Bank Data

The review of this year's Riverside is up at MIO. No arguments yet, but it's early days. Course, I like people moaning about my reviews, because it proves they're being read...yes, even idiots who don't understand what a review is are welcome to join the fun.

I did want to post the first paragraph and put the rest up 24 hours later, but the editor wasn't up for me fighting my petty battles on the front of his website. Pah.

I'll stick Sunday up in a day or two.



RIVERSIDE FESTIVAL, CHARLBURY, 18-9/6/11


Riverside was brilliant because it was free and everyone had a good time and all the musicians were great and it was brilliant.










Right, is the coast clear, have they gone? You know, those people who can’t tell the difference between a review and a press release? That lot who don’t quite grasp that the best compliment you can pay a musician is actually to listen to them? The gaggle who do one of the absolute highlights of Oxfordshire’s music calendar a disservice by getting upset if someone dares admit that one of the performers was, perhaps, not that great?

Good, then we level headed people can get on with talking about the Charlbury Riverside festival 2011, always a beautifully run, welcoming event, and one that we organise our summer around because we’d hate to ever miss it. In some ways, it doesn’t spoil the event if the music is duff at Riverside but we must admit, this year the lineup was, pound for pound, the strongest it’s been for quite some years. And starting with Peerless Pirates certainly couldn’t dampen anybody’s spirits, even as the first of many showers blew across the festival. They play classic indie welded onto rugged, shanty-style basslines that justify the band’s name: think The Wedding Present with arrangements by Guybrush Threepwood. Not always painfully original – you don’t have to be Scott Bakula to make the quantum leap from their opening tune to “This Charming Man” – but they offer friendly, jolly music that inaugurates the festival almost as well as the near visible battle in compere Lee Christian not to say naughty words on the mike.

This year’s lineup on the second stage is definitely the strongest and most intriguing since the Beard Museum left the helm, and our first visit rewards us with one of the sets of the weekend. Last time we saw STEM, it was all acoustic guitars and bongos and it couldn’t have been more worthily earthy if the PA were powered by a tofu wind turbine. Now they’ve returned to their Neustar roots to give us fat, brooding trip hop in the vein of Portishead and Lamb. Emma Higgins has a richly soulful but mysteriously intimate voice, like Grace Jones whispering secrets in your ear over port and cigars, and John West’s electronics envelop her with dark wings of autumnal sound, that's often only a breakbeat away from early Moving Shadow material. Perhaps a tad too in thrall to their mid-90s influences, this is still a band that is worth investigating as soon as possible.

We cock a quick ear in the direction of Mundane Sands, whose expansive folk rock is played with relish and personality, before visiting the charmingly odd man selling the coffees. You want a tasty Americano and a string of confounding non-sequiturs, you won’t get a better option anywhere in England. Last year we began to wonder whether he was some sort of live theatre installation, so unexpected were his utterances. You wouldn’t get that at your corporate energy drink sponsored mega-fests, eh?

They ought to show videos of Samuel Zasada before every acoustic night and open mike session in the county, with a subtitle reading “This is what you’re aiming for; if all you’ve got are miserable sub-Blunt moans, go home and try again. Thank you”. There have been alterations and expansions to the Zasada lineup since our last meeting, but they can still imbue their tunes with a gravitas and texture that’s sadly lacking from nearly all of their peers.

The Black Hats have only really got one song. It’s a goodie, though, a slick new wave canter with an anthemic culture-yob chorus and the hint of some amphetamine ska lurking just below the surface. They play it a bunch of times today. We like it every time. Job done.

Like Samuel Zasada, Tamara Parsons-Baker has been showing up the paucity of talent in most acoustic performers with a powerful, dramatic voice and some bleakly imposing lyrics. The Martyrs is her new rhythm section, featuring colleagues form the recently disbanded Huck & The Handsome Fee (not to mention much-missed sludgehogs Sextodecimo). We like the fact that there is pain and bitterness evident in the songs, but the delivery is always melodically accessible; they sugar the pill like Oxford’s answer to The Beautiful South.

What’s that? No, we quite like The Beautiful South. No, honestly. Anyway, Tamara & The Martyrs don’t actually sound like them, they play a sort of gothic blues, it was just an analogy. Look, let’s make this easier, and move on to The Dirty Royals. No room for confusion here because they sound – and to a certain extent, look – like first album Blur. Not a band that has “develop sonically” at the top of the To Do list stuck to their fridge, maybe, but to dislike their mixture of upbeat indie and airy West coast psychedelia you’d need a cold, black heart and a suspicion of music in general. And we have both those, and we still enjoyed it.

We wander over the see Welcome To Peepworld, and are simply astonished by the first two songs we hear. Their semi-acoustic sound is cohesive and balanced, but like mid-period Dylan the songs are allusive and intriguing to keep you hooked as the music floats by. We’re just wondering how amazing it is that two vocalists as different yet as impressive as Tamara Parsons-Baker and Fi McFall could share a stage at a free provincial festival, and pulling out the thesaurus to look up “astounding”, when Welcome To Peepworld toss it all away. Why, why, why did they have to start the affected cod-Brazilian vocal trilling? What possessed them to do all the horrible, Morrisette trash with the lazy repetitive lyrics about bad relationships and the criminally uninteresting use of two good guitarists? We thought we’d found one of the best bands in Oxfordshire, but Peepworld broke out heart and we had to leave. No, no, it’s nothing, there’s just something in our eye...

Things are more reliable over on the main stage, with The Anydays. As the name suggests, they’re a band for all seasons. So long as that season is early summer. In North London. In 1964 or 1994. Again, this is a good band, but not one who are interested in pushing the envelope. In fact, they probably wouldn’t even open the envelope unless they knew it contained loads of lager and Chelsea boots and old Pye seven inches. But if ever there’s a place for well-made moddish rocking, that place has got to be a big field at a free festival. Even as we’re nodding along, we imagine somehow merging The Anydays, The Dirty Royals and The Black Hats, to turn three solid local bands into one world-beating Friday night behemoth.

Smilex are playing on the second stage, uncredited in the programme. If you don’t like Smilex, you should get a bit tired and a little damp, and walk over to find them playing a set just when you weren’t expecting it, and we reckon you’ll come out loving them. Days like this is what Smilex are for - well, this and Your Song - rousing flagging crowds with their irrepressible energy and remarkably well-made sleaze-punk. Each of their songs is like the quick, sharp tingle of pulling gaffer tape from your chest; can’t think where we got that image from, Lee.

Borderville are sort of the opposite of Smilex. They are a truly excellent band, but one whose music, for all the bow ties and bombast, works better on record, where the sensitive playing is evident and where it’s possible to relish the subtle melancholy beneath every epic composition. An evening in a field just doesn’t do them justice, the environment seems to demand more immediate gratification than they offer. It’s like putting P G Wodehouse on Mock The Week. A favourite act of ours, but not a set that we really got much out of.

And then it was home, because that’s what the transport dictated - the countryside’s all very well, but it’s nowhere near our bed. There was still Charly Coombes, The Rock Of Travolta and Leburn to go, all of whom we know to be highly reliable options. A very strong day of music, in a delightful setting, it’s pretty hard to find fault with that.

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…