Box for a Pen

There wasn't a January Nightshift, so it seems like forever since I saw this gig.  Luckily, I wrote down what I thought in case I forgot.

PUNCHING SWANS/ SINEWS/ EB, Divine Schism, Library, 7/12/23 

Tonight’s line-up has changed, in more than one way. Having lost two acts from the planned bill, local artist EB has stepped in, but also, EB has metamorphosed something rotten. Gone are the wide-eyed, smiling, pastel beats of a track like ‘La Criox’, and in their place we have excoriating digi-goth noise and lyrics like “Even in death I will not rest”. Between bursts of sonic violence a recording informs us that we’re part of some huge consumer feedback survey which morphs into an evil experiment as the vocal descends from urbane corporate avatar to glitchy screaming imp, which is perturbing, but not as much as EB within spittle-spraying distance of the crowd, howling “you made me hate that song I wrote” repeatedly, like an out of control playground chant over backing that sounds like the devil’s fax playing up. By the time we get to the simulated breakdown and song exploring strangulation revenge fantasies, our memories are gloriously scarred by the experience. 

In other company, Sinews might seem oppressive, but after that psychodrama their neo-hardcore rumble seems positively welcoming even as our ears are left equally battered: imagine a heartfelt hug from someone with an abrasively scratchy sweater and you might capture the balance between friendly warmth and spiky intensity. Fugazi are the reference point that seems most apposite, not because Sinews sound like them, necessarily, but because their music is heavily roiling but with a true sense of beauty within the wasteland, and big, bold lines proving that music doesn’t have to sound like ‘Chelsea Dagger’ to be called anthemic. Tonight they’re launching new single ‘Pony Cure’ which has the thick, scuffed texture of bitumen and old underlay, over which the vocals rasp deliciously, whereas another new tune is a blasted disco trudge, with an excellently rubbery, resilient bass holding it all together. 

Kent’s Punching Swans round off the night with the most approachable set, which is not to say that they aren’t also excellent. Their obscenely tight lopsided rock recalls Mclusky...or perhaps, as the humour is less mordant and more winkingly satirical, we mean Future Of The Left – a line like “A lifetime’s supply of oxygen” leaps from the razor-chopped riffs like the absurd punchline to a gag you didn’t catch, and math-snark sideswipes at third-rate populist culture like ‘Family Misfortunes’, hit the bullseye squarely. The approach is one of cynical weariness, but the playing is supercharged and passionate. 

Bueller Shaker

 There are a few extra lines in this review than appeared in the magazine.  Editors gon' edit.

BIG DAY OUT, BIG SCARY MONSTERS, Florence Park Community Centre, 15/4/23

As the delightfully bonkers, chaotic scurf rockers DITZ point out during today’s final set, the Florence Park Community Centre is not unlike a scout hut. One can’t be too precious in a somewhat over-lit suburban room lined with stacks of chairs and darts trophies, and performers and punters leave their egos at the door for this excellent all-dayer, to create a welcoming atmosphere with a pleasingly high musical bar. Things start tunefully, with Cheerbleederz’ cheeky jangle punk, while SUDS are the sort of band who bring their own tape hiss and seven-inch crackle, coming off like Madder Rose without the Velvety drug outlook and Yo La Tengo at their sweetest. Soot Sprite don’t quite hit the same melodic high, but still give us some Mazzy Star fuzziness and soothe our Cocteau twinge.

A few solo acts play in a tiny side room (if this is a scout hut, the second stage is where they store the old tents and Akela’s secret medicinal brandy) the best of which is Oxford’s EB, whose magic realist pseudo-rap is like an alternate reality inversion of The Streets, with a statistical love song coming off like an electro Jeffrey Lewis. “I put some feedback into this intro to annoy sound engineers” she grins, which tells you all you need to know. The incredible liquid steel of Pet Sematary’s voice is also a joy, and when Gaby starts singing a small shrubbery of recording phones spring up round the room.

Neo-emo might be a strange concept – it’s certainly a silly looking word – but Spank Hair wear the badge proudly, turning in a strong sinewy set, whilst also considering which is better, a horse or a donkey: as a pacifist Harry Hill might observe, there’s only one way to find out...pontificate at length whilst tuning. Jack Goldstein is as impressively maximalist as ever, cramming an improbable number of songs into a single segued ultra-minstrel set. As Jack crawls round the floor with water dripping from his clothes we don’t know whether he’s a hyperpop prophet or Margate’s most abstract floor polisher, but we approve.

As the evening darkens and the bar runs dry, the more raucous bands bring us home. Playful punks Lambrini Girls prove that, if you’ve got something important to say, say it incredibly loud, but temper it with a bit of humour (and if you can offer your listeners a wee drink whilst you rant, that helps too). Heroes of the day, however, are Other Half. One definition of a great new band is one that reminds you of lots of excellent acts, whilst not really sounding like any of them. Comparing notes with audience members post-set The Jesus Lizard, At The Drive In, Fugazi, Part Chimp, and Mcluskey are bandied about, but none of these capture the cheery insouciance of the twin vocals nor the 70s rock maelstrom behind the drums. Seek them out. If today’s event was an avant-scout jamboree, excuse us, as we’re off to sew on our new badges for Beer Tasting, Feminist Discourse and Incipient Tinnitus.

O Positive

Not only was this a fantastic day of music, run by excellent people, the review was an absolute blast to write.

OH, COMMUNITY! FESTIVAL, Florence Park Community Centre, 7/11/21

Oh, yes please! This wonderful all-dayer is perfectly named, being not just a chance to catch some new music, but also an opportunity for the almost forgotten before-times practice of hanging out, chatting about sets, and buying merch from friendly faces. Fittingly, many performers are also present for the other acts, not least half of new duo The Dumplings, who runs the desk for the rest of the day. Their chirpy, punky bulletins are scrappier than Scrappy-Doo on Scrapheap Challenge, and they have a micro-song celebrating Divine Schism founder and local lynchpin Aiden Canaday: O, Captain! my Captain!

Fortitude Valley and Fightmilk are muscularly melodic indie bands providing tuneful oases early and late in the running order, the former giving classic jangle an invigorating shot of grunge-adjacent energy a la The Breeders, whilst the latter spring from the less theatrical end of Britpop, and balance serious lyrics with extra brut wryness between songs. Both have albums mere days old for sale: oh, don’t mind if we do...

Local favourite EB delivers her intriguing unrap in the hugest tinted glasses, like a cross between Su Pollard and Horatio Caine. Musically, though, she’s more a mixture of Peaches and Gwen Stefani, and “Rodeo Queen” manages to revel in the pleasures of urban pop whilst acting as feminist satire on the culture: O, tempora! O, mores! Yay Maria also rides the laptop rhythms, and if there’s sometimes more reverse reverb than songwriting on display, the set has the unpretentious cabaret vibe of early 80s underground New York. We imagine Grace Jones, Keith Haring and a pre-record deal Madonna bopping at the front: oh! you pretty things.

Chunky emo-flecked rockers Junk Whale deliver a strong set, too exciting for one reveller, who smashes the venue’s delightfully old-school mirrorball whilst leaping, fist-aloft, across the dancefloor: O Superman. Things calm down for Alice Hubble, a synth duo (meaning there are two members, but happily more than two synths) who proffer slow, bleakly buzzing but oddly euphoric songs in a style we christen Giorgio Moroser, making one want to become a heartsick cyborg: oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt.

Shake Chain’s set is approximately Birth Trauma: The Musical. Whilst the band plays the sort of taut, psych-fuelled aggression-rock that Fat White Family promised but never quite delivered, performance artist Kate Mahony crawls slowly from underneath the stage, wrapped in a coat, limbs sticking out like the Isle of Man flag gone Cthulhu. She slowly grows into an astonishing howling vortex of bemused rage which is half Chuck Schuldiner from Death, half Moaning Myrtle, and by the end she’s raging behind a Beuysian totem built from the venue’s furniture whilst the band imitates military munitions: oh! what a lovely war.

Only Codex Serafini could follow that, a quintet enacting high-octane ritualistic space jams in black masks and bright pink robes, like the Squid Game guards jamming after hours to exorcise the horrors they’ve witnessed.  This is as close to witchcraft as one can get with a saxophone: oh, oh, oh, it’s magic! And they evidently summoned something impossible from an indescribable dimension (or Amsterdam) in the shape of Personal Trainer, equal parts LCD Soundsystem, Talking Heads, funk revue, art happening, shirts-off hardcore communion, and pep rally. There are abstract passages suddenly coalescing into ultra-tight backing vocals, there’s a bassist on a singer’s shoulders, there’s percussion played standing on a table because...well, frankly, by this point, fuck “because”. Sounds like a horrible mess? O ye of little faith. And then, suddenly, we’re out in the strangely silent suburban streets on a chilly Sunday night, wondering when the next bus is: oh, Christ is that the time?