Once again, this is a review I can barely recall writing, even though it was penned only about 18 months ago. It's not a bad review, I suppose: though if I don't find it memorable nobody else will...unless The Youngs Plan are still seething, of course. One question raises itself: can a worm "crawl"? or do you need limbs for the crawling option? Will we never find those golden answers we so seek?
THE YOUNGS PLAN – EVENINGTALK
Like disjointed bones heaped together in some elephants’ graveyard of song, this EP feels like a jumbled collection of tricks, tropes, riffs and motives thrown together with little thought to the holistic effect. For this is “post-rock”, in its slash and cut, mix and match guise, which is so jerkily unfocused as to come off more like “arock”, if we’re talking prefixes. Not that we’re frightened of challenging, complex music, mind – but simply having lots of little bits doesn’t make something complex; otherwise a bag of pebbles would be complex. At least you could use a bag of pebbles as a weapon, whereas this EP comes off limp and ineffective.
Which is all a terrible, terrible pity, as The Youngs Plan can make a powerful noise live. We’ve seen them twice, and it was well worth the effort. This is doubly impressive as they’re relatively young musicians (hence the name? Will they hang around long enough for it to become an incongruous embarrassment, like Sonic Youth?), who clearly have a fine grasp of their sound, and who play together with an easy grace that belies their years.
The vocals on the recording are rather reedy and broken, often grasping at the note and dropping back down with the booby prize, but the rest of the playing is consummate at every turn – especially the bass – check the almost funky elisions at the start of “Our Getaway Car”, or the cheeky worms of sound that crawl around the start of “Moths”. Sadly all this playing is going to waste, and every time they click into something interesting, it’s immediately abandoned in favour of a twiddly guitar figure or, worse, a Biffy Clyro wasteland. Tragically, the only time they do stay on target, it’s simply to endlessly chant in Jonquilised non-harmony, the line “the rocks that we threw in the river”, which isn’t a line that becomes more profound with repetition.
They say that bands have the whole of their lives to write their first record, and often a mere few months to pen the follow up, which is why second albums are often disappointing. Well, TYP seem to be crowbarring every idea they’ve had so far into this EP, in an excited jumble; perhaps the next record shall offer a more spacious, thought out affair in which their talents can shine. It’s disappointing to be so unimpressed with a record by a band so brimming with potential, but this EP feel s like a trek down a long and dusty road – it’s a tedious trudge no matter how many arbitrary twists and turns are thrown in.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
MAOism
I thought this had been lost. It probably should have been. Absolute guff that even the BBC website wouldn't print. Still, in the interests of archaeology I'll tap it in again for you now. This is quite old - MOMA is now called Modern Art Oxford, The Pit in Witney is long gone, and I don't think the Cafe Varvara name is used any more; OCM still do good early evening gigs there, however, that I heartily recommend.
MARTIN SPEAKE/ COLIN OXLEY - Oxford Contemporary Music, Cafe Varvara
Aah, comfy seats!
The Varvara Cafe at MOMAis certainly a higher class of venue than one normally experiences in Oxford - slouching on a leather sofa in a tidy whitewashed basement has got to be better than getting stuck up some punk's armpit in The Pit. Can't get a pint though...
This short series of concerts, organised by Oxford Contemporary Music, is certainly worth visiting if you fancy broadening your musical palette on a Thursday afternoon: the next few weeks boast folk, jazz and 20th century percussion works, all for £2.
Martin Speake's damascene moment was hearing Ornette Coleman, causing him to jack in his job and pick up the saxophone. On this afternoon's showing, Ornette has left his mark on Speake in approach rather than sound, as glistening fluent lines are in evidence, rather than obtuse firy blowing.
At first there's a slight crunch around the corners, elegant phrases not quite flowing together, mostly due to some hesitant guitar from Colin Oxley - apparently, they haven't played together for months, which may explain it. However, after the second track things begin to gel, and the remainder of the set sees them locked together intricately, especially on the third tune, Wayne Shorter's "Deluge".
It's these ever-so-slightly spikier compositions that serve them best, saving them from polite jazz purgatory, eg that terrible yet inevitable moment when Jan Garbarek stops sounding like an austere wide-angle tundra, and starts sounding like Kenny G. Soon they are tackling be-bop squiggle, show tune balladry and even "Suicide Is Painless" with effortless panache.
Admittedly, this duo isn't going to revolutionaise jazz, but it's a pleasure to see two musicians play together with such delicacy and intelligence. This would certainly be a revelation to anyone whose only experience of quieter jazz is the three automata dawdling through "Summertime" for half an hour at every college ball in Oxford's history.
MARTIN SPEAKE/ COLIN OXLEY - Oxford Contemporary Music, Cafe Varvara
Aah, comfy seats!
The Varvara Cafe at MOMAis certainly a higher class of venue than one normally experiences in Oxford - slouching on a leather sofa in a tidy whitewashed basement has got to be better than getting stuck up some punk's armpit in The Pit. Can't get a pint though...
This short series of concerts, organised by Oxford Contemporary Music, is certainly worth visiting if you fancy broadening your musical palette on a Thursday afternoon: the next few weeks boast folk, jazz and 20th century percussion works, all for £2.
Martin Speake's damascene moment was hearing Ornette Coleman, causing him to jack in his job and pick up the saxophone. On this afternoon's showing, Ornette has left his mark on Speake in approach rather than sound, as glistening fluent lines are in evidence, rather than obtuse firy blowing.
At first there's a slight crunch around the corners, elegant phrases not quite flowing together, mostly due to some hesitant guitar from Colin Oxley - apparently, they haven't played together for months, which may explain it. However, after the second track things begin to gel, and the remainder of the set sees them locked together intricately, especially on the third tune, Wayne Shorter's "Deluge".
It's these ever-so-slightly spikier compositions that serve them best, saving them from polite jazz purgatory, eg that terrible yet inevitable moment when Jan Garbarek stops sounding like an austere wide-angle tundra, and starts sounding like Kenny G. Soon they are tackling be-bop squiggle, show tune balladry and even "Suicide Is Painless" with effortless panache.
Admittedly, this duo isn't going to revolutionaise jazz, but it's a pleasure to see two musicians play together with such delicacy and intelligence. This would certainly be a revelation to anyone whose only experience of quieter jazz is the three automata dawdling through "Summertime" for half an hour at every college ball in Oxford's history.
Saturday, 9 January 2010
Reverse Spam
Audioscope is an annual chairty all-dayer of leftfield music, and I'm an enormous admirer, the events are always fun. Peppers Burgers is in Jericho, Oxford, and also gets my seal of approval. There you go, a day out constructed for autumn 2010 - you never know, you might even get to meet me if you do it...
AUDIOSCOPE – Jericho, 17/10/09
Audioscope’s reputation as an austere day of difficult music is smashed in seconds by Bitches, who may have had a liquid lunch. Their music has rock riffs and punk noise, but exhibits an eerie lack of propulsion, feeling excellently like a drunken Fluxus take on an early Sebadoh rehearsal. Cats & Cats & Cats charmingly announce that they hope to get their single into “the indie charts” which makes us feel at least ten years younger. They play a pleasant set of contempo-folk introspection, which is rather spoilt by unsuccessful leaps into grandiloquent climaxes, turning them into Arcade Embers. Talons turn out to be much better at the Godspeed crescendos and have two excellent violinists, but could do with some of Cats’ songs to retain interest. Call it a draw.
Worcester’s Theo loops tricksy Don Caballero guitar licks and accompanies himself fluently on drums, and this Billy Nomates Mahonie turns out to be our set of the day. He has some trouble with guitar leads and drum pedals, but we cynically wonder whether he fiddles with them deliberately to hide the fact he hasn’t quite worked out how to end his songs.
Ute have come leagues since we saw them in January, mixing rousing folk songs that wouldn’t be out of place during the miner’s strike with tremulous indie delicacy, before unexpectedly flipping out and going all Shellac unplugged. Occasional Thom Yorke vocal moments are less satisfying, but the set is a winner. Audioscope favourites Bilge Pump proffer the closest thing to sonic extremity on this year’s bill, with their well- honed take on post-McClusky artcore, and it’s fine but Bronnt Industries Kapital is far more exciting. He opens with what may as well have been an excerpt from Blade Runner, synching faultlessly with the video projections, that are like being overtaken on the autobahn by Petronus charms. He keeps up the Vangelist approach for some excellently sleek mid-80s synth romps, headbutting the keyboard to inject some John Foxx drama. The Ferris Bueller shades are a step too far, however.
We get a brief palate cleanser before the headliners, as Glasgow’s Remember Remember folds looped glockenspiel and melodica motifs in on themselves like Fuck Buttons lost in Toytown, which sets us up nicely for the disappointment of The Longcut. There’s nothing hugely wrong with mixing New Order with Doves and throwing a bit of NY funk over the top, but it seems that every third band in 2009 sounded exactly like this. The Longcut still don’t upset us too much until something sounding like Editors playing “I Feel Love” drives us to the bar.
We ask the organisors why they don’t have anyone famous on this year’s bill, like Kid 606, Clinic or a krautrock legend, to be told that Mercury nominees Maps are better known in the real world than those other acts put together. It comes as no surprise that we lost our grip on the public’s taste years ago, but it is eyebrow raising that they’ve gone for something that sounds so much like The Beloved. That is, when they don’t sound like Crystal Castles played by Candy Flip. Nothing revolutionary here, then, but Maps play a warm and unhurried set of comedown electropop that makes us wish we were watching at four am in a room made entirely from pillows and Gummi Bears, until we’re absolute converts. We were all set to bemoan the lack of a Shit & Shine, Parts & Labour or Datapanik epiphany, until we realised that the least adventurous Audioscope lineup had perhaps become the most consistent, and good music’s what matters ultimately, not its obscurity. That and the £1700 raised for Shelter, and an excuse to subsist on beer and Pepper’s burgers for a day.
AUDIOSCOPE – Jericho, 17/10/09
Audioscope’s reputation as an austere day of difficult music is smashed in seconds by Bitches, who may have had a liquid lunch. Their music has rock riffs and punk noise, but exhibits an eerie lack of propulsion, feeling excellently like a drunken Fluxus take on an early Sebadoh rehearsal. Cats & Cats & Cats charmingly announce that they hope to get their single into “the indie charts” which makes us feel at least ten years younger. They play a pleasant set of contempo-folk introspection, which is rather spoilt by unsuccessful leaps into grandiloquent climaxes, turning them into Arcade Embers. Talons turn out to be much better at the Godspeed crescendos and have two excellent violinists, but could do with some of Cats’ songs to retain interest. Call it a draw.
Worcester’s Theo loops tricksy Don Caballero guitar licks and accompanies himself fluently on drums, and this Billy Nomates Mahonie turns out to be our set of the day. He has some trouble with guitar leads and drum pedals, but we cynically wonder whether he fiddles with them deliberately to hide the fact he hasn’t quite worked out how to end his songs.
Ute have come leagues since we saw them in January, mixing rousing folk songs that wouldn’t be out of place during the miner’s strike with tremulous indie delicacy, before unexpectedly flipping out and going all Shellac unplugged. Occasional Thom Yorke vocal moments are less satisfying, but the set is a winner. Audioscope favourites Bilge Pump proffer the closest thing to sonic extremity on this year’s bill, with their well- honed take on post-McClusky artcore, and it’s fine but Bronnt Industries Kapital is far more exciting. He opens with what may as well have been an excerpt from Blade Runner, synching faultlessly with the video projections, that are like being overtaken on the autobahn by Petronus charms. He keeps up the Vangelist approach for some excellently sleek mid-80s synth romps, headbutting the keyboard to inject some John Foxx drama. The Ferris Bueller shades are a step too far, however.
We get a brief palate cleanser before the headliners, as Glasgow’s Remember Remember folds looped glockenspiel and melodica motifs in on themselves like Fuck Buttons lost in Toytown, which sets us up nicely for the disappointment of The Longcut. There’s nothing hugely wrong with mixing New Order with Doves and throwing a bit of NY funk over the top, but it seems that every third band in 2009 sounded exactly like this. The Longcut still don’t upset us too much until something sounding like Editors playing “I Feel Love” drives us to the bar.
We ask the organisors why they don’t have anyone famous on this year’s bill, like Kid 606, Clinic or a krautrock legend, to be told that Mercury nominees Maps are better known in the real world than those other acts put together. It comes as no surprise that we lost our grip on the public’s taste years ago, but it is eyebrow raising that they’ve gone for something that sounds so much like The Beloved. That is, when they don’t sound like Crystal Castles played by Candy Flip. Nothing revolutionary here, then, but Maps play a warm and unhurried set of comedown electropop that makes us wish we were watching at four am in a room made entirely from pillows and Gummi Bears, until we’re absolute converts. We were all set to bemoan the lack of a Shit & Shine, Parts & Labour or Datapanik epiphany, until we realised that the least adventurous Audioscope lineup had perhaps become the most consistent, and good music’s what matters ultimately, not its obscurity. That and the £1700 raised for Shelter, and an excuse to subsist on beer and Pepper’s burgers for a day.
Thursday, 7 January 2010
The Dicks Of Hazard
The internet is well handy, eh? I mean we all know this, but I recall writing this review, about 5 years ago, and I wasn't online at home in those days I know I wanted to refer to Gwen Stefani, but I just simply could not recall her name. Mental block. Took me blooming hours of mental pummeling to get it; nowadays when that happens Google will solve the problem in seconds. Now I never remember anything. Why bother?
AT RISK - FAITH IN FAIRYTALES (Quickfix)
At Risk's press release claim they've been "cohesifying their sound". Alright, linguistic pedant I may be but this awkward and uncomfortable word says a lot about At Risk, who have the germ of being an enjoyably bouncy goth pop band, but scupper it all with an ungainly clumsiness. Take "As Lines Blur". Opening with some insistent drums it threatens to make an impact, but soon fails to get its sludgy two-chord arse into gear and ends up waddling to the finish line in a sort of post-prandial amble. A few uninspired vocal melodies aside it would work quite neatly if the edges were sharpened and the surfaces scuffed, but, like an overweight jogger, the song runs our of puff after the first few moments and ends up plodding along harmlessly. Similarly, closing tune "The Rundown" conjures an effective air of menace at the outset, with a nursery simple melody underpinned by taut snare rhythms, but all the effort of building an atmosphere proves too much, and it soon slips back into an unsubtle would-be anthemic chorus. A healthy dose of energy is all that's needed to make these songs listenable.
That's not to say that At Risk have absolutely nothing to offer. In Cat they have a wonderfully insouciant, ennui-soaked vocalist who drapes herself seductively just the right side of flat, and if she occasionally comes across like Gwen Stefani's lazy younger sister, this is probably because none of the vocal lines are that exciting. Standout track "Frostbite" indicates what they might be capable of, creating a pleasantly hazy Madder Rose feel that is augmented by some dramatic yet ungratuitous voilin phrases as the climax.
Sadly this release doesn't have any of the danger, ugliness and brooding menace we expect from a CD with a dead rose on the front, by a band with a professed love of melodic goth and "sexual deviancy". It all sounds a bit exhausted and resolutely unthreatnening. The fairytales in which At Risk place their faith are surely not the dark, twisted psychodramas of the Brothers Grimm; more likely a shiny knock off from The Works, full of bright, ugly illustrations and drab stories about anthropomorphic fishmonger pigs losing thier wallets.
AT RISK - FAITH IN FAIRYTALES (Quickfix)
At Risk's press release claim they've been "cohesifying their sound". Alright, linguistic pedant I may be but this awkward and uncomfortable word says a lot about At Risk, who have the germ of being an enjoyably bouncy goth pop band, but scupper it all with an ungainly clumsiness. Take "As Lines Blur". Opening with some insistent drums it threatens to make an impact, but soon fails to get its sludgy two-chord arse into gear and ends up waddling to the finish line in a sort of post-prandial amble. A few uninspired vocal melodies aside it would work quite neatly if the edges were sharpened and the surfaces scuffed, but, like an overweight jogger, the song runs our of puff after the first few moments and ends up plodding along harmlessly. Similarly, closing tune "The Rundown" conjures an effective air of menace at the outset, with a nursery simple melody underpinned by taut snare rhythms, but all the effort of building an atmosphere proves too much, and it soon slips back into an unsubtle would-be anthemic chorus. A healthy dose of energy is all that's needed to make these songs listenable.
That's not to say that At Risk have absolutely nothing to offer. In Cat they have a wonderfully insouciant, ennui-soaked vocalist who drapes herself seductively just the right side of flat, and if she occasionally comes across like Gwen Stefani's lazy younger sister, this is probably because none of the vocal lines are that exciting. Standout track "Frostbite" indicates what they might be capable of, creating a pleasantly hazy Madder Rose feel that is augmented by some dramatic yet ungratuitous voilin phrases as the climax.
Sadly this release doesn't have any of the danger, ugliness and brooding menace we expect from a CD with a dead rose on the front, by a band with a professed love of melodic goth and "sexual deviancy". It all sounds a bit exhausted and resolutely unthreatnening. The fairytales in which At Risk place their faith are surely not the dark, twisted psychodramas of the Brothers Grimm; more likely a shiny knock off from The Works, full of bright, ugly illustrations and drab stories about anthropomorphic fishmonger pigs losing thier wallets.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
Punt & Jury
Interesting one, this. A lot of lukewarm reviews of acts that have grown in stature in the interim. Except 32, who are probablys still atrocious - don't think they've played a gig since this. Don't know how they managed to blag this, to be honest. Must be very nice young lads, or possibly schooled in mesmerism.
THE PUNT 2007, various venues
Jessica Goyder’s Joni-Mitchell-meets-jazz tunes are as light, sweet and frothy as a cappuccino topping, and she plays them with great dexterity. But we’re telling you this because we already knew it, not because we heard it at The Punt, where a weedy PA turned Jessica’s Minnie Ripperton scatting into the sound of an adenoidal, constipated Clanger. I know Borders is hardly Knebworth, but really the sound of pages turning shouldn’t be as loud as the music…
Mr. Shaodow seems to have found the volume control, but has inadvertently stumbled across a slapback sound that would make Sun Studios cream. Not really what a rapper wants, we’d have thought. Still, Shaodow overcomes such obstacles with a confident performance of his literate and amusing tracks. Musically it’s superb, but Shaodow really wants to work on his stage patter, he comes off like a desperate Butlins comedian at times.
Thirty Two are repugnant. Ostensibly they’re metal, but the way the guitars chug through their chords with no sense of dynamics reminds us more of some twobit bar room blues band. At one point blue and red spotlights make the band look like they’re on one of those 80s 3D films; if only the music had the same illusion of depth.
Mondo Cada’s brutal grunge metal is just what we need to eradicate the memory of Thirty Two, and they deliver one of the best sets of the evening. Sludge riff bleurgh pounding psychedelic violence Eynsham psychosis rumbled: even sense and syntax cower before the might of Mondo.
Another unexpected treat comes in the shape of Joe Allen and Angharad Jenkins at the rather cramped QI bar. His songs are subtle and well-constructed, but it’s the fluid folky electric violin ladled over the top that really wins us over. It’s like a tiny bonsai Cropredy happening just for us! Joe might want to be careful that his neatly packaged angst doesn’t send him down the white slide to David Gray purgatory, but for now we’ll happily celebrate a great new voice in town.
The Colins Of Paradise is comfortably the worst band name at The Punt. They’re certainly no slouches as musicians, though, resolutely wheeling out light funk grooves with well-trained sax solos battling six string bass flourishes. If only it weren’t so horrifically trite and soulless, we’d be frugging away like anyone. Can we do our “Flaccid Jazz” joke again now, please?
It’s the vocals that make a lot of people wary of The Gullivers, but we think the bruised and awkward quality of Mark Byrne’s singing works rather well against the suburban punk thud of the music. Tonight’s performance is uneven, but lovable, like a gangly Dickensian urchin who’s grown out of his clothes.
Their music oscillates wonderfully between free improv dribbles and testifyin’ gospel rock, with occasional trudges into Tom Waits territory, and Mephisto Grande go down a storm at a crowded Purple Turtle. Much as we like them, it still feels more like half of SCFT than a proper band, but perhaps it’ll take time to heal the loss of one of our favourite Oxford groups.
Stornoway are possibly Oxford’s best band at the moment, and we love them. But when you’re listening to their delicate folk pop from the back of a packed Wheatsheaf, and not all the band are present, it’s hard to take much away from the experience.
And the other contender for top local band title comes from Borderville. If you tried to teach martians about rock music with nothing but videos of Tommy and the musical Buffy episode, a Rick Wakeman album and a scratchy 7” of “Ballroom Blitz” they’d probably turn out performances just like Borderville. Fun though Sexy Breakfast were it’s great to see Joe finding songs that really suit his voice, and a band who can be theatrical without being smug (well, OK, maybe a tiny bit smug). “Glambulance” calls for fists in the air, and for one night The Music Market is a Broadway theatre.
We only catch the last tune by The Mile High Young Team. It sounds pretty good, and certainly better than their rather overly polished recordings. It’s not much of response we suppose, but then Punt should leave you confused, dizzy, and possibly slightly drunk.
THE PUNT 2007, various venues
Jessica Goyder’s Joni-Mitchell-meets-jazz tunes are as light, sweet and frothy as a cappuccino topping, and she plays them with great dexterity. But we’re telling you this because we already knew it, not because we heard it at The Punt, where a weedy PA turned Jessica’s Minnie Ripperton scatting into the sound of an adenoidal, constipated Clanger. I know Borders is hardly Knebworth, but really the sound of pages turning shouldn’t be as loud as the music…
Mr. Shaodow seems to have found the volume control, but has inadvertently stumbled across a slapback sound that would make Sun Studios cream. Not really what a rapper wants, we’d have thought. Still, Shaodow overcomes such obstacles with a confident performance of his literate and amusing tracks. Musically it’s superb, but Shaodow really wants to work on his stage patter, he comes off like a desperate Butlins comedian at times.
Thirty Two are repugnant. Ostensibly they’re metal, but the way the guitars chug through their chords with no sense of dynamics reminds us more of some twobit bar room blues band. At one point blue and red spotlights make the band look like they’re on one of those 80s 3D films; if only the music had the same illusion of depth.
Mondo Cada’s brutal grunge metal is just what we need to eradicate the memory of Thirty Two, and they deliver one of the best sets of the evening. Sludge riff bleurgh pounding psychedelic violence Eynsham psychosis rumbled: even sense and syntax cower before the might of Mondo.
Another unexpected treat comes in the shape of Joe Allen and Angharad Jenkins at the rather cramped QI bar. His songs are subtle and well-constructed, but it’s the fluid folky electric violin ladled over the top that really wins us over. It’s like a tiny bonsai Cropredy happening just for us! Joe might want to be careful that his neatly packaged angst doesn’t send him down the white slide to David Gray purgatory, but for now we’ll happily celebrate a great new voice in town.
The Colins Of Paradise is comfortably the worst band name at The Punt. They’re certainly no slouches as musicians, though, resolutely wheeling out light funk grooves with well-trained sax solos battling six string bass flourishes. If only it weren’t so horrifically trite and soulless, we’d be frugging away like anyone. Can we do our “Flaccid Jazz” joke again now, please?
It’s the vocals that make a lot of people wary of The Gullivers, but we think the bruised and awkward quality of Mark Byrne’s singing works rather well against the suburban punk thud of the music. Tonight’s performance is uneven, but lovable, like a gangly Dickensian urchin who’s grown out of his clothes.
Their music oscillates wonderfully between free improv dribbles and testifyin’ gospel rock, with occasional trudges into Tom Waits territory, and Mephisto Grande go down a storm at a crowded Purple Turtle. Much as we like them, it still feels more like half of SCFT than a proper band, but perhaps it’ll take time to heal the loss of one of our favourite Oxford groups.
Stornoway are possibly Oxford’s best band at the moment, and we love them. But when you’re listening to their delicate folk pop from the back of a packed Wheatsheaf, and not all the band are present, it’s hard to take much away from the experience.
And the other contender for top local band title comes from Borderville. If you tried to teach martians about rock music with nothing but videos of Tommy and the musical Buffy episode, a Rick Wakeman album and a scratchy 7” of “Ballroom Blitz” they’d probably turn out performances just like Borderville. Fun though Sexy Breakfast were it’s great to see Joe finding songs that really suit his voice, and a band who can be theatrical without being smug (well, OK, maybe a tiny bit smug). “Glambulance” calls for fists in the air, and for one night The Music Market is a Broadway theatre.
We only catch the last tune by The Mile High Young Team. It sounds pretty good, and certainly better than their rather overly polished recordings. It’s not much of response we suppose, but then Punt should leave you confused, dizzy, and possibly slightly drunk.
Sunday, 3 January 2010
Whose Idea Was A Top 9, Anyway?
A change from the usual today, here are my favourite Oxon records of 2008, as posted on Oxfordbands.com. Quite hard to choose favourite records, as although I come across lots of new acts, I don't necessarily hear all the recordings, so it's an arbitrary list.
Not much else to say, so I'll leave you with this observation. You know that Gaviscon ad where a milky firemen surfs down a woman's throat, spraying pharmaceutical goodness around her oesophagus? Am I the only person who thinks that looks like the climax of some Trumpton blow job? I can't help seeing it as Fireman Sam's anthropomorphic ejaculate spurting down the gullet of some Pontypandy floozie. Sorry.
Edit: a quick trip to Google later, I realise I am not alone in forming this horrific image. I do feel better now.
TOP OXON RECORDINGS OF 2008
Les Clochards - Demo
"I get drunk and I forget things," alleges "Tango Borracho", but we won;t forget this eerie pop monologue. Edit - they released a full LP this year, and very good it is too, if you like wry Gallic cafe indie.
Ally Craig - "Angular Spirals" 7"
Wonky full band outing is lyrically obtuse but deeply lovable. We want a full LP!
Euhedral - Burned Out Visisons
Economy implodes! Venues close! "Hallelujah" raped" Never mind, watrm fuzzy drones wil make things better.
Family Machine - You Are The Family Machine
Yes, the songs are quite old now, but this brainy perk pop is as warming yet intoxicating as a pint of Drambuie.
Foals - Antidotes
Battles + Haricut 100 + studied funk artiness + stupid clothes = Blue Aeroplanes for the T4 generation.
Nonstop Tango - Maps & Dreams
Improv scamps impersonate Waits, on Oxford's least accurately named band's debut LP.
Space Heroes Of The People - "Motorway To Moscow"
Another cracking EP that sounds lovingly handmade and icily robotic simultaneously.
Tie Your Shoes To Your Knees & Pretend You're Small, Like Us - Demo
Journo baiting cockabout results in unexpected collaged fascination.
Stornoway - "On The Rocks"
New EP contrastingly reveals there's no end to this band's melodic invention, and that rag week humour really sucks.
Not much else to say, so I'll leave you with this observation. You know that Gaviscon ad where a milky firemen surfs down a woman's throat, spraying pharmaceutical goodness around her oesophagus? Am I the only person who thinks that looks like the climax of some Trumpton blow job? I can't help seeing it as Fireman Sam's anthropomorphic ejaculate spurting down the gullet of some Pontypandy floozie. Sorry.
Edit: a quick trip to Google later, I realise I am not alone in forming this horrific image. I do feel better now.
TOP OXON RECORDINGS OF 2008
Les Clochards - Demo
"I get drunk and I forget things," alleges "Tango Borracho", but we won;t forget this eerie pop monologue. Edit - they released a full LP this year, and very good it is too, if you like wry Gallic cafe indie.
Ally Craig - "Angular Spirals" 7"
Wonky full band outing is lyrically obtuse but deeply lovable. We want a full LP!
Euhedral - Burned Out Visisons
Economy implodes! Venues close! "Hallelujah" raped" Never mind, watrm fuzzy drones wil make things better.
Family Machine - You Are The Family Machine
Yes, the songs are quite old now, but this brainy perk pop is as warming yet intoxicating as a pint of Drambuie.
Foals - Antidotes
Battles + Haricut 100 + studied funk artiness + stupid clothes = Blue Aeroplanes for the T4 generation.
Nonstop Tango - Maps & Dreams
Improv scamps impersonate Waits, on Oxford's least accurately named band's debut LP.
Space Heroes Of The People - "Motorway To Moscow"
Another cracking EP that sounds lovingly handmade and icily robotic simultaneously.
Tie Your Shoes To Your Knees & Pretend You're Small, Like Us - Demo
Journo baiting cockabout results in unexpected collaged fascination.
Stornoway - "On The Rocks"
New EP contrastingly reveals there's no end to this band's melodic invention, and that rag week humour really sucks.
Friday, 1 January 2010
Postcode Rock
One of many festival reviews that I'll be posting from the archives in the next couple of weeks. Elements from this were used in Nightshift, but the tone of the printed review was rather different. I'm more cynical, essentially. But that's how you like it, you slavering dogs. Oh, happy new year, by the way.
OX4 (You! Me! Dancing! & Truck), Various venues, 10/10/09
When picking up our tickets, we ask whom to seek out. “Dalek.” Uh-huh. “Or The Big Pink”. So much for “a celebration of the artistic talents of OX4”, then. Later, The Scholars (who were very impressive, though we cruelly dub them The Sub-Editors) ask “Have you all seen loads of bands today?” to a response of awkward silence. Yes, we might wish our scene were a huge healthy exploratory organism, lapping up different sorts of music, but the truth is that people generally stick to what they know, and you need big names to get a big crowd. Still, if there was minimal cross-fertilisation between the evening audience and the Folk Festival's afternoon crew, the latter did book some excellent acts, highlights being The Reveranzas’ caffeinated singsong, and The Selenites’ attentive and surprisingly Victorian sounding parlour string arrangements.
Anther good find were The Dead Jerichos, who spice their Fred Perried lad garage with the bits they like from Foals (disco hi-hat, rubbery bass) whilst completely ignoring the bits they don’t (preening, reading books). At an unusually busy Bully Stricken City make with the 80s chant pop, a little like The Sugarcubes and a lot like Bow Wow Wow without the wow, and at a weirdly empty Academy Charlie Coombes doles out chirpy 70s pop, which is fun aside from one Stilton John piano ballad. Mr Fogg’s subtle show is the surprise of the day, balancing trombone, harp and electronics to sound like “Hunter” era Bjork played by Peter Gabriel and Radiohead – a long way from the stadium bombast we saw last month.
Action Beat bring four drummers and four guitarists. Start. Chug. Crash. Stop. Joyous. The Big Pink pull the healthiest audience, and sound like The Jesus & Mary Chain covering Ultravox; they’re decent, but Baby Gravy’s mess of strip-lit mall pop and new wave fuzz is more enticing. Dalek’s muffled set sounds like Ice Cube jamming with Neubaten, which would be good if it didn’t sound as if they were playing next door. It’s left to local evergreens Witches and Mr Shaodow to play our night out in style.
OX4 was a huge success, so congratulations all round. However, it seemed to have a Lamacq/Barfly air of “Isn’t music just great?”. Well, yes, of course, but it can also be petrifying, delicate, mysterious and downright hilarious, and we didn't find any evidence of that. We look forward to next year’s OX4, but our local festival would involve giving a single venue to Kakofanney, The Spin, The Famous Monday Blues and Off-Field and making them wrestle until they’d come up with a line-up. For that, we’d pay any money they asked.
OX4 (You! Me! Dancing! & Truck), Various venues, 10/10/09
When picking up our tickets, we ask whom to seek out. “Dalek.” Uh-huh. “Or The Big Pink”. So much for “a celebration of the artistic talents of OX4”, then. Later, The Scholars (who were very impressive, though we cruelly dub them The Sub-Editors) ask “Have you all seen loads of bands today?” to a response of awkward silence. Yes, we might wish our scene were a huge healthy exploratory organism, lapping up different sorts of music, but the truth is that people generally stick to what they know, and you need big names to get a big crowd. Still, if there was minimal cross-fertilisation between the evening audience and the Folk Festival's afternoon crew, the latter did book some excellent acts, highlights being The Reveranzas’ caffeinated singsong, and The Selenites’ attentive and surprisingly Victorian sounding parlour string arrangements.
Anther good find were The Dead Jerichos, who spice their Fred Perried lad garage with the bits they like from Foals (disco hi-hat, rubbery bass) whilst completely ignoring the bits they don’t (preening, reading books). At an unusually busy Bully Stricken City make with the 80s chant pop, a little like The Sugarcubes and a lot like Bow Wow Wow without the wow, and at a weirdly empty Academy Charlie Coombes doles out chirpy 70s pop, which is fun aside from one Stilton John piano ballad. Mr Fogg’s subtle show is the surprise of the day, balancing trombone, harp and electronics to sound like “Hunter” era Bjork played by Peter Gabriel and Radiohead – a long way from the stadium bombast we saw last month.
Action Beat bring four drummers and four guitarists. Start. Chug. Crash. Stop. Joyous. The Big Pink pull the healthiest audience, and sound like The Jesus & Mary Chain covering Ultravox; they’re decent, but Baby Gravy’s mess of strip-lit mall pop and new wave fuzz is more enticing. Dalek’s muffled set sounds like Ice Cube jamming with Neubaten, which would be good if it didn’t sound as if they were playing next door. It’s left to local evergreens Witches and Mr Shaodow to play our night out in style.
OX4 was a huge success, so congratulations all round. However, it seemed to have a Lamacq/Barfly air of “Isn’t music just great?”. Well, yes, of course, but it can also be petrifying, delicate, mysterious and downright hilarious, and we didn't find any evidence of that. We look forward to next year’s OX4, but our local festival would involve giving a single venue to Kakofanney, The Spin, The Famous Monday Blues and Off-Field and making them wrestle until they’d come up with a line-up. For that, we’d pay any money they asked.
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