Chromoplasty

Look, I changed the colours. Go, me.

MY MEGA-MELODIC ALL-DAYER, Port Mahon

Promoting gigs is often more a matter of blind hope than financial certainty, but hosting over nine hours of lo-fi performance on Bank Holiday Saturday is simply commercial suicide. Still, we popped along for the first half of My Analogue and Melodic Oxford’s marathon, and discovered some gems, even though we’re pretty sure we were the only non-performing audience member for at least half the time. Dave Griffiths in acoustic mode raised eyebrows from the off, revealing emotional subtleties in his voice rarely evident in Witches’ sonic maelstrom. Arresting, but we still live for sonic maelstroms round here. Proffering rustic guitar strums augmented with frail melodica and glockenspiel, Blanket was never likely to satiate this particular need, but their featherweight pastoralia was lovely. Rather gorgeous on the ear it may be, but trying to actually focus on the music and criticise it proves as tricky as climbing a rice paper staircase. Things fare better on their evocative (and reasonably priced) album.

When Robh Hokum takes to the stage with his acoustic he seems even more awkward than Blanket’s singer, who had the air of a five year old forced to play an angel in the Infants’ Nativity. Quick stage school tip: “I’m this close to vomiting” isn’t an ideal greeting. However, once he starts singing his Americana-brushed songs, any concerns are forgotten. His tiny nylon strung guitar and high reedy voice are so thin and delicate it sounds like someone’s spinning a Depression era 78 onstage, to surprisingly engrossing effect.

Twee will rock you! Synth-poppers Life With Bears have grabbed the guitars to become Socks & Shoes for some inept three chord proto-punk with childlike lyrics, something like The Shaggs meets Rod, Jane & Freddy. It’s bloody great fun, but probably not much else. HIV apologise for their offensive name, but they needn’t worry, their tedious improv rock is offensive enough on its own, a dire mirror image of The Evenings’ brilliance, which is tragic as the members are in wonderful bands too numerous to mention. Some light-hearted unpretentious banter softens the blow, but HIV could have internet moles feverishly typing “Clique”. Caps lock on, naturally. Warbly crooner Wolf Tracks is so ear-manglingly awful we’re ecstatic that we catch a few minutes of Onions For Eyes before departure, and leaving during their carny roustabout 2 Unlimited cover makes us want to stay awhile. Which, after over five hours in The Port, is really the biggest compliment we can give this intriguing, if uneven festival.

The Melody Haunts My Revelry

Bloody blimey space invaders, I've been busy today! At work, at home, on the way to my bi-annual haircut, I've been running about like a mad bugger. Not a terrible thing, I like a busy life, but I'm feeling the effect now. Anyway, here's one from a few years ago.

Oh, just in case it looks weird, "PMT" is a music hardware shop in Oxford. It stand for Professional Music Tehcnology; if you think the acronym is embarrassing, you should see the fucking logo.

SLEEPS IN OYSTERS/ THE SILKROOM/ AMBERSTATE - Melodic Oxford, Port Mahon, 5/06

Melody in music works like plot in fiction: it's not essential, but it can be a useful entrance point, and, if done well, is a joy in its own right. Melodic Oxford is cleverly arranging events that explore how wide a variety of musicians have a melodic sensibility at work. With supper jazz drums, sub-aquatic bass, langourous vocals and keys that lalternate between ridiculous Rick Wakeman-style arpeggios and sonar blips (mostly produced by slapping a vocoder mike), Amberstate serve up smouldering tunes like a lo-fi Smoke City. If you like the thought of the second Lamb album made in a garden shed, give them a whirl and go home happy.

Oddly, The Silkroom seem to run on melodic empty. They sound like Franz Ferdinand with three quarters of the songs removed, so to make up for this dearth they play ridiculously loud and put the vocals through some effects. Sadly, all the pedals in PMT couldn't disguise the singer's two-note youth club blurt, and the set feels lax and flabby. They could have a future making Billy Mahonie-style stop-start music, but tonight we infinitely preferred the stop.

Sleeps In Oysters refresh our waning Sunday spirits with an intriguing set. They have enough fuzzy loops and glitches to make Sunnyvale blush, yet they embellish them with gorgeous tuneful figures on toy glockenspiels and such, like a Fisher Price Sigur Ros. The glacial female vocal lines are a treat too, though the male counterpart is a little nasal. Their racks of equipment test the Port's sticky tape sound system, but they shouldn't let it get to them so obviously, as their music is joyous.