Truck Festival 2013 Saturday

On Saturday, the Virgins stage becomes the Veterans stage, hosting old Truck regulars.  We wonder whether the presence of this and the Saloon was some clause in the contract when Y Not took over the Truck name, to give the Bennetts something to do, but it’s quite good fun, even if it does mean that at times on Saturday there’s polite Americana on two stages within feet of each other, which is rather beyond the call of duty.  Thankfully, The Holy Orders aren’t guilty of that, instead thrashing out some scrunchy rock with small grunge inflections, that just screams “Tuning is for losers!”.

Bob Dylan.  Nick Drake. Stevie Wonder.  It’s a favourite Nightshift game to list acts who are great, but who only inspire rubbish artists. In a similar vein, when we see that the programme likens Candice Gordon to Patti Smith and Nick Cave we know that she will actually be a decent, but ultimately generic lightly theatrical rock chick.  There are shades of Little Fish about this band, and some cleaned up Cramps rockabilly, but if they ever come up with anything that sounds remotely like “Tupelo” or “Free Money” we must have been buying coffee at the time.

We’re all for kids who can’t play making pop music, to a certain extent that’s what it’s for, but even we can’t get on with Bentcousin, a pair of twins jigging clumsily about, singing flatly about sibling rivalry and double Chemistry and Panini sticker albums (possibly) over some floppy pop. Plus they eviscerate “Boys Keep Swinging” and dance laughingly on its defiled cadaver.  One of them is wearing a Wham! T-shirt and the make-your-own-fun vibe is so cloying it really is uncannily like watching an 80s episode of Why Don’t You?  So, naturally, we go off and do something less boring instead.

Nairobi offer oddball pop of a more palatable nature.  As we enter the Jamalot tent, the band is laying down some refined white funk and someone is doing a strange yodelling vocal over the top.  It’s like Hall & Oates fronted by Emo Philips, which is obviously great.  Later they do some African jive, and throw in a few synth lines that sound like chase scenes from Knight Rider, and it’s all bloody good fun, and approximately four thousand times better than last time we saw them.

We’re told Interlocutor are an 11-piece band, so we go and see them just to repay their effort carrying all the gear across the field.  But, what’s this?  Tenor sax, yes, but baritone?  And a trombone?  Oh, man, this is going to kick jazz-ska-swing botty, let’s get a beer in, and go mental to the first number which...sounds like “Dancing In The Moonlight” at half speed coming down the phone whilst we’re on hold to British Gas.  Oh.  And the next track is a drab elevator waltz that sounds like Ian Brodie having a crack at being a crooner, but with the theory that Hasselhoff was a better role model than Sinatra.  And a cold. 

We drop in on The Heavy Dexters just to burn this image from our mind, and get some proper sax action, as we know their skirling soprano playing is the cherry on their acid jazz cake.  Admittedly, the JTQ styled funk workouts fit the afternoon better than the open-ended muso jazz ballads, but there’s definitely a place at Truck for a locally-grown live dance act to wear out some shoe leather.  Some ropy jazz-sex faces on display from the keyboard player might be too much for those with weak stomachs, though.

Kimberly Anne is today’s Ady Suleiman, except she’s actually better.  Whilst she plays guitar a percussionist adds flourishes on a small stand-up drum kit (side on, we’re happy to report), and her outstanding muscular, low voice draws a line between the rich sincerity of Tracey Chapman and the sweet urban froth of TLC.  This set of young, slick pop sounds as though it was built to move the heart and the feet, and not shift mobile phones, which is sadly rare nowadays.  She must be good, because we’ve got this far into the review and not mentioned her amazing hair, which looks like a drunken guardsman’s wonky busby.

In a throwback to our Candice Gordon experience , the programme likens Pylo to Radiohead and Pink Floyd, but we are unsurprised to find that they sound more like Keane and U2.  They at least have the decency to sound like the very best bits of Keane and U2.  Passable.

Toy have been recommended to us by a big Meatloaf fan, which would normally be enough to send us striding in the opposite direction, but this Meatloaf fan also really likes Beefheart, so we thought we’d give them a try.  Very good choice.  Toy’s post-Velvets pop is a little like The Primitives, but with taut motorik drums driving everything relentlessly onwards, and some nifty McCartney guitar parts to hold the tunes together.  We’re not sure if it’s bubblegum kraut or amphetamine shoegaze, but it’s pretty damn intoxicating, and there always seems to be another plateau of guitar noise for the songs to leap up to: if you’ve ever listened to the first Psychedelic Furs LP and thought, “this could really do with fat layers of Korg in place of the goth”, you’re in luck.  They have horrible ratty bogan haircuts though, perhaps they could give Kimberly Anne’s mum a ring.

The Ramshackle Union Band are playing some pretty good country stuff in the Saloon, according to what we catch through the window.  Still, there won’t be a shortage of country in there for the rest of they day, so let’s not tarry.  Back in the Veterans tent, we realise that Katy Rose is actually KTB – we think we did know this, somewhere deep down – and that The Cavalry Parade is actually Joe Bennett on a lap steel, which we didn’t know but is still not causing any reels of shock, let’s be honest.  Katy has a very good voice  as we well know, and, if the material can be a touch refined for our tastes, “Bluebird” is still a lovely song.

Catching sight of a frisbee arcing across the sky as we leave the tent, we investigate the campsite to find out just how many people go to music festivals to play catch and sit on folding chairs a long longb way from any music.  Do they not know that you can do that in the park from free?  Still, better than the Barn on Saturday, which has been filled with sand and now has a tiki beach bar and a prominent volleyball set, so that people can ignore the musicians right in front of their faces.  Seems odd to us, and it looks as though Axes feel the same, judging by comments.  The band is good enough to get attention, throwing tricksy elements together with just enough gleeful abandon to stop them turning into annoying clever dick neo-proggers (the fact that they have track titles like “Jon Bon Jela” and “Fleetwood Math” probably puts paid to that danger).  They’re sort of Islet junior, and they’re fine by us, although the music tends to be all breaks and endings, corners and offcuts on offer when a prime fillet would be tasty once in a while.

We can’t really believe that Big Scary Monster and Alopop! have bothered to lug all this sand into the Barn, but then again we don’t quite see the attraction of CDs in the shape of Megatron or compilation download codes hidden inside taxidermied squirrels, or whatever else it is they come up with.  We do, however, like the idea of small acts playing in front of the stage between the main bands, such as Thrill Collins, a busking trio who knock out some energetic, slightly ironic medleys.  Nothing revolutionary, but as a little sorbet between courses, we think they’re pretty great.

Good Will Punting

Here's my review of this year's Punt festival. Fragments of it were used in Nightshift's roundup, but obviously only the nice bits, because they booked the acts.  Music In Oxford didn't do a review this year, sadly, so most of this is being seen for the first time.  Calm your thundering heart and read on.

Random thought for today, has anyone ever made this awful joke?  Cartoon frame of Minnie the Minx or similar, clearly the last one on the page, in which she's tucking into the traditional pile of mash with snorkers sticking out at angles having a "nosh up" in a "snooty" restaurant.  She's looking at us, saying.  "Reader, I married him *Chortle*".

THE PUNT – Purple Turtle/Cellar/Wheatsheaf/Duke's Cut/White Rabbit, 8/5/13

Like cultural futures market traders, some people go to see unsigned acts so that they can spot successes early on: “I saw them before you’d ever heard of them, chum” is a common cry, and might be one familiar to anyone who caught Young Knives, Stornoway or Fixers at previous Punts.  Tonight’s event is odd because, although it may well source a few similar anecdotes for future pub raconteurs, for those of us who live in the here and now the bill is chock full of potential, but a little short on match-fit performers and finished articles.

The Purple Turtle PA, sadly, doesn’t seem to be either of those.  As an engineer battles gamely throughout the night, the timings fall further behind schedule, and the sound becomes more and more wayward.  For Phil McMinn (who has played the Punt previously as part of Fell City Girl and The Winchell Riots, despite his cheeky onstage claims) this is a minor issue and, although the mix might be missing some laptop trickery, his acoustic songs with violin touches cut through technological difficulties. We’ve always admired rather than loved his previous acts, finding them too bombastic and desperately emotional to truly embrace, but this outstanding set hinges on his fantastic, ruby port voice, and a knowing way with melody and dynamics.  If the music is more down to earth than his old bands’, then the lyrics certainly are, touching on mountains, tents and, quite possibly, pony trekking and Youth Hostels, with a wordy dexterity that occasionally recalls Joni Mitchell.  Give that man a gold star, and some Kendall mintcake for his napsack.

More veterans stripping things down next door in The Cellar, as Listing Ships take to the stage for the first time as a trio, having lost a member to parenthood (which has probably killed more bands than drink, drugs and gate reverb put together).  No offence to the departed guitarist, but the band is a revelation as a threepiece, giving the compositions enough space to add a cheeky sashay to what was once a clumping krautcore goosestep.  Tonight keyboard parts reveal new squelchy qualities, and basslines suddenly exude the aromas of dub and New York punk funk: seriously, we can suddenly hear ESG in there, along with the predicted Tortoise and Explosions In The Sky. 

Candy Says...relax!  They might as well, they’re still soundchecking back at the PT.  Oh, they’re about to start...oh, no they’re not.  Must dash.

Beginning to know what a ping pong ball must feel like, we nip back to The Cellar for a bracing waft of Duchess.  We enter to a delightful bit of summery, Afropop fluff, which bears a marked resemblance to Bow Wow Wow.  It’s often lovely stuff, but they could do with going a little more wild (in the country) to lift these promising songs.  Perhaps if they swap one of the percussionists for some gigging experience, we’ll have a great band on our hands.

Limbo Kids have made some superb recordings, which is what you’d expect from members of Ute and Alphabet Backwards.  In the White Rabbit, though, the glacial fragments of late 80s chart hits they arranged into delicate towers of song seem to topple like so much icy pop Jenga.  The vocals are cheery but thin, the band look a little uncertain, and the whole affair is tasty, but somewhat undercooked.  This is their debut gig, we understand, and the conclusion is that they could well have been the best act of Punt 2014, but for now they’re just providing the hold music before our first visit to our favourite Oxford venue.

The Wheatsheaf, apparently held together by scraps of tattered carpet and the accrued tar of ancient cigarettes is not only our Oxford bolthole of choice, but also the most fitting venue for some proper rock in the Punt, making its rock ‘n’ roll case from the tattooed boozers in the downstairs bar to the leaking toilets in the venue above.  In the darkness with a pint of cheap ale is perfect place to see Bear Trap, a scuzzy quartet of grungers who look as though they should come from Oxford, Michigan, making mall rock in the back room of the local Lutheran chapel to kill drab small town weekends.  There are backwards baseball caps on- and offstage, all nodding vigorously to greasy rock that kicks like an irate lumberjack, but whines like a petulant teen.  We’d be lying if we said that these thrashed chords and raw snarls were in any way original, but we’d also be lying if we said we don’t sup back that cheap ale at double speed, with a dumbass grin on our silly face.

If Bear Trap look American, Ags Connolly doesn’t half sound it.  Not only is his music old school one-man melancholy country – or Ameripolitan music, as he and his fellow Shaniaphobes like to call their sound, to differentiate it from whatever stadium schmaltz is being labelled country this week – his voice is pure Midwest drawl, which is odd as when speaking he betrays his West Oxfordshire home.  Normally this would be an unforgivable crime, but Ags’ voice is just so damn good, unhurriedly lolloping along the melodies like a cowpoke taking an easy stroll back from church on a glorious day, that all is forgiven.  Like Bear Trap, his music isn’t going to break new ground, but if it’s looking to break a few hearts, it might just succeed.

Fearing that we’d neglect The Duke’s Cut if we didn’t make the effort to walk there now, we make the rush there to check out The August List.  Thankfully, it’s not as punishingly busy as last year, but it’s still hard to make out much of this enjoyable duo’s music from the back of the crowd, in the doorway of the Ladies’.  Experience tells us that the music is a sweet, smily balance to Ags’ lachrymose laments, with unhurried porch-swing ditties drifting in from some mythical Deep South farmstead.  There’s an unforced connection between their voices that you only get if the singers are brother and sister, or husband and wife.  Or, judging by their musical reference points, both.

We have thoroughly enjoyed Death Of Hi-Fi’s recent album, but live, and shorn of many of the guest vocalists, their music feels like a functional backdrop, rather than a main event.  Like the paranoid feeling that things keep happening in your peripheral vision, the music always seems as though it’s about to usher in something big - whether that’s a stunning guest turn or a brash corporate pep talk, we’re not sure – but it never quite does.  Only rapper N-Zyme really makes a mark onstage, and he displays a nervous energy that seems to hamper his performance a little.  A strong band best suited to the studio, perhaps.

Our experience of tonight’s Punt has been of people doing old things very well, and people doing new things that might need a little nurturing or rethinking before they’re great, but that doesn’t mean that any of the performances are bad.  Except Nairobi’s, that is.  It’s a little unfortunate for them that both Duchess and Limbo Kids have nodded towards the post-Foals African influenced rhythms they favour, and we try to bear in mind that the PT sound system is shot away, but even with these byes, what we see is clumsy and disappointing.  With guitars doing an ugly Hi-Life widdle over clunky drums and a vocal that sounds like a disconsolate moose, it’s as if this set has been put together solely to annoy Andy Kershaw.  Sadly, the wonky world music jam happening in the doorway of Moss Bros as we wend our way back to The Wheatsheaf is more satisfying.

Like a hideous breeding experiment between Stump and The Peking Opera, The Goggenheim bring some much needed theatricality to the Punt.  Everything about this band is grating, from the unjazz skronk of the sax to the repulsive Man At C&A striped vests to the shrill declamatory dada vocals, and yet, against all logic, their songs feel like glorious pop nuggets. Whilst the band nail the wayward blowouts of improvisors Bolide to trashy backbeats and Beefheartian trellises, matriarchal abstract diva Grace Eckersley wails and coos barely coherent mantras.  There’s an otherworldliness about The Goggenheim, as well as a love of the cheap and brash, as if it were the sort of thing two-dimensional sci fi monsters might listen to on their night off. 

And so, we leave the frugging Macra and boogying Aquaphibians and make our way to The White Rabbit for the Punt’s denouement.  In a way, the biggest revelation of the night is how well this works as a final venue: the Goggenheim provide a mystifying climax, and this welcoming little pub acts as a come down party.  We slurp down a nightcap and enjoy After The Thought, who starts off in the style of Artificial Intelligence electronic acts such as B12 or early Black Dog, and then adds a sizable tray of guitar pedals.  There’s a sparse, almost systems music feel to the loops and rhythms, and a lot of the set sounds like the third Orbital album with half tracks turned down and someone playing guitar over the top.  The effect is hypnotic but, just maybe, it’s not quite as good as the third Orbital album without half the tracks turned down and someone playing guitar over the top.  Like much of tonight’s bill, After The Thought is an act with a relatively short gigging history, and we’re sure that soon this enjoyably textured music will become even more encapsulating.  Whether Matt Chapman will become an “I saw him first” topic for future boasts we don’t know, but we do know that we’ve explored a varied set of local acts, and supported a bunch of excellent Oxford venues that should be cherished, which is perhaps enough of a boast for anyone with a real love of live music.