Bueller Shaker

 There are a few extra lines in this review than appeared in the magazine.  Editors gon' edit.

BIG DAY OUT, BIG SCARY MONSTERS, Florence Park Community Centre, 15/4/23

As the delightfully bonkers, chaotic scurf rockers DITZ point out during today’s final set, the Florence Park Community Centre is not unlike a scout hut. One can’t be too precious in a somewhat over-lit suburban room lined with stacks of chairs and darts trophies, and performers and punters leave their egos at the door for this excellent all-dayer, to create a welcoming atmosphere with a pleasingly high musical bar. Things start tunefully, with Cheerbleederz’ cheeky jangle punk, while SUDS are the sort of band who bring their own tape hiss and seven-inch crackle, coming off like Madder Rose without the Velvety drug outlook and Yo La Tengo at their sweetest. Soot Sprite don’t quite hit the same melodic high, but still give us some Mazzy Star fuzziness and soothe our Cocteau twinge.

A few solo acts play in a tiny side room (if this is a scout hut, the second stage is where they store the old tents and Akela’s secret medicinal brandy) the best of which is Oxford’s EB, whose magic realist pseudo-rap is like an alternate reality inversion of The Streets, with a statistical love song coming off like an electro Jeffrey Lewis. “I put some feedback into this intro to annoy sound engineers” she grins, which tells you all you need to know. The incredible liquid steel of Pet Sematary’s voice is also a joy, and when Gaby starts singing a small shrubbery of recording phones spring up round the room.

Neo-emo might be a strange concept – it’s certainly a silly looking word – but Spank Hair wear the badge proudly, turning in a strong sinewy set, whilst also considering which is better, a horse or a donkey: as a pacifist Harry Hill might observe, there’s only one way to find out...pontificate at length whilst tuning. Jack Goldstein is as impressively maximalist as ever, cramming an improbable number of songs into a single segued ultra-minstrel set. As Jack crawls round the floor with water dripping from his clothes we don’t know whether he’s a hyperpop prophet or Margate’s most abstract floor polisher, but we approve.

As the evening darkens and the bar runs dry, the more raucous bands bring us home. Playful punks Lambrini Girls prove that, if you’ve got something important to say, say it incredibly loud, but temper it with a bit of humour (and if you can offer your listeners a wee drink whilst you rant, that helps too). Heroes of the day, however, are Other Half. One definition of a great new band is one that reminds you of lots of excellent acts, whilst not really sounding like any of them. Comparing notes with audience members post-set The Jesus Lizard, At The Drive In, Fugazi, Part Chimp, and Mcluskey are bandied about, but none of these capture the cheery insouciance of the twin vocals nor the 70s rock maelstrom behind the drums. Seek them out. If today’s event was an avant-scout jamboree, excuse us, as we’re off to sew on our new badges for Beer Tasting, Feminist Discourse and Incipient Tinnitus.

Drinka Pinta Milk Affray

I'm listening to brass band music.  Why aren't you?

Happy Christmas, etc.

FIGHTMILK/ SUGGESTED FRIENDS/ PET SEMATARY, All Tamara’s Parties, 6/12/18

Although, if she ever gets the success she deserves, it will doubtless be with a full band in tow, we always enjoy Gaby-Elise Monaghan most in a stripped back format, such as her Pet Sematary project.  Tonight she is joined by a guitarist who bolsters her bewitching bluesghoul wails with picked notes enshrouded in misty reverb, or sheets of disquieting ambient noise, creating textures that recall Daniel Lanois or Angelo Badalamenti, but it’s the voice that commands your attention, sometimes frail and intimate, like Jeff Buckley without one eye constantly on the mirror, and sometimes sweeping epically on tumescent waves of sweet bleakness. 

Suggested Friends prove that, when it comes to pop music, a tight, sprightly band will always win out over mere good taste.  They bombard us with a string of buzzing punked up versions of songs that would fit neatly into some hideous drive time AM radio show, in which Split Enz rub shoulderpads with late 80s Fleetwood Mac, and Counting Crows lend some safely grizzled guitar licks to the bombast of post-reggae Police.  But, as if to prove that the magic comes from the chef not the recipe, they play with such wonderfully taut abandon – especially the drummer, who just looks ecstatic to be alive and allowed to it stuff - it is impossible not to find the whole experience intoxicating.  New song “Turtle Taxi” was written two days ago, and rehearsed once, but sounds like the band have been playing it all their lives.  It also sounds like Men At Work.  Glorious.  And slightly awful.  But mostly glorious.

We’re not often fond of the term frontperson, as most bands are a collaborative effort, and the one with the mic is no more important than the one with the sticks, but sometimes you see an act where the singer is so mesmerising, you couldn’t pick the rest of the musicians out of a police line-up ten minutes after the gig.  Lily from Fightmilk is just such a performer, a fizzing bomb of guitar-wrangling and yelping, her slightly prissy indie outfit making us think of a grown up version of Hermione Granger, or Rebecca and Enid from Ghost World, or perhaps even Wednesday Addams, mixing fearsome intelligence with astringent superciliousness, dishing out lyrical putdowns to ex-partners like a laconic teacher (and her request for those who want an LP to “see me afterwards” is just too perfect). Musically it’s all decent enough, a melange of the less theatrical end of the Britpop spectrum and Johnny Foreigner’s playground scrap pop, and although we’re hard pressed to recall much about the songs, we know we’ve witnessed the sort of unforced star quality that can only truly be experienced in a small live music venue.