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…

Delegates' Sound Of Thunder

There is a barely forgivable number of puns in one paragraph of this review, but then, start a silly band and you get a silly review, silly.

THE DEPUTEES/ THE VICARS OF TWIDDLY/ THE HALCYONS – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 5/12/08

“Crisis? What crisis?” Despite a spate of small venue closures, and the recent ruling that all British journalism must contain the phrase “credit crunch” every hundred words, The Wheatsheaf is crammed before nine o’clock. Such is the power of Klub Kak, who effortlessly fill venues with a startling mixture of trendies and hairies, of preening youths and hoary old men, despite the fact their lineups look like they were worked out on the back of a beermat the night before. If you don’t love the Klub, you’ve either not experienced it, or you’re hollow inside.

he Halcyons play two sorts of tune, either ballsy torch songs smothered in fruity organ and vox humana keyboards as heard through a giant filter stamped “1987”, or excellent squelchy dance rock numbers, that could easily be the theme to some lost Logan’s Run spin off mini-series. It’s a hugely promising set, and our only criticism is that they can come off as a clinical take on day-glo hedonism, like the bands in the bar on Buffy; with a little polishing they could produce an insistent but spacious muso-pop eeriness, like the bands in the bar on Twin Peaks. But with more silly synth noises, natch.

As most enlightened sociologists and historians have observed, all the major movements in rock history can be reduced to the desire to dress up funny, which is where The Vicars Of Twiddly score highly, decked in a variety of elaborate Catholic vestments. They also rack up points for slapping out rocking swamp surf - if that’s not an aqueous paradox - somewhere between Dick Dale and The Cramps, which could soundtrack a lost ecclesiastical Tarantino flick (Pulpit Fiction, anyone?). Of course, every single riff and trick is shamelessly nicked, but no mater how many unoriginal sins The Vicars commit, they’re great fun, and why pontificate when we can dance like goons?

The Deputees struggle to follow the idiosyncratic supports, and their vivacious guitar pop sounds too straightforward, even when the co-opt a B-52s bounce. Sadly, the vocals let the team down too, alternating between a distended groan and the sound of Eddie Izzard’s “small yappy type dog”. This is a pity, as the songs themselves are well-turned and thoughtful, evinced by a Flying Burrito Bros cover, but tonight the quality compositions get lost in a slightly flaccid performance: it’s The Vicars Of Twiddly in reverse.