Welcome Bakkie

Christmas is like sport.  I understand why people like it, but not why they like it THAT MUCH.

UTE/ LUCY LEAVE/ SLATE HEARTS, Idiot King, Cellar, 16/12/16

Sometimes, a band and a venue just click together.  We’ve seen Slate Hearts a number of times in 2016, but the two most immersive experiences are here at the Cellar, their dense slabs of grunge just seem to fit the low, oppressive room (and the engineer – we can’t see but imagine that Jimmy Evil, the resident Lord Fader, is nodding approvingly throughout).  With lackadaisical inter-song mumbling, the band gives the impression of being slapdash stoners, and two-thirds of them dress as if they spend their downtime wrastlin’ swine for nickels, but there’s proper pop nous evident in the songwriting.  Slate Hearts are a sonic Richard Serra sculpture: huge, monumental and weighty, but rather less rough-hewn than they at first appear.

Lucy Leave gigs are always exciting.  The band builds songs from snatches of vintage pop styles (psychedelia, garage, even reggae) and melodic micro-mantras, leaving plenty of room for improvisation, but without slipping into the clunky slide carousel of solos that the majority of jazz and psych falls back on.  It’s as if the band is waiting to see what will lift each song to ecstatic heights – a sudden clattering drum fill, a tickly “Eight Miles High” guitar scribble, an ultra-rubato vocal stretch.  This means that some tracks, and occasionally whole gigs, can go by without catching fire, but also means that moments of glory surprise every time.  Tonight it’s “40 Years”, kicking us down a Teardrop Explodes mudslide towards a krautrock skinny dip.

Ignoring a little acoustic session, Ute haven’t played a gig in Oxford for five years, and they still sound like Radiohead’s less bombastic songs dusted with hi-life and calypso guitar, whilst the drums stutter out an inventive dessicated funk and a proper fat rock bass knocks on the back door.  If the vocals perhaps sound over-squeezed, like they’re the last smear of toothpaste in the tube, Ute knock us sideways like never before.  Perhaps it’s the crammed room, the boozy Bakhtinian carnival atmosphere and the hilarious raffle that precedes the set that reduces us to grinning putty, but when the band run offstage during “An Innocent Tailor” and the crowd howls like pissed-up police sirens and a man in a medieval bascinet takes their place with a glitter cannon, we don’t know what’s going on any more, except that it’s good.  It’s very good.

Chat Lines

Today's entry is dedicated to Oxford music photographer Johnny Moto. Not that he's dead. Or, I guess he might be, he doesn't check in with me every hour, so how would I know? God, I hope he's OK. No, hang on, let's assume he is.

Anyway, Mr Moto gave me a pen when I was writing my first review of this year and the venue was so damned cold the ink froze solid in my ballpoint. I never gave it back. Anyway, whilst writing this review I dropped said pen and said Johnny trod on it. He was so apologetic he bought me two new pens! So, now I'm in his debt to the tune of three pens (and each pen rather niftily had four differently coloured nibs, so perhaps it's more like twelve pens - although they were short pens, so let's call it six on aggregate). Still, he's dead now, so I suppose I'm off the hook...


CATS IN PARIS/ UTE/ COLOUREDS, Pindrop, Cellar, 16/9/10

The surprising thing about electro duo Coloureds – aside from the hand-crafted face masks that make them look like Ray Harryhausen’s Michael Myers maquettes – is how much contemporary club music seeps through their distorted, jittery IDM. Just as Funkstorung a decade ago took hip hop rhythms and twisted them into Wire pleasing glitchfests, so Coloureds seem to have taken garage and funky as their base metals, to be experimented upon ruthlessly. The music is all about texture, and there isn’t much in the way of theme or melody (although the odd arpeggio recalls Orbital, and a scuzzy three note organ breakdown sounds as though Philip Glass tried to create one of his scores on an Etch-a-sketch), but the rhythmic intensities, the subtle twists and the theatrical performance make this set musically captivating as well as pummellingly excoriating.

We’ve vacillated in our opinion of local trio Ute, and tonight we find ourselves doing so mid-set. The first half is all keening vocal lines and twitchy semi-acoustic rock, and it’s fine, but apart from the excellently regimental drumming, doesn’t truly excite us: at its best it’s Radiohead enveloping Robert Wyatt, but at its worst it sounds like a generic copy of any lightly groovy artrockers (and does the refrain “Psycho killer” suggest anyone, hmmm?). But then, suddenly they win us over again, with loud and well thought out rock songs, one boasting a bass that impersonates a truck burping, and one which is a manic grunge thrash, like a skiffle Mudhoney. Most importantly, the vocals switch from annoying self-conscious wheedle, to an effective growl that drops into unexpected valleys of delicate harmonising. If this gig were a football match, you’d assume the half time talk had been ruthlessly galvanising.

Manchester’s Cats In Paris also rise in our estimations, but this is probably because it took us two songs to calibrate ourselves. What does one make of their maximalist maelstroms, where jazz funk bass meets keyboards from a budget ELP and vocals from a literary EMF? But, once the fluent violin came in, the power of the rhythm section became apparent, and the joyful refrain “This is modern British cooking” had invaded our mind, we decided their Zappa child grab bag of pop oddity was something to be cherished, and in retrospect the fact that opener “Chopchopchopchopchop” sounded like a mixture between “O Superman”, the theme from Let’s Pretend and Flaming Lips made perfect sense. They didn’t fulfil the promoter’s description of their sound as “electro spazz swing”. They surpassed it.

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…

Reverse Spam

Audioscope is an annual chairty all-dayer of leftfield music, and I'm an enormous admirer, the events are always fun. Peppers Burgers is in Jericho, Oxford, and also gets my seal of approval. There you go, a day out constructed for autumn 2010 - you never know, you might even get to meet me if you do it...

AUDIOSCOPE – Jericho, 17/10/09


Audioscope’s reputation as an austere day of difficult music is smashed in seconds by Bitches, who may have had a liquid lunch. Their music has rock riffs and punk noise, but exhibits an eerie lack of propulsion, feeling excellently like a drunken Fluxus take on an early Sebadoh rehearsal. Cats & Cats & Cats charmingly announce that they hope to get their single into “the indie charts” which makes us feel at least ten years younger. They play a pleasant set of contempo-folk introspection, which is rather spoilt by unsuccessful leaps into grandiloquent climaxes, turning them into Arcade Embers. Talons turn out to be much better at the Godspeed crescendos and have two excellent violinists, but could do with some of Cats’ songs to retain interest. Call it a draw.

Worcester’s Theo loops tricksy Don Caballero guitar licks and accompanies himself fluently on drums, and this Billy Nomates Mahonie turns out to be our set of the day. He has some trouble with guitar leads and drum pedals, but we cynically wonder whether he fiddles with them deliberately to hide the fact he hasn’t quite worked out how to end his songs.

Ute have come leagues since we saw them in January, mixing rousing folk songs that wouldn’t be out of place during the miner’s strike with tremulous indie delicacy, before unexpectedly flipping out and going all Shellac unplugged. Occasional Thom Yorke vocal moments are less satisfying, but the set is a winner. Audioscope favourites Bilge Pump proffer the closest thing to sonic extremity on this year’s bill, with their well- honed take on post-McClusky artcore, and it’s fine but Bronnt Industries Kapital is far more exciting. He opens with what may as well have been an excerpt from Blade Runner, synching faultlessly with the video projections, that are like being overtaken on the autobahn by Petronus charms. He keeps up the Vangelist approach for some excellently sleek mid-80s synth romps, headbutting the keyboard to inject some John Foxx drama. The Ferris Bueller shades are a step too far, however.

We get a brief palate cleanser before the headliners, as Glasgow’s Remember Remember folds looped glockenspiel and melodica motifs in on themselves like Fuck Buttons lost in Toytown, which sets us up nicely for the disappointment of The Longcut. There’s nothing hugely wrong with mixing New Order with Doves and throwing a bit of NY funk over the top, but it seems that every third band in 2009 sounded exactly like this. The Longcut still don’t upset us too much until something sounding like Editors playing “I Feel Love” drives us to the bar.

We ask the organisors why they don’t have anyone famous on this year’s bill, like Kid 606, Clinic or a krautrock legend, to be told that Mercury nominees Maps are better known in the real world than those other acts put together. It comes as no surprise that we lost our grip on the public’s taste years ago, but it is eyebrow raising that they’ve gone for something that sounds so much like The Beloved. That is, when they don’t sound like Crystal Castles played by Candy Flip. Nothing revolutionary here, then, but Maps play a warm and unhurried set of comedown electropop that makes us wish we were watching at four am in a room made entirely from pillows and Gummi Bears, until we’re absolute converts. We were all set to bemoan the lack of a Shit & Shine, Parts & Labour or Datapanik epiphany, until we realised that the least adventurous Audioscope lineup had perhaps become the most consistent, and good music’s what matters ultimately, not its obscurity. That and the £1700 raised for Shelter, and an excuse to subsist on beer and Pepper’s burgers for a day.