Thrust Never Sleeps

This is one of those gigs performed by old friends, which you go to out of loyalty, but which actually turn out to be excellent.

ANTON BARBEAU & THRUST/ CHARMS AGAINST THE EVIL EYE, Common Ground, 16/5/25 

Charms Against The Evil Eye inhabit that sweet spot characterised by free festivals at the turn of the 80s, in which laidback hippies rubbed against nascent new-wavers, mellowing proggers started to think about adding more tunes, and rock took on jazz influences without the self-conscious fusion fanfare. Many of Charms’ songs sound as though they may have started as bucolic John Martyn reveries before being sharpened and sped up with amphetamine intensity, all rubbery bass and hyperstrummed guitar. Set closer ‘Terry Walpole’s Camera’ chucks 60s psych-pop at us with punk energy, like Buzzcocks in kaftans, and more whimsical numbers still come with a caffeine jolt, putting extra canter into the Canterbury sound; even ‘Green’, the set’s most stoned and wide-eyed track is Caravan with go-faster stripes. It’s a delightful set, the band having quietly become a great proposition whilst you weren’t looking. 

Charms become THRUST to back Anton Barbeau, a prolific Californian songwriter who resided in Oxford for a few years in the noughties. Although he is keen to stress that it has been 7 years since he and the band have been in the same country, let alone room, concerns  on- and offstage about rustiness evaporate as they fly into live favourite ‘This Is Why They Call Me Guru 7’, a sort of bubblegum kraut-rock mantra. Barbeau’s best material balances literate surrealist troubadouring with drug-pumped spaciness and pure pop hooks - think Robyn Hitchcock Presents Popol Vuh Vs ABBA – and tonight is a glistening string of classics, from the compact chug of ‘Dust Beneath My Wings’ to the Eurovision–inspired sex-romp that is ‘Milk Churn In The Morning’, via the abstract collapse of ‘Banana Song’ (which might be the only moment the set veers towards egregiously wacky). Local folker Susanna Starling joins for a couple of excellent numbers, including ‘Leave It With Me, I’m Always Gentle’, one of Barbeau’s most elliptically lovely lyrics. It may have been years since he played in Oxford, but tonight may be the best set we've seen. To apply twisted Ant-logic, he should definitely visit less frequently more often. 

The Deaf Watchmaker

If you read this and get excited about The Port Mahon, I'm afraid it hasn't existed since last December. If you read this and get excited about a song based around God's camera, I'm afraid the song actually turned out to be about Mr T Walpole, mentioned in the first paragraph. If you read this and think it's shit, I'm afraid that www.oxfordbands.com is still going strong, and I still write reviews for them.

THE BLACK WATCH/ PAT FISH/ ANTON BARBEAU/ THE NEW MOON - The Port Mahon, 14/7/05

They're all out tonight. Local madcap poet Terry Walpole is gyrating about brandishing a hefty crucifix. A white-haired gent is sitting with his ear pressed against the PA cabinet, like a master safe-cracker. A man next to me has come up to see the bands "in case any of them sound like The Saw Doctors". It's warming up to be a fun night.

The New Moon opens proceedings. I'm starting to warm to their acoustic cabaret, which wobbles continually between the sentimental and the cerebral. With songs about "dark matter" and God's Kodak (possibly), they look and sound like two chemistry teachers who have thought up a double act in a desperate attempt to interest the class, then realised they have a real knack for performing and thrown away the old textbooks and retort stands.

Am I getting carried away with that image? Well, it's that sort of night. Next up we have US visitor Anton Barbeau. How he survives in laidback California I'll never know - he'd look excitable at a convention of extreme caffeine abusers in a room with a very hot floor. Bounding around the stage, swinging his tiny guitar and barely getting his words out in a flurry of excitement, he cuts an imposing figure. But despite the slightly overbearing zaniness, his songs actually have an unexpected melodic elegance, recalling the better pop of the early 70s: the main reference that popped into my head was George Harrison. Oh, and The Grumbleweeds.

Pat Fish used to be The Jazz Butcher, and made a bout a million albums years ago, most notably for Creation. He's still going strong, knocking up backing tracks in his house and performing songs for us on his guitar - in fact, he only dredges up one old Butcher tune. The rhythms are hardly the height of technology - it sounds like he made them on an Amiga - but the simplicity and homeliness add to the effect. A few tracks veer close to sounding like muzak versions of New Order, but in general the communicative effect of these well-written songs trumps the paucity of the sonic palette. A warm welcome back.

Finally, one fifth of The Black Watch - a cult band, apparently - takes the stage. Again, "unpretentious" is probably the best word to describe the show. That's "unpretentious", but definitely not "unintelligent" or "unadventurous". Perhaps the songs were a little less immediate than anybody else's tonight, but they were presented with such humourous camp sincerity that concentration isn't a chore.

All the acts tonight are wrestling something unique from the sparsest of materials, and I can't help but be reminded of the improvised music of the previous night. You know, for all its limitations, sometimes The Port Mahon seems like the best venue in town.

Oh yes, Saw Doctors man enjoyed it in the end, too.