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.
Showing posts with label Mile High Young Team The. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mile High Young Team The. Show all posts
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
The Demon Barbie
This review was fun to write. The jury's out on whether it will be fun to read.
THE MILE HIGH YOUNG TEAM/ HOUSE OF BLUE DOLLS/ BACK POCKET PROPHET – Grinning Spider, The X, 4/10/07
Likable. It’s a positive adjective, to be sure, but not one that you’d really want associated with your metal band: it’s more the sort of word you expect to be applied to a floppy-eared dog, or a backward farmhand. Be that as it may, Back Pocket Prophet’s classic NWOBHM fuzz and thump is just the tonic to raise a smile and a warm glow. This – go on, let’s say it - likable trio is so friendly and comfy, you see, even if it’s also tight and loud, full of meaty riffs and nourishing marrowbone jelly.
Of course, we could sit here and tell you all about how Back Pocket Prophet’s music was a big hairy cliché without too much in the realms of originality or adventurousness, but that would be to ignore the glaring fact that their set was foot tapping, head nodding, beer guzzling good fun, and that we’ll deck anyone who says different (unless they’re as big as the drummer of course). Furthermore, you’ve got to wonder why other metal bands don’t dip into Christianity for their lyrical content, the New Testament is such a great source of heavy rock tropes: betrayal; sacrifice; rising from the dead; parties with unlimited free booze.
The House Of Blue Dolls (1978) was a lacklustre soft porn horror, modelled loosely on Andre De Toth’s House Of Wax and apparently scripted solely from offcuts from other recent chillers. When an erotic wax sculptor (you know, there’s one in every town) is maimed in an implausible collapse of his studio, he animates his creations and sends them off to kill all his enemies…sexily, which is obviously the most efficient way. What we get, therefore, is a loosely clipped together series of mini-episodes, far too slight to be called portmanteaux, and a bunch of bouncy 70s boobs, which are about as arousing as support hosiery. Peter Cushing, presumably skint since Hammer ground to a halt two years before, looks deeply uncomfortable as the inexplicably ubiquitous chimney sweep, but retains a shred of dignity by being the only male in the film not to be involved in some lame romp with a waxy Benny Hill “bird”. From www.thegildedfang.com, cult horror reviews online.
Oh, OK. We made that up. I guess our mind was wandering during House Of Blue Dolls’ somewhat lumpy set. Their music is nothing if not adventurous, welding rock, blues, funk and jazz together with noteworthy musical ability (the rhythm section particularly impress), but, like Boris Johnson’s hair, it seems that there’s no way of making it actually work together.
All this would be fine, and we’d be happy to wait until HOBD found their inner Zappa, were it not for the annoyingly strident female vocals. Up and down she goes, honking out huge notes exactly when the music would benefit from a little subtlety, with a horrible stage school emotiveness that reminds us of long gone local blusterers X-Hail, just when we’d managed to expunge them from our memories. So, the lesson is, ditch the Bonnie Tyler vocals and work on the promising arrangements. Otherwise we’re sending out the waxworks, right?
Thankfully, we soon see drummer Dario using his powers for good, as The Mile High Young Team take to the stage. They have the smallest crowd of the night, which just goes to show that nearly everyone in the world is stupid, as they’re clearly the best act on the bill. We’ll be the first to admit that their recorded work drifts past us a little, but in the live arena the intricate, articulate rock constructions are fascinating, whilst the teasing melodies swirl around the consciousness.
If the Blue Dolls’ singer was still in the room, she could have learnt a lifetime of lessons from Emily Davis’ poised performance, which delicately imbues the vocal lines with stately presence, without ever feeling that the songs are being milked for their emotional content. One lyric that jumps out at us is “it strikes you just a glancing blow”, because this is exactly what MHYT’s performance does: it doesn’t feel the need to grab you by the lapels and slap you in the face, but sneaks up on you before unexpectedly clipping you from behind. And when the boys join in the vocals for a crescendo the Team do, in their own quiet way, actually rock pretty hard.
We can highly recommend this band to anyone who likes their pop music cultured and well-groomed. Admittedly a few keyboard twiddles seemed unnecessary and clumsy, but they were perhaps filling in for the sadly absent ‘cellist; also, once or twice the rhythmic restraint can make the songs feel a little distant, which is a pity. Still, we thoroughly enjoyed the set, even if just occasionally, like Peter Cushing, we weren’t really feeling anything.
THE MILE HIGH YOUNG TEAM/ HOUSE OF BLUE DOLLS/ BACK POCKET PROPHET – Grinning Spider, The X, 4/10/07
Likable. It’s a positive adjective, to be sure, but not one that you’d really want associated with your metal band: it’s more the sort of word you expect to be applied to a floppy-eared dog, or a backward farmhand. Be that as it may, Back Pocket Prophet’s classic NWOBHM fuzz and thump is just the tonic to raise a smile and a warm glow. This – go on, let’s say it - likable trio is so friendly and comfy, you see, even if it’s also tight and loud, full of meaty riffs and nourishing marrowbone jelly.
Of course, we could sit here and tell you all about how Back Pocket Prophet’s music was a big hairy cliché without too much in the realms of originality or adventurousness, but that would be to ignore the glaring fact that their set was foot tapping, head nodding, beer guzzling good fun, and that we’ll deck anyone who says different (unless they’re as big as the drummer of course). Furthermore, you’ve got to wonder why other metal bands don’t dip into Christianity for their lyrical content, the New Testament is such a great source of heavy rock tropes: betrayal; sacrifice; rising from the dead; parties with unlimited free booze.
The House Of Blue Dolls (1978) was a lacklustre soft porn horror, modelled loosely on Andre De Toth’s House Of Wax and apparently scripted solely from offcuts from other recent chillers. When an erotic wax sculptor (you know, there’s one in every town) is maimed in an implausible collapse of his studio, he animates his creations and sends them off to kill all his enemies…sexily, which is obviously the most efficient way. What we get, therefore, is a loosely clipped together series of mini-episodes, far too slight to be called portmanteaux, and a bunch of bouncy 70s boobs, which are about as arousing as support hosiery. Peter Cushing, presumably skint since Hammer ground to a halt two years before, looks deeply uncomfortable as the inexplicably ubiquitous chimney sweep, but retains a shred of dignity by being the only male in the film not to be involved in some lame romp with a waxy Benny Hill “bird”. From www.thegildedfang.com, cult horror reviews online.
Oh, OK. We made that up. I guess our mind was wandering during House Of Blue Dolls’ somewhat lumpy set. Their music is nothing if not adventurous, welding rock, blues, funk and jazz together with noteworthy musical ability (the rhythm section particularly impress), but, like Boris Johnson’s hair, it seems that there’s no way of making it actually work together.
All this would be fine, and we’d be happy to wait until HOBD found their inner Zappa, were it not for the annoyingly strident female vocals. Up and down she goes, honking out huge notes exactly when the music would benefit from a little subtlety, with a horrible stage school emotiveness that reminds us of long gone local blusterers X-Hail, just when we’d managed to expunge them from our memories. So, the lesson is, ditch the Bonnie Tyler vocals and work on the promising arrangements. Otherwise we’re sending out the waxworks, right?
Thankfully, we soon see drummer Dario using his powers for good, as The Mile High Young Team take to the stage. They have the smallest crowd of the night, which just goes to show that nearly everyone in the world is stupid, as they’re clearly the best act on the bill. We’ll be the first to admit that their recorded work drifts past us a little, but in the live arena the intricate, articulate rock constructions are fascinating, whilst the teasing melodies swirl around the consciousness.
If the Blue Dolls’ singer was still in the room, she could have learnt a lifetime of lessons from Emily Davis’ poised performance, which delicately imbues the vocal lines with stately presence, without ever feeling that the songs are being milked for their emotional content. One lyric that jumps out at us is “it strikes you just a glancing blow”, because this is exactly what MHYT’s performance does: it doesn’t feel the need to grab you by the lapels and slap you in the face, but sneaks up on you before unexpectedly clipping you from behind. And when the boys join in the vocals for a crescendo the Team do, in their own quiet way, actually rock pretty hard.
We can highly recommend this band to anyone who likes their pop music cultured and well-groomed. Admittedly a few keyboard twiddles seemed unnecessary and clumsy, but they were perhaps filling in for the sadly absent ‘cellist; also, once or twice the rhythmic restraint can make the songs feel a little distant, which is a pity. Still, we thoroughly enjoyed the set, even if just occasionally, like Peter Cushing, we weren’t really feeling anything.
Thursday, 6 August 2009
...& A Baptism?
Giving your editor's band a lukewarm review - if you can get past that, you've got a good working relationship! The only thing the band got upset about was that I called the record a "demo", whereas they imagined it as an EP. To my mind, unless your record's got a barcode on the back and you pay tax if you buy one, it's a demo, not a proper release, but I appreciate I'm woefully C20th in this respect.
THE MILE HIGH YOUNG TEAM - FOUR SEPARATIONS
It's an odd name, The Mile High Young Team. Not only does it bring to mind unpleasant images of cramped airplane toilet sex with Mogwai, but it's also paradxically attached to a band that sounds comfortably middle-aged and defiantly earthbound. I don't mean that as a criticism, but this is a demo far more concerned with quality, song strucutre and elegance than the majority of local discs that fall into our hands. At their best TMHYT manage to weave a delicate spell of literate melancholy (imagine weeping quietly onto a well worn volume of Mallarme whilst sipping fine cognac) but occasionally they do enter an arid valley of well-produced politeness located somewhere in 1987.
"Distance Between Them" is an enticing opener, loping along at a friendly pace and augmenting its winningly natural vocals with some fairground keyboard swirls and eloquent 'cello. In fact, throughout the demo 'cellist Caroline Taylor provides some enticing embellishments - the 'cello has become something of a lazy signifier of brainy intensity nowadays, with every other singer-songwriter in town trying to snatch a little Nick Drake cachet by inviting Barney Morse-Brown onstage, so it's refreshing to hear it used intelligently. It's also something of a surprise to hear The Evenings' manic sticksman Mark Wilden play with such restraint throughout. Like local balladeers script, TMHYT are adept at marrying arrangments that are clever yet understated with an ear for a pleasing melody.
But restraint can be a burden, and occasionally this demo steps gingerly when it should be leaping headlong: witness Emily Aldworth Davis' threats to "explode like an atom bomb". Can't imagine it myself. Similarly "Letter From Rosanna" has a chorus that is perhaps meant to be rousing, but comes off sounding as exhausted as if it had spent all night playing rummy with Deacon Blue in Billy Joel's rumpus room.
However, this is the only really duff point of the demo, and perhaps it's unfair to focus on it when in the main TMHYT offer such accessible, intricate and emotive songwriting coupled with asured performances (witness aching, wistful closing track "The Bering Straits"). We definitely expect to make time in the future to see what TMHYT does next, but we don't expect to be making space for them in our rock pantheon any time soon.
THE MILE HIGH YOUNG TEAM - FOUR SEPARATIONS
It's an odd name, The Mile High Young Team. Not only does it bring to mind unpleasant images of cramped airplane toilet sex with Mogwai, but it's also paradxically attached to a band that sounds comfortably middle-aged and defiantly earthbound. I don't mean that as a criticism, but this is a demo far more concerned with quality, song strucutre and elegance than the majority of local discs that fall into our hands. At their best TMHYT manage to weave a delicate spell of literate melancholy (imagine weeping quietly onto a well worn volume of Mallarme whilst sipping fine cognac) but occasionally they do enter an arid valley of well-produced politeness located somewhere in 1987.
"Distance Between Them" is an enticing opener, loping along at a friendly pace and augmenting its winningly natural vocals with some fairground keyboard swirls and eloquent 'cello. In fact, throughout the demo 'cellist Caroline Taylor provides some enticing embellishments - the 'cello has become something of a lazy signifier of brainy intensity nowadays, with every other singer-songwriter in town trying to snatch a little Nick Drake cachet by inviting Barney Morse-Brown onstage, so it's refreshing to hear it used intelligently. It's also something of a surprise to hear The Evenings' manic sticksman Mark Wilden play with such restraint throughout. Like local balladeers script, TMHYT are adept at marrying arrangments that are clever yet understated with an ear for a pleasing melody.
But restraint can be a burden, and occasionally this demo steps gingerly when it should be leaping headlong: witness Emily Aldworth Davis' threats to "explode like an atom bomb". Can't imagine it myself. Similarly "Letter From Rosanna" has a chorus that is perhaps meant to be rousing, but comes off sounding as exhausted as if it had spent all night playing rummy with Deacon Blue in Billy Joel's rumpus room.
However, this is the only really duff point of the demo, and perhaps it's unfair to focus on it when in the main TMHYT offer such accessible, intricate and emotive songwriting coupled with asured performances (witness aching, wistful closing track "The Bering Straits"). We definitely expect to make time in the future to see what TMHYT does next, but we don't expect to be making space for them in our rock pantheon any time soon.
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