Right then. The only good thing about typing this guff out again, is that it involves sitting down and I have a huge blister on my foot.
Bet you thought I was going to say something crude about sailors, didn't you?
And so Sunday's feast begins, with somewhat blearier eyes, but just as much excitement. I'll admit to having seen (and reviewed) The Sunnyvale Noise Sub-Element twice previously, and been left uninspired, but since Stuart Fowkes informed me they were probably the two worst gigs he'd ever played, I was happy to give them another shot. This proved wise, as SNSE kick off the day's festivities with a clattering fanfare. Despite a couple of technical hitches the rhythm tracks are crunchily glorious, sounding something like a crackling longwave radio broadcast of a rabble of origami fiends let loose in a Zildjian warehouse. On occasion the guitar parts that overlay them feel like a mildly stodgy attempt to translate studio music into the live arena, but when the penultimate tune seems to be a series of baroque variations on the "I Wanna Be Your Dog" progression, these concerns are put away for another day.
N0ught play an ornate jazz-metal-math hybrid, and they do so incredibly loudly. They've often been described as "difficult" but I actually find them very pleasant to listen to: like a Pollock painting or a dense forest it's impossible to take in all the details individually, but this doesn't necessarily transalate into a challenging experience. Nothing today quite has the sheen and power it did a mere week before when N0ught supported The Fall, but one still feels in the presence of one of Oxford's great art bands. And come on, it's on four pm on Sunday - we're knackered and we've only got to listen to this music, let alone perform it.
Speaking of art rock, what would N0ught sound like if all the musicians were replaced by minor characters from the Super Mario universe? A little like Quack Quack, I'd wager. Their jazzy, slightly krautische instrumentals are played in a crinkly, faltering style and might be the type of thing you'd hear if miniature Neu! members came free with Kinder Surprise. Whilst there is a minor air of the self-congratulatory about it all ("Look! I'm playing my keyboard slightly badly! What do I win?"), they do have some surprises up their sleeves, including the penultimate number, which very strangely threatens to turn into "Morning" from Grieg's first Peer Gynt suite. Quack Quack are hard to categorise and most satisfying.
Call your band Lords and you'd better be good, it's too much of a tempting target if not. Luckily, this Nottingham troupe delivers the goods, along with some unexpected oddments that must have accrued in transit. If you cut "Sweet Home Alabama" into tiny pieces and threw it to some guitar wielding wolves, you might just end up with the opening track. Things continue in a similar vein for thirty minutes, Lords repeatedly sounding like the crippled ghost of a roadhouse boogie band being pummelled by a hardcore wrecking crew, or a post-Shellac trio meeting Beefheart's "China Pig" head on in a messy collision. "Makes you want to dance like a Russian," claims the programme; makes you want to drink like a Texan, too, such is the intermittently exposed bluesy underbelly.
Continuing a recent trend in the larger dance labels of realising that full bands can often get far more toes tappiung than pasty technogeeks, Ninja Tune have picked up Liverpool's Super Numeri. They perform one extended piece with free jazz sax and guitar throwing high end skreeks over a chugging funk backing. At times it does sound like a firy new hybrid of styles, but mostly it just sounds like a busload of seagulls divebombing The Exeter Hall's Sunday jam session. The only proper dud of the weekend.
I thought we might have exhausted the post-rocking guitar instrumental angle by now, but Billy Mahonie spring into life proving me thoroughly wrong once again. Unlike their peers at the festival, Billy's pieces sound like wordless songs, rather than unkempt opuses, and are all the more successful for it. They may not be The Shadows by any means, but there is something of taut funk generals The Meters about the elastic snapping of the guitar lines and the clipped urgency of the rhythm section. The third number (details uncertain from my vantage point, due to the band forgetting to ask for a microphone!) almost sounds like "Take Me Out" might if Franz Ferdinand had spent more time in James Brown's boot camp and less in their publicist's waiting room. Like I say, brains, great hooks and more funk savvy in one snare crack than Super Numeri could manage with a coachload of spangly vests, all adding up to make Billy Mahonie a fierce contender for best set of the festival.
Like a palette cleansing sorbet, there's a wonderfully refreshing quality to Scout Niblett, and it was an audacious move by the promoters to put such a simple act in this slot. Scout herself is on guitar and vocals, knocking out incredibly simple blues riffs with fascinating restraint. It's the sort of distillation of great rock music that PJ Harvey would sell her catsuit to be able to make. When Shellac's Todd Trainer joins her on drums, his relentless style should cut across her songs, but somehow the power of Trainer's parts heightens the purity. It does no harm that he's the kind of superbly natural drummer that you'd happily watch hit a haddock against a brick in 4/4 for twenty minutes. Perhaps there's a hint of contrived coyness about Niblett's music, most evident in her approach to sexual lyrics, but overall she has a huge command over the audience...which comes as a surprise to those of us who have watched her hare round the venue all day in a flourescent jacket looking like a distracted lollipop lady.
In complete contrast to Four Tet's wire strewn table, Luke Vibert is mostly using a laptop balanced on a beer crate. Hell, he doesn't even have a mouse! His set could prompt the typical questions - Is he playing or DJing? Is he doing anything at all? Is it actually him? - but I for one couldn't give a fuck. Listen, I was twelve for most of 1988, and used to tune into fuzzy radio stations, wishing I could sneak off to an acid night. Seeing Vibert, a man whose recordings have brought huge pleasure over the years, playing out some spiralling acid squalches is like the culmination fo a long love affair. For less romantic (read "drunk") people, I'm sure it was just a pleasingly danceable end to a wonderful weekend. If you want details, I'll let you know that Vibert dropped a bit of Kraftwerk, FSOL's evergreen "Papua New Guinea" and Squarepusher's incredible "My Red Hot Car" into the mix, but beyond that I'm far too tired and happy to turn in a meaningful review.
So, a glorious weekend, all in all. Maybe Phil from Fell City Girl is right, and in 2010 Audioscope will be a huge international festival. Somehow, however, I doubt that he's correct in predicting that Bon Jovi will be playing. I like to think we can trust these promoters a little more than that.
Showing posts with label Audioscope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Audioscope. Show all posts
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
The Shelter Frequency
Here's another great big festival review that I'm having to type in all over again, so I think I'll do it in two halves again. I'm that lazy. Plus I'm running out of archive material, so I have to spin it out a bit; heaven forfend I think of something new to say.
First paragraph's boring, isn't it? Second is no great shakes, either. Gets going a bit later on.
AUDIOSCOPE, The Zodiac, 29-30/10/05
Is it really possible to give an objective review of Audioscope here? After all, it's a longstanding, well respected charity event, and what's more the Oxfordbands crew are behind it all. Then again, art is nothing without a response and, being a white hot ball of opinion with few friends left to try them out on, it's the internet for me. Suffice to say that, whatever anybody's tastes and reactions, nobody can deny the vast amount of energy expended in organising Audioscope, nor can they balk at the huge sums raised over the years for Shelter. All of which sounds rather liek the preface to an admission of a bad weekend, whereas nothing could be further from the truth.
Like finding a tenner in a coat you haven't worn for a while proceedings start with a pleasant surprise. Excepting a couple of drizzle-flecked songs at Truck, it's been a year since I last saw Fell City Girl live, and in my memory they've been filed away as "impressive, but not revelatory". A week may be a long time in politics, but this last year has seen some incredible changes for FCG, progressing to bigger and better things on a seemingly monthly basis. Whether my memory is faulty or whether the hard work has paid off is unimportant, FCG are now a live force to be reckoned with. Or perhaps surrendered to in awe. Naturally lots of attention is given to Phil McMinn's cracked angel voice, but for me it's Shrek's drums that catch the ear, intelligently undercutting songs that threaten to turn into bombastic Muse stomps with brittle, icy rhythms. A beautiful opening set, and one that asks the question, "What will 2006 hold for them?". To be frank, no reply seems too grandiose. Oxford act of the year, no competition.
The question that Bullet Union's set raises is "Just what is alternative music, anyway?" We've just heard some potential Top 40 botherers from FCG, and wandered past a gigantic queue of people eager to collect tickets for a sold out Zodiac. Is there really any such thing as leftfield rock anymore? If there is, it certainly ain't Bullet Union, who are only a couple of jerky corners away from being a stright up melodic punk band. Which doesn't mean, of course, that they are a bad band by any means, just not a vastly moving one. Perhaps this set, complete with broken strings, isn't the ideal one on which to judge them, but by the end of the weekend BU had become a pleasant yet nondescript haze in the memory's mniddle distance, obscured by superior acts.
One of whom are Bristol's Ivory Springer. Drafted in at late notice to replace Giddy Motors who split up after the lineup was annoucned (Hey, it's a charity gig, they should be forced to play by Dickensian officials!) Ivory Springer add a dash of wit to the still half-empty Zodiac. Well, the "Four Tet only" brigade have missed out and no mistake, passing up half an hour which is as intelligent and amusing in its musical angularity as in its hilarious ad libs. Admittedly the format isn't revolutionary, and I overheard the name Big Black being spoken behind me at least once, but there's an undeniable force and character to their three-piece bludgeoning that ensures a warm reception.
As well as being the feeling brought on by standing in the dingy confines of The Zodiac drinking expensive cheap lager for two full days, Ill Ease is also the name of a sassy New York one woman band. Structuring rootsy new wave tunes from a series of fuzzy guitar and drum loops, Elizabeth Sharp delivers a yelpingly idiosyncratic set that is equal parts Dylan and Peaches. There is a slight fear that this is only interesting because there's just one of her, and that a full band would reveal the limitations in the songwriting, but it's still a barrelfull of fun, which thankfully throws a little NYC swagger into a bill mostly populated by awkward avantniks.
The demands of a hungry stomach and an eight o'clock pass out limit meant that I sadly missed most of Shooting At Unarmed Men. The five minutes I caught at the end appeared to offer the fine balance of humour, bile and naked agression that characterised John Chapple's previous band, McLusky, but perhaps that's not award winning journalistic insight...
There's a certain type of aged female relative that only ever says two things. First off, they'll meet you at birthday parties with the stalwart, "My, haven't you grown?", whereas in later years, you'll bump into them somewhat less frequently at funerals to be greeted with "My, you haven't changed a bit". Data Panik, effectively the new face of Bis, inspire both of these reactions simultaneously. Haven't they grown: the once smug and tinny rhythms have been replaced by a muscular rock attack. They haven't changed a bit: the songs are still hung on playground-simple vocal lines screamed out in the style of the Tantrum Tartrazine Vocal Consort. Perhaps wordy verses would be better served by being performed by one person at a time, so that we had some tiny idea of what the tunes were supposed ot be about, but overall Data Panik sent a mighty streak of joyful pop music over a somewhat obtuse weekend, like a splurge of squirty cream over elaborate confectionary.
Explosions In The Sky's first number opens with a langurous, glistening guitar part sounding something like Another Green World-era Eno taking on a lost track from The Bends. Sadly, this beautiful beginning decays into a dull, foursquare post-rock trudge, If MFI sold neo-Mogwai instrumentals they'd sound like this. In fact they'd sound slightly more intriguing, as there'd probably be piece that wouldn't quite fit that you'd have to hammer in with the end of a screwdriver, whereas EITS are spotlessly, tediously neat and tidy in their predictable guitar peaks and troughs. Maybe they'd work better if I came to them with fresh easr and unscrawled notebook, maybe I'm not in the mood, maybe 75% of The Zodiac, who are clearly loving every minute, are more discerning than I, but my attentuion soon wandered. Unfortunately for my general health, it wandered to the bar.
Four Tet's earkly work was a highly original melange of electronically treated folky offcuts, like The Infredible String Band's knuckles and kneecaps tossed into a techno bucket. His more recent material has developed in a chunkier, more organic direction, without losing any of the individuality. In a live setting the elctronica element is naturally foregrounded, though Kieron Hebden's abiding interest in jazz and improv means that we get something far more engaged and mutable than most mouseclickers can offer. This is both Four Tet's strength and his weakness, in that every show has an entirely different shape and texture, with long extemporised passages growing from the familiar material, but also in that there is the occasional longeur during which it sounds like Hebden is twiddling one of his knobs back and forth waiting for the next flash of inspiration. The conclusion to be drawn is that it's tough to be a solo improvisor, whether you've got a rack of machinery or a battered banjo, and that Hebden is good, but not yet up with the greats. Let's not forget, however, that this is ultimately techno, and there are some lovely post-electro 909 passages pumping that last dram of energy from our tired frames. There's a tiny part of me that worries that anything with a vaguely insistent beat would sound like manna by this point in proceedings, but that's not important right now. What's important is that we just witnessed some truly live electronica that, despite some limp moments, has kept us fully intrigued. He move we? Just about, just about.
First paragraph's boring, isn't it? Second is no great shakes, either. Gets going a bit later on.
AUDIOSCOPE, The Zodiac, 29-30/10/05
Is it really possible to give an objective review of Audioscope here? After all, it's a longstanding, well respected charity event, and what's more the Oxfordbands crew are behind it all. Then again, art is nothing without a response and, being a white hot ball of opinion with few friends left to try them out on, it's the internet for me. Suffice to say that, whatever anybody's tastes and reactions, nobody can deny the vast amount of energy expended in organising Audioscope, nor can they balk at the huge sums raised over the years for Shelter. All of which sounds rather liek the preface to an admission of a bad weekend, whereas nothing could be further from the truth.
Like finding a tenner in a coat you haven't worn for a while proceedings start with a pleasant surprise. Excepting a couple of drizzle-flecked songs at Truck, it's been a year since I last saw Fell City Girl live, and in my memory they've been filed away as "impressive, but not revelatory". A week may be a long time in politics, but this last year has seen some incredible changes for FCG, progressing to bigger and better things on a seemingly monthly basis. Whether my memory is faulty or whether the hard work has paid off is unimportant, FCG are now a live force to be reckoned with. Or perhaps surrendered to in awe. Naturally lots of attention is given to Phil McMinn's cracked angel voice, but for me it's Shrek's drums that catch the ear, intelligently undercutting songs that threaten to turn into bombastic Muse stomps with brittle, icy rhythms. A beautiful opening set, and one that asks the question, "What will 2006 hold for them?". To be frank, no reply seems too grandiose. Oxford act of the year, no competition.
The question that Bullet Union's set raises is "Just what is alternative music, anyway?" We've just heard some potential Top 40 botherers from FCG, and wandered past a gigantic queue of people eager to collect tickets for a sold out Zodiac. Is there really any such thing as leftfield rock anymore? If there is, it certainly ain't Bullet Union, who are only a couple of jerky corners away from being a stright up melodic punk band. Which doesn't mean, of course, that they are a bad band by any means, just not a vastly moving one. Perhaps this set, complete with broken strings, isn't the ideal one on which to judge them, but by the end of the weekend BU had become a pleasant yet nondescript haze in the memory's mniddle distance, obscured by superior acts.
One of whom are Bristol's Ivory Springer. Drafted in at late notice to replace Giddy Motors who split up after the lineup was annoucned (Hey, it's a charity gig, they should be forced to play by Dickensian officials!) Ivory Springer add a dash of wit to the still half-empty Zodiac. Well, the "Four Tet only" brigade have missed out and no mistake, passing up half an hour which is as intelligent and amusing in its musical angularity as in its hilarious ad libs. Admittedly the format isn't revolutionary, and I overheard the name Big Black being spoken behind me at least once, but there's an undeniable force and character to their three-piece bludgeoning that ensures a warm reception.
As well as being the feeling brought on by standing in the dingy confines of The Zodiac drinking expensive cheap lager for two full days, Ill Ease is also the name of a sassy New York one woman band. Structuring rootsy new wave tunes from a series of fuzzy guitar and drum loops, Elizabeth Sharp delivers a yelpingly idiosyncratic set that is equal parts Dylan and Peaches. There is a slight fear that this is only interesting because there's just one of her, and that a full band would reveal the limitations in the songwriting, but it's still a barrelfull of fun, which thankfully throws a little NYC swagger into a bill mostly populated by awkward avantniks.
The demands of a hungry stomach and an eight o'clock pass out limit meant that I sadly missed most of Shooting At Unarmed Men. The five minutes I caught at the end appeared to offer the fine balance of humour, bile and naked agression that characterised John Chapple's previous band, McLusky, but perhaps that's not award winning journalistic insight...
There's a certain type of aged female relative that only ever says two things. First off, they'll meet you at birthday parties with the stalwart, "My, haven't you grown?", whereas in later years, you'll bump into them somewhat less frequently at funerals to be greeted with "My, you haven't changed a bit". Data Panik, effectively the new face of Bis, inspire both of these reactions simultaneously. Haven't they grown: the once smug and tinny rhythms have been replaced by a muscular rock attack. They haven't changed a bit: the songs are still hung on playground-simple vocal lines screamed out in the style of the Tantrum Tartrazine Vocal Consort. Perhaps wordy verses would be better served by being performed by one person at a time, so that we had some tiny idea of what the tunes were supposed ot be about, but overall Data Panik sent a mighty streak of joyful pop music over a somewhat obtuse weekend, like a splurge of squirty cream over elaborate confectionary.
Explosions In The Sky's first number opens with a langurous, glistening guitar part sounding something like Another Green World-era Eno taking on a lost track from The Bends. Sadly, this beautiful beginning decays into a dull, foursquare post-rock trudge, If MFI sold neo-Mogwai instrumentals they'd sound like this. In fact they'd sound slightly more intriguing, as there'd probably be piece that wouldn't quite fit that you'd have to hammer in with the end of a screwdriver, whereas EITS are spotlessly, tediously neat and tidy in their predictable guitar peaks and troughs. Maybe they'd work better if I came to them with fresh easr and unscrawled notebook, maybe I'm not in the mood, maybe 75% of The Zodiac, who are clearly loving every minute, are more discerning than I, but my attentuion soon wandered. Unfortunately for my general health, it wandered to the bar.
Four Tet's earkly work was a highly original melange of electronically treated folky offcuts, like The Infredible String Band's knuckles and kneecaps tossed into a techno bucket. His more recent material has developed in a chunkier, more organic direction, without losing any of the individuality. In a live setting the elctronica element is naturally foregrounded, though Kieron Hebden's abiding interest in jazz and improv means that we get something far more engaged and mutable than most mouseclickers can offer. This is both Four Tet's strength and his weakness, in that every show has an entirely different shape and texture, with long extemporised passages growing from the familiar material, but also in that there is the occasional longeur during which it sounds like Hebden is twiddling one of his knobs back and forth waiting for the next flash of inspiration. The conclusion to be drawn is that it's tough to be a solo improvisor, whether you've got a rack of machinery or a battered banjo, and that Hebden is good, but not yet up with the greats. Let's not forget, however, that this is ultimately techno, and there are some lovely post-electro 909 passages pumping that last dram of energy from our tired frames. There's a tiny part of me that worries that anything with a vaguely insistent beat would sound like manna by this point in proceedings, but that's not important right now. What's important is that we just witnessed some truly live electronica that, despite some limp moments, has kept us fully intrigued. He move we? Just about, just about.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Pocket Knives
Just found this review. It was submitted to Oxfordbands.com, but never used. It's not great, to be frank. There are still not enough Steely Dan covers in the world of indie pop.
THE YOUNG KNIVES/ THE EVENINGS/ THE THUMB QUINTET, Audioscope, Port Mahon
The Thompson Twins. Ben Folds Five. The Thumb Quintet: all bands who can't count their own members. Yes, there are only two in The Thumb Quintet (although there are four thumbs) and they each have a guitar. On the basis of tonight's performance, however, they don't need the extra members.
Ben from eeebleee and a chap from Cardboard (both were in X-1, unless I'm much mistaken) have clearly been listening to a bit of Fahey and Jansch lately, and have swapped their noisy amps for some countrified acoustic fingerpicking. Perhaps at times it isn't perfectly fluid but the playing is still beautiful, galloping rhythms suddenly turning up amongst clusters of plucked motifs, and the botleneck slide parts are achingly lovely. I hope that this is more than a one-off arrangement, boys.
Local acts that shouldn't work at an acoustic night? Well, nervous_testpilot would have quite some trouble, and I'd love to see Winnebago Deal attempt to play with a lute and some bongos, but The Evenings would have to come high on the list, right? Wrong!
Proving once again that they are the most original and resourceful band in town, Mark Wilden and his merry troubadours exchange the synths and breakbeats for glockenspiels, sax and percussion. Somehow their funky dance silliness mutates softly into a warm, organic bramble of sound. And silliness.
The first number is subtle and intoxicating, bobbing on Jo Guest's bowed bass; before we know it, everything's pounding and surprisingly loud; next they turn all melancholic and intense: this gig has it all. I also feel they're all concentrating a little harder than recent gigs (Truck, for example). Hell, they even do a cover of "Born Slippy" and it almost works.
The Young Knives are the only act on who don't meet the problems set by the acoustic dictum head on. They don't play badly, and they're as entertaining as ever, complete with funny headwear and the best Scrabble monologue in pop history, but tonight they're just a lesser version of themselves. Like watching Delicatessen or something equally cinemtically lush on a tiny B/W portable, this gig is fine, but necessarily a compromise.
They aren't the greatest singers in town either, are they? Still, always nice to hear a Steely Dan cover, that's something you don't come across enough nowadays. Or ever, come to think of it.
THE YOUNG KNIVES/ THE EVENINGS/ THE THUMB QUINTET, Audioscope, Port Mahon
The Thompson Twins. Ben Folds Five. The Thumb Quintet: all bands who can't count their own members. Yes, there are only two in The Thumb Quintet (although there are four thumbs) and they each have a guitar. On the basis of tonight's performance, however, they don't need the extra members.
Ben from eeebleee and a chap from Cardboard (both were in X-1, unless I'm much mistaken) have clearly been listening to a bit of Fahey and Jansch lately, and have swapped their noisy amps for some countrified acoustic fingerpicking. Perhaps at times it isn't perfectly fluid but the playing is still beautiful, galloping rhythms suddenly turning up amongst clusters of plucked motifs, and the botleneck slide parts are achingly lovely. I hope that this is more than a one-off arrangement, boys.
Local acts that shouldn't work at an acoustic night? Well, nervous_testpilot would have quite some trouble, and I'd love to see Winnebago Deal attempt to play with a lute and some bongos, but The Evenings would have to come high on the list, right? Wrong!
Proving once again that they are the most original and resourceful band in town, Mark Wilden and his merry troubadours exchange the synths and breakbeats for glockenspiels, sax and percussion. Somehow their funky dance silliness mutates softly into a warm, organic bramble of sound. And silliness.
The first number is subtle and intoxicating, bobbing on Jo Guest's bowed bass; before we know it, everything's pounding and surprisingly loud; next they turn all melancholic and intense: this gig has it all. I also feel they're all concentrating a little harder than recent gigs (Truck, for example). Hell, they even do a cover of "Born Slippy" and it almost works.
The Young Knives are the only act on who don't meet the problems set by the acoustic dictum head on. They don't play badly, and they're as entertaining as ever, complete with funny headwear and the best Scrabble monologue in pop history, but tonight they're just a lesser version of themselves. Like watching Delicatessen or something equally cinemtically lush on a tiny B/W portable, this gig is fine, but necessarily a compromise.
They aren't the greatest singers in town either, are they? Still, always nice to hear a Steely Dan cover, that's something you don't come across enough nowadays. Or ever, come to think of it.
Saturday, 9 January 2010
Reverse Spam
Audioscope is an annual chairty all-dayer of leftfield music, and I'm an enormous admirer, the events are always fun. Peppers Burgers is in Jericho, Oxford, and also gets my seal of approval. There you go, a day out constructed for autumn 2010 - you never know, you might even get to meet me if you do it...
AUDIOSCOPE – Jericho, 17/10/09
Audioscope’s reputation as an austere day of difficult music is smashed in seconds by Bitches, who may have had a liquid lunch. Their music has rock riffs and punk noise, but exhibits an eerie lack of propulsion, feeling excellently like a drunken Fluxus take on an early Sebadoh rehearsal. Cats & Cats & Cats charmingly announce that they hope to get their single into “the indie charts” which makes us feel at least ten years younger. They play a pleasant set of contempo-folk introspection, which is rather spoilt by unsuccessful leaps into grandiloquent climaxes, turning them into Arcade Embers. Talons turn out to be much better at the Godspeed crescendos and have two excellent violinists, but could do with some of Cats’ songs to retain interest. Call it a draw.
Worcester’s Theo loops tricksy Don Caballero guitar licks and accompanies himself fluently on drums, and this Billy Nomates Mahonie turns out to be our set of the day. He has some trouble with guitar leads and drum pedals, but we cynically wonder whether he fiddles with them deliberately to hide the fact he hasn’t quite worked out how to end his songs.
Ute have come leagues since we saw them in January, mixing rousing folk songs that wouldn’t be out of place during the miner’s strike with tremulous indie delicacy, before unexpectedly flipping out and going all Shellac unplugged. Occasional Thom Yorke vocal moments are less satisfying, but the set is a winner. Audioscope favourites Bilge Pump proffer the closest thing to sonic extremity on this year’s bill, with their well- honed take on post-McClusky artcore, and it’s fine but Bronnt Industries Kapital is far more exciting. He opens with what may as well have been an excerpt from Blade Runner, synching faultlessly with the video projections, that are like being overtaken on the autobahn by Petronus charms. He keeps up the Vangelist approach for some excellently sleek mid-80s synth romps, headbutting the keyboard to inject some John Foxx drama. The Ferris Bueller shades are a step too far, however.
We get a brief palate cleanser before the headliners, as Glasgow’s Remember Remember folds looped glockenspiel and melodica motifs in on themselves like Fuck Buttons lost in Toytown, which sets us up nicely for the disappointment of The Longcut. There’s nothing hugely wrong with mixing New Order with Doves and throwing a bit of NY funk over the top, but it seems that every third band in 2009 sounded exactly like this. The Longcut still don’t upset us too much until something sounding like Editors playing “I Feel Love” drives us to the bar.
We ask the organisors why they don’t have anyone famous on this year’s bill, like Kid 606, Clinic or a krautrock legend, to be told that Mercury nominees Maps are better known in the real world than those other acts put together. It comes as no surprise that we lost our grip on the public’s taste years ago, but it is eyebrow raising that they’ve gone for something that sounds so much like The Beloved. That is, when they don’t sound like Crystal Castles played by Candy Flip. Nothing revolutionary here, then, but Maps play a warm and unhurried set of comedown electropop that makes us wish we were watching at four am in a room made entirely from pillows and Gummi Bears, until we’re absolute converts. We were all set to bemoan the lack of a Shit & Shine, Parts & Labour or Datapanik epiphany, until we realised that the least adventurous Audioscope lineup had perhaps become the most consistent, and good music’s what matters ultimately, not its obscurity. That and the £1700 raised for Shelter, and an excuse to subsist on beer and Pepper’s burgers for a day.
AUDIOSCOPE – Jericho, 17/10/09
Audioscope’s reputation as an austere day of difficult music is smashed in seconds by Bitches, who may have had a liquid lunch. Their music has rock riffs and punk noise, but exhibits an eerie lack of propulsion, feeling excellently like a drunken Fluxus take on an early Sebadoh rehearsal. Cats & Cats & Cats charmingly announce that they hope to get their single into “the indie charts” which makes us feel at least ten years younger. They play a pleasant set of contempo-folk introspection, which is rather spoilt by unsuccessful leaps into grandiloquent climaxes, turning them into Arcade Embers. Talons turn out to be much better at the Godspeed crescendos and have two excellent violinists, but could do with some of Cats’ songs to retain interest. Call it a draw.
Worcester’s Theo loops tricksy Don Caballero guitar licks and accompanies himself fluently on drums, and this Billy Nomates Mahonie turns out to be our set of the day. He has some trouble with guitar leads and drum pedals, but we cynically wonder whether he fiddles with them deliberately to hide the fact he hasn’t quite worked out how to end his songs.
Ute have come leagues since we saw them in January, mixing rousing folk songs that wouldn’t be out of place during the miner’s strike with tremulous indie delicacy, before unexpectedly flipping out and going all Shellac unplugged. Occasional Thom Yorke vocal moments are less satisfying, but the set is a winner. Audioscope favourites Bilge Pump proffer the closest thing to sonic extremity on this year’s bill, with their well- honed take on post-McClusky artcore, and it’s fine but Bronnt Industries Kapital is far more exciting. He opens with what may as well have been an excerpt from Blade Runner, synching faultlessly with the video projections, that are like being overtaken on the autobahn by Petronus charms. He keeps up the Vangelist approach for some excellently sleek mid-80s synth romps, headbutting the keyboard to inject some John Foxx drama. The Ferris Bueller shades are a step too far, however.
We get a brief palate cleanser before the headliners, as Glasgow’s Remember Remember folds looped glockenspiel and melodica motifs in on themselves like Fuck Buttons lost in Toytown, which sets us up nicely for the disappointment of The Longcut. There’s nothing hugely wrong with mixing New Order with Doves and throwing a bit of NY funk over the top, but it seems that every third band in 2009 sounded exactly like this. The Longcut still don’t upset us too much until something sounding like Editors playing “I Feel Love” drives us to the bar.
We ask the organisors why they don’t have anyone famous on this year’s bill, like Kid 606, Clinic or a krautrock legend, to be told that Mercury nominees Maps are better known in the real world than those other acts put together. It comes as no surprise that we lost our grip on the public’s taste years ago, but it is eyebrow raising that they’ve gone for something that sounds so much like The Beloved. That is, when they don’t sound like Crystal Castles played by Candy Flip. Nothing revolutionary here, then, but Maps play a warm and unhurried set of comedown electropop that makes us wish we were watching at four am in a room made entirely from pillows and Gummi Bears, until we’re absolute converts. We were all set to bemoan the lack of a Shit & Shine, Parts & Labour or Datapanik epiphany, until we realised that the least adventurous Audioscope lineup had perhaps become the most consistent, and good music’s what matters ultimately, not its obscurity. That and the £1700 raised for Shelter, and an excuse to subsist on beer and Pepper’s burgers for a day.
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