A Terminally Negative Review

The other review from the issue of O to the H to the motherfucking M (homeboy) that had no date. Or any writer credits. Embarrassing. But it did have a cartoon on the back of my good chum Alastair (see link to the right) nailed to a cross and talking about Goblin soundtracks and Spaceballs, so it's all good. Can't believe I thought the laptopia line was clever, and as for the summing up...

CATHODE - Oxford Contemporary Music, Modern Art Oxford, Feb04?

This is the latest in Oxford Contemporary Music's latest short series of concerts at Modern Art Oxford, and it promises music and visuals from Cathode. Maybe one day in a dream world (a laptopia?) everyone will carry a little computer around and be able to trigger fascinating audio and visual at the flick of a mouse, but as yet performances of this sort seem to be let down by one of the elemtents.

For Cathode, it's the visuals that disappoint. They're quite pleasant, as a bunch of fuzzily pretty abstracts generally are, but they aren't startlingly original, and don't bear any relation to the music. Never mind, though, because the music has plenty to offer on its own terms. Presented as one continuous track, it covers a wide range of techno and its subsidiary genres. The first piece (or at least the first ten minutes or so) has its roots in the late '90s Warp output (don't they all?), but added some interesting treatments of the style typified by Mego, or Mille Plateaux. High pitched squeaks flashed on the ears like light refelcted from icicles, whilst scuffed clicks nagged the edges. The effect was spellbinding.

Sadly, the next 35 minutes never quite lived up to this opening salvo, being hampered by slightly more obvious rhythmic loops, and mildly poppy keyboard sounds. The worst moments arrived when the fat fours bass drum kicked in, leaving the performer no other developmental options than volume, which became overbearing in the small MAO cafe. Still, if we forgive a handful of lumpy drum machine patterns, Cathode is an artist with a firm grasp of a vast range of textures and sonorities, and one more capable than most of constructing longform musical narratives without getting lost or going in circles. I'd recommend going to see him, or any of the enlighteneing MAO events.

Absolutely Frabjous!

I think this was only my second Nightshift review. The Brotherton bit was, probably rightly, excised from the printed version.

JABERWOK/ RICHARD BROTHERTON/ WHERE I'M CALLING FROM, G Bar, Delicious Music, 10/04

The Daily Mail might be certain that exams are getting easier, but here at Miserable Critics Central it's as tough as ever to get a good review, even if you're still at school. Luckily, Where I'm Calling From score higly on any scale, and considering they're only 17, that's a real achievement.

The performance is good rather than outstanding, but they have a wealth of songwriting ideas and are honing a most individual voice for themselves. It's a sensitive but muscular indie sound, a chunky cross between Belle & Sebastian and The Wedding Present: one tune even sounds like "Brimful Of Asha" rewritten by The Smiths, which is a great concept. Granted, there are faults - some clunky rhythm work, a few Idlewild doldrums, the singer's infuriating mannerisms - but I'll forgive them. Call me patronising, but it's refreshing to see teenagers making such interesting, assured music.

Richard Brotherton thankfully leaves The Gs at home and plays an acoustic blues set. Can;t tell you more as WICF's friends talked loufly all the way through. Knew I hated kids really.

Funk zen teaches, "first learn how to play, Groovehopper, then learn when not to play". Jaberwok have missed the second clause, attempting music built entirely from crescendoes. Don't they know the best dance music is based on anticipation? Still, they may lack restraint, but their acid jazz meets P-funk set is enjoyable. Perhaps the instrumental section fares best, improbably melding JTQ, Baby Ford and Pink Floyd, and rugs begin to be cut.

All good, and slightly ordinary, fun, but then from nowhere the band morphs into a supertight acid-frazzled beast for the last three numbers, getting twice as intrictae and five times as funky without warning. So I cross out all my notes and watch those rugs getting properly shredded. It goes to show you never can tell, as old folk like me sometimes say.

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...

The Deaf Watchmaker

If you read this and get excited about The Port Mahon, I'm afraid it hasn't existed since last December. If you read this and get excited about a song based around God's camera, I'm afraid the song actually turned out to be about Mr T Walpole, mentioned in the first paragraph. If you read this and think it's shit, I'm afraid that www.oxfordbands.com is still going strong, and I still write reviews for them.

THE BLACK WATCH/ PAT FISH/ ANTON BARBEAU/ THE NEW MOON - The Port Mahon, 14/7/05

They're all out tonight. Local madcap poet Terry Walpole is gyrating about brandishing a hefty crucifix. A white-haired gent is sitting with his ear pressed against the PA cabinet, like a master safe-cracker. A man next to me has come up to see the bands "in case any of them sound like The Saw Doctors". It's warming up to be a fun night.

The New Moon opens proceedings. I'm starting to warm to their acoustic cabaret, which wobbles continually between the sentimental and the cerebral. With songs about "dark matter" and God's Kodak (possibly), they look and sound like two chemistry teachers who have thought up a double act in a desperate attempt to interest the class, then realised they have a real knack for performing and thrown away the old textbooks and retort stands.

Am I getting carried away with that image? Well, it's that sort of night. Next up we have US visitor Anton Barbeau. How he survives in laidback California I'll never know - he'd look excitable at a convention of extreme caffeine abusers in a room with a very hot floor. Bounding around the stage, swinging his tiny guitar and barely getting his words out in a flurry of excitement, he cuts an imposing figure. But despite the slightly overbearing zaniness, his songs actually have an unexpected melodic elegance, recalling the better pop of the early 70s: the main reference that popped into my head was George Harrison. Oh, and The Grumbleweeds.

Pat Fish used to be The Jazz Butcher, and made a bout a million albums years ago, most notably for Creation. He's still going strong, knocking up backing tracks in his house and performing songs for us on his guitar - in fact, he only dredges up one old Butcher tune. The rhythms are hardly the height of technology - it sounds like he made them on an Amiga - but the simplicity and homeliness add to the effect. A few tracks veer close to sounding like muzak versions of New Order, but in general the communicative effect of these well-written songs trumps the paucity of the sonic palette. A warm welcome back.

Finally, one fifth of The Black Watch - a cult band, apparently - takes the stage. Again, "unpretentious" is probably the best word to describe the show. That's "unpretentious", but definitely not "unintelligent" or "unadventurous". Perhaps the songs were a little less immediate than anybody else's tonight, but they were presented with such humourous camp sincerity that concentration isn't a chore.

All the acts tonight are wrestling something unique from the sparsest of materials, and I can't help but be reminded of the improvised music of the previous night. You know, for all its limitations, sometimes The Port Mahon seems like the best venue in town.

Oh yes, Saw Doctors man enjoyed it in the end, too.

Narc Psychoses

This is probably the only record review I did for OHM. No idea why that should be, I think I was always at the bar whenever the CDs were handed out, or something. This is, err, short.

THE DRUGSQUAD - FAT FISH (Demo)

A drunk man with a cane keeps falling over.

Now, that's not too funny to read, but on screen it's a classic Charlie Chaplin routine. You get a similar problem with translation when lively party bands come offstage to make recordings, and ska-punk fools The Drugsquad are no exception. No matter how hard they play "Speed Queen", for example, the laundrophiliac* mariachi tune is a shadow of its live self.

Still, there's plenty to like in the stabbing horns, the abrasive drumming and the wonky keyboards, redolent of Steve Naive at his most irreverent: only the vocals don't quite convince. So, don't buy the demo, but see them live, and meet the title track in the flesh, where it sounds like a ditty from Playschool gone very bad. Imagine Floella Benjamin and Brian Cant full of cheap speed and tequila. Now try to stop...

*In love with a washing machine.

There's A Pnak To It

Over at www.oxfordbands.com there's a Punt review by some of the old OHM writers, and it's the first time we've worked together for about 5 years. Exciting stuff. Not for you, for us. A little. Briefly.

Anyway, here's a slight Nightshift review from a little over a year ago - seems like the other day. Also, policemen look young now, Wagon Wheels used to nbe much bigger and Tom Baker was the best Dr Who. Time for my nap...

ELAPSE-O/ PLEASE/ PNAK – Coo Coo Club & Permanent Vacation, The Bully, 6/12/07

We’ve often supposed that Autechre came up with their song titles when they were losing at Scrabble - “Of course it’s a word, it’s a track on our new album!” – and Pnak must have got their name from the same place. Names, however, seem unimportant when the first track consists of gloriously greasy electronic tones smeared over some sprightly drumming, and sounds like Fripp & Eno’s No Pussyfooting being played at the same time as Teach Yourself Afrobeat. A couple of vocal loops aside this sets the tone for the whole of Pnak’s deeply satisfying performance. The abstract tones that are generated from a single Casio keyboard are incredibly visceral and inventive, and even if the drums could do with being a little more decisive, the effect is a surefire winner.

The more pronounceable Please use two tremolo-heavy guitars and a pounding drumkit to make the sort of cross-eyed rockabilly you might get if The Blue Orchids tried to play The Shadows. We find ourselves deeply in favour of this, at least until one of them starts singing, and a random selection of squeaks, groans and burps gets in the way of what could be knockout instrumentals. Shut your mouth, boy, and you’ve got a hell of a band.

Local experimental favourites Elapse-O get rid of the drums, and play seriously fuzzed and reverbed guitar and bass over chugging pre-recorded rhythms, whilst the odd 50s ultra-slapback vocal makes an appearance. The formula is one part shoegazing hum to two parts Suicide’s plastic Elvis trundle, which ought to be a recipe for sonic success, but ends up dull, grey and rather annoying. Perhaps the slightly flat sound of a nearly empty Bully sucked some of the life from the set, but it doesn’t look as though they had much suckable life at the outset. This gig didn’t entice, excite or develop, it just elapsed.

Oh.

Cache On Demand

Another godawful review from the BBC days. Rubbishness all my own work, incidentally, I'm not trying to blame the editor. I can't remember this band at all, bar the name. Luckily I wrote a vague and unmemorable review to match.

CACHE - The Wheatsheaf, 4/03

There's a sizable knot of people snugly standing in The Wheatsheaf waiting for the arrival of Cache. Support act Oakland Majesty Revival has warmed everyone up nicely with their bluesy 70s style pop show, and a selection of tunes far more neat and compact than their unwieldy name.

The crowd are pretty soon entranced, though, by the opening bars of Cache's first number, "Alchemical Cruise". Their stock in trade is a spangly, slow burning jazz club pop, with some quiet beautiful and sultry vocals. As such there's a touch of Eddi Reader, a whole swathe of Edie Brickell, and even a hint of Lloyd Cole.

The songs are built around both acoustic and muted electric guitars backed up by a selection of subtle sounds from the keyboards, and a couple of recorder and trumpet breaks, both played by the singer.

Lovely stuff, in short, but sometimes lovely just isn't enough. Maybe it's my jaded ears, but after the first few tracks "subtle" became "overly polite", ethereal edged towards "pedestrian", and "snug and lowlit" decayed into "dingy and crowded".

Cache are very talented musicians and songwriters who are clearly on top of their game. Unfortunately, their game at times resembles a drizzly no score draw. Perhaps with some more training they might suprise us next season. Perhaps they should work on stamina, as legs seemed to tire rather swiftly.

Perhaps this metaphor has gone on long enough - I don't even know anything about football.