Bluetoneberries

The Art Bar is the new name for The Bully.  As yet the internal art count is low, and I fear this tally will not improve.  It looks hideous - no more hideous than the hideous Bully, of course, but this hideous was at the cost of money and half-baked conceptual brainstroming, I suspect; I wonder whether it will mean an increase in turnover?  I wonder, but I don't predict.   At what point, precisely, did clumsy, blanket rebranding replace thinking about how to servce customers or supply a product calculated to be liable to turn a profit?  Anyway, here's the October Ocelot thingummy.

In October, Klub Kakofanney celebrates its 22^nd anniversary.  Just think about that for a moment.  22 years of monthly events.  In a culture where nights like My Friends Stopped Coming After Three Events Productions, This Is Harder Than It Looks Promotions, and What Does “Budget” Mean Again? Incorporated come and go, the idea of a promoter lasting more than 6 months is barely conceivable, and yet Phil Freizinger and Sue Smith, two bedraggled punk hippy renegades, have managed to put on events for over two decades that are surprising, engaging and welcoming.  And sometimes rubbish, granted, but often one of the best nights out in Oxford.  Join them at The Wheatsheaf for 3 days on the first weekend in October, and on the first Friday of every month thereafter.  You’ll find an eclectic range of performances, a quirkily friendly atmosphere, and dancing so clunky it looks like it was choreographed by George Romero.

Phil and Sue can also be caught most weekends in some benighted Oxfordshire pub or other plying their trade with The Mighty Redox.  It’s a presumptuous adjective to have in the name, but their woozy syrup of psychedelia, funk, blues and Gong-scented silliness really is a powerful pick-me-up.  There aren’t many bands who can throw squealing guitar workouts, harrowing banshee howls and even bass solos at rural bar-proppers and not only get away unscathed, but actually make them frug like fools by the end of mammoth sets.  If you’ve been doing something for 22 years, you’re either doing it right, or are oblivious to what you’re doing wrong; either way, we’ll be there to do it too.

SUPERFOOD/ ARTCLASSSINK/ GUS ROGERS, DHP, Art Bar, 14/10/13

Kill Murray are unable to perform because of illness, so vocalist Gus Rogers fills in solo, strumming a fuzzy guitar over what could be A-Ha backing tracks, and singing in a high, delicate slur, like the ghost of a tramp.  Gig cancellation is pandemic in this town, so we applaud Gus’ decision to perform under straitened circumstances.  It’s impressive that one track even sounds quite spell-binding, even as it’s depressing that there are trendy types all over the shop offering essentially the same half-baked fare and garnering plaudits from every angle.

Never trust a restaurant where the main menu is more than two pages.   Chefs should be celebrating what they do best, not offering everything in a desperate attempt to please the world.  Artclasssink approach music like a beered-up posse at such an establishment, ordering willy-nilly, and suggesting “just put it all in the middle, mate, and we’ll mix and match”.  And so Joy Division portentousness scratches against glistening Cocteaus guitar, whilst Mansun choruses straddle mall-rock thumping.  That it makes no sense is its charm, but when the band lose their rhythm or let their composure slip – worryingly regularly – it’s as if that dining party were passing out one by one.

Birmingham’s Superfood are an up-and-coming band.  You can tell because the tracks on their Soundcloud have so many celebratory comments that listening to them creates a pop-up strobe effect that burns the word “sick” onto your retinas.  Sadly, this online fever has not translated to a large turnout, which is a shame, as it feels as though the band would thrive on a vibrant crowd.  Their rhythms are insistent, but lithe and bouncy, and the vocals are approachable and warm, and they look as though they’re just waiting for the next good time to catalyse.  The songs sound like Ride without the pedals mixed with first album Blur, which is fine, even if they also resemble The Bluetones with alarming regularity.  It would be supercilious to claim that a young band can’t find inspiration from the music of the mid-90s, but it would be nice to see these decent musicians stretching themselves.   After all, look at the back page of this magazine: Britpop clearly hasn’t yet finished eating itself. 

That Juke Isn't Funky Any More

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.