truax is as much a damn genius as ever.
TRUCK FESTIVAL, Hill Farm, Steventon, 6/04
Heavy rock is more about phrasing and tone than composition, and Days Of Grace are experts. Think the melodic end of metal. Think soaring vocal lines. Don't think emo, no matter what images I'm creating. Think QOTSA play Pantera. Think, "that singer needs to wear a belt".
Developing in oddly contradictory directions, Trademark continue to produce ever more theatrical and elaborate stageshows, and ever more honed and elegant songs. Like breaking your heart whilst appearing on 80s teatime BBC fodder The Adventure Game.
Charming, talented, summery, melodic, the men behind the festival itself - Goldrush are in some ways the best band in Oxfordshire. Yet sadly they bore me rigid. That Travis and The Chills are household names and Goldrush aren't is an injustice; that I'm even mentioning them in the same sentence illustrates the problem. Still, they couldn't play a bad set at Truck if their lives depended on it.
Lucky Benny sounds like a bizarre sexual position, but is actually a jazz-funk outfit. They're sometimes stodgy, sometimes firy. The bassist is good. Err, that's it.
Some huge voiced, super-sincere Dubliner is singing folky dirges about the poor and paeans to positivity, which must be rubbish, right? So why am I almost crying? Either I'm incredibly tired, or Damien Dempsey is a huge talent. Or both.
Tabla? Hurdy-gurdy? Politico-poetry? Some rainy mid-eighties GLC fundraiser is missing Inflatable Buddha! When they get abstract ("Fat Sex") it works wonderfully, when they play straight songs ("White Rabbit") it's flat hippy mulch.
Bert Kampfaert gabba - get in! nervous_testpilot provides the second great performance of the weekend, mangling samples and rhythms into a sproingy tech-tapestry. Slightly too irreverent for me (last year's set had subtle melodies hidden away), but his "action-packed mentalist brings you the strawberry jams" approach satisifes. Bloop.
One year on, Captive State kick even harder. The warm jazz rhythms are bolstered by the meaty horn parts, and draped in fluent rhymes and zig-zag scratch patterns, and the crowd responds rapturously. Forget the slightly crass lyrics, this band is delicious.
Even though they're a pop band, undertheigloo remind me of electronica. Their brittle cramped songs are like the raw material from which Boards Of Canada distill their tunes, or the base ingredient to Four Tet's organic shuffle. Pity they play so clunkily. Maybe next time...
Beware of geeks bearing riffs! A Scholar & A Physician have brung the noise, toybox style. Cutesier than a Puzzle Bobble marathon in a Haribo warehouse, they somehow manage to convince us that if enough people play enough crappy instruments, then even stupid music is a glorious victory. Clever.
There's an angry little New Yorker smoking furiously and telling awful jokes like it's The Improv in 1986; now he's singing a flacid relationship revenge song. Right, I'm off. Hold on, that last bit was funny...now he's singing something incredibly touching. Lach is ultimately moving, likable and acidly funny, but, man, he started badly.
Damn, Thomas Truax is too popular for this tiny acoustic tent. Damn, they're running late. Damn, MC Lars is on in a minute. Let's assume Truax is as much a damn genius as ever.
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Just Your Average Review Referencing Merzbow, Chuckie Egg And Robin's Nest...
Like a revisionist historian, or Stalinist clerk, I've ruthlessly edited this review, dropping phrases, restoring bits left out by the original editor,and even writing some new lines that amused me. Fuck it, I'm listening to John Coltrane and am therefore suffused with the spirit that I can do whatever I want.
Post-Dubstar band Client didn't get anywhere, I was therefore right. Never forget this fact.
CLIENT/PINEY GIR/ A SCHOLAR & A PHYSICIAN - Zodiac, 3/04
Talk about biting off more than you can chew. Musically speaking, A Scholar And A Physician have tried to swallow in one mouthful the sort of foot-long hot dog that TV leads me to believe New Yorkers eat for every meal. They have far too many instruments onstage, from guitars to electronics to banjos, and their spaceman headgear, whilst striking, makes it hard for them to move around with any pace. One small step for a man, one agonising pause for a bloke in a silly costume.
Still, even with these setbacks they manage to make a pretty fascinating noise. Their main trick is to take rinkydink keyboard melodies, pitched somewhere between 70s sitcom Robin's Nest and ancient computer game Chuckie Egg, and proceed to throw funny noises at it until it collapses in submission. It's the sort of thing Wire editors listen to when they're hungover and can't face another Merzbow CD.
Somewhat overly cute, then, but enticing all the same. Their last song proclaims, "I'm just like you". No you're not, synthboy, no you're not - that's why it's fun.
Did I call ASAP cute? Then I've got no words left to describve the lovely Piney Gir. She used to be in Mute band Vic 20, but is now going it alone. She plays tidy little preset pop numbers on her toy keyboard, with occasional help from the members of ASAP. The references are French chanson, 70s MOR and, of course, 80s synthpop, but they all come out of the Pineytron sounding equally sweet, cuddly and yummily synthetic. Her victory is that this primary-coloured 2D sound dosesn't become wearing, and keeps on delighting, which is mostly down to her voice, which has more to it than is originally obvious. Dreamy, though the final megaphone rant cover of "My Generation" soon wakes us up.
Fresh from daytime Radio 1 play, Client drop into The Zodiac with some, ahem, electroclash stompers, seemingly about either sex or the service industry. It's a far cry from Dubstar. With their drab olive bouses, deadpan vocals and regimented elctro riffs, Client's effect is as joyless and austere as a fire safety lecture in a Polish gulag. The sparseness is alluring...for the first couple of tracks. Sadly, the lack of musical variety begins to bore, and the two frontwomen start to look less like erotic matriachs and more like blank-eyed checkout girls. There could be something here, but they'll have to stretch themselves a lot more first.
Post-Dubstar band Client didn't get anywhere, I was therefore right. Never forget this fact.
CLIENT/PINEY GIR/ A SCHOLAR & A PHYSICIAN - Zodiac, 3/04
Talk about biting off more than you can chew. Musically speaking, A Scholar And A Physician have tried to swallow in one mouthful the sort of foot-long hot dog that TV leads me to believe New Yorkers eat for every meal. They have far too many instruments onstage, from guitars to electronics to banjos, and their spaceman headgear, whilst striking, makes it hard for them to move around with any pace. One small step for a man, one agonising pause for a bloke in a silly costume.
Still, even with these setbacks they manage to make a pretty fascinating noise. Their main trick is to take rinkydink keyboard melodies, pitched somewhere between 70s sitcom Robin's Nest and ancient computer game Chuckie Egg, and proceed to throw funny noises at it until it collapses in submission. It's the sort of thing Wire editors listen to when they're hungover and can't face another Merzbow CD.
Somewhat overly cute, then, but enticing all the same. Their last song proclaims, "I'm just like you". No you're not, synthboy, no you're not - that's why it's fun.
Did I call ASAP cute? Then I've got no words left to describve the lovely Piney Gir. She used to be in Mute band Vic 20, but is now going it alone. She plays tidy little preset pop numbers on her toy keyboard, with occasional help from the members of ASAP. The references are French chanson, 70s MOR and, of course, 80s synthpop, but they all come out of the Pineytron sounding equally sweet, cuddly and yummily synthetic. Her victory is that this primary-coloured 2D sound dosesn't become wearing, and keeps on delighting, which is mostly down to her voice, which has more to it than is originally obvious. Dreamy, though the final megaphone rant cover of "My Generation" soon wakes us up.
Fresh from daytime Radio 1 play, Client drop into The Zodiac with some, ahem, electroclash stompers, seemingly about either sex or the service industry. It's a far cry from Dubstar. With their drab olive bouses, deadpan vocals and regimented elctro riffs, Client's effect is as joyless and austere as a fire safety lecture in a Polish gulag. The sparseness is alluring...for the first couple of tracks. Sadly, the lack of musical variety begins to bore, and the two frontwomen start to look less like erotic matriachs and more like blank-eyed checkout girls. There could be something here, but they'll have to stretch themselves a lot more first.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Greatest living Canterburian
Here's an ancient one, to start things off, from BBC Oxford back in the day.
LUKE SMITH/ THE FOLK ORCHESTRA/ A SCHOLAR AND A PHYSICIAN, Trailerpark, The Cellar, 11/02.
Barry, the first act, doesn't show up. I don't know whether Barry is man, band or beast, but Barry's not here. So, at the last minute Olly, vocalist from local synthpoppers Trademark is drafted in to do strange things to a laptop. Various slices of pop cheese old and new (cf Beddingfield, Daniel; Hammer, MC) are scrunched and mashed in realtime. The experience - something akin to Manchester noiseniks V/Vm at an office party - is, surprisingly, rather good fun.
Folk Orchestra. Now there's an oxymoron. Orchestra: Huge dinner-jacketed embodiment of 19th Century opulence and emotive Romanticism; Gustav Mahler; Leonard bloody Bernstein.
Folk: Libertarian tradition of populist comunion, eschewing complexity and the strictures of the musical salon; Harry Smith; Joan bloody Baez.
How can these diametric opposuites be reconciled? Answer: they can't, at least not tonight. We get a six-piece folk-pop combo, which is a little bigger than most folk-pop combos I'll grant you, but hardly deserving of orchestra status. And it's pretty standard folk-pop combo fare too, at times mercurial and immediate, and times earnest and dull. They aren't helped by a muddy sound mix that destroys any chance of intimacy - the accordionist reached levels of volume for which most metal guitarists would sell their leathery souls.
Luke Smith sings at the piano, with his Dad on drums. As if this weren't reason enough to love him, he tinkles out an hour of wry, funny, sincere songs about his quiet Canterbury life, all infused with a nervous charm. Musically it's not complex, with echoes of music hall singalongs and simple 70s pop, but it's performed with more than enough jazzy dexterity and aplomb.
It's hard to describe what makes Luke such a great prospect. Phrases like "catchy dittes", "homely honesty" and "subtle drum accompaniment" could be employed, but they call up such horrors as Chas 'n' Dave, or Richard Stillgoe. I suppose Luke is a little like that, but imagine a parallel universe where "Snooker Loopy" is an elegant and moving anthem.
Can't? You'd best attend the next Luke Smith gig, then.
LUKE SMITH/ THE FOLK ORCHESTRA/ A SCHOLAR AND A PHYSICIAN, Trailerpark, The Cellar, 11/02.
Barry, the first act, doesn't show up. I don't know whether Barry is man, band or beast, but Barry's not here. So, at the last minute Olly, vocalist from local synthpoppers Trademark is drafted in to do strange things to a laptop. Various slices of pop cheese old and new (cf Beddingfield, Daniel; Hammer, MC) are scrunched and mashed in realtime. The experience - something akin to Manchester noiseniks V/Vm at an office party - is, surprisingly, rather good fun.
Folk Orchestra. Now there's an oxymoron. Orchestra: Huge dinner-jacketed embodiment of 19th Century opulence and emotive Romanticism; Gustav Mahler; Leonard bloody Bernstein.
Folk: Libertarian tradition of populist comunion, eschewing complexity and the strictures of the musical salon; Harry Smith; Joan bloody Baez.
How can these diametric opposuites be reconciled? Answer: they can't, at least not tonight. We get a six-piece folk-pop combo, which is a little bigger than most folk-pop combos I'll grant you, but hardly deserving of orchestra status. And it's pretty standard folk-pop combo fare too, at times mercurial and immediate, and times earnest and dull. They aren't helped by a muddy sound mix that destroys any chance of intimacy - the accordionist reached levels of volume for which most metal guitarists would sell their leathery souls.
Luke Smith sings at the piano, with his Dad on drums. As if this weren't reason enough to love him, he tinkles out an hour of wry, funny, sincere songs about his quiet Canterbury life, all infused with a nervous charm. Musically it's not complex, with echoes of music hall singalongs and simple 70s pop, but it's performed with more than enough jazzy dexterity and aplomb.
It's hard to describe what makes Luke such a great prospect. Phrases like "catchy dittes", "homely honesty" and "subtle drum accompaniment" could be employed, but they call up such horrors as Chas 'n' Dave, or Richard Stillgoe. I suppose Luke is a little like that, but imagine a parallel universe where "Snooker Loopy" is an elegant and moving anthem.
Can't? You'd best attend the next Luke Smith gig, then.
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