Head Band

Stick it up yer garrett!

THE GULLIVERS – TIME TO TIME (demo)


Though we all aspire to being twisted black-hearted cynics encamped in dark garrets sneering at the menial world’s artistic endeavours, there’s nothing we reviewers actually like more than to watch a band grow and improve, and beneath our stern patrician veneers we all urge to nurture musicians and see them reach greater heights. So it’s with a jubilant spirit that I announce the arrival of the new demo from Bicester punks The Gullivers, comfortably their best recording yet. Their early work was a less than inspiring missive from the overcrowded vandalised playground ruled over by The Libertines, but slowly they’ve been creeping out from under this undesirable shadow and beating their sound into a more cohesive shape.

Special mention must go to vocalist Mark Byrne who sings with a naturally accented honesty and doesn’t try to disguise any lapses in tuning. He has a voice like bruised fruit, forever edging up to the melody then dropping away, sounding oddly like a snotty young version of namesake David Byrne, and this gives The Gullivers a refreshing sense of openness. No posturing here, no showboating, just that pleasurable but all too rare beast called straight up pop-punk, with its heart in the twilight world of suburban ennui.

“Panic, Rush” displays the more melodic side to their writing, but the recording’s title track, with it’s rhythmic bounce and neatly placed handclaps under the choppy guitars, recalls local punks Junkie Brush, albeit with a lighter touch. In fact, as the recording goes by it becomes clear that there’s a pop band hidden in The Gullivers somewhere, and it will be interesting to see whether the sneering nihilism or the whistleable tunes eventually get the upper hand. “Morning After (The Night Before)” has all the Johnny Rotten vocal abrasion you could wish, but somehow it still sounds like the distant cousin of blur’s “Globe Alone”.

This is no tragedy, and the lighter tones make the music that much more individual: only final track, “Hierarchy”, lets us down, plodding along insolently despite the opening bars’ promise to turn into a drizzly cul-de-sac version of “Paint It Black”. So there’s work to be done yet, and I’d be lying if I claimed this were an entirely satisfying, fully-formed band, but things are moving in the right direction with increasing urgency, and who are we to argue with that? The Gullivers already sound like themselves, which is a trick so many bands forget to pull off, that I’m going to sound my support.

That felt good. You know, I think I’ll give the old garret a lick of paint and open the windows.

Punt & Jury

Interesting one, this. A lot of lukewarm reviews of acts that have grown in stature in the interim. Except 32, who are probablys still atrocious - don't think they've played a gig since this. Don't know how they managed to blag this, to be honest. Must be very nice young lads, or possibly schooled in mesmerism.

THE PUNT 2007, various venues

Jessica Goyder’s Joni-Mitchell-meets-jazz tunes are as light, sweet and frothy as a cappuccino topping, and she plays them with great dexterity. But we’re telling you this because we already knew it, not because we heard it at The Punt, where a weedy PA turned Jessica’s Minnie Ripperton scatting into the sound of an adenoidal, constipated Clanger. I know Borders is hardly Knebworth, but really the sound of pages turning shouldn’t be as loud as the music…

Mr. Shaodow seems to have found the volume control, but has inadvertently stumbled across a slapback sound that would make Sun Studios cream. Not really what a rapper wants, we’d have thought. Still, Shaodow overcomes such obstacles with a confident performance of his literate and amusing tracks. Musically it’s superb, but Shaodow really wants to work on his stage patter, he comes off like a desperate Butlins comedian at times.

Thirty Two are repugnant. Ostensibly they’re metal, but the way the guitars chug through their chords with no sense of dynamics reminds us more of some twobit bar room blues band. At one point blue and red spotlights make the band look like they’re on one of those 80s 3D films; if only the music had the same illusion of depth.

Mondo Cada’s brutal grunge metal is just what we need to eradicate the memory of Thirty Two, and they deliver one of the best sets of the evening. Sludge riff bleurgh pounding psychedelic violence Eynsham psychosis rumbled: even sense and syntax cower before the might of Mondo.

Another unexpected treat comes in the shape of Joe Allen and Angharad Jenkins at the rather cramped QI bar. His songs are subtle and well-constructed, but it’s the fluid folky electric violin ladled over the top that really wins us over. It’s like a tiny bonsai Cropredy happening just for us! Joe might want to be careful that his neatly packaged angst doesn’t send him down the white slide to David Gray purgatory, but for now we’ll happily celebrate a great new voice in town.

The Colins Of Paradise is comfortably the worst band name at The Punt. They’re certainly no slouches as musicians, though, resolutely wheeling out light funk grooves with well-trained sax solos battling six string bass flourishes. If only it weren’t so horrifically trite and soulless, we’d be frugging away like anyone. Can we do our “Flaccid Jazz” joke again now, please?

It’s the vocals that make a lot of people wary of The Gullivers, but we think the bruised and awkward quality of Mark Byrne’s singing works rather well against the suburban punk thud of the music. Tonight’s performance is uneven, but lovable, like a gangly Dickensian urchin who’s grown out of his clothes.

Their music oscillates wonderfully between free improv dribbles and testifyin’ gospel rock, with occasional trudges into Tom Waits territory, and Mephisto Grande go down a storm at a crowded Purple Turtle. Much as we like them, it still feels more like half of SCFT than a proper band, but perhaps it’ll take time to heal the loss of one of our favourite Oxford groups.

Stornoway are possibly Oxford’s best band at the moment, and we love them. But when you’re listening to their delicate folk pop from the back of a packed Wheatsheaf, and not all the band are present, it’s hard to take much away from the experience.

And the other contender for top local band title comes from Borderville. If you tried to teach martians about rock music with nothing but videos of Tommy and the musical Buffy episode, a Rick Wakeman album and a scratchy 7” of “Ballroom Blitz” they’d probably turn out performances just like Borderville. Fun though Sexy Breakfast were it’s great to see Joe finding songs that really suit his voice, and a band who can be theatrical without being smug (well, OK, maybe a tiny bit smug). “Glambulance” calls for fists in the air, and for one night The Music Market is a Broadway theatre.

We only catch the last tune by The Mile High Young Team. It sounds pretty good, and certainly better than their rather overly polished recordings. It’s not much of response we suppose, but then Punt should leave you confused, dizzy, and possibly slightly drunk.

Pre-Budgie Report

One of no fewer than 4 Gullivers EP reivews I've done for Oxfordbands. I didn't get passed ther most recent, the editor did it instead. not sure whether I should be upset that they broke the chain, or thankful that I don't have to thinkof things to say about the same band all the time.

THE GULLIVERS – EP

The Gullivers is a band that has been improving at a pleasing rate over the past couple of years, and yet their development has been entirely qualitative: they’ve improved their knockabout punk pop, but haven’t seen fit to alter the blueprint any. That is, until this new, that demonstrates just how great they can be, as well as showing up their very real flaws.

What truly knocks us for six is the understated melancholy of opening tune, “Forever”. Yes, it has short vocal lines, and insistent new wave drums, but there’s no hint of the scruffy urchin bluster that made earlier recordings sound like glue sniffing takes on “You’ve Got To Pick A Pocket Or Two”. In its place we find a mature resignation in the performance, especially the vocals – check the wonderfully world weary way that Mark Byrne intones the hook “This is history”. In their older, Sex Pistols influenced days the band would have declaimed this as a nihilistic statement, whereas now it sounds more like a guilty admission, and is all the stronger for it. In fact, this song is surprisingly beautiful.

“Majesty” continues the high quality, melding the punk music hall feel of earlier Gullivers material (listen to that vintage Stranglers bassline) with their newfound introspection: an emotive synthesised french horn part suddenly gives way to a surprise bumpalong chorus, with conversationally chanted vocals that remind us most unexpectedly of Shakespeare’s Sister! It doesn’t sound a thing like them, of course, but it is a decent tune.

Sadly, “The Fun We Have…” sees them lose it completely. Never the tightest band in the county, it’s the vocals that put many people off The Gullivers, Byrne displaying such a heroic inability to hold down a melody he sometimes sounds like an effete Mark E. Smith. Not only does he fail monumentally to stay in tune on this track, but the backing vocals sound like someone half-arsedly calling the cat from the studio door. Add to that a loping rhythm that plods along like a wooden-legged postman and you’ve got a track that reveals all the band’s faults and none of their charm.

Things improve slightly with “Chemicals” (hang on a mo, wasn’t the last EP called Chemicals, even though this track wasn’t on it? And this EP doesn’t even have a name, though it does have a photo of some suburban budgies). The contrast between a bouncy handclap and brittle guitar intro and a dissonant march is neat, but should probably be played slightly more tidily to really work, plus the vocals, whilst better than the previous track, don’t come close to the wonderful ennui of the opener. Still, the line “Your absence of evidence is not evidence for absence” is one of those pop moments that seem to carry much more weight of meaning that they ought, and put us in mind briefly of early Wire lyrics, even if the music drifts from our consciousness pretty soon afterwards.

So, an uneven record, but one containing the best track The Gullivers have yet committed to wax, and one displaying hints for a very interesting future, even as it clings on to clunky remnants of the past: the rough and tumble playground feel is departing, but The Gullivers are still tottering a tiny bit in their grown up clothes. Fuck it, we don’t want to end the review on a bad note – let’s play “Forever” again and let its wan, autumnal half-smile win us over once more.

Critical Reaction

I've messed up a bit, posting the review of my most recent Gulliver's review first: it's not only the best of the records, but I think it's the best written review. So now you have a long tunnel into a drab past to look forward to, as the archives are raided. Yay.

Tedious explanatory note: Ronan is the editor of Nightshift, if you didn't know.

THE GULLIVERS - CHEMICALS (demo)

Last time we came across The Gullivers on record we surprised ourselves by discerning a little bit of blur in the midst of the punk rabble. Either we hit on something, or The Gullivers have been adapting their sound to reflect what we say in our reviews (don’t do it kids: we reviewers are all 40 year old, washed up alcoholic failed rockers living in Ronan’s basement and we know nothing. It was on the internet so it must be true). Well, we’ll give The Gullivers the benefit of the doubt and assume they have the good sense to ignore every word we say, and conclude that they’re just moving in a more pop direction at the moment. Certainly the three tracks on this EP take a chimpish jaunt through the new wave music hall that housed the best Britpop, all bouncy baselines and chirpy chappy vocals. “Black & White” could well be some deformed sibling of Supergrass’ “Alright”, reared for years in some dark pub back room, fed on driptrays and pork scratchings. It’s ugly, disjointed and gallons of fun.

“Dilemma” does the Lambeth walk even further down the geezer trail, sounding like a slightly punch-drunk Madness, the “sign on the dotted line” refrain recalling the patriarchal advice on their NHS satire “Mrs Hutchinson”. Again we’re reminded of blur, albeit their very earliest fumblings, such as “Come Together” or “Day Upon Day”. In short, there’s something wonderfully unpretentious about The Gullivers, and we can’t help but warm to their ramshackle refrains. Also nice to see they’ve finally put the last of their Arctic Monkeys/Babyshambles influences to bed, and are making much more interesting music for it.

It’s a pity that the messy “Needless To Say” has to finish the CD. Like an old man groping for his glasses after a nap, this sounds like a song bumbling about in search of a melody. For the first time on the demo the vocals stop sounding refreshingly unaffected and honest, and just sound atonal and lazy. Like Michael Stipe, it would seem that Mark Byrne sounds more assured the lower in the mix he is, and somehow the spell gets broken when the vocals take centre stage; he could also do with sticking to the shorter phrases of “Dilemma”, which allow his yelps to flit in and out without having to tackle tuning issues.

So, there’s still some work to be done, but The Gullivers keep knocking out demos at a respectable velocity, and each one is definitely better than the last, so here’s to them: hey, if they keep improving at this rate, they’ll be the best band in the history of music by 2027. Go see them now and you’ll have the best “Saw them before they were famous” story ever!

Kicks Like Lemuel

Can't be bothered to write anything much here today. I feel crappy, & pretty much nobody reads this site anyway, so let's all conserve our energies.

THE GULLIVERS – AMBULANCE EP

Staring from the window whilst this EP was playing, we witnessed the pretty unwholesome Great British winter, a storm lashing away against the panes, and it seemed as good a time as any to talk about bad weather imagery in the history of pop. Hard rock can barely move for storm images, from the mighty Lightning Bolt to “heavy metal thunder”, but how about breakcore as the sonic equivalent of hailstones? Or acoustic singer songwriters as an annoying drizzle – any takers? And by that logic, The Gullivers’ latest offering, released today, is rather wonderfully akin to being lost in an eerie fog.

Which isn’t something we thought we’d be writing, frankly, when we heard their first demo, a snotty yet slightly spineless sliver of short trousered punk, which was amusing enough, but hardly on nodding terms with concepts such as subtlety or melancholy, yet the Ambulance EP boasts more in common with the glacial soundscapes of The Workhouse than it does the loud and rude affront of Headcount. Drums are slow and deliberately unemotive, the bass plods a defeated march, and guitars are suspended in cold reverb. Within this sonically misty dream landscape wander Mark Byrne’s vocals like a shelled shocked warrior, covered in contusions and abrasions, drenched in world weariness. Interestingly the vague but allusive lyrics keep referring to moments of crisis – “alarm bells ring”, “the ceiling caves in on us” – but this record is the sound of quiet resignation, not spasming panic, and this paradox is what makes The Gullivers such an excellent local act.

OK, there are a few minor quibbles. The rhythm playing is occasionally fractionally sloppy, especially in “Neptune”’s tempo changes (and it’s so much easier to spot when playing music of this restraint and delicacy, rather than the hell for leather punk racket of old); the Joy Division keyboards at the end of said tune are a tiny bit unoriginal; and the backwards coda after “Silhouette” is just plain hackneyed. Also, although the performances on this recording exude studied melancholia, sometimes in the live arena Byrne’s vocals simply sound messy, but none of this matters when we can float in the icy stasis of the title track, and lose ourselves in its spectral doom. We’d be going too far to claim that The Gullivers are the new wave version of Burial, whose music reduces rave to a barely present wraith, but there is a similarity in the way they take exuberant, perhaps even dumb, music and distill from it a ghostly sadness. With this record The Gullivers have graduated from “good, for Bicester” to “good for the soul”. Long may their winter last.