Box for a Pen

There wasn't a January Nightshift, so it seems like forever since I saw this gig.  Luckily, I wrote down what I thought in case I forgot.

PUNCHING SWANS/ SINEWS/ EB, Divine Schism, Library, 7/12/23 

Tonight’s line-up has changed, in more than one way. Having lost two acts from the planned bill, local artist EB has stepped in, but also, EB has metamorphosed something rotten. Gone are the wide-eyed, smiling, pastel beats of a track like ‘La Criox’, and in their place we have excoriating digi-goth noise and lyrics like “Even in death I will not rest”. Between bursts of sonic violence a recording informs us that we’re part of some huge consumer feedback survey which morphs into an evil experiment as the vocal descends from urbane corporate avatar to glitchy screaming imp, which is perturbing, but not as much as EB within spittle-spraying distance of the crowd, howling “you made me hate that song I wrote” repeatedly, like an out of control playground chant over backing that sounds like the devil’s fax playing up. By the time we get to the simulated breakdown and song exploring strangulation revenge fantasies, our memories are gloriously scarred by the experience. 

In other company, Sinews might seem oppressive, but after that psychodrama their neo-hardcore rumble seems positively welcoming even as our ears are left equally battered: imagine a heartfelt hug from someone with an abrasively scratchy sweater and you might capture the balance between friendly warmth and spiky intensity. Fugazi are the reference point that seems most apposite, not because Sinews sound like them, necessarily, but because their music is heavily roiling but with a true sense of beauty within the wasteland, and big, bold lines proving that music doesn’t have to sound like ‘Chelsea Dagger’ to be called anthemic. Tonight they’re launching new single ‘Pony Cure’ which has the thick, scuffed texture of bitumen and old underlay, over which the vocals rasp deliciously, whereas another new tune is a blasted disco trudge, with an excellently rubbery, resilient bass holding it all together. 

Kent’s Punching Swans round off the night with the most approachable set, which is not to say that they aren’t also excellent. Their obscenely tight lopsided rock recalls Mclusky...or perhaps, as the humour is less mordant and more winkingly satirical, we mean Future Of The Left – a line like “A lifetime’s supply of oxygen” leaps from the razor-chopped riffs like the absurd punchline to a gag you didn’t catch, and math-snark sideswipes at third-rate populist culture like ‘Family Misfortunes’, hit the bullseye squarely. The approach is one of cynical weariness, but the playing is supercharged and passionate. 

Gubernator Ramble

 I wrote a pub quiz last night.  It mentioned Mark E Smith and Fighting Fantasy.  None of yer longest rivers and FA cup winners shite for me.  Anyway, here's the last Ocelot waffle.

Technical musical ability is a wonderful thing. Mastery of an instrument gives an artist such a wide tonal palette, and allows a performer to translate inspiration into music reality instantaneously.  But whilst I welcome the maestros and the divas, and shake the virtuosi by their delicate tapered hands, I cannot abide Proper Musicians.  PMs think that the ability to play a flat generic blues riff outweighs coming up with anything new; PMs spend more time buying equipment than thinking of things to do with it; PMs imagine they’re the gatekeepers of musical acceptability and the esoteric order keeping a holy flame alive, when really they’re more like sonic carpet layers.  Same safe thing, every time.  Union rates apply.

Recently, I slumbered through some sub-Zep PM porridge, which shall remain nameless.  Later, Walt Frisbee took to the stage.  Half the audience started to go mental, because what they did was actually fun, whilst the other PM-friendly half left...presumably for the same reason.  Walt Frisbee don’t care if you find their partydown hip hop collages, sequenced Gameboy bleeps and one-gear live drumming is stupuid, or that they’re committing the cardinal PM crime of pre-recording stuff, because they’re too busy leaping round the venue like loons, enjoying the experience alongside the audience.  Dumbass, maybe.  Copyright infringing,  doubtless.  But fun?  Damn right.  Go see them; but if you suspect that 8-bit tapestries and borrowed rap verses will enrage your PM sensibilities, best have some soothing camomile tea and a Stevie Ray Vaughan LP ready for when you get home.

MAYORS OF MIYAZAGI/ PUNCHING SWANS/ MASIRO/ JUMPSTART THE JUNGLE, Sheaf, 16/8/13

Punching Swans are good at endings.  Does that sound snide?  It’s not meant to.  They have a knack of knowing precisely when enough of their tannoy-blaring repetitive pop scuzz is enough, never dragging a riff beyond its use-by date, and often stopping with precision just when you think the music is running hotfoot down a giddy hill of disco hi-hats, beyond control.   Their sound adds an elastic twang to thick, grungy ratchetting, like Duane Eddy pitching in with The Jesus Lizard, and if it can occasionally fall back on easy sloganeering yelps, the effect is powerful.

Earlier we saw the debut set from Jumpstart The Jungle, a bass and drums duo who transcend the clichés of the lineup, and at their best are deeply intriguing, playing heavily distorted chintzy basslines that repeat headlong like the music from some trigger-happy Megadrive game, and throwing big, simple vocal lines over the top, like bullet point summaries of full songs.  By the end of the set, however, they drift into meandering, wistful melodies that don’t suit the vocalist, and leave the drummer with little to do.

Promoters Masiro are next up, and whilst they might be  intricate math-rockers, they never forget how great it sounds when rock bands make a noise like machine guns.  No matter how complex their writing gets, they always bring the music back to the sound of heavy field artillery, which is fine by us.  There are odd melancholic guitar moments, that aren’t too far from Metheny territory, but soon pummel any poncy thoughts of false harmonics or modal declensions out of your mind with jackhammer intensity.  This may be math rock, but it’s likely to beat you round the face with Fermat’s last theorem and stick an abacus up your rectum.

Mayors Of Miyazagi have made friends in Oxford, and it’s easy to see the fit: they play sprightly Johnny Foreigner songs, with just enough twists to avoid begin called “indie chug”, and they have that blasted romantic vibe that seems to go down a treat in the town.  Trouble is, although the music is an enjoyably tuneful clatter, the vocals have a geeky chortling tone that drags the songs down: be honest, “we drank sunshine through the haze of your cigarette” is not a line that gets any more profound by sounding like it’s sung by Moss from The IT Crowd.  Sometimes, there’s a fizzing boy-girl exchange that reminds us of Secret Rivals but the Mayors don’t quite capture the sneering vitriol, although they’re a better act.  And yet, the set is enjoyable, the band are suffused with energy, and there are hooks enough to snare the ears.  Mayors Of Miyazagi are a decent little live band.  Does that sounds snide?  Well, you know…