Nudgefest

Winkstock 2009 never happened. In fact, The Port Mahon closed down instead. That's the influence I have in this town.

WINKSTOCK 08 – Port Mahon/Cellar 13/9/08

Drones. Feedback. Screaming. Things that look temptingly easy for a musician, yet are actually damned hard to pull off. Recitation is another, and so many artists who try talking over music end up as drama school showoffs, or inaudible mumblers. Clara Kindle (actually male), with soft, measured, stately vocals, shows us how well it can be done, and his calm, burnished tones remind us of Meanwhile Back In Communist Russia, Arab Strap and a funeral priest. The looped guitar backing is less assured, but even with a slight reticence the music has a clipped elegance, and sounds how 16th Century troubadours might have done if they had access to infinite delay pedals.

In contrast Joey Chainsaw’s set is a brief, brutal spasm. Bending and bowing his guitar strings with two drumsticks, Chainsaw excitedly slaps out a bunch of sounds, all knit together by a seasick lurching glissando. There are some interesting moments, but it starts to coalesce into something memorable after about 8 minutes, at which point the set abruptly ends. We’d like to have seen this explored further, although punters with fingers firmly in ears may have felt otherwise.

The House Of John Player may have some vocal reverb and delay effects, and a surprisingly tinny acoustic guitar sound, but ultimately the set sounds like yet more singer-songwriter strums from a man with a Paul Weller haircut, which sits oddly on the bill. We’re reminded of the album Brian Eno made with James: some decent textures, but underneath it all the same threadbare songs.

Thankfully we’re soon woken up. The Academy can spend all the money in Oxford on PA equipment, but nothing can ever sound as loud as a full throttle drummer in the Port Mahon, and American Gods boast a very good one. They make a very fine clatter, equal parts Stooges and Thee Headcoats, but with a pop heart beating in the middle – in fact, some of the yearning vocal lines would fit comfortably onto an R.E.M. single, though they’ll probably hate us for writing that.

If Oxford were really big enough to have micro-scenes, You’re Smiling Now But We’ll All Turn Into Demons recall Eynsham, circa 2003, such is their grungy, Dead Meadow rocking. Whilst the latter part of the set features Blue Cheer thrashing and a broken bass drum, it’s the earlier tracks that win us over, woozily sounding like Band Of Gypsies covering Pink Floyd after a few pints of Benylin.

Chops utilise three keyboards, a drum kit and lots of funny bloopy noises to create the theme music to an advert for Finnish marshmallow sweets as imagined by Boredoms, and it’s impossibly brilliant. They’re also full of surprises, the second number - at least, the noise after the first applause - is an octave spanning vamp that resembles Miles Davis’ fusion group having a crack at Add N To (X), whilst they end with a sax-sprinkled Eddie Bo funk tune, resembling a robotic New Orleans bar band. Act of the day, unquestionably.

A run across town to The Cellar is fun, but does taken the momentum from the event. Some haven’t lasted the distance, and Elapse-O start up to a small crowd, although we enjoy them far more than last time. They now seem to play with the programmed beats, rather than near them, and it all has a fuzzy edge to it, like a shoegazing Sunnyvale. The vocals still sound strained, but it’s a decent set.

Shit & Shine may be possibly the best live act we saw last year, but their records are very different affairs, built on queasy synth loops and lofi tape splicings. With a Casio, drumkit and machines Gentle Friendly make a noise that could fit into these records seamlessly. They’re also a touch like Trencher, and a sort of Fisher-Price Fuck Buttons. Most pleasant.

We recently ate some great chilli chicken noodles, eye wateringly spicy, yet with a subtlety of flavour. Manatees’ huge surging roils of sound are similar, in that they’re sonically oppressive, yet musically satisfying. We dutifully wear earplugs, but it’s immaterial, as this bassy rumbling bypasses the tympanum and instead troubles the bowels (much like the noodles, but that’s by the by). Forget the Large Hadron Collider, it’s Melvins onslaughts like this that are likely to produce black holes. We stumble into Cornmarket, reflecting that there’s still 3 hours of DJs to go. They have some stamina, these Winkstock organisers; and a brilliant contacts book. Here’s to Winkstock 2009.

There's A Pnak To It

Over at www.oxfordbands.com there's a Punt review by some of the old OHM writers, and it's the first time we've worked together for about 5 years. Exciting stuff. Not for you, for us. A little. Briefly.

Anyway, here's a slight Nightshift review from a little over a year ago - seems like the other day. Also, policemen look young now, Wagon Wheels used to nbe much bigger and Tom Baker was the best Dr Who. Time for my nap...

ELAPSE-O/ PLEASE/ PNAK – Coo Coo Club & Permanent Vacation, The Bully, 6/12/07

We’ve often supposed that Autechre came up with their song titles when they were losing at Scrabble - “Of course it’s a word, it’s a track on our new album!” – and Pnak must have got their name from the same place. Names, however, seem unimportant when the first track consists of gloriously greasy electronic tones smeared over some sprightly drumming, and sounds like Fripp & Eno’s No Pussyfooting being played at the same time as Teach Yourself Afrobeat. A couple of vocal loops aside this sets the tone for the whole of Pnak’s deeply satisfying performance. The abstract tones that are generated from a single Casio keyboard are incredibly visceral and inventive, and even if the drums could do with being a little more decisive, the effect is a surefire winner.

The more pronounceable Please use two tremolo-heavy guitars and a pounding drumkit to make the sort of cross-eyed rockabilly you might get if The Blue Orchids tried to play The Shadows. We find ourselves deeply in favour of this, at least until one of them starts singing, and a random selection of squeaks, groans and burps gets in the way of what could be knockout instrumentals. Shut your mouth, boy, and you’ve got a hell of a band.

Local experimental favourites Elapse-O get rid of the drums, and play seriously fuzzed and reverbed guitar and bass over chugging pre-recorded rhythms, whilst the odd 50s ultra-slapback vocal makes an appearance. The formula is one part shoegazing hum to two parts Suicide’s plastic Elvis trundle, which ought to be a recipe for sonic success, but ends up dull, grey and rather annoying. Perhaps the slightly flat sound of a nearly empty Bully sucked some of the life from the set, but it doesn’t look as though they had much suckable life at the outset. This gig didn’t entice, excite or develop, it just elapsed.

Oh.