I'm moving furniture tonight, no time to chat.
ARIEL PINK/ BELONG/ THE WARM/ DIVINE COILS – Vacuous Pop, Port Mahon 7/6/06
Whilst we confess to not being able to tell the difference between Divine Coils and The Holiday Stabbings, we’re very happy to be back in their company whoever they are. Tonight their drone-centred music is based on bowed cymbal and heavily treated guitar playing (which seems to be a throwback to their old Fencott Disaster hardcore days in terms of hair waggling if not sound), and it flows over us in one long reverberant wash. What’s interesting is how much variation they can find in their explorations: last time we saw them it was in a forest of sound, full of peaks and troughs, whereas this time they’ve opted for a single sticky wave of feedback inflected tones that lays heavy on the stifling air. It may have stumbled a couple of times, but this improvised set is a pleasure. Richard James once went surfing on sine waves; tonight Divine Coils are surfing on molasses.
With two buzzing keyboards and a sprightly rock drummer, it’s easy to dismiss Tokyo visitors The Warm as a simple distillation of a droning synth band, a sort of Divide N By (X). A couple of numbers in, however, and their cheeky tunes and Juno 60 rave arpeggios start to creep in, whilst the drumming increases in intensity, and it’s clear that The Warm have a lot of ideas simmering away. They’re at their best when they find a little space, where the vocalist stops shouting and drops into a clunky hip hop style to let the humming synths do the talking. Surprises might not be high on their agenda, but there’s more than enough passion, wit and flagrant use of Korg’s wibbliest buttons to make up for that. Highly recommended.
Belong take us back to the textural immersion of Divine Coils, if not so successfully. Leaking white noise from laptop and guitar, they might be compared to Fennesz...but only in the way that every rock band in Wantage could be compared to Black Sabbath. Of course, it’s all lovely in its way, and it’s hard to dislike huge swathes of warm granular noise in any situation, but, like the projected films of light reflecting on water, it all feels uninspired and a teensy bit trite. Belong’s music can engulf you like a warm bath, which is a nice way to spend 25 minutes, but who ever gave a bath a good review?
Ariel Pink appear to consist of a keyboard player, a (surprisingly decent) bassist, some sort of hideous Camp Cobain vocalist figure in a grotesque cardigan, and some backing tracks of breezy 80s AM pop. Well, that’s OK. Everyone likes breezy AM pop, don’t they? Well, not when it sounds like it’s played by tipsy bears wearing oven gloves, no. It’s hard to put into cold hard text just how badly this show fails, but unless you relish the thought of Tiffany castoffs played by Twizz Twangle’s deafened offspring you’d best steer clear. The live mixing element is potentially interesting, as parts of the song drop out unexpectedly whilst random noises are pushed to LED burning limits, but it really needs a better sound system to have any hope of working. The irony is that the songs, so far as we can tell, are pleasant (if featherlight) little toetappers but they’re so subsumed in wilful ineptitude, trying to pick out the compositions is like a tedious game of aural Where’s Wally. These are either spectacularly clumsy musicians or self-conscious experimenters who are trying too hard in all the wrong areas. Vacuous Pop, indeed...
Showing posts with label Vacuous Pop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vacuous Pop. Show all posts
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Saturday, 17 October 2009
Bleep Show
Last night I made two startling observations.
1) The first is about David Mitchell. Now, I have to tread carefully here, as his brother is a very close friend, although I've never met David. My rough take is that he's a wonderful performer, who's never found/written the right material. I've seen a few episodes of That Mitchell & Webb Look, and they were OK, somewhere between the worst of Fry & laurie & the best of Hale & Pace; I've seen a whole two episodes of Peep Show (I'm not really a TV person), and one was very funny whilst the other was really just an old sit com. Take away the swearing and marijuana and it could have been an episode of The Liver Birds or something. With southern accents. And men. Anyway, that's nothing to do with it, my observation is that Mitchell owes his fame, at least in a tiny part, to his amazing eyes. They're so huge and black. I don't mean that he has big, drug-happy pupils, I mean that his eyes are just vast dark balls, like he's been drawn in Japan. Manga face Mitchell, they could call him. Anyway, that's the crux of my observation, that David Mitchell has anime eyeballs.
2) Glory days Pet Shop Boys: Neil Tennant = C3PO, Chris Lowe = R2D2. Tell me I'm wrong.
This review is one of, I think, three that I submitted to BBC Oxford, but that they never used. Yes, that's how pat and generic it is. Enjoy!
CEX/BOVAFLUX/BETA PROPHECY - Remtek/Vacuous Pop, Cellar, 31/8/03
Question: Who the hell goes to a gig on a Sunday night?
Answer: You, if they're all as good as this one.
Remtek and Vacuous Pop have teamed up to bring a selection of cutting edge electronica to The Cellar over the coming weeks, and this is one fine way to start. We warm up with two laptop acts. The first of the two, Beta Prophecy, makes some lush and enveloping - though never overly comforting, let's get that straight - stretched of fuzzy sound, with the help of a guitarist. Oddly, even when the scrunchy beats kick in, it's still static (in both sense of the word). Strangely pleasing.
Bovaflux is more straight ahead, clicking breakbeats and sub-bass from his mouse; it's not unpleasant, but relies a little heavily on ravey tropes, albeit without the recombinant wit of, say, Squarepusher.
Ryan from Baltimore's Kid 606 associates Cex introduces himself in an unforgettable manner, bounding onto the floor in ridiculously heeled trainers, and flying round the crowd spitting out rhymes...aah, you never look bad with a radio mike!
He has the worst haircut of all time, ransom slashes making it look like he's had cranial surgery...maybe he has, but if so, those cortex stretches that deal with language were left well alone by the surgeon's blade, as he rips out what Mark E Smith called "undilutable slang truths".
The beats are more twisted hisses and scrapes athan drums, yet wierdly all the more pounding for it, and Ryan's vocal flow is effortlessly fluid; however, the best tune has sung vox and a more experimental backing, and asks how you can name a town that has been destroyed. I don't know whether this is a comment on "collateral damage", or some interior psychic collapse, but the effect is mesmerising.
In addition to all this we also learn some insights into the world of Cex, including the best description of ugliness ever: "He looks like he was on fire, and someone put him out with a wet chain". More like this please, Remtek. Superb.
1) The first is about David Mitchell. Now, I have to tread carefully here, as his brother is a very close friend, although I've never met David. My rough take is that he's a wonderful performer, who's never found/written the right material. I've seen a few episodes of That Mitchell & Webb Look, and they were OK, somewhere between the worst of Fry & laurie & the best of Hale & Pace; I've seen a whole two episodes of Peep Show (I'm not really a TV person), and one was very funny whilst the other was really just an old sit com. Take away the swearing and marijuana and it could have been an episode of The Liver Birds or something. With southern accents. And men. Anyway, that's nothing to do with it, my observation is that Mitchell owes his fame, at least in a tiny part, to his amazing eyes. They're so huge and black. I don't mean that he has big, drug-happy pupils, I mean that his eyes are just vast dark balls, like he's been drawn in Japan. Manga face Mitchell, they could call him. Anyway, that's the crux of my observation, that David Mitchell has anime eyeballs.
2) Glory days Pet Shop Boys: Neil Tennant = C3PO, Chris Lowe = R2D2. Tell me I'm wrong.
This review is one of, I think, three that I submitted to BBC Oxford, but that they never used. Yes, that's how pat and generic it is. Enjoy!
CEX/BOVAFLUX/BETA PROPHECY - Remtek/Vacuous Pop, Cellar, 31/8/03
Question: Who the hell goes to a gig on a Sunday night?
Answer: You, if they're all as good as this one.
Remtek and Vacuous Pop have teamed up to bring a selection of cutting edge electronica to The Cellar over the coming weeks, and this is one fine way to start. We warm up with two laptop acts. The first of the two, Beta Prophecy, makes some lush and enveloping - though never overly comforting, let's get that straight - stretched of fuzzy sound, with the help of a guitarist. Oddly, even when the scrunchy beats kick in, it's still static (in both sense of the word). Strangely pleasing.
Bovaflux is more straight ahead, clicking breakbeats and sub-bass from his mouse; it's not unpleasant, but relies a little heavily on ravey tropes, albeit without the recombinant wit of, say, Squarepusher.
Ryan from Baltimore's Kid 606 associates Cex introduces himself in an unforgettable manner, bounding onto the floor in ridiculously heeled trainers, and flying round the crowd spitting out rhymes...aah, you never look bad with a radio mike!
He has the worst haircut of all time, ransom slashes making it look like he's had cranial surgery...maybe he has, but if so, those cortex stretches that deal with language were left well alone by the surgeon's blade, as he rips out what Mark E Smith called "undilutable slang truths".
The beats are more twisted hisses and scrapes athan drums, yet wierdly all the more pounding for it, and Ryan's vocal flow is effortlessly fluid; however, the best tune has sung vox and a more experimental backing, and asks how you can name a town that has been destroyed. I don't know whether this is a comment on "collateral damage", or some interior psychic collapse, but the effect is mesmerising.
In addition to all this we also learn some insights into the world of Cex, including the best description of ugliness ever: "He looks like he was on fire, and someone put him out with a wet chain". More like this please, Remtek. Superb.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
By Any Other Name, Would Sound As Sweet
Bloody hell, this one's a bit long, isn't it? I guess that comes from describing fleetfooted experimental music made by musicians you can't see at all (the Port was tiny, you could fit about 70 people in there, and I was at the back). Anyway, there's a decent bit of writing stuck in here somewhere, underneath about 300 extra words, so do your own editing. Hey, interactive 21st century entertainment!
JACK ROSE/ CHRIS CORSANO/LAST OF THE REAL HARDMEN – Vacuous Pop, Port Mahon, 13/2/06
According to press, Last Of The Real Hardmen is the solo project of Chris Summerlin, guitarist from Oxfordbands favourites Lords, so why is there two people on stage? Are we to believe that the drummer is just hired help, working at the dictates of the guitarist? Seems unlikely, as the drums dominate this set for the most part, at least in terms of volume, scattering jittery beats all over some pleasant guitar figures and sounding like a bunch of moths trapped in a contact-miked paper lampshade. Anyone who saw the wonderful collision between Gary Smith and Shoji Haino in this venue last year might have an idea of what this music is about – hyper-active rhythms scuttling over guitar curlicues quivering on the edge of feedback – though this set was not quite so convincing. There was a wider palette in operation though, as crackling loops made beds for the guitar, oddly reminiscent of some of Bill Frisell’s work and at one point a metallophonic pitched percussion passage broke in, gloriously. If, like me, you fancy the sound of 5 tartrazined tots running amok in a gamelan, then you’d be very happy.
Most interesting in some ways was the final section, featuring yearning whalecry guitar lines and thudding repetition that seemed to be simultaneously eerily delicate and dumbly rockin’. No sleep till Twin Peaks! Perhaps this was the flaw of the admittedly impressive show: the best parts were the crescendos, as is the case in so much music, from abstract jazz to suburban metal. Still, even if the structure of the set was a touch predictable, the general effect could be quite spellbinding.
Speaking of structure, it occurs to me that free improv can often rely on dynamic techniques as hackneyed as the worst Stiltskin aping pseudo-grunge band, and I must have heard the hum-skitter-bash progression almost as many times as the quiet-loud-quiet trick. Improvising drummer Chris Corsano certainly doesn’t fall into that trap, turning in a set that keeps folding back on itself and changing direction on a sixpence. Initially he’s weaving a beguiling net of tones from scraped strings, but before you know it he’s bashing percussive phrases together like a slapdash carpenter and on occasion it sounds like he’s herding wayward beats like an exhausted sheepdog, barely managing to stay seated in his stool with the exertion.
“An intimate performance” is an overused phrase, and is often a euphemism to mean that a singer lacking vocal projection is playing a badly publicised gig. However, the sight of Corsano playing on the hoof so close to a wall of intent scrutineers is an inspiring one, that made me wish I’d made the effort to push to the front. Of course, had I been able to see everything I would have known that the penultimate piece probably wasn’t the sound of Corsano blowing a shawm into a hoover whilst rubbing a balloon, but that’s just what it sounded like. Anyone who thinks that drums solos are a chance to pop to the loo in mid-80s style stadium gigs should track this man down, then simply sit back and enjoy.
Pelt member Jack Rose rounded the evening off with a quiet, more sedate but no less intense affair, picking at his guitar in an intricate downhome upmountain manner. Many reference points jump to mind, but ultimately Rose is just a representative of a long tradition of Americana, and any names that I might bring up are just individual bubbles that have popped up from the long flowing river of US guitar music. If that sounds an overly Romantic notion, well, this is the sort of music to make one feel misty eyed and introspective. If you must have a reference point, Rose plays a very neat little John Fahey number, which produces an enormous cheer, and gives an indication of his style.
One fascinating element of this music is the lack of nostalgia on display. There are obvious touches of country blues in this music, but it’s unsentimental (which is not the same as unemotional) and doesn’t seem to be retreading a tired path like much of the urban blues that is the dominant strain nowadays. To put it another way, it’s very hard to imagine a B. B. King imitator holding so many people in rapt attention after two freeform sets, nor is it easy to envisage Oxford’s more experimental musicians (members of The Holiday Stabbings, Sunnyvale and The Thumb Quintet were in evidence, for example) finding so much to revel in at The Bully’s Monday Blues. Perhaps this is the definition of a living tradition, as opposed to a formulaic rehash.
Or perhaps Rose is just a very talented finger-pick guitarist, and I’m getting carried away. Any road, it’s a lovely way to spend half an hour, and it’s another victory for Vacuous Pop. It’s pleasing that VP has been voted best promoter two years running on this site, as many of their events probe the less well known areas of modern music...or in this case timeless music. That listeners recognise the work that goes into these gigs, and not only samples but warmly embraces them is one of the things that makes Oxford a pleasant musical environment. And if you want to see what makes it a less pleasant environment, just click a little further upscreen and pay a visit to the message board!
JACK ROSE/ CHRIS CORSANO/LAST OF THE REAL HARDMEN – Vacuous Pop, Port Mahon, 13/2/06
According to press, Last Of The Real Hardmen is the solo project of Chris Summerlin, guitarist from Oxfordbands favourites Lords, so why is there two people on stage? Are we to believe that the drummer is just hired help, working at the dictates of the guitarist? Seems unlikely, as the drums dominate this set for the most part, at least in terms of volume, scattering jittery beats all over some pleasant guitar figures and sounding like a bunch of moths trapped in a contact-miked paper lampshade. Anyone who saw the wonderful collision between Gary Smith and Shoji Haino in this venue last year might have an idea of what this music is about – hyper-active rhythms scuttling over guitar curlicues quivering on the edge of feedback – though this set was not quite so convincing. There was a wider palette in operation though, as crackling loops made beds for the guitar, oddly reminiscent of some of Bill Frisell’s work and at one point a metallophonic pitched percussion passage broke in, gloriously. If, like me, you fancy the sound of 5 tartrazined tots running amok in a gamelan, then you’d be very happy.
Most interesting in some ways was the final section, featuring yearning whalecry guitar lines and thudding repetition that seemed to be simultaneously eerily delicate and dumbly rockin’. No sleep till Twin Peaks! Perhaps this was the flaw of the admittedly impressive show: the best parts were the crescendos, as is the case in so much music, from abstract jazz to suburban metal. Still, even if the structure of the set was a touch predictable, the general effect could be quite spellbinding.
Speaking of structure, it occurs to me that free improv can often rely on dynamic techniques as hackneyed as the worst Stiltskin aping pseudo-grunge band, and I must have heard the hum-skitter-bash progression almost as many times as the quiet-loud-quiet trick. Improvising drummer Chris Corsano certainly doesn’t fall into that trap, turning in a set that keeps folding back on itself and changing direction on a sixpence. Initially he’s weaving a beguiling net of tones from scraped strings, but before you know it he’s bashing percussive phrases together like a slapdash carpenter and on occasion it sounds like he’s herding wayward beats like an exhausted sheepdog, barely managing to stay seated in his stool with the exertion.
“An intimate performance” is an overused phrase, and is often a euphemism to mean that a singer lacking vocal projection is playing a badly publicised gig. However, the sight of Corsano playing on the hoof so close to a wall of intent scrutineers is an inspiring one, that made me wish I’d made the effort to push to the front. Of course, had I been able to see everything I would have known that the penultimate piece probably wasn’t the sound of Corsano blowing a shawm into a hoover whilst rubbing a balloon, but that’s just what it sounded like. Anyone who thinks that drums solos are a chance to pop to the loo in mid-80s style stadium gigs should track this man down, then simply sit back and enjoy.
Pelt member Jack Rose rounded the evening off with a quiet, more sedate but no less intense affair, picking at his guitar in an intricate downhome upmountain manner. Many reference points jump to mind, but ultimately Rose is just a representative of a long tradition of Americana, and any names that I might bring up are just individual bubbles that have popped up from the long flowing river of US guitar music. If that sounds an overly Romantic notion, well, this is the sort of music to make one feel misty eyed and introspective. If you must have a reference point, Rose plays a very neat little John Fahey number, which produces an enormous cheer, and gives an indication of his style.
One fascinating element of this music is the lack of nostalgia on display. There are obvious touches of country blues in this music, but it’s unsentimental (which is not the same as unemotional) and doesn’t seem to be retreading a tired path like much of the urban blues that is the dominant strain nowadays. To put it another way, it’s very hard to imagine a B. B. King imitator holding so many people in rapt attention after two freeform sets, nor is it easy to envisage Oxford’s more experimental musicians (members of The Holiday Stabbings, Sunnyvale and The Thumb Quintet were in evidence, for example) finding so much to revel in at The Bully’s Monday Blues. Perhaps this is the definition of a living tradition, as opposed to a formulaic rehash.
Or perhaps Rose is just a very talented finger-pick guitarist, and I’m getting carried away. Any road, it’s a lovely way to spend half an hour, and it’s another victory for Vacuous Pop. It’s pleasing that VP has been voted best promoter two years running on this site, as many of their events probe the less well known areas of modern music...or in this case timeless music. That listeners recognise the work that goes into these gigs, and not only samples but warmly embraces them is one of the things that makes Oxford a pleasant musical environment. And if you want to see what makes it a less pleasant environment, just click a little further upscreen and pay a visit to the message board!
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