Stern Words

Once again, as with my very first review, this involves me filling in and helping out BBC writer Jeremy Stern because he had an urgent engagement in the bath, or the pub, or something. This time he phoned to say he wa supposed to be reviewing a gig, but could only make the last act; seeing as I was going anyway, I agreed to review the first two performances. It's a rubbish piece of writing, but an excellent piece of altruism, so it probably balances out.

JAKE/CACHE, Gappy Tooth Industries, The Zodiac, 9/03

Having seen Cache recently, and been a little bored by proceedings, it was a pleasant surprise to watch them tonight. They seem to have ironed out some wrinkles, and polished up a bunch of corners. Not to mention apparently giving the drummer a clip round the ear and a strong cup of coffee.

It's still hardly groundbreaking stuff, and far too unassuming for my tastes, but the vocals aren't half bad, with a fruity twist of Edie Brickell and a soupcon of Eddi Reader. Still a bit of an MOR soup, then, but at least now we're floating on it, not drowning in it.

Prince. The artist formerly known as any good. You may have read that a certain Mr. H. M. Superstar is the heir to the classic Prince crown, but, though he's got the sleazy pants and dancing girls, he hasn't one ounce of the soul. Jake, on the other hand, is exactly as exhilirating as his name isn't. Check the ridiculous pork pie hat, the white boy apoplexy of the hand gestures, the Norf Lahndon soulboy exhortations to dance, and the syrupy falsetto

This is 30 minutes of funk cabaret like Jamiroquai's wildest fantasies; like Cameo meeting Roachford in a massage parlour; like - well, basically like Prince...almost exactly like Prince.

OK, it's a buit wilfully nostalgic (Sign O' The Times Gone By, maybe) but Jake is one born performer backed by three natural musicians - how can you lose? Catch him playing with Chamfer in the near future. Now, if only they could write a few more tunes...

[At this jhuncture Jeremy turned up and wrote some guff or other about Birmingham metalers Last Under The Sun]

Sing When You're Grinning

Here's the first ever review I wrote. It's not even a whole review, just a handful of words about the headline act. Essentially I was at a gig when aquaintance and BBC Oxford reviewer Jeremy Stern said he had to run off (an urgent date with sitting around on his arse was clashing with his duties, I suspect) and would I mind finishing the review for him. Well, I had a crack, and they liked it so much they phoned me up to ask me to write more (even though I thought - and still think - it was a crappy piece of writing). I used to write tons for them - one review a week, pretty much - but after about a year I drifted off towards OHM and Nightshift. Don't remember why, precisely.

Anyway, the BBC site is still going, you can click the link on the right if you like. I've got to say the website is pretty duff nowadays - no real opinion offered nor any spark in the writing, and in terms of news it's not even particularly up to date nor detailed. Having said that, nowadays it's effectively an advert for Oxford Introducing (FKA The Download), a local music radio show that's a decent listen. So, tune in, but don't bother checking the site, I'd counsel.

By the way, Dog were the band supporting HTG. They're still going, believe it or not, although they're called The Gog now. Played last night, I believe. Ooh, syncronicity. HTG are long gone. Also, I'd completely forgotten Jamie Theakston existed - God he used to be everywhere!

HENCE THE GRIN, Gappy Tooth Industries, The Wheatsheaf , 11/02



Hence The Grin are a neat little power pop trio, with the emphasis placed squarely on the pop. They initially have a hard time making their mark after Dog's dada theatrics: Stu, the singer, looks like Jamie Theakston, and is quietly affable (a bit like Jamie Theakston); the bassist resembles a disgruntled skinhead, but soon turns out to be quietly affable as well; the drummer appears polite. So much for image.

However, anyone who gives some attention to their tightly wound melodic offerings is won over, and the dance floor soon fills up again. The music is deceptively simple, great vocal melodies (delivered in a powerful, mid-80s yelp) riding a chugging three piece buzz, but there's always a little something to surprise. "Bag Of Worries" is the key: the lyrics consist solely of the word "Pap!"; bass rumbles fuzzily; drums kick; guitar twangs.

It's like surf guitar...without the surf! Estuary insrumentals, anyone? Inlet rock? Hence The Grin don't do anything as you'd expect them to: when the crowd shouts "Encore" Stu drifts into a discussion with the audience about the French language. Eventually of course they play a final tune. Of course it rocks like the others. Grins all round, then.