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.
Showing posts with label Earnest Cox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Earnest Cox. Show all posts
Saturday, 5 June 2010
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Scry Me A Riverside
I'm sure I went to the whole of Charlbury weekend in 2007, but for some reason I only reviewed one of the days, can't think why.
CHARLBURY RIVERSIDE FESITVAL, Saturday 16/6/07
“Got midgets on my mind”. “Sitting on a tall cushion”. Well, that’s what it sounds like Dave Ellis is singing, anyway. We can’t be sure, he has this slurred blues style that is as impenetrable as it is attractive. As his husky voice weaves its way around the slapped strings of his trusty guitar, it doesn’t take long to realise that Ellis isn’t doing anything too revolutionary, but it’s a good listen all the same. And, seriously, who doesn’t like that old John Lee Hooker boogie clomp just a little?
It may sound a bit like “You don’t sweat much for a fat lass”, but over on the main stage, Life Of Riley prove them selves to be pretty good for their age. Musically there are no great ideas, but the performance is tight and the vocals are surprisingly strong and melodic. I mean, I can’t remember a note of it now, but it sounded fine at the time.
A sudden downpour means that the Beard Museum tent is packed full for Lagrima, which is exactly the way it should be. You’d go some way to find an acoustic duo in Oxfordshire with more variation: Roz’ vocals can leap from sinister whispers to operatic howls (is she the rootsy equivalent to Ivy’s Itch’s Eliza Gregory, or am I getting carried away?) whilst Gray’s assured guitar work can recall The Cocteau Twins and Andres Segovia in the space of one song. And he has the best reverse reverb sound ever.
Is there anyone left who doesn’t revere The Family Machine? Not only are they movers and shakers behind stage hosts The Beard Museum, but they also write some wry country-inflected pop that can raise a grin and wring the heart simultaneously. Admittedly, there was nothing particularly special about this individual performance, but we can listen to songs like “Lethal Drugs Cocktail” and “Flowers By The Roadside” forever.
A dub band with a Tunisian vocalist singing in Arabic? Implausibly, that’s Raggasaurus. They get a huge response, but what impresses me is the control over their material. It would have been easy just to have everyone soloing at once, and to throw everything at the wall like a million crusty festival reggae bands, but Raggasaurus know exactly when minimalism works, and make sure that very little gets in the way of their taut bouncy rhythms and soaring vocals. OK, it might work a little better in a smoky dive than in a sunny field, and perhaps the keyboard could be toned down a little, but this is good stuff.
When my esteemed colleague Colin saw Earnest Cox recently, all he could see was some pub rock. Well, we heartily disagree, and can say nothing against their simple wired rock, which revels in draping a world weary vocal sneer over glorious endless two chord chugs. The lyrics to songs like “My Favourite Walk” and “State Of That” seem to recall tedious bar room conversations with spitting vitriol, and as ever we’re reminded of an amphetamine version of The Blue Aeroplanes; or we would if the fruity organ parts didn’t sound like they’d come straight from a Stax soul revue. A fascinating band.
We’re big admirers of Baby Gravy’s cubist prog-punk melange, but perhaps a balmy afternoon in Charlbury isn’t the ideal place to experience it. Iona (who may have had a couple of shandies) is swearing and insulting the crowd, desperate for a reaction, but ultimately we’re just too relaxed to plug into Baby Gravy’s abstract new wave. However, stick us in The Cellar and fuel us with cheap lager and we’ll be up there with the best of them.
Is it patronising to call a band “charming”? Well, fuck it, we don’t care, because we’re always charmed by Foxes!, especially Kayla’s honest and unadorned vocal. They have a home made bass, and in fact, the entire band has a wonky, school woodwork project feel, all odd angles and unplaned surfaces. But beneath all this lie some beautifully constructed melodies and a quiet sense of rock dynamics. Foxes! Is a band that has unobtrusively grown in stature to become one of Oxford’s favourites. We shall miss them when they move away later in the year.
If Foxes! slid into our consciousness slowly, then Witches did the opposite, bursting onto the scene with the whole package intact: baroque pop arrangements, dense and forceful live shows and even beautiful collaged record sleeves. By rights the prominence of the cabaret mariachi trumpet should become cloying, but somehow Witches never crumble under the weight of their own ornamentation. It’s odd to watch a live show with such a black density of sound, and still walk away humming the melodies.
Fearing we’d neglected the main stage, we leave the fine This Town Needs Guns to their own devices and investigate Souljacker. What we find is a bunch of young groovers giving it some chest beating wah wah rock action. They sound like Free, but they should be locked up. Ah, well, it’s a festival, let’s cut them some slack – plus they have a tune called “Jimmy Page Drank My Tea”, so at least they don’t take themselves too seriously. They’re perfectly good players, but it’s all somewhat stodgy, and we don’t imagine they’re a band who’ll be troubling us again soon.
Just goes to show, Charlbury is a fine day out, but the Beard Museum is the reliable option.
CHARLBURY RIVERSIDE FESITVAL, Saturday 16/6/07
“Got midgets on my mind”. “Sitting on a tall cushion”. Well, that’s what it sounds like Dave Ellis is singing, anyway. We can’t be sure, he has this slurred blues style that is as impenetrable as it is attractive. As his husky voice weaves its way around the slapped strings of his trusty guitar, it doesn’t take long to realise that Ellis isn’t doing anything too revolutionary, but it’s a good listen all the same. And, seriously, who doesn’t like that old John Lee Hooker boogie clomp just a little?
It may sound a bit like “You don’t sweat much for a fat lass”, but over on the main stage, Life Of Riley prove them selves to be pretty good for their age. Musically there are no great ideas, but the performance is tight and the vocals are surprisingly strong and melodic. I mean, I can’t remember a note of it now, but it sounded fine at the time.
A sudden downpour means that the Beard Museum tent is packed full for Lagrima, which is exactly the way it should be. You’d go some way to find an acoustic duo in Oxfordshire with more variation: Roz’ vocals can leap from sinister whispers to operatic howls (is she the rootsy equivalent to Ivy’s Itch’s Eliza Gregory, or am I getting carried away?) whilst Gray’s assured guitar work can recall The Cocteau Twins and Andres Segovia in the space of one song. And he has the best reverse reverb sound ever.
Is there anyone left who doesn’t revere The Family Machine? Not only are they movers and shakers behind stage hosts The Beard Museum, but they also write some wry country-inflected pop that can raise a grin and wring the heart simultaneously. Admittedly, there was nothing particularly special about this individual performance, but we can listen to songs like “Lethal Drugs Cocktail” and “Flowers By The Roadside” forever.
A dub band with a Tunisian vocalist singing in Arabic? Implausibly, that’s Raggasaurus. They get a huge response, but what impresses me is the control over their material. It would have been easy just to have everyone soloing at once, and to throw everything at the wall like a million crusty festival reggae bands, but Raggasaurus know exactly when minimalism works, and make sure that very little gets in the way of their taut bouncy rhythms and soaring vocals. OK, it might work a little better in a smoky dive than in a sunny field, and perhaps the keyboard could be toned down a little, but this is good stuff.
When my esteemed colleague Colin saw Earnest Cox recently, all he could see was some pub rock. Well, we heartily disagree, and can say nothing against their simple wired rock, which revels in draping a world weary vocal sneer over glorious endless two chord chugs. The lyrics to songs like “My Favourite Walk” and “State Of That” seem to recall tedious bar room conversations with spitting vitriol, and as ever we’re reminded of an amphetamine version of The Blue Aeroplanes; or we would if the fruity organ parts didn’t sound like they’d come straight from a Stax soul revue. A fascinating band.
We’re big admirers of Baby Gravy’s cubist prog-punk melange, but perhaps a balmy afternoon in Charlbury isn’t the ideal place to experience it. Iona (who may have had a couple of shandies) is swearing and insulting the crowd, desperate for a reaction, but ultimately we’re just too relaxed to plug into Baby Gravy’s abstract new wave. However, stick us in The Cellar and fuel us with cheap lager and we’ll be up there with the best of them.
Is it patronising to call a band “charming”? Well, fuck it, we don’t care, because we’re always charmed by Foxes!, especially Kayla’s honest and unadorned vocal. They have a home made bass, and in fact, the entire band has a wonky, school woodwork project feel, all odd angles and unplaned surfaces. But beneath all this lie some beautifully constructed melodies and a quiet sense of rock dynamics. Foxes! Is a band that has unobtrusively grown in stature to become one of Oxford’s favourites. We shall miss them when they move away later in the year.
If Foxes! slid into our consciousness slowly, then Witches did the opposite, bursting onto the scene with the whole package intact: baroque pop arrangements, dense and forceful live shows and even beautiful collaged record sleeves. By rights the prominence of the cabaret mariachi trumpet should become cloying, but somehow Witches never crumble under the weight of their own ornamentation. It’s odd to watch a live show with such a black density of sound, and still walk away humming the melodies.
Fearing we’d neglected the main stage, we leave the fine This Town Needs Guns to their own devices and investigate Souljacker. What we find is a bunch of young groovers giving it some chest beating wah wah rock action. They sound like Free, but they should be locked up. Ah, well, it’s a festival, let’s cut them some slack – plus they have a tune called “Jimmy Page Drank My Tea”, so at least they don’t take themselves too seriously. They’re perfectly good players, but it’s all somewhat stodgy, and we don’t imagine they’re a band who’ll be troubling us again soon.
Just goes to show, Charlbury is a fine day out, but the Beard Museum is the reliable option.
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