After a quick burst of Winnebago Deal’s palate cleansing bludgeon, we check in with Oxfordshire’s other favourite duo, as Little Fish crank up on the main stage. Reviewing them makes us feel like some Oxford music Grinch – no matter how good they clearly are, nor how entertaining their set is, we just can’t see them conquering the world and changing the face of music as we know it, as so many people seem to expect. A topic for another day, perhaps, as they certainly don’t put a foot wrong onstage (although not talking breathless nonsense about chickens between every song might be nice), and Juju and Nez are definitely the only people performing today who look like they were born to be onstage: they manage to eclipse the spectacle of Smilex’ caffeinated cabaret just by, you know, being there. In fact, far from being the authors of life affirming pop anthems, we think of Little Fish more as old fashioned craftspeople. The songs are pretty much all two chord bashes, with little more than repeated blues rock yelps over the top, and they don’t really say or do anything at all, but they are gorgeously honed and shaped and whittled to perfection. Less like the universal soul poetry of the much referenced Patti Smith, then, and more analogous to expert niche electronica producers, creating generic yet immaculate music for the discerning connoisseur.
“We’re very lucky to have them,” announces the Riverside MC about the closing act. Wait, is it a reunited Morrissey and Marr? Has Beefheart been coaxed out of retirement? No, it’s Tristan & The Troubadours, some lads from down the road. Keep some perspective, love. But admittedly they’ve come a very long way since they opened the main stage two years ago, and now offer a very confident set, replete with literate lyrics and interesting arrangements, something like Belle & Sebastian’s early effete library pop filtered through the matinee rock of locals Witches and Borderville. Very good indeed, and a fitting end to what had been a hugely satisfying afternoon of music – and all for blinking free, lest we forget. Some acts made more impression than others admittedly, but there was literally nothing on the bill deserving harsh criticism, and it was a pleasure from start to finish. The effort that goes into the festival should be applauded by all right-minded music fans.
Sunday
What could be more Gallic than a stripy top, an accordion and a Jacques Brel cover? Except for singing in like, French, and Les Clochards do that too. But even if you’re semi-bilingual, like us, there’s tons to enjoy here, from the intimate vocals to the tight, buoyant drumming, to the rich chocolaty bass, which wraps round us on “Lavinia”. Like The Relationships, a band with whom they share a close history, Les Clochards show that you don’t have to be like Tristan & The Troubadours, and fill your lyrics with death, ravens and black portent to be poetic, a well phrased piece of story telling can cut right to the quick. Pound for pound Sunday’s lineup wasn’t a patch on Saturday’s, but Les Clochards quietly turned in one of the sets of the weekend to a smattering of listeners.
Oh, fuck off! Look, we like covers bands in principle, we like ska and punk, we even like fun every once in awhile, but the repugnantly named When Alcohol Matters come from that horrible school of non-thought stating that a complete absence of talent and ideas are instantly justified by putting on some silly clothes. So, here we go, one of WAM is wearing a red beret and a kilt. Wild. The new wave era tunes they play are generally fine – “Geno”, “Too Much, Too Young”, and so on – and the dual saxes aren’t bad, but the rhythms are sluggish and the vocals are just terrible. Talk about a paucity of ideas: simply playing songs you quite like doesn’t make you a good band, especially if you don’t play them very well. Still, a kilt. Just imagine.
Anyway, if you really want to know when alcohol maters, talk to some of the revellers about their attempts to smuggle it onto the site! Some were successful, but Banjo Boy, our homebrew proffering chum from last year, was stopped at the gate with four cans of beer, so he just stood there in front of the entrance and drank them one after the other. Before lunch. You have to admire that sort of behaviour…unless you’re a hepatologist.
Over on the second stage young Chipping Norton outfit Relay may not be laden down by new ideas, but they’re worth a hundred WAMs. Most of their songs are lean and poppy jaunts very much on the vein of Arctic Monkeys, but when they strip things down they have quite a subtle touch, and Jamie Biles has the beginnings of a pleasant indie croon.
“Hi, I’m Judi, and I’m fourteen,” says Judi Luxmoore of Judi & The Jesters. And then she says it again. It’s either an apology in advance, or an attempt to make your friendly neighbourhood hatchetman reviewer look deep into his dark soul. And, no, we’re not in the business of destroying the dreams of nervous teenagers who have bit the bullet and climbed onstage, so let’s get this over with. The Jesters play dirt simple lightly countrified songs, that are part Kitty Wells, and part “The Wheels On The Bus Go Round & Round”, and once she gets warmed up Judi has a pleasing voice. There’s a huge amount of potential here, but let’s be straight, at the moment that’s all there is, and Judi’s presence on the bill is something of an indulgence. Worth investigating in a couple of years, perhaps, and definitely worth investigating if the alternative is WAM.
A walk back to the main stage really brings home how very different in size the two stages are. We wonder how many festival goers never even get past the toilet block over the weekend. Anyway, Alan Fraser is getting the benefit of the excellent PA on the main stage, and his jazz sax floats across the crowd with crystal clear sound. His tone is amazing, so pure and smooth, but the set itself is a real old West Coast jazz dawdle, like Stan Getz locked in an old folks home store cupboard and half buried under discarded surgical trusses. As the set progresses Fraser starts to bring out some interesting low end honks and rasps, and a decent swipe at Miles’ “All Blues” mean we almost let him get away with it, until his sanctimonious sign off, “Thanks for listening, those of you who were listening and not just hearing”. And there we were waiting for you to start playing, and not just making the right sounds. Supercilious old trout.
We’ve got a bit muddled, but we think the band we drop in on back at the second stage briefly is Man Make Fire. How about Man Throw All Your Instruments On It Whilst He There, if the limp soggy rendition of “Purple Haze” is anything to go by. Time for a swift exit.
Back To Haunt Us, Part Four: billypure make mention of our review of last year’s festival during their main stage set, and our allegation that they want to be The Waterboys. Well, that’s not quite what we meant, but they do knock out the same Waterboys cover version and unless we misheard, it sounds as though they actually got their name from the lyrics, so we reckon they’re being a bit defensive. Anyway, the song actually sounds lacklustre amongst some of their own, and their arrangement of “The Raggle Taggle Gypsy” is a searing folk rock delight. It’s a chirpy, chunky set, with some useful fiddle parts, and we enjoy it enormously. Does remind us a little of another band, though…oh, what are they called again…
Rob Stevenson from A Silent Film is firmly in the same breed as Juju from Little Fish, he looks so relaxed prowling around on the huge stage you’d think he was born and raised there. They play a textbook set of wide-armed emotirock (featuring a genius reworking of Underworld’s “Born Slippy”), Rob’s warm, falsetto-happy voice twining gorgeously around his keyboard lines (a synth in the body of a parlour upright piano, nice touch). No offence meant to the man, but our favourite track is the opener during which the guitarist is busy trying to sort out his hardware, and we get a spacious marimba led tune, as some of the music felt clogged and overly rich. And that’s our only criticism: ASF are like Inlight - although clearly so much better - in that their songs are all huge and simple, as if they’re trying to create music that can be seen from space. Look, we’re just over here, a few feet away, no need to telegraph the emotions, just let them happen. When the scale is brought down a peg or two, this band is disarmingly impressive.
Showing posts with label A Silent Film. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A Silent Film. Show all posts
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
A Lorra Lorry Laughs
I missed Truck last year, and by all acounts it was one of the best, so I've already procured my blagger's journalist guest pass for this year's. I'm also going to review Cornbury, which is less exciting (imagine a festival created by the deli counter at Somerfield after 10 minutes looking at the Times colour supplement and a copy of Q from 1991).
Truck 2006, Hill Farm, Steventon
There’s nothing so civilised as sitting out in the sun with a can of beer at midday waiting for a band to come - none of the old smoky backroom ambience for the Truckers. Our festival starts with Technikov, and what may be the sound of a twenty-five year old Wasp synthesiser. Or possibly just the sound of a twenty-five year old wasp. Whichever, there’s plenty of niggling buzzing noise in evidence overlaying a spunky post-punk rhythm. Whilst this style of ranting jerky dissonance is very much Fall funk fodder for a Vacuous Pop frat party, it’s all very well done, and topped off with an eloquent architectural treatise called “No More Fucking Ugly Buildings”, which would get them Prince Charles’ vote if nothing else.
Their rise through the local hierarchy has been such a blur, it can be hard to remember for certain whether Harry Angel are any good or not. A sparking set on the main stage lets us see them in a fresh light. And don’t they look great? They’ve lost most of the early Radiohead flounces that used to define them, and hit the ground running on the dark side of the gothpop fence. If the guitar noise is like a huge slab of concrete then the vocal howls are deep cracks running through it. Melodic, imposing and impressive, Harry Angel sound powerful enough to coax some overcast darkness into the piercing sunshine. Surely not….
Everytime we see The Drugsquad we like them more, and today we’re especially grateful that they’re playing in the most watertight tent of them all as the heavens open. They may have two new members today (one tragically died and one foolishly moved to France) but the gist is the same - country coated ska punk delivered in a manic cutprice cabaret style. Imagine Murph & The Magictones jamming with Merle Haggard and Primus and you’re edging towards it…so long as you add some squeaking, wonky keyboards that could even teach Technikov a thing or two. A year ago we rather dismissively wrote, “it’s good, but it’s not rocket science”. Well, such is the audacity of arrangement underneath the tunes on display today, we’re tempted to imagine some NASA scientist, crouched over racks of monitors, mumbling to himself, “It’s good, but it’s not The Drugsquad”.
A desire to stay dry eventually wins in a battle with our desire to explore the festival, so we end up staying around for Jacob’s Stories, who trade in plangent vocal loops, aching viola and tinkling keys. We’re very annoyed to find that this delicate little show is actually pretty good and rather eerie in the midst of a raging storm, because it stops us using our close, but no sigur gag, which we were so looking forward to.
We suspect that A Silent Film’s first number was intended as epic Radioheaded piano rock, but from the back of a steaming Trailerpark tent complete with sound problems, it sounds oddly stoned and irie, like Muse covering The Orb’s “Towers Of Dub”. An interminable delay wringing rain from the PA later, and we get another track with a whiff of early 70s funk rock about it. It actually sounds very promising, but this is sadly not the gig to start judging. One to stick behind the ear for later, we feel.
More rebellious equipment over at the main stage, where Get Cap, Wear Cape, Fly has given up on his machines and simply strapped on his acoustic for a wee singsong. Pretty decent it is too, but too twee for this rain drenched reviewer, who decides a dancing bear might wake things up.
Oh dear, The Walk Off seem to have grown up. They’re even beginning to look like a real band now, with a sober vocalist and upright musicians. It’s still a damned fine punk trip through the Digital Hardcore mangle, but anyone who remembers the sheer exhilarating chaos of older sets might feel there’s something missing; quite possibly something distilled. But the bear is still the hardest working performer at the festival, and he didn’t even need a soundcheck.
We pop into the end of Danny Wilson’s set, hoping to hear “Mary’s Prayer”, but it turns out there’s just this one feller called Danny, not a troupe mid-80s washouts. Good news too, if what we hear is anything to go by, alovely slice of laidback country, like a barnyard Steve Harley, backed by some serious fiddle by Truck’s very own Joe Bennett.
We think we saw Jakokoyak playing solo earlier in the year, but we can’t be sure because the music we’re hearing today is so vastly different. In fact it’s a sort of tidy dull 80s rock that that Danny Wilson might have enjoyed, hideously reminiscent of an unplugged Aztec Camera. Quick, let’s get some metal down us.
Roughly everyone in Oxford has advised us to see Sow, such is their presence on the scene, even old ladies in Co-op. In a surprisingly sparse barn, however, their lead-heavy music doesn’t have much presence and all sounds somewhat polite and tinny. You can tell that it’s properly brutal stuff though, and it simply makes us even sadder that we missed their Punt performance.
Last year, Motormark entertained us with some camp techno goth tomfoolery. Whilst it at first appears that : ( might do something similar, they merely sound like two members of a tired emo band jamming along to an Amiga. But not as much fun.
We’ve run out of words to describe Fell City Girl. Of course, they’re a sheer joy today as ever, but you’ll know that if you’ve ever seen them; if you haven’t, are you sure you’re reading the right website? As we’ve said before, in a band oozing talent the real secret weapon is Shrek, who looks squashed behind his kit, but can play with startling delicacy. They should put him in the front, there are too many little pipsqueaks in rock anyway.
On record Battles are a glorious prog jazz techno affair, like ELP covering LFO. Unfortunately, from where we’re standing in the clamorous barn they may as well be ELO covering EMF, because all we can hear is a loud hum and some drums. They look like they’re playing a blinder though…the best acid house kraut jazz band we never heard in our lives.
Truck 2006, Hill Farm, Steventon
There’s nothing so civilised as sitting out in the sun with a can of beer at midday waiting for a band to come - none of the old smoky backroom ambience for the Truckers. Our festival starts with Technikov, and what may be the sound of a twenty-five year old Wasp synthesiser. Or possibly just the sound of a twenty-five year old wasp. Whichever, there’s plenty of niggling buzzing noise in evidence overlaying a spunky post-punk rhythm. Whilst this style of ranting jerky dissonance is very much Fall funk fodder for a Vacuous Pop frat party, it’s all very well done, and topped off with an eloquent architectural treatise called “No More Fucking Ugly Buildings”, which would get them Prince Charles’ vote if nothing else.
Their rise through the local hierarchy has been such a blur, it can be hard to remember for certain whether Harry Angel are any good or not. A sparking set on the main stage lets us see them in a fresh light. And don’t they look great? They’ve lost most of the early Radiohead flounces that used to define them, and hit the ground running on the dark side of the gothpop fence. If the guitar noise is like a huge slab of concrete then the vocal howls are deep cracks running through it. Melodic, imposing and impressive, Harry Angel sound powerful enough to coax some overcast darkness into the piercing sunshine. Surely not….
Everytime we see The Drugsquad we like them more, and today we’re especially grateful that they’re playing in the most watertight tent of them all as the heavens open. They may have two new members today (one tragically died and one foolishly moved to France) but the gist is the same - country coated ska punk delivered in a manic cutprice cabaret style. Imagine Murph & The Magictones jamming with Merle Haggard and Primus and you’re edging towards it…so long as you add some squeaking, wonky keyboards that could even teach Technikov a thing or two. A year ago we rather dismissively wrote, “it’s good, but it’s not rocket science”. Well, such is the audacity of arrangement underneath the tunes on display today, we’re tempted to imagine some NASA scientist, crouched over racks of monitors, mumbling to himself, “It’s good, but it’s not The Drugsquad”.
A desire to stay dry eventually wins in a battle with our desire to explore the festival, so we end up staying around for Jacob’s Stories, who trade in plangent vocal loops, aching viola and tinkling keys. We’re very annoyed to find that this delicate little show is actually pretty good and rather eerie in the midst of a raging storm, because it stops us using our close, but no sigur gag, which we were so looking forward to.
We suspect that A Silent Film’s first number was intended as epic Radioheaded piano rock, but from the back of a steaming Trailerpark tent complete with sound problems, it sounds oddly stoned and irie, like Muse covering The Orb’s “Towers Of Dub”. An interminable delay wringing rain from the PA later, and we get another track with a whiff of early 70s funk rock about it. It actually sounds very promising, but this is sadly not the gig to start judging. One to stick behind the ear for later, we feel.
More rebellious equipment over at the main stage, where Get Cap, Wear Cape, Fly has given up on his machines and simply strapped on his acoustic for a wee singsong. Pretty decent it is too, but too twee for this rain drenched reviewer, who decides a dancing bear might wake things up.
Oh dear, The Walk Off seem to have grown up. They’re even beginning to look like a real band now, with a sober vocalist and upright musicians. It’s still a damned fine punk trip through the Digital Hardcore mangle, but anyone who remembers the sheer exhilarating chaos of older sets might feel there’s something missing; quite possibly something distilled. But the bear is still the hardest working performer at the festival, and he didn’t even need a soundcheck.
We pop into the end of Danny Wilson’s set, hoping to hear “Mary’s Prayer”, but it turns out there’s just this one feller called Danny, not a troupe mid-80s washouts. Good news too, if what we hear is anything to go by, alovely slice of laidback country, like a barnyard Steve Harley, backed by some serious fiddle by Truck’s very own Joe Bennett.
We think we saw Jakokoyak playing solo earlier in the year, but we can’t be sure because the music we’re hearing today is so vastly different. In fact it’s a sort of tidy dull 80s rock that that Danny Wilson might have enjoyed, hideously reminiscent of an unplugged Aztec Camera. Quick, let’s get some metal down us.
Roughly everyone in Oxford has advised us to see Sow, such is their presence on the scene, even old ladies in Co-op. In a surprisingly sparse barn, however, their lead-heavy music doesn’t have much presence and all sounds somewhat polite and tinny. You can tell that it’s properly brutal stuff though, and it simply makes us even sadder that we missed their Punt performance.
Last year, Motormark entertained us with some camp techno goth tomfoolery. Whilst it at first appears that : ( might do something similar, they merely sound like two members of a tired emo band jamming along to an Amiga. But not as much fun.
We’ve run out of words to describe Fell City Girl. Of course, they’re a sheer joy today as ever, but you’ll know that if you’ve ever seen them; if you haven’t, are you sure you’re reading the right website? As we’ve said before, in a band oozing talent the real secret weapon is Shrek, who looks squashed behind his kit, but can play with startling delicacy. They should put him in the front, there are too many little pipsqueaks in rock anyway.
On record Battles are a glorious prog jazz techno affair, like ELP covering LFO. Unfortunately, from where we’re standing in the clamorous barn they may as well be ELO covering EMF, because all we can hear is a loud hum and some drums. They look like they’re playing a blinder though…the best acid house kraut jazz band we never heard in our lives.
Saturday, 13 February 2010
An Emotional Gish
This was submitted to Nightshift but never used. Possibly because a mix up meant there were two writers present that night, and probably because it's a little dull. If you don't know, Simon Minter is - ah, go Google it yourself, this is the 21st century, you know.
A SILENT FILM/ COLOUR/ POLAR REMOTE – Big Hair, The Cellar 11/1/07
“Sort of post-rocky soundscapy stuff. With vocals”. So says promoter Jimmy Evil, describing Polar Remote. Well, its not award-winning criticism, but it does the job. Yes, they tick all the post-rock (with vocals) boxes, but end up making a pretty minimal impression. Highlights come when someone who looks like the brother Simon Minter’s been keeping locked in the attic trades guitar for buzzing organ, but it’s not enough to save the songs. This set’s like flicking through a haberdasher’s swatch: occasionally texturally enticing, but disjointed and profoundly unmemorable.
Borrowing Foals’ spatterjerk funk and welding on some slightly more accessible melodies, London’s Colour reminds us that there’s life in the nebulous post-rock genre yet, simply by being really tight and having a kick-arse drummer. The vocals sometimes strain to make an impact, but the overall effect is imposing. Every now and then we feel like we may have heard all this before…then we decide we’d be happy to hear it all over again, so it’s a rousing victory for Colour.
“Imagine a sort of piano led Radiohead”. We’re trying to explain A Silent Film to a friend before the gig. “What, like Keane?” Golly, careless talk really can cost lives. ASF may share an emotional simplicity with certain post-Coldplay yearners, but the similarity ends there. Aside from one Russ Conway Plays Planet Telex moment, this is forceful, intelligent song-writing delivered like a punch in the guts. Besuited frontman Rob attacks the mic with a cabaret fury that recalls Nick Cave, whilst the band fuses tuneful and bludgeoning with mystifying ease. Perhaps the emotion is a smidgin overplayed, but maybe it’s good for noisenik Wirephiliacs like us to go home with heartstrings tugged instead of chins stroked once in a while. With their huge presence and custom lightshow ASF make The Cellar feel momentarily like Wembley Stadium. Of course, the real test of a band like this is whether they can make Wembley feel like The Cellar, but that’s a question for the future. Keep an eye on this film, there may well be lots of twists and developments left to reveal.
A SILENT FILM/ COLOUR/ POLAR REMOTE – Big Hair, The Cellar 11/1/07
“Sort of post-rocky soundscapy stuff. With vocals”. So says promoter Jimmy Evil, describing Polar Remote. Well, its not award-winning criticism, but it does the job. Yes, they tick all the post-rock (with vocals) boxes, but end up making a pretty minimal impression. Highlights come when someone who looks like the brother Simon Minter’s been keeping locked in the attic trades guitar for buzzing organ, but it’s not enough to save the songs. This set’s like flicking through a haberdasher’s swatch: occasionally texturally enticing, but disjointed and profoundly unmemorable.
Borrowing Foals’ spatterjerk funk and welding on some slightly more accessible melodies, London’s Colour reminds us that there’s life in the nebulous post-rock genre yet, simply by being really tight and having a kick-arse drummer. The vocals sometimes strain to make an impact, but the overall effect is imposing. Every now and then we feel like we may have heard all this before…then we decide we’d be happy to hear it all over again, so it’s a rousing victory for Colour.
“Imagine a sort of piano led Radiohead”. We’re trying to explain A Silent Film to a friend before the gig. “What, like Keane?” Golly, careless talk really can cost lives. ASF may share an emotional simplicity with certain post-Coldplay yearners, but the similarity ends there. Aside from one Russ Conway Plays Planet Telex moment, this is forceful, intelligent song-writing delivered like a punch in the guts. Besuited frontman Rob attacks the mic with a cabaret fury that recalls Nick Cave, whilst the band fuses tuneful and bludgeoning with mystifying ease. Perhaps the emotion is a smidgin overplayed, but maybe it’s good for noisenik Wirephiliacs like us to go home with heartstrings tugged instead of chins stroked once in a while. With their huge presence and custom lightshow ASF make The Cellar feel momentarily like Wembley Stadium. Of course, the real test of a band like this is whether they can make Wembley feel like The Cellar, but that’s a question for the future. Keep an eye on this film, there may well be lots of twists and developments left to reveal.
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