The Shelter Frequency

Here's another great big festival review that I'm having to type in all over again, so I think I'll do it in two halves again. I'm that lazy. Plus I'm running out of archive material, so I have to spin it out a bit; heaven forfend I think of something new to say.

First paragraph's boring, isn't it? Second is no great shakes, either. Gets going a bit later on.

AUDIOSCOPE, The Zodiac, 29-30/10/05

Is it really possible to give an objective review of Audioscope here? After all, it's a longstanding, well respected charity event, and what's more the Oxfordbands crew are behind it all. Then again, art is nothing without a response and, being a white hot ball of opinion with few friends left to try them out on, it's the internet for me. Suffice to say that, whatever anybody's tastes and reactions, nobody can deny the vast amount of energy expended in organising Audioscope, nor can they balk at the huge sums raised over the years for Shelter. All of which sounds rather liek the preface to an admission of a bad weekend, whereas nothing could be further from the truth.

Like finding a tenner in a coat you haven't worn for a while proceedings start with a pleasant surprise. Excepting a couple of drizzle-flecked songs at Truck, it's been a year since I last saw Fell City Girl live, and in my memory they've been filed away as "impressive, but not revelatory". A week may be a long time in politics, but this last year has seen some incredible changes for FCG, progressing to bigger and better things on a seemingly monthly basis. Whether my memory is faulty or whether the hard work has paid off is unimportant, FCG are now a live force to be reckoned with. Or perhaps surrendered to in awe. Naturally lots of attention is given to Phil McMinn's cracked angel voice, but for me it's Shrek's drums that catch the ear, intelligently undercutting songs that threaten to turn into bombastic Muse stomps with brittle, icy rhythms. A beautiful opening set, and one that asks the question, "What will 2006 hold for them?". To be frank, no reply seems too grandiose. Oxford act of the year, no competition.

The question that Bullet Union's set raises is "Just what is alternative music, anyway?" We've just heard some potential Top 40 botherers from FCG, and wandered past a gigantic queue of people eager to collect tickets for a sold out Zodiac. Is there really any such thing as leftfield rock anymore? If there is, it certainly ain't Bullet Union, who are only a couple of jerky corners away from being a stright up melodic punk band. Which doesn't mean, of course, that they are a bad band by any means, just not a vastly moving one. Perhaps this set, complete with broken strings, isn't the ideal one on which to judge them, but by the end of the weekend BU had become a pleasant yet nondescript haze in the memory's mniddle distance, obscured by superior acts.

One of whom are Bristol's Ivory Springer. Drafted in at late notice to replace Giddy Motors who split up after the lineup was annoucned (Hey, it's a charity gig, they should be forced to play by Dickensian officials!) Ivory Springer add a dash of wit to the still half-empty Zodiac. Well, the "Four Tet only" brigade have missed out and no mistake, passing up half an hour which is as intelligent and amusing in its musical angularity as in its hilarious ad libs. Admittedly the format isn't revolutionary, and I overheard the name Big Black being spoken behind me at least once, but there's an undeniable force and character to their three-piece bludgeoning that ensures a warm reception.

As well as being the feeling brought on by standing in the dingy confines of The Zodiac drinking expensive cheap lager for two full days, Ill Ease is also the name of a sassy New York one woman band. Structuring rootsy new wave tunes from a series of fuzzy guitar and drum loops, Elizabeth Sharp delivers a yelpingly idiosyncratic set that is equal parts Dylan and Peaches. There is a slight fear that this is only interesting because there's just one of her, and that a full band would reveal the limitations in the songwriting, but it's still a barrelfull of fun, which thankfully throws a little NYC swagger into a bill mostly populated by awkward avantniks.

The demands of a hungry stomach and an eight o'clock pass out limit meant that I sadly missed most of Shooting At Unarmed Men. The five minutes I caught at the end appeared to offer the fine balance of humour, bile and naked agression that characterised John Chapple's previous band, McLusky, but perhaps that's not award winning journalistic insight...

There's a certain type of aged female relative that only ever says two things. First off, they'll meet you at birthday parties with the stalwart, "My, haven't you grown?", whereas in later years, you'll bump into them somewhat less frequently at funerals to be greeted with "My, you haven't changed a bit". Data Panik, effectively the new face of Bis, inspire both of these reactions simultaneously. Haven't they grown: the once smug and tinny rhythms have been replaced by a muscular rock attack. They haven't changed a bit: the songs are still hung on playground-simple vocal lines screamed out in the style of the Tantrum Tartrazine Vocal Consort. Perhaps wordy verses would be better served by being performed by one person at a time, so that we had some tiny idea of what the tunes were supposed ot be about, but overall Data Panik sent a mighty streak of joyful pop music over a somewhat obtuse weekend, like a splurge of squirty cream over elaborate confectionary.

Explosions In The Sky's first number opens with a langurous, glistening guitar part sounding something like Another Green World-era Eno taking on a lost track from The Bends. Sadly, this beautiful beginning decays into a dull, foursquare post-rock trudge, If MFI sold neo-Mogwai instrumentals they'd sound like this. In fact they'd sound slightly more intriguing, as there'd probably be piece that wouldn't quite fit that you'd have to hammer in with the end of a screwdriver, whereas EITS are spotlessly, tediously neat and tidy in their predictable guitar peaks and troughs. Maybe they'd work better if I came to them with fresh easr and unscrawled notebook, maybe I'm not in the mood, maybe 75% of The Zodiac, who are clearly loving every minute, are more discerning than I, but my attentuion soon wandered. Unfortunately for my general health, it wandered to the bar.

Four Tet's earkly work was a highly original melange of electronically treated folky offcuts, like The Infredible String Band's knuckles and kneecaps tossed into a techno bucket. His more recent material has developed in a chunkier, more organic direction, without losing any of the individuality. In a live setting the elctronica element is naturally foregrounded, though Kieron Hebden's abiding interest in jazz and improv means that we get something far more engaged and mutable than most mouseclickers can offer. This is both Four Tet's strength and his weakness, in that every show has an entirely different shape and texture, with long extemporised passages growing from the familiar material, but also in that there is the occasional longeur during which it sounds like Hebden is twiddling one of his knobs back and forth waiting for the next flash of inspiration. The conclusion to be drawn is that it's tough to be a solo improvisor, whether you've got a rack of machinery or a battered banjo, and that Hebden is good, but not yet up with the greats. Let's not forget, however, that this is ultimately techno, and there are some lovely post-electro 909 passages pumping that last dram of energy from our tired frames. There's a tiny part of me that worries that anything with a vaguely insistent beat would sound like manna by this point in proceedings, but that's not important right now. What's important is that we just witnessed some truly live electronica that, despite some limp moments, has kept us fully intrigued. He move we? Just about, just about.

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.

A Lorra Lorry Laughs

I missed Truck last year, and by all acounts it was one of the best, so I've already procured my blagger's journalist guest pass for this year's. I'm also going to review Cornbury, which is less exciting (imagine a festival created by the deli counter at Somerfield after 10 minutes looking at the Times colour supplement and a copy of Q from 1991).

Truck 2006, Hill Farm, Steventon


There’s nothing so civilised as sitting out in the sun with a can of beer at midday waiting for a band to come - none of the old smoky backroom ambience for the Truckers. Our festival starts with Technikov, and what may be the sound of a twenty-five year old Wasp synthesiser. Or possibly just the sound of a twenty-five year old wasp. Whichever, there’s plenty of niggling buzzing noise in evidence overlaying a spunky post-punk rhythm. Whilst this style of ranting jerky dissonance is very much Fall funk fodder for a Vacuous Pop frat party, it’s all very well done, and topped off with an eloquent architectural treatise called “No More Fucking Ugly Buildings”, which would get them Prince Charles’ vote if nothing else.

Their rise through the local hierarchy has been such a blur, it can be hard to remember for certain whether Harry Angel are any good or not. A sparking set on the main stage lets us see them in a fresh light. And don’t they look great? They’ve lost most of the early Radiohead flounces that used to define them, and hit the ground running on the dark side of the gothpop fence. If the guitar noise is like a huge slab of concrete then the vocal howls are deep cracks running through it. Melodic, imposing and impressive, Harry Angel sound powerful enough to coax some overcast darkness into the piercing sunshine. Surely not….

Everytime we see The Drugsquad we like them more, and today we’re especially grateful that they’re playing in the most watertight tent of them all as the heavens open. They may have two new members today (one tragically died and one foolishly moved to France) but the gist is the same - country coated ska punk delivered in a manic cutprice cabaret style. Imagine Murph & The Magictones jamming with Merle Haggard and Primus and you’re edging towards it…so long as you add some squeaking, wonky keyboards that could even teach Technikov a thing or two. A year ago we rather dismissively wrote, “it’s good, but it’s not rocket science”. Well, such is the audacity of arrangement underneath the tunes on display today, we’re tempted to imagine some NASA scientist, crouched over racks of monitors, mumbling to himself, “It’s good, but it’s not The Drugsquad”.

A desire to stay dry eventually wins in a battle with our desire to explore the festival, so we end up staying around for Jacob’s Stories, who trade in plangent vocal loops, aching viola and tinkling keys. We’re very annoyed to find that this delicate little show is actually pretty good and rather eerie in the midst of a raging storm, because it stops us using our close, but no sigur gag, which we were so looking forward to.

We suspect that A Silent Film’s first number was intended as epic Radioheaded piano rock, but from the back of a steaming Trailerpark tent complete with sound problems, it sounds oddly stoned and irie, like Muse covering The Orb’s “Towers Of Dub”. An interminable delay wringing rain from the PA later, and we get another track with a whiff of early 70s funk rock about it. It actually sounds very promising, but this is sadly not the gig to start judging. One to stick behind the ear for later, we feel.

More rebellious equipment over at the main stage, where Get Cap, Wear Cape, Fly has given up on his machines and simply strapped on his acoustic for a wee singsong. Pretty decent it is too, but too twee for this rain drenched reviewer, who decides a dancing bear might wake things up.

Oh dear, The Walk Off seem to have grown up. They’re even beginning to look like a real band now, with a sober vocalist and upright musicians. It’s still a damned fine punk trip through the Digital Hardcore mangle, but anyone who remembers the sheer exhilarating chaos of older sets might feel there’s something missing; quite possibly something distilled. But the bear is still the hardest working performer at the festival, and he didn’t even need a soundcheck.

We pop into the end of Danny Wilson’s set, hoping to hear “Mary’s Prayer”, but it turns out there’s just this one feller called Danny, not a troupe mid-80s washouts. Good news too, if what we hear is anything to go by, alovely slice of laidback country, like a barnyard Steve Harley, backed by some serious fiddle by Truck’s very own Joe Bennett.

We think we saw Jakokoyak playing solo earlier in the year, but we can’t be sure because the music we’re hearing today is so vastly different. In fact it’s a sort of tidy dull 80s rock that that Danny Wilson might have enjoyed, hideously reminiscent of an unplugged Aztec Camera. Quick, let’s get some metal down us.

Roughly everyone in Oxford has advised us to see Sow, such is their presence on the scene, even old ladies in Co-op. In a surprisingly sparse barn, however, their lead-heavy music doesn’t have much presence and all sounds somewhat polite and tinny. You can tell that it’s properly brutal stuff though, and it simply makes us even sadder that we missed their Punt performance.

Last year, Motormark entertained us with some camp techno goth tomfoolery. Whilst it at first appears that : ( might do something similar, they merely sound like two members of a tired emo band jamming along to an Amiga. But not as much fun.

We’ve run out of words to describe Fell City Girl. Of course, they’re a sheer joy today as ever, but you’ll know that if you’ve ever seen them; if you haven’t, are you sure you’re reading the right website? As we’ve said before, in a band oozing talent the real secret weapon is Shrek, who looks squashed behind his kit, but can play with startling delicacy. They should put him in the front, there are too many little pipsqueaks in rock anyway.

On record Battles are a glorious prog jazz techno affair, like ELP covering LFO. Unfortunately, from where we’re standing in the clamorous barn they may as well be ELO covering EMF, because all we can hear is a loud hum and some drums. They look like they’re playing a blinder though…the best acid house kraut jazz band we never heard in our lives.