Music To Buck An Ear To

I may not have achieved much during January, but I did come up with the name Cloaca Bilk, which any punk bands are welcome to have.

PEERLESS PIRATES/ OUI LEGIONNAIRES, Moshka, Wheatsheaf, 10/1/15

It’s hard to know what to say about Cheltenham’s Oui Legionnaires.  On one hand their twitchy post-rock flavoured emoting feels unexceptional and a good few years out of date, yet on the other they play with ability and passion that demands attention.  On one hand their angsty US yelps sound like Doogie Howser getting snarky with his ISP, yet on the other the insistent cubist guitar parts give them a Cap’n Jazz intensity that keeps them interesting.  On one hand their final off-mike refrain chanting undershoots its mark and falls awkwardly flat, yet on the other their toes inwards, balls of the feet, nervous tic meek-core energy is infectious.  It’s fifty-fifty; we’ll let them play the advantage and see if they can score in future.

Like Post-It notes and selfie sticks, Peerless Pirates’ main idea is so beautifully simple you’re annoyed you didn’t think of it yourself: The Smiths without the egos.  They’ve taken some of Britain’s greatest pop music, and stripped away not only Morrissey’s passive-aggressive poetics, but also Marr’s penchant for guitar hero classic rock chop-wankery; it’s as if the rhythms section ruled The Smiths, and they were always the best ones (smack notwithstanding).  And the true stroke of genius?  They’ve filled the void with pirates.  Pirates are synonymous with fun, where childhood abandon meets hard liquor and entry level cosplay, and pretty much make most things in life more enjoyable.  Over the years Peerless Pirates have become as tight as well-kept rigging and as solid as a hundred year old capstan, and slowly, unobtrusively their indie-shanty schtick has become one of the best nights out in Oxford.  Barring the odd dashes of Tex-Mex hot sauce, their sound has not noticeably developed, but their focus has, and we defy anyone to leave a set like this without a big silly-arse grin.

Plus, because Peerless Pirates were on our radar first, we’re able to dismiss a certain syndicalism and winkie obsessed comedian as a mere sartorial copyist of lead singer Cliff Adams. Revolution?  Maybe later; for now there’s a rum keg to be tapped.

Sleepy, Hollow

I recently became the World Handjob Champion. I had to beat off stiff competition.

Sorry.


THE EMPTY VESSELS/ SAMUEL ZASADA/ NUMBERNINE – Moshka, Bully, 9/4/10


Numbernine have been away for a few years, but they still peddle a perky, carbonated britpop that is immensely enjoyable, if slightly hackneyed. In their time away from the stage, they’ve had a slight shuffle and Alex Horwill now plays drums (although it may be him on the somewhat superfluous samples and backing tracks), and he has a natural bounce that suits the songs even if a couple of golden clunkers tell of a lack of rehearsal. The bass is still the best thing about the band, supple and springy yet capable of building some pretty solid rock edifices on occasion. It s only the lead vocals that are mild let down: plenty of pep, but they do tend to shove falsetto in place of melodic invention.

The songs are of a high calibre, even if most of them sound as though they’re being beamed in from 1994. “My New Mantra” tries to stretch the envelope with a proggy Eastern flavour, but ends up feeling dyspeptically like Gene playing Zepellin, and the band are happiest with tracks like “London”, reeking of Camden market and redolent of NME inky fingers gripping pints in The Good Mixer. All in all, it’s good to have Numbernine back, they make a great unpretentious pop noise, and have a couple of cracking tunes, not least “Talk”, a melodic barnstormer that still reminds us happily of The Longpigs at their best, five years since we first heard it.

Samuel Zasada’s first number has fantastic folky intricacy and rectilinear motorik groove mashed together like Pentangle through the square window. Later, gorgeous three-part harmonies wash over a scuzzy tale of saying “’Fuck you’ to The Man”, as if Lou Barlow had started writing for Peter, Paul & Mary. Last time we saw Samuel, his voice knocked us back, but that was pretty much all there was to like; since then he has placed himself in the middle of an excellent trio and thought very intelligently about arrangements, concocting a dense sonic fug that truly suits his rich, gothic voice, but that doesn’t obscure some sprightly melodies. Samuel hasn’t been content to strum a few chords in flyblown open mics, letting his impressive voice do all the work, he’s clearly been honing his music into something a little bit special. The work is paying off.

Speaking of good singers, get an earful of Matt Greenham from The Empty Vessels, who has a cracking pair of lungs and a love of wide-straddling rawk howling that’s only a set of leather kecks and a three figure a day drug habit away from the glory days of MTV. The band is well-drilled, and unrepentantly retrospective, happy in the warm, yet shallow, pools of classic rock. This is refreshingly honest, and feels like coming back to homegrown veg after too long with the polished, perfectly shaped carrots in Tesco’s: you know, tasty and caked in mud and, quite possibly, shaped like a willy.

And that’s all great of course, but only for about fifteen minutes. By twenty not even a kickass flailing limb-o-matic drummer can stop the attention wandering (we realised, from staring vacuously at the guitarist’s T shirt, that the Os in The Doors’ logo look a lot like coffee beans, for example). An interesting noise like a rat gnawing a modem turned out to be a faulty pedal, and we began to realise, as another identical song started chugging along, that old school was rapidly becoming old hat. All of which feels pretty hard on The Empty Vessels, who are clearly having a blast and probably don’t want to change the musical world any, but this didn’t alter the fact that we weren’t really young enough, drunk enough, or from Wantage enough to fully enjoy these threadbare rock archaisms. This is a very good band, but one that doesn’t stand up to criticism very well; if you’re enjoying the music, it’s probably not because you’re thinking about it in any great detail, or thinking about anything whatsoever except the advisability of a ninth pint or whether you’ve got a chance with the one over there with the black jeans.

As their forebears Reef might have asked mid-song, “Alright now?”. Yes, we are alright, thanks. Alright, but not, you know, ecstatic.

Alopecia The Action

"That" song is "I Wanna Live In Your Buttcrack", which is how you imagine it but less mature. Harry implausibly were selected to support Girls Aloud (who are pretty great, in case there's any uncertainty) at a Children In Need gig in an RAF base. There, now you know everything.

HARRY ANGEL/ TOUPE/ BEAVER FUEL/ JAMES BELL – Moshka, The Bully, 3/5/08


We’re fascinated by acts that nearly don’t work, performers who skirt the shores of musical embarrassment and somehow arrive safely at the port of artistic integrity. James Bell is a fine example; his supersized, falsetto-heavy cabaret acoustic shows, replete with implausible covers and frenetic leaping, should have all the charm of a precocious toddler, yet somehow he not only escapes with pride intact, but also manages to sneak some powerful emotions into the room. His cover of “Canadee-i-o” may sound like Thin Lizzy, but it reveals a deep fondness for traditional folk song, and “Last Of The Corners” manages to mix Elvis Costello’s lyrical intricacy with authentic Waterboys yearning. A real talent.

That song aside, Leigh Alexander’s songwriting for Beaver Fuel can actually be more subtle than is generally perceived, and he cuts big issues down to size with cheeky verbosity a la Carter USM. Having said that, the new tune is called “Fuck You, I’ve Got Tourettes” so let’s not get carried away. Beaver Fuel is an act that doesn’t normally thrive in the live environment, ending up a stodgy mess. Not tonight, however. Something’s changed in Camp Buttcrack since the lacklustre EP launch scant weeks ago: Leigh’s voice may not be the most versatile in town, but he’s clearly been working on his projection and his lyrics sail clearly over a surprisingly neat and bouncy band. We still wonder whether lumpy punk with Mojo solos is the ideal vehicle for Leigh’s writing, but this is a band improving steadily.

Slap bass. Swearing. Boob jokes. You’re not going to believe us that Southampton’s Toupe are geniuses, are you? Led by stand up comedian Grant Sharkey, they use drums and two basses to create propulsive and surprisingly varied smut funk, coming off like a cross between Frank Zappa and The Grumbleweeds, like a pier-end Primus. Oxymoronically, they survive because they don’t take their silliness too seriously, and goof off more to amuse themselves than to create an air of calculated wackiness – and beneath it all the music is actually superb, with magnificent drumming from Jay Havelock. One of the best bands you’ll see all year, though we know you still don’t believe us.

It’s been two years since we last saw Harry Angel, and we’re glad to report that little has changed. The early Radiohead references may have been swapped for some mid-period Sonic Youth, but otherwise they still spew out fizzing amphetamine goth, a huge wall of irascible noise with Chris Beard’s vocals as a black smear across the front. They also look like they’re playing in the last few seconds of their lives. “Proper rock n roll”, shouts a drunken punter. Girls Aloud must still be getting over it.