Here we go, part 2. Saturday at Truck. I'm going to eat a pizza soon, and I'm going to have it with spinach leaves and hummus, and just maybe a pint of beer. Then tomorrow I'm going to see the glorious Stornoway (it does mean I'll have to see the rubbish Dreaming Spires, whom I avoided at Truck), and Sunday I'm going to see the Vorticist show at the tate befopre it closes. I can't see why you'd want to knwo this, but I've told been told this site isn't strictly a blog, so I thought I'd add some meaningless eprsonal info. I'm currently wearing dark blue briefs.
Were we slightly critical of the gentrification of Truck’s catering earlier? Opinions change on Saturday morning when we find we can get a proper coffee and some orange juice a few feet from the tent, which balances out the burger we had for dinner. Chav for supper and middle class for breakfast, that’s our motto! What’s that? Lunch? No time for it, we’d rather visit the Butts ale stall, still the non-musical highlight of Truck. Great service, great beer and it costs £2.80 a pint. Two pounds bastard eighty! It’s akin to a miracle. We’re also told by parents that it would be worth our while to borrow a child just to experience Roustabout Theatre’s My Secret Garden, a weird mixture of improvised theatre and archaeology. Well, maybe not, but we do drop in on Nick Cope, who is entertaining some pre-schoolers with his chirpy activity songs. “Stand on one leg”, “Let’s pretend we’re moles”. Not so much later we find ourselves in the presence of Alphabet Backwards, whose music is really the same thing, for those slightly older. “Imagine you’ve just passed your driving test”, “Pretend you just got off with another sixth former”. Unashamedly perky pop, delivered with unashamed chops, it’s pity you don’t see this mix more often. A 21st century Squeeze.
The more spacious Truck layout has enticed us to spend more time away from the main stages, and we are very impressed with some of the Cabaret Clandestino bookings. Ex-Oxonian Face0meter delivers his wordy alt folk with some charm. The obvious reference point is Jeffrey Lewis, though we prefer to think of him as a cross between Richard Stillgoe and Jasper Carrott. Musically it’s beyond sloppy, but as entertainment it’s gold. Hyper-folk performer James Bell doesn’t have the gig of his life, but has energy enough to get away with it. Storyteller Paul Askew also stumbles a few times, but has material to hide the cracks, a long piece about taking a gaggle of words to the botanical gardens before kidnapping a pronoun reminding us of a punk Richard Brautigan; poet George Chopping eclipses him, though, with a perfectly balanced mixture of sweet natured observation and steel-melting bile. And yes, just so the cosmic balance is restored, there’s some absolute rubbish too: The Oxford Imps do fourth rate Whose Line Is It Anyway? guff whilst acting like a punchably upbeat genetically engineered Partridge Family. The festival programme has a typo of “improve” for “improv” – we couldn’t think of better advice for them. Oh, and Mark Niel is just skin-crawlingly awful. He laments the fact that his hometown of Milton Keynes is a bad comic’s punchline – funny, without that comment we’d have no idea he had any notion of what a punchline was.
The main stage bookings are strangely underwhelming in the afternoon, but Two Fingers Of Firewater add some spice to proceedings, their widescreen country rock and well-groomed boogie harking back to Truck history. They make the transition from Charlbury to Truck without losing any punch.
Blessing Force is brilliant: not only is a lot of the music very good, but what is not good is hilarious. In the Last.FM tent on Saturday, we enjoyed being alternately entertained by the music and entertained by the sheer hideous hipster spectacle of things. Sealings fell into the former category. In the past, we’ve been unconvinced by this noisy drum machine backed duo: they weren’t doing much wrong, but it was more a souvenir of good music, than good music in its own right. This time, however, everything fell into place, as the intensity rose from a Jesus & Mary Chain drone to a Swans-inspired squall. Solid Gold Dragons, on the other hand, were possibly the worst thing to happen to us over the weekend – and that includes getting nearly vomited on by a toddler. Their plastic, stadium pop with light reggae inflections might be just about acceptable if the vocals weren’t so clod-hoppingly oafish, even whilst they tried to plumb cosmic realms of imagery. Imagine Big Audio Dynamite on an off night fronted by Bernard Matthews. No, wait, sometimes the trumpet made it more like a tired James lead by Derek Nimmo taking the piss out of Morrissey. No, wait, can we please stop thinking about this, forever?
Showing posts with label Sealings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sealings. Show all posts
Friday, 2 September 2011
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Climate Of Punter
The majority of this review makes up about 50% of the Punt review in the latest Nightshift. In other news I saw Acid Mothers Temple on Sunday night, and I think I'm only just coming back to a normal serotonin level now. Truly outstanding psychedelia.
PUNT, Malmaison/ Purple Turtle/ Cellar/ Wheatsheaf/ Coco Royal, 12/5/10
Musically the Punt might be an eclectic mix, but it’s worth noting what a range of atmospheres the venues have too. In a few scant hours we’ll be swilling lagerpiss from a plastic skiff in the Cellar, but we start the night with cocktails in the plush, velvety Malmaison bar. And in refined environs we find a delicate and subtle artist. Helen Pearson’s light, airy songs are lovably idiosyncratic without falling into the anti-folk trap of self-conscious tricksiness. There’s a moment mid-set when the music becomes somewhat trite, but the gig is bookended beautifully by “Labrador Song”, essentially an Alan Bennett stage direction set to hazy guitar plucking, and a wonderful closer about boxers, which is so gorgeous we feel bad about slurping the last of our G & T through a straw…but at these prices we’re determined to get every single drop!
There are two elements to The Anydays. On one hand they are three middle-aged men trying to capture rock hedonism with skinny jeans, leather jackets and a Camden desperation (shades indoors is heinous enough, but shades in a basement? There ought to be a law), but luckily this is vastly overshadowed by the summery tunefulness of their songs. There are elements of 90s fuzz rock such as The Wannadies in the mix, but the real influence seems to be The Kinks – one song reminds us happily of “Sittin’ On My Sofa”. There are echoes of all your favourite good time rock songs floating about, from “Louie Louie” to “No Fun” but, like the Crabbie’s alcoholic ginger beer we discovered at the Purple Turtle, The Anydays are a new twist on classic flavours.
Message To Bears are even more hushed and controlled than last time we saw them. Their bucolic compositions swell and glide with great precision, and if their clockwork countryside feel marks them out as Mogwai for Young Conservatives, the set is astonishing, the twin violins adding a richness that draws us in from the outset. The vocals might be superfluous, but Message To Bears have quietly become our favourite act of the evening.
Waiting for Beard Of Zeuss to come on gives us a chance to investigate the Cellar’s recent mural, which turns out to be a crass mix of Keith Haring and Inca art. Almost makes The Jericho look acceptable. Then suddenly all thoughts of interior décor evaporate, as all our concentration is needed to deal with what feels like being kicked in the chest by a randy camel. Beard Of Zeuss are sludgy, greasy and definitely bad for you, and their uber-stoner thump is the sonic equivalent of injecting an all day breakfast directly into your left ventricle. New drummer Frank might not be the most intricate sticksman at the Punt, but every pummelling rhythm feels like a breezeblock cocktail. Down in one!
Having been forced to show our driving license to enter The PT the second time (not because we look young, but just to “see who’s coming in” – does this cock of a bouncer have a photographic memory for photographic ID or something?) it’s back to the Crabbie’s. The crowd is sadly sparse for Sealings, but then, so is the music. Bleak drum machine rock that recalls pre-cabaret goth is tempered with the odd fleck of grunge insouciance. Hang on, slacker nihilism, does that work? The music is a blast whatever, although we lose interest very slightly before the set shambles to a conclusion. Perhaps not quite the finished product, but a great start.
We catch a song and a half from Ute, and they sound wonderful, perhaps primarily because The Cellar’s engineer Jimmy Evil has made the drumkit sound like an 808. The opener makes excellent use of the effect, with an intricate percussive paean that reminds us of Spring Offensive’s excellent “Every Coin Must Be Swallowed” with lyrics by 90s Dylan (assuming Dylan knew what Mr Whippy was, which is doubtful), whilst the rousing second track is post-Radiohead in all the right ways. Clearly a band who are improving steadily.
If Beard Of Zeuss boiled metal’s flayed carcass to nothing and served us the greasy residue, Risen In Black are the pure distillation of thrash collected from the escaping vapour. The vocals might be slightly unconvincing, but the rest of the band is as tight as all hell and this sort of music will always be fun. Their defiantly unreconstituted metal sound reminds us of those throwback political parties who refuse to acknowledge the existence of New Labour or post-Thatcher Tories; you’re glad they exist, but you still wouldn’t vote for them.
Taste My Eyes, on the other hand, have an astonishing vocalist, screeching and growling like a velociraptor trapped in a rusty cement mixer. The riffs churn and bludgeon beneath him gloriously and we decide, if Punt is any indicator, that the city’s metal scene is as healthy and diverse as it was a decade or so ago.
After the seemingly endless walk (“Are we in Reading yet?”) we reach Coco Royal. We had our doubts about this as a Punt venue, what with it being out of the way and, essentially, a restaurant, but we find ourselves instantly relaxing in a room that looks like the Mos Eisley cantina remodelled for a Roxy Music video, and a fair few customers are listening intently to Welcome To Peepworld. At first we have their ultra-polite ditties pegged as Nothing, Nor The Girl, but we soon warm to Fi McFall’s sweetly expressive vocals – touches of Beth Gibbons at times – and by the end of the set we’re caught up in their melodic snares. They could probably do with a bigger PA to make the most of the subtleties, though.
Somehow, even with the leggings, bombast and glam guitars Barbare11a don’t make much impression tonight, but The Vicars Of Twiddly hit the spot perfectly, tossing cheap surf instrumentals out to the audience with a cheeky grin. Never mind the cassocks, the organ drenched music is addictive fun on its own, even if they aren’t the tidiest band on the bill, and if anyone tries to tell you this isn’t ten tons of fun, they’re talking papal bull. Of course, the other great thing about the Vicars is that they allow third rate music journalists to make terrible puns, so let’s just say Automatic For The Wimple! Nun more black…
PUNT, Malmaison/ Purple Turtle/ Cellar/ Wheatsheaf/ Coco Royal, 12/5/10
Musically the Punt might be an eclectic mix, but it’s worth noting what a range of atmospheres the venues have too. In a few scant hours we’ll be swilling lagerpiss from a plastic skiff in the Cellar, but we start the night with cocktails in the plush, velvety Malmaison bar. And in refined environs we find a delicate and subtle artist. Helen Pearson’s light, airy songs are lovably idiosyncratic without falling into the anti-folk trap of self-conscious tricksiness. There’s a moment mid-set when the music becomes somewhat trite, but the gig is bookended beautifully by “Labrador Song”, essentially an Alan Bennett stage direction set to hazy guitar plucking, and a wonderful closer about boxers, which is so gorgeous we feel bad about slurping the last of our G & T through a straw…but at these prices we’re determined to get every single drop!
There are two elements to The Anydays. On one hand they are three middle-aged men trying to capture rock hedonism with skinny jeans, leather jackets and a Camden desperation (shades indoors is heinous enough, but shades in a basement? There ought to be a law), but luckily this is vastly overshadowed by the summery tunefulness of their songs. There are elements of 90s fuzz rock such as The Wannadies in the mix, but the real influence seems to be The Kinks – one song reminds us happily of “Sittin’ On My Sofa”. There are echoes of all your favourite good time rock songs floating about, from “Louie Louie” to “No Fun” but, like the Crabbie’s alcoholic ginger beer we discovered at the Purple Turtle, The Anydays are a new twist on classic flavours.
Message To Bears are even more hushed and controlled than last time we saw them. Their bucolic compositions swell and glide with great precision, and if their clockwork countryside feel marks them out as Mogwai for Young Conservatives, the set is astonishing, the twin violins adding a richness that draws us in from the outset. The vocals might be superfluous, but Message To Bears have quietly become our favourite act of the evening.
Waiting for Beard Of Zeuss to come on gives us a chance to investigate the Cellar’s recent mural, which turns out to be a crass mix of Keith Haring and Inca art. Almost makes The Jericho look acceptable. Then suddenly all thoughts of interior décor evaporate, as all our concentration is needed to deal with what feels like being kicked in the chest by a randy camel. Beard Of Zeuss are sludgy, greasy and definitely bad for you, and their uber-stoner thump is the sonic equivalent of injecting an all day breakfast directly into your left ventricle. New drummer Frank might not be the most intricate sticksman at the Punt, but every pummelling rhythm feels like a breezeblock cocktail. Down in one!
Having been forced to show our driving license to enter The PT the second time (not because we look young, but just to “see who’s coming in” – does this cock of a bouncer have a photographic memory for photographic ID or something?) it’s back to the Crabbie’s. The crowd is sadly sparse for Sealings, but then, so is the music. Bleak drum machine rock that recalls pre-cabaret goth is tempered with the odd fleck of grunge insouciance. Hang on, slacker nihilism, does that work? The music is a blast whatever, although we lose interest very slightly before the set shambles to a conclusion. Perhaps not quite the finished product, but a great start.
We catch a song and a half from Ute, and they sound wonderful, perhaps primarily because The Cellar’s engineer Jimmy Evil has made the drumkit sound like an 808. The opener makes excellent use of the effect, with an intricate percussive paean that reminds us of Spring Offensive’s excellent “Every Coin Must Be Swallowed” with lyrics by 90s Dylan (assuming Dylan knew what Mr Whippy was, which is doubtful), whilst the rousing second track is post-Radiohead in all the right ways. Clearly a band who are improving steadily.
If Beard Of Zeuss boiled metal’s flayed carcass to nothing and served us the greasy residue, Risen In Black are the pure distillation of thrash collected from the escaping vapour. The vocals might be slightly unconvincing, but the rest of the band is as tight as all hell and this sort of music will always be fun. Their defiantly unreconstituted metal sound reminds us of those throwback political parties who refuse to acknowledge the existence of New Labour or post-Thatcher Tories; you’re glad they exist, but you still wouldn’t vote for them.
Taste My Eyes, on the other hand, have an astonishing vocalist, screeching and growling like a velociraptor trapped in a rusty cement mixer. The riffs churn and bludgeon beneath him gloriously and we decide, if Punt is any indicator, that the city’s metal scene is as healthy and diverse as it was a decade or so ago.
After the seemingly endless walk (“Are we in Reading yet?”) we reach Coco Royal. We had our doubts about this as a Punt venue, what with it being out of the way and, essentially, a restaurant, but we find ourselves instantly relaxing in a room that looks like the Mos Eisley cantina remodelled for a Roxy Music video, and a fair few customers are listening intently to Welcome To Peepworld. At first we have their ultra-polite ditties pegged as Nothing, Nor The Girl, but we soon warm to Fi McFall’s sweetly expressive vocals – touches of Beth Gibbons at times – and by the end of the set we’re caught up in their melodic snares. They could probably do with a bigger PA to make the most of the subtleties, though.
Somehow, even with the leggings, bombast and glam guitars Barbare11a don’t make much impression tonight, but The Vicars Of Twiddly hit the spot perfectly, tossing cheap surf instrumentals out to the audience with a cheeky grin. Never mind the cassocks, the organ drenched music is addictive fun on its own, even if they aren’t the tidiest band on the bill, and if anyone tries to tell you this isn’t ten tons of fun, they’re talking papal bull. Of course, the other great thing about the Vicars is that they allow third rate music journalists to make terrible puns, so let’s just say Automatic For The Wimple! Nun more black…
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