The Spillage People

Got to be quick, the bath's running.   Since my last post I filled my iPod.  It's a full-fat maximum size one, too.  I'm all the way up to compilations in hard cases beginning with Q, in my loading.  I guess I'd need about 14 iPods to hold all my records.  I have a lot of records.  It doesn't make me a getter person, sadly.

THE GRACEFUL SLICKS/ THE HAWKHURST/ CHARMS AGAINST THE EVIL EYE, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 7/9/12

There’s a sense of wonder about Charms Against The Evil Eye.  Not only are they named after a creepy exhibit in the Pitt Rivers – there must have already been a band called Shrunken Heads Are Bare Cool – but their lyrics, concerning topics such as interstellar dark matter and autumnal ambience, could have been swiped from The Boys’ Big Book Of Science and I-Spy The Undergrowth.  Spread a little wide-eyed, mild psychedelia over friendly three chord jaunts in the manner of Robyn Hitchcock – or even their chum Anton Barbeau – and the effect is winning in the extreme.  It’s great to see Matt Sewell, a strong writer who’s never quite delivered live, finally find a rhythm section that can make these songs breathe. Charming stuff, if you’ll forgive the pun.

The Hawkshurst aren’t charming.  They’re angry.  Angry, political and into danceable folk, in a mid-80s antagonistic hoedown style, unsure whether to neck some cider or start a riot.  They’re definitely at their best channelling their rage, Fleur Fatale’s warm yet strident vocals trading haranguing licks with John West’s pipes, somewhere between The Oysterband and Chumbawamba.  When they ease off the throttle, and start indulging in fraught, wordy ballads that sound like Counting Crows, we lose interest drastically.  Come on, guys, stay irate: why not tape a picture of the MP for Witney to the backs of your instruments?

The Graceful Slicks aren’t a band who look as though they notice politics. Or anything since 1968.  Their early gigs were good, but prone to slip into tired Brit-pop grooves or Black Rebel self-consciousness, but now they’ve uncovered the true elixir of sloppy psych garage in the spirit of Sky Saxon, The Velvet Underground, or The Morlocks, and are wonderful.  All their songs are identical, thrashing a multi-guitar groove relentlessly whilst vocals mutate from murmur to howl: they change instruments and mike duties after each track, but it always sounds the same.  It will always sound the same.  Life is a myth, space is an illusion, and time one livid final flame.  Until it’s time to get the bus home, anyway.

 

May To Play

Three sad facts. 1) KK don't run Bank Holiday weekenders any longer, or any big events for that matter 2) The X has been a curry house for a couple of years now - a tasty one, mind 3) Somehow I just don't have the time to watch snooker, or indeed any sport, anymore. I don't like most sport, as it happens, but don't let that stop a good bit of self-pity.


MAYDAY FESTIVAL, The X, 1/5/05

Jump off a bloody bridge if you want to, but for me the May Bank Holiday has two great traditions: one is the snooker final, and the other is the Kakofanney weekender. I found myself there for the whole of Sunday.

Glenda & Sam kick things off. She is better known as the hair-swinging leader of metallers Phyal and he is the drummer from oddball punks Fork, so it's unexpected to see them play some quiet folk songs, with plenty of bodhran and flute. Diverting, if lightweight.

Can you lot really not think of names for your acts? Mauro & David turns out to be Mauro and David from Inflatable Buddha (well, be honest, whcih Mauro did you think it would be?), playing hurdy-gurdy and percussion respectively. Some of you will already know that Mauro can make his odd screechy instrument song, and David turns out to be a dab hand (pardon the pun) as an accompanist, which almost excuses the fact that he's wearing some mangy old purple curtains.

I find the winning simplicity fo Jeremy Hughes' playing quite delightful, especially on a sunny day. However, if you find the idea of Gandalf's beard double wibbling out an instrumental called "Rainbow" a turn off, steer well clear.

Laima Bite proves once again that she has one of the best vocal deliveries in Oxford, with a relaxed set. If I don't think she's as outstanding a talent as some local writers, it's less a criticism of her, and more a celebration of our local acoustic musicians.

Frei Zinger (flute) & Chris Hills (tabla) are both superb musicians, but their set sadly made no impression on me whatsoever. Unlike the first beer of the day.

Trip hop without the hip hop? It's odd, but it's Stem. Emma's voice, backed by acoustic guitar, is wonderfully weary and emotive, recalling Portishead or early Lamb, but the percussion is a clunky beast and keeps the set from taking off. Pity.

Clearly, getting the fun-loving but less than vocally dextrous landlady of the pub to sing some cheesy show tunes should be an embarassment, but luckily Condom (yes, that's really the band's name) have such an unpretentious vivacity that it's almost impossible to dislike them; hardly a highlight, but a bit of Bank Holiday larking about never hurt anybody.

With their relaxed AOR songwriting and West Coast sax solos, Veda Park will never be one to make the heart beat faster. Still, they're such natural ensemble players and the whole show is so incredibly tight you have to go with them. Especially after another beer.

Trip hop without the - hang on, I've done that one. But, for different reasons, Drift deserve the description as much as Stem. The vocals have a similar torch song yearning to them, but whilst the drum machine and bass are laying down dubby grooves, the guitarist is on an entirely unrelated psychedelic mission. Every time the neat arrangements make some sonic space, it's filled with an FX-laden guitar part whcih defeats the point somewhat. The again, the ring modulation solo is scorching so maybe...

The night really starts with the arrival of Harry Angel in all their goth-punk glory. Taut, angular Bauhaus style rackets led by a great tall chap leaning over the mike like the speed freak son of the Twin Peaks giant: time for a celebratory beer.

A keening and forceful North African vocal suddenly fills the pub, covered in reverb and synth pads. It sounds pretty powerful, but when the drum and bass kicks in great things start to happen. That's live drums played with brushes and a double bass, by the way, but they still have the punch of a Moving Shadow classic. We've just witnesses the debut gig by Tunsi. I hope we witness many more.

I've seen The Epstein many times. I saw them at The Zodiac on Friday. Yet here I am again front and centre. That's all you need to know. Still the best of the (inexplicably large number of) country bands in Oxford.

There's alwasy a sneaking suspicion that I shouldn't like a sprawling ska punk band that calls itself The Druqsquad, singing songs about washing machines and fat fish. but when they play, I forget all that and just enjoy the volume, the exuberance and the extremely sily keyboard noises. A fitting end.

So, it was fun. So, it was Bank Holiday Sunday. So, I may have let my critical faculties off the leash for a bit (did I mention the beer?), but that seems to be the right approach to one of these big Exeter Hall events. We've just had over nine hours of music in a warm atmosphere for less than a fiver, and I can't really think of anything I'd rather be doing with myself, which is ultimately the only important thing.

Come Nine With Me

I got a message through Nightshift yesterday. Ulysse Dupasquier, who was reviewed previously here. He asked that I remove his name from the review, as it's the only thing that comes up if you Google his name, and he's a bit embarrassed. Well, I'm not going to rewrite history, but now I've written this, it should be the second page in a websearch, so if you've just read read how rubbish Ulysse once was, you can now read this and be reassured by him that he's much better.

There. Call it being neutral...

NUMBERNINE/ TURBULENCE/ PATSY DECLINE, Klub Kakofanney, Wheatsheaf, 3/6/05

Long ago, in that fuzzy magazine clipping of musical history called the indie eighties, The Jazz Butcher sang about the "Southern Mark Smith". Patsy Decline goes one better. She's the Southern female Mark E. Smith. It's all there: the fag, the slouch, the drawling goblin brainpunk delivery, the lyrical obtuseness (featuring ignorant astronauts and a factory of lies).

To complete the illusion, accompanist Twizz Twangle spends the majority of the set fiddling ineffectually with leads and amp dials, recalling the dark side of Smith's stage persona, and the backing track (whcih completely drowns out anything Twizz actually plays) boasts a throbbing drum machine and insistent bass that wouldn't have been out of place on I Am Kurious Oranj. Naturally this sort of thing is flawed and unfinished, but Patsy's restless energy is enough to carry the show. Much ink has been spilt on the social, political and aesthetic legacies of punk, but the anarchic brio of Patsy's set recalls a John The Postman era when everything was valid and, what's more, everything was a bloody good laugh.

Full marks to Turbulence for having the guts to play after their singer was refused entry at soundcheck because he's barred form the venue...and nul points to the singer himself, who must have suspected that this might happen. And him a promoter too. Tut. Anyway, for grabbing the bull by the horns and general the-show-must-go-on trooperdom, I shall forever defend the boys from Turbulence. Which is lucky, because musically they're absolutely dire.

We'll forgive the fact that the guitarist can't sing, and knows none of the words, as it's not his job. We'll forgive the hesitant performance, because presumably the entire band dynamic has taken a hefty knock off kilter. What we won't forgive is that they aim for a sort of muso psychedelia, but what they hit is about as cosmic as a pile of nail clippings on an Oasis tab sheet, and the fact that then horrible keyboard patches make The Krypton Factor theme sound like Klaus Schulze. Let's just stick our fingers in our ears and ruminate on what great sports they are, eh?

Anything would sound powerful after that, but numbernine's amphetamine Britpop packs a fair wallop. Soaring choruses, songs about London, jaunty new wave music hall breaks - by rights this should sound anachronistic and tired, yet somehow numbernine are giving this dead horse one more gallop round the steeplechase. Roaring tracks like "365" and "Talk" recall a particularly bellicose version of The Longpigs, and if a couple of the weaker moments recall Menswe@r, at least the emphasis is firmly on the "swear".

numbernine's main strength is surely the twin vocals, which have a punchy presence, but are capable of delicate close harmonies when necessary. The rhythm section is pleasingly tight too. Despite this glowing review, there's still a little something missing from numbernine: musically speaking, perhaps they need to add a few personalised accessories to their second hand clothes. Still, the foundations of a good local band have been laid. Let's see if they have the dedication and ideas to finish the job.

Dublodocus

Right, tonight I havce to write a long overdue review of a new LP, I don't have time to talk about old stuff, so you'll have to just find your own way around without any guidance.

RAGGASAURUS/ VIGILANCE BLACK SPECIAL/ THE TALC DEMONS/ JEREMY HUGHES – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 4/1/08

We’re all justly proud of our music scene, but it’s worth remembering what Oxford is: a small provincial town in a semi-rural county. This means that for every Little Fish bursting into the limelight we have a bunch of market town blues bands dawdling through the classics. It also means we have Klub Kakofanney, a fantastically unglamorous hippy enclave that has been making people happy for as long as anyone can recall, and is about as far from the flick of a cool kid’s haircut as one can get…in fact, half the audience haven’t had a haircut in years. And the other half are bald.

After mightily-bearded Jeremy Hughes has played some intricate little guitar doodles, The Talc Demons take to the stage. Rami’s band are more often found playing interminable jam sets in empty midweek bars, but thankfully they produce a taut, condensed thirty minutes of his own circus freak pop, in which 70s rock clashes with funky reggae. His songs generally boast about 90 words per minute buoyed up by clipped, nasal guitar lines and bouncy rhythms, and they should definitely ditch the dubious covers gigs and concentrate on this quality fare. And change their name, obviously.

Last time we saw Vigilance Black Special they had a trombone and a lonesome Nick Cave swoon to their music; now they have no trombone and sound a bit like a sleepier version of Goldrush, the lyric “too much time kicking around in the half-light” summing the show up nicely. A decent band, with a rich lead vocal, but nothing to get excited about. Vigilance Grey Average.

Raggasaurus are a group who definitely weren’t formed in their stylist’s office: a bunch of stoned looking students playing dub, with a 50 year old Tunisian singing in Arabic over the top, who would have thought it? And who would have thought they would make such excellent music? The horns are acidic and subtly used, the rhythms are spry and infectious, and the bass is simply gigantic, causing glasses to topple to the floor behind the bar. Add some searing vocals, that seem to communicate messages of love and integrity even though nobody understands a blinking word, and the effect is glorious. A wonderful band, likely to enliven many an Oxford weekend, and one unlikely to appear on Skins any time soon.

Twinge Kingdom Valley

One of Picture Book is the offspring of Kid Creole, of Coconuts fame. That's a solid gold fact you can take to the bank...if the bloke at the bar who told me was telling the truth.

THE ORIGINAL RABBIT’S FOOT SPASM BAND/ SPACE HEROES OF THE PEOPLE/ PICTURE BOOK – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 6/2/09

At their best Leeds’ Picture Book are a cross between Lamb and Sade (as in “Smooth Operator”, not “120 Days Of Sodom”), at their worst they’re a load of old balaerics. They do show plenty of rhythmic inventiveness in their sleek techno pop, and a nice line in flatulent 80s keyboards, but the vocals aren’t able to breathe life into the songs; if they had an Alison Goldfrapp or a Roisin Murphy hamming it up we might be talking. Having said this, the last two tracks blow the rest of the set out of the water, the finale pitching keening violin against the synth hum, and single “Strangers” is a fussy bustle of dubstep keys and exuberant syn-drums that are half Karl Bartos and half Tito Puente. More like that, please.

Space Heroes Of The People have always been about balance. Their music is live enough to feel organic, and programmed enough to seem inhuman; the sound is minimalist enough to be hypnotic, but compact enough to class them as an ace pop band. It’s a tough tightrope to walk, but tonight they nonchalantly saunter across, possibly stopping midway for a somersault or two. Perhaps it was the live vocals, perhaps it was the unexpectedly meaty Sabbathesque half time sections, perhaps it was the righteously hefty sound that the engineer coaxed from them, but this was a superb set. We just can’t shake the image of Maggie Philbin coming onstage halfway through “Barbie Is A Robot” to explain what a vocoder is.

The Original Rabbit’s Foot Spasm Band are not at all original, but everything else about them is fantastic. They play 30s jazz songs, but we feel as if we’re in a sordid sweaty speakeasy, not some horrific sanitised tea dance. These songs (“Mack The Knife”, “The Sheik Of Araby”) are about sex, narcotics and impossibly louche tailoring, and they should be treated with the dirt they deserve, not emasculated by legions of function jazzers. The Spasmers get to grips with the soul of the music through riotous trumpet, rasping sax, and by being heroically, Biblically, drunk. This, my friends is the authentic sound of New Orleans…possibly during the hurricane.

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.

Break Like The Fast

I'm off on my holidays for a week or so, so this'll be the last post for a little bit. Go and look at Alastair's page instead, over there on the right>>>

He has some Lonely Island videos for you to chuckle at.

SEXY BREAKFAST/ THE EVENINGS/ DIATRIBE - Klub Kakafanney, Wheatsheaf, 12/03

Diatribe look like the quintessential young, local support act. They've got the vast rack of guitar pedals, all of which sound identical; they've got the obligatory Cheech & Chong reference; they've got a mate in the audience whom they namecheck; they've got that strange mixture of self-consciousness and insouciance. Still, for all these signifiers of newness, they're entirely capable of warming up tonight's crowd, with some juicy little indie-rock numbers, boasting all the right crunch and bounce. Sadly they haven't yet got many angles to crunch, or much to bounce off, but another few months spent writing some songs with a bit more character might well find them sneaking effortlessly up the bill.

Damn! If I'd brought my I-Spy Book Of Oxford Pop I could have scored a fortune from The Evenings, featuring talent from Suitable Case For Treatment, Eeebleee, Sunnyvale and Sexy Breakfast. But who cares who they are when they make music so abstractedly, hilariously funky? The pre-programmed sections bang away merrily, whilst the rest of them pummel alongside (wlthough not always exactly in time, unfortunately), and, err, that's it. Except that's more than enough for now. Like their spiritual parents Add N To (X) they might want to think about developing their great hulking soundbeasts, and taking them them a bit further. Having said this, the last tune has a neat Rephlexoid synth line, and a the third, with it's deliriously dumb "la la la" chorus resembles a scranky, mud-caked Bentley Rhythm Ace.

My spellchecker doesn't like the word "scranky"; obviously it's never seen The Evenings.

Don't ask me how, but somehow I haven't seen Sexy Breakfast live for about three years, and I didn't much like them then. And now?

Well, the news (to me, at least), is that they sound like Vanilla Fudge. Alternatively, they're like a cross between Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Longpigs, and A-Ha. Indescribable, in other words. They crash through a bunch of their tunes to a healthy, adoring crowd, and it sounds great, throwing in muso workouts, tongue in cheek musical theatre references, and passages of plain, startling beauty in equal measure.

To be honest, I can't entirely comprehend their continuing deification, but the fact remains that, despite my colleague's dissatisfaction with the new recording, Sexy Breakfast are still possibly the best live act in Oxfordshire. But then, you probably already knew this.

The Betty Ford Salon

Blimey, I should be on some sort of retainer from Klub Kak, I've reviewed them so often. I never realised until I started this blog how regularly I'd ended up there. I guess it's just the furry freaky friendly hippy atmosphere they nurture. Evan last night, I was reviewing a night at The Jericho, and snuck into KK afterwards to catch the last act. An Oxford institution, indupitably.

JUNKIE BRUSH/SACRED DISORDER/ REVEREND MOONSHINE - Klub Kakofanney, Wheatsheaf, 4/3/05

I promuise it's not just the antipodean accent, but Reverend Moonshine remind me a lot of Nick Cave. Must be the knowingly dark theatrical monologues and the slurred songspiel. Their twin acoustic guitar lineup is elementary but effective, and their songs of booze and frustration are beautifully augmented by a delicate jazz trumpet that I'm duty bound to describe as "smoky" (Reviewer statute 124/B/11). In all honesty, some of the tracks are somewhat wonkily delivered, and perhaps the second guitar should stick to bass frequencies, but they do have bags of character, which goes an awful long way.

Sacred Disorder are an odd proposition as they all sound like they're playing in wildly disparate bands. I guess you'd call it stoner rock, but the vocals (rhyming "pariah" with "messiah") and guitar (shredding and arpeggiating away) are pure metal, whilst the drummer plays neanderthally simply, as if he were auditioning for Finnish uber-minimalists Circle, and the bassist whacks out a sticky root note sludge with a definite goth flavour. A strange brew. I'm not saying they can't play - they're actually a pretty solid little unit - but the effect is so schizophrenic I don't know what to think. Like a disturbed child's Cray-Pas illustrations, they have a wierdly compelling fascination, but at the moment the jury's out on whether they're actually any good.

Junkie Brush are often billed as punk, but I'm not sure: punk was always at least 50% cabaret, and there's nothing cartoonish about this band. Their dense, excitable missives remind me far more of U.S. hardcore: more straight edge than The U-Bends, let's say. So there are no solos, no math rock breaks (though there is an unexpected blues interlude) and definitely no sensitive ballads. Just supercharged howls of righteous ire.

And Junkie Brush do it exceptionally well. The third number (which isn't called "Drunken Cunt", despite what a drunken...person in the audience would have us believe) is especially searing and vitriolic, but over 45 minutes they never flag. To be fair, I find this music something like a tartazine rush: all very manic and exhilirating, but the effect runs out slightly before the set does. Still, if you like your meat raw and clinically served, book a table Chez Brosse and you'll go hoe very happy indeed.

Angel Heart Of The Matter

I think this is the first time I reviewed The Drug Squad. The housebound and insane who plan to read every post on this blog may wish to chart the change in my appreciation of the band as years go by - I really had to battle through my preconceptions to reach the conclusion that they are (or were, maybe, I think they're on another extended hiatus) a fantastic band, with a lot more ideas than many a po-faced post-rock trendypants combo.

Anyway, this is the usual lazy BBC guff I used to churn out: bad review, clumsy chumminess, Klub bloody Kak again...

THE DRUGSQUAD/ REDOX/ HARRY ANGEL - Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 7/04

You want snare-stabbed amphetipop? You want Harry Angel, then. Their eerie yet agressive tracks are like being pelted with large black rubber bricks. Bricks made in 1981, naturally. Hardware problems aside, this is a tentative performance, and I'd guess it's an early show for them: certainly the two guitars could often be utilised more originally. Still, there's plenty of talent here - especially in Chris Beard, who has the potential makings of a powerful vocalist. Worth watching out for.

Despite a near namesake, Redox is NOT a relaxing bath - more like an invigorating cold shower! In case you don't yet know, these half punk/half hippy staples of the Oxford music scene play psych blues workouts of some energy. It's the kicking rhythm section; it's the soaring FX-laden guitar of Phil Fryer; it's the frankly insane vocals (Sue Smith=Grace Slick + Janis Joplin + Ari Up). As the organisors, they happily step in tonight after a cancellation, and we're happy too. they even play two new songs.

They sound like the old songs, but who cares?

The Drugsquad has been away for a couple of years, but people seem happy to have them back. There are lots of them, they look like "characters", and they may or may not be stoned. Now, considering that this genre (ska-punk, we guess) is a fair way from my favourites, The Drugsquad do a pretty nifty job of making me nod and wobble appreciatively.

Whilst the lead singer can't really sing, he makes up for it in charisma, and the band is nice and tight, in a pleasingly loose way, if you follow me. Numbers like "Happy Pill" get The Wheatsheaf bouncing, but the true stars are the two-man brass section who play acid horn stabs, spiralling sax breaks and searing trumpet solos at every opportunity.

And, yes, I do know that the saxophone is actually a woodwind, thank you very much...

Redox Bath

It does seem as though I've done a lot of reviews at Klub Kak gigs over the years, doesn't it? This is another 2nd rate review, with a pig awful opening salvo. My editors were clearly very forgiving (or desperate) in those days.

VIGILANCE BLACK SPECIAL/ REDOX/ OPAQUE - Klub Kakofanney, 7/11/03

There's probably a picture of Opaque in the dictionary under "Variable". Except who ever heard of a dictionary with pictures? Maybe an encyclopaedia - although they don't tend to define adjectives...anyway, Opaque's accordion-driven folk-pop is of mixed quality: half slinky Cajun slither (Yay!), and half creaky, crusty drop-in centre dirge (Boo!). Aside from a few rhythm section clunkers, the vocals are the main problem, yowled with the self conscious sincerity you might expect from a singing picket line. Having said that, their penultimate tune is a Madness style rocker, and it's worth remembering that this is their first gig. Why not give them a try?

It's pretty hard to dislike Phil and Sue, the Kakafanneers, because they tirelessly promote music with an infectious enthusiasm. Still, Redox, their occasional hippy-punk-blues-folk band, can easily stand on its own merits, thank you. Tonight the storming phased guitar howls, the psychedelic projections, the skintight drumming (from studio legend Tim Turan, no less) and the sense of barely controlled chaos inspire thoughts of what Warhol's Exploding Plastic Inevitable would have been like if it were invented in a barn in Wantage. They even boast that rarest of beasts, a decent didjeridoo player. Support them, because Redox is a local treasure, and what's more, they aren't surrounded by gawking tourists for five months of the year.

Vigilance Black Special remind me of The Rock Of Travolta. Whoooah, there, post-rockers - it's only because everybody in the county seems to love them, but to me they're terribly workmanlike and unimaginative. VBS are dark noir-country balladeers, something akin to a spooky Goldrush without the swagger or beautiful vocals, or a Nick Cave without the stage presence or tunes. There's nothing fundamentally wrong with that, but there doesn't appear to be much to add. The trombone is a lovely touch, admittedly, but only highlights the lack of imagination in the rest of the music.

If this were thier debut, I'd say that there was plenty of potential, but the fact is that they've been around for yonks, and still sound as tedious as they did when I saw them at The Point over three years ago. Nothing special.

Temporal Uncertainty

I have no idea when this was from. The edition of OHM inexplicably has no date on the front (it also has no writer credits for each review, for some reason). It does claim to be Volume II, Issue 2, but then so did the one I was looking at last time I posted from OHM, so who's to say? Bloody amateurs.

Klub Kak again, I'm so predictable, aren't I? The Smug Jugglers, by the way, were an atrocious band, but they were nice guys who used to fill in for KK whenever anyone pulled out, which is why I've seen them all too many times. Suitable Case were an amazing Beefheartian gospel metal band, whose singer Liam (now in Mephisto Grande, an amazing Beefheartian gospel - you get the idea) has some gnashers missing. Wierdly, Rus from Phyal ended up in Eduard Soundingblock, another post-SCFT act. Endlessly fascinating, I'm sure.

Oh, look at that, Lagrima pop up again. I used to like them, but they've spit up now (literally: they were a couple).

LAGRIMA/PHYAL, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, Feb 2004?

Off once again to the wonderful Klub Kakofanney, Oxford's longest running live music night. You never know quite what you'll get at Kak - except that there's about a 50/50 chance that The Smug Jugglers are playing - which is part of the pleasure. Lagrima start the evening, and do it extremely well, tickling the small crowd with a handful of light, sublte, slightly flamecoid jazz-folk numbers. The vocals are warm, smoky and deliciously low and intimate, even if the body they come out of looks like it would be more comfortable some place else; the acoustic guitar is beautifully played, with so many counterpoint lines and percussive elements it sounds like a whole band's locked in the fretboard. I've a sneaking suspicion that they let their talent do the work occasionally, and it would be nice to hear some risks taken in the more straightforward tunes, but they certainly go down pleasantly with a pint of Guinness, that's for sure.

Phyal, by contrast, trade a neat line in Market Town Metal. Admittedly I've invented that genre, but you get the idea: tuneful heavy rock performed with gusto, led by a singer who's clearly studied The I-Spy Book Of Rock-Chickery quite closely. The first, and best, song with its tight funky rhythm section, sounds a little like the Chili Peppers wrestling with Evanescence over an antediluvian goth tune.

There's a mid-90s concern with a vocal melody on display, but it's bolstered with some firy guitar work, which keeps things interesting, although pretty much all the songs seem to carve the same sort of shape, and a little time spent arranging might move Phyal up a gear. Still, if Suitable Case For Treatment are too noisy for you, why not give Phyal a testdrive? They have a more melodic approach and all their own teeth.

Old Kak

Klub Kak is one of my favourite promoters to review, because even if the acts are average, the organisors and customers tend to be pretty fascinating patchwork of oddity, so there's always something to write about! This is an old article from OHM, a long defunct, but rather good, music magazine

THE EPSTEIN/ TSUNAMI/ TWIZZ TWANGLE, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 3/9/04

Trying to write a critical evaluation of a Twizz Twangle gig is as awkward as jimmying a lock with a lime jelly, and about as useful: Dan Eisenhandler truly ploughs his own furrow, then rolls about in it, howling. Tonight he growls, yelps, parps on a trumpet, creates walls of feedback, crawls on the floor, and generally does whatever comes into his big bald head. His beleaguered backing band is left trying to hold things together, whilst Dan rips apart songs that were barely there in the first place.

Is it any good? No. Of course not. Are you insane? It's a load of old nonsense.

Did I enjoy it, and do I respect Twizz? Yes. Of course. Are you insane? How can one dislike such an unpredictable and joyfully chaotic show? Twizz Twangle is living proof that character and honesty are sometimes the most important things an artist can have. Though some tunes might be useful too, Dan...

After a twangling, Tsunami sound as tight as all hell! And that's fair enough, as they're a nice neat band, some slapdash guitar tuning notwithstanding. The vocalist is the lynchpin, with plenty of charisma and a high, vibrato-laden voice, but the whole bunch are decent performers. To be fair, the songs haven't exactly set up home in my head, though they're perfeclty good - think classic rock with a twist of 80s Bunnymen indie. Tsunami are a great support act; the test now is whether they can develop into something more memorable and move beyond that.

Can someone tell me why there's so much country music in Oxfordshire? Never could fathom that one. Anyway, The Epstein are comfortably top of the bunch (sorry, Goldrush), with a ton of lazy, shimmering songs, hung over rich syrupy vocals and generously coated with slide guitar: who needs authenticity when it sounds this good?

Anyway, by their standards tonight is a slightly messy affair, and the set doesn't quite hang together, but it's still a damned pleasant 45 minutes, with some beautiful melodies. Saddle up the hosses, boys, we're riding the whole herd to Didcot!

My Bunny Valentine

Something bang up to date now, a review from this month, printed in the most recent copy of Nightshift.

THE ORIGINAL RABBIT’S FOOT SPASM BAND/ SPACE HEROES OF THE PEOPLE/ PICTURE BOOK, Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 6/2/09



At their best Leeds’ Picture Book are a cross between Lamb and Sade (as in “Smooth Operator”, not 120 Days Of Sodom), at their worst they’re a load of old balaerics. They do show plenty of rhythmic inventiveness in their sleek techno pop, and a nice line in flatulent 80s keyboards, but the vocals aren’t able to breathe life into the songs; if they had an Alison Goldfrapp or a Roisin Murphy hamming it up we might be talking. Having said this, the last two tracks blow the rest of the set out of the water, the finale pitching keening violin against the synth hum, and single “Strangers” is a fussy bustle of dubstep keys and exuberant syn-drums that are half Karl Bartos and half Tito Puente. More like that, please.

Space Heroes Of The People have always been about balance. Their music is live enough to feel organic, and programmed enough to seem inhuman; the sound is minimalist enough to be hypnotic, but compact enough to class them as an ace pop band. It’s a tough tightrope to walk, but tonight they nonchalantly saunter across, possibly stopping midway for a somersault or two. Perhaps it was the live vocals, perhaps it was the unexpectedly meaty Sabbathesque half time sections, perhaps it was the righteously hefty sound that the engineer coaxed from them, but this was a superb set. We just can’t shake the image of Maggie Philbin coming onstage halfway through “Barbie Is A Robot” to explain what a vocoder is.

The Original Rabbit’s Foot Spasm Band are not at all original, but everything else about them is fantastic. They play 30s jazz songs, but we feel as if we’re in a sordid sweaty speakeasy, not some horrific sanitised tea dance. These songs (“Mack The Knife”, “The Sheik Of Araby”) are about sex, narcotics and impossibly louche tailoring, and they should be treated with the dirt they deserve, not emasculated by legions of function jazzers. The Spasmers get to grips with the soul of the music through riotous trumpet, rasping sax, and by being heroically, Biblically, drunk. This, my friends is the authentic sound of New Orleans…possibly during the hurricane.