I've just found this review. I think it was written for BBC Oxford years ago (the TOTP and Lavigne references date it hugely), but that the Truax part wasn't used, which is why most of it was recycled for later reviews. Oddly, I reviewed Truax again for this month's Nightshift, and I'll post that on Saturday, just so you can see that I generally repeat myself tediously - I mean, I'm gloriously consistent.
The Epstein-Barr Virus Band dropped 3/5 of their name soon after this.
Oh, the review is rubbish, by the way, no wonder I'd forgotten about it. Atrocious ending.
THE EPSTEIN-BARR VIRUS BAND, SCHWERVON, THOMAS TRUAX, Trailerpark, The Cellar
You've got to love Thomas truax.
Not just because he plays grimy pieces of grotesque Americana, like a nice neat Tom Waits after a bucketfull of Lockets, but because of his wonderful homemade instruments. Sister Spinster is a clanking mechanical drum machine, based around an old pram wheel, and is the sort of thing that might have transpired had Hary Partch been involved in designing the Roland 707.
I'm not even going to begin to describe The Hornicator - part instrument, part sculpture, part headgear - but I'll tell you that when if goes through a giant delay pedal, it sounds like Portishead as prodiced by Wilf Lunn from The Great Egg Race.
Over these queasy, lurching rhythms we find twisted vignettes about the fictional municipality of Wowtown. Now, if there were any justice in the world Truax would have a huge hit, and perform "The Fish" on Top Of The Pops, and every kid would have a Wowtown T-shirt.
Then, to make this fantasy even remotely plausible, he'd be instantly forgotten, and, in twenty years, the ability to recognise a Hornicator would be pop quiz gold dust, like correctly spelling "Sk8rboi".
Schwervon have a man with a guitar, a girl on drums, and a bunch of trashy blues progressions. but I'm not going to mention The White Stripes, because a) they'r eprobably fed up with it, and c) The Stripes hardly invented the concept of lo-fidelity, hi-octane garage punk, now did they?
The clattering workouts are relatively inept, but they're pretty endearing, especially the comical inter-song bickering: Schwervon, the Terry & June of swamprock! Sadly the effect begins to pall after about ten minutes, and attentions begin to wander. Oh, look at that over there...
Is it me, or is there a lot of country rock in Oxfordshire? Not that I mind, it's just unexpected.
Still, The Epstein-Barr Virus Band have got to be one fo the best on offer, cranking out their slide-laden laments with great aplomb. Alright, precious few boundaries are being broken here, but the songs burst out and envelop the room like warm zephyrs, so who's worrying?
They have slight trouble with the quieter bluegreass number, "Leave Your Light On", but generally they truck along fine. With lines like "If I can't have the one I love, I don't want no one at all," they even manage to get away with real cliches. I wonder whether I can: EBVB are a darn good toe-tappin' li'l band.
Apparently not...
Showing posts with label BBC Oxford. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BBC Oxford. Show all posts
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Much Ado About Muffin
So, here's the very last scrapings from the BBC barrel. There was one other review I wrote that never got used, about a sax & drums duo, but that's long gone. I recall it was poor anyway, so that's OK. In fact, to be frank, I forget whether I submitted this to the BBC or someone else - all I know is that it never got used, and probably for good reason.
THE MUFFINMEN, Zodiac
Well, the jury's still out on how posterity will treat the musical anomaly that is Frank Zappa. His life's work is a mass of contradictions, with tireless musical invention and a cast itron work ethic on one side, and lame scatalogical humour and sterile, locker room musical athleticism on the other. Any Zappa tribute has a tough job deciding what to include and what to discard.
The fivepiece Muffinmen are a more beefy proposition than John Etheridge's Zappatistas, who played at South Park earlier in the year. They certainly delve straight to the blues heart of "My Guitar Wants To Kill Your Momma", or "Wonderful Wino", a track that sometimes became a piece of absurd cabaret at Zappa's gigs.
They also boast the vocals of Jimmy Carl Black, and original Mother Of Invention, and a confused looking individual - it appears that he might have fallen asleep during the mixdown of Freak Out!, and woken up again five minutes before the gig. Still, it apears he's got the great british 'flu, so we'll let him of singing only a couple of numbers, and sounding more like Beefheart than Zappa.
Even without Black the band get their teeth right into the angular complexities of the Zappa canon, and find plenty of time to unfurl imaginative and exhilirating solos on guitar, trumpet and (best of the bunch) flute.
Veering, as he did, oddly between hardnosed artpunk, and chin-fiddling muso, Zappa's music can be at once fascinating, funky, beautiful and infuriatingly stupid (see the aformentioned six string matricide), and is sometimes difficult work. Still, if you don't enjoy it, blame Frank, don't blame the superb Muffinmen, as light-hearted a bunch of noisy virtuosic Scousers as you're likely to meet.
THE MUFFINMEN, Zodiac
Well, the jury's still out on how posterity will treat the musical anomaly that is Frank Zappa. His life's work is a mass of contradictions, with tireless musical invention and a cast itron work ethic on one side, and lame scatalogical humour and sterile, locker room musical athleticism on the other. Any Zappa tribute has a tough job deciding what to include and what to discard.
The fivepiece Muffinmen are a more beefy proposition than John Etheridge's Zappatistas, who played at South Park earlier in the year. They certainly delve straight to the blues heart of "My Guitar Wants To Kill Your Momma", or "Wonderful Wino", a track that sometimes became a piece of absurd cabaret at Zappa's gigs.
They also boast the vocals of Jimmy Carl Black, and original Mother Of Invention, and a confused looking individual - it appears that he might have fallen asleep during the mixdown of Freak Out!, and woken up again five minutes before the gig. Still, it apears he's got the great british 'flu, so we'll let him of singing only a couple of numbers, and sounding more like Beefheart than Zappa.
Even without Black the band get their teeth right into the angular complexities of the Zappa canon, and find plenty of time to unfurl imaginative and exhilirating solos on guitar, trumpet and (best of the bunch) flute.
Veering, as he did, oddly between hardnosed artpunk, and chin-fiddling muso, Zappa's music can be at once fascinating, funky, beautiful and infuriatingly stupid (see the aformentioned six string matricide), and is sometimes difficult work. Still, if you don't enjoy it, blame Frank, don't blame the superb Muffinmen, as light-hearted a bunch of noisy virtuosic Scousers as you're likely to meet.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
Bleep Show
Last night I made two startling observations.
1) The first is about David Mitchell. Now, I have to tread carefully here, as his brother is a very close friend, although I've never met David. My rough take is that he's a wonderful performer, who's never found/written the right material. I've seen a few episodes of That Mitchell & Webb Look, and they were OK, somewhere between the worst of Fry & laurie & the best of Hale & Pace; I've seen a whole two episodes of Peep Show (I'm not really a TV person), and one was very funny whilst the other was really just an old sit com. Take away the swearing and marijuana and it could have been an episode of The Liver Birds or something. With southern accents. And men. Anyway, that's nothing to do with it, my observation is that Mitchell owes his fame, at least in a tiny part, to his amazing eyes. They're so huge and black. I don't mean that he has big, drug-happy pupils, I mean that his eyes are just vast dark balls, like he's been drawn in Japan. Manga face Mitchell, they could call him. Anyway, that's the crux of my observation, that David Mitchell has anime eyeballs.
2) Glory days Pet Shop Boys: Neil Tennant = C3PO, Chris Lowe = R2D2. Tell me I'm wrong.
This review is one of, I think, three that I submitted to BBC Oxford, but that they never used. Yes, that's how pat and generic it is. Enjoy!
CEX/BOVAFLUX/BETA PROPHECY - Remtek/Vacuous Pop, Cellar, 31/8/03
Question: Who the hell goes to a gig on a Sunday night?
Answer: You, if they're all as good as this one.
Remtek and Vacuous Pop have teamed up to bring a selection of cutting edge electronica to The Cellar over the coming weeks, and this is one fine way to start. We warm up with two laptop acts. The first of the two, Beta Prophecy, makes some lush and enveloping - though never overly comforting, let's get that straight - stretched of fuzzy sound, with the help of a guitarist. Oddly, even when the scrunchy beats kick in, it's still static (in both sense of the word). Strangely pleasing.
Bovaflux is more straight ahead, clicking breakbeats and sub-bass from his mouse; it's not unpleasant, but relies a little heavily on ravey tropes, albeit without the recombinant wit of, say, Squarepusher.
Ryan from Baltimore's Kid 606 associates Cex introduces himself in an unforgettable manner, bounding onto the floor in ridiculously heeled trainers, and flying round the crowd spitting out rhymes...aah, you never look bad with a radio mike!
He has the worst haircut of all time, ransom slashes making it look like he's had cranial surgery...maybe he has, but if so, those cortex stretches that deal with language were left well alone by the surgeon's blade, as he rips out what Mark E Smith called "undilutable slang truths".
The beats are more twisted hisses and scrapes athan drums, yet wierdly all the more pounding for it, and Ryan's vocal flow is effortlessly fluid; however, the best tune has sung vox and a more experimental backing, and asks how you can name a town that has been destroyed. I don't know whether this is a comment on "collateral damage", or some interior psychic collapse, but the effect is mesmerising.
In addition to all this we also learn some insights into the world of Cex, including the best description of ugliness ever: "He looks like he was on fire, and someone put him out with a wet chain". More like this please, Remtek. Superb.
1) The first is about David Mitchell. Now, I have to tread carefully here, as his brother is a very close friend, although I've never met David. My rough take is that he's a wonderful performer, who's never found/written the right material. I've seen a few episodes of That Mitchell & Webb Look, and they were OK, somewhere between the worst of Fry & laurie & the best of Hale & Pace; I've seen a whole two episodes of Peep Show (I'm not really a TV person), and one was very funny whilst the other was really just an old sit com. Take away the swearing and marijuana and it could have been an episode of The Liver Birds or something. With southern accents. And men. Anyway, that's nothing to do with it, my observation is that Mitchell owes his fame, at least in a tiny part, to his amazing eyes. They're so huge and black. I don't mean that he has big, drug-happy pupils, I mean that his eyes are just vast dark balls, like he's been drawn in Japan. Manga face Mitchell, they could call him. Anyway, that's the crux of my observation, that David Mitchell has anime eyeballs.
2) Glory days Pet Shop Boys: Neil Tennant = C3PO, Chris Lowe = R2D2. Tell me I'm wrong.
This review is one of, I think, three that I submitted to BBC Oxford, but that they never used. Yes, that's how pat and generic it is. Enjoy!
CEX/BOVAFLUX/BETA PROPHECY - Remtek/Vacuous Pop, Cellar, 31/8/03
Question: Who the hell goes to a gig on a Sunday night?
Answer: You, if they're all as good as this one.
Remtek and Vacuous Pop have teamed up to bring a selection of cutting edge electronica to The Cellar over the coming weeks, and this is one fine way to start. We warm up with two laptop acts. The first of the two, Beta Prophecy, makes some lush and enveloping - though never overly comforting, let's get that straight - stretched of fuzzy sound, with the help of a guitarist. Oddly, even when the scrunchy beats kick in, it's still static (in both sense of the word). Strangely pleasing.
Bovaflux is more straight ahead, clicking breakbeats and sub-bass from his mouse; it's not unpleasant, but relies a little heavily on ravey tropes, albeit without the recombinant wit of, say, Squarepusher.
Ryan from Baltimore's Kid 606 associates Cex introduces himself in an unforgettable manner, bounding onto the floor in ridiculously heeled trainers, and flying round the crowd spitting out rhymes...aah, you never look bad with a radio mike!
He has the worst haircut of all time, ransom slashes making it look like he's had cranial surgery...maybe he has, but if so, those cortex stretches that deal with language were left well alone by the surgeon's blade, as he rips out what Mark E Smith called "undilutable slang truths".
The beats are more twisted hisses and scrapes athan drums, yet wierdly all the more pounding for it, and Ryan's vocal flow is effortlessly fluid; however, the best tune has sung vox and a more experimental backing, and asks how you can name a town that has been destroyed. I don't know whether this is a comment on "collateral damage", or some interior psychic collapse, but the effect is mesmerising.
In addition to all this we also learn some insights into the world of Cex, including the best description of ugliness ever: "He looks like he was on fire, and someone put him out with a wet chain". More like this please, Remtek. Superb.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Render Unto Cesar Romero...
The last BBC review I have in my annals. There may be more I've lost; if you find one that I haven't posted, blah blah, who the fuck am I kidding? Anyway, it's not that good, except for the line about Hannon, N. & Pop, I. that I shamelessly recycled for a recent Smilex review.
SMILEX/AT RISK, Cellar, 11/04
At Risk certainly took me back. The play just the sort of music that lttle local bands used to play when I first sneaked underage into gigs some years ago. Sadly, I thought that this harmless, ever-so-slightly gothic, indie rock was dull at the time, and the intervening years have done nothing to change my opinion. At Risk are just very dull, unfortunately. They're not terrible, and they're no worse than any number of bands, but there isn't much to say about them. I fear that the songs are non-starters, but it may help if they played a little less sloppily and if the singer didn't employ an odd strangulated tone (imagine Avril Lavigne having a crack at Mark & Lard's tight-throat style). I need something exciting after that...I wonder whether Smilex will do the trick...?
I heard the recording of Smilex' "Sex 4 Sale" and I confess it didn't grab me. People told me that when I saw the live show I'd understand, and the Lee was an astounding frontman. Again, I'll admit to having my doubts: taking your shirt off and jumping about have pretty low mileage with me.
Anyway, I'm proud to admit I was completely wrong. Lee's antics are original and, seemingly, spontaneous, as he throws himself around the room, drenching the audience with water, looking like a tiny, horrific cross between Neil Hannon and Iggy Pop. Still, these shenanigans are really only a mild distraction, when there's music of such sleazy quality.
The rhythm section grabs every track with the insane ferocity of Cujo in a butcher's warehouse, providing a tight springboard for the eyeball-popping vocal howls. The real star, however, is the guitarist, who throws out squalls of sound that seem uncontrolled, but weave beautifully into the rhythmic twists of the songs. It's a paradoxical effect, like watching tornado with right angles. The audience soon forget the liquid being sprayed over them by an over-zealous singer, and concentrates on the searing rock missives.
Let's be realistic, this band won't change your life, but for 45 minutes they will make it much, much more fun. And probably much more damp.
SMILEX/AT RISK, Cellar, 11/04
At Risk certainly took me back. The play just the sort of music that lttle local bands used to play when I first sneaked underage into gigs some years ago. Sadly, I thought that this harmless, ever-so-slightly gothic, indie rock was dull at the time, and the intervening years have done nothing to change my opinion. At Risk are just very dull, unfortunately. They're not terrible, and they're no worse than any number of bands, but there isn't much to say about them. I fear that the songs are non-starters, but it may help if they played a little less sloppily and if the singer didn't employ an odd strangulated tone (imagine Avril Lavigne having a crack at Mark & Lard's tight-throat style). I need something exciting after that...I wonder whether Smilex will do the trick...?
I heard the recording of Smilex' "Sex 4 Sale" and I confess it didn't grab me. People told me that when I saw the live show I'd understand, and the Lee was an astounding frontman. Again, I'll admit to having my doubts: taking your shirt off and jumping about have pretty low mileage with me.
Anyway, I'm proud to admit I was completely wrong. Lee's antics are original and, seemingly, spontaneous, as he throws himself around the room, drenching the audience with water, looking like a tiny, horrific cross between Neil Hannon and Iggy Pop. Still, these shenanigans are really only a mild distraction, when there's music of such sleazy quality.
The rhythm section grabs every track with the insane ferocity of Cujo in a butcher's warehouse, providing a tight springboard for the eyeball-popping vocal howls. The real star, however, is the guitarist, who throws out squalls of sound that seem uncontrolled, but weave beautifully into the rhythmic twists of the songs. It's a paradoxical effect, like watching tornado with right angles. The audience soon forget the liquid being sprayed over them by an over-zealous singer, and concentrates on the searing rock missives.
Let's be realistic, this band won't change your life, but for 45 minutes they will make it much, much more fun. And probably much more damp.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
Insert Corny Pun Here
I've got to go out in exactly one minute. Here's a shit old review of a great great gig.
HAYSEED DIXIE, The Zodiac, 11/04
The oddest thing about Hayseed Dixie is how much they remind me of crap British comedians. The front man has the sort of rainbow dungarees that the fat one out of Hale & Pace would wear when performing th Playschool sketch, whilst the guitarist on the left closely resembles Bobby Ball doing a gag about Austrian homosexuals. The other two look like they haven't changed haircut since their days in Cambridge footlights. Anyway, this is a response of my twisted mind, and is completely irrelevant.
The point is that hayseed Dixie are a red hot bluegrass fourpiece who turn their attentions upon 70s heavy rock, most notably AC/DC (geddit?). And they're spectacular. I notice that my colleague gave a rave review to Trash Fashion recently. You could apply the same criteria for success to Hayseed Dixie:
1) Make sure that, now matter how deep the irony, the music you borrow is ultimately ace
2) You won't get anywhere in this game unless you can play like the devil
And play they can. Winner by a nose is the electrifying finger-picking of bebereted (it IS a word) banjo player, who could make the very rock Gods who wrote the songs bow their heads in admiration. Thier take on revivalist hymns and traditional Appalachian numbers indicates that, behind the jokes, they could easily have been a straight American roots band.
Trouble is, if they did that, they wouldn't be able to fulfil their quest to get staggeringly drunk every night, which is a noble quest indeed, There isn't much more to say, in critical terms: Hayseed Dixie came with a job to do, and did it impeccably - "Fat Bottomed Girls" and "Walk This Way" being tweo personal highlights. In addition to this the drinks flowed, the Zodiac soundcrew quite rightly got the praise they deserved onstage (the monitors engineer was even handed beers periodically by the band) and the crowd loved it (Oxford pasty, my cotton-pickin' hiney!).
The Dixies offered us the best sort of cabaret: good mindless entertainment that, on closer inspection, turns out to be deeply thought out. Yeehah!
HAYSEED DIXIE, The Zodiac, 11/04
The oddest thing about Hayseed Dixie is how much they remind me of crap British comedians. The front man has the sort of rainbow dungarees that the fat one out of Hale & Pace would wear when performing th Playschool sketch, whilst the guitarist on the left closely resembles Bobby Ball doing a gag about Austrian homosexuals. The other two look like they haven't changed haircut since their days in Cambridge footlights. Anyway, this is a response of my twisted mind, and is completely irrelevant.
The point is that hayseed Dixie are a red hot bluegrass fourpiece who turn their attentions upon 70s heavy rock, most notably AC/DC (geddit?). And they're spectacular. I notice that my colleague gave a rave review to Trash Fashion recently. You could apply the same criteria for success to Hayseed Dixie:
1) Make sure that, now matter how deep the irony, the music you borrow is ultimately ace
2) You won't get anywhere in this game unless you can play like the devil
And play they can. Winner by a nose is the electrifying finger-picking of bebereted (it IS a word) banjo player, who could make the very rock Gods who wrote the songs bow their heads in admiration. Thier take on revivalist hymns and traditional Appalachian numbers indicates that, behind the jokes, they could easily have been a straight American roots band.
Trouble is, if they did that, they wouldn't be able to fulfil their quest to get staggeringly drunk every night, which is a noble quest indeed, There isn't much more to say, in critical terms: Hayseed Dixie came with a job to do, and did it impeccably - "Fat Bottomed Girls" and "Walk This Way" being tweo personal highlights. In addition to this the drinks flowed, the Zodiac soundcrew quite rightly got the praise they deserved onstage (the monitors engineer was even handed beers periodically by the band) and the crowd loved it (Oxford pasty, my cotton-pickin' hiney!).
The Dixies offered us the best sort of cabaret: good mindless entertainment that, on closer inspection, turns out to be deeply thought out. Yeehah!
Saturday, 26 September 2009
Stompin' At The Sav(el)oy
Hello, dear friends, valued strangers and evil spam spewing web-bots, and welcome once more to the David Murphy archives. Here's a review of Top 20 botherers Hot Chip from way before they were famous and the miniature monkey was yet to be wound. They were...quite good. Worth waiting for that verdict, I think you'll agree.
PS Although the BBC editor at the time published this claiming it was a gig at The Bully, this was incorrect. Also, I'm sure I originally indicated in thge copy who promoted the gig, and I think it may have been Vacuous Pop, but I'm not certain enough after all these years to say for certain.
HOT CHIP/ PINEY GIR/ NERVOUS_TESTPILOT, Wheatsheaf, 8/04
Anyone who says electronic music is always the same has got nervous_testpilot to answer to. Not that this would be too frightening as the pilot is quite small and, err, nervous, but the point is that Paul Taylor has the itelligence and musical imagination to make every performance completely different, in a way no supposedly exciting rock band could dream of.
After the tympanic scouring doled out at Truck, tonight he's gone for the danceably melodic. God, give some of those tunes a remix by Fatboy or Sash! and they'd be Top 10 material! Highlights are a crisp "Raiders Of The Lost ARP" and his trademark Queen-mangling gabba finale - OK, it's obvious, but it's so damned well done.
Speaking of doing things well, let us consider Exhibit B, Piney Gir. In lesser hands her kindergarten Korg schtick might wear thin, but underneath the playground melodies reclines a vocalist of great ability and discipline. Add to this A Scholar & A Physician's incisive and elegant production, whicc resists the urge to be too silly (except on a punk "My Genreration" cover, which palls on the second hearing), and everything in Camp Gir looks rosy. Having said this, I can imagine many people being left cold by tonight's textbook performance. I just can't imagine it would be much fun being them.
I'm uncertain about Hot Chip. They look like a mixture of The Beastie Boy's younger brothers and Cabaret Voltaire's chemistry teachers, and they sound like The Bloodhound Gang playing Prince's songs on Chicory Tip's keyboards. Their fiveman wall of electronic funk resembles a Benny Hill sketch about electro.
Trouble is, their suburban sleaze entreaties are sometimes full of wit, and sometimes and overstretched joke; some of the parping synth textures are clever and outrageously funky, whilst some are thin and annoying. Still, I'll be there to watch them next time, and I suppose any performance that leaves an old cynic like me so intrigued must be counted as a victory.
PS Although the BBC editor at the time published this claiming it was a gig at The Bully, this was incorrect. Also, I'm sure I originally indicated in thge copy who promoted the gig, and I think it may have been Vacuous Pop, but I'm not certain enough after all these years to say for certain.
HOT CHIP/ PINEY GIR/ NERVOUS_TESTPILOT, Wheatsheaf, 8/04
Anyone who says electronic music is always the same has got nervous_testpilot to answer to. Not that this would be too frightening as the pilot is quite small and, err, nervous, but the point is that Paul Taylor has the itelligence and musical imagination to make every performance completely different, in a way no supposedly exciting rock band could dream of.
After the tympanic scouring doled out at Truck, tonight he's gone for the danceably melodic. God, give some of those tunes a remix by Fatboy or Sash! and they'd be Top 10 material! Highlights are a crisp "Raiders Of The Lost ARP" and his trademark Queen-mangling gabba finale - OK, it's obvious, but it's so damned well done.
Speaking of doing things well, let us consider Exhibit B, Piney Gir. In lesser hands her kindergarten Korg schtick might wear thin, but underneath the playground melodies reclines a vocalist of great ability and discipline. Add to this A Scholar & A Physician's incisive and elegant production, whicc resists the urge to be too silly (except on a punk "My Genreration" cover, which palls on the second hearing), and everything in Camp Gir looks rosy. Having said this, I can imagine many people being left cold by tonight's textbook performance. I just can't imagine it would be much fun being them.
I'm uncertain about Hot Chip. They look like a mixture of The Beastie Boy's younger brothers and Cabaret Voltaire's chemistry teachers, and they sound like The Bloodhound Gang playing Prince's songs on Chicory Tip's keyboards. Their fiveman wall of electronic funk resembles a Benny Hill sketch about electro.
Trouble is, their suburban sleaze entreaties are sometimes full of wit, and sometimes and overstretched joke; some of the parping synth textures are clever and outrageously funky, whilst some are thin and annoying. Still, I'll be there to watch them next time, and I suppose any performance that leaves an old cynic like me so intrigued must be counted as a victory.
Saturday, 19 September 2009
Chick Korea?
You said I was ill and you were not wrong. Urgh, I feel like crap. Here's an anonymous old BBC review to make us both feel slightly worse.
WARHEN/ PHYAL/ FORK, Oxfam benefit, Bully, 7/04
Calling your music "prog punk" is rather like calling it "chalky cheese" - a contradiction in terms. With Fork it really means "new wave with a few extras". Most afecting in parts, but hard to get a handle on tonight. The main problem is the lead guitarist, who is as loud as the rest of the band put together. At least. This wouldn't matter so much if the vocals weren't whispered in a menacing rasp, and the squealing licks deflated the effect somewhat.
Ultimately the best tracks were those where they open the rock and roll throttle, or strip things down to an ominous pulse spiced with eerie murmuring. In other words, the tracks with the fewest prog elements. Someone is missing the point here: question is, is it me or Fork?
Phyal can be relied on to produce a good show, that's a given. Their sound is simple, if fabulously unfashionable: a tranche of funk, a soupcon of mild goth, all floating in a bouillabaisse of oldschool metal. Rather like German band Uniting The Elements, who recently visited The Zodiac, Phyal banish any worries about musical naffness with a searing theatrical performance. Glenda is a committed hair-flailing frontwoman and the band is compact and forceful. They could maybe do with an extra string to their song-writing bow, but they're certainly worth watching.
Where did all those Supergrass comparisons come from? OK, Warhen are young, a trio, and full of beans, but that's where it ends. Aerosmith, AC/DC and Cream are more useful reference points. It's silly, it's adolescent, it's resolutely dumb but Warhen's marriage of 70s cock rock and punk attack is great fun. They play well tonight too, though the tiny powerhoue drummer steals the show, as ever. Maybe the music doesn't linger in the memory, but for 30 minutes Warhen were captivating. Now, if only they could learn some interesting stage banter...
WARHEN/ PHYAL/ FORK, Oxfam benefit, Bully, 7/04
Calling your music "prog punk" is rather like calling it "chalky cheese" - a contradiction in terms. With Fork it really means "new wave with a few extras". Most afecting in parts, but hard to get a handle on tonight. The main problem is the lead guitarist, who is as loud as the rest of the band put together. At least. This wouldn't matter so much if the vocals weren't whispered in a menacing rasp, and the squealing licks deflated the effect somewhat.
Ultimately the best tracks were those where they open the rock and roll throttle, or strip things down to an ominous pulse spiced with eerie murmuring. In other words, the tracks with the fewest prog elements. Someone is missing the point here: question is, is it me or Fork?
Phyal can be relied on to produce a good show, that's a given. Their sound is simple, if fabulously unfashionable: a tranche of funk, a soupcon of mild goth, all floating in a bouillabaisse of oldschool metal. Rather like German band Uniting The Elements, who recently visited The Zodiac, Phyal banish any worries about musical naffness with a searing theatrical performance. Glenda is a committed hair-flailing frontwoman and the band is compact and forceful. They could maybe do with an extra string to their song-writing bow, but they're certainly worth watching.
Where did all those Supergrass comparisons come from? OK, Warhen are young, a trio, and full of beans, but that's where it ends. Aerosmith, AC/DC and Cream are more useful reference points. It's silly, it's adolescent, it's resolutely dumb but Warhen's marriage of 70s cock rock and punk attack is great fun. They play well tonight too, though the tiny powerhoue drummer steals the show, as ever. Maybe the music doesn't linger in the memory, but for 30 minutes Warhen were captivating. Now, if only they could learn some interesting stage banter...
Saturday, 12 September 2009
Bellends In Their Own Lifetime
The first review that was ever commissioned from me. A wierd line up, to be sure, but kind of intriguing. A relatively anonymous piece of writing, but passable, excepting the embarrassing Mondeo "joke". On the plus side, I can guarantee that this review doesn't mention The Beatles at any point.
THE LEGENDARY BOOGIEMEN/ BRIDGE/ MORSO, The Bully 28/1/03
Morso look like thay could have come straight from central casting as "the three piece support band". Except they're good. Little things put them above their peers: the vocals are strident, and well phrased; the drummer plays hard, but still has a good grasp of musical space; the bassist's backing vocals aren't just in tune, but are as good as the lead (albeit with the same silly American drawl).
Don't unfurl the bunting just yet, though, Morso do have limitations. Some songs get lost in a fallow college rock wasteland, and there's too much sloppy wah-wah plugging gaps like musical Polyfilla. But Morso are worth seeing.
Like Rich Tea biscuits, Bridge are pleasant, but inherently unexciting. Two keyboards tinkle away most of the time, over polite Radio 2 rhythms, whilst Marc Cohn, Billy Joel and even Gilbert O'Sullivan seem to be recurrent reference points. Bridge take us on a brisk jolly trot through the lot, and it's occasionally bracing, but the scenery ain't up to much.
Ultimately Bridge are neat, tidy, shiny and efficient, like a Ford Mondeo - you'll have to make up your own minds whether this is a desriable state for a pop band. They also have some extremely trite lyrics, my own personal favourite being, "So sue me, sweet lady". Maybe if I mention Mondeos enough Ford will send me one...
The Legendary Boogiemen aren't legendary, but they do boogie. And that's about all they do. It's roadhouse blues for boozing truckers, with all the subtlety this implies. Like a lukewarm Canned heat, a shallow Deep Purple and a skimmed Cream by turns, no matter what style they try, the tipsy sergeant major on drums plays exactly the same beat, and soon enough the guitarists launch into finesse-free solos, making Bully Jazzman Denny Illett look like the apex of pith and concision.
All this while the singer stumbles about confused, looking like Ronald Rreagan at a rave. They play a lumpen "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean". They play "Strange Brew", which sounds exactly the same. They even play the Top Gear theme. For what seems like twenty minutes. They're obviously adept musicians but this merely compounds the offence. Only two sorts of people will like the Boogiemen: those who have never had an idea in their heads, and those who have never heard rock music. And maybe the very very drunk. Rubbish. Unlike the Ford Mondeo.
THE LEGENDARY BOOGIEMEN/ BRIDGE/ MORSO, The Bully 28/1/03
Morso look like thay could have come straight from central casting as "the three piece support band". Except they're good. Little things put them above their peers: the vocals are strident, and well phrased; the drummer plays hard, but still has a good grasp of musical space; the bassist's backing vocals aren't just in tune, but are as good as the lead (albeit with the same silly American drawl).
Don't unfurl the bunting just yet, though, Morso do have limitations. Some songs get lost in a fallow college rock wasteland, and there's too much sloppy wah-wah plugging gaps like musical Polyfilla. But Morso are worth seeing.
Like Rich Tea biscuits, Bridge are pleasant, but inherently unexciting. Two keyboards tinkle away most of the time, over polite Radio 2 rhythms, whilst Marc Cohn, Billy Joel and even Gilbert O'Sullivan seem to be recurrent reference points. Bridge take us on a brisk jolly trot through the lot, and it's occasionally bracing, but the scenery ain't up to much.
Ultimately Bridge are neat, tidy, shiny and efficient, like a Ford Mondeo - you'll have to make up your own minds whether this is a desriable state for a pop band. They also have some extremely trite lyrics, my own personal favourite being, "So sue me, sweet lady". Maybe if I mention Mondeos enough Ford will send me one...
The Legendary Boogiemen aren't legendary, but they do boogie. And that's about all they do. It's roadhouse blues for boozing truckers, with all the subtlety this implies. Like a lukewarm Canned heat, a shallow Deep Purple and a skimmed Cream by turns, no matter what style they try, the tipsy sergeant major on drums plays exactly the same beat, and soon enough the guitarists launch into finesse-free solos, making Bully Jazzman Denny Illett look like the apex of pith and concision.
All this while the singer stumbles about confused, looking like Ronald Rreagan at a rave. They play a lumpen "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean". They play "Strange Brew", which sounds exactly the same. They even play the Top Gear theme. For what seems like twenty minutes. They're obviously adept musicians but this merely compounds the offence. Only two sorts of people will like the Boogiemen: those who have never had an idea in their heads, and those who have never heard rock music. And maybe the very very drunk. Rubbish. Unlike the Ford Mondeo.
Saturday, 5 September 2009
Cutting Words
I'm in a better mood today, even if I still feel a bit crappy. Who cares if not many people read the site? I still get a lot of hits from returning viewers, so consider yourselves in a select club. Anyway, to reward you here's some more shite from the old BBC days. One of my very first reviews, my 3rd I think. And yes, Oxfordbands used to promote, and now don't but do print my reviews. Very insular and confusing, I'll admit. The Rock Of Travolta were a very popular local post-rock type act that I never cared for. Also, the mention of Nightshift predates my writing for it, if you care to follow along and add this review to your free wallchart at home.
THE YOUNG KNIVES/ INTENTIONS OF AN ASTEROID/ JARCREW, Oxfordbands, The Wheatsheaf, 2/03
Any gig that features a vocalist jumping through the crowd like a clockwork monkey whilst other band members tumble around the stage Keystone Cops style is going to be relatively memorable, even if the tunes aren't. Luckily Jarcrew manage to indulge in such tomfoolery whilst grinding out some enticing, complex music. They've played recently with Alec Empire, and I imagine Mr. Digital Hardcore was right at home with their incandescent (slightly adolescent?) energy, love of righteous noise and eclectic musical references.
Most tracks run like this: the keyboard/minidisc offers up doodles from a variety of genres (I spotted electro, glitchtronica, dub, Sun Ra space washes and Stereolab chugalong), before the rest of the band pummel the poor thing to the floor with a pounding, but controlled and intricate, cacophony. It's like some mad Welsh sound assassins trashing an office party at The Wire. It's like a buig, ballsy riff-happy version of Melt Banana. It's also a damned good show.
Intentions Of An Asteroid own so many guitars they have a guitar tech stood at the side of the stage, with the self-conscious air of a man in a urinal queue, which pretty much sums them up. There's nothing wrong with their emo-ish power pop, but it looks and sounds a tad flat after Jarcrew.
It's spirited stuff, though, with a raw searching voal, twin guitar attack, and a touch of early Manics round the chorus area, all served in a neat, clatering parcel by four men jerking energetically on the spot, like the plastic dancing flowers sold in service stations. Unfortunately this wasn't their night, but next time it might just be.
The Young Knives sound like The Pixies, Wire and Pere Ubu. Anyone from Nightshift reading this will be shouting, "We said that first!", but it's true, TYK sound exactly like The Pixies, Wire and Pere Ubu. (Unlike, say The Rock Of Travolta, who are alleged to sound like Add N To (X) and Godspeed..., but actually sound like asome blokes playing along with A-Proto-Tune-A-Day). Not that there's any problem with this, and TYK supply taut, angular new wave excellence like it's their birthright.
It sounds superb: you probably either already know this, or have at least read it countless times before, so I'll surge ahead. George Orwell once wrote about Dickens that his architecture was poor, but his gargoyles glorious. TYK are similar. Little elements are truly special - the martial snare rattle in "Kramer Vs Kramer", the clothes, the bit that goes "J-j-j-j-j-john" - but perhaps, underneath, the songs are a bit obvious, or derivative. Then again, who cares? Do yourself a favour, go see The Young Knives. Or read Dickens.
THE YOUNG KNIVES/ INTENTIONS OF AN ASTEROID/ JARCREW, Oxfordbands, The Wheatsheaf, 2/03
Any gig that features a vocalist jumping through the crowd like a clockwork monkey whilst other band members tumble around the stage Keystone Cops style is going to be relatively memorable, even if the tunes aren't. Luckily Jarcrew manage to indulge in such tomfoolery whilst grinding out some enticing, complex music. They've played recently with Alec Empire, and I imagine Mr. Digital Hardcore was right at home with their incandescent (slightly adolescent?) energy, love of righteous noise and eclectic musical references.
Most tracks run like this: the keyboard/minidisc offers up doodles from a variety of genres (I spotted electro, glitchtronica, dub, Sun Ra space washes and Stereolab chugalong), before the rest of the band pummel the poor thing to the floor with a pounding, but controlled and intricate, cacophony. It's like some mad Welsh sound assassins trashing an office party at The Wire. It's like a buig, ballsy riff-happy version of Melt Banana. It's also a damned good show.
Intentions Of An Asteroid own so many guitars they have a guitar tech stood at the side of the stage, with the self-conscious air of a man in a urinal queue, which pretty much sums them up. There's nothing wrong with their emo-ish power pop, but it looks and sounds a tad flat after Jarcrew.
It's spirited stuff, though, with a raw searching voal, twin guitar attack, and a touch of early Manics round the chorus area, all served in a neat, clatering parcel by four men jerking energetically on the spot, like the plastic dancing flowers sold in service stations. Unfortunately this wasn't their night, but next time it might just be.
The Young Knives sound like The Pixies, Wire and Pere Ubu. Anyone from Nightshift reading this will be shouting, "We said that first!", but it's true, TYK sound exactly like The Pixies, Wire and Pere Ubu. (Unlike, say The Rock Of Travolta, who are alleged to sound like Add N To (X) and Godspeed..., but actually sound like asome blokes playing along with A-Proto-Tune-A-Day). Not that there's any problem with this, and TYK supply taut, angular new wave excellence like it's their birthright.
It sounds superb: you probably either already know this, or have at least read it countless times before, so I'll surge ahead. George Orwell once wrote about Dickens that his architecture was poor, but his gargoyles glorious. TYK are similar. Little elements are truly special - the martial snare rattle in "Kramer Vs Kramer", the clothes, the bit that goes "J-j-j-j-j-john" - but perhaps, underneath, the songs are a bit obvious, or derivative. Then again, who cares? Do yourself a favour, go see The Young Knives. Or read Dickens.
Saturday, 29 August 2009
Pieces Of Ape! Pieces Of Ape!
This is quite readable for one of my old BBC reviews, I'd say. I'd go so far as to call it "passable".
I spoil you, I really do.
PART CHIMP/ 65 DAYS OF STATIC. THE SUNNYVALE NOISE SUB-ELEMENT, One Louder, Wheatsheaf, 14/2/03
Dynamics. Now there's a contentious issue. Should a performance be a rollercoaster of volume and tempi, or is that crass theatrics? John Lee Hooker played the same song his whole career, and is perpetually mesmerising, whilst a Christina Aguilera show leaps from rock to rap to ballad, creating nothing but a variegated tedium.
Dynamics figure high on Part Chimp's agenda. The first track bounces from arid single note deserts to furry blocks of noise every few bars; later a Valentine's Day track (allegedly) flips between grinding churn and throbbing blast with gusto. Imagine a whole Mogwai album condensed into three minutes, and that's roughly what we hear...until the shouty vocals pop up, that is. To my mind, when playing the fuzzy noise card, rock growls and drum fills actually detract fro the experience, providing a mundane reference point in the assault, and noticeably diluting the sonic immersion. Having said that, Part Chimp are obviously a rock band, not the Glenn Branca Ensemble, so maybe I'll shut up. All in all, a not unplesant monolith of sound. But then, monoliths shouldn't really be pleasant, should they?
Conversely, 65 Days Of Static don't worry about dynamics so much, the guitars and bass strumming along over dirty pre-programmed loops and hisses. There are two problems with this.
Firstly the sound is terrible (nobody's fault, really, it's a good night for the gremlins), so the programmed sections are lifelessly flat. The whole thing's also strangely quiet (One Louder, you say?), so the band consequently sound like some kids jamming whilst an Asian Dub Foundation record plays next door. Secondly, the live element is sadly obvious and uniform in tone (some odd jerky moments excepted), particularly the bass. Which is a pity as the prerecorded parts - what we hear of them - are pretty effective, combining drum & bass with 70 Gwen Party's filthy shimmy.
"This is the part where you dance," they shout at the static crowd. No, this is the part where you go home, lock the guitars away, turn the machines back on and start layering those rhythms. Then we dance.
Ironically, The Sunnyvale Noise Sub-Element's programmed sections sound great, but now we can't hear the rest of the band. And something keeps breaking down half way through the songs. Therefore, this truncated set probably doesn't do them justice, so let's be brief. The samples and splutters are enticing (if a teensy bit PWEI), and some of the random skronks and squeaks are superb, but, as with 65 Days, the guitarists seem redundant, chugging along in the background. More noise, fewer guitars: Anyone for The Sunnyvale Noise Sub-Sub-Element?
I spoil you, I really do.
PART CHIMP/ 65 DAYS OF STATIC. THE SUNNYVALE NOISE SUB-ELEMENT, One Louder, Wheatsheaf, 14/2/03
Dynamics. Now there's a contentious issue. Should a performance be a rollercoaster of volume and tempi, or is that crass theatrics? John Lee Hooker played the same song his whole career, and is perpetually mesmerising, whilst a Christina Aguilera show leaps from rock to rap to ballad, creating nothing but a variegated tedium.
Dynamics figure high on Part Chimp's agenda. The first track bounces from arid single note deserts to furry blocks of noise every few bars; later a Valentine's Day track (allegedly) flips between grinding churn and throbbing blast with gusto. Imagine a whole Mogwai album condensed into three minutes, and that's roughly what we hear...until the shouty vocals pop up, that is. To my mind, when playing the fuzzy noise card, rock growls and drum fills actually detract fro the experience, providing a mundane reference point in the assault, and noticeably diluting the sonic immersion. Having said that, Part Chimp are obviously a rock band, not the Glenn Branca Ensemble, so maybe I'll shut up. All in all, a not unplesant monolith of sound. But then, monoliths shouldn't really be pleasant, should they?
Conversely, 65 Days Of Static don't worry about dynamics so much, the guitars and bass strumming along over dirty pre-programmed loops and hisses. There are two problems with this.
Firstly the sound is terrible (nobody's fault, really, it's a good night for the gremlins), so the programmed sections are lifelessly flat. The whole thing's also strangely quiet (One Louder, you say?), so the band consequently sound like some kids jamming whilst an Asian Dub Foundation record plays next door. Secondly, the live element is sadly obvious and uniform in tone (some odd jerky moments excepted), particularly the bass. Which is a pity as the prerecorded parts - what we hear of them - are pretty effective, combining drum & bass with 70 Gwen Party's filthy shimmy.
"This is the part where you dance," they shout at the static crowd. No, this is the part where you go home, lock the guitars away, turn the machines back on and start layering those rhythms. Then we dance.
Ironically, The Sunnyvale Noise Sub-Element's programmed sections sound great, but now we can't hear the rest of the band. And something keeps breaking down half way through the songs. Therefore, this truncated set probably doesn't do them justice, so let's be brief. The samples and splutters are enticing (if a teensy bit PWEI), and some of the random skronks and squeaks are superb, but, as with 65 Days, the guitarists seem redundant, chugging along in the background. More noise, fewer guitars: Anyone for The Sunnyvale Noise Sub-Sub-Element?
Saturday, 22 August 2009
A Life In The Day
Jesus, these old BBC reviews get worse and worse. Should I be depressed at how bad I used to be, or happy that wahetever else may have happened, at least I've improved slightly? Or should I have another cup of tea and then go and do something useful?
MAYFLY, South Park, 4/5/03
It almost seems churlish to start being critical about a free family fun day in the park. Then again, Blind Date is free family fun, and who could watch that and hold back a (probably violent) critical reaction? Also, I'm insecure enough to need to see my half-formed opinions in print. Not that this website is precisely "in print". Unless you print it.
Oh no, I've wasted all these words and I haven't even started to talk about X-Hail...which is lucky, as I didn't see them. I've got a good excuse though - I had to go and buy beer. Sorry.
I did, however, see Eeebleee, the wild card in the day's line up. Take one part shimmering guitar, one part double bass, and three parts crunchy loops, then shake until barely recognisable, and that's the 'bleee, as they are surely not known, and never will be. When it works, it's an unexpectedly poppy cocktail; when it doesn't it sounds like an old OMD B side. This performance is about 50/50.
Let's be honest, Chamfer are pretty much Kula Shaker, albeit a less pompous version. Plenty of rock riffs, keyboard hooks and Indian percussion. This sort of thing probably works better in the (intermittent) sunshine, but it sounds mighty fine, the band turning in a tight, spirited performance, irrespective of amp troubles. Unashamedly positive music played by unpretentiously decent people is pretty hard to dislike, especially on a bank holiday.
Nation open up the covers half of the afternoon, cracking out some rock chestnuts, from Elvis to Oasis, interspersed with a few originals. They're a pretty neat little unit, although they do take on vocal hurdles that are a bit beyond them: Michael Jackson? The Beach Boys? The keyboardist takes over vocal duties for "Heard It Through The Grapevine" and proceeds to sing better than the frontman...and he's not wearing a lino dressing gown, whihc is also in his favour.
Unfortunately I wasn't able to watch The Cheesegraters, but seeing as their slogan is "Right about now, the funk-soul covers", you can probably draw your own conclusions.
I don't know how many of your days out end up with people dressed in 19th Century bathing suits playing skiffle versions of well known tunes, but for me The Boxhedge Clippers was a first. Talking of things sounding better in the sun - we were earlier, do keep up - The Clippers are made for a whimsical summer afternoon. The call it "skuffle", I call it hilarious. They're very much in the vein of earl Bonzo Dog Band, and to me the sight of an old chap, resembling a drunken badger, accordioning his way through "Anarchy In The UK" is more than satisfying. If it's too silly for your tastes, you may wish to focus on the tight tempo changes, and the lush harmonies. Or you may wish to go and have an overpriced burger instead.
All in all a varied and well-chosen line up, with some excellent sound from a man called Mark Kelly, made for an enjoyable day in South Park. Let's see if we can repeat this line up later in the year, in place of Fox Fm and their hordes of Atomic Kittenettes...
MAYFLY, South Park, 4/5/03
It almost seems churlish to start being critical about a free family fun day in the park. Then again, Blind Date is free family fun, and who could watch that and hold back a (probably violent) critical reaction? Also, I'm insecure enough to need to see my half-formed opinions in print. Not that this website is precisely "in print". Unless you print it.
Oh no, I've wasted all these words and I haven't even started to talk about X-Hail...which is lucky, as I didn't see them. I've got a good excuse though - I had to go and buy beer. Sorry.
I did, however, see Eeebleee, the wild card in the day's line up. Take one part shimmering guitar, one part double bass, and three parts crunchy loops, then shake until barely recognisable, and that's the 'bleee, as they are surely not known, and never will be. When it works, it's an unexpectedly poppy cocktail; when it doesn't it sounds like an old OMD B side. This performance is about 50/50.
Let's be honest, Chamfer are pretty much Kula Shaker, albeit a less pompous version. Plenty of rock riffs, keyboard hooks and Indian percussion. This sort of thing probably works better in the (intermittent) sunshine, but it sounds mighty fine, the band turning in a tight, spirited performance, irrespective of amp troubles. Unashamedly positive music played by unpretentiously decent people is pretty hard to dislike, especially on a bank holiday.
Nation open up the covers half of the afternoon, cracking out some rock chestnuts, from Elvis to Oasis, interspersed with a few originals. They're a pretty neat little unit, although they do take on vocal hurdles that are a bit beyond them: Michael Jackson? The Beach Boys? The keyboardist takes over vocal duties for "Heard It Through The Grapevine" and proceeds to sing better than the frontman...and he's not wearing a lino dressing gown, whihc is also in his favour.
Unfortunately I wasn't able to watch The Cheesegraters, but seeing as their slogan is "Right about now, the funk-soul covers", you can probably draw your own conclusions.
I don't know how many of your days out end up with people dressed in 19th Century bathing suits playing skiffle versions of well known tunes, but for me The Boxhedge Clippers was a first. Talking of things sounding better in the sun - we were earlier, do keep up - The Clippers are made for a whimsical summer afternoon. The call it "skuffle", I call it hilarious. They're very much in the vein of earl Bonzo Dog Band, and to me the sight of an old chap, resembling a drunken badger, accordioning his way through "Anarchy In The UK" is more than satisfying. If it's too silly for your tastes, you may wish to focus on the tight tempo changes, and the lush harmonies. Or you may wish to go and have an overpriced burger instead.
All in all a varied and well-chosen line up, with some excellent sound from a man called Mark Kelly, made for an enjoyable day in South Park. Let's see if we can repeat this line up later in the year, in place of Fox Fm and their hordes of Atomic Kittenettes...
Saturday, 15 August 2009
Brownie Packin' Momma
Hmm, this review kind of bites off more than it can chew, doesn't it? Starts well, and then gets messy, until I'm throwing Borges at it in a desperate attempt to get things to stick together.
Interesting fact 1: Youthmovies dropped the last two words from their name, and are now a much better band.
Interesting fact 2: When this reivew was published the naughty word was edited out. Fine by me, but "tosh" really doesn't have the same force as "shit". Surely you could have found a better synonym, ed!
BROWN OWL/ YOUTH MOVIE SOUNDTRACK STRATEGIES/ WOLVES! (OF GREECE), 26/2/03
People were rathe apocalyptic in the mid-nineties...must have been the encroaching millenium. Why else would they coin the term "post-rock"? Did it really seem as though rock were a vast, unwieldy corpse to scavenge? Well, nowadays post-rock doesn't give us images of the death of an artform, but normally translates as "no singer, and they don't do ska-punk knees up". Brown Owl are post-rock in the latter sense (tempo changes, spastic drum fills, neverending pieces, pseudo-bebop cymbal splahes), but they don't do it badly at all. Their references are pretty standard: Shallac, Slint, Aerial M, blah blah (cut up some old post-rock reviews and write this sentence yourself, kids). This doesn't stop them being ace - they just stay within the confines of the genre.
There are onnly three orf them, but sometimes two of them are drummers, and a two-drumkit lineup works for me (Adam Ant, The Fall '82 vintage, Circle). They're jerky, intricate, comical, elastic, irridescent - everything you want from post-rock, really. Then again, this stuff's more about texture than tune, so live performances are a little frustrating. Get them into a giant studio with a grat big effects machine and then we're talking.
It's hard to do justice to variable, semi-successful bands in these short reviews: "unexpugrated shit" and "undying genius" are such pithy phrases, but the middle ground's hard to pin down. Youth Move Soundtrack Strategies are like two separate bands simultaneously, one a hardcore bludgeoning beast, and one a dissonant, experimental miasma: if only one were better than the other, it would be easier for me. Sigh.
There are a lot of good sounds here, like yapping viocals, abstract synths, pounding drums, megaphone gurgle, and wandering guitars. Sometimes they gel, and sometimes they don't: I'm not sure which is more interesting. Lost-in-the-post-rock.
R.E.M. named early tune "Wolves, Lower" because they "liked the comma". Wolves! (Of Greece) have a similar love of punctuation (and the lupine), though not as much as :zoviet*france: or si-{cut}.db. Borges told us that it is the logical end of any art to "overdo its own tricks". Wolves! certainly feel as though they've stretched their artpunk trickbag to the limit, perhaps bringing us back to post-rock's millenial definition.
The instruments crackle away inside a wall of impenetrable feedback, whilst the vocalist rants inaudibly; visually the flailing Wolves" are chimps' teaparty meets playgroup tartrazine OD (uptown, presumably), and they spend as much time on the floor as upright. A celebratory critique of rock excesses? Or some noisy men leaping aournd? Like cheap alcohol it can be intoxicating if you give yourself up to it, but I wouldn't advise it as a way to spend an evening.
Interesting fact 1: Youthmovies dropped the last two words from their name, and are now a much better band.
Interesting fact 2: When this reivew was published the naughty word was edited out. Fine by me, but "tosh" really doesn't have the same force as "shit". Surely you could have found a better synonym, ed!
BROWN OWL/ YOUTH MOVIE SOUNDTRACK STRATEGIES/ WOLVES! (OF GREECE), 26/2/03
People were rathe apocalyptic in the mid-nineties...must have been the encroaching millenium. Why else would they coin the term "post-rock"? Did it really seem as though rock were a vast, unwieldy corpse to scavenge? Well, nowadays post-rock doesn't give us images of the death of an artform, but normally translates as "no singer, and they don't do ska-punk knees up". Brown Owl are post-rock in the latter sense (tempo changes, spastic drum fills, neverending pieces, pseudo-bebop cymbal splahes), but they don't do it badly at all. Their references are pretty standard: Shallac, Slint, Aerial M, blah blah (cut up some old post-rock reviews and write this sentence yourself, kids). This doesn't stop them being ace - they just stay within the confines of the genre.
There are onnly three orf them, but sometimes two of them are drummers, and a two-drumkit lineup works for me (Adam Ant, The Fall '82 vintage, Circle). They're jerky, intricate, comical, elastic, irridescent - everything you want from post-rock, really. Then again, this stuff's more about texture than tune, so live performances are a little frustrating. Get them into a giant studio with a grat big effects machine and then we're talking.
It's hard to do justice to variable, semi-successful bands in these short reviews: "unexpugrated shit" and "undying genius" are such pithy phrases, but the middle ground's hard to pin down. Youth Move Soundtrack Strategies are like two separate bands simultaneously, one a hardcore bludgeoning beast, and one a dissonant, experimental miasma: if only one were better than the other, it would be easier for me. Sigh.
There are a lot of good sounds here, like yapping viocals, abstract synths, pounding drums, megaphone gurgle, and wandering guitars. Sometimes they gel, and sometimes they don't: I'm not sure which is more interesting. Lost-in-the-post-rock.
R.E.M. named early tune "Wolves, Lower" because they "liked the comma". Wolves! (Of Greece) have a similar love of punctuation (and the lupine), though not as much as :zoviet*france: or si-{cut}.db. Borges told us that it is the logical end of any art to "overdo its own tricks". Wolves! certainly feel as though they've stretched their artpunk trickbag to the limit, perhaps bringing us back to post-rock's millenial definition.
The instruments crackle away inside a wall of impenetrable feedback, whilst the vocalist rants inaudibly; visually the flailing Wolves" are chimps' teaparty meets playgroup tartrazine OD (uptown, presumably), and they spend as much time on the floor as upright. A celebratory critique of rock excesses? Or some noisy men leaping aournd? Like cheap alcohol it can be intoxicating if you give yourself up to it, but I wouldn't advise it as a way to spend an evening.
Saturday, 8 August 2009
Stern Words
Once again, as with my very first review, this involves me filling in and helping out BBC writer Jeremy Stern because he had an urgent engagement in the bath, or the pub, or something. This time he phoned to say he wa supposed to be reviewing a gig, but could only make the last act; seeing as I was going anyway, I agreed to review the first two performances. It's a rubbish piece of writing, but an excellent piece of altruism, so it probably balances out.
JAKE/CACHE, Gappy Tooth Industries, The Zodiac, 9/03
Having seen Cache recently, and been a little bored by proceedings, it was a pleasant surprise to watch them tonight. They seem to have ironed out some wrinkles, and polished up a bunch of corners. Not to mention apparently giving the drummer a clip round the ear and a strong cup of coffee.
It's still hardly groundbreaking stuff, and far too unassuming for my tastes, but the vocals aren't half bad, with a fruity twist of Edie Brickell and a soupcon of Eddi Reader. Still a bit of an MOR soup, then, but at least now we're floating on it, not drowning in it.
Prince. The artist formerly known as any good. You may have read that a certain Mr. H. M. Superstar is the heir to the classic Prince crown, but, though he's got the sleazy pants and dancing girls, he hasn't one ounce of the soul. Jake, on the other hand, is exactly as exhilirating as his name isn't. Check the ridiculous pork pie hat, the white boy apoplexy of the hand gestures, the Norf Lahndon soulboy exhortations to dance, and the syrupy falsetto
This is 30 minutes of funk cabaret like Jamiroquai's wildest fantasies; like Cameo meeting Roachford in a massage parlour; like - well, basically like Prince...almost exactly like Prince.
OK, it's a buit wilfully nostalgic (Sign O' The Times Gone By, maybe) but Jake is one born performer backed by three natural musicians - how can you lose? Catch him playing with Chamfer in the near future. Now, if only they could write a few more tunes...
[At this jhuncture Jeremy turned up and wrote some guff or other about Birmingham metalers Last Under The Sun]
JAKE/CACHE, Gappy Tooth Industries, The Zodiac, 9/03
Having seen Cache recently, and been a little bored by proceedings, it was a pleasant surprise to watch them tonight. They seem to have ironed out some wrinkles, and polished up a bunch of corners. Not to mention apparently giving the drummer a clip round the ear and a strong cup of coffee.
It's still hardly groundbreaking stuff, and far too unassuming for my tastes, but the vocals aren't half bad, with a fruity twist of Edie Brickell and a soupcon of Eddi Reader. Still a bit of an MOR soup, then, but at least now we're floating on it, not drowning in it.
Prince. The artist formerly known as any good. You may have read that a certain Mr. H. M. Superstar is the heir to the classic Prince crown, but, though he's got the sleazy pants and dancing girls, he hasn't one ounce of the soul. Jake, on the other hand, is exactly as exhilirating as his name isn't. Check the ridiculous pork pie hat, the white boy apoplexy of the hand gestures, the Norf Lahndon soulboy exhortations to dance, and the syrupy falsetto
This is 30 minutes of funk cabaret like Jamiroquai's wildest fantasies; like Cameo meeting Roachford in a massage parlour; like - well, basically like Prince...almost exactly like Prince.
OK, it's a buit wilfully nostalgic (Sign O' The Times Gone By, maybe) but Jake is one born performer backed by three natural musicians - how can you lose? Catch him playing with Chamfer in the near future. Now, if only they could write a few more tunes...
[At this jhuncture Jeremy turned up and wrote some guff or other about Birmingham metalers Last Under The Sun]
Saturday, 18 July 2009
Break Like The Fast
I'm off on my holidays for a week or so, so this'll be the last post for a little bit. Go and look at Alastair's page instead, over there on the right>>>
He has some Lonely Island videos for you to chuckle at.
SEXY BREAKFAST/ THE EVENINGS/ DIATRIBE - Klub Kakafanney, Wheatsheaf, 12/03
Diatribe look like the quintessential young, local support act. They've got the vast rack of guitar pedals, all of which sound identical; they've got the obligatory Cheech & Chong reference; they've got a mate in the audience whom they namecheck; they've got that strange mixture of self-consciousness and insouciance. Still, for all these signifiers of newness, they're entirely capable of warming up tonight's crowd, with some juicy little indie-rock numbers, boasting all the right crunch and bounce. Sadly they haven't yet got many angles to crunch, or much to bounce off, but another few months spent writing some songs with a bit more character might well find them sneaking effortlessly up the bill.
Damn! If I'd brought my I-Spy Book Of Oxford Pop I could have scored a fortune from The Evenings, featuring talent from Suitable Case For Treatment, Eeebleee, Sunnyvale and Sexy Breakfast. But who cares who they are when they make music so abstractedly, hilariously funky? The pre-programmed sections bang away merrily, whilst the rest of them pummel alongside (wlthough not always exactly in time, unfortunately), and, err, that's it. Except that's more than enough for now. Like their spiritual parents Add N To (X) they might want to think about developing their great hulking soundbeasts, and taking them them a bit further. Having said this, the last tune has a neat Rephlexoid synth line, and a the third, with it's deliriously dumb "la la la" chorus resembles a scranky, mud-caked Bentley Rhythm Ace.
My spellchecker doesn't like the word "scranky"; obviously it's never seen The Evenings.
Don't ask me how, but somehow I haven't seen Sexy Breakfast live for about three years, and I didn't much like them then. And now?
Well, the news (to me, at least), is that they sound like Vanilla Fudge. Alternatively, they're like a cross between Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Longpigs, and A-Ha. Indescribable, in other words. They crash through a bunch of their tunes to a healthy, adoring crowd, and it sounds great, throwing in muso workouts, tongue in cheek musical theatre references, and passages of plain, startling beauty in equal measure.
To be honest, I can't entirely comprehend their continuing deification, but the fact remains that, despite my colleague's dissatisfaction with the new recording, Sexy Breakfast are still possibly the best live act in Oxfordshire. But then, you probably already knew this.
He has some Lonely Island videos for you to chuckle at.
SEXY BREAKFAST/ THE EVENINGS/ DIATRIBE - Klub Kakafanney, Wheatsheaf, 12/03
Diatribe look like the quintessential young, local support act. They've got the vast rack of guitar pedals, all of which sound identical; they've got the obligatory Cheech & Chong reference; they've got a mate in the audience whom they namecheck; they've got that strange mixture of self-consciousness and insouciance. Still, for all these signifiers of newness, they're entirely capable of warming up tonight's crowd, with some juicy little indie-rock numbers, boasting all the right crunch and bounce. Sadly they haven't yet got many angles to crunch, or much to bounce off, but another few months spent writing some songs with a bit more character might well find them sneaking effortlessly up the bill.
Damn! If I'd brought my I-Spy Book Of Oxford Pop I could have scored a fortune from The Evenings, featuring talent from Suitable Case For Treatment, Eeebleee, Sunnyvale and Sexy Breakfast. But who cares who they are when they make music so abstractedly, hilariously funky? The pre-programmed sections bang away merrily, whilst the rest of them pummel alongside (wlthough not always exactly in time, unfortunately), and, err, that's it. Except that's more than enough for now. Like their spiritual parents Add N To (X) they might want to think about developing their great hulking soundbeasts, and taking them them a bit further. Having said this, the last tune has a neat Rephlexoid synth line, and a the third, with it's deliriously dumb "la la la" chorus resembles a scranky, mud-caked Bentley Rhythm Ace.
My spellchecker doesn't like the word "scranky"; obviously it's never seen The Evenings.
Don't ask me how, but somehow I haven't seen Sexy Breakfast live for about three years, and I didn't much like them then. And now?
Well, the news (to me, at least), is that they sound like Vanilla Fudge. Alternatively, they're like a cross between Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Longpigs, and A-Ha. Indescribable, in other words. They crash through a bunch of their tunes to a healthy, adoring crowd, and it sounds great, throwing in muso workouts, tongue in cheek musical theatre references, and passages of plain, startling beauty in equal measure.
To be honest, I can't entirely comprehend their continuing deification, but the fact remains that, despite my colleague's dissatisfaction with the new recording, Sexy Breakfast are still possibly the best live act in Oxfordshire. But then, you probably already knew this.
Thursday, 9 July 2009
The Blizzard Of Zod
I went to see this because my mate Russ wanted to, and he reviewed it himself (probably online somewhere, if you're prepared to make the effort). This was a few months before their monster hit, "Run", and I'd never heard of SNow Patrol, but they were fine, & I'm sure I'd have written the same if I'd seen them 6 months later, although I may have included a sentence along the lines of "Stop playing that bloody song I bloody hear every ten bloody minutes! You know, the one about the lighter, or something".
SNOW PATROL/ THE UNISEX/ THE LAKE AT DIVERS' POINT - The Zodiac, 10/03
The Lake At Divers' Point is a great name for a band. In fact, I like it so much I think I'm going to type it again.
The Lake At Divers' Point,
Ah, yes, that was fun...and filled a bit of space because, frankly, there isn't much to say about this slightly poppy indie threepiece. The most interesting elements are the little tempo changes, although ironically these tend to be the least well executed. They aren't bad, but there are far too many bands sounding like this, and, as Samuel L. Jackson once said, personality goes a long way.
Tonight The Unisex is a revelation. But not in a good way, so if I find their publicist has used that as a quote I'll - well, I'll be very upset. They're revelatory because they explain why I never liked The Hives much, by providing the missing link between today's New Wave of New Wave of New Wave acts, and Menswe@r.
On the rock side they have some sprightly little guitar solos, and an organ that screams "Garage rock!". On the pop side they have a singer in (and out of) a lousy shirt who could be doing "flounce" in a game of charades, and a load of old Kinks/music hall rhythms sounding like the sickly karaoke offspring of "Sunday Sunday" and "Daydreamer". And that stupid Britpop name. In fairness they're jaunty, likable, and energetic, but The Unisex sounds like a band that missed the bus. A big, red, swingin' cartoon London bus, presumably.
Snow Patrol can't really go too wrong after this warm up, and they proceed to not go too wrong pretty effectively. The way the guitars chug through the chords, and the keyboards come over spiky yet wistful, whilst the vocals sneak up in a friendly manner almost reminds me of Grandaddy - albeit a big anthemic Grandaddy who don't look like they live in a shack made of Miller cans and scrap tarpaulin.
When the chips are down, it's just Evening Session indie, and is hardly opriginal, but the guitars lock and swirl together pretty neatly, and the singer is a lovable chap. I can't explain the ecstatic response the huge crowd gives them, but Snow Patrol delivers a fair set of alt-anthems of the type that Northern Ireland seems to specialise in. Satisfying.
SNOW PATROL/ THE UNISEX/ THE LAKE AT DIVERS' POINT - The Zodiac, 10/03
The Lake At Divers' Point is a great name for a band. In fact, I like it so much I think I'm going to type it again.
The Lake At Divers' Point,
Ah, yes, that was fun...and filled a bit of space because, frankly, there isn't much to say about this slightly poppy indie threepiece. The most interesting elements are the little tempo changes, although ironically these tend to be the least well executed. They aren't bad, but there are far too many bands sounding like this, and, as Samuel L. Jackson once said, personality goes a long way.
Tonight The Unisex is a revelation. But not in a good way, so if I find their publicist has used that as a quote I'll - well, I'll be very upset. They're revelatory because they explain why I never liked The Hives much, by providing the missing link between today's New Wave of New Wave of New Wave acts, and Menswe@r.
On the rock side they have some sprightly little guitar solos, and an organ that screams "Garage rock!". On the pop side they have a singer in (and out of) a lousy shirt who could be doing "flounce" in a game of charades, and a load of old Kinks/music hall rhythms sounding like the sickly karaoke offspring of "Sunday Sunday" and "Daydreamer". And that stupid Britpop name. In fairness they're jaunty, likable, and energetic, but The Unisex sounds like a band that missed the bus. A big, red, swingin' cartoon London bus, presumably.
Snow Patrol can't really go too wrong after this warm up, and they proceed to not go too wrong pretty effectively. The way the guitars chug through the chords, and the keyboards come over spiky yet wistful, whilst the vocals sneak up in a friendly manner almost reminds me of Grandaddy - albeit a big anthemic Grandaddy who don't look like they live in a shack made of Miller cans and scrap tarpaulin.
When the chips are down, it's just Evening Session indie, and is hardly opriginal, but the guitars lock and swirl together pretty neatly, and the singer is a lovable chap. I can't explain the ecstatic response the huge crowd gives them, but Snow Patrol delivers a fair set of alt-anthems of the type that Northern Ireland seems to specialise in. Satisfying.
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Inuit To Remember
The first nasty review I ever wrote! Not that I'm ever nasty, just generous, fair, or incisively correct.
ESKIMO/ONZICUBE/ET AL, The Wheatsheaf, 11/02
Proceedings begin pleasantly with a selection of acoustic songwriter types. It's strummy, it's croony, it's my-woman-done-left-me, and it's rather refreshingly unaffected. Some fine vocal performances, but the pick of the bunch is Gerry Hughes who delivers three tunes, including a fantastically slurred, assured reading of Tom Waits' "Ice Cream Man".
Posters outside the venue boast "extended support from Onzicube". When they wander offstage after about 20 minutes you wonder what they normally perform. Haikus? What we get, however briefly, is a nice loose bundle of acoustic bluesy oddments, with some strange almost post-rock angularities. I'd describe it as Bert Jansch meets Tortoise, if I thought you'd believe me for a second.
Ultimately they are let down by some sloppy rhythmic playing: the percussionist drifts into clumsy flutters, sounding like a squid in a washing machine full of tambourines, and the guitarist is exceptionaly wayward. A little judicious rehearsal could pay dividends.
A little judicious fashion advice could help Eskimo: the singer has one of those risible Craig David skintight hats, that look like the verucca socks kids had for school swimming lessons. However, considering they play the sort of anodyne MOR dreck you might get piped into your bedroom if Alan Partridge were Big Brother, headgear is the least of their worries.
The problem is that Eskimo are "entertainers", mixing their own featherlight numbers with "a few you might recognise". As such they are less a band, more the result of market research. The pianist has a ridiculous mobile disco voice, announcing "a little song by Mr. Lenny Kravitz". I keep expecting him to joke about the bride's father , until I remember where I am.
To give Eskimo their due, they play well, and the vocals are immaculate. I suppose that if you like Toploader, you'll love it - the crowd does. Just leave me out of it.
Did I mention the hat?
ESKIMO/ONZICUBE/ET AL, The Wheatsheaf, 11/02
Proceedings begin pleasantly with a selection of acoustic songwriter types. It's strummy, it's croony, it's my-woman-done-left-me, and it's rather refreshingly unaffected. Some fine vocal performances, but the pick of the bunch is Gerry Hughes who delivers three tunes, including a fantastically slurred, assured reading of Tom Waits' "Ice Cream Man".
Posters outside the venue boast "extended support from Onzicube". When they wander offstage after about 20 minutes you wonder what they normally perform. Haikus? What we get, however briefly, is a nice loose bundle of acoustic bluesy oddments, with some strange almost post-rock angularities. I'd describe it as Bert Jansch meets Tortoise, if I thought you'd believe me for a second.
Ultimately they are let down by some sloppy rhythmic playing: the percussionist drifts into clumsy flutters, sounding like a squid in a washing machine full of tambourines, and the guitarist is exceptionaly wayward. A little judicious rehearsal could pay dividends.
A little judicious fashion advice could help Eskimo: the singer has one of those risible Craig David skintight hats, that look like the verucca socks kids had for school swimming lessons. However, considering they play the sort of anodyne MOR dreck you might get piped into your bedroom if Alan Partridge were Big Brother, headgear is the least of their worries.
The problem is that Eskimo are "entertainers", mixing their own featherlight numbers with "a few you might recognise". As such they are less a band, more the result of market research. The pianist has a ridiculous mobile disco voice, announcing "a little song by Mr. Lenny Kravitz". I keep expecting him to joke about the bride's father , until I remember where I am.
To give Eskimo their due, they play well, and the vocals are immaculate. I suppose that if you like Toploader, you'll love it - the crowd does. Just leave me out of it.
Did I mention the hat?
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Zombie Radio
This is one of the last BBC reviews I did, if not the final installment. I remember writing this, feeling fed up with the micro-paragraphs and forced levity, & deciding to look elsewhere for someone to write for. Not that this excuses my woeful sub-Blackadder stick gags. Urgh.
MARCONI'S VOODOO/ FEEDBACK CITIZENS - Secret Hearts Club, Bully, 3/03
Entering the inaugral Secret Hearts Club night I find that everyone is dressed in smart 60s suits. Everyone. Glancing down at my scruffy shirt, panic hits. Is there a dress code? Have I committed some terrible faux pas, like attending an ambient dub festival without any Rizla, or going to a Stereophonics concert with an ounce of intelligence? They'll see me for the impostor I truly am!
Luckily, the room is soon filled with other unkempt individuals. Still, the organisors clearly want a real event, fusing natty dressing, funky DJs and quality performances. It looks as though they may succeed.
Feedback Citizens are one tight band. If you can go out in Oxford on a Thursday evening and find a fivepiece more slick and well rehearsed playing support, you're very lucky. They bounce around sassily, plaing immaculately, with more confident vigour than you could shake a stick at...even if you were uncontested international stick shaking champion 4 years consecutively.
Underneath the great playing and synchronised pouting, though, the songs themselves are mostly forgettable. The buzzing keyboard adds a slight garage edge, and the drums are a smidgin glam, but FBC are like the band whose name you can't remember from an NME Brats tour ten years ago. Some of the songs have so few surprises that even novice stick-shakers needn't break a sweat.
One of the tricks I've always loved is basslines that start leading the melody. I'm thinking Peter Hook, and occasionally Snuffy from Marconi's Voodoo. However, this is the ONLY point of intersection between Marconi's Voodoo and New Order, unless New Order have become a blistering funk-metal cabaret behind my back.
If you want a man stalking round the stage, playing silly hard rock extravagances, looking like a drug-addled General Custer and talking nonsense, this is the band for you; if you don't want that then you should seriously reevaluate your desires.
The whole noisy shebang probably wouldn't work if they weren't all three very talented players: it's the musical equivalent of keeping a straight face. Not that there are many straight faces tonight, on or off stage. Which is the general idea, I suppose.
MARCONI'S VOODOO/ FEEDBACK CITIZENS - Secret Hearts Club, Bully, 3/03
Entering the inaugral Secret Hearts Club night I find that everyone is dressed in smart 60s suits. Everyone. Glancing down at my scruffy shirt, panic hits. Is there a dress code? Have I committed some terrible faux pas, like attending an ambient dub festival without any Rizla, or going to a Stereophonics concert with an ounce of intelligence? They'll see me for the impostor I truly am!
Luckily, the room is soon filled with other unkempt individuals. Still, the organisors clearly want a real event, fusing natty dressing, funky DJs and quality performances. It looks as though they may succeed.
Feedback Citizens are one tight band. If you can go out in Oxford on a Thursday evening and find a fivepiece more slick and well rehearsed playing support, you're very lucky. They bounce around sassily, plaing immaculately, with more confident vigour than you could shake a stick at...even if you were uncontested international stick shaking champion 4 years consecutively.
Underneath the great playing and synchronised pouting, though, the songs themselves are mostly forgettable. The buzzing keyboard adds a slight garage edge, and the drums are a smidgin glam, but FBC are like the band whose name you can't remember from an NME Brats tour ten years ago. Some of the songs have so few surprises that even novice stick-shakers needn't break a sweat.
One of the tricks I've always loved is basslines that start leading the melody. I'm thinking Peter Hook, and occasionally Snuffy from Marconi's Voodoo. However, this is the ONLY point of intersection between Marconi's Voodoo and New Order, unless New Order have become a blistering funk-metal cabaret behind my back.
If you want a man stalking round the stage, playing silly hard rock extravagances, looking like a drug-addled General Custer and talking nonsense, this is the band for you; if you don't want that then you should seriously reevaluate your desires.
The whole noisy shebang probably wouldn't work if they weren't all three very talented players: it's the musical equivalent of keeping a straight face. Not that there are many straight faces tonight, on or off stage. Which is the general idea, I suppose.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
One Horris Race
This is a review that went down well. not only did The Fly quote some of it in their review (lazy beggars, they only have about 50 words to fill & they have to borrow some of mine!) but MC Lars himself referred to it, I'm pretty sure, in a later song about his visit ot the UK: "I got mad props from the BBC". MC Lars (he dropped the Horris) used to be ace, but he's not quite so good now. He got all professional and that, how dull. Still, good luck to him.
MC LARS HORRIS/ CHAMFER - Port Mahon, 3/03
Is The Zodiac too noisy for you? The Wheatsheaf a little too dingy? Try spending a evening at The Port Mahon, one of Oxfordshire's most unusual venues. Imagine a cross between a Victoruian parlour and an Irish scouthut, and you might be halfway there. Bands play through a tiny PA in front of an old fireplace, whilst the audience lounges around on old dining chairs. Any musicians that can't produce an intimate, relaxed armosphere in this setting shoud probably start updating their CVs.
No danger of that tonight, though. I had doubts about Chamfer unplugged, Gabbie's joyously silly keyboard lines being my favourite element of thier music heretofore, but I was happily proved wrong. Frontman Nick sat centre stage (centre hearth?) flanked by bassist and percussionist, and proceeded to play a warm semi-acoustic set, revealing far more subtlety than the electric Chamfer show.
True revelation of the gig, however, was the neat tabla work of the man they call The Guru, whose fluent rhythms are normally lost in the full band line-up. "Some Day", a lightly spikier song thatn their usual roster, stole the show, highlighting the slight predictability of the other tunes, but this is a minor quibble. A friendly, enjoyable set.
If you haven't caught MC Lars Horris during his short stay in Oxford you're a) too late, and b) a fool. This is white collegeboy hip-hop of the highest calibre, with consistently hilarious wordplay and overwrought theatrical delivery. Not that it doesn't get quite funky at times, too. Lars has the irrepressible energy and wondrous expression of a six year old in springtime, and his style is the boho wordsmithery of MC 900 Foot Jesus, Earthling, or any laidback rapper from a decade ago, when the term "trip hop" couild be employed without sniggering.
Sometimes Lars comes on like an engaging streetwise teacher, rapping about important issues: "Certified" is about poolside safety, for God's sake. If Mike D had stood in for Robin Williams, Dead Poets' Society could have sounded like this! And it's not hard to imagine "Rapbeth" roped in to educate 7-11 year olds about Shakespeare. Such Legz-Akimbo-Meets-ninja-Tunes antics should, of corse, be an embarrassment, but Lars' work with the crowd is impeccable - I don't recall ever seeing an audience so fired and involved at an Oxford gig - and he more than gets away with it.
MC Lars is a superb performer, strictly from the street. Sesame Street, that is.
MC LARS HORRIS/ CHAMFER - Port Mahon, 3/03
Is The Zodiac too noisy for you? The Wheatsheaf a little too dingy? Try spending a evening at The Port Mahon, one of Oxfordshire's most unusual venues. Imagine a cross between a Victoruian parlour and an Irish scouthut, and you might be halfway there. Bands play through a tiny PA in front of an old fireplace, whilst the audience lounges around on old dining chairs. Any musicians that can't produce an intimate, relaxed armosphere in this setting shoud probably start updating their CVs.
No danger of that tonight, though. I had doubts about Chamfer unplugged, Gabbie's joyously silly keyboard lines being my favourite element of thier music heretofore, but I was happily proved wrong. Frontman Nick sat centre stage (centre hearth?) flanked by bassist and percussionist, and proceeded to play a warm semi-acoustic set, revealing far more subtlety than the electric Chamfer show.
True revelation of the gig, however, was the neat tabla work of the man they call The Guru, whose fluent rhythms are normally lost in the full band line-up. "Some Day", a lightly spikier song thatn their usual roster, stole the show, highlighting the slight predictability of the other tunes, but this is a minor quibble. A friendly, enjoyable set.
If you haven't caught MC Lars Horris during his short stay in Oxford you're a) too late, and b) a fool. This is white collegeboy hip-hop of the highest calibre, with consistently hilarious wordplay and overwrought theatrical delivery. Not that it doesn't get quite funky at times, too. Lars has the irrepressible energy and wondrous expression of a six year old in springtime, and his style is the boho wordsmithery of MC 900 Foot Jesus, Earthling, or any laidback rapper from a decade ago, when the term "trip hop" couild be employed without sniggering.
Sometimes Lars comes on like an engaging streetwise teacher, rapping about important issues: "Certified" is about poolside safety, for God's sake. If Mike D had stood in for Robin Williams, Dead Poets' Society could have sounded like this! And it's not hard to imagine "Rapbeth" roped in to educate 7-11 year olds about Shakespeare. Such Legz-Akimbo-Meets-ninja-Tunes antics should, of corse, be an embarrassment, but Lars' work with the crowd is impeccable - I don't recall ever seeing an audience so fired and involved at an Oxford gig - and he more than gets away with it.
MC Lars is a superb performer, strictly from the street. Sesame Street, that is.
Saturday, 30 May 2009
Angel Heart Of The Matter
I think this is the first time I reviewed The Drug Squad. The housebound and insane who plan to read every post on this blog may wish to chart the change in my appreciation of the band as years go by - I really had to battle through my preconceptions to reach the conclusion that they are (or were, maybe, I think they're on another extended hiatus) a fantastic band, with a lot more ideas than many a po-faced post-rock trendypants combo.
Anyway, this is the usual lazy BBC guff I used to churn out: bad review, clumsy chumminess, Klub bloody Kak again...
THE DRUGSQUAD/ REDOX/ HARRY ANGEL - Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 7/04
You want snare-stabbed amphetipop? You want Harry Angel, then. Their eerie yet agressive tracks are like being pelted with large black rubber bricks. Bricks made in 1981, naturally. Hardware problems aside, this is a tentative performance, and I'd guess it's an early show for them: certainly the two guitars could often be utilised more originally. Still, there's plenty of talent here - especially in Chris Beard, who has the potential makings of a powerful vocalist. Worth watching out for.
Despite a near namesake, Redox is NOT a relaxing bath - more like an invigorating cold shower! In case you don't yet know, these half punk/half hippy staples of the Oxford music scene play psych blues workouts of some energy. It's the kicking rhythm section; it's the soaring FX-laden guitar of Phil Fryer; it's the frankly insane vocals (Sue Smith=Grace Slick + Janis Joplin + Ari Up). As the organisors, they happily step in tonight after a cancellation, and we're happy too. they even play two new songs.
They sound like the old songs, but who cares?
The Drugsquad has been away for a couple of years, but people seem happy to have them back. There are lots of them, they look like "characters", and they may or may not be stoned. Now, considering that this genre (ska-punk, we guess) is a fair way from my favourites, The Drugsquad do a pretty nifty job of making me nod and wobble appreciatively.
Whilst the lead singer can't really sing, he makes up for it in charisma, and the band is nice and tight, in a pleasingly loose way, if you follow me. Numbers like "Happy Pill" get The Wheatsheaf bouncing, but the true stars are the two-man brass section who play acid horn stabs, spiralling sax breaks and searing trumpet solos at every opportunity.
And, yes, I do know that the saxophone is actually a woodwind, thank you very much...
Anyway, this is the usual lazy BBC guff I used to churn out: bad review, clumsy chumminess, Klub bloody Kak again...
THE DRUGSQUAD/ REDOX/ HARRY ANGEL - Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 7/04
You want snare-stabbed amphetipop? You want Harry Angel, then. Their eerie yet agressive tracks are like being pelted with large black rubber bricks. Bricks made in 1981, naturally. Hardware problems aside, this is a tentative performance, and I'd guess it's an early show for them: certainly the two guitars could often be utilised more originally. Still, there's plenty of talent here - especially in Chris Beard, who has the potential makings of a powerful vocalist. Worth watching out for.
Despite a near namesake, Redox is NOT a relaxing bath - more like an invigorating cold shower! In case you don't yet know, these half punk/half hippy staples of the Oxford music scene play psych blues workouts of some energy. It's the kicking rhythm section; it's the soaring FX-laden guitar of Phil Fryer; it's the frankly insane vocals (Sue Smith=Grace Slick + Janis Joplin + Ari Up). As the organisors, they happily step in tonight after a cancellation, and we're happy too. they even play two new songs.
They sound like the old songs, but who cares?
The Drugsquad has been away for a couple of years, but people seem happy to have them back. There are lots of them, they look like "characters", and they may or may not be stoned. Now, considering that this genre (ska-punk, we guess) is a fair way from my favourites, The Drugsquad do a pretty nifty job of making me nod and wobble appreciatively.
Whilst the lead singer can't really sing, he makes up for it in charisma, and the band is nice and tight, in a pleasingly loose way, if you follow me. Numbers like "Happy Pill" get The Wheatsheaf bouncing, but the true stars are the two-man brass section who play acid horn stabs, spiralling sax breaks and searing trumpet solos at every opportunity.
And, yes, I do know that the saxophone is actually a woodwind, thank you very much...
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Cache On Demand
Another godawful review from the BBC days. Rubbishness all my own work, incidentally, I'm not trying to blame the editor. I can't remember this band at all, bar the name. Luckily I wrote a vague and unmemorable review to match.
CACHE - The Wheatsheaf, 4/03
There's a sizable knot of people snugly standing in The Wheatsheaf waiting for the arrival of Cache. Support act Oakland Majesty Revival has warmed everyone up nicely with their bluesy 70s style pop show, and a selection of tunes far more neat and compact than their unwieldy name.
The crowd are pretty soon entranced, though, by the opening bars of Cache's first number, "Alchemical Cruise". Their stock in trade is a spangly, slow burning jazz club pop, with some quiet beautiful and sultry vocals. As such there's a touch of Eddi Reader, a whole swathe of Edie Brickell, and even a hint of Lloyd Cole.
The songs are built around both acoustic and muted electric guitars backed up by a selection of subtle sounds from the keyboards, and a couple of recorder and trumpet breaks, both played by the singer.
Lovely stuff, in short, but sometimes lovely just isn't enough. Maybe it's my jaded ears, but after the first few tracks "subtle" became "overly polite", ethereal edged towards "pedestrian", and "snug and lowlit" decayed into "dingy and crowded".
Cache are very talented musicians and songwriters who are clearly on top of their game. Unfortunately, their game at times resembles a drizzly no score draw. Perhaps with some more training they might suprise us next season. Perhaps they should work on stamina, as legs seemed to tire rather swiftly.
Perhaps this metaphor has gone on long enough - I don't even know anything about football.
CACHE - The Wheatsheaf, 4/03
There's a sizable knot of people snugly standing in The Wheatsheaf waiting for the arrival of Cache. Support act Oakland Majesty Revival has warmed everyone up nicely with their bluesy 70s style pop show, and a selection of tunes far more neat and compact than their unwieldy name.
The crowd are pretty soon entranced, though, by the opening bars of Cache's first number, "Alchemical Cruise". Their stock in trade is a spangly, slow burning jazz club pop, with some quiet beautiful and sultry vocals. As such there's a touch of Eddi Reader, a whole swathe of Edie Brickell, and even a hint of Lloyd Cole.
The songs are built around both acoustic and muted electric guitars backed up by a selection of subtle sounds from the keyboards, and a couple of recorder and trumpet breaks, both played by the singer.
Lovely stuff, in short, but sometimes lovely just isn't enough. Maybe it's my jaded ears, but after the first few tracks "subtle" became "overly polite", ethereal edged towards "pedestrian", and "snug and lowlit" decayed into "dingy and crowded".
Cache are very talented musicians and songwriters who are clearly on top of their game. Unfortunately, their game at times resembles a drizzly no score draw. Perhaps with some more training they might suprise us next season. Perhaps they should work on stamina, as legs seemed to tire rather swiftly.
Perhaps this metaphor has gone on long enough - I don't even know anything about football.
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