Truck 2011 Saturday Pt 2

The Rockingbirds, over on the Clash Stage, prove you don’t need to have a spurious movement and ugly stage sets to be exciting, they simply bash out vintage rock with country flourishes with self-effacing charm and leave everyone happy. See, sometimes that’s all you need, kids: some good music.

Anyone missing the surprising absence of Luke Smith from the lineup this year could have done worse than dropping in on wry pianist Matt Winkworth. Like Smith he has a relaxed sense of humour and a deft way with the ivories, but there is a glitzy, cabaret heart at the centre of Winkworth’s music, every tune leaving a waft of greasepaint and mildewed curtain velvet. Standout is “Elixir Of Youth”, a song about wanting to die that is made impossibly tragic by the jaunty old Joanna underneath it.

Wild Swim open their set with a proto-drum ‘n’ bass rhythm topped with a light operatic tenor. It could be the lost theme for Italia 90. Later they sound like Spandau Ballet might have, if they’d discovered a copy of Amnesiac in a time portal. All of which sounds slightly demeaning, but we are impressed with this young band, who may have grasped more than they can quite deal with as yet, but who look as though they have the potential to develop along exciting lines.

We choose to listen to Trevor Moss & Hannah-Lou from outside the Clash tent. We’re quite partial to their winsome folk music, but can’t stand the sight of them gazing longingly into each other’s eyes, like a mixture between A Mighty Wind’s Mitch & Mickey and an 80’s Love Is... cartoon. Something tells us that if this act breaks up, it won’t be because of “artistic differences”...

We return to the Blessing Force hootenanny to hear a keyboard line that sounds like a medieval recorder part, putting us immediately in mind of Danish genius/madman Goodiepal. It turns out that this is the pinnacle of Jonquil’s set, but it’s all still good, taking ersatz 80 pop soul and creating new shapes form it in a way that must make Solid Gold Dragons weep with envy.

The fugu fish is apparently delicious, but in all but the most skilled hands it is a deadly poison. Sounds like the bagpipes and the djembe to us. We only hear small amount of The Geees’ pedestrian world-fusion jamming, but it’s a hideously painful experience.

There are only two ways to experience Thomas Truax’ home made instruments. Either watch him after a full 90 minute soundcheck in a high-end venue, where the subtleties of his Tom Waits songwriting can win out, or see him after no soundcheck, in a sweaty flurry of feedback and confusion that seems to capture part of his wired triple espresso New York charm. Today we have unexpected noises, guitar coming in at random levels, and songs lost in an Eno-ish dub. Wonderful.

You know that horrible Innocent Smoothies type trend, where packaging for allegedly healthy foods says “Look at me, I’m 100% natural, aren’t I lovely?”, so that now products can be as smug and enraging as their consumers? Well, Fixers should carry a label stating “this band is made entirely artificial components, and is bloody great”. Their set is mixture of fake Beach Boys keyboards, Ronettes vocals and Meatloaf tom flams, all tied to together with a catering sized delivery of delay. The effect is some of the most euphoric music we’ve ever witnessed, a whirlwind of sugary melody and psychedelic treatments, all of which is as inauthentic as Jack Goldstein’s California-Eynsham accent. Outstanding - and we’ve not even mentioned Jack’s vast tentacular beard, making him look like a Captain Birdseye from the Cthulhu mythos, or the endearingly over-excited exclamations between songs. A set for the annals, and vindication for a band some see as trendy Animal Collective copyists.

Slightly more refined local heroes, next, in the shape of Young Knives. And it’s a warm welcome back, as the set is far more enticing than last time we saw them live. They may not have got the wired maniacal electricity of their early sets, but they’ve moved through the safe, foursquare indie sound that typified gigs at the height of their fame. In fact, we swiftly remember all the things that we loved about them – although the sight of a middle aged mother, carrying her weeping toddler away from the stage, whilst singing along to “The Decision” says a lot about how time can cruelly catch up with you in this game. The House Of Lords, however, seems to be trying to cheat time, with a horrendous grebo haircut: is he living his life backwards, from chartered surveyor to petulant teenager? Any Carter USM covers likely on the next album?

Having missed Kris Drever earlier, it was pleasant to see him accompany Kildare singer, Heidi Talbot. Like delta blues, early minimalism and acid house, you don’t have to do much with Irish folk song to make us feel warm and fuzzy, but Heidi has a gorgeous papery whisper of a voice, that sounds as though it’s offering each song to you as personal indulgence, and when we open our eyes, thirty minutes has gone blissfully by.

The Long Insiders have turned the cabaret tent into a 50s burlesque show for the evening, which we mostly steer clear of, primarily because we don’t think we have the critical vocabulary to adequately review boobies, but we do catch some of the hosts’ opening set. Very good they are too, knocking out a fizzy rockabilly with stridently melodic female vocals...but you do suspect they go home every night and stick pins into an Imelda May voodoo doll.

Stars Of Truck & Field

I heard one of those phrases today that send me into an irrational rage. "We're going through it with a tooth comb". You mean "fine-tooth comb", you cretin; all combs have teeth, otherwise they'd be fucking sticks.


TRUCK FESTIVAL, HILL FARM, STEVENTON, 7/05

Apart from the fact that they seem to have Marcella Detroit on bass, the most unusual thing about The Spiralist is that they play their rare groove acid jazzery with such a deadpan air. In a genre which is overloaded with forced smiles and positivitaaaay, this is refreshing indeed. As such their understated funk reminds me far more of Chic than The Brand New Heavies. Like a sticklebrick Matterhorn, the music may be a little blocky, but it's certainly imposiong and tightly knit.

Two drum kits, heavy on the cowbell. This is how you do main stage good times, I hope everyone is paying attention to this Mystery Jets masterclass. With lots of springloaded silliness and new wave bounce it's reminiscent of the roster of Wrath records (some of which is in evidence elsewhere during the weekend), which must be a point in their favour. Also, "You Can't Fool Me, Dennis" is my favourite song title of the festival. I leave after about half an hour, when they inexplicably and unexpectedly start sounding like The Cure.

"Hip Hop is the new stadium rock: Discuss with special reference to Solisai". Well, their introduce-the-band outro gets cut short when it threatens to extend into the middle of Sunday afternoon, and their soundfield as a whole is a bit unsubtle and clogged (come on, guys, does that tune really need four vocalists, three keyboards and two guitars?), so there is a whiff of 1985 Sting all-daywers to proceedings...no, not that sort of Sting all-dayer, you pervert. There's also far too much comping and water treading in the middle of the compositions, and a slightly rubbish sax solo to seal the deal.

Still, beneath all this is the seed of an excellent hip-hop group, all the MCs pulling off that difficult balance between lyrical flow, rhythmic ingenuity and - most often forgotten - simple enunciation. Add a powerful rhtythm section, on loan from Mackating, and a storming ragga showpiece, and you could conclude that Solisai is a name to watch out for in the future.

It's one of Oxford's great musical disappointments that when undertheigloo play live, they somehow manage to turn all their records' brittle, icy and enticing rhythms into a mildly bleepy indie stumble. They fare better this year than last, but something still gets left behind when they leave the studio. The sound of Sexy Breakfast in full flow bleeding through the tent doesn't help matters, either.

worthless_testpilot. OK, OK, that's not really fair, but I couldn't resist it. Pedro makes all the right noises (free jazz sax, exotica-tinged breakbeats, laptop scrunchtones) but for some reason they just won't fit together. Hopefully it's just an off day. As a work in progress this is very promising indeed, but as a finished product it's sadly a bit of a mess.

If there were such a thing as a cross between Quentin Tarantino and Crossroads, then The Schla La Las would surely be playing in the background whilst a coachload of ninjas fought over the last mini-Mowbray. Five feisty outfit coordinated ladies playing 50s bubblegum and surf will never stop being fun, no matter what vast muscial empires rise and fall along the way, and this Piney Gir led ensemble are no exception. It's a pity the performance isn't as good as the couture, but who cares: the sun's come out and they'r eplaying a song based on German menus. Einfach klasse!

Stoney are on in the barn. Stoney play a mixture of 70s glam pop and lightweight cock rock/ Stoney do it incredibly well. I wonder if Stoney feel deep down, as I do, that this music is just pretty rubbish no matter how good the band is?

Sadly I can't take credit for the phrase "A one man Muse", the chap next to me came up with it, but when talking about the piano and emotive falsetto of Patrick Wolf it's dead on the money. You can't deny that Wolf attacks the songs with every ounce of his soul, but you aslo can't deny that sometimes they sound a little like Elton John. With his pale, lanky, long-haired frame and general nocturnal demeanour, he's the sort of person who might do incredibly well if they had Fame Academy for vampires. It's an exemplary performance, but unfortunately one that leaves me completely unmoved.

Did you ever see that episode of Duncan Dares where he had a week to start up a homonazi electrogoth band? I fear it may only exist in my head, but watching the farrago that is Motormark's never-ending soundcheck is not at all dissimilar. When they do get going, yelping and pogoing away to some cheap industrial beats, the effect is quite entertaining, moderately samey, and so very, very gay. If Altered Images spent an evening injecting demon's blood and Buckfast they would probably sound something luike this. Good stuff, in other words.

One day the musical public will realise that folk can boast just as much drama and balls as the most theatrical death metal band. Until that day, Jim Moray will continue to entice the non-believers into investigating the genre. He plays traditional tunes in a contemporary style...by which I mean he approaches them as if he were a stadium-sized singer-songwriter, not that he puts lame trance beats behind them.

Sadly his set, whilst impressive, doesn't live up to his first "acapella laptop" number, on which he hamonised with samples of himself triggered from a handheld joypad, to hair-rasing effect. Probaby the best track of the day.

"You hate us 'cos we're feminists!" chant Malmo's Radical Cheerleaders. No we don't hate you, we're just a bit bored with you because you don't have any discernible act beyond shouting your sexual politics at us whist failing to hop about in unison. Gimme a D! Gimme a U! Gimme an L! Gimme another - ah, you're way ahead of me.

I'll assume that you've never read any local publications, and also that you've been avoiding the national music media for a while too, and inform you that The Young Knives play the sort of wonky new wave disco that will raise a smile and trouble your best tapping foot. Years spent playing together and extremely hard work have also turned the band into a super-slick rock unit and they turn in what must be the tightest set of the festival. Sadly, an airless tent full to bursting, and a sound composed almost entirely of treble mean that lasting the duration of the gig is hard work for the fatigued. No matter, they'll be playing much bigger gigs in the very near future, I suspect.

In contrast to their recent glorious Cellar gig, The Ralfe Band's folk-pop set doesn't seem to quite come together. Maybe it's because, in the tiny Lounge tent, the sanre drum played like a timbale feels like the loudest thing on God's earth and my ears start to bleed.

Pocket Knives

Just found this review. It was submitted to Oxfordbands.com, but never used. It's not great, to be frank. There are still not enough Steely Dan covers in the world of indie pop.

THE YOUNG KNIVES/ THE EVENINGS/ THE THUMB QUINTET, Audioscope, Port Mahon

The Thompson Twins. Ben Folds Five. The Thumb Quintet: all bands who can't count their own members. Yes, there are only two in The Thumb Quintet (although there are four thumbs) and they each have a guitar. On the basis of tonight's performance, however, they don't need the extra members.

Ben from eeebleee and a chap from Cardboard (both were in X-1, unless I'm much mistaken) have clearly been listening to a bit of Fahey and Jansch lately, and have swapped their noisy amps for some countrified acoustic fingerpicking. Perhaps at times it isn't perfectly fluid but the playing is still beautiful, galloping rhythms suddenly turning up amongst clusters of plucked motifs, and the botleneck slide parts are achingly lovely. I hope that this is more than a one-off arrangement, boys.

Local acts that shouldn't work at an acoustic night? Well, nervous_testpilot would have quite some trouble, and I'd love to see Winnebago Deal attempt to play with a lute and some bongos, but The Evenings would have to come high on the list, right? Wrong!

Proving once again that they are the most original and resourceful band in town, Mark Wilden and his merry troubadours exchange the synths and breakbeats for glockenspiels, sax and percussion. Somehow their funky dance silliness mutates softly into a warm, organic bramble of sound. And silliness.

The first number is subtle and intoxicating, bobbing on Jo Guest's bowed bass; before we know it, everything's pounding and surprisingly loud; next they turn all melancholic and intense: this gig has it all. I also feel they're all concentrating a little harder than recent gigs (Truck, for example). Hell, they even do a cover of "Born Slippy" and it almost works.

The Young Knives are the only act on who don't meet the problems set by the acoustic dictum head on. They don't play badly, and they're as entertaining as ever, complete with funny headwear and the best Scrabble monologue in pop history, but tonight they're just a lesser version of themselves. Like watching Delicatessen or something equally cinemtically lush on a tiny B/W portable, this gig is fine, but necessarily a compromise.

They aren't the greatest singers in town either, are they? Still, always nice to hear a Steely Dan cover, that's something you don't come across enough nowadays. Or ever, come to think of it.

Les Mix

This is the second review in which I've used the phrase "Suicide's plastic Elvis shimmy"! I think I just forgot the second time that I'd put it in a review already. I've also knowingly described Baby Gravy's sound as reminiscent of "Gwen Stefani's striplit mall pop" twice, and that was just because I like the sound of it. Sue me. I'll give you 100% of the income from both reviews, if you like.

SMILEX - SMILEX VS OXFORD (Quickfix Recordings)

Remix albums are alwaysa hall of mirrors for the listener, especially the reviewer, unless they're pretty deeply au fait with the styles of all involved: to whom, exactly, is one listening at any given moment, the mixer or the mixee? Smilex amplify the problem, because they haven't exactly released that much material in their own right as yet. In our case, there is an immediate difficulty, in that although we've enjoyed Smilex shows on a few occasions, they tend to blur into one big, damp maelstrom of rock noise and exposed flesh, laced once or twice with a few drops of blood. To be frank we don't recall precisely which song is which. None of this makes the LP any less enjoyable, but it does make the review process something of a minefield. Plus there's only a finite number of times we can type the words "Smilex remix" without it starting to look like joke Latin.

But enough of our problems. You could certainly imagine worse subjects for the remix treatment than Smilex, as their music has an immediately recognisable character, but is pretty simple in construction, all wham, bam thank you ladyboy pseudo-ma'am. This undoubtedly makes the pieces easier to deconstruct.

It's fascinating to see the different approaches on display, some adorning and accessorising the original music, while others rip it to shreds and stitch it back together in grotesque new forms. The first two mixes on the CD, perhaps wisely, choose the former option, boywithatoy sticking beats behind "Quickfix", and The Evenings turning "Sex 4 Sale" into a frenzied chipmunk cabaret. Conversely, The Gentleman Distortionist somehow manages to find a hands aloft, whistle crew pleaser in 16 second miniature "Kidz Klub 666", whereas The Beta Prophecy turn "P.V.C." into a crunchy industrial plod, something like Aphex Twin's "Ventolin" played at half speed. Most extreme of all is Sunnyvale's completely abstract attack on "Noize", which has Smilex reincarnated as tiny worms, crawling through the dense loam of some dank forest floor. It's absolutely superb, but the question remains whether this is a Smilex remix, or a new track sampling a few Smilex moments. A pointless question, we suppose. The Young Knives' mix of "She Won't Get out Of Bed", is one of the most intriguing on offer, surprisingly managing to sound very little like Smilex or TYK, merging a hissy disco pulse with touches of Suicide's plastic Elvis shimmy.

Ultimately Smilex Vs Oxford is rather an odd proposition if you;re looking for that elusive Smilex album, as most of the acts tend to pull the material too far from its source (and if you can tell that the three mixes of "Spike My Drink" are based on the same composition in a blind trial, you should probably just walk straight to the Oxford Music Faculty and pick up your doctorate). Having said that, as a listening experience, this is a wonderful twisted record, which works excellently as a snapshot of what Oxford's more leftfield electronic experimenters are up to: in fact, if there were something from nervous_testpilot and a representative from the My Initials Club label here, we'd almost have a prospectus for Oxford bleepery. Oh, and it's for charity too, raising money for the John Radcliffe's new Children's Hospital...though this record is likely to send most children into hiding under the bedclothes, wailing for the bad men to go away. On reflection, not enough reviews end like that.

Truck 2006 Pt 3

We seem to spend a lot of time arguing with people in this town that funk and groove based music can be worth a listen. New Zealand’s Katchafire, however, won’t be convincing anyone, with their noodly Kenny G reggae lite. Introduced as the act that have travelled the furthest to play for us, oddly they’re the act who inspire us to get the furthest away as soon as they start playing…

What went wrong with The Young Knives? A few years ago they were the best band in Oxford, now they’re slightly dull Evening Session cannon fodder…and the Evening Session doesn’t even exist anymore. They don’t play a bad set, but all the old quirks seem to have been ironed out of the tracks, until the highlights of the set are the puerile banter between tunes. We’re still pleased and proud of them, but they don’t do much for us anymore.

It gets to that time on Sunday afternoon when your ears become blasé and we rush between all the stages in ten minutes. Manic Cough are a cross between Harlette and the Schla La Las which is briefly amusing, but ultimately hollow. The September Gurls are all men and play harmless countryish stuff (and here’s Joe Bennett again!), whilst The Research do what they normally do, which feels too twee for this time of day. So we finish off our festival with The Ralfe Band, who showcase some noirish, piano led songs of mystery (literally - we can’t decipher a blooming word). If it sometimes feels like music from Nick Cave’s elevator, when they bring on the percussion and kick out with a cross between “Misirlou” and “Maigret’s Revolver” as performed in a Polish brothel, they get a huge thumbs up. Or at least they would, if we had the strength to move our arms.

So it’s down the road for a last couple of pints before hopping on the last bus back to Oxford. It’s been yet another glorious Truck, and we’ll be back next year. But get some more real ales in next time, eh?

Cutting Words

I'm in a better mood today, even if I still feel a bit crappy. Who cares if not many people read the site? I still get a lot of hits from returning viewers, so consider yourselves in a select club. Anyway, to reward you here's some more shite from the old BBC days. One of my very first reviews, my 3rd I think. And yes, Oxfordbands used to promote, and now don't but do print my reviews. Very insular and confusing, I'll admit. The Rock Of Travolta were a very popular local post-rock type act that I never cared for. Also, the mention of Nightshift predates my writing for it, if you care to follow along and add this review to your free wallchart at home.

THE YOUNG KNIVES/ INTENTIONS OF AN ASTEROID/ JARCREW, Oxfordbands, The Wheatsheaf, 2/03

Any gig that features a vocalist jumping through the crowd like a clockwork monkey whilst other band members tumble around the stage Keystone Cops style is going to be relatively memorable, even if the tunes aren't. Luckily Jarcrew manage to indulge in such tomfoolery whilst grinding out some enticing, complex music. They've played recently with Alec Empire, and I imagine Mr. Digital Hardcore was right at home with their incandescent (slightly adolescent?) energy, love of righteous noise and eclectic musical references.

Most tracks run like this: the keyboard/minidisc offers up doodles from a variety of genres (I spotted electro, glitchtronica, dub, Sun Ra space washes and Stereolab chugalong), before the rest of the band pummel the poor thing to the floor with a pounding, but controlled and intricate, cacophony. It's like some mad Welsh sound assassins trashing an office party at The Wire. It's like a buig, ballsy riff-happy version of Melt Banana. It's also a damned good show.

Intentions Of An Asteroid own so many guitars they have a guitar tech stood at the side of the stage, with the self-conscious air of a man in a urinal queue, which pretty much sums them up. There's nothing wrong with their emo-ish power pop, but it looks and sounds a tad flat after Jarcrew.

It's spirited stuff, though, with a raw searching voal, twin guitar attack, and a touch of early Manics round the chorus area, all served in a neat, clatering parcel by four men jerking energetically on the spot, like the plastic dancing flowers sold in service stations. Unfortunately this wasn't their night, but next time it might just be.

The Young Knives sound like The Pixies, Wire and Pere Ubu. Anyone from Nightshift reading this will be shouting, "We said that first!", but it's true, TYK sound exactly like The Pixies, Wire and Pere Ubu. (Unlike, say The Rock Of Travolta, who are alleged to sound like Add N To (X) and Godspeed..., but actually sound like asome blokes playing along with A-Proto-Tune-A-Day). Not that there's any problem with this, and TYK supply taut, angular new wave excellence like it's their birthright.

It sounds superb: you probably either already know this, or have at least read it countless times before, so I'll surge ahead. George Orwell once wrote about Dickens that his architecture was poor, but his gargoyles glorious. TYK are similar. Little elements are truly special - the martial snare rattle in "Kramer Vs Kramer", the clothes, the bit that goes "J-j-j-j-j-john" - but perhaps, underneath, the songs are a bit obvious, or derivative. Then again, who cares? Do yourself a favour, go see The Young Knives. Or read Dickens.

It's Brigand It's Not Clever

An old BBC review. It's a pity I didn't just print the comments of my Sheffieldian mate, getting apoplectic with rage about "mindless Rizla monkeys", and turning the immortal phrase, "this is what I left the North to fucking escape"! The Young Knives may be known to you now without the definite article, as seen on T4 or whatever: they used to be brilliant though, but you'll just have to take my word for it.

Tim the BBC Ox editor, introduced this review with the line "David Murphy was left cursing the day The Bandits rode into town", which is great, and far better than my hurried signoff. I was tempted to write something decent now, but I feel it's good for my humility to print 3rd rate reviews from the dim days.

Pretty sure I never heard of JOD ever again...

THE BANDITS/ THE YOUNG KNIVES/ JOD, The Zodiac, 4/03

Firstly, an admission: I hadn't seen JOD before, solely because my cursory eye always confused them with JOR, a band I never liked; my loss, if tonight is anything to go by. JOD play powerpop, but powerpop in the sense of simple, arching songs drawn in big bold strokes, rather than the blocky bluster of the Undertones school. The singer's yearnig vocal is powerful, managing to dominate the songs, and yet avoid dropping into the embarrassments of an angst-ridden confessional.

The biggest surprise in store is how funky they are. Alright, they're not Parliament, but the songs hide some bouncy secrets: "Oliver Twist" sounds as thought it might launch into the Dr Who theme, the second track boasts an elastic two note bassline that The Chemical Brothers might find a good home for, and "Sparks" opens with a clattering drum pattern.

Speaking of which, the drummer plays simply, but effectively, flailing around like a two-legged octopus constantly feeling around for the other six limbs. Seems to enjoy it too. It all adds up to a most pleasant half hour. JOD won't blow you away, but they may provide a stiff refreshing breeze. And they're better than JOR.

Not much has changed since I last saw The Young Knives a few months ago (not even their outfits), but I'm not complaining: three pottery teachers jerkling like new wave robot penguins, talking rubbish and chopping out spiky slices of sound, pitched somewhere between Iggy and The Pixies. "Walking On The Autobahn" still sounds like The Banana Splits, the bassist still begins meaningless anecdotes at every opportunity, and it's still a cracking show. Bands who are this consistently good make for hard-to-write reviews, though...

You may have heard that The Bandits sound a bit like The Coral, and you'd have heard right. What you have to decide is whether "The Coral" translates as "widescreen intelligent rock with an eclectic bag of tricks," or "bunch of stoners reheating some baggy cliches with a couple of exta guitar sounds thrown in". I'm afraid I subscribe to the latter opinion.

It's the supposed eclecticism that most grates, the theory that old Charlatans castoffs can be excused by massaging a few sounds...as if Animals drums, Gram Parsons guitar and Doors bass is a particularly wide range of references in the first place. Lots have turned out tonight to see six petulant swaggerers (two of whom just muddy the sound) churn through forty minutes of crass youthclub doperock, so maybe I'm wrong, but I hear nothing that even hints at subtlety, originality or excitement. Sometimes a guitar solo limps in to try and add life to the event, but it's as effective as the desperate addition of a car chase to a drab TV movie. Who'd have thought banditry was so lacklustre?