Back to The Cellar for the home straight, and some molasses thick drone rock from Spiral 25, who turn the venue into a dark womb of numb bliss and stoned paranoia. Their music has definite narcotic nods to the likes of Spiritualized and Loop, and the sound is beautifully controlled, reined in and moving at its own geological pace.
Finally, after what seems like three hours, The Original Rabbit’s Foot Spasm Band take the stage. (Pedant’s note: they’re not strictly a spasm band, as they don’t use home-made instruments). They might not be the greatest band to ever play the Punt, but they are possibly the best closing act, whipping up a frenzy with their self styled “chav jazz” covers of 30’s classics. It’s a wonderful mix of drunken showmanship and muso chops, of rousing singalong choruses and quicksilver brass solos, that has some people dancing on the stage like goons, and others nodding appreciatively in the corner. Then, in a flurry of whinnying trumpet and discarded plastic pint skiffs, we’re suddenly at the end of The Punt, out on the street and wondering why we can’t do this every night. The next morning, of course, the answer is painfully obvious…
Showing posts with label OHM. Show all posts
Showing posts with label OHM. Show all posts
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Punts Drunk
This is a review of this year's Punt festival, an annual Wednesday night pub crawl with random local acts doing sonic things to detract from proper beer drinking. It's like the Camden Crawl but cheaper, in every sense of the word. This is an interesting review, as elements of it appeared in Nightshift and on Oxfordbands, where it was part of an OHM reunion. If only BBC Oxford could have got in on the act, the whole history of my reviews could have been covered.
THE PUNT, various venues, 13/5/09
Matt Kilford gets a lovely big space in Borders to play his set, which is larger than some of the proper venues involved in The Punt. A side benefit of having a shop that hardly stocks any bloody CDs, we guess. We may not be financial gurus, but we honestly can’t fathom how the current difficulties in record retail will be solved by paying premium Oxford rent for a vast floorspace that only stocks about 5 different CDs! Getting involved with The Punt is exactly the kind of thing Border should be doing to drum up local custom, so kudos for that, although they could have kept off the tannoy during songs.
Such interruptions, however, are a source of comedy for Matt, whose wry humour is as much a highlight of his set as his sweet mellifluous voice. He might look rather unprepossessingly like Badly Drawn Mike Gatting, but his voice is not only gorgeous, but has the tiniest jazz and blues traces around the edge, and his guitar technique displays some incredibly subtle embellishments way beyond your average strummer. In fact, we preferred his woozy, hazy slower laments to his upbeat tunes, and it isn’t often we think that about an acoustic balladeer, that’s for damn sure.
By contrast, Bethany Weimers’ set is a riot, her excited guitar attack bursting with flamenco fireworks, and her dynamic singing full of theatre. Bethany has a wide range of vocal techniques in her arsenal, but we aren’t sure that they fully gel, and we feel that she is sometimes left grasping too desperately for the emotional payoff, like a cross between Edie Brickell and Bonnie Langford. She’s at her best when keeping things folky, especially in a sea shanty flavoured ditty about her great-grandparents, with a winning melody oddly reminiscent of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”.
They look quite like Guns ‘N’ Roses, so it’s fitting that Pistol Kixx take to the stage late. OK, ten minutes is hardly in the Chinese Democracy bracket, but every second counts with The Punt’s crazed itinerary. They sound a bit like G’n’R too, although perhaps somewhat more low budget: we’re thinking Dogs D’Amour, The Quireboys or Skid Row, with hair treatments by Mosh ‘N’ Go. It’s been a while since we witnessed such flagrant use of wailing solos or bandanas, and we’re forced to conclude that Pistol Kixx are embarrassingly awful, but also, in some masochistic way, hugely entertaining. Thank you, Sir, may we have another.
Phantom Theory, on the other hand, squeeze the maximum dosage of rock hedonism from the simplest of means. A guitar and drums duo, they have a pleasing line in dirty scuzz rock, something like 50 Foot Panda having their blood replaced with hilbilly hooch by the devil’s dialysis. The effect is enormous, but minimal, like a juggernaut pulling a wheelie, and they have enough ideas to keep the fantastic set fresh as it powers long.
Part of the fun of the Punt is seeing people at gigs beyond the usual inner circle, and this does provide us with the wonderful sight of two girls huddled at the top of the Purple Turtle’s steps, saying “One of the bands is called, like, Beaver Juice”. However, we choose The Cellar instead of Beaver Fuel, where the opening of We Aeronauts’ set is gloriously delicate, a hushed blur of clicking drumsticks, guitar and accordion sounding like soft waves washing a pebbly beach. Although their sound is built on folky intimacy, they occasionally bubble up into a big-boned rock chorus, some bold, simple vocal melodies grasping at the heartstrings like Elbow at their best. A completely unamplified track is a brave move, but they clearly make an impact – on a trip to the toilet mid-set, a chap in the cubicle is unabashedly singing a wordless version of one of their earlier melodies!
Realising we haven’t set foot in the place since last year’s Punt, we wonder why there aren’t more gigs in Thirst Lodge – it’s a neat little room, with a good crisp PA and a wall made entirely from speaker cones. It just needs a good reliable promoter to kick things off. Whilst there we catch up with masked math metal magnates, Dr Slaggleberry, whose intricate arrangements and hard rock savvy are instigating some of the best unfettered dancing this side of The Spasm Band. It’s righteously impressive jazz metal, although, fussy buggers that we are, we’d like it if the guitars were more jazz, and the drums more metal.
A rush to The Wheatsheaf for The Response Collective is a must for a Punt that otherwise threatens to contain no bleeps. Sadly, neither does the set, it being a series of drab vocals atop some stale trip hop loops and loosely post-rock guitars. Spice is added by some proficient scratching, and some moody projected films, but the net effect is a sound that is not only uninspired, but also a few years out of date, which is the closest thing there is to a dance music cardinal sin.
Lack of excitement from The Reponse Collective does give us time to nip back to The Cellar for From Light To Sound. They might have an Oxford track record to rival Roger Bannister’s, but we’d always found their music intriguing rather than exciting. Until tonight that is. The Cellar’s engineer has found them a huge sound, and the music simply soars across the packed venue, all Explosions In The Sky grandeur, Billy Mahonie twistiness and Stereolab intelligence. And they have some proper bleepy noises, at last – when the keyboards aren’t coming on like ELP filtered through Battles, that is. Yes, there are mistakes and technical hitches, but these flash by in an instant, the euphoric effect of the music stays with us all night.
“We play solid metal, for fans of solid metal”, claims Desert Storm’s singer. Well, duh. Luckily the music far outstrips the announcements, and their classic, Pantera-sized rocking is perfect for flagging energy levels. Metal is as metal does, to a certain extent, and Desert Storm don’t rewrite the rulebook, but they do know when to drop in and out, and when to let the music chug on regardless. The playing is all extremely tidy, especially the drums, which are busy but incisive, just how we like them. Special mention for the singer’s long overcoat, which makes him look like a Joy Division fan, even as he growls like a man with a throat made from barbed wire and magma.
THE PUNT, various venues, 13/5/09
Matt Kilford gets a lovely big space in Borders to play his set, which is larger than some of the proper venues involved in The Punt. A side benefit of having a shop that hardly stocks any bloody CDs, we guess. We may not be financial gurus, but we honestly can’t fathom how the current difficulties in record retail will be solved by paying premium Oxford rent for a vast floorspace that only stocks about 5 different CDs! Getting involved with The Punt is exactly the kind of thing Border should be doing to drum up local custom, so kudos for that, although they could have kept off the tannoy during songs.
Such interruptions, however, are a source of comedy for Matt, whose wry humour is as much a highlight of his set as his sweet mellifluous voice. He might look rather unprepossessingly like Badly Drawn Mike Gatting, but his voice is not only gorgeous, but has the tiniest jazz and blues traces around the edge, and his guitar technique displays some incredibly subtle embellishments way beyond your average strummer. In fact, we preferred his woozy, hazy slower laments to his upbeat tunes, and it isn’t often we think that about an acoustic balladeer, that’s for damn sure.
By contrast, Bethany Weimers’ set is a riot, her excited guitar attack bursting with flamenco fireworks, and her dynamic singing full of theatre. Bethany has a wide range of vocal techniques in her arsenal, but we aren’t sure that they fully gel, and we feel that she is sometimes left grasping too desperately for the emotional payoff, like a cross between Edie Brickell and Bonnie Langford. She’s at her best when keeping things folky, especially in a sea shanty flavoured ditty about her great-grandparents, with a winning melody oddly reminiscent of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”.
They look quite like Guns ‘N’ Roses, so it’s fitting that Pistol Kixx take to the stage late. OK, ten minutes is hardly in the Chinese Democracy bracket, but every second counts with The Punt’s crazed itinerary. They sound a bit like G’n’R too, although perhaps somewhat more low budget: we’re thinking Dogs D’Amour, The Quireboys or Skid Row, with hair treatments by Mosh ‘N’ Go. It’s been a while since we witnessed such flagrant use of wailing solos or bandanas, and we’re forced to conclude that Pistol Kixx are embarrassingly awful, but also, in some masochistic way, hugely entertaining. Thank you, Sir, may we have another.
Phantom Theory, on the other hand, squeeze the maximum dosage of rock hedonism from the simplest of means. A guitar and drums duo, they have a pleasing line in dirty scuzz rock, something like 50 Foot Panda having their blood replaced with hilbilly hooch by the devil’s dialysis. The effect is enormous, but minimal, like a juggernaut pulling a wheelie, and they have enough ideas to keep the fantastic set fresh as it powers long.
Part of the fun of the Punt is seeing people at gigs beyond the usual inner circle, and this does provide us with the wonderful sight of two girls huddled at the top of the Purple Turtle’s steps, saying “One of the bands is called, like, Beaver Juice”. However, we choose The Cellar instead of Beaver Fuel, where the opening of We Aeronauts’ set is gloriously delicate, a hushed blur of clicking drumsticks, guitar and accordion sounding like soft waves washing a pebbly beach. Although their sound is built on folky intimacy, they occasionally bubble up into a big-boned rock chorus, some bold, simple vocal melodies grasping at the heartstrings like Elbow at their best. A completely unamplified track is a brave move, but they clearly make an impact – on a trip to the toilet mid-set, a chap in the cubicle is unabashedly singing a wordless version of one of their earlier melodies!
Realising we haven’t set foot in the place since last year’s Punt, we wonder why there aren’t more gigs in Thirst Lodge – it’s a neat little room, with a good crisp PA and a wall made entirely from speaker cones. It just needs a good reliable promoter to kick things off. Whilst there we catch up with masked math metal magnates, Dr Slaggleberry, whose intricate arrangements and hard rock savvy are instigating some of the best unfettered dancing this side of The Spasm Band. It’s righteously impressive jazz metal, although, fussy buggers that we are, we’d like it if the guitars were more jazz, and the drums more metal.
A rush to The Wheatsheaf for The Response Collective is a must for a Punt that otherwise threatens to contain no bleeps. Sadly, neither does the set, it being a series of drab vocals atop some stale trip hop loops and loosely post-rock guitars. Spice is added by some proficient scratching, and some moody projected films, but the net effect is a sound that is not only uninspired, but also a few years out of date, which is the closest thing there is to a dance music cardinal sin.
Lack of excitement from The Reponse Collective does give us time to nip back to The Cellar for From Light To Sound. They might have an Oxford track record to rival Roger Bannister’s, but we’d always found their music intriguing rather than exciting. Until tonight that is. The Cellar’s engineer has found them a huge sound, and the music simply soars across the packed venue, all Explosions In The Sky grandeur, Billy Mahonie twistiness and Stereolab intelligence. And they have some proper bleepy noises, at last – when the keyboards aren’t coming on like ELP filtered through Battles, that is. Yes, there are mistakes and technical hitches, but these flash by in an instant, the euphoric effect of the music stays with us all night.
“We play solid metal, for fans of solid metal”, claims Desert Storm’s singer. Well, duh. Luckily the music far outstrips the announcements, and their classic, Pantera-sized rocking is perfect for flagging energy levels. Metal is as metal does, to a certain extent, and Desert Storm don’t rewrite the rulebook, but they do know when to drop in and out, and when to let the music chug on regardless. The playing is all extremely tidy, especially the drums, which are busy but incisive, just how we like them. Special mention for the singer’s long overcoat, which makes him look like a Joy Division fan, even as he growls like a man with a throat made from barbed wire and magma.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Yo, Goldrush The Show!
So, here's a sad day - the very last of the reviews I wrote for OHM. Admittedly, I don't own every issue, so I may have missed one. If you think there's a review from the OHM days I should post, get in touch. Thank you for flying Porcine Airways! Anyway, this is from the very best OHM issue, where we managed to review very nearly every act on the Truck bill in a madly choreographed dance of the notebooks. Sadly, not every act I reviewed is here, since there were some acts that were reviewed by more than one of us, and I've long since lost my original copy (so has Dan the editor) so all you'll get are the bits that saw print. The only good bit I can remember on the discard pile was a review of Red Star Cycle, but I'll keep that to myself as I might use the same gag for some other act in the future! Always recycle, kids!
TRUCK FESTIVAL, Hill Farm, Steventon, 6/04
Heavy rock is more about phrasing and tone than composition, and Days Of Grace are experts. Think the melodic end of metal. Think soaring vocal lines. Don't think emo, no matter what images I'm creating. Think QOTSA play Pantera. Think, "that singer needs to wear a belt".
Developing in oddly contradictory directions, Trademark continue to produce ever more theatrical and elaborate stageshows, and ever more honed and elegant songs. Like breaking your heart whilst appearing on 80s teatime BBC fodder The Adventure Game.
Charming, talented, summery, melodic, the men behind the festival itself - Goldrush are in some ways the best band in Oxfordshire. Yet sadly they bore me rigid. That Travis and The Chills are household names and Goldrush aren't is an injustice; that I'm even mentioning them in the same sentence illustrates the problem. Still, they couldn't play a bad set at Truck if their lives depended on it.
Lucky Benny sounds like a bizarre sexual position, but is actually a jazz-funk outfit. They're sometimes stodgy, sometimes firy. The bassist is good. Err, that's it.
Some huge voiced, super-sincere Dubliner is singing folky dirges about the poor and paeans to positivity, which must be rubbish, right? So why am I almost crying? Either I'm incredibly tired, or Damien Dempsey is a huge talent. Or both.
Tabla? Hurdy-gurdy? Politico-poetry? Some rainy mid-eighties GLC fundraiser is missing Inflatable Buddha! When they get abstract ("Fat Sex") it works wonderfully, when they play straight songs ("White Rabbit") it's flat hippy mulch.
Bert Kampfaert gabba - get in! nervous_testpilot provides the second great performance of the weekend, mangling samples and rhythms into a sproingy tech-tapestry. Slightly too irreverent for me (last year's set had subtle melodies hidden away), but his "action-packed mentalist brings you the strawberry jams" approach satisifes. Bloop.
One year on, Captive State kick even harder. The warm jazz rhythms are bolstered by the meaty horn parts, and draped in fluent rhymes and zig-zag scratch patterns, and the crowd responds rapturously. Forget the slightly crass lyrics, this band is delicious.
Even though they're a pop band, undertheigloo remind me of electronica. Their brittle cramped songs are like the raw material from which Boards Of Canada distill their tunes, or the base ingredient to Four Tet's organic shuffle. Pity they play so clunkily. Maybe next time...
Beware of geeks bearing riffs! A Scholar & A Physician have brung the noise, toybox style. Cutesier than a Puzzle Bobble marathon in a Haribo warehouse, they somehow manage to convince us that if enough people play enough crappy instruments, then even stupid music is a glorious victory. Clever.
There's an angry little New Yorker smoking furiously and telling awful jokes like it's The Improv in 1986; now he's singing a flacid relationship revenge song. Right, I'm off. Hold on, that last bit was funny...now he's singing something incredibly touching. Lach is ultimately moving, likable and acidly funny, but, man, he started badly.
Damn, Thomas Truax is too popular for this tiny acoustic tent. Damn, they're running late. Damn, MC Lars is on in a minute. Let's assume Truax is as much a damn genius as ever.
TRUCK FESTIVAL, Hill Farm, Steventon, 6/04
Heavy rock is more about phrasing and tone than composition, and Days Of Grace are experts. Think the melodic end of metal. Think soaring vocal lines. Don't think emo, no matter what images I'm creating. Think QOTSA play Pantera. Think, "that singer needs to wear a belt".
Developing in oddly contradictory directions, Trademark continue to produce ever more theatrical and elaborate stageshows, and ever more honed and elegant songs. Like breaking your heart whilst appearing on 80s teatime BBC fodder The Adventure Game.
Charming, talented, summery, melodic, the men behind the festival itself - Goldrush are in some ways the best band in Oxfordshire. Yet sadly they bore me rigid. That Travis and The Chills are household names and Goldrush aren't is an injustice; that I'm even mentioning them in the same sentence illustrates the problem. Still, they couldn't play a bad set at Truck if their lives depended on it.
Lucky Benny sounds like a bizarre sexual position, but is actually a jazz-funk outfit. They're sometimes stodgy, sometimes firy. The bassist is good. Err, that's it.
Some huge voiced, super-sincere Dubliner is singing folky dirges about the poor and paeans to positivity, which must be rubbish, right? So why am I almost crying? Either I'm incredibly tired, or Damien Dempsey is a huge talent. Or both.
Tabla? Hurdy-gurdy? Politico-poetry? Some rainy mid-eighties GLC fundraiser is missing Inflatable Buddha! When they get abstract ("Fat Sex") it works wonderfully, when they play straight songs ("White Rabbit") it's flat hippy mulch.
Bert Kampfaert gabba - get in! nervous_testpilot provides the second great performance of the weekend, mangling samples and rhythms into a sproingy tech-tapestry. Slightly too irreverent for me (last year's set had subtle melodies hidden away), but his "action-packed mentalist brings you the strawberry jams" approach satisifes. Bloop.
One year on, Captive State kick even harder. The warm jazz rhythms are bolstered by the meaty horn parts, and draped in fluent rhymes and zig-zag scratch patterns, and the crowd responds rapturously. Forget the slightly crass lyrics, this band is delicious.
Even though they're a pop band, undertheigloo remind me of electronica. Their brittle cramped songs are like the raw material from which Boards Of Canada distill their tunes, or the base ingredient to Four Tet's organic shuffle. Pity they play so clunkily. Maybe next time...
Beware of geeks bearing riffs! A Scholar & A Physician have brung the noise, toybox style. Cutesier than a Puzzle Bobble marathon in a Haribo warehouse, they somehow manage to convince us that if enough people play enough crappy instruments, then even stupid music is a glorious victory. Clever.
There's an angry little New Yorker smoking furiously and telling awful jokes like it's The Improv in 1986; now he's singing a flacid relationship revenge song. Right, I'm off. Hold on, that last bit was funny...now he's singing something incredibly touching. Lach is ultimately moving, likable and acidly funny, but, man, he started badly.
Damn, Thomas Truax is too popular for this tiny acoustic tent. Damn, they're running late. Damn, MC Lars is on in a minute. Let's assume Truax is as much a damn genius as ever.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Horticulture Club
What can I say about this one? A tiny festival on an allotment, how can you possibly dislike that?
ELDER STUBBS FESTIVAL, ELDER STUBBS ALLOTMENT, 21/8/04
You'd have to boast a heart hewn from cold, unloving rock not to be tempted by a music festival held in a Cowley allotment: if you can't relax with music and poetry amongst the cabbages and frankly terrifying pagan sculptures of Elder Stubbs on a sunny day, I have no hope for you. And at 50p entry, it's something of a bargain!
Skeleton Crew impress immediately with their medieval folk and early music performances. Now, I don't know my sackbut from my serpent, or my pavanne from my galliard, but the sound was enticing, albeit fighting a losing battle with the noise of a bustling cafe.
I'm guessing, from looking at the four of them, that The Noisy Oysters are a family who prefer to play klezmer classics of an evening instead of watching reality TV. Good choice. Their set is somewhat hesitant, but manages ot deliver the goods eventually.
At first glance Jeremy Hughes' guitar instrumentals just sound like somebody practising, doodling around some little trills and getting that muscle memory programmed in. Maybe it was the dappled sunlight and the tin of beer, but today it all made perfect sense, and his cyclical compositions transported us away on light and nimble melodies.
Next up regulars from local pub The Exeter Hall knocked out a couple of tunes each. Quality varied, but the spirit shone through.
When did you last see a table and sitar duo reviewed in Oxford? Proving that there's more to acoustic music than strumming hippies anbd self-pitying wastrels, Pandit Kailash Pawar & Chris Hills perform an hour of traditional ragas. Again, I'm no expert, but the music was spellbinding, if not always as fluid as it might be. Still, considering they hadn't met till that day, and Hills was playing pieces he'd never heard before, you've got to give them credit.
Mark Ginsberg is wearing a polka dot shirt whilst playing pier-end covers on an antediluvian organ. Clearly it's rubbish, but somehow those old bossa nova rhythm presets really kick, in a hissing Autechral fashion...plus his cover of "Purple Haze" reveals he isn't taking this too seriously either...
If Kenny Everett were recording a sketch about washed up 70s rockers, he'd copy Hawkwind alumnus Hugh Lloyd-Langton exactly. He's got the dangling fag, the Rod Stewart hairdo, the stoned chuckle and the leopard print waistcoat. He appears to be completely wasted. He's also got the bluesy Pagesque technique on his acoustic guitar to just about get away with it. A fine exemplum for the avoidance of drugs; nearly as fine as the surrounding sculptures.
Inflatable Buddha could be astonishing, but they don't know their own strengths. They boast weird instrumentation, a freaky stage presence and a ranting poet, yet they insist on performing rock tunes, despite the fact that the rhythm section has no bite and the vocalist can't sing (also for a poet his diction is awful, but we'll ignore that). "I Met A Girl" might make sense if Dive Dive played it, but Buddha should stick to the acid cabaret they know: "Fat Sex" and the one about boiling frogs, now there's some real character.
In a flurry of fiddle-licked hoedown punk, Some Dogs finish the afternoon. They display far more energy than ability (except for the sizzling violinist) but it seems to fit. As they say, if you don't like it, go ask for your 50p back! Nope, money well spent I say, as was the Le Tigre CD I picked up for 20p on a charity stall. A great day out, and I haven't even mentioned the marrow auction, the Backroom Poets, the Oxford Drum Troupe, the oldest-of-schools electro DJ or the free pinball. Prize produce all round!
ELDER STUBBS FESTIVAL, ELDER STUBBS ALLOTMENT, 21/8/04
You'd have to boast a heart hewn from cold, unloving rock not to be tempted by a music festival held in a Cowley allotment: if you can't relax with music and poetry amongst the cabbages and frankly terrifying pagan sculptures of Elder Stubbs on a sunny day, I have no hope for you. And at 50p entry, it's something of a bargain!
Skeleton Crew impress immediately with their medieval folk and early music performances. Now, I don't know my sackbut from my serpent, or my pavanne from my galliard, but the sound was enticing, albeit fighting a losing battle with the noise of a bustling cafe.
I'm guessing, from looking at the four of them, that The Noisy Oysters are a family who prefer to play klezmer classics of an evening instead of watching reality TV. Good choice. Their set is somewhat hesitant, but manages ot deliver the goods eventually.
At first glance Jeremy Hughes' guitar instrumentals just sound like somebody practising, doodling around some little trills and getting that muscle memory programmed in. Maybe it was the dappled sunlight and the tin of beer, but today it all made perfect sense, and his cyclical compositions transported us away on light and nimble melodies.
Next up regulars from local pub The Exeter Hall knocked out a couple of tunes each. Quality varied, but the spirit shone through.
When did you last see a table and sitar duo reviewed in Oxford? Proving that there's more to acoustic music than strumming hippies anbd self-pitying wastrels, Pandit Kailash Pawar & Chris Hills perform an hour of traditional ragas. Again, I'm no expert, but the music was spellbinding, if not always as fluid as it might be. Still, considering they hadn't met till that day, and Hills was playing pieces he'd never heard before, you've got to give them credit.
Mark Ginsberg is wearing a polka dot shirt whilst playing pier-end covers on an antediluvian organ. Clearly it's rubbish, but somehow those old bossa nova rhythm presets really kick, in a hissing Autechral fashion...plus his cover of "Purple Haze" reveals he isn't taking this too seriously either...
If Kenny Everett were recording a sketch about washed up 70s rockers, he'd copy Hawkwind alumnus Hugh Lloyd-Langton exactly. He's got the dangling fag, the Rod Stewart hairdo, the stoned chuckle and the leopard print waistcoat. He appears to be completely wasted. He's also got the bluesy Pagesque technique on his acoustic guitar to just about get away with it. A fine exemplum for the avoidance of drugs; nearly as fine as the surrounding sculptures.
Inflatable Buddha could be astonishing, but they don't know their own strengths. They boast weird instrumentation, a freaky stage presence and a ranting poet, yet they insist on performing rock tunes, despite the fact that the rhythm section has no bite and the vocalist can't sing (also for a poet his diction is awful, but we'll ignore that). "I Met A Girl" might make sense if Dive Dive played it, but Buddha should stick to the acid cabaret they know: "Fat Sex" and the one about boiling frogs, now there's some real character.
In a flurry of fiddle-licked hoedown punk, Some Dogs finish the afternoon. They display far more energy than ability (except for the sizzling violinist) but it seems to fit. As they say, if you don't like it, go ask for your 50p back! Nope, money well spent I say, as was the Le Tigre CD I picked up for 20p on a charity stall. A great day out, and I haven't even mentioned the marrow auction, the Backroom Poets, the Oxford Drum Troupe, the oldest-of-schools electro DJ or the free pinball. Prize produce all round!
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Piece Of Pierce
A completely stupid, but amusing little review for OHM. There was also a whole bit about ha'pennies, farthings, tanners and other Victorian coinage, that the editor cut and I shall too. It was, frankly, agonisingly unfunny nonsense.
SPIRITUALIZED/ DAVID VINER - Brookes SU, 5/2/04
As I walk into Brookes signs warn, "This show will contain extreme strobe lights". Excellent! Strobes they indeed had, bloody great big ones too. But before the meltdown, David Viner kicked off with some Dylanish songs on his guitar. That's "Dylanish" as in "no discernible melody and featuring lyrics about whiskey" as opposed to "towering musical genius". Glad we cleared that up. He's not bad, but can't seem to get into the zone, and all his whoops and hollers, which should be spine-tinglingly visceral, just sound silly. One song proclaims, "It's nobody's business what I do". Let's keep it that way, eh?
Jason Pierce's lazer guided troubadours have been enraging record buyers for some time now: some of their music is mercurial, huge, and life-affirmingly psychedelic, whilst some is stodgy indie-gospel, as over-produced and underwhelming as any 80s Pink Floyd or Van Morrison LP. Tonight's show thankfully veers towards the former category for the most part. There are shadowy hunched figures, a glockenspiel, racks of effects pedals, swathes of keyboard schmuzz, hypnotic drums and litres of dry ice. Oh, and those bloody big strobes.
Grandiloquent music on an epic scale - how can you lose? You can't, really, but even as we stood, eyes closed, bathed in sound, the nagging worry was that Spiritualized, with zillions of pounds worth of stage equipment, can't quite reach the peaks that Spacemen 3 scaled on tuppence ha'penny.
There were joyful moments: "Electricity", the opener; the new single (though surely it's basically "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream"?); the "Cop Shoot Cop" saxfest; "Come Together", one of the few songs ever where the audience sings along to the guitar part, not the vocal; the segue between "Let It Glide" and "Let It Flow", which settled into three minutes of abstract tones before being born again in a new guise, like Dr Who. But there weren't quite enough of these moments to change this from a good gig to a glorious gig, and sometimes the bloody big strobes were more intoxicating than the music. In honour of this I shall summatrise in strobe:
It w s a pr t y gr at g g, b t did 't re ch th ps ch del c he gh s it co ld h v , wh c is a p ty. Tr p y, h h?
SPIRITUALIZED/ DAVID VINER - Brookes SU, 5/2/04
As I walk into Brookes signs warn, "This show will contain extreme strobe lights". Excellent! Strobes they indeed had, bloody great big ones too. But before the meltdown, David Viner kicked off with some Dylanish songs on his guitar. That's "Dylanish" as in "no discernible melody and featuring lyrics about whiskey" as opposed to "towering musical genius". Glad we cleared that up. He's not bad, but can't seem to get into the zone, and all his whoops and hollers, which should be spine-tinglingly visceral, just sound silly. One song proclaims, "It's nobody's business what I do". Let's keep it that way, eh?
Jason Pierce's lazer guided troubadours have been enraging record buyers for some time now: some of their music is mercurial, huge, and life-affirmingly psychedelic, whilst some is stodgy indie-gospel, as over-produced and underwhelming as any 80s Pink Floyd or Van Morrison LP. Tonight's show thankfully veers towards the former category for the most part. There are shadowy hunched figures, a glockenspiel, racks of effects pedals, swathes of keyboard schmuzz, hypnotic drums and litres of dry ice. Oh, and those bloody big strobes.
Grandiloquent music on an epic scale - how can you lose? You can't, really, but even as we stood, eyes closed, bathed in sound, the nagging worry was that Spiritualized, with zillions of pounds worth of stage equipment, can't quite reach the peaks that Spacemen 3 scaled on tuppence ha'penny.
There were joyful moments: "Electricity", the opener; the new single (though surely it's basically "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream"?); the "Cop Shoot Cop" saxfest; "Come Together", one of the few songs ever where the audience sings along to the guitar part, not the vocal; the segue between "Let It Glide" and "Let It Flow", which settled into three minutes of abstract tones before being born again in a new guise, like Dr Who. But there weren't quite enough of these moments to change this from a good gig to a glorious gig, and sometimes the bloody big strobes were more intoxicating than the music. In honour of this I shall summatrise in strobe:
It w s a pr t y gr at g g, b t did 't re ch th ps ch del c he gh s it co ld h v , wh c is a p ty. Tr p y, h h?
Thursday, 4 June 2009
A Terminally Negative Review
The other review from the issue of O to the H to the motherfucking M (homeboy) that had no date. Or any writer credits. Embarrassing. But it did have a cartoon on the back of my good chum Alastair (see link to the right) nailed to a cross and talking about Goblin soundtracks and Spaceballs, so it's all good. Can't believe I thought the laptopia line was clever, and as for the summing up...
CATHODE - Oxford Contemporary Music, Modern Art Oxford, Feb04?
This is the latest in Oxford Contemporary Music's latest short series of concerts at Modern Art Oxford, and it promises music and visuals from Cathode. Maybe one day in a dream world (a laptopia?) everyone will carry a little computer around and be able to trigger fascinating audio and visual at the flick of a mouse, but as yet performances of this sort seem to be let down by one of the elemtents.
For Cathode, it's the visuals that disappoint. They're quite pleasant, as a bunch of fuzzily pretty abstracts generally are, but they aren't startlingly original, and don't bear any relation to the music. Never mind, though, because the music has plenty to offer on its own terms. Presented as one continuous track, it covers a wide range of techno and its subsidiary genres. The first piece (or at least the first ten minutes or so) has its roots in the late '90s Warp output (don't they all?), but added some interesting treatments of the style typified by Mego, or Mille Plateaux. High pitched squeaks flashed on the ears like light refelcted from icicles, whilst scuffed clicks nagged the edges. The effect was spellbinding.
Sadly, the next 35 minutes never quite lived up to this opening salvo, being hampered by slightly more obvious rhythmic loops, and mildly poppy keyboard sounds. The worst moments arrived when the fat fours bass drum kicked in, leaving the performer no other developmental options than volume, which became overbearing in the small MAO cafe. Still, if we forgive a handful of lumpy drum machine patterns, Cathode is an artist with a firm grasp of a vast range of textures and sonorities, and one more capable than most of constructing longform musical narratives without getting lost or going in circles. I'd recommend going to see him, or any of the enlighteneing MAO events.
CATHODE - Oxford Contemporary Music, Modern Art Oxford, Feb04?
This is the latest in Oxford Contemporary Music's latest short series of concerts at Modern Art Oxford, and it promises music and visuals from Cathode. Maybe one day in a dream world (a laptopia?) everyone will carry a little computer around and be able to trigger fascinating audio and visual at the flick of a mouse, but as yet performances of this sort seem to be let down by one of the elemtents.
For Cathode, it's the visuals that disappoint. They're quite pleasant, as a bunch of fuzzily pretty abstracts generally are, but they aren't startlingly original, and don't bear any relation to the music. Never mind, though, because the music has plenty to offer on its own terms. Presented as one continuous track, it covers a wide range of techno and its subsidiary genres. The first piece (or at least the first ten minutes or so) has its roots in the late '90s Warp output (don't they all?), but added some interesting treatments of the style typified by Mego, or Mille Plateaux. High pitched squeaks flashed on the ears like light refelcted from icicles, whilst scuffed clicks nagged the edges. The effect was spellbinding.
Sadly, the next 35 minutes never quite lived up to this opening salvo, being hampered by slightly more obvious rhythmic loops, and mildly poppy keyboard sounds. The worst moments arrived when the fat fours bass drum kicked in, leaving the performer no other developmental options than volume, which became overbearing in the small MAO cafe. Still, if we forgive a handful of lumpy drum machine patterns, Cathode is an artist with a firm grasp of a vast range of textures and sonorities, and one more capable than most of constructing longform musical narratives without getting lost or going in circles. I'd recommend going to see him, or any of the enlighteneing MAO events.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Narc Psychoses
This is probably the only record review I did for OHM. No idea why that should be, I think I was always at the bar whenever the CDs were handed out, or something. This is, err, short.
THE DRUGSQUAD - FAT FISH (Demo)
A drunk man with a cane keeps falling over.
Now, that's not too funny to read, but on screen it's a classic Charlie Chaplin routine. You get a similar problem with translation when lively party bands come offstage to make recordings, and ska-punk fools The Drugsquad are no exception. No matter how hard they play "Speed Queen", for example, the laundrophiliac* mariachi tune is a shadow of its live self.
Still, there's plenty to like in the stabbing horns, the abrasive drumming and the wonky keyboards, redolent of Steve Naive at his most irreverent: only the vocals don't quite convince. So, don't buy the demo, but see them live, and meet the title track in the flesh, where it sounds like a ditty from Playschool gone very bad. Imagine Floella Benjamin and Brian Cant full of cheap speed and tequila. Now try to stop...
*In love with a washing machine.
THE DRUGSQUAD - FAT FISH (Demo)
A drunk man with a cane keeps falling over.
Now, that's not too funny to read, but on screen it's a classic Charlie Chaplin routine. You get a similar problem with translation when lively party bands come offstage to make recordings, and ska-punk fools The Drugsquad are no exception. No matter how hard they play "Speed Queen", for example, the laundrophiliac* mariachi tune is a shadow of its live self.
Still, there's plenty to like in the stabbing horns, the abrasive drumming and the wonky keyboards, redolent of Steve Naive at his most irreverent: only the vocals don't quite convince. So, don't buy the demo, but see them live, and meet the title track in the flesh, where it sounds like a ditty from Playschool gone very bad. Imagine Floella Benjamin and Brian Cant full of cheap speed and tequila. Now try to stop...
*In love with a washing machine.
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Carina Community
The edition of OHM I have in my hand claims this gig was at The Wheatsheaf, but I'm pretty certain it was downstairs at The Zodiac. I'm also pretty certain none of you are going to check.
I'd like to see The Honeymoon Machine again, but only if they were supporting The Family Machine, before finishing the bill with Divorce Device, the only obstacle to making this plan a glorious reality is the fact that Divorce Device don't actually exist, and never have.
CARINA ROUND/ THE HONEYMOON MACHINE - The Zodiac, 26/1/04
The Honeymoon Machine plays rock music with its roots in the fuzzy flurry of the late 60s. Not that they sound like the punky garage attendants that populate the current New Wave Of New Wave Of New Wave Of Etc, they're far more straightforward than that: witness the devil sympathising "Woo Woo"s or the pounding non-nonsense drums. Full marks, incidentally, to the excitable bassist who is NOTHING but limbs. The tunes themselves could do with a few more ideas, all things considered; the third track, "Angie", is a slow rock trudge, enlivened by the sound of a cat playing with a ball of string tied to a theremin, but mostly there's a stolid late Oasis clunk underpinning the set, which tends to bog them down somewhat.
That's the objective review. My subjective opinion is that it was fucking boring, a turgid dollop of mindless unsubtle plodrock dirge. Secretly I don't like rock music, you see. At least 50% of the greatest music I've ever heard has been rock music, but I still don't like it. Wierd, huh? Anyway, no time to discuss it now...
If the words "P. J. Harvey" were ever floated on the stock market, I'd avise Carina Round to invest heavily in shares, as she'd clean up on review references alone. Not as much as P. J. Harvey herself, but still. For Carina, Polly Harvey is less a reference point than an anchor, a lodestone. Which is a tad unfair, as Carina has a character all of her own, with a little gothic sass underpinning her well-worked rock vaudeville epics. She's got the vocal ambidexterity to leap around in pitch and style, too, which helps the theatrical effect no end. But it all still sounds a lot like P. J. Harvey.
Ultimately, she isn't as good as Harvey. Polly Jean's show is a gloriously taut athletic distillation of the sounds (and sexual politics) of the entire history of rock music - which I don't like...err, never mind that for now - whilst Carina's still has a little excess flab here and there. However, there's an awful lot to like in Carina, not to mention her tight and elegant backing band. And she does an eight minute long Pixies cover! I've personally never been to a bad gig that featured the line "Losing my penis to a whore with disease," and tonight hasn't bucked that trend.
I'd like to see The Honeymoon Machine again, but only if they were supporting The Family Machine, before finishing the bill with Divorce Device, the only obstacle to making this plan a glorious reality is the fact that Divorce Device don't actually exist, and never have.
CARINA ROUND/ THE HONEYMOON MACHINE - The Zodiac, 26/1/04
The Honeymoon Machine plays rock music with its roots in the fuzzy flurry of the late 60s. Not that they sound like the punky garage attendants that populate the current New Wave Of New Wave Of New Wave Of Etc, they're far more straightforward than that: witness the devil sympathising "Woo Woo"s or the pounding non-nonsense drums. Full marks, incidentally, to the excitable bassist who is NOTHING but limbs. The tunes themselves could do with a few more ideas, all things considered; the third track, "Angie", is a slow rock trudge, enlivened by the sound of a cat playing with a ball of string tied to a theremin, but mostly there's a stolid late Oasis clunk underpinning the set, which tends to bog them down somewhat.
That's the objective review. My subjective opinion is that it was fucking boring, a turgid dollop of mindless unsubtle plodrock dirge. Secretly I don't like rock music, you see. At least 50% of the greatest music I've ever heard has been rock music, but I still don't like it. Wierd, huh? Anyway, no time to discuss it now...
If the words "P. J. Harvey" were ever floated on the stock market, I'd avise Carina Round to invest heavily in shares, as she'd clean up on review references alone. Not as much as P. J. Harvey herself, but still. For Carina, Polly Harvey is less a reference point than an anchor, a lodestone. Which is a tad unfair, as Carina has a character all of her own, with a little gothic sass underpinning her well-worked rock vaudeville epics. She's got the vocal ambidexterity to leap around in pitch and style, too, which helps the theatrical effect no end. But it all still sounds a lot like P. J. Harvey.
Ultimately, she isn't as good as Harvey. Polly Jean's show is a gloriously taut athletic distillation of the sounds (and sexual politics) of the entire history of rock music - which I don't like...err, never mind that for now - whilst Carina's still has a little excess flab here and there. However, there's an awful lot to like in Carina, not to mention her tight and elegant backing band. And she does an eight minute long Pixies cover! I've personally never been to a bad gig that featured the line "Losing my penis to a whore with disease," and tonight hasn't bucked that trend.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
Redox Bath
It does seem as though I've done a lot of reviews at Klub Kak gigs over the years, doesn't it? This is another 2nd rate review, with a pig awful opening salvo. My editors were clearly very forgiving (or desperate) in those days.
VIGILANCE BLACK SPECIAL/ REDOX/ OPAQUE - Klub Kakofanney, 7/11/03
There's probably a picture of Opaque in the dictionary under "Variable". Except who ever heard of a dictionary with pictures? Maybe an encyclopaedia - although they don't tend to define adjectives...anyway, Opaque's accordion-driven folk-pop is of mixed quality: half slinky Cajun slither (Yay!), and half creaky, crusty drop-in centre dirge (Boo!). Aside from a few rhythm section clunkers, the vocals are the main problem, yowled with the self conscious sincerity you might expect from a singing picket line. Having said that, their penultimate tune is a Madness style rocker, and it's worth remembering that this is their first gig. Why not give them a try?
It's pretty hard to dislike Phil and Sue, the Kakafanneers, because they tirelessly promote music with an infectious enthusiasm. Still, Redox, their occasional hippy-punk-blues-folk band, can easily stand on its own merits, thank you. Tonight the storming phased guitar howls, the psychedelic projections, the skintight drumming (from studio legend Tim Turan, no less) and the sense of barely controlled chaos inspire thoughts of what Warhol's Exploding Plastic Inevitable would have been like if it were invented in a barn in Wantage. They even boast that rarest of beasts, a decent didjeridoo player. Support them, because Redox is a local treasure, and what's more, they aren't surrounded by gawking tourists for five months of the year.
Vigilance Black Special remind me of The Rock Of Travolta. Whoooah, there, post-rockers - it's only because everybody in the county seems to love them, but to me they're terribly workmanlike and unimaginative. VBS are dark noir-country balladeers, something akin to a spooky Goldrush without the swagger or beautiful vocals, or a Nick Cave without the stage presence or tunes. There's nothing fundamentally wrong with that, but there doesn't appear to be much to add. The trombone is a lovely touch, admittedly, but only highlights the lack of imagination in the rest of the music.
If this were thier debut, I'd say that there was plenty of potential, but the fact is that they've been around for yonks, and still sound as tedious as they did when I saw them at The Point over three years ago. Nothing special.
Saturday, 25 April 2009
Archi(v)e Bronson
I wanted to show you something today, only to find I have no copy of it! An email has been sent to the OHM editor, I wonder whether it will turn up. So, here's something small from OHM for you: scholars of this site may wish to trace the change from the 1st person singular to plural in my reviewing style over the past 6 years, there may be a doctorate in it.
CLINIC/ THE ARCHIE BRONSON OUTFIT, The Zodiac, 4/7/04
I see Dr. Feelgood played by mendicant chimps...which means I see The Archie Bronson Outfit playing thier neanderthal blues boogie. In the dim light of a novelty swan-shaped lamp they plough their simple furrow: imagine a backwoods Ten Benson, or a Kings Of Leon made entirely of dirty breezeblocks, and you get the idea.
Whilst not revolutionary the effect is quite powerful, morphing from ratcheting blues blunder to slug disco and beyond. Worsth 30 minutes of anybody's time, though perhaps not too much more.
If you don't know by now, Clinic deal in all the simple trash of rock history: lo fi rhythm 'n' blues, pre-Beatles pop, VU drone and electro crud, all rolled together in pounding 2/4 rhythms. Somehow, though, tonight's gig doesn't hit the spot.
I don't want to give them a bad review as I can't put my finger on what was wrong - it wasn't the performance, or the sound, and I don't think it was my ears, but last time they played here Clinic produced some of the most frightening and enthralling music in Britain, whilst tonight they were simply entertaining.
Maybe it was the overwrought op art video projections, which were far less effective than the dusky spotlight and triumvirate of oscilloscopes that greeted us two years ago. If you'd never heard of Clinic, I'm sure this gig was beautiful, but to the old admirers amongst us it lacked something. Only the final track of the main set, which locked Philip Glass in a tiny Casio-filled roadhouse, really hit the spot. As Roy Walker said, "It's good, but it's not right".
CLINIC/ THE ARCHIE BRONSON OUTFIT, The Zodiac, 4/7/04
I see Dr. Feelgood played by mendicant chimps...which means I see The Archie Bronson Outfit playing thier neanderthal blues boogie. In the dim light of a novelty swan-shaped lamp they plough their simple furrow: imagine a backwoods Ten Benson, or a Kings Of Leon made entirely of dirty breezeblocks, and you get the idea.
Whilst not revolutionary the effect is quite powerful, morphing from ratcheting blues blunder to slug disco and beyond. Worsth 30 minutes of anybody's time, though perhaps not too much more.
If you don't know by now, Clinic deal in all the simple trash of rock history: lo fi rhythm 'n' blues, pre-Beatles pop, VU drone and electro crud, all rolled together in pounding 2/4 rhythms. Somehow, though, tonight's gig doesn't hit the spot.
I don't want to give them a bad review as I can't put my finger on what was wrong - it wasn't the performance, or the sound, and I don't think it was my ears, but last time they played here Clinic produced some of the most frightening and enthralling music in Britain, whilst tonight they were simply entertaining.
Maybe it was the overwrought op art video projections, which were far less effective than the dusky spotlight and triumvirate of oscilloscopes that greeted us two years ago. If you'd never heard of Clinic, I'm sure this gig was beautiful, but to the old admirers amongst us it lacked something. Only the final track of the main set, which locked Philip Glass in a tiny Casio-filled roadhouse, really hit the spot. As Roy Walker said, "It's good, but it's not right".
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Bloomsday
Since starting this blog I've pretty much managed to upload 3 reviews a week, but I'm away for Easter, so regular readers (splutter) will have to wait a bit for the next installment. Well, I've only been reviewing for about 6.5 years, there are a finite number of reviews in the pile, so it's best that we don't glut on them all at once, like chubby cosseted scum children. This is an old OHM review of the sort of odd free day out Oxford council used to run a lot, before they ran out of money.
I also interviewed fellow OHMer Russell Barker about his Oxford music compilation in this issue, but it's a bit dull, so I shan't type it all out!
FLOWER & FOLK FESTIVAL, Florence Park, 11/9/04
This City Council organised folk festival and floral competition is woefully advertised, and I only find it by chance. A pity, as the sparseness of the audience doesn't reflect the quality of the music. Senegalese visitor Jali Fili Cissokho begins proceedings, singing some quite lovely pieces and accompanying himself on the kora: if you don't like the beautiful grids and skeins of lively plucked notes, you can at least be fascinated by the instrument itself, which looks like the dried remains of a deep space crustacean.
Ed, Bob & Pete are onstage next. I dare say they actually have a band name, but in the absence of a programme we have to grasp what facts we can! Using dulcimer, bouzouki and fiddle, aongst others, they rattle through some traditional melodies, which is all perfectly elegant but somewhat polite and decorative for my tastes. Their vocal pieces are overly earnest too.
Youthfull dub troupe, Raggasaurus, wake us up with hot servings of mammoth antediluvain skank. Their instrumental pieces boast bouncy drumming and plenty of topnotch digi-delay knob-twiddling, and have a ramshackle charm. Thier obvious lack of rehearsal means that tunes grow organically, which is delightful; it also means they die a slow, agonising death, which is less so. Although Raggasaurus run out of ideas before the set ends, their witty bubbling reggae shows plenty of promise, if they're prepared to put the work in. Plus their excellent cover of the Dr Who theme is a highlight of the day - perhaps the TARDIS got stuck in police box mode because it was too stoned to bother changing?
Well, this is probably a timefiller: Pete, who played earlier today, is performing with a member of the headline band. Still, whether it's a desperate remedy or a longstanding collaboration, this turns out to be the best gig of the day. The duo really gets to the pulsing heart of traditional melodies, throwing them into the drizzly afternoon with vim. Unlike the earlier trio, they make the songs sound like vibrant and important music, rather than the soundtrack to some Tourist Board propaganda.
Scratch And Sniff don't really work, sadly. The two fiddle and squeezebox format throws up some decent arrangements, and whilst rhythmically it's not as neat as we'd wish the playing has soul. However, the two young ladies on vocals put in a lacklustre performance, and they look excruciatingly uncomfortable being there at all. To be fair this says far more about their youth and inexperience than their innate talent, and there are a couple of gorgeous moments, but unless they start seeing performance as something other than a chore they won't get too far. Oh, and please drop the Corrs cover, for all our sakes.
I also interviewed fellow OHMer Russell Barker about his Oxford music compilation in this issue, but it's a bit dull, so I shan't type it all out!
FLOWER & FOLK FESTIVAL, Florence Park, 11/9/04
This City Council organised folk festival and floral competition is woefully advertised, and I only find it by chance. A pity, as the sparseness of the audience doesn't reflect the quality of the music. Senegalese visitor Jali Fili Cissokho begins proceedings, singing some quite lovely pieces and accompanying himself on the kora: if you don't like the beautiful grids and skeins of lively plucked notes, you can at least be fascinated by the instrument itself, which looks like the dried remains of a deep space crustacean.
Ed, Bob & Pete are onstage next. I dare say they actually have a band name, but in the absence of a programme we have to grasp what facts we can! Using dulcimer, bouzouki and fiddle, aongst others, they rattle through some traditional melodies, which is all perfectly elegant but somewhat polite and decorative for my tastes. Their vocal pieces are overly earnest too.
Youthfull dub troupe, Raggasaurus, wake us up with hot servings of mammoth antediluvain skank. Their instrumental pieces boast bouncy drumming and plenty of topnotch digi-delay knob-twiddling, and have a ramshackle charm. Thier obvious lack of rehearsal means that tunes grow organically, which is delightful; it also means they die a slow, agonising death, which is less so. Although Raggasaurus run out of ideas before the set ends, their witty bubbling reggae shows plenty of promise, if they're prepared to put the work in. Plus their excellent cover of the Dr Who theme is a highlight of the day - perhaps the TARDIS got stuck in police box mode because it was too stoned to bother changing?
Well, this is probably a timefiller: Pete, who played earlier today, is performing with a member of the headline band. Still, whether it's a desperate remedy or a longstanding collaboration, this turns out to be the best gig of the day. The duo really gets to the pulsing heart of traditional melodies, throwing them into the drizzly afternoon with vim. Unlike the earlier trio, they make the songs sound like vibrant and important music, rather than the soundtrack to some Tourist Board propaganda.
Scratch And Sniff don't really work, sadly. The two fiddle and squeezebox format throws up some decent arrangements, and whilst rhythmically it's not as neat as we'd wish the playing has soul. However, the two young ladies on vocals put in a lacklustre performance, and they look excruciatingly uncomfortable being there at all. To be fair this says far more about their youth and inexperience than their innate talent, and there are a couple of gorgeous moments, but unless they start seeing performance as something other than a chore they won't get too far. Oh, and please drop the Corrs cover, for all our sakes.
Friday, 27 March 2009
Temporal Uncertainty
I have no idea when this was from. The edition of OHM inexplicably has no date on the front (it also has no writer credits for each review, for some reason). It does claim to be Volume II, Issue 2, but then so did the one I was looking at last time I posted from OHM, so who's to say? Bloody amateurs.
Klub Kak again, I'm so predictable, aren't I? The Smug Jugglers, by the way, were an atrocious band, but they were nice guys who used to fill in for KK whenever anyone pulled out, which is why I've seen them all too many times. Suitable Case were an amazing Beefheartian gospel metal band, whose singer Liam (now in Mephisto Grande, an amazing Beefheartian gospel - you get the idea) has some gnashers missing. Wierdly, Rus from Phyal ended up in Eduard Soundingblock, another post-SCFT act. Endlessly fascinating, I'm sure.
Oh, look at that, Lagrima pop up again. I used to like them, but they've spit up now (literally: they were a couple).
LAGRIMA/PHYAL, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, Feb 2004?
Off once again to the wonderful Klub Kakofanney, Oxford's longest running live music night. You never know quite what you'll get at Kak - except that there's about a 50/50 chance that The Smug Jugglers are playing - which is part of the pleasure. Lagrima start the evening, and do it extremely well, tickling the small crowd with a handful of light, sublte, slightly flamecoid jazz-folk numbers. The vocals are warm, smoky and deliciously low and intimate, even if the body they come out of looks like it would be more comfortable some place else; the acoustic guitar is beautifully played, with so many counterpoint lines and percussive elements it sounds like a whole band's locked in the fretboard. I've a sneaking suspicion that they let their talent do the work occasionally, and it would be nice to hear some risks taken in the more straightforward tunes, but they certainly go down pleasantly with a pint of Guinness, that's for sure.
Phyal, by contrast, trade a neat line in Market Town Metal. Admittedly I've invented that genre, but you get the idea: tuneful heavy rock performed with gusto, led by a singer who's clearly studied The I-Spy Book Of Rock-Chickery quite closely. The first, and best, song with its tight funky rhythm section, sounds a little like the Chili Peppers wrestling with Evanescence over an antediluvian goth tune.
There's a mid-90s concern with a vocal melody on display, but it's bolstered with some firy guitar work, which keeps things interesting, although pretty much all the songs seem to carve the same sort of shape, and a little time spent arranging might move Phyal up a gear. Still, if Suitable Case For Treatment are too noisy for you, why not give Phyal a testdrive? They have a more melodic approach and all their own teeth.
Klub Kak again, I'm so predictable, aren't I? The Smug Jugglers, by the way, were an atrocious band, but they were nice guys who used to fill in for KK whenever anyone pulled out, which is why I've seen them all too many times. Suitable Case were an amazing Beefheartian gospel metal band, whose singer Liam (now in Mephisto Grande, an amazing Beefheartian gospel - you get the idea) has some gnashers missing. Wierdly, Rus from Phyal ended up in Eduard Soundingblock, another post-SCFT act. Endlessly fascinating, I'm sure.
Oh, look at that, Lagrima pop up again. I used to like them, but they've spit up now (literally: they were a couple).
LAGRIMA/PHYAL, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, Feb 2004?
Off once again to the wonderful Klub Kakofanney, Oxford's longest running live music night. You never know quite what you'll get at Kak - except that there's about a 50/50 chance that The Smug Jugglers are playing - which is part of the pleasure. Lagrima start the evening, and do it extremely well, tickling the small crowd with a handful of light, sublte, slightly flamecoid jazz-folk numbers. The vocals are warm, smoky and deliciously low and intimate, even if the body they come out of looks like it would be more comfortable some place else; the acoustic guitar is beautifully played, with so many counterpoint lines and percussive elements it sounds like a whole band's locked in the fretboard. I've a sneaking suspicion that they let their talent do the work occasionally, and it would be nice to hear some risks taken in the more straightforward tunes, but they certainly go down pleasantly with a pint of Guinness, that's for sure.
Phyal, by contrast, trade a neat line in Market Town Metal. Admittedly I've invented that genre, but you get the idea: tuneful heavy rock performed with gusto, led by a singer who's clearly studied The I-Spy Book Of Rock-Chickery quite closely. The first, and best, song with its tight funky rhythm section, sounds a little like the Chili Peppers wrestling with Evanescence over an antediluvian goth tune.
There's a mid-90s concern with a vocal melody on display, but it's bolstered with some firy guitar work, which keeps things interesting, although pretty much all the songs seem to carve the same sort of shape, and a little time spent arranging might move Phyal up a gear. Still, if Suitable Case For Treatment are too noisy for you, why not give Phyal a testdrive? They have a more melodic approach and all their own teeth.
Thursday, 19 March 2009
In Pine Effect
Here's a review from OHM Vol 2, Issue 2. I wrote an epic 3 reviews for that issue, so I've started with the worst one. Just so you have something to look forward to, like. I seem to recall that there was a another sentence at the end of the review, another "What we learned" type sententious sign off, that got missed from the printed edition somehow. Buggered if I remember what it was.
Rod Y Gab are huge now, but when I saw them I was one of about 20 people actually listening, the rest of the crowd were just yapping away; these same idiots are probably shelling out £25 for a chance to actually watch them now. People are stupid.
COURTNEY PINE/ RODRIGO Y GABRIELA, The Zodiac, 4/2/04
Rodrigo Y Gabriela came from Mexico, armed with two Spanish guitars. It's clearly pretty hard to amplify two acoustic guitars in The Zodiac, so their set was accompanied by chattering, belching and mobile phone bleeps. Those of us who actually wanted to hear the music ended up at the front, straining froward to hear everything...I seemed to be the only one scribbling things on a bit of paper though...
Anyway, the effort was repaid by the duo, who spent thirty minutes spinning intricate webs of what I'll arbitrarily call avant-flamenco. They played with great subtlety of touch, but were not always polite nor delicate: indeed, the music seemed to be an intriguing mixture of Metallica, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Rodriguez! Occasionally the writing felt rather episodic, as if we were watching two talented musicians doing exercises. Still, even then the emphasis was firmly on the "talented", and their Bream-meets-Satriani stylings were beguiling.
We're lucky enough to have some very able guitarists in this town, from Sedwards to Ulph to Ilett Jr., but it's refreshing to see acoustic playing of such wit and elegance. What we learned: 1) It's worth concentrating for music of this calibre. 2) "Smoke On The Water", "Take Five" and "Seven Nation Army" have more in common than we thought...
The band Courtney Pine led onstage was a much rootsier proposition than on his last few visits to Oxford; no sequencers, no DJ, no guest vocalists, just an old-fashioned backline. They weren't the most exciting rhythm section ever, but they earned their keep, especially the bassist. The drums were sadly marred by a terrible boxy sound, as if he were playing from a crate in Gene Krupa's basement.
Cameron Pierre's guitar spotlights were elegant, but wandered just the wrong side of the elevator door. Best supporting actor gong surely goes to Dennis Rollins on the trombone, boasting a lovely rubbery sound, tinged in equal parts by classic reggae and old-style music hall. Honestly. But what did Courtney sound like? Well, despite early solos feeling somewhat tacked together, he soon hit his stride, and whenever he picked up that keening soprano sax, he always seemd to play twice as well.
I always said that a jazz band should be a single many-limbed gestalt entity, and whilst this may say more about an interest in SF than jazz, Pine's combo weren't quite gelling. Until about two thirds of the way in, that is: their reverb heavy take on "Redemption Song" was too sugary for my taste, but somehow its quiet intensity brought the band to a higher level. I think they realised it too, as immediately Pine burst with a renewed energy, stalking the stage, blowing some volatile and intelligent lines around an increasingly funky backline. The gig had been fine up till then, but suddenly it was joyous.
Rod Y Gab are huge now, but when I saw them I was one of about 20 people actually listening, the rest of the crowd were just yapping away; these same idiots are probably shelling out £25 for a chance to actually watch them now. People are stupid.
COURTNEY PINE/ RODRIGO Y GABRIELA, The Zodiac, 4/2/04
Rodrigo Y Gabriela came from Mexico, armed with two Spanish guitars. It's clearly pretty hard to amplify two acoustic guitars in The Zodiac, so their set was accompanied by chattering, belching and mobile phone bleeps. Those of us who actually wanted to hear the music ended up at the front, straining froward to hear everything...I seemed to be the only one scribbling things on a bit of paper though...
Anyway, the effort was repaid by the duo, who spent thirty minutes spinning intricate webs of what I'll arbitrarily call avant-flamenco. They played with great subtlety of touch, but were not always polite nor delicate: indeed, the music seemed to be an intriguing mixture of Metallica, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Rodriguez! Occasionally the writing felt rather episodic, as if we were watching two talented musicians doing exercises. Still, even then the emphasis was firmly on the "talented", and their Bream-meets-Satriani stylings were beguiling.
We're lucky enough to have some very able guitarists in this town, from Sedwards to Ulph to Ilett Jr., but it's refreshing to see acoustic playing of such wit and elegance. What we learned: 1) It's worth concentrating for music of this calibre. 2) "Smoke On The Water", "Take Five" and "Seven Nation Army" have more in common than we thought...
The band Courtney Pine led onstage was a much rootsier proposition than on his last few visits to Oxford; no sequencers, no DJ, no guest vocalists, just an old-fashioned backline. They weren't the most exciting rhythm section ever, but they earned their keep, especially the bassist. The drums were sadly marred by a terrible boxy sound, as if he were playing from a crate in Gene Krupa's basement.
Cameron Pierre's guitar spotlights were elegant, but wandered just the wrong side of the elevator door. Best supporting actor gong surely goes to Dennis Rollins on the trombone, boasting a lovely rubbery sound, tinged in equal parts by classic reggae and old-style music hall. Honestly. But what did Courtney sound like? Well, despite early solos feeling somewhat tacked together, he soon hit his stride, and whenever he picked up that keening soprano sax, he always seemd to play twice as well.
I always said that a jazz band should be a single many-limbed gestalt entity, and whilst this may say more about an interest in SF than jazz, Pine's combo weren't quite gelling. Until about two thirds of the way in, that is: their reverb heavy take on "Redemption Song" was too sugary for my taste, but somehow its quiet intensity brought the band to a higher level. I think they realised it too, as immediately Pine burst with a renewed energy, stalking the stage, blowing some volatile and intelligent lines around an increasingly funky backline. The gig had been fine up till then, but suddenly it was joyous.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Up, Russell & Out
This is a review I did for OHM with my chum Russell Barker (see link to the right). This kind of double-teamed review was the sort of wilfully unprofessional and unwieldy thing we used to do all the time at OHM, just because there were no rules. There was also no money and no mutual comprehension of the concept "deadline", but that's part of the fun of this kind of endeavour.
In retrospect I don't think this particular example of the dialogue review works very well, mostly because Russ and I have such different styles: he's far more considered and impartial, and tends to tell readers stuff like the names of songs, the instrumentation and what the music sounds like. You know, things they want to know. Fools.
The other thing to notice is how much better I am....let's see if he's bothered to read this!
PINEY GIR/ TRADEMARK/ DAVID K FRAMPTON, The Cellar, 21/10/03
DM: They can take my vocal FX unit when they pry it from my cold dead fingers, so I'm predisposed to like David K Frampton, even though this isn't a very successful set. Treated vocals float over little synth loops and cracking 808-type beats, and as such there are more handclaps from the drum machine than from the crowd - draw your own conclusions.
Such is their inherent theatricality, Trademark work better on larger, less intimate stages. And also because Oli is the clumsiest frontman in town, so the more space between his feet and the leads, the better. If you don't yet know, they produce mighty electro-cabaret about human frailty and elementary physics. Tonight's show is their normal labcoated synth-driven joypop, with the addition of a giant perspex plug and an elegant fairytale about destructive interference.
RB: It's true, Trademark's sound seems cramped by the low ceilinged venue. "Stay Professional" struggles to break free of its shackles but "Sine Love" is the sad beautiful tale it always is despite the constrictions imposed upon it. They climax with a new tune which starts out like a synth powered rocker before slipping back into the Trademark style we know and love.
DM: There are three words I promised I wouldn't write in this review. Two of them are "Elfin" and "Bjork", but since I've used them now, what the hell! Take one ex-Vic 20 vocalist, add some toy keyboards, melodica and sweet little songs and you get the general idea of Piney Gir. The sparse sound alternately evokes the ghost of Pram, and a coy, non-swearing Peaches. Somewhat twee for many, perhaps, but I'm happy. "Twee" was the third word, by the way.
RB: There was definitely something bewitching about Piney that overcame the tweeness. Silly little things like forgetting to plug in till halfway through the first song and announcing a song in bossanova style, then struggling to find the right switch on her keyboard. Her face lights up when the rhythm kicks in. She manages to find a suitable saccharine high level and pushes it to the limit without overloading us with sugar coated candyness. And anyone who ends their set with a slow gyrating version of "Let's Get Physical" gets my vote.
In retrospect I don't think this particular example of the dialogue review works very well, mostly because Russ and I have such different styles: he's far more considered and impartial, and tends to tell readers stuff like the names of songs, the instrumentation and what the music sounds like. You know, things they want to know. Fools.
The other thing to notice is how much better I am....let's see if he's bothered to read this!
PINEY GIR/ TRADEMARK/ DAVID K FRAMPTON, The Cellar, 21/10/03
DM: They can take my vocal FX unit when they pry it from my cold dead fingers, so I'm predisposed to like David K Frampton, even though this isn't a very successful set. Treated vocals float over little synth loops and cracking 808-type beats, and as such there are more handclaps from the drum machine than from the crowd - draw your own conclusions.
Such is their inherent theatricality, Trademark work better on larger, less intimate stages. And also because Oli is the clumsiest frontman in town, so the more space between his feet and the leads, the better. If you don't yet know, they produce mighty electro-cabaret about human frailty and elementary physics. Tonight's show is their normal labcoated synth-driven joypop, with the addition of a giant perspex plug and an elegant fairytale about destructive interference.
RB: It's true, Trademark's sound seems cramped by the low ceilinged venue. "Stay Professional" struggles to break free of its shackles but "Sine Love" is the sad beautiful tale it always is despite the constrictions imposed upon it. They climax with a new tune which starts out like a synth powered rocker before slipping back into the Trademark style we know and love.
DM: There are three words I promised I wouldn't write in this review. Two of them are "Elfin" and "Bjork", but since I've used them now, what the hell! Take one ex-Vic 20 vocalist, add some toy keyboards, melodica and sweet little songs and you get the general idea of Piney Gir. The sparse sound alternately evokes the ghost of Pram, and a coy, non-swearing Peaches. Somewhat twee for many, perhaps, but I'm happy. "Twee" was the third word, by the way.
RB: There was definitely something bewitching about Piney that overcame the tweeness. Silly little things like forgetting to plug in till halfway through the first song and announcing a song in bossanova style, then struggling to find the right switch on her keyboard. Her face lights up when the rhythm kicks in. She manages to find a suitable saccharine high level and pushes it to the limit without overloading us with sugar coated candyness. And anyone who ends their set with a slow gyrating version of "Let's Get Physical" gets my vote.
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
Old Kak
Klub Kak is one of my favourite promoters to review, because even if the acts are average, the organisors and customers tend to be pretty fascinating patchwork of oddity, so there's always something to write about! This is an old article from OHM, a long defunct, but rather good, music magazine
THE EPSTEIN/ TSUNAMI/ TWIZZ TWANGLE, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 3/9/04
Trying to write a critical evaluation of a Twizz Twangle gig is as awkward as jimmying a lock with a lime jelly, and about as useful: Dan Eisenhandler truly ploughs his own furrow, then rolls about in it, howling. Tonight he growls, yelps, parps on a trumpet, creates walls of feedback, crawls on the floor, and generally does whatever comes into his big bald head. His beleaguered backing band is left trying to hold things together, whilst Dan rips apart songs that were barely there in the first place.
Is it any good? No. Of course not. Are you insane? It's a load of old nonsense.
Did I enjoy it, and do I respect Twizz? Yes. Of course. Are you insane? How can one dislike such an unpredictable and joyfully chaotic show? Twizz Twangle is living proof that character and honesty are sometimes the most important things an artist can have. Though some tunes might be useful too, Dan...
After a twangling, Tsunami sound as tight as all hell! And that's fair enough, as they're a nice neat band, some slapdash guitar tuning notwithstanding. The vocalist is the lynchpin, with plenty of charisma and a high, vibrato-laden voice, but the whole bunch are decent performers. To be fair, the songs haven't exactly set up home in my head, though they're perfeclty good - think classic rock with a twist of 80s Bunnymen indie. Tsunami are a great support act; the test now is whether they can develop into something more memorable and move beyond that.
Can someone tell me why there's so much country music in Oxfordshire? Never could fathom that one. Anyway, The Epstein are comfortably top of the bunch (sorry, Goldrush), with a ton of lazy, shimmering songs, hung over rich syrupy vocals and generously coated with slide guitar: who needs authenticity when it sounds this good?
Anyway, by their standards tonight is a slightly messy affair, and the set doesn't quite hang together, but it's still a damned pleasant 45 minutes, with some beautiful melodies. Saddle up the hosses, boys, we're riding the whole herd to Didcot!
THE EPSTEIN/ TSUNAMI/ TWIZZ TWANGLE, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 3/9/04
Trying to write a critical evaluation of a Twizz Twangle gig is as awkward as jimmying a lock with a lime jelly, and about as useful: Dan Eisenhandler truly ploughs his own furrow, then rolls about in it, howling. Tonight he growls, yelps, parps on a trumpet, creates walls of feedback, crawls on the floor, and generally does whatever comes into his big bald head. His beleaguered backing band is left trying to hold things together, whilst Dan rips apart songs that were barely there in the first place.
Is it any good? No. Of course not. Are you insane? It's a load of old nonsense.
Did I enjoy it, and do I respect Twizz? Yes. Of course. Are you insane? How can one dislike such an unpredictable and joyfully chaotic show? Twizz Twangle is living proof that character and honesty are sometimes the most important things an artist can have. Though some tunes might be useful too, Dan...
After a twangling, Tsunami sound as tight as all hell! And that's fair enough, as they're a nice neat band, some slapdash guitar tuning notwithstanding. The vocalist is the lynchpin, with plenty of charisma and a high, vibrato-laden voice, but the whole bunch are decent performers. To be fair, the songs haven't exactly set up home in my head, though they're perfeclty good - think classic rock with a twist of 80s Bunnymen indie. Tsunami are a great support act; the test now is whether they can develop into something more memorable and move beyond that.
Can someone tell me why there's so much country music in Oxfordshire? Never could fathom that one. Anyway, The Epstein are comfortably top of the bunch (sorry, Goldrush), with a ton of lazy, shimmering songs, hung over rich syrupy vocals and generously coated with slide guitar: who needs authenticity when it sounds this good?
Anyway, by their standards tonight is a slightly messy affair, and the set doesn't quite hang together, but it's still a damned pleasant 45 minutes, with some beautiful melodies. Saddle up the hosses, boys, we're riding the whole herd to Didcot!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
