Mug Games

Pretty duff review this. I'm told that there was only one vocalist in The Process. Hmmm.

Also, clearly it's "dolls" closing in for Harry Angel, not "doors, I've realised. Obviously.



VARIOUS - FRESH FACES FOR THE MODERN AGE (Rivet Gun)

Local compilations are seemingly proliferating across Oxfordshire at an ever-increasing rate. With so many to choose from, the most pertinent question is how they should function: are they best designed as a random promotional snapshot of the county's musical landscape, or do they make a greater impression when constructed as a cohesive album? There's something to be said for both approaches, but it's a fact that those compilations that cast their net in the tightest arc are the most successful.

With that apparently in mind, Fresh Faces collects music solely from the forgotten realm of heavy rock, nestling somewhere between the extremes of metal's sonic assault and the abstract art-noise rock kingdom. The fact that all the acts are represeneted by at least two tracks adds to the impression that this album is a considered statement, not a ragabag snatch of pals. OK, so the CD is well put together, but is the music any good? Let's start at the bottom, then.

Their frankly embarrassing sleevenotes tell us that "journalists seem to think they are the poets", so just to avoid any confusing interjections from my starving muse, let's keep things simple: Verbal Kink aren't very good. True, the band have left behind the castoff grunge sounds of old for something a little more rhythmically intircate, but even at their best the compositions sound bolted together rather than well arranged. The true drawback is the vocals, however, which are petulantly adenoidal on "Tramazapan Alcohol Suntan" and a weedy scream on "Skeleton Dance".

The Process are the only band here to flirt with metal, and again they're let down by the vocals, if not quite so shockingly as Verbal Kink. They employ the nu-metal tag team of meldoic singer, with a tendency to drift towards rap phrasing, and impenetrable growly monster. Neither vocalist is that shoddy individually, but they just don't gel that well, especially on "Proud To Be", which is strong at either end, but flaccid in the middle, like an old hammock.

Phyal up the ante somewhat, but they're an illogical proposition, being a good band playing rubbish music. How do you judge a tight and exciting live band with a striking frontwoman whose every alternate song sounds like Lita Ford's "Kiss Me Dealdy"? Just shrug your shoulders, shake your hair and go along with it, I guess, and dumb anthem "Crude" (sample lyric: "dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty thing") would be the ideal soundtrack. Isn't there a little fourth former from 1987 in all of us somewhere?

Strike a light, guv'nor! Tim Lovegrove from Junkie Brush comes across as incredibly British amongst all the mid-Atlantic accents on this record. Not that we're mocking, as a natural singing voice is one of the things that make Junkie Brush a refreshingly honest, no nonsense band. Straight up, well played, head pummelling punk rock is always a pleasure, even if the recorded tracks lack their live bite, especially "Problem-Reaction-Solution". "Monkey Grinder" has more of a brooding quality, and the quieter delivery stops them from falling into a declamatory Sham 69 pothole and keeps interest levels raised.

The true heroes of this CD are Harry Angel. Ironically, they're probably the least rock of all the bands, yet they cast the most menacing shadow. Live favourite "Death Valley Of The Dolls" is an over-excited yelping little thing, borne up by sprightly snare heavy fills, and its sparse tale of red eyes, unanswered calls and doors closing in creates an atmopshere of suspicion. The much vaunted Pablo Honey influence is evident on "Striptease", where the falsetto elisions are a joy, deliberately edging up to each note like a film noir fink sidling out of a bar room brawl. Harry Angel have acheived what so many face-painted, snarling metallers miss: they are genuinely unnerving, and hugely entertaining.

It's unlikely that we'll see a better compilation of these sorts of bands emerging in the foreseeable future (until Fresh Faces Volume 2, of course), so if you have a taste for more concise song-based rock, we'd advise tracking down a copy.

A PAINFULLY POOR PIECE OF WRITING

Christ alive, this is a terrible review. I almost gave up whilst typing it up. How depressing. At least I'm better now than I was then.

The running "joke" is embarassing, frankly.

DIE PRETTY/ TARTFUEL/ VERBAL KINK/ DREAMLAB - The Wheatsheaf, 5/03

Hard to recall in these slick automated times, but electronic music was once closely allied to new wave, and synthpop was punk's natural (Oedipal) bedfellow. Watch Dreamlab play and the link is reforged in a whirl of buzzing Casios and yapping vocals.

One man, one minidisc and two keyboards are all that's needed to fuel this rhythmic tirade. To be honest, sometimes it's a bit of a mess, but what matters is that Rob from Dreamlab's performance is completely honest: he doesn't care whether anyone gets it, or whether he's cool (he's not), he just dives in and plays. And he plays some pretty chunky Numan/Foxx stompers, which can't be bad.

Verbal Kink rock along pleasantly enough, but their vocals let them down, and they aren't overburdened with ideas. It's diverting stuff but doesn't really stand up to close scrutiny. Of course, the simple solution is "Don't scrutinise, then", but, hey! I'm a critic. Scrutiny is my job. Not that it's my real job, you understand, but for the purposes of this...

Where was I? Oh, yes: Verbal Kink. Their bassist really should break a string more often, as the ensuing song was more spacious and better for it.

Worse then second rate singer are good singers who don't bother singing, but just shout all the time, and Tartfuel has one of those. Nowt wrong with shouting, of course, as Frank Black, Kurt Cobain, Mark E Smith and Captain Beefheart could testify, but it's a skill just like any other - most people just can't do it very well.

Beyond that Tartfuel are a much more confident and, presumably, experienced outfit than Verbal Kink, and their performance is so much the neater...which is a pity, because it wasn't as interesting. Does that sound patronising? But I'm a critic, patronising is my job. Not that it's my real...

Oh, yes: Tartfuel. Tame the singer, write a few new songs and wash your hair, then we'll see.

Die Pretty, on the other hand, have no homework to do. This, their farewell Oxford gig, is the essence of rock music: take some sweaty people in leather, and have them play visceral driving music. No, it's not very complex, but as the set continues the sequenced drums become more and more insistent, the volume keeps edging up another notch, and the singer gets increasingly animated, and the crowd responds. It really is an art form that lives in the exhilirating moment, and difficult nto describe, the effect is truly electric. But I'm a critic. Describing things is my...

Oh, yes: Die Pretty. A sleazy treat that will be sadly missed.