Contra(ce)ption

"Homercles cares not for beans"

THE FAMILY MACHINE – HOUSES THAT YOU LIVED IN (Beard Museum)

There’s a moment listening to the gorgeous “Quiet As A Mouse” when we realise that it sounds like something from a vintage Oliver Postgate TV show.  Listen to that wiltingly simple vocal melody and those urbanely bucolic drizzles of guitar, and couldn’t this be what Gabriel the Toad might sing if he had to explain something intangibly complex like regret or absence, instead of hot air balloons and sharing?  What makes this album beautiful is not just the lovely sound – although the sound is lovely, from the 60s soundtrack horns and Bacharach bass of “Long Way From Home” to the Golden Syrup Abbey Road warmth of “Morning Song” – but the way that the deftly constructed miniature songs seem to say a lot about huge topics in very few words, like indie folk as written by Saki.  Or Yoda.

The key concept that resurfaces throughout the records is home, whether as welcoming shelter after a hard journey or as mute witness to painful absence: the title track could easily be a rewriting of Philip Larkin’s “Home Is So Sad”, over a melancholic melody that somewhat recalls early 90s R.E.M. It’s not always easy to hone in on what specifically these allusive little songs mean, especially “We Ain’t Going Home” which simply repeats its title in reverberant harmony like the world’s most elegant footie chant, but perhaps they are not supposed to be tied down.  Most great pop music is brash and cocksure, but The Family Machine’s intimate intricacies are more haiku than high kick, and should be cherished as amongst the county’s very best.

Riverside 2010 Saturday Pt 2

Huck & The Handsome Fee are very good, if a little one-paced, and Tamara Parsons-Baker vocals really shine in this unabashed ‘50s throwback. The Roundheels’ trad rocking is less intense, a bit of a light, fluffy country meringue, but is pleasant enough. The Delta Frequency make out that they’re all about the aggressive, subversive rock, but what we hear is like The Foo Fighters playing over a tinny old Front 242 LP. Ho hum.

Undersmile amuse us, not least because their name sounds like coy slang for a fanny. They supply a thick, dense grunge sound that just trudges on slowly forever, like a man ploughing treacle. The twin vocals detract from the Babes In Toyland effect a little, sounding like two girls who don’t want to eat their sprouts, but that aside they’re a fun new band.

Far more fun than Charlie Coombes & The New Breed, despite the fact they’re several squillion times more experienced. Actually, he’s not that bad, and has a very smooth voice, like a 70s sit com vicar having a crack at Nik Heyward, but the songs just aren’t there. He only needs one great Crowded House style pop hit and we’d love him, but for now we’re bored enough to consider going for a quick game of chess with the guy from the Mexican food stand.

With flagging energy levels, Riverside keep back three excellent acts to round off the day. The Family Machine still have the chirpiest pop songs in Oxford concealing sharpest barbs, but they feel distant on the big stage. Beard Of Zeuss make a sort of bang bang bang noise for a while and it sounds bloody great; by the end we’re not only unsure whether it is wrong to spell Zeus with two esses, but we’re wondering whether a few more might not go amiss.

Borderville synthesise the twin poles of the sometimes mystifying Riverside booking policy. They play “proper” music, with choruses and schoolroom keyboard technique and a respect for rock classics, yet they also throw it together with such calculatedly wild abandon and desperate drama that the gig becomes almost aggressively experimental. They start with a string quartet, which is over-amped and out of tune, but sets the tone of faded glamour from which the set springs in all its camp glory. This is what Glee would be like if Roxy Music sat on Mount Olympus and Pete Townshend carried amps down Mount Sinai. Improbably excellent music.

Nuclear Device?

This is one of those few reviews for which I have an email from the performers, thanking me for the review; not really because I said nice things, but because it was clear I'd listened to the thing. Sad, really, that this needs commenting on, wouldn't you say?

FAMILY MACHINE – YOU ARE THE FAMILY MACHINE (Alcopop)



People generally don’t listen to lyrics. At least not to the verses. Elvis Costello tells stories of late 80’s parents requesting his hit “Veronica” on the radio to celebrate their little princess’ birthday, when it’s actually about Elvis’ Mum going nutty in a nursing home. Ten years later there’s the tale of married couples spinning Baby Bird’s “You’re Gorgeous” at their wedding, despite the fact that even a cursory listen to the seedy storyline would seem to supply a perfectly good reason not to use it as your first dance. (Another being, of course, that it’s shit.)

We can imagine something similar happening to Family Machine’s greatest song, “Flowers By The Roadside”, in which intelligent lyrics probe society’s rituals of remembrance atop one of the catchiest melodies ever produced in Oxford. It even has a bloody whistling break. Is Family Machine - we know it looks stupid without a definite article in front, but that’s how it’s written on the sleeve, and we’re nothing if not anal about stuff like that – trying to smuggle mournful themes into our heads in the disguise of gorgeous pop music? If so, they do a very good job of the disguising: half of this album is heart-breaking melancholy, and the other half is meaningless fluff fun, best seen in “The Do Song”, a nonsensical pop romp which is like a cross between The Wannadies and Francis Lai’s theme to Un Homme & Une Femme.

Opener “Ko Tao” sets the tone, with a lightweight fuzz guitar bounce that recalls T Rex at their least serious. Before we know it, however, we’re immersed in the banjo plucking simplicity of “Burn Like Stars” or the resigned sadness of “Paving Stone Monsters”, which is heart-breaking even though we’re not sure precisely what these ever-present monsters symbolise. Even “Got It Made” undercuts its sampladelic Ninja Tune spy theme air with a widescreen pathos coda that could have come from Ennio Morricone’s most tear-jerking drawer. In fact, it’s only “Lethal Drugs Cocktail” that spoils the mood, coming off as too deliberately matey, like a desperate uncle making bad jokes at a wedding (though we’ll laugh at anything to drown out Baby Bird).

“Did You Leave” is perhaps a summation of the whole album, building an elegiac mood with heavily reverbed melody lines only to suddenly subsume it in bubbly “Ba ba ba” backing vocals. Except that the sadness never quite disappears, even as the grins surface. Maybe Family Machine is saying that melancholia is an undercurrent in even our happiest moments; or maybe the point is that even despair can have a tinge of happiness – it’s joyous to be alive and feel something, even if it’s only misery. Concluding the record with an uncredited lofi instrumental probably indicates that we’re not encouraged to reach definite conclusions about such things.

Beyond all this philosophising, You Are The Family Machine is simply a fantastic relaxed album of semi-acoustic pop, that can make you dance on the tables downing sangria one minute, and slump weeping into your whisky the next. Highly recommended.

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.

Whose Idea Was A Top 9, Anyway?

A change from the usual today, here are my favourite Oxon records of 2008, as posted on Oxfordbands.com. Quite hard to choose favourite records, as although I come across lots of new acts, I don't necessarily hear all the recordings, so it's an arbitrary list.

Not much else to say, so I'll leave you with this observation. You know that Gaviscon ad where a milky firemen surfs down a woman's throat, spraying pharmaceutical goodness around her oesophagus? Am I the only person who thinks that looks like the climax of some Trumpton blow job? I can't help seeing it as Fireman Sam's anthropomorphic ejaculate spurting down the gullet of some Pontypandy floozie. Sorry.

Edit: a quick trip to Google later, I realise I am not alone in forming this horrific image. I do feel better now.

TOP OXON RECORDINGS OF 2008

Les Clochards - Demo

"I get drunk and I forget things," alleges "Tango Borracho", but we won;t forget this eerie pop monologue. Edit - they released a full LP this year, and very good it is too, if you like wry Gallic cafe indie.

Ally Craig - "Angular Spirals" 7"

Wonky full band outing is lyrically obtuse but deeply lovable. We want a full LP!

Euhedral - Burned Out Visisons

Economy implodes! Venues close! "Hallelujah" raped" Never mind, watrm fuzzy drones wil make things better.

Family Machine - You Are The Family Machine

Yes, the songs are quite old now, but this brainy perk pop is as warming yet intoxicating as a pint of Drambuie.

Foals - Antidotes

Battles + Haricut 100 + studied funk artiness + stupid clothes = Blue Aeroplanes for the T4 generation.

Nonstop Tango - Maps & Dreams

Improv scamps impersonate Waits, on Oxford's least accurately named band's debut LP.

Space Heroes Of The People - "Motorway To Moscow"

Another cracking EP that sounds lovingly handmade and icily robotic simultaneously.

Tie Your Shoes To Your Knees & Pretend You're Small, Like Us - Demo

Journo baiting cockabout results in unexpected collaged fascination.

Stornoway - "On The Rocks"

New EP contrastingly reveals there's no end to this band's melodic invention, and that rag week humour really sucks.

Truck 2008 Pt 2

The Family Machine have always looked to us like lovable scamps in a 90s British romcom, around whom everything goes wrong, but who come up affably smiling. In the midst of some random sound engineering, the unflaggable cheeriness of the band makes us assume that Hugh Grant is taking notes in the wing. After all the problems, it’s a glorious set from some of Oxford’s best songwriters, all lachrymose acoustic laments undercut with a plucky determination – we imagine a video of slow motion clips of missed penalities, fluffed catches and other sports failures to “The Do Song”, intercut with footage of Jamie Hyatt winking from the bleachers.

Was it really less than two years ago since we saw Rolo Tomassi at The Port Mahon as part of a single figure crowd? In a packed Barn they get a heroes’ welcome. This is, of course all good and proper, because their maximalist metal constructions are simply amazing, with intricate drums, throat shredding screaming and even more buzzy keyboards that are only a curry away from being Rick Wakeman, which seems to be a theme of the Barn today. The dexterity involved in the performance is incredible, but it doesn’t get in the way of the riotous passion on show. They do a track that sounds like “Eye Of The Tiger” remade by Napalm Death and Goblin. If you want more than that in your life you are greedy beyond belief.

Having read some embarrassing nonsense following Jay-Z’s Glastonbury booking that music festivals aren’t the place for hip hop, it’s a joy to see the Beat Hive jam packed fro Mr Shaodow’s frenetic set. He’s clearly happy too: much as we love his music, we’ve always felt that his shows can be somewhat nervous and twitchy. Clearly the adoring reception has pushed him to greater things, as he prowls the stage, ranting into two mikes simultaneously and generally sending a tent full of dancers insane, whilst never missing a syllable of his excellent lyrics. Asher Dust helps out with the odd piece of singing and a nice red hat, but this is Shaodow’s hour, and he deserves it.

When you see someone in a scarlet astronaut suit playing limp, Bowie-ish country songs out of tune and saying garbage like “I fell in the whoop-de-doo” and, “show me love, you kitty cats”, you begin to think that it must be an elaborate musical prank. We still don’t know if Y is a serious musician or a practical joker – either way, it’s a shit way to spend your life.

“Next on ITV3, When Irony Goes Bad, this week featuring rubbish band Dead Kids”. The spectacle of men dressed like The Quireboys who play songs that all sound like Van Halen’s “Jump” without the subtlety, and smothered with crap synths and tinny guitars is enough to sap the strength. Dead Kids look like something that was cut from Nathan Barley as being too awful to even satirise. Terrible shouty singer too. OK, we’re prepared to believe it’s a bit of harmless fun; but if anyone over the age of 14 tries to tell you this is punk attitude, kill them. Kill them, for they shall never know better.

Martin Simpson has a taste for language, introducing his set with a discussion of the adjectives “bucolic” and “crepuscular”, and clearly relishing the visceral imagery of his opening traditional ballad, lingering over the phrase “the bloody steel”. He also languidly enjoys every line of a bottleneck tune, which reminds us that the blues is an intelligent narrative music, not just an excuse to show your beery market town mates how fast your left hand can go. Of course, Simpson’s guitar playing is also phenomenal, varying from lutelike delicacy to swift percussive passages via sleazy Chicago blues, but he never milks it, always letting the song lead the way. He was playing The Albert Hall for the Proms the day after, we feel lucky to have caught him somewhere so intimate. Not to mention bucolic.

Some competent folk rock from Texas’ Okkervil River, who know how to do lush and full blooded, their line up including two keyboards and occasional trumpet. At times they resembled The Arcade Fire without the Biblical bits, but far too often they just passed the time. We asked three people in the crowd who they sounded like, and nobody could actually come up with a name; this means either Okkervil River are trailblazing geniuses, or forgettably generic. Make your own minds up.

We’re slightly suspicious of the Don’t Look Back movement in which acts perform their pivotal albums. When it was announced that The Lemonheads would do the excellent It’s a Shame About Ray at Truck, the first thing that sprang to mind is that it’s 27 minutes long: in their billed show they could have played it three times, and left space to mime turning over the record. As it is, they crack through the album, minus a couple of tracks, in record time, and it feels something like a contractual obligation. After a couple of minutes, Evan Dando comes on for a solo reading of Smudge’s excellent “Outdoor Type” and “Being Around”, before the band return in a seemingly much more relaxed frame of mind for another thirty minutes or so of superior playing. The problem is that these were never main stage songs, they’re vulnerable, retiring, lovable (and probably stoned) little tunes that are most likely happier out of the limelight: as is Evan, who seems unappreciative of the crowd and mutters barely a word. Not really a disappointment, then, but great as these songs are, the show added nothing to them.