Here is a review from Nightshift two months ago. It's a slightly longer version that got printed, oh the joy.
In other news, I had a realisation on Saturday. Whilst I live relatively healthily, I discovered that if I wished to lose weight, I'd simply have to leave all my unhealthy foods in complex geometric arrangements, and have my apples and tofu jumbled up in a pile, so that the Asperger's streak within me dictates which one I eat. I call it the OCD diet.
WORLD IMPROVISING TRIO/ PHIL MINTON’S FERAL CHOIR, Oxford Improvisors’ Cohesion Festival, Jacqueline Du Pre, 14/11/09
Whilst free improvisation has grown in stature and acceptability over the past few years – more and more local rockers and technoheads are starting free music projects – we’re a long way from an intersection between improv and Saturday night TV. No chance of Lower Case Idol, Strictly Onkyo or Company Week Bootcamp happening any time soon. And yet, in a way, Phil Minton is edging towards the concept, by co-opting for his Feral Choir amateur singers from the area, including some Blackbird Leys vocalists who might be familiar from Channel Five’s The Singing Estate a few years ago. If they found three months with Handel’s Messiah challenging, an afternoon with Minton’s glossolalia must have been beyond culture shock.
But the music is incredible no matter where the musicians came from, conductor Minton playing the sixteen vocalists as if they were one huge instrument, opening with a queasily yawing, slowly rising tone, before dropping down into waves of hisses, clicks, andl jabbers. It’s alternately exuberant and unsettling, feeling like a cut price UFO cult invocation in an Anglican church hall, or the Wicker Man remix of Stockhausen’s Hymnen. Our only criticism is that the show became a catalogue of effects, and we’d rather the sonic palette had been limited a little, but this didn’t detract from a joyful performance, highlighting Minton’s good humoured inventiveness, and the impressive responsiveness and control of these amateur singers. Easily one of the best things we’ve seen all year.
The World Improvising Trio is John Bissett and Alex Ward on guitars, and Pat Thomas on keyboards. The first half of the set is lopsided, the guitar amps and effects pedals swamping the keyboards: clearly guitarists always play too bloody loud in any genre. Thomas evidenty realises this, and turns from the Cylon indigestion synth sounds we expect to the piano, reining things in with some surprisingly lush and simple chords, Debussy meets Coltrane. From hereon the players seem to find their natural balance, playfully brushing past musical structures, including one clipped lead line from Ward that sounds oddly like derailed AM country. To finish, Thomas dampens his piano strings to make harpsichord tones whilst the guitarists emulate low flying light aircraft, reaching a surprisingly stately conclusion. And that’s it, no fanfare, no fuss, just intriguing music from excellent musicians. Next time people think they’ll see a Moyles touted band at the Academy because they “sound alright”, they should take a punt on an Oxford Improvisors gig instead – they might find whole new vistas opening up, or be shocked into stunned, enraged silence. Both exciting options, no?
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Saturday, 23 January 2010
Strangle Hold Music
Dial F has been improving steadily since this review was posted, and is now a nice little indie rock band, that might not change your life, but will probably spice up a random gig night.
God, I know that referring to a band in the singular is grammatically correct, but it just feels wrong. Sometimes, I deliberately use the plural because it sounds better. It's OK, I still get murderously, vitriolically irate every time I see "less" used in place of "fewer", so I'm still a linguistic pedant.
DIAL F FOR FRANKENSTEIN – demo
This demo comes on a Woolworth’s Worthit! CDR, which is just about as good a symbol of low budget, doomed effort as we can come up with. Luckily, Dial F For Frankenstein’s recording is far from a failure; in fact, it’s a cocksure burst of indie rock with plenty of potential and a scattering of neat moments and good ideas, that’s ultimately not got the songwriting ability to underwrite the evident promise.
Between the opening guitar part of “Substance”, which is rather wonderfully like Johnny Marr playing Bauhaus, and the authentic fuddlydumph that John Peel would identify as completing “Headcase”, there are individual enticing moments, but the tracks themselves are instantly forgettable. It’s a ripe, jaunty burst of – well, nothing much, really. Not unpleasant in the least, but they probably work better live than on record. The CD closer “Red Song” is better, with some wonderful vocals stuck between a listless squeal and reigned in raunch that immediately recalls the excellent performance on the debut Strokes LP, but it’s still ultimately half a song.
It’s left to “Remedy” to indicate what Dial F could really be capable of in the future. It’s built on a sprightly lurch between two frets, with a tastefully lofi vocal alleging “it’s 1995” – quite apposite, as the tune resembles one of the better tracks from the second, less effete and mannered, wave of Britpop. The rhythm section stalks onward with a wonderful compressed energy, and when the (possibly ironic) exhortation comes in to “Dance, you fuckers”, we feel Dial F have got a fighting chance of getting their wish. So, not the greatest demo we’ve ever heard, but hugely encouraging al the same, especially for a youthful group – they’re playing neatly together, creating a well thought out, coherent sound and they have the makings of a vocalist who’s able to carry a song, even if he’s not likely to be swooping the octaves (why are there so few good singers around?). The question is whether they’re able to develop the compositional chops to keep the energy going; we’ve no idea of the odds, but we look forward to finding out.
God, I know that referring to a band in the singular is grammatically correct, but it just feels wrong. Sometimes, I deliberately use the plural because it sounds better. It's OK, I still get murderously, vitriolically irate every time I see "less" used in place of "fewer", so I'm still a linguistic pedant.
DIAL F FOR FRANKENSTEIN – demo
This demo comes on a Woolworth’s Worthit! CDR, which is just about as good a symbol of low budget, doomed effort as we can come up with. Luckily, Dial F For Frankenstein’s recording is far from a failure; in fact, it’s a cocksure burst of indie rock with plenty of potential and a scattering of neat moments and good ideas, that’s ultimately not got the songwriting ability to underwrite the evident promise.
Between the opening guitar part of “Substance”, which is rather wonderfully like Johnny Marr playing Bauhaus, and the authentic fuddlydumph that John Peel would identify as completing “Headcase”, there are individual enticing moments, but the tracks themselves are instantly forgettable. It’s a ripe, jaunty burst of – well, nothing much, really. Not unpleasant in the least, but they probably work better live than on record. The CD closer “Red Song” is better, with some wonderful vocals stuck between a listless squeal and reigned in raunch that immediately recalls the excellent performance on the debut Strokes LP, but it’s still ultimately half a song.
It’s left to “Remedy” to indicate what Dial F could really be capable of in the future. It’s built on a sprightly lurch between two frets, with a tastefully lofi vocal alleging “it’s 1995” – quite apposite, as the tune resembles one of the better tracks from the second, less effete and mannered, wave of Britpop. The rhythm section stalks onward with a wonderful compressed energy, and when the (possibly ironic) exhortation comes in to “Dance, you fuckers”, we feel Dial F have got a fighting chance of getting their wish. So, not the greatest demo we’ve ever heard, but hugely encouraging al the same, especially for a youthful group – they’re playing neatly together, creating a well thought out, coherent sound and they have the makings of a vocalist who’s able to carry a song, even if he’s not likely to be swooping the octaves (why are there so few good singers around?). The question is whether they’re able to develop the compositional chops to keep the energy going; we’ve no idea of the odds, but we look forward to finding out.
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Truck 07 Part 3
Piney Gir’s girl pop ensemble The Schla La Las are basically a joke, and like most jokes, they don’t work a second time. Apparently this is their last ever gig – hark to the rustle of a thousand Truckers shrugging.
Pull Tiger Tail are definitely the best high energy indie rock band we’ve seen this weekend, and we’re impressed by the vocal space they manage to find above the rubbery bass and clattering drums. Yes, we’ve seen it all before, but we’ve seen The Rotary Club’s tea tent before too, and that’s looking like a temple at this juncture.
The unwritten rule of Truck is that you’ll find your favourite act when least expecting it. We were thinking time was running out for this epiphany, when we stumbled on Italy’s Disco Drive. There are three of them, but sometimes two of them play drums. All their songs sound like Q And Not U playing along with a car alarm. We can’t get enough of it, frankly.
Exhaustion and fear of losing our lift home means we stay in the Trailer Park tent for the rest of the day, which is no chore at all when Rolo Tomassi take to the stage. Their preposterous maximalist metal marries a Zappa complexity with a Napalm Death vigour. The most obvious reference point is The Locust, but Rolo are more like a suburban thrash band playing Melt Banana. Plus they’re all about twelve! Obscenely good stuff.
Despite some promising synth sounds, Metronomy are deeply annoying. With their rinky dink melodies, their lacklustre robot choreography and their crappy light bulb shirts, they’re like some sort of Playschool take off of Kraftwerk; except at least Cant and Benjamin were professionals, these guys don’t even look like their hearts are in it.
Whilst nervous_testpilot is essentially just a funny little man playing prerecorded music and doing a silly dance, he’s still a cracking end to the festival. High points on his hardcore odyssey were when he (ahem) “dropped” "Apache", and the brilliantly original sound of a squeaky toy making an acid house riff: all hail breakbeat Sweep! Standing at the back of the tent watching the weekend’s casualties trying to dance to music that is officially too fast provides the most wonderful memory to take home from the festival.
It wasn’t the best lineup Truck’s ever had, we’ll admit, but we’re still glad that the festival managed to claw itself from the brink of its demise. We wonder what next year shall bring…
Pull Tiger Tail are definitely the best high energy indie rock band we’ve seen this weekend, and we’re impressed by the vocal space they manage to find above the rubbery bass and clattering drums. Yes, we’ve seen it all before, but we’ve seen The Rotary Club’s tea tent before too, and that’s looking like a temple at this juncture.
The unwritten rule of Truck is that you’ll find your favourite act when least expecting it. We were thinking time was running out for this epiphany, when we stumbled on Italy’s Disco Drive. There are three of them, but sometimes two of them play drums. All their songs sound like Q And Not U playing along with a car alarm. We can’t get enough of it, frankly.
Exhaustion and fear of losing our lift home means we stay in the Trailer Park tent for the rest of the day, which is no chore at all when Rolo Tomassi take to the stage. Their preposterous maximalist metal marries a Zappa complexity with a Napalm Death vigour. The most obvious reference point is The Locust, but Rolo are more like a suburban thrash band playing Melt Banana. Plus they’re all about twelve! Obscenely good stuff.
Despite some promising synth sounds, Metronomy are deeply annoying. With their rinky dink melodies, their lacklustre robot choreography and their crappy light bulb shirts, they’re like some sort of Playschool take off of Kraftwerk; except at least Cant and Benjamin were professionals, these guys don’t even look like their hearts are in it.
Whilst nervous_testpilot is essentially just a funny little man playing prerecorded music and doing a silly dance, he’s still a cracking end to the festival. High points on his hardcore odyssey were when he (ahem) “dropped” "Apache", and the brilliantly original sound of a squeaky toy making an acid house riff: all hail breakbeat Sweep! Standing at the back of the tent watching the weekend’s casualties trying to dance to music that is officially too fast provides the most wonderful memory to take home from the festival.
It wasn’t the best lineup Truck’s ever had, we’ll admit, but we’re still glad that the festival managed to claw itself from the brink of its demise. We wonder what next year shall bring…
Truck 07 Cont.
Buck 65 has made a career out of sneaking up on hip-hop from the rear, tip-toeing from beat poet to MC. His vocal delivery is immaculate, and so intimate it feels like he’s telling you a private joke, and his lyrics are gritty and often hilarious, so it’s another Truck victory for him. But, his beats are actually a little flaccid, and we wish we’d managed to see him doing his spoken word set earlier.
To paraphrase a review of Waiting For Godot, at a Fuck Buttons show nothing happens, perfectly. Huge distorted keyboard drones swirl around the tent, punctuated by occasional percussion loops that all sound like the opening of Iko Iko by The Dixie Cups, for some inexplicable reason. It’s something like rave without the drums and something like death metal without the songs. Ah, it’s just fucking great, go find out for yourselves.
The Will Bartlett Orchestra doesn’t have nearly enough members to be an Orchestra, or nearly enough ideas to be onstage at all. Yes, they can all play to a passable level, but jazz is a music of fire and ideas, not irritatingly facile “Scooby doobies” and crap drum fills.
Trademark’s new club-friendly stage show is banging, but it somewhat diminishes the effect of some of Oxford’s best pop songs: imagine if Witches played all their tunes like Led Zeppelin. However, the final mashed cover of the Beatles’ "Me And My Monkey" wins us over, not least because it has an actual dancing monkey.
They eventually turn out to be a subtle jazz group led by a pianist with a wonderfully light touch, but Barcode have turned us against them before they start. There’s a place for thirty minute soundchecks, and there’s a place for getting bored and going to the bar. Guess which one we favoured.
Sunday
Nostalgics that we are, it’s good to see a proper old-fashioned backing tape, none of this laptop nonsense. Unfortunately, Napoleon III’s beautiful vintage reel to reel overshadows his songs, which are fine, but all sound a bit like Pink Floyd’s "Corporal Clegg" without the chorus.
Back to the main stage for Mules, who sound like David Byrne and David Bowie trying to play their way out of a deep South queer-bashing lynch mob barndance and barbeque. With polka. What’s not to like?
Maybe some of us stayed up last night, but Thomas Truax looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. It doesn’t affect his fantastic performance any, though, which is a wobbly stroll through Tom Waits’ notebooks with mechanical machines instead of a band. If Oliver Postgate had made Twin Peaks in his shed after The Clangers, it would probably have sounded like this.
The Winchell Riots is the band formed by 50% of much missed local boys Fell City Girl. They pretty much pick up where FCG left off, but have swapped some of the epic guitar crescendoes for stabbing snare rhythms. It’s extremely promising stuff, with one drawback: it may be the hangar-like reverb of The Barn, but every song feels a tiny bit overly emotive. Stop twisting our arms, and start leading us by the hands, we’ll end up coming a lot further with you.
We feel bad that so few people investigate the Theatre tent, so we make another foray into it. Biggest cunting error of the weekend. Sunshines is two drunk men, one of whom is wearing a dress. Think about that for a second – a man in a dress!! Anything could happen!!! It’s all wild and improvised! Fuck Thatcher! And so on. After they’ve spent ten minutes making the sound of a cyborg farting from a little machine, and giggling, we back swiftly away.
Ineptitude of a different sort in the Quilting Bee tent (tweer than a glittery bunny playing glockenspiel in a bouncy castle made from coloured vinyl and flying saucer sweets) as Seb from The Evenings and The Keyboard choir sings whilst Chris from Harry Angel accompanies him inaudibly. It’s bloody awful, but at least it’s unpretentious.
Hammer And Tongue provide some reliably incisive poetry as we edge back to the Market Stage for Alberta Cross. Despite a winning high-range male voice, they play pretty predictable country rock – and if you’re going to play country rock at Truck, you’d better be good, that’s all we can advise.
About this time we enter the traditional Sunday afternoon doldrums, where tired legs and jaded ears mean that nothing holds our attention for more than a few seconds. The local Butts ale keeps us going: is the fact that hordes of Truckers are buying fizzy brown gloop at the other bar for £3 a pop, whilst high quality, cheap, local, organic ale is barely touched a metaphor for the state of the music industry, or have I had a pint too many?
To paraphrase a review of Waiting For Godot, at a Fuck Buttons show nothing happens, perfectly. Huge distorted keyboard drones swirl around the tent, punctuated by occasional percussion loops that all sound like the opening of Iko Iko by The Dixie Cups, for some inexplicable reason. It’s something like rave without the drums and something like death metal without the songs. Ah, it’s just fucking great, go find out for yourselves.
The Will Bartlett Orchestra doesn’t have nearly enough members to be an Orchestra, or nearly enough ideas to be onstage at all. Yes, they can all play to a passable level, but jazz is a music of fire and ideas, not irritatingly facile “Scooby doobies” and crap drum fills.
Trademark’s new club-friendly stage show is banging, but it somewhat diminishes the effect of some of Oxford’s best pop songs: imagine if Witches played all their tunes like Led Zeppelin. However, the final mashed cover of the Beatles’ "Me And My Monkey" wins us over, not least because it has an actual dancing monkey.
They eventually turn out to be a subtle jazz group led by a pianist with a wonderfully light touch, but Barcode have turned us against them before they start. There’s a place for thirty minute soundchecks, and there’s a place for getting bored and going to the bar. Guess which one we favoured.
Sunday
Nostalgics that we are, it’s good to see a proper old-fashioned backing tape, none of this laptop nonsense. Unfortunately, Napoleon III’s beautiful vintage reel to reel overshadows his songs, which are fine, but all sound a bit like Pink Floyd’s "Corporal Clegg" without the chorus.
Back to the main stage for Mules, who sound like David Byrne and David Bowie trying to play their way out of a deep South queer-bashing lynch mob barndance and barbeque. With polka. What’s not to like?
Maybe some of us stayed up last night, but Thomas Truax looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. It doesn’t affect his fantastic performance any, though, which is a wobbly stroll through Tom Waits’ notebooks with mechanical machines instead of a band. If Oliver Postgate had made Twin Peaks in his shed after The Clangers, it would probably have sounded like this.
The Winchell Riots is the band formed by 50% of much missed local boys Fell City Girl. They pretty much pick up where FCG left off, but have swapped some of the epic guitar crescendoes for stabbing snare rhythms. It’s extremely promising stuff, with one drawback: it may be the hangar-like reverb of The Barn, but every song feels a tiny bit overly emotive. Stop twisting our arms, and start leading us by the hands, we’ll end up coming a lot further with you.
We feel bad that so few people investigate the Theatre tent, so we make another foray into it. Biggest cunting error of the weekend. Sunshines is two drunk men, one of whom is wearing a dress. Think about that for a second – a man in a dress!! Anything could happen!!! It’s all wild and improvised! Fuck Thatcher! And so on. After they’ve spent ten minutes making the sound of a cyborg farting from a little machine, and giggling, we back swiftly away.
Ineptitude of a different sort in the Quilting Bee tent (tweer than a glittery bunny playing glockenspiel in a bouncy castle made from coloured vinyl and flying saucer sweets) as Seb from The Evenings and The Keyboard choir sings whilst Chris from Harry Angel accompanies him inaudibly. It’s bloody awful, but at least it’s unpretentious.
Hammer And Tongue provide some reliably incisive poetry as we edge back to the Market Stage for Alberta Cross. Despite a winning high-range male voice, they play pretty predictable country rock – and if you’re going to play country rock at Truck, you’d better be good, that’s all we can advise.
About this time we enter the traditional Sunday afternoon doldrums, where tired legs and jaded ears mean that nothing holds our attention for more than a few seconds. The local Butts ale keeps us going: is the fact that hordes of Truckers are buying fizzy brown gloop at the other bar for £3 a pop, whilst high quality, cheap, local, organic ale is barely touched a metaphor for the state of the music industry, or have I had a pint too many?
Artic. Monkeys
This is the Truck that nearly didn't happen, the orginal summer date being rained off, and a rescheduled event happening in chilly September. I think I prefer the idea of an autumnal festival - more time to sup soup and be wistful, and fewer oafs swigging cider and doing something gauche like enjoying themselves.
TRUCK 2007, Hill Farm, Steventon
With the reliably infectious sounds of The Drugsquad wafting over the queue, we find our way into the rescheduled Truck, and straight to The Market Stage for Gog, who display their atonal cabaret schtick with lots of volume and a pink wig. They’re like forgotten local oddballs Dog, but not as good…until we see the programme and discover that they are Dog. But not as good. That’s a bit sad, really.
Actress Hands: Thumbs down; pull your fingers out; read the manual. Oh, somebody stop us! Suffice to say that Actress Hands are a dull punky indie band with rubbish guitar solos.
Enemies of lispers the world over, Restlesslist are an unusual bunch. Their first number is a limp, tinny post-rock bounce, a sort of 65 Minutes Of Static, but then they suddenly throw in some big band samples, drag on a trumpet player, and it all sounds rather wonderfully like the incidental music to Batman. Things taper off again, but that’s probably because all the machines break, along with some of the guitar strings.
Coley Park aren’t that bad, they’ve got some decent light rock and a slight country twang, but they make little impact on the consciousness. If Buffy The Vampire Slayer were set in Swindon, these guys would be playing The Bronze.
Jim Protector are a sort of Scandinavian iLiKETRAiNS: well, we dare say they run on time and don’t smell of piss in Northern Europe. Anyway, they’re a diverting act, with a nicely understated drummer.
Country rock is really the lingua franca of Truck, and Babel have a fair crack at it. There’s some enticingly slurred fiddle, but they really take off when they get that floor to the floor hoedown groove going. Hey, look, we’re literally tapping our feet! Now we’re really in the festival vibe!
Do we really want to hear sensitive post-grunge, fronted by a man whose voice cracks every other syllable? We don’t, which is why we shan’t be seeking The Holy Orders out again. We preferred it when the Barn was full of metal bands - even if they were rubbish they were at least unignorable.
We promised ourselves we wouldn’t spend all Truck watching our favourite local bands, and yet somehow here we are before the mighty Stornoway once again. Maybe the main stage sucks a little intimacy from their winsome folk pop, but eco-jazz shuffle "The Good Fish Guide" still sounds gloriously like The Proclaimers played by The Grumbleweeds, via The Divine Comedy, and we leave with a broad smile.
When A Scholar And A Physician rap, it makes Morris Minor & The Majors look like Public Enemy. There are millions of them, and the whole experience is akin to a techno revue performed by the cast of Why Don’t You? Which means it’s mostly dumb, but you’d have to be a pretty miserable soul to actively dislike it.
We’re going to start a support group for people like us who loved Piney Gir’s debut electro album, and have become deeply disillusioned with her myriad novelty projects ever since. Can this cod C&W Roadshow malarkey and get back to the keyboards, woman!
It seems only right that we go and see some properly apocalyptic, hellfire preacher country after that. With the biggest beard at Truck, and the loudest acoustic guitar in the hemisphere, Josh T Pearson smashes out his Bible-black dirges with arresting intensity. The cavernous sound is strangely like Merle Haggard having a crack at dronecore, and as such is the best act so far.
Back at The Market Stage, which incidentally has the best sound and atmosphere of the festival, we find Sam Isaac plying his acoustic pop trade. A touch of ‘cello, and a tiny tinge of Kitchenware Records makes it a sufficiently enjoyable spectacle to detain us for a few tunes.
TRUCK 2007, Hill Farm, Steventon
With the reliably infectious sounds of The Drugsquad wafting over the queue, we find our way into the rescheduled Truck, and straight to The Market Stage for Gog, who display their atonal cabaret schtick with lots of volume and a pink wig. They’re like forgotten local oddballs Dog, but not as good…until we see the programme and discover that they are Dog. But not as good. That’s a bit sad, really.
Actress Hands: Thumbs down; pull your fingers out; read the manual. Oh, somebody stop us! Suffice to say that Actress Hands are a dull punky indie band with rubbish guitar solos.
Enemies of lispers the world over, Restlesslist are an unusual bunch. Their first number is a limp, tinny post-rock bounce, a sort of 65 Minutes Of Static, but then they suddenly throw in some big band samples, drag on a trumpet player, and it all sounds rather wonderfully like the incidental music to Batman. Things taper off again, but that’s probably because all the machines break, along with some of the guitar strings.
Coley Park aren’t that bad, they’ve got some decent light rock and a slight country twang, but they make little impact on the consciousness. If Buffy The Vampire Slayer were set in Swindon, these guys would be playing The Bronze.
Jim Protector are a sort of Scandinavian iLiKETRAiNS: well, we dare say they run on time and don’t smell of piss in Northern Europe. Anyway, they’re a diverting act, with a nicely understated drummer.
Country rock is really the lingua franca of Truck, and Babel have a fair crack at it. There’s some enticingly slurred fiddle, but they really take off when they get that floor to the floor hoedown groove going. Hey, look, we’re literally tapping our feet! Now we’re really in the festival vibe!
Do we really want to hear sensitive post-grunge, fronted by a man whose voice cracks every other syllable? We don’t, which is why we shan’t be seeking The Holy Orders out again. We preferred it when the Barn was full of metal bands - even if they were rubbish they were at least unignorable.
We promised ourselves we wouldn’t spend all Truck watching our favourite local bands, and yet somehow here we are before the mighty Stornoway once again. Maybe the main stage sucks a little intimacy from their winsome folk pop, but eco-jazz shuffle "The Good Fish Guide" still sounds gloriously like The Proclaimers played by The Grumbleweeds, via The Divine Comedy, and we leave with a broad smile.
When A Scholar And A Physician rap, it makes Morris Minor & The Majors look like Public Enemy. There are millions of them, and the whole experience is akin to a techno revue performed by the cast of Why Don’t You? Which means it’s mostly dumb, but you’d have to be a pretty miserable soul to actively dislike it.
We’re going to start a support group for people like us who loved Piney Gir’s debut electro album, and have become deeply disillusioned with her myriad novelty projects ever since. Can this cod C&W Roadshow malarkey and get back to the keyboards, woman!
It seems only right that we go and see some properly apocalyptic, hellfire preacher country after that. With the biggest beard at Truck, and the loudest acoustic guitar in the hemisphere, Josh T Pearson smashes out his Bible-black dirges with arresting intensity. The cavernous sound is strangely like Merle Haggard having a crack at dronecore, and as such is the best act so far.
Back at The Market Stage, which incidentally has the best sound and atmosphere of the festival, we find Sam Isaac plying his acoustic pop trade. A touch of ‘cello, and a tiny tinge of Kitchenware Records makes it a sufficiently enjoyable spectacle to detain us for a few tunes.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Marginal Error
I have a headache, so I can't be bothered to write you an introduction.
A BROKEN FRAME – OCTOBER LINES EP
STEFAN ARCHER – DEMO
As a little kid we recall being intensely disappointed that the foil wrapped Santa mannequins hanging from the Christmas tree were hollow, and not forged from solid chocolate; a year later we recall being astounded by a similar treat that such a detailed festive homunculus could be sculpted from a millimetre thin cocoa shell. We’re reminded of this whilst listening to two new records, which are thoughtfully put together, but which are insubstantial and light: sweet and intriguing, but empty inside.
Banbury’s A Broken Frame (AKA quirk popper Zube Sultana), has turned in a 5 track demo that is neatly constructed, but sounds like generic backing tracks that have been gathering digital dust on a studio hard drive since the mid 90s. In balancing moody bass, exploratory, Mogwai guitar and programmed beats A Broken Frame probably intends to come off like Leeds’ Worried About Satan, but in actual fact it sounds a little like the discarded doodles of some post-goth lite indie band: Curve or, Gods help us, Garbage. There are plus points: the opener “Torque” flexed some muscle and briefly reminded us of laddish industrial jokers Nitzer Ebb, whereas “Dialectic” (Jesus, did this guy name his tracks by cutting up a 1994 copy of The Wire?) is the standout, placing heathaze guitars in the middle distance and foregrounding a percussive wabble like the sound made by twanging a ruler off the edge of a desk.
In fact, “Dialectic” is something like a post-rock version of Photek, which is certainly a tempting concept, but, like the rest of the EP, it sounds like half a composition; in actuality, the record sounds like what it explicitly is, a side project, created in “frustration and annoyance” to “exorcise some pent-up energy and aggression”. And if it spurred Zube onto greater things, or got the creative juices flowing, then all well and good, but as a listening experience, it’s more like a few rough ideas crystallised at drawing board stage.
Stefan Archer’s CD is similar, although the production is far more lush and enveloping. “A Clockwork Mind” boasts a wonderful attention to detail, and brings to mind William Orbit’s sassy productions for All Saints. Archer also manages instil some feeling of progression into the piece, slowly building the tune with the aid of some excellent snare presses and a lead guitar line that flirts with dissonance. Sadly the companion track, “Fuzzy Logic” (OK, can people stop naming their records that, please? It makes “Dialectic” seem like a good idea) has a gloriously recorded loping bass, but not a whole bunch else. Archer may be more of a craftsperson than Sultana, but he’s still essentially creating middle-ground tracks that are neither finished songs, nor moody soundscapes.
Don’t get us wrong, we don’t think these tunes need wailing house divas or creaming guitar solos to be called finished; in fact, we reckon both artists could win by coming over all Spartan, and excising any extraneous musical flab. We prescribe a crash course of Kode 9, Plastikman and the fantastic record Talk Talk’s Paul Webb made with Portishead’s Beth Gibbons. Both these artists are clearly talented, but these records sound like negligible stepping stones on the way to real achievement.
A BROKEN FRAME – OCTOBER LINES EP
STEFAN ARCHER – DEMO
As a little kid we recall being intensely disappointed that the foil wrapped Santa mannequins hanging from the Christmas tree were hollow, and not forged from solid chocolate; a year later we recall being astounded by a similar treat that such a detailed festive homunculus could be sculpted from a millimetre thin cocoa shell. We’re reminded of this whilst listening to two new records, which are thoughtfully put together, but which are insubstantial and light: sweet and intriguing, but empty inside.
Banbury’s A Broken Frame (AKA quirk popper Zube Sultana), has turned in a 5 track demo that is neatly constructed, but sounds like generic backing tracks that have been gathering digital dust on a studio hard drive since the mid 90s. In balancing moody bass, exploratory, Mogwai guitar and programmed beats A Broken Frame probably intends to come off like Leeds’ Worried About Satan, but in actual fact it sounds a little like the discarded doodles of some post-goth lite indie band: Curve or, Gods help us, Garbage. There are plus points: the opener “Torque” flexed some muscle and briefly reminded us of laddish industrial jokers Nitzer Ebb, whereas “Dialectic” (Jesus, did this guy name his tracks by cutting up a 1994 copy of The Wire?) is the standout, placing heathaze guitars in the middle distance and foregrounding a percussive wabble like the sound made by twanging a ruler off the edge of a desk.
In fact, “Dialectic” is something like a post-rock version of Photek, which is certainly a tempting concept, but, like the rest of the EP, it sounds like half a composition; in actuality, the record sounds like what it explicitly is, a side project, created in “frustration and annoyance” to “exorcise some pent-up energy and aggression”. And if it spurred Zube onto greater things, or got the creative juices flowing, then all well and good, but as a listening experience, it’s more like a few rough ideas crystallised at drawing board stage.
Stefan Archer’s CD is similar, although the production is far more lush and enveloping. “A Clockwork Mind” boasts a wonderful attention to detail, and brings to mind William Orbit’s sassy productions for All Saints. Archer also manages instil some feeling of progression into the piece, slowly building the tune with the aid of some excellent snare presses and a lead guitar line that flirts with dissonance. Sadly the companion track, “Fuzzy Logic” (OK, can people stop naming their records that, please? It makes “Dialectic” seem like a good idea) has a gloriously recorded loping bass, but not a whole bunch else. Archer may be more of a craftsperson than Sultana, but he’s still essentially creating middle-ground tracks that are neither finished songs, nor moody soundscapes.
Don’t get us wrong, we don’t think these tunes need wailing house divas or creaming guitar solos to be called finished; in fact, we reckon both artists could win by coming over all Spartan, and excising any extraneous musical flab. We prescribe a crash course of Kode 9, Plastikman and the fantastic record Talk Talk’s Paul Webb made with Portishead’s Beth Gibbons. Both these artists are clearly talented, but these records sound like negligible stepping stones on the way to real achievement.
Saturday, 16 January 2010
Running Out Of Relevant Pun(t)s
More old Punt tales. 50ft Panda, who are sadly no more, were generally known as Soft Panda round these parts. Oh, how we laughed...
THE PUNT 2008, various venues
You can imagine Face0meter falling somewhat flat performing his twitchy caffeinated anti-folk to a crowd of weekend drinkers, but when he gets to rant and sing unamplified in a bookshop he instantly wins over all-comers. Abetted by the excellently named Dapper Swindler, Face0meter produces what sounds like frenzied Polish dance tunes with lyrics by Bob Dylan via Edward Lear, and shows an odd mixture of New York cool and slightly frightening effervescence: imagine Lawrence Ferlinghetti as an assistant scoutmaster. Faceometer’s vocals may not be very supple, but his way with language is dexterity itself.
Desmond Chancer (AKA Tomohawk from The Big Speakers, amongst other acts) leads his band The Long Memories in a smoky trawl through gutter life jazz ballads that instantly recall “Blue Valentine” era Tom Waits. The music is louche and endearing, with some excellent jazz sax solos, but sadly the vocals let everything down, tumbling into the songs with all the subtlety of a drunken Wellington boot. Perhaps this sort of thing just doesn’t work until we reach the wee hours.
Having hilariously heard a man at a bar ask for two pints of Confidence, and invented the genre Nu-Gazing (hard trance remixes of Chapterhouse), we find ourselves at the Purple Turtle for International Jetsetters who certainly aren’t short of “jaunty” and are far from lacking in “cheery”. Very occasionally the strong female vocal reminds us of Patti Smith in its declamations, but some of the rather average music has the consistency of damp pastry, which spoils the effect.
Cat Matador are far more successful at creating high octane indie rock, with plenty of chiming guitar and intriguing violin. Occasionally the mood got lost somewhere between “epic” and “introspective”, but the music definitely had force and character enough to keep the healthy crowd interested.
Over at the surprisingly pleasant Thirst Lodge Black Skies Burn have unlocked the Pandora’s Box labelled “Racket”. This is proper metal with huge white noise guitars and vocals that sound like an emasculated pig being sucked into a black hole. The whole shebang is polished and well-crafted, but we do wish that the drummer were working as hard the room-prowling vocalist, the rhythms never seemed to blast along as we’d hoped.
Non-Stop Tango sound like Talking Heads and King Crimson and Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart and The Doors and Hawkwind and Bjork and The Fall and The Art Of Noise and lots of others. Not necessarily our opinion, but this is just a selection of comments we overheard in The Wheatsheaf as the set progressed, which goes some way to explaining how varied their sound is. Composed of Oxford’s free improv luminaries, Non-Stop Tango is really an experiment in taking groove-based music and destroying it from the inside, bombarding funky basslines with electronic drums, tinny keyboards and incomprehensible vocals. Not many people last the distance, but if they left confused we’ll call it a victory. The Punt needs bands like this. No scratch that, the world needs bands like this, there aren’t enough surprises left.
Sadly Alphabet Backwards isn’t just someone rewinding an episode of Sesame Street, but happily they are a pretty feisty pop concoction with some excellent fizzing keyboards and bouncy backbeats. Sadly the vocals let the side down with some clumsy pub rock intonations, but apparently the normal vocalist is off tonight, so we’ll give them a bye. Worth a second listen, we feel.
50ft Panda are Oxford music’s equivalent of a Belgian truffle: creamy and delicious, but too rich to want too much of. Imagine all your favourite heavy rock records distilled down to their essence, and that’s what this duo produce: nothing but firy drumming, the riff, and the volume (my God, the volume!) again and again and again. They really do it incredibly well, but, like another local duo that had two people making the noise of ten, Winnebago Deal, you wouldn’t want to listen to it for more than thirty minutes.
At this point the sight of the Cellar bouncer eating raw eggs made our beer filled stomach somewhat queasy so we stumbled for the bus. Clanky Robo Gob Jobs will have to wait for another time. We can only hope that any inquisitive local music virgins who got a Punt pass found something they loved to treasure in their memories…and we hope they found something they abhorred too, that’s what music should be all about.
THE PUNT 2008, various venues
You can imagine Face0meter falling somewhat flat performing his twitchy caffeinated anti-folk to a crowd of weekend drinkers, but when he gets to rant and sing unamplified in a bookshop he instantly wins over all-comers. Abetted by the excellently named Dapper Swindler, Face0meter produces what sounds like frenzied Polish dance tunes with lyrics by Bob Dylan via Edward Lear, and shows an odd mixture of New York cool and slightly frightening effervescence: imagine Lawrence Ferlinghetti as an assistant scoutmaster. Faceometer’s vocals may not be very supple, but his way with language is dexterity itself.
Desmond Chancer (AKA Tomohawk from The Big Speakers, amongst other acts) leads his band The Long Memories in a smoky trawl through gutter life jazz ballads that instantly recall “Blue Valentine” era Tom Waits. The music is louche and endearing, with some excellent jazz sax solos, but sadly the vocals let everything down, tumbling into the songs with all the subtlety of a drunken Wellington boot. Perhaps this sort of thing just doesn’t work until we reach the wee hours.
Having hilariously heard a man at a bar ask for two pints of Confidence, and invented the genre Nu-Gazing (hard trance remixes of Chapterhouse), we find ourselves at the Purple Turtle for International Jetsetters who certainly aren’t short of “jaunty” and are far from lacking in “cheery”. Very occasionally the strong female vocal reminds us of Patti Smith in its declamations, but some of the rather average music has the consistency of damp pastry, which spoils the effect.
Cat Matador are far more successful at creating high octane indie rock, with plenty of chiming guitar and intriguing violin. Occasionally the mood got lost somewhere between “epic” and “introspective”, but the music definitely had force and character enough to keep the healthy crowd interested.
Over at the surprisingly pleasant Thirst Lodge Black Skies Burn have unlocked the Pandora’s Box labelled “Racket”. This is proper metal with huge white noise guitars and vocals that sound like an emasculated pig being sucked into a black hole. The whole shebang is polished and well-crafted, but we do wish that the drummer were working as hard the room-prowling vocalist, the rhythms never seemed to blast along as we’d hoped.
Non-Stop Tango sound like Talking Heads and King Crimson and Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart and The Doors and Hawkwind and Bjork and The Fall and The Art Of Noise and lots of others. Not necessarily our opinion, but this is just a selection of comments we overheard in The Wheatsheaf as the set progressed, which goes some way to explaining how varied their sound is. Composed of Oxford’s free improv luminaries, Non-Stop Tango is really an experiment in taking groove-based music and destroying it from the inside, bombarding funky basslines with electronic drums, tinny keyboards and incomprehensible vocals. Not many people last the distance, but if they left confused we’ll call it a victory. The Punt needs bands like this. No scratch that, the world needs bands like this, there aren’t enough surprises left.
Sadly Alphabet Backwards isn’t just someone rewinding an episode of Sesame Street, but happily they are a pretty feisty pop concoction with some excellent fizzing keyboards and bouncy backbeats. Sadly the vocals let the side down with some clumsy pub rock intonations, but apparently the normal vocalist is off tonight, so we’ll give them a bye. Worth a second listen, we feel.
50ft Panda are Oxford music’s equivalent of a Belgian truffle: creamy and delicious, but too rich to want too much of. Imagine all your favourite heavy rock records distilled down to their essence, and that’s what this duo produce: nothing but firy drumming, the riff, and the volume (my God, the volume!) again and again and again. They really do it incredibly well, but, like another local duo that had two people making the noise of ten, Winnebago Deal, you wouldn’t want to listen to it for more than thirty minutes.
At this point the sight of the Cellar bouncer eating raw eggs made our beer filled stomach somewhat queasy so we stumbled for the bus. Clanky Robo Gob Jobs will have to wait for another time. We can only hope that any inquisitive local music virgins who got a Punt pass found something they loved to treasure in their memories…and we hope they found something they abhorred too, that’s what music should be all about.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
