May To Play

Three sad facts. 1) KK don't run Bank Holiday weekenders any longer, or any big events for that matter 2) The X has been a curry house for a couple of years now - a tasty one, mind 3) Somehow I just don't have the time to watch snooker, or indeed any sport, anymore. I don't like most sport, as it happens, but don't let that stop a good bit of self-pity.


MAYDAY FESTIVAL, The X, 1/5/05

Jump off a bloody bridge if you want to, but for me the May Bank Holiday has two great traditions: one is the snooker final, and the other is the Kakofanney weekender. I found myself there for the whole of Sunday.

Glenda & Sam kick things off. She is better known as the hair-swinging leader of metallers Phyal and he is the drummer from oddball punks Fork, so it's unexpected to see them play some quiet folk songs, with plenty of bodhran and flute. Diverting, if lightweight.

Can you lot really not think of names for your acts? Mauro & David turns out to be Mauro and David from Inflatable Buddha (well, be honest, whcih Mauro did you think it would be?), playing hurdy-gurdy and percussion respectively. Some of you will already know that Mauro can make his odd screechy instrument song, and David turns out to be a dab hand (pardon the pun) as an accompanist, which almost excuses the fact that he's wearing some mangy old purple curtains.

I find the winning simplicity fo Jeremy Hughes' playing quite delightful, especially on a sunny day. However, if you find the idea of Gandalf's beard double wibbling out an instrumental called "Rainbow" a turn off, steer well clear.

Laima Bite proves once again that she has one of the best vocal deliveries in Oxford, with a relaxed set. If I don't think she's as outstanding a talent as some local writers, it's less a criticism of her, and more a celebration of our local acoustic musicians.

Frei Zinger (flute) & Chris Hills (tabla) are both superb musicians, but their set sadly made no impression on me whatsoever. Unlike the first beer of the day.

Trip hop without the hip hop? It's odd, but it's Stem. Emma's voice, backed by acoustic guitar, is wonderfully weary and emotive, recalling Portishead or early Lamb, but the percussion is a clunky beast and keeps the set from taking off. Pity.

Clearly, getting the fun-loving but less than vocally dextrous landlady of the pub to sing some cheesy show tunes should be an embarassment, but luckily Condom (yes, that's really the band's name) have such an unpretentious vivacity that it's almost impossible to dislike them; hardly a highlight, but a bit of Bank Holiday larking about never hurt anybody.

With their relaxed AOR songwriting and West Coast sax solos, Veda Park will never be one to make the heart beat faster. Still, they're such natural ensemble players and the whole show is so incredibly tight you have to go with them. Especially after another beer.

Trip hop without the - hang on, I've done that one. But, for different reasons, Drift deserve the description as much as Stem. The vocals have a similar torch song yearning to them, but whilst the drum machine and bass are laying down dubby grooves, the guitarist is on an entirely unrelated psychedelic mission. Every time the neat arrangements make some sonic space, it's filled with an FX-laden guitar part whcih defeats the point somewhat. The again, the ring modulation solo is scorching so maybe...

The night really starts with the arrival of Harry Angel in all their goth-punk glory. Taut, angular Bauhaus style rackets led by a great tall chap leaning over the mike like the speed freak son of the Twin Peaks giant: time for a celebratory beer.

A keening and forceful North African vocal suddenly fills the pub, covered in reverb and synth pads. It sounds pretty powerful, but when the drum and bass kicks in great things start to happen. That's live drums played with brushes and a double bass, by the way, but they still have the punch of a Moving Shadow classic. We've just witnesses the debut gig by Tunsi. I hope we witness many more.

I've seen The Epstein many times. I saw them at The Zodiac on Friday. Yet here I am again front and centre. That's all you need to know. Still the best of the (inexplicably large number of) country bands in Oxford.

There's alwasy a sneaking suspicion that I shouldn't like a sprawling ska punk band that calls itself The Druqsquad, singing songs about washing machines and fat fish. but when they play, I forget all that and just enjoy the volume, the exuberance and the extremely sily keyboard noises. A fitting end.

So, it was fun. So, it was Bank Holiday Sunday. So, I may have let my critical faculties off the leash for a bit (did I mention the beer?), but that seems to be the right approach to one of these big Exeter Hall events. We've just had over nine hours of music in a warm atmosphere for less than a fiver, and I can't really think of anything I'd rather be doing with myself, which is ultimately the only important thing.

Truck 05 Sunday

Right, I'm ready for the second part of the typing. I've been reading my complete Shakespeare, seeing as I thought I ought to fill up the gaps in my knowledge. An Act a day over breakfast. Having read Two Gentlemen Of Verona (unfunny) and The Merry Wives Of Windsor (mostly jokes about "amusing" accents, a bit like an Elizabethan Mind Your Language) I'm beginning to worry that I've already read all the good bits.

But none of this is getting Truck reviews typed up, is it, sirrah?


Having thankfully dropped the lacklustre vocalists in evidence last time I saw them, Scratch & Sniff bring a little bucolic sunshine into the lives of a tent full of tired, rain sodden campers with a clutch of good old squeezebox instrumentals. Slightly frayed round the edges, perhaps, but aren't we all at this time of the morning? Had this set been later in the afternoon there would have been do-si-doing, I guarantee.

Odd to see Trademark in the rock kingdom of The Barn. Evidently they've gone for an upbeat kickdrum heavy set in order to fit in. Perhaps the cavernous acoustic reveals some of the limitations of Oli's vocals, but Trademakr are as impressive as ever, boasting plenty of vim: hi-NRG newie "Stuck In A Rut"sounds like a lost Sonia single, for God's sake.

"Whisky In The Jar" continues their tradition of Truck exclusive cover version finales, and whilst it's not as good as "God Only Knows", it's worth remembering that very little on the face of this earth actually is...

I'd gove The Drugsquad a definite hats off, if it didn't mean my head would get so wet. There aren't many local bands who could turn a smattering of frowning drenched punters into a crowd of happy skankers, but The Drugsquad is one of them. OK, it's ska punk not rocket science. But who ever danced to rocket science? An impressive performance.

According to their website it's a regular occurrence, but I'm unsure how to describe Earnest Cox. The best I can offer is a tentative "Raqdio Two Punk". They roughly alternate between a mantric magaphone led rant, redolent of Frenz era Fall, and two chord wordy slowburns that bring to mind Swagger era Blue Aeroplanes. Bloody great indie rock, in other words, with plenty of Farfisa-like organ over the top. I guess if Chamfer swapped Bollywood for biliousness they might sound very slightly like this.

If anyone had any lingering doubts that Fell City Girl are an incredible Oxford band, this Truck performance will have dispelled them. They don't even look like they're trying very hard, and yet the music is faultless. My only criticism is that they rather over use the epic crescendoes that clearly come so naturally to them. They're already better than Muse or any of those post-Radiohead emotirock bands, and I suppose that by the time Truck 2006 is up and running we'll have had a taste of what they can really do.

Haing nipped into the theatre tent only to find it deserted, I try the acoustic tent again. I presume the goth-dusted light rock act is Susan Hedges. One song makes exactly no impression on me. Oh look, the sun's come out. Bye.

Tragically The Black Madonnas aren't old teatime TV staples The Black & White Mistrels doing a cover of "Vogue", but handily they are a prety nifty swamp blues trio. Surrounded by grubby and steaming people in a barn that smells distinctly of manure, this seems to make all sorts of sense. "Dirty Roier"? I hear you, boys.

After that earthy display I feel the need for some seedy and amatuerish gay rock and roll about nightclubbing underbellies and hating your Granny. Well blow me (ahem) if it's not The Open Mouths, providing just that. It's pretty enjoyably petulant stuff, and the ironic domestic violence balld "No Means Yes" is a slice of comedy genius to rival the great Otis Lee Crenshaw.

Why do I love The Epstein so much? Light, breezy country pop is the sort of thing that snoozes are made of round our way. I suppose it must be their fantastic musical ability and generous helpings of natural charm. That and the Russian waltz about bearmeat. It's a true achievement to weave such a profound spell on the main stage with a delicate and wistful number like "Leave A Light On".

No Truck is complete without some musical revelation or other. This year it's Chip Taylor, playing some relaxed bluegrass tunes. Think that sounds a bit uninspiring? Well, he wrote "Wild Thing" and you never, so shut up and listen! Ably assisted by Carrie Rodriguez, she of the delicious syrupy vocals and scorching fiddle, Chip has the small crowd entranced in no time, despite a somewhat wayward mix. The heavily bearded bassist deserves a mention too, cramming more technique and ideas into an eight bar solo than lots of bands manage in a full show. We could have listened all afternoon, quite frankly.

Ever wanted to know what nervous_testpilot's nightmares are like? Robochrist is the answer. His show's essentially one strangely made up leather-clad man miming to a tape of gabba metal covered with plunderphonic goodness (making espeically good use of samples from Prefab Sprout and Family Fortunes), and it's entertaining enough. Trouble is, an act called Robochrist is never going to be as good in the flesh as it is in your head, is it?

Damn you, Scissor Sisters! Damn you for making all this ironic, drama school pop crap acceptable. Do Me Bad Things are like a horrific cross between The Darkness, Wham! and Soul II Soul...but not nearly so interesting. With wailing guitar solos, stadium drums and camp Mercury poisoned vocals, it's inch perfect and impeccably put together, but then again, so is a fitted carpet. Drivel. Smug, overly honed drivel, which is always the worst sort.

A Lorra Lorry Laughs

I missed Truck last year, and by all acounts it was one of the best, so I've already procured my blagger's journalist guest pass for this year's. I'm also going to review Cornbury, which is less exciting (imagine a festival created by the deli counter at Somerfield after 10 minutes looking at the Times colour supplement and a copy of Q from 1991).

Truck 2006, Hill Farm, Steventon


There’s nothing so civilised as sitting out in the sun with a can of beer at midday waiting for a band to come - none of the old smoky backroom ambience for the Truckers. Our festival starts with Technikov, and what may be the sound of a twenty-five year old Wasp synthesiser. Or possibly just the sound of a twenty-five year old wasp. Whichever, there’s plenty of niggling buzzing noise in evidence overlaying a spunky post-punk rhythm. Whilst this style of ranting jerky dissonance is very much Fall funk fodder for a Vacuous Pop frat party, it’s all very well done, and topped off with an eloquent architectural treatise called “No More Fucking Ugly Buildings”, which would get them Prince Charles’ vote if nothing else.

Their rise through the local hierarchy has been such a blur, it can be hard to remember for certain whether Harry Angel are any good or not. A sparking set on the main stage lets us see them in a fresh light. And don’t they look great? They’ve lost most of the early Radiohead flounces that used to define them, and hit the ground running on the dark side of the gothpop fence. If the guitar noise is like a huge slab of concrete then the vocal howls are deep cracks running through it. Melodic, imposing and impressive, Harry Angel sound powerful enough to coax some overcast darkness into the piercing sunshine. Surely not….

Everytime we see The Drugsquad we like them more, and today we’re especially grateful that they’re playing in the most watertight tent of them all as the heavens open. They may have two new members today (one tragically died and one foolishly moved to France) but the gist is the same - country coated ska punk delivered in a manic cutprice cabaret style. Imagine Murph & The Magictones jamming with Merle Haggard and Primus and you’re edging towards it…so long as you add some squeaking, wonky keyboards that could even teach Technikov a thing or two. A year ago we rather dismissively wrote, “it’s good, but it’s not rocket science”. Well, such is the audacity of arrangement underneath the tunes on display today, we’re tempted to imagine some NASA scientist, crouched over racks of monitors, mumbling to himself, “It’s good, but it’s not The Drugsquad”.

A desire to stay dry eventually wins in a battle with our desire to explore the festival, so we end up staying around for Jacob’s Stories, who trade in plangent vocal loops, aching viola and tinkling keys. We’re very annoyed to find that this delicate little show is actually pretty good and rather eerie in the midst of a raging storm, because it stops us using our close, but no sigur gag, which we were so looking forward to.

We suspect that A Silent Film’s first number was intended as epic Radioheaded piano rock, but from the back of a steaming Trailerpark tent complete with sound problems, it sounds oddly stoned and irie, like Muse covering The Orb’s “Towers Of Dub”. An interminable delay wringing rain from the PA later, and we get another track with a whiff of early 70s funk rock about it. It actually sounds very promising, but this is sadly not the gig to start judging. One to stick behind the ear for later, we feel.

More rebellious equipment over at the main stage, where Get Cap, Wear Cape, Fly has given up on his machines and simply strapped on his acoustic for a wee singsong. Pretty decent it is too, but too twee for this rain drenched reviewer, who decides a dancing bear might wake things up.

Oh dear, The Walk Off seem to have grown up. They’re even beginning to look like a real band now, with a sober vocalist and upright musicians. It’s still a damned fine punk trip through the Digital Hardcore mangle, but anyone who remembers the sheer exhilarating chaos of older sets might feel there’s something missing; quite possibly something distilled. But the bear is still the hardest working performer at the festival, and he didn’t even need a soundcheck.

We pop into the end of Danny Wilson’s set, hoping to hear “Mary’s Prayer”, but it turns out there’s just this one feller called Danny, not a troupe mid-80s washouts. Good news too, if what we hear is anything to go by, alovely slice of laidback country, like a barnyard Steve Harley, backed by some serious fiddle by Truck’s very own Joe Bennett.

We think we saw Jakokoyak playing solo earlier in the year, but we can’t be sure because the music we’re hearing today is so vastly different. In fact it’s a sort of tidy dull 80s rock that that Danny Wilson might have enjoyed, hideously reminiscent of an unplugged Aztec Camera. Quick, let’s get some metal down us.

Roughly everyone in Oxford has advised us to see Sow, such is their presence on the scene, even old ladies in Co-op. In a surprisingly sparse barn, however, their lead-heavy music doesn’t have much presence and all sounds somewhat polite and tinny. You can tell that it’s properly brutal stuff though, and it simply makes us even sadder that we missed their Punt performance.

Last year, Motormark entertained us with some camp techno goth tomfoolery. Whilst it at first appears that : ( might do something similar, they merely sound like two members of a tired emo band jamming along to an Amiga. But not as much fun.

We’ve run out of words to describe Fell City Girl. Of course, they’re a sheer joy today as ever, but you’ll know that if you’ve ever seen them; if you haven’t, are you sure you’re reading the right website? As we’ve said before, in a band oozing talent the real secret weapon is Shrek, who looks squashed behind his kit, but can play with startling delicacy. They should put him in the front, there are too many little pipsqueaks in rock anyway.

On record Battles are a glorious prog jazz techno affair, like ELP covering LFO. Unfortunately, from where we’re standing in the clamorous barn they may as well be ELO covering EMF, because all we can hear is a loud hum and some drums. They look like they’re playing a blinder though…the best acid house kraut jazz band we never heard in our lives.

Artic. Monkeys

This is the Truck that nearly didn't happen, the orginal summer date being rained off, and a rescheduled event happening in chilly September. I think I prefer the idea of an autumnal festival - more time to sup soup and be wistful, and fewer oafs swigging cider and doing something gauche like enjoying themselves.

TRUCK 2007, Hill Farm, Steventon

With the reliably infectious sounds of The Drugsquad wafting over the queue, we find our way into the rescheduled Truck, and straight to The Market Stage for Gog, who display their atonal cabaret schtick with lots of volume and a pink wig. They’re like forgotten local oddballs Dog, but not as good…until we see the programme and discover that they are Dog. But not as good. That’s a bit sad, really.

Actress Hands: Thumbs down; pull your fingers out; read the manual. Oh, somebody stop us! Suffice to say that Actress Hands are a dull punky indie band with rubbish guitar solos.

Enemies of lispers the world over, Restlesslist are an unusual bunch. Their first number is a limp, tinny post-rock bounce, a sort of 65 Minutes Of Static, but then they suddenly throw in some big band samples, drag on a trumpet player, and it all sounds rather wonderfully like the incidental music to Batman. Things taper off again, but that’s probably because all the machines break, along with some of the guitar strings.

Coley Park aren’t that bad, they’ve got some decent light rock and a slight country twang, but they make little impact on the consciousness. If Buffy The Vampire Slayer were set in Swindon, these guys would be playing The Bronze.

Jim Protector are a sort of Scandinavian iLiKETRAiNS: well, we dare say they run on time and don’t smell of piss in Northern Europe. Anyway, they’re a diverting act, with a nicely understated drummer.

Country rock is really the lingua franca of Truck, and Babel have a fair crack at it. There’s some enticingly slurred fiddle, but they really take off when they get that floor to the floor hoedown groove going. Hey, look, we’re literally tapping our feet! Now we’re really in the festival vibe!

Do we really want to hear sensitive post-grunge, fronted by a man whose voice cracks every other syllable? We don’t, which is why we shan’t be seeking The Holy Orders out again. We preferred it when the Barn was full of metal bands - even if they were rubbish they were at least unignorable.

We promised ourselves we wouldn’t spend all Truck watching our favourite local bands, and yet somehow here we are before the mighty Stornoway once again. Maybe the main stage sucks a little intimacy from their winsome folk pop, but eco-jazz shuffle "The Good Fish Guide" still sounds gloriously like The Proclaimers played by The Grumbleweeds, via The Divine Comedy, and we leave with a broad smile.

When A Scholar And A Physician rap, it makes Morris Minor & The Majors look like Public Enemy. There are millions of them, and the whole experience is akin to a techno revue performed by the cast of Why Don’t You? Which means it’s mostly dumb, but you’d have to be a pretty miserable soul to actively dislike it.

We’re going to start a support group for people like us who loved Piney Gir’s debut electro album, and have become deeply disillusioned with her myriad novelty projects ever since. Can this cod C&W Roadshow malarkey and get back to the keyboards, woman!

It seems only right that we go and see some properly apocalyptic, hellfire preacher country after that. With the biggest beard at Truck, and the loudest acoustic guitar in the hemisphere, Josh T Pearson smashes out his Bible-black dirges with arresting intensity. The cavernous sound is strangely like Merle Haggard having a crack at dronecore, and as such is the best act so far.

Back at The Market Stage, which incidentally has the best sound and atmosphere of the festival, we find Sam Isaac plying his acoustic pop trade. A touch of ‘cello, and a tiny tinge of Kitchenware Records makes it a sufficiently enjoyable spectacle to detain us for a few tunes.

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...

Narc Psychoses

This is probably the only record review I did for OHM. No idea why that should be, I think I was always at the bar whenever the CDs were handed out, or something. This is, err, short.

THE DRUGSQUAD - FAT FISH (Demo)

A drunk man with a cane keeps falling over.

Now, that's not too funny to read, but on screen it's a classic Charlie Chaplin routine. You get a similar problem with translation when lively party bands come offstage to make recordings, and ska-punk fools The Drugsquad are no exception. No matter how hard they play "Speed Queen", for example, the laundrophiliac* mariachi tune is a shadow of its live self.

Still, there's plenty to like in the stabbing horns, the abrasive drumming and the wonky keyboards, redolent of Steve Naive at his most irreverent: only the vocals don't quite convince. So, don't buy the demo, but see them live, and meet the title track in the flesh, where it sounds like a ditty from Playschool gone very bad. Imagine Floella Benjamin and Brian Cant full of cheap speed and tequila. Now try to stop...

*In love with a washing machine.