If you think this review is interesting, you may as well go and download the record. Free, innit?
V/A – SPIRES (download compilation)
For the most part, twenty-first century culture leaves us enraged or mordantly amused, provoking spittle-flecked rants that paint us as some unholy cross between David Mitchell and Travis Bickle. But, when Aaron Delgado from Phantom Theory decides to get some of his favourite local acts together for a free download compilation celebrating Oxford music you’d have to say that this is what the internet age is all about: the record is free, effortless, and was all round the world in the time it must have taken the curators of the old OXCD album to cost the cover art. And what’s more, it’s actually damned good too.
From the opening trio of tracks that could be subtitled “the riff in Oxford”, there’s a pleasing variety to the selections, and there are even a few eyebrow raisers for jaded Oxford cognoscenti – we were pleasantly surprised that The Winchell Riots could ease off the bombast with the affecting “My Young Arms”, and gratified that Spring Offensive’s sprawling epic “The First Of Many Dreams About Monsters” works in bijou edited segments. Also, Secret Rivals’ “It Would Be Colder Here Without You” is a lovely chirpy ditty with fluffy vocals which is like being on a bouncy castle made of cappuccino forth, and goes some way towards eradicating the effect of some woefully slipshod live sets. Every listener will have their own favourites, but our highspots are Alphabet Backwards’ “Collide”, whose dual vocals and tinny guitar sounds like two siblings singing along to their favourite pop song, recorded by holding a tape player up to Top Of The Pops, and “Filofax” by Coloureds, a stutterjack dance track which is like a fax machine raping a ZX Spectrum to the sound of Korean synth pop.
Only Vixens, with their clunking off-the-peg indie rock and stodgily portentous TK Maxx goth vocals, let the side down. “The Hearts, They Cannot Love”? Nor these ears, son. It’s also a pity that Dial F For Frankenstein’s demise means that the record is already one step away from being a scene sampler, but “Thought Police” is a decent valediction, like a Mudhoney dirge retooled for maximum amphetamine effect by The Only Ones. In some ways, the greatest tribute we could give Oxford music in 2011 is that we love this LP, but it’s not the compilation we’d put together, which only goes to show how many good musicians are currently working in the city. And if you don’t like it? Well, it’s the twenty-first century, there are lots and lots of other things you could be doing. Pity they’re all shit, really.
Showing posts with label Phantom Theory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Phantom Theory. Show all posts
Sunday, 30 January 2011
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Inside Truck
And here's Sunday from Truck. Nothing more to add, I feel wierd today & I'm going to lie down.
Truck, Hill Farm, Steventon, 2010 Sunday
The Holy Orders are almost beyond criticism, because they came all the way from Leeds and they’re playing at 10.30 in the morning in a Barn that has a forceful smell of bovine faeces that even the Bisto kids couldn’t convincingly pretend to like, when they’d probably like to be lolling on the grass like most of the Truckers. Luckily they aren’t half bad, melding Mudhoney’s rock slur with something altogether less acceptable that’s more like Wyld Stallyns. It’s all rough hewn and unrefined, but undoubtedly enjoyable, especially “Paper, Scissors, Stone”, which is a budget At The Drive-In blast.
Some people have complained that there aren’t enough slots for local musicians at Truck, which is odd, because it’s never claimed to be primarily a local festival. It’s like criticising Kind Hearts & Coronets for not having enough car chases. As it is we enjoy stumbling across the odd smattering of Oxfordshire acts, and Sunday continues with a hat trick of strong scenesters. Minor Coles impress with some spicy indie, and are followed by an excellent offering from Phantom Theory, who play a drum and guitar set that hasn’t got an ounce of fat on it, and who marry spotless arrangements with full tilt rocking to cut directly to even the most leaden Sunday morning brains, and who live in a world made entirely of RIFF. Like Truck alumni Winnebago Deal shaved and spruced for a job interview, Phantom Theory have clearly spent long hard hours honing their music, but waste no time in cracking it out onstage. Mosh and go.
But even they are eclipsed in the Beathive where The Keyboard Choir are making music hand built by robots. It’s a simple proposition: a bunch of synths, music that is pitched roughly between Klaus Schulze and Luke Slater, and a fifth column of dancers dressed in woefully poor android costumes. Not only is it musically one of the best things we see all weekend, but Seb Reynolds alternately doing a gangly newborn foal dance and trying to fix broken machinery is officially funnier than anything in the cabaret tent, ever.
After a quick trip to the Butt’s ale stall (great beer, no queues, Truck 7 prices – why go anywhere else?), we drop in on The Horizontal Instrument. There’s a fair amount of electronic music on today, and some people would say that it isn’t proper music. Well this is. And it’s properly awful. What we see is like Motley Crue with all the fun excised and surgically replaced by disco. Yes, that unpleasant. We only lasted two songs, so maybe it got better; maybe the end credits of Eldorado were a psychedelic funk explosion, but you can forgive us for never having found out. Sucked like an Electrolux.
We cock half an ear to Dead Jerichos as we pass, who seem to be today’s Shaodow, retaining local fans and winning over newcomers in equal measure, but the temperature in the Market Stage is about 4000 degrees, so we walk on by to the Beat Hive again. There’s also some “proper music paranoia” about Miaoux Miaoux. There he is plucking a guitar, playing Korg and programming in drum machine beats live. It’s decent electro, but it would be better if we didn’t have to watch each track being painstakingly put together. All very commendable, but it’s a bit like watching a glass blowing demonstration when all you want is a pint.
Sometimes we wonder at the logic of which acts play the main stage, as it’s so much bigger than any of the others, but with a band like Flowers Of Hell there must never have been any question. Their music is vast in scale, torrents of miserablist strings tumbling over humming guitars to form a whirlpool where Mogwai meets Morricone. They even do a Plastic People Of The Universe cover, which has got to be worth points. Every little helps.
At points all of Islet play drums, and yet theirs is not an aggressive sound – it’s more Stomp than Shit & Shine, and the music is built more on a cheeky bounce than a pummelling thud. With slinky basslines and plenty of barely controlled yelping the set comes off like Stump quirking out at Notting Hill Carnival, and is almost obscenely enjoyable. Highlights are a ritualistic dub number, in which the band chants and clatters over chubby Jah Wobble bass, and the almost poppy moments when they become a special needs Foals. Plenty of acts try to marry experimental showboating with a cohesive rock sound, but most fail; this is the real thing.
In the wake of Fuck Buttons there’s a new breed of leftfield musicians who aren’t afraid of offering tribute to simple, hedonistic musical pleasures. Take Masks, who may have the Vivian Girls t-shirt and Explosions In The Sky guitar hazes, but who also aren’t wary of throwing a huge 808 bass drum pulse behind one of their spidery numbers. In truth, the show is slightly hesitant, and the two guitar lineup can’t quite make enough noise to complement the backing tracks: they play a piece that’s supposed to sound like Godspeed, but it’s more like an old walk-on tape for Saxon. Near the end of the set things come together, and suddenly they make a sombre yet insistent post-goth groove that could soundtrack some hip torture dungeon. This isn’t just music, this is S & M music.
Dog Is Dead exist at the other end of the spectrum, completely unashamed about their away day pop with its sunny sax breaks and bleached funk guitars that put them equidistant between Pigbag and Vampire Weekend. We hate to admit it, but we rather like this uptight, grinning mess of Haircut 100 and Steely Dan, and find ourselves singing the line, “this is a zoo, could you not feed the animals?” all afternoon. Pop music: it’s not just there for the nasty things in life.
Truck, Hill Farm, Steventon, 2010 Sunday
The Holy Orders are almost beyond criticism, because they came all the way from Leeds and they’re playing at 10.30 in the morning in a Barn that has a forceful smell of bovine faeces that even the Bisto kids couldn’t convincingly pretend to like, when they’d probably like to be lolling on the grass like most of the Truckers. Luckily they aren’t half bad, melding Mudhoney’s rock slur with something altogether less acceptable that’s more like Wyld Stallyns. It’s all rough hewn and unrefined, but undoubtedly enjoyable, especially “Paper, Scissors, Stone”, which is a budget At The Drive-In blast.
Some people have complained that there aren’t enough slots for local musicians at Truck, which is odd, because it’s never claimed to be primarily a local festival. It’s like criticising Kind Hearts & Coronets for not having enough car chases. As it is we enjoy stumbling across the odd smattering of Oxfordshire acts, and Sunday continues with a hat trick of strong scenesters. Minor Coles impress with some spicy indie, and are followed by an excellent offering from Phantom Theory, who play a drum and guitar set that hasn’t got an ounce of fat on it, and who marry spotless arrangements with full tilt rocking to cut directly to even the most leaden Sunday morning brains, and who live in a world made entirely of RIFF. Like Truck alumni Winnebago Deal shaved and spruced for a job interview, Phantom Theory have clearly spent long hard hours honing their music, but waste no time in cracking it out onstage. Mosh and go.
But even they are eclipsed in the Beathive where The Keyboard Choir are making music hand built by robots. It’s a simple proposition: a bunch of synths, music that is pitched roughly between Klaus Schulze and Luke Slater, and a fifth column of dancers dressed in woefully poor android costumes. Not only is it musically one of the best things we see all weekend, but Seb Reynolds alternately doing a gangly newborn foal dance and trying to fix broken machinery is officially funnier than anything in the cabaret tent, ever.
After a quick trip to the Butt’s ale stall (great beer, no queues, Truck 7 prices – why go anywhere else?), we drop in on The Horizontal Instrument. There’s a fair amount of electronic music on today, and some people would say that it isn’t proper music. Well this is. And it’s properly awful. What we see is like Motley Crue with all the fun excised and surgically replaced by disco. Yes, that unpleasant. We only lasted two songs, so maybe it got better; maybe the end credits of Eldorado were a psychedelic funk explosion, but you can forgive us for never having found out. Sucked like an Electrolux.
We cock half an ear to Dead Jerichos as we pass, who seem to be today’s Shaodow, retaining local fans and winning over newcomers in equal measure, but the temperature in the Market Stage is about 4000 degrees, so we walk on by to the Beat Hive again. There’s also some “proper music paranoia” about Miaoux Miaoux. There he is plucking a guitar, playing Korg and programming in drum machine beats live. It’s decent electro, but it would be better if we didn’t have to watch each track being painstakingly put together. All very commendable, but it’s a bit like watching a glass blowing demonstration when all you want is a pint.
Sometimes we wonder at the logic of which acts play the main stage, as it’s so much bigger than any of the others, but with a band like Flowers Of Hell there must never have been any question. Their music is vast in scale, torrents of miserablist strings tumbling over humming guitars to form a whirlpool where Mogwai meets Morricone. They even do a Plastic People Of The Universe cover, which has got to be worth points. Every little helps.
At points all of Islet play drums, and yet theirs is not an aggressive sound – it’s more Stomp than Shit & Shine, and the music is built more on a cheeky bounce than a pummelling thud. With slinky basslines and plenty of barely controlled yelping the set comes off like Stump quirking out at Notting Hill Carnival, and is almost obscenely enjoyable. Highlights are a ritualistic dub number, in which the band chants and clatters over chubby Jah Wobble bass, and the almost poppy moments when they become a special needs Foals. Plenty of acts try to marry experimental showboating with a cohesive rock sound, but most fail; this is the real thing.
In the wake of Fuck Buttons there’s a new breed of leftfield musicians who aren’t afraid of offering tribute to simple, hedonistic musical pleasures. Take Masks, who may have the Vivian Girls t-shirt and Explosions In The Sky guitar hazes, but who also aren’t wary of throwing a huge 808 bass drum pulse behind one of their spidery numbers. In truth, the show is slightly hesitant, and the two guitar lineup can’t quite make enough noise to complement the backing tracks: they play a piece that’s supposed to sound like Godspeed, but it’s more like an old walk-on tape for Saxon. Near the end of the set things come together, and suddenly they make a sombre yet insistent post-goth groove that could soundtrack some hip torture dungeon. This isn’t just music, this is S & M music.
Dog Is Dead exist at the other end of the spectrum, completely unashamed about their away day pop with its sunny sax breaks and bleached funk guitars that put them equidistant between Pigbag and Vampire Weekend. We hate to admit it, but we rather like this uptight, grinning mess of Haircut 100 and Steely Dan, and find ourselves singing the line, “this is a zoo, could you not feed the animals?” all afternoon. Pop music: it’s not just there for the nasty things in life.
Friday, 28 May 2010
Ghost To Show
Most eye-grindingly annoying phrase for me this week: "The single got to number four in the top twenty". No it never, it got to number four in the top everything, what's the point of bringing twenty into it, you feebleton? It got to number 4 in the top whatever number you care to name that isn't one, two or three, right? Right! Prick.
Hope you're all well.
PHANTOM THEORY/ GUNNING FOR TAMAR – SPLIT SINGLE (A Mother Python Records)
There is probably nothing on this earth as indie as a split single. Not a plastic hairclip, not a hand-made fanzine, not a nursed pint of cider, not even an inability to deal with elementary social niceties. The split single talks of shared ideals in a hostile corporate world, it points towards impoverished yet dedicated artists sharing the financial burden of pressing, and it occasionally hints at musicians who are too ramshackle to even manage two tracks worth releasing.
But why release a split single now? Now, when the finances and mechanics of doing so are much less intimidating, when your one good song can, indeed, be released on its own for download without anyone feeling short-changed. Presumably it’s because two bands feel a deep affinity, so it’s odd when the links aren’t immediately obvious to the listener. Behind the gorgeous sleeve of this CD (an ink drawing of a Napoleonic horse’s head perched precariously above two street-sweeper’s carts) lurk two very different bands.
Phantom Theory is the tougher of the two, with a wiry awkwardness in the guitar lines and a heftily bludgeoned drumkit revelling in some neat Fall meets Sonic Youth bashing. “Trancedog” has one foot in the hasty garage maelstrom of early Jon Spencer and manages to give a paucity of lyrical content some sense of narrative with some dense dynamics. “Playground” is intermittently a little like Nirvana’s “Love Buzz”, albeit with the stabilisers just removed, and a feeling of defiant, wobbly chutzpah. These tracks are unlikely to demand the opening of a new wing of the Rock N Roll Hall Of Fame, but they may well soundtrack a fair few opened beers, which is good enough for us.
Gunning For Tamar are more self-conscious. Their titles are needlessly ornate and the playing has a straitlaced repressed fell that robs some of their potential power. There’s a yearning neo-emo feel to “The Organs. The Senses. The Muscles. The Memories” a little like a miniature Biffy Clyro, and a fast fading recollection of Intentions Of An Asteroid. It’s a decent track, but never really lifts off or feels as visceral as the title would imply. The superior “Norse Blood” lashes into a strange rockin’ canter – it’s like a cross between Iron Maiden and Billy Mahonie. Well, not really, but it is an intriguing little tune whose repetitions are half art twiddling and half dumbass mall rock. Either way, it’s not as desperately emotive as “The Organs…”, and we’d like to hear more.
It’s a strong release for two newish local acts, but, if you want to be old fashioned about it, Gunning For Tamar are definitely the B Side to this single. Of course, the truly indier-than-thou would always listen to the B Side at least as much as the A, eh?
Hope you're all well.
PHANTOM THEORY/ GUNNING FOR TAMAR – SPLIT SINGLE (A Mother Python Records)
There is probably nothing on this earth as indie as a split single. Not a plastic hairclip, not a hand-made fanzine, not a nursed pint of cider, not even an inability to deal with elementary social niceties. The split single talks of shared ideals in a hostile corporate world, it points towards impoverished yet dedicated artists sharing the financial burden of pressing, and it occasionally hints at musicians who are too ramshackle to even manage two tracks worth releasing.
But why release a split single now? Now, when the finances and mechanics of doing so are much less intimidating, when your one good song can, indeed, be released on its own for download without anyone feeling short-changed. Presumably it’s because two bands feel a deep affinity, so it’s odd when the links aren’t immediately obvious to the listener. Behind the gorgeous sleeve of this CD (an ink drawing of a Napoleonic horse’s head perched precariously above two street-sweeper’s carts) lurk two very different bands.
Phantom Theory is the tougher of the two, with a wiry awkwardness in the guitar lines and a heftily bludgeoned drumkit revelling in some neat Fall meets Sonic Youth bashing. “Trancedog” has one foot in the hasty garage maelstrom of early Jon Spencer and manages to give a paucity of lyrical content some sense of narrative with some dense dynamics. “Playground” is intermittently a little like Nirvana’s “Love Buzz”, albeit with the stabilisers just removed, and a feeling of defiant, wobbly chutzpah. These tracks are unlikely to demand the opening of a new wing of the Rock N Roll Hall Of Fame, but they may well soundtrack a fair few opened beers, which is good enough for us.
Gunning For Tamar are more self-conscious. Their titles are needlessly ornate and the playing has a straitlaced repressed fell that robs some of their potential power. There’s a yearning neo-emo feel to “The Organs. The Senses. The Muscles. The Memories” a little like a miniature Biffy Clyro, and a fast fading recollection of Intentions Of An Asteroid. It’s a decent track, but never really lifts off or feels as visceral as the title would imply. The superior “Norse Blood” lashes into a strange rockin’ canter – it’s like a cross between Iron Maiden and Billy Mahonie. Well, not really, but it is an intriguing little tune whose repetitions are half art twiddling and half dumbass mall rock. Either way, it’s not as desperately emotive as “The Organs…”, and we’d like to hear more.
It’s a strong release for two newish local acts, but, if you want to be old fashioned about it, Gunning For Tamar are definitely the B Side to this single. Of course, the truly indier-than-thou would always listen to the B Side at least as much as the A, eh?
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.
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