Truck 2010 Sunday Pt 2

One thing we noticed at Truck is how many photographers there are nowadays. Impressed audience members come up to ask what lens a snapper is using, when once they would have been checking amp manufacturers or DJ set lists. Luckily, Trevor Moss & Hannah Lou have framed the pictures for them, by standing in the very centre of the main stage and singing into one microphone, which cleverly gives the impression that we’re all in some poky, cosy folk club. We only really love a couple of their songs, but you simply only see a duo whose voices complement each other like this once in blue moon: he is querulous and melancholy, whilst her voice is lucid and liquid, and when they harmonise it sounds like one astonishing folk organism. Joe Bennett turns up once again to play some rather nifty trumpet, proving their music is even better to share.

Nedry usher in the return of the epic reverb pedal, offering us icy clicks and cuts glitch ambience surrounding girl-lost-in-fog vocal mantras. The songs are something like the forlorn ghosts of Donna Summer tracks in some laptop purgatory, except the one that sounds like a dubstep Stina Nordenstam. Another wonderful Truck discovery a long way from the main action.

Unfortunately, lightning doesn’t strike twice and our next off-piste venture brings us to Summer Camp, who play something like late period OMD, which would be passable, if it weren’t for their horribly plastic wedding singer vocalist, who ruins any small chance their songs have of winning us over. The crass lyrics mostly boil down to “Ooh ooh, nice things are nice”. If you think it would be good if all towns were like Milton Keynes, this is the band for you; if you’re fully functioning adult, steer well clear.

No adults in Egyptian Hip Hop, they’re a band who are very young to have received the plaudits they have, but we shan’t let that affect our judgement. And it turns out they’re...alright. There are plenty of ideas in their songs, and they can chug through a slack riff like Dinosaur Jr before flipping out some cheesy Huey Lewis keyboards and throwing in some hi-life inflected jerky guitars that remind us of – oh, you know – FUCKING EVERYBODY! They sound more like a promising band than a good one, but that’s no crime; also, they’re less than half our age and we think they look bloody ridiculous, so they must be doing something right. Misleading name, however; someone should book them with Non-Stop Tango and try to start a riot.

We’re much more excited by the sounds of young Britain when we visit Unicorn Kid, and his hyper-active Nintendo toybox rave, in a style we christen “Arpeggi8”. “Where Is Your Child” and “Tricky Disco” would have come out a few years before he was born, which intriguingly means that he saw them the same way we saw The White Album. And, let’s be honest, they’re better. His music is also better than most on offer this weekend, and whilst it has its florescent charms, the material is strong because a lot of care has clearly gone into the construction, there are lots of interesting ideas in his Wonky Kong palette. Despite being one of the oldest people watching, we love it as much as the teenagers; although when there’s a stage invasion of day-glo youths, we do feel as though we’ve stumbled into the Byker Grove wrap party. Gigs are rarely this much fun.

We get our final Bennett-spotter points with Common Prayer, as they’re both present and correct, as is a French horn which would be brilliant if it were only audible. This is neo-country Truck mulch to a great extent, but the singer does have a lovely unhurried voice, so we end up in favour, even if we can’t sincerely say, “we’re loving it”.

Watching Blood Red Shoes we remember why we like Little Fish. Their guitar and drums business is all very well, and they have some decent rock tunes, but we can’t really get a grip on any of it. They do, however, have far superior stage banter to Little Juju, whose nervous ramblings can get pretty tiresome. There’s exactly nothing wrong with this set, but after two days of music we want something memorable nearly as much as we want a nice sit down.

We are a smidgen disappointed when we realise nervous_testpilot is going to play a straight trance set with none of the madness of previous Trucks (although we’re sure he sampled the Crystal Maze theme at one point), but then we decide that hearing truly exquisitely crafted music is enough, and begin to appreciate the subtly melancholic melodies hidden amongst the snare rushes and thumping vorsprung durch techno. It may be the end of the weekend, but the crowd are still eager to dance, one of whom has discovered some discarded fragments of the Keyboard Choir’s costumes, which brings The Beathive’s day nicely full circle. The set turns out to be an understated triumph, and Testpilot’s loving ridicule of the dancing crowd is fun to watch.

We finish our festival away from headliners Teenage Fanclub, with The Epstein, stars of many a bygone Truck. They play a beautiful set, the jewel in the crown being a glistening “Leave Your Light On”, and we realise that whilst Truck may have got bigger, louder and – let’s not skim over it – more expensive, it still feels very much like it used to a decade ago. As ever there have been surprises, charming atmospheres and far too much rubbish country, and we relish the fact that Truck can hold on to this frail ability to welcome everyone, yet not blandly smooth itself out to try to please them all. The programme’s editorial might be written as an embarrassing cross between Mr Motivator and Jack Kerouac – “this movement that says no homogenous same-old phoney crap but new real expression” – but there is something in it, and Truck realises that being professional is great, but treating people like profit units isn’t. There’s still a natural, unforced wonder about Truck, and no glib corporate slogan is ever likely to encapsulate that feeling.

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.

Automatic For The Steeplechase

I wrote this for a magazine called Oxfordshire Music Scene, which I'm told has just folded. Well, I shan't mourn too much, as they were too chirpy for my liking, and had too many pictures, and not enough naughty words. Ah well, they were harmless enough. I wasn't planning on writing much for them. Still, their loss is your gain.

Edit: Oh, apparently OMS is still going, but they're going to skip an issue whilst the management changes. OK, let's be positive and wish them luck.

WYCHWOOD FESTIVAL, Cheltenham Racecourse, 4/6/10


What, precisely, is a boutique festival? It’s not musical obscurity or even sponsorship by left-leaning broadsheets or overpriced music mags that defines things, but a self-imposed intimacy, the implication being that the organisors could have sold five times as many tickets, but have chosen charm over profit. Wychwood, in the handy but uninspiring environs of Cheltenham racecourse certainly has a family-friendly warmth, and falls somewhere between the village fete ambience of Truck and Cornbury’s sedentary wine-cooler and canapé air. We’ve always been uninterested in non-musical festival trappings, and whilst we’re cynical about children’s swings and Waitrose smoothie bars, they’re a nice change from the hemp weaving and pubescent drug-pushing we associate with festivals.

Wychwood’s music might not be pulse-quickening, but it is solid. The Leisure Society sprinkled their refined pop with ‘cello and flute, sounding at their best like The Divine Comedy when they were on the cusp of dispensing with the clever lyrics and intriguing arrangements (but that’s what you’re good at Neil!), whereas the BBC Introducing Stage, featuring acts from many counties - generosity of spirit, or tacit admission that there aren’t many good Gloucester musicians? – hosts a cheery set from spry fiddle-flecked folk trio Roving Crows.

At the other end of the spectrum, Justin Currie sounds drably like Elvis Costello & The Attractions without Elvis Costello. Or any of The Attractions. We’re later told he was in Del Amitri – do the math. The Tunnelmental Experimental Assembly are deeply disappointing, ruining harmless big-boned indie by giving some office joker in a hideous waistcoat a mike: it’s like mid-period R.E.M. gatecrashed by Pat Sharp. The Levellers’ folkstival headline set is popular and functional, but Jim Lockey & The Solemn Sun have more intriguing folk melodies to bash out.

We didn’t want Oxfordshire Music Scene’s visit to Gloucestershire to turn into a West Side Story turf war, but the fact is locals The Epstein are comfortably the best act we see. They open with a glacial waft recalling the Erased Tapes roster, and proceed with a more spectral, delicate version of country than in previous incarnations. Olly Wills’ voice is gorgeous and perfectly pitched emotionally, Jon Berry’s bottleneck interjections spice things up, and a new keyboardist dusts the songs with icy synths and reverbed Twin Peaks piano. They’re also the only band the omnipresent kids enjoy, a small group crawling frantically in front of the stage: call it toddlemosh.

A local couple explain their love of the festival with tales of returning laden with new CDs. Perhaps Wychwood is aimed at professionals and parents who don’t have time to follow trends, but who still want to broaden their horizons, which is nothing to be ashamed of. Oh, and a mad Mancunian rants about the toilets’ cleanliness, as he had mislaid his shoes and gone in barefoot; it’s a good weekend for the hygiene-conscious drug-addled loon too.

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.

Riverside 2009 Pt 3

Next up, Ginger Toddler Rucksack Headbutt. No, not the latest Poor Girl Noise booking, just a thing that happened whilst we were laying back watching Two Fingers Of Firewater. And, hey, it’s a festival, if you want to express yourself by bashing our bag about, feel free – decent soundtrack to do it to, as well. We could talk about Two Fingers’ dry humour, their contempo-country lope, their chiming pedal steel or their ‘60s rock touches (we heard the odd waft of Love in the climax), but all we can think about is their wah-wah mandolin.

The Epstein has long been a favourite of ours, and it’s been a long while since we saw them, but at first our rendezvous wasn’t too joyous. The opening two numbers just didn’t grasp us, and seemed overly polished and polite after Two Fingers. Thankfully, “Black Dog” gets things back on track, Stefan Hamilton’s electric banjo scuttles drawing us in, and Oli Wills’ easy, fruity vocal grasping us by the hand and leading us down some dusty mesa. Even if it’s not their finest set, their encore was the track of the weekend, despite an awkward false start, a monolithic sonic surge creating valleys in its wake.

And after that, Liddington were a disappointment, to put it mildly. All the things that have been alleged about Inlight, and against which we have (partly) defended them, ring clear and true of Liddington: empty, vacuous stadium pop, with no discernible character and a vocal that is drab and lifeless just when the music is crying out for something, anything, to lift it out of the slough of over-amped indie balladeers swamping our nation’s musical profile. And, yet again, we feel bored stupid by the giant gestures that the music is trying to make: what’s wrong with you lot? Are you so concerned that your point won’t get across that you have to make it as big and obvious as possible? What are you, a pop band or air traffic controllers? After all, you don’t find us standing dead centre of the stage miming an elaborately theatrical yawn to show how little we’re enjoying the set, do you? OK, OK, Liddington aren’t the worst band of the day (no kilts, see), and a few of the keyboard sounds were well chosen, but by this time we really need something to engage us, and not a whole bunch of vapid honks that sound like old Huey Lewis tunes left out in Chris Martin’s allotment for twenty years until every glint of colour has been bleached out, and nothing is left but the clumsy shell.

But, this brief concluding burst of rage notwithstanding, this has been an excellent festival. It’s our third Riverside, and the first at which we’ve felt that the two stages have been equally interesting. Once again, the effort of putting on this event for free is an astonishing thought to contemplate, and whilst we wish that the organisers could try paddling outside of their safety zones, we’re always happy to roll up our trouserlegs and join them for a dip. Book us in a Diplomat’s Coffee, we’ll be there as soon as the doors open in 2010.

A Flash In The Pandemic

I've just found this review. I think it was written for BBC Oxford years ago (the TOTP and Lavigne references date it hugely), but that the Truax part wasn't used, which is why most of it was recycled for later reviews. Oddly, I reviewed Truax again for this month's Nightshift, and I'll post that on Saturday, just so you can see that I generally repeat myself tediously - I mean, I'm gloriously consistent.

The Epstein-Barr Virus Band dropped 3/5 of their name soon after this.

Oh, the review is rubbish, by the way, no wonder I'd forgotten about it. Atrocious ending.

THE EPSTEIN-BARR VIRUS BAND, SCHWERVON, THOMAS TRUAX, Trailerpark, The Cellar

You've got to love Thomas truax.

Not just because he plays grimy pieces of grotesque Americana, like a nice neat Tom Waits after a bucketfull of Lockets, but because of his wonderful homemade instruments. Sister Spinster is a clanking mechanical drum machine, based around an old pram wheel, and is the sort of thing that might have transpired had Hary Partch been involved in designing the Roland 707.

I'm not even going to begin to describe The Hornicator - part instrument, part sculpture, part headgear - but I'll tell you that when if goes through a giant delay pedal, it sounds like Portishead as prodiced by Wilf Lunn from The Great Egg Race.

Over these queasy, lurching rhythms we find twisted vignettes about the fictional municipality of Wowtown. Now, if there were any justice in the world Truax would have a huge hit, and perform "The Fish" on Top Of The Pops, and every kid would have a Wowtown T-shirt.

Then, to make this fantasy even remotely plausible, he'd be instantly forgotten, and, in twenty years, the ability to recognise a Hornicator would be pop quiz gold dust, like correctly spelling "Sk8rboi".

Schwervon have a man with a guitar, a girl on drums, and a bunch of trashy blues progressions. but I'm not going to mention The White Stripes, because a) they'r eprobably fed up with it, and c) The Stripes hardly invented the concept of lo-fidelity, hi-octane garage punk, now did they?

The clattering workouts are relatively inept, but they're pretty endearing, especially the comical inter-song bickering: Schwervon, the Terry & June of swamprock! Sadly the effect begins to pall after about ten minutes, and attentions begin to wander. Oh, look at that over there...

Is it me, or is there a lot of country rock in Oxfordshire? Not that I mind, it's just unexpected.

Still, The Epstein-Barr Virus Band have got to be one fo the best on offer, cranking out their slide-laden laments with great aplomb. Alright, precious few boundaries are being broken here, but the songs burst out and envelop the room like warm zephyrs, so who's worrying?

They have slight trouble with the quieter bluegreass number, "Leave Your Light On", but generally they truck along fine. With lines like "If I can't have the one I love, I don't want no one at all," they even manage to get away with real cliches. I wonder whether I can: EBVB are a darn good toe-tappin' li'l band.

Apparently not...

Truck 2006 pt 2

Of course, the upside is that we get to catch the end of Luke Smith’s set, and the Truck without Luke would be like Christmas without It’s Wonderful Life. As ever he’s heartwarming, hilarious and cosy, even with his new rock (ahem) trio, but the best part is watching the joyous faces of Smith neophytes. You can almost see them thinking, “a cross between Richard Stillgoe and Eddie Izzard with his Dad on drums, who’d have thought that would work?”.

Chris TT has been described as the indie Luke Smith, but he has weightier subjects to pursue than tea and girlfriends, touching on ecology and politics in simple acoustic thrashes. If you can envisage an English Hammell On Trial you may have the right idea – the tunes aren’t quite as good, but he manages to attack his songs with the same vigour, and throw in serious issues without coming off as a facile rock preacher. It’s no mystery why Chris is a Truck mainstay.

It says a lot about the eclecticism of Truck that we can rush from one festival favourite in the form of Chris, to another in the shape of nervous_testpilot. Truck without Paul Taylor would be like Christmas without “It’s a Wonderful Life”, played backwards in Satan’s breakcore bass palace. This year he’s married the thumping beats of last year with the sample heavy gabba mash up of previous incarnations, into a surprisingly coherent half hour. Truly wonderful, but are we the only ones to slightly miss the elegiac melodies of his first …Module… album? Checking the mosh happy Trailerpark, we guess the answer’s yes.

Dancing of a different sort over at The Epstein’s place. Getting more elaborate and noisier with each gig they do (this set features The Drugsquad’s Stef on guitar/mandolin/banjo and a searing mariachi brass section) they still manage to retain the untroubled country lope at the heart of the songs. They rightly go down a storm, bringing the crowd to a rousing finish with a great country tune called “Dance The Night Away”. Well, it makes up for the rubbish one, doesn’t it?

Had we known it was one of their last ever gigs we might have pushed to the front for Suitable Case For Treatment’s set, but instead we give up on the crowds and pop along to see Trademark. Whilst their new album is an adventurous step forward, the songs don’t come across so immediately in a live setting (excepting the monster that is “Over And Over”), so it’s the older tunes that fare the best. But no two Trademark gigs are really the same, and this one ends with a massed choir and an inexplicable Genesis cover.

SUNDAY

Since Mackating sadly lost their lead singer they’ve turned into a bit of a reggae revue, with featured vocalists of different styles on every tune. Whilst this can make for a bit of a mish mash it keeps things chugging along nicely. Best track in today's tasty set is a dancehall tinged tirade, apparently aimed at Fifty Cent, advising “don’t be a gangster, be a revolutionary”. Sage advice, but it’s Sunday morning, so you’ll understand if we just pass on both options for now.

It’s easy to be critical of performance poetry: 2D politics, bad gags and consonants lots in the sound of spit flecking against a mic. But, we haven’t given up on punk rock just because loads of bands are rubbish, have we? Oh no. Hammer & Tongue have done wonders in Oxford – come on, a spoken word gig at The Zodiac that gets better crowds than most bands, who’s not just a little impressed? – and we’re happy to come and support them briefly over at the Performance Tent. Today’s prize really goes to Sofia Blackwell, who’s always had a little more poise than some of the verbal cowboys, who rounds things off with a neat little piece about how she’ll never write a love poem, which of course turns out to be a beautifully honest little love poem.

This year has really been the coming of age for the acoustic tent, now bigger, better and rebranded The Market Stage. Proof of this is the enormous, attentive crowd for Emmy The Great, which is so big they have to take some of the walls down to let people see. As she snaps at each line like a tiger tearing meat from a carcase (albeit an ever so slightly cutesy tiger) many in this crushed tent decide they’re seeing one of the best shows of the festival quietly unfurl. There are any number of lovely images, but one sticks in our head, “You’re an animated anvil/ I’m an animated duck,” not least because it reminds us of an old Prefab Sprout lyric, “God’s a proud thundercloud/ We are cartoon cats”, and Paddy Macaloon is one of the 80s most under-rated lyricists. Oh yes he is.

Rachel Dadd has a wonderful folk voice, and is ably accompanied by two of her old Whalebone Polly pals, but her set doesn’t seem to have the assurance or character of Emmy’s. It’s mostly pleasant, with everything good and bad that this term conjures up.

When we first saw Captive State, a few Trucks ago, they were a firy jazz hip hop ensemble. Sadly, they soon decomposed into a benefit gig rap band: worthy, summery and mildly funky. Thankfully, they seem to have regrouped somewhat, and have come back fighting. The new material actually seems a bit Massive Attack, with paranoiac queasy bass synths cutting through neat vocal melodies and old fangled dance rhythms. Even the older tunes seem to have been tidied up, and are looking leaner than they have for years. A warm welcome back, though we do think that they could do with a proper singer for the melodic parts, excellent though the frontman is as an MC…oh, and a load of trombone solos.

If Thomas Truax looks a tiny bit tired today, his mechanical bandmate Sister Spinster must have been partying in the Barn till the wee hours, as she sputters, wobbles and eventually cuts out. It may not be the best set he’s ever turned in, but with his homemade instruments and downhome narratives he still holds the crowd in his skinny hands. He’s even commanding enough to do a number unplugged. We don’t mean acoustic, we mean literally unplugged from the PA and wandering around outside the tent. Admit it, we wouldn’t sit there patiently waiting for many other performers, now would we?

Since we last saw Piney Gir she’s inexplicably started looking like Brix Smith and playing light hearted Ernest Tubbs style country. It may not be a very challenging proposition, but her breezy vocal can carry anything – even a duet with charming but tone deaf Truck organiser Edmund, who brought us to tears of laughter with one misplaced “Shoobydoowop”.

Every Truck throws up something wonderful and unexpected. Maybe it’sthe direct sunlight, but this year we find ourselves falling for something that we feel ought to be terrible, in the shape of Babar Luck. He’s a Pakistani Eastender with a line in simple acoustic punk reggae with a “heal the world” type bent, which is the sort of thing we’d normally find painfully trite but Babar’s delivery is so perfect we actually start to believe we can change society with a song. We recommend this heartily, but we’ll never be able to explain what was so good about it. And he has cool mad eyes too. My God, we must be getting old, we’re hanging out at the acoustic stage (oh, alright, we couldn’t be bothered to queue for Chicks On Speed).

Man Cannot Live On Bearder Lone

Despite what I said here, I think The Download (or Oxford Introducing, as it has been renamed in some horrific national rebranding) is quite good nowadays. The real irony is that in criticising it I've turned in a very dull review. Cliche-ridden guff, isn't it? Sorry about that.

V/A - THE DOWNLOAD SESSIONS (BBC)

It can be tough to know how to judge things sometimes, if they're good ideas. No one could possible deny that it's wonderful that the BBC have foudn an hour a week in their schedules to devote to local music, but aren't a lot of people quietly wondering if The Download couldn't be a tiny bit better? Well, whatever the consensus, with this showcase album Bearder & Co. have hit absolute gold, turning in a varied and impressive collection of acoutis cmusic that touches many bases.

It also pleasingly tinkers with all the emotions. The problem with so much acoustica is that it tends to get mired in one particular zone, whose slogan might be "I'm pretty upset and sorry for myself, but not enought o actually look like I might get of my arse and do anyt bloody thing about it". No chance here, as we're swept from the dark suspicion of Rebecca Mosely's 'cello-spiked "Power In Paper" to the tuneful apology of The Epstein's jewel-like "Leave Yr Light On", floating on neat mandolin lines and breezy backing vocals. Other highpoints are "Games" by Charlotte James, who has managed to extricate herself from the session muso sludge of her live outings, and Ally Craig's charged "Lower Standard" - it may not be his best song, but anyone who can perform with this intensity can aome round and sing the 'phone book to us any time, frankly. Also worthy of mention are "Bluebird" by KTB, which reminds us how lovely a folk vocalist she is for the first time in eons, and Belarus, who turn in a tuneful Keanesque effort which wraps us up lik a blanket...OK, the pattern may not be very interesting, but it makes us fele safe and warm. In fact there are no real failures on this CD, whcih is unusual enough for any compilation, let alone a simple "live lounge" collection like this. Emily Rolt's wispy meanderings still sound pretty vapid nto these ears, but we don't have any urge to smash the furniture this time, so she must be doijng something right, whereas Los Diablos reveal their vocal limitations when shorn of the visuals, which is a pity as "Joan Of Arc" is a strong song, with dense Catholic imagery that recalls Scott Walker in his Seventh Seal mood.

We finish with a track by Richard Walters, one of the city's best singers and a Beard Museum founding follicle to boot. Richard's voice is strange and awkward, like a tiny cowering lizardine creature, but somehoe it manages to scrape past ugliness and achieve real beauty. If there's anyone who epitomises the variety and individuality of Oxford's acoustic scene it's this man, and as the last notes die away we raise a glass to The Download...and to the fact that the song isn't immediately followed by one of Tim's jokes.

Old Kak

Klub Kak is one of my favourite promoters to review, because even if the acts are average, the organisors and customers tend to be pretty fascinating patchwork of oddity, so there's always something to write about! This is an old article from OHM, a long defunct, but rather good, music magazine

THE EPSTEIN/ TSUNAMI/ TWIZZ TWANGLE, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 3/9/04

Trying to write a critical evaluation of a Twizz Twangle gig is as awkward as jimmying a lock with a lime jelly, and about as useful: Dan Eisenhandler truly ploughs his own furrow, then rolls about in it, howling. Tonight he growls, yelps, parps on a trumpet, creates walls of feedback, crawls on the floor, and generally does whatever comes into his big bald head. His beleaguered backing band is left trying to hold things together, whilst Dan rips apart songs that were barely there in the first place.

Is it any good? No. Of course not. Are you insane? It's a load of old nonsense.

Did I enjoy it, and do I respect Twizz? Yes. Of course. Are you insane? How can one dislike such an unpredictable and joyfully chaotic show? Twizz Twangle is living proof that character and honesty are sometimes the most important things an artist can have. Though some tunes might be useful too, Dan...

After a twangling, Tsunami sound as tight as all hell! And that's fair enough, as they're a nice neat band, some slapdash guitar tuning notwithstanding. The vocalist is the lynchpin, with plenty of charisma and a high, vibrato-laden voice, but the whole bunch are decent performers. To be fair, the songs haven't exactly set up home in my head, though they're perfeclty good - think classic rock with a twist of 80s Bunnymen indie. Tsunami are a great support act; the test now is whether they can develop into something more memorable and move beyond that.

Can someone tell me why there's so much country music in Oxfordshire? Never could fathom that one. Anyway, The Epstein are comfortably top of the bunch (sorry, Goldrush), with a ton of lazy, shimmering songs, hung over rich syrupy vocals and generously coated with slide guitar: who needs authenticity when it sounds this good?

Anyway, by their standards tonight is a slightly messy affair, and the set doesn't quite hang together, but it's still a damned pleasant 45 minutes, with some beautiful melodies. Saddle up the hosses, boys, we're riding the whole herd to Didcot!