I don't seem to have anything to moan about today. Bloody typical.
DR. SLAGGLEBERRY – THE SLAGG FACTORY (Crash Records)
The inner sleeve to this release tells us two interesting things (the front cover tells us nothing, being a likable cyber-Vorticist sketch of a sort of mechatibbles robot cat thing, for some odd reason). Firstly, it’s that the musicians involved value their anonymity, having their eyes or faces obscured on all photos, and crediting the music starkly to Bateman, Turnbull and Pethers, making them sound like extras from a Frank Richards novella, or provincial solicitors from the ‘50s; secondly, it’s interesting that the collage of flyers and posters for previous gigs features just one from Oxfordshire, despite the fact that the band hails from Chinnor and release music on the local Crash Records label. Could it be that Dr. Slaggleberry’s brand of math metal intricacy hasn’t caught on in the local scene? Or does their atrocious name simply put prospective listeners off, as it sounds like they should be a gang of 4th formers playing slovenly Chili Peppers covers?
Whatever the explanation, Oxfordshire is missing out on a quality band, and this EP is a selection of tasty little noise nuggets, layered, handmade and rich, like some weird avant-metal baklava. Although we’re slightly sad to note that the maximalist Primus-influenced japes of old have mostly been shelved, Dr Slaggleberry have noticeably matured, and this EP is a wonderfully adept balance of schoolroom tricksiness and straight up fleabag rock out riffing. We’ll start at the bottom, with “8 4 5”, which opens with a swampy delayed guitar figure, all Steve Hillage wooziness and Ozric Tentacles dope fug. All very well, but after two whole minutes, we do start to wonder whether the band have hitched a lift on Gong’s flying teapot and left all their taste and subtlety behind due to intergalactic luggage restrictions. At this very moment the whole band kicks in, and whilst it might wake us up, it feels like a pretty facile musical trick, and the track wanders to a stop a minute or so later.
If we ignore this slightly unsuccessful ambient drift, the rest of the record works a treat. “13 Grades Of Filth” starts with a repeated lead guitar twiddle sounding Philip Glass continually turning his Donkey Kong handheld game on and off. The playing is tight, but unlike so many prog influenced acts, there is a praiseworthy lack of showboating flabbiness on display, and instead the production gives the sound a nice compactness. EP opener “Feed Me A Stray Cat” starts with sort of rock fanfare, and the first 90 seconds are a measured processional, like a Purcell march for metalheads. “13 Grades” continues this stately gait, and the music develops in a very orderly, almost baroque, fashion. Much of this record could be post-apocalyptic court music for some greasy Mad Max principality.
“Basterd Brew” (sic – who’s your proofreader, boys, Quentin Tarantino?) is likewise built on a good roiling churn of a rhythm, and the lead guitar has a nagging, accusatory tone, like an embarrassing memory trying to force its way through a hangover. The drums get something interesting to do on this one, and exhibit a neat stop-start dynamic, which makes this the best track on the release. The closer, “Gone Devil”, is essentially bits from the other tracks cut up and stuck together, but that’s no great crime. It’s an intriguingly formal sounding release, and a long way from aled up hair swinging classic metal antics. If Handel had written “Zadoc The Priest” for the coronation of Best Leather Chick in some cyber biker bar, he may have come up with something like this.
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Pilot Episode
And while we're at it, what's with people reading books as they walk along? I don't mean an A-Z or a Let's Go To Stuttgart guide, I mean a novel. They must be able to read all of 8 words before they have to look where they're going. I see them, trundling round Headington lapping up War & Peace. Some of them go at quite a lick,too. Madness.
WE AERONAUTS/ ALPHABET BACKWARDS/ MESSAGE TO BEARS, 3 Blind Mice, Wheatsheaf, 29/1/10
Outstanding ensemble WLTM song for meaningful relationship.
Message To Bears are phenomenal musicians. Every bucolically plucked guitar, subtly controlled rhythm and delicious violin lick is impeccably phrased and beautifully balanced. On its own this is enough to make the set a joy, but how much better it would be if they had just one memorable composition. Every piece chugs and arpeggiates its way along like a refined folky Mogwai – Implosions In The Sky, if you will – and we yearn for a soaring line from the violin to lift proceedings. Nick one from Sibelius or an Irish air or something, we don’t care, just give us a reason for this astonishing band to perform. One for late night headphone listening rather than a swamped Wheatsheaf, perhaps.
Band seeks audience for inconsequential frolics. VVVVGSOH essential!!!
As they’re a perky cross between Blur and Erasure, with two children’s TV presenters on vocals and a flurry of farty synth lines somewhere between Sky and Air, playing songs about low end High Street retail and duff sex, we’ll concede that Alphabet Backwards can verge on the infuriatingly wacky. But, by God, give us sugary, day-glo, shimmering pop songs like these and we’ll forgive any peccadilloes. As catchy as Ricky Ponting covered in velcro and spraying swine flu serum, these are possibly the most liberating, uninhibited, spring-loaded pop songs in Oxford’s history, and if you haven’t heard them yet get ready to be swept up in the euphoria or sent back to your miserable little life even more enraged than before.
Band looking for…err…not sure.
We Aeronauts suffer partly from being uncertain what they are. Epic pop? Folk shanty singalong? Belle & Sebastian delicacy? Stornoway eloquence? Here’s an idea: how about starting by becoming a band who sound like they’re all playing in the same room, who have discernable tunes, and whose concept of “arrangement” doesn’t approximate “seven people play simultaneously until we end up with an indistinguishable sonic hummus”? Perhaps it was the atrociously muddied mix, making them sound like they were playing in a wellington on Botley Road, or perhaps it was an off night, but in a blind test we’d never believe this was the band we found quite pleasant at Punt. If you believe this is one of Oxford’s best bands, then you’ll believe the people in lonely hearts ads really are slim, attractive, charming and into Chekhov.
WE AERONAUTS/ ALPHABET BACKWARDS/ MESSAGE TO BEARS, 3 Blind Mice, Wheatsheaf, 29/1/10
Outstanding ensemble WLTM song for meaningful relationship.
Message To Bears are phenomenal musicians. Every bucolically plucked guitar, subtly controlled rhythm and delicious violin lick is impeccably phrased and beautifully balanced. On its own this is enough to make the set a joy, but how much better it would be if they had just one memorable composition. Every piece chugs and arpeggiates its way along like a refined folky Mogwai – Implosions In The Sky, if you will – and we yearn for a soaring line from the violin to lift proceedings. Nick one from Sibelius or an Irish air or something, we don’t care, just give us a reason for this astonishing band to perform. One for late night headphone listening rather than a swamped Wheatsheaf, perhaps.
Band seeks audience for inconsequential frolics. VVVVGSOH essential!!!
As they’re a perky cross between Blur and Erasure, with two children’s TV presenters on vocals and a flurry of farty synth lines somewhere between Sky and Air, playing songs about low end High Street retail and duff sex, we’ll concede that Alphabet Backwards can verge on the infuriatingly wacky. But, by God, give us sugary, day-glo, shimmering pop songs like these and we’ll forgive any peccadilloes. As catchy as Ricky Ponting covered in velcro and spraying swine flu serum, these are possibly the most liberating, uninhibited, spring-loaded pop songs in Oxford’s history, and if you haven’t heard them yet get ready to be swept up in the euphoria or sent back to your miserable little life even more enraged than before.
Band looking for…err…not sure.
We Aeronauts suffer partly from being uncertain what they are. Epic pop? Folk shanty singalong? Belle & Sebastian delicacy? Stornoway eloquence? Here’s an idea: how about starting by becoming a band who sound like they’re all playing in the same room, who have discernable tunes, and whose concept of “arrangement” doesn’t approximate “seven people play simultaneously until we end up with an indistinguishable sonic hummus”? Perhaps it was the atrociously muddied mix, making them sound like they were playing in a wellington on Botley Road, or perhaps it was an off night, but in a blind test we’d never believe this was the band we found quite pleasant at Punt. If you believe this is one of Oxford’s best bands, then you’ll believe the people in lonely hearts ads really are slim, attractive, charming and into Chekhov.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Lux Inferior
Why are people so reluctant to move down the bus? When it's busy, why do we all have to squeeze in by the luggage racks because two feet away there's a guy who just won't budge, no matter how often the driver asks? Why does this sort of stuff anger me so much?
LIND OPTICAL - demo
We recall one hungover Saturday morning, barely focussing on shiny pop telly whilst trying to work out why Napalm Death invited Wagner and Yma Sumac to a jam inside our throbbing skull. This was a few years ago, during the first flush of success for harmless pop piffles S Club 7. With typical incision, the CD:UK interviewer was giving them a grilling. Favourite colour, preferred pet, that sort of thing. The final question was, of course, the biggy: “What does your name mean?”
“Well,” came the frothy answer, “Club means we’re like a club, it’s 7 because there are seven of us, and S is….a letter”.
“Thanks for clearing that up,” says the TV poppet, and now over to-“
At which point we suddenly found the energy to leap from our stupor, level a stern finger at the television and complain, “Oi! They haven’t explained the name one bit, merely defined the words”, which in turn led to a big argument amongst the beer zombies around the living room as to the difference between translating and parsing, which turned out to be a remarkably good headache cure.
Still, S Club were at least more cogent than Lind Optical, who make a point of telling us that their name comes from a 19th Century opera star Jenny Lind and Isaac Newton’s work on the nature of light, which of course tells us exactly bugger all about what the hell their name is supposed to mean.
All of which reminiscing, though doubtless fascinating, is standing in the way of getting down and judging this little three tracker….for the simple reason that it just doesn’t make much of an impression. They’ve certainly got the pedigree, having loaned members to three honest-to-god brilliant local acts (The Evenings, Borderville & Keyboard Choir), as well as vinyl terrorists Lum Col Con Pix and drum ‘n’ bassers Pan Tonic. Which begs the question why the opening track, though pleasant and well constructed, mostly sounds like a puddle of watery faux Beatlisms that’s something like listening to “Sowing The Seeds Of Love” by Tears For Fears through a toy transistor radio. Don’t misunderstand us, this demo all clicks together happily, and the vocals are pleasantly poppy, reminding us of perky and under-rated Oxonians Loopy*, whilst there are some nice keyboard diddles at the back of the mix, but second tune, “Honeycomb”, is a horrible Community Centre psych gospel, and makes us think of The Polyphonic Spree without any, err, spree. All of this critical assassination makes Lind Optical sound much worse than they are; they’re alright but they sadly don’t seem to connect any punches, and may have picked up all their musical ideas from World Of Adequacy.
The final track, “The Red Room”, may be meant as a joke, but is actually the most pleasing piece on offer by a fair old whack, a dramatic wodge of shiny cheap synths with niggling clusters of piano notes and brazen horn blasts sprinkled liberally over the top with a Stravinskian flourish. If you can imagine the incidental music to a mid-80s radio play about The French Revolution, and then abstract it by about 10%, you’re probably imagining “The Red Room”. Smart ideas and – Jesus preserve us – a bit of fun on display here, but at 60 seconds in length, it’s not clear whether Radiophonic Workshop cabaret is what we can expect from these guys in the future, or just more duff distillations of George Harrison album tracks. This is a very promising demo, but as yet Lind Optical have promised a lot and delivered a little.
LIND OPTICAL - demo
We recall one hungover Saturday morning, barely focussing on shiny pop telly whilst trying to work out why Napalm Death invited Wagner and Yma Sumac to a jam inside our throbbing skull. This was a few years ago, during the first flush of success for harmless pop piffles S Club 7. With typical incision, the CD:UK interviewer was giving them a grilling. Favourite colour, preferred pet, that sort of thing. The final question was, of course, the biggy: “What does your name mean?”
“Well,” came the frothy answer, “Club means we’re like a club, it’s 7 because there are seven of us, and S is….a letter”.
“Thanks for clearing that up,” says the TV poppet, and now over to-“
At which point we suddenly found the energy to leap from our stupor, level a stern finger at the television and complain, “Oi! They haven’t explained the name one bit, merely defined the words”, which in turn led to a big argument amongst the beer zombies around the living room as to the difference between translating and parsing, which turned out to be a remarkably good headache cure.
Still, S Club were at least more cogent than Lind Optical, who make a point of telling us that their name comes from a 19th Century opera star Jenny Lind and Isaac Newton’s work on the nature of light, which of course tells us exactly bugger all about what the hell their name is supposed to mean.
All of which reminiscing, though doubtless fascinating, is standing in the way of getting down and judging this little three tracker….for the simple reason that it just doesn’t make much of an impression. They’ve certainly got the pedigree, having loaned members to three honest-to-god brilliant local acts (The Evenings, Borderville & Keyboard Choir), as well as vinyl terrorists Lum Col Con Pix and drum ‘n’ bassers Pan Tonic. Which begs the question why the opening track, though pleasant and well constructed, mostly sounds like a puddle of watery faux Beatlisms that’s something like listening to “Sowing The Seeds Of Love” by Tears For Fears through a toy transistor radio. Don’t misunderstand us, this demo all clicks together happily, and the vocals are pleasantly poppy, reminding us of perky and under-rated Oxonians Loopy*, whilst there are some nice keyboard diddles at the back of the mix, but second tune, “Honeycomb”, is a horrible Community Centre psych gospel, and makes us think of The Polyphonic Spree without any, err, spree. All of this critical assassination makes Lind Optical sound much worse than they are; they’re alright but they sadly don’t seem to connect any punches, and may have picked up all their musical ideas from World Of Adequacy.
The final track, “The Red Room”, may be meant as a joke, but is actually the most pleasing piece on offer by a fair old whack, a dramatic wodge of shiny cheap synths with niggling clusters of piano notes and brazen horn blasts sprinkled liberally over the top with a Stravinskian flourish. If you can imagine the incidental music to a mid-80s radio play about The French Revolution, and then abstract it by about 10%, you’re probably imagining “The Red Room”. Smart ideas and – Jesus preserve us – a bit of fun on display here, but at 60 seconds in length, it’s not clear whether Radiophonic Workshop cabaret is what we can expect from these guys in the future, or just more duff distillations of George Harrison album tracks. This is a very promising demo, but as yet Lind Optical have promised a lot and delivered a little.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
Lux Interior
Last night I was talking about mashups, and in my sleep I dreamt one! Well, not a mashup, precisely, but an arrangement mixing Jacques Brel's "Amsterdam" with Michael Nyman's theme to The Piano was played by Oxford's Les Clochards and a colliery band. Maybe I'll make it happen.
INLIGHT/ JESSIE GRACE/ SAMUEL ZASADA/ LUKE KEEGAN – Jericho, 5/6/09
“What are you here to see?”, asks the girl at the Jericho’s desk. “Just, err, music”, I reply. It turns out that the organisers use this method to calculate how much to pay the performers. Bit depressing, really, isn’t it? A whole system predicated on the assumption that nobody is going to come out on the offchance they’ll hear some good music looks like a tacit admission that the promoters have already given up on the idea of enticing fresh blood into the venue, and are relying on the acts to bully their friends and colleagues into coming along. What’s even more depressing is that they’re probably right.
Anyway, as the system seems grossly unfair to Samuel Zasada, who is standing in after a change to the advertised lineup, we put our tick against his name. But before we get to Samuel, there’s the unpleasant matter of Luke Keegan’s set to deal with. There he is, strumming away at some forgettable acoustic songs, droning in a voice that’s half pub singalong, and half lax karaoke Bowie, whilst a chap who looks fantastically like a spry Erroll Brown adds some very proficient, but rather disjointed bongo accompaniment. Looking up at one point I see I am one of four people actually listening, three of whom appear to be close friends or family, and the gig begins to feel like an episode of Flight Of The Conchords. “Did you hear about tomorrow?”, sings Luke; yes, it was when I woke up and realised this was a bad, and very boring, dream. Thankfully the last song has a bit of drama, featuring the howled chorus “I never had that bloody hammer”, which is either an impassioned defence in a brutal murder inquest, or the sound of a petty argument in a carpentry workshop.
When Mr Zasada starts up, we decide that he’s well worth our cover charge support, as his voice is immense: creamy, guttural and melodic, with the breath control to rip into some intriguingly wordy verses. He’s got a real talent, but this set seems deliberately designed to hide this fact. The accompanists don’t help any: a man playing possibly the most uninspired cajon we’ve seen, and a woman who might well be Britain’s top canine ventriloquist, as she seldom opens her mouth, and when she does the sound is clearly inaudible to human ears. Ignoring this dismal pair, the songs just don’t seem to be quite there. We’d like to see Samuel with a nice tight band at the more literate end of roots pop – say, something in the Counting Crows line – and then we feel we’d have something to get excited about. Once again, the last track is the winner, as the two stooges leave the stage to let Zasada sing a brutal murder ballad, which sounds like Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright” rewritten by Travis Bickle. At one point I look up and discover that I’m one of two people actually listening. I’m not sure which is sadder, that the braying horde is not giving this musician a chance, or that he’s not utilising such a great voice to make them sit up and listen.
Jessie Grace’s appearance ups the quality of the night enormously. Put simply, she has a gorgeous voice, and some pretty impressive control to go with it. In the opening number, which sounds like a version of “Heart Attack & Vine” rearranged by Joni Mitchell, she swoops from sweetly sinister incantation a la mid-period P J Harvey to gutsy rock stridency, with just a hint of soul. She plays the first half of the set on a tiny guitar - is it an alto? - giving just the right amount of garage fuzz to offset her clear, winning voice. Later she switches to a standard acoustic, and the set drifts a tiny bit into Tunstallised neo-folk pleasantries, before the final number (it’s a good night for set closers, evidently), with its playfully lopsided rhythms impresses us once again with Grace’s abilities. I’m reminded of the first time I saw Laima Bite, or Richard Walters: with a voice like this, why isn’t everyone in the room twitching with excitement? But, like Bite or Walters, behind the voice the songs themselves don’t make a gigantic impression on first listening; there are certainly no lyrics that catch the ear. Still, I’m quite prepared to put the effort into finding out whether Grace’s songs turn out to be growers.
When Inlight crank up, the first thought is that there’s been a gross miscarriage of musical justice in this town. They’ve had any number of stinking reviews, but the first tune not only shows a band who look like they’ve been playing together since they were put on solids, but is also an epic piano-led swoon that really isn’t far from A Silent Film’s celebrated stock in trade. The following track only serves to bolster such musings, revealing an instinctive knack for balancing the quartet’s sound, and showing the bassist’s subtle inventiveness.
Sadly, the effect is marred once they get to a mawkish ballad, because not only is the song asinine and vacuous, but the same audience who were literally shouting and banging tables during the previous sets are in rapt silence and serving me a stew of black looks just for having a conversation near the back of the room about how good the band are! Still, you can’t judge an artist by their fans; I’d certainly have to sling the old Wagner records on the fire, if so. Ultimately Inlight don’t quite have the compositions to hold the attention for a full set, and too many songs seem to exist solely because they can play them well. It’d be nice to see some more adventurous writing, and an appeal to something other than the broadest emotions, but we can imagine that on a huge stage in the summer dusk Inlight could be just the ticket. Does the critical reappraisal start here?
INLIGHT/ JESSIE GRACE/ SAMUEL ZASADA/ LUKE KEEGAN – Jericho, 5/6/09
“What are you here to see?”, asks the girl at the Jericho’s desk. “Just, err, music”, I reply. It turns out that the organisers use this method to calculate how much to pay the performers. Bit depressing, really, isn’t it? A whole system predicated on the assumption that nobody is going to come out on the offchance they’ll hear some good music looks like a tacit admission that the promoters have already given up on the idea of enticing fresh blood into the venue, and are relying on the acts to bully their friends and colleagues into coming along. What’s even more depressing is that they’re probably right.
Anyway, as the system seems grossly unfair to Samuel Zasada, who is standing in after a change to the advertised lineup, we put our tick against his name. But before we get to Samuel, there’s the unpleasant matter of Luke Keegan’s set to deal with. There he is, strumming away at some forgettable acoustic songs, droning in a voice that’s half pub singalong, and half lax karaoke Bowie, whilst a chap who looks fantastically like a spry Erroll Brown adds some very proficient, but rather disjointed bongo accompaniment. Looking up at one point I see I am one of four people actually listening, three of whom appear to be close friends or family, and the gig begins to feel like an episode of Flight Of The Conchords. “Did you hear about tomorrow?”, sings Luke; yes, it was when I woke up and realised this was a bad, and very boring, dream. Thankfully the last song has a bit of drama, featuring the howled chorus “I never had that bloody hammer”, which is either an impassioned defence in a brutal murder inquest, or the sound of a petty argument in a carpentry workshop.
When Mr Zasada starts up, we decide that he’s well worth our cover charge support, as his voice is immense: creamy, guttural and melodic, with the breath control to rip into some intriguingly wordy verses. He’s got a real talent, but this set seems deliberately designed to hide this fact. The accompanists don’t help any: a man playing possibly the most uninspired cajon we’ve seen, and a woman who might well be Britain’s top canine ventriloquist, as she seldom opens her mouth, and when she does the sound is clearly inaudible to human ears. Ignoring this dismal pair, the songs just don’t seem to be quite there. We’d like to see Samuel with a nice tight band at the more literate end of roots pop – say, something in the Counting Crows line – and then we feel we’d have something to get excited about. Once again, the last track is the winner, as the two stooges leave the stage to let Zasada sing a brutal murder ballad, which sounds like Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright” rewritten by Travis Bickle. At one point I look up and discover that I’m one of two people actually listening. I’m not sure which is sadder, that the braying horde is not giving this musician a chance, or that he’s not utilising such a great voice to make them sit up and listen.
Jessie Grace’s appearance ups the quality of the night enormously. Put simply, she has a gorgeous voice, and some pretty impressive control to go with it. In the opening number, which sounds like a version of “Heart Attack & Vine” rearranged by Joni Mitchell, she swoops from sweetly sinister incantation a la mid-period P J Harvey to gutsy rock stridency, with just a hint of soul. She plays the first half of the set on a tiny guitar - is it an alto? - giving just the right amount of garage fuzz to offset her clear, winning voice. Later she switches to a standard acoustic, and the set drifts a tiny bit into Tunstallised neo-folk pleasantries, before the final number (it’s a good night for set closers, evidently), with its playfully lopsided rhythms impresses us once again with Grace’s abilities. I’m reminded of the first time I saw Laima Bite, or Richard Walters: with a voice like this, why isn’t everyone in the room twitching with excitement? But, like Bite or Walters, behind the voice the songs themselves don’t make a gigantic impression on first listening; there are certainly no lyrics that catch the ear. Still, I’m quite prepared to put the effort into finding out whether Grace’s songs turn out to be growers.
When Inlight crank up, the first thought is that there’s been a gross miscarriage of musical justice in this town. They’ve had any number of stinking reviews, but the first tune not only shows a band who look like they’ve been playing together since they were put on solids, but is also an epic piano-led swoon that really isn’t far from A Silent Film’s celebrated stock in trade. The following track only serves to bolster such musings, revealing an instinctive knack for balancing the quartet’s sound, and showing the bassist’s subtle inventiveness.
Sadly, the effect is marred once they get to a mawkish ballad, because not only is the song asinine and vacuous, but the same audience who were literally shouting and banging tables during the previous sets are in rapt silence and serving me a stew of black looks just for having a conversation near the back of the room about how good the band are! Still, you can’t judge an artist by their fans; I’d certainly have to sling the old Wagner records on the fire, if so. Ultimately Inlight don’t quite have the compositions to hold the attention for a full set, and too many songs seem to exist solely because they can play them well. It’d be nice to see some more adventurous writing, and an appeal to something other than the broadest emotions, but we can imagine that on a huge stage in the summer dusk Inlight could be just the ticket. Does the critical reappraisal start here?
Thursday, 18 February 2010
Payslip Park
This review, from the latest issue, is the last Nightshift review I have in the archives (for "archives" read "pile"). From now on you'll get them as they're written, roughly one per month. Fret not, there are still loads of Oxfordbands pieces in the posting schedule (for "schedule" read "desperate random selection").
HUCK & THE HANDSOME FEE/ BARBARE11A/ LORD MAGPIE & THE PRINCE OF CATS, Big Hair, Cellar, 7/1/10
The implausibly named Lord Magpie & The Prince Of Cats offer guttersnipe rockabilly that can hardly be called tidy, but has the clumsy alluring grace of a newborn foal. They have tiny amps that probably came from a Kinder Surprise, atrocious backing vocals, a strange ungainly vocalist who camply croons like a cross between Andy Warhol and Waylon Jennings, and enough energy to outweigh any amateurism. Some of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll is primal, and whilst Lord Magpie isn’t angry, or sweaty, or sexy, the music does seem to come from the very core of the performers. They’re also fascinating: how did this weird lot meet? How do they rehearse? Hang on, have they ever rehearsed? If there’s one thing missing in rock music today, it’s mystery; Lord Magpie is a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a butterfingered cover of "Hi-Heeled Sneakers. Seek them out.
Barbare11a grabs the attention too, looking like a horrific mixup in the costume departments of Mad Max and Two Gentlemen Of Verona: ruffs, leathers and leggings. They play greasy glam rock, and though the vocalist talks like a strange Swedish Eddie Izzard, he has a strong Bowie-inflected singing voice. They’re like a version of Borderville from out of a Christmas cracker, and as such are great fun if a touch unconvincing. Then again, they’re playing with a man down, and they do give us a wonderful lilting waltz, and a superbly slurred Booze Brothers cover of “Minnie The Moocher”, so it’s a victory in the end.
Huck & The Handsome Fee could probably give seminars on how to build a set (though, with their grubby white vests they’d best not set up as stylists). The gig is a compact, well-constructed suite of songs that builds from a quiet bluesy narrative to a punked up Sun Records crackle without a wasted second. Humphrey Astley has a voice that milks the maximum drama from his dark songs, intoning “The Fall” like a mixture of Roy Orbison and Nick Cave and his backing is rock solid. Perhaps the dour country blues balladry feels thin after the flamboyant character of the support acts, but this is a decent band for a quiet evening of listening and solid, melancholy liquor drinking.
HUCK & THE HANDSOME FEE/ BARBARE11A/ LORD MAGPIE & THE PRINCE OF CATS, Big Hair, Cellar, 7/1/10
The implausibly named Lord Magpie & The Prince Of Cats offer guttersnipe rockabilly that can hardly be called tidy, but has the clumsy alluring grace of a newborn foal. They have tiny amps that probably came from a Kinder Surprise, atrocious backing vocals, a strange ungainly vocalist who camply croons like a cross between Andy Warhol and Waylon Jennings, and enough energy to outweigh any amateurism. Some of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll is primal, and whilst Lord Magpie isn’t angry, or sweaty, or sexy, the music does seem to come from the very core of the performers. They’re also fascinating: how did this weird lot meet? How do they rehearse? Hang on, have they ever rehearsed? If there’s one thing missing in rock music today, it’s mystery; Lord Magpie is a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a butterfingered cover of "Hi-Heeled Sneakers. Seek them out.
Barbare11a grabs the attention too, looking like a horrific mixup in the costume departments of Mad Max and Two Gentlemen Of Verona: ruffs, leathers and leggings. They play greasy glam rock, and though the vocalist talks like a strange Swedish Eddie Izzard, he has a strong Bowie-inflected singing voice. They’re like a version of Borderville from out of a Christmas cracker, and as such are great fun if a touch unconvincing. Then again, they’re playing with a man down, and they do give us a wonderful lilting waltz, and a superbly slurred Booze Brothers cover of “Minnie The Moocher”, so it’s a victory in the end.
Huck & The Handsome Fee could probably give seminars on how to build a set (though, with their grubby white vests they’d best not set up as stylists). The gig is a compact, well-constructed suite of songs that builds from a quiet bluesy narrative to a punked up Sun Records crackle without a wasted second. Humphrey Astley has a voice that milks the maximum drama from his dark songs, intoning “The Fall” like a mixture of Roy Orbison and Nick Cave and his backing is rock solid. Perhaps the dour country blues balladry feels thin after the flamboyant character of the support acts, but this is a decent band for a quiet evening of listening and solid, melancholy liquor drinking.
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Up The Arsenal!
I was in Witney the other day eating a beefburger. I'm not proud, but that's how things happen sometimes. There was a family on the adjacent table, and a woman asked a girl, I guess her neice, what she was thinking of.
"A unicorn," she replied.
"What sort?" asked the aunt.
"Err...dunno."
"You must do, what sort?" I began to wonder here whether there was some sort of heirarchy of unicorns that everyone in the world except for me and this poor floundering girl knew about.
"OK, " said the aunt, trying a new tack, "did you see it in the Argos book at home?"
I think the girl found this as odd a question as me, as she just mumbled.
"Or did you see it in an Arhgos book somewhere else?" tried the aunt, really warming to the topic now. I mean, the fact that she clearly considers the Argos catalogue to be some Borgesian repository of all sub-lunary existence is stupid enough, but the fact that she clearly imagines that Argos produce different catalogues for different buildings simply beggars belief.
Idiot.
Anyway, here's some crap about a record you'll never hear.
ALL THESE ARMS - Demo
How to have fun with crap demos, part one: put them into iTunes, and read the incongruous suggestions the software identifies as potential track titles (naturally most demos aren’t registered with the Gracenote database that Apple accesses). Seriously, this feeble comedy can just about get you through the worst of the demo bunch. All These Arms is not the worst of the bunch, but it’s frankly not great, so we glean amusement from the fact that our player thinks we’re listening to the classic Who Shot JR? EP by Jinx Removing, featuring the evergreen “Johnny Depp Was My Friend”.
It’s a pity, because the demo opens enticingly, flexing an old-school synth arpeggio in cheesy fashion, and we originally think we’re in for some distanced but loving vintage rave reconstructions, in the style of V/Vm cohort Chris Moss Acid. Then suddenly the big boy guitars and the over-wrenched vocals tumble into the frame, and we’re left with the desperate flounderings of a stage school Biffy Clyro. Sadly the singing is what really spoils the track, sounding like Molko taking the mickey out of Moyet, but then again the guitarist’s nods to Foreigner aren’t making him any friends either. Just to prove that context is everything, when the synth comes in again, it suddenly sounds tacky and nasally annoying. That was the bit we actually liked, but it’s been tarnished by association with the vapid Eurorock that engulfs it. Bastards!
Second tune “Fade 2 Black” makes a pyrrhic impact by being mastered much louder that its predecessor. Admittedly it is a harder hitting piece, but it never really gets close to “banging”, and has to settle for “perky” – and again, the vocals ruin the show, with horrible yo-yo phrasing - he sings “liyee-yives” instead of “lives” - before just going for broke and doing a full length “iyeeyiyeeyi” that reminds us queasily of Go West’s “We Close Our Eyes” (don’t pretend you don’t remember). Once again the synth gives us something to cling to, with a nice early 80s wibbly figure that you might have heard on an old episode of Rainbow.
Track four is a remix of the opener, and an uncredited fifth tune is kind of fun - providing your idea of fun is a cross between Technotronic and The Alarm – so it’s left to track three (which doesn’t have a title anything as interesting as iTunes’ suggestion of “Stay In School & Drink Your Milk”, so we refuse to acknowledge it) to provide some glimmer of hope. For once the guitars sound sinewy and powerful, the steppa’s beat underneath it all is tiny and tinny but manages to keep the track skipping playfully along, and the vocalist just gets on with singing the song, instead of drenching everything in annoying mannerisms. It’s hardly the best song of the year, but it does possess a yearning quality where the rest of the CD singularly fails to get off the starting blocks.
In saying this, we’re in danger of being forcibly escorted from the 21st Century, but we do feel, sometimes, that too many quotes and references can destroy music: yes, the keyboards on this demo sound like early rave and electro-pop, and the guitars tip the nod to Van Halen, but the problem is they don’t really do anything else. You can reference anything you like, but if the biggest selling point of your music is ultimately that you didn’t think of it, we’re really all going nowhere. Put the studied references behind you, and start trying to create something new. It’s time to leave school. But you can bring the milk if you like.
"A unicorn," she replied.
"What sort?" asked the aunt.
"Err...dunno."
"You must do, what sort?" I began to wonder here whether there was some sort of heirarchy of unicorns that everyone in the world except for me and this poor floundering girl knew about.
"OK, " said the aunt, trying a new tack, "did you see it in the Argos book at home?"
I think the girl found this as odd a question as me, as she just mumbled.
"Or did you see it in an Arhgos book somewhere else?" tried the aunt, really warming to the topic now. I mean, the fact that she clearly considers the Argos catalogue to be some Borgesian repository of all sub-lunary existence is stupid enough, but the fact that she clearly imagines that Argos produce different catalogues for different buildings simply beggars belief.
Idiot.
Anyway, here's some crap about a record you'll never hear.
ALL THESE ARMS - Demo
How to have fun with crap demos, part one: put them into iTunes, and read the incongruous suggestions the software identifies as potential track titles (naturally most demos aren’t registered with the Gracenote database that Apple accesses). Seriously, this feeble comedy can just about get you through the worst of the demo bunch. All These Arms is not the worst of the bunch, but it’s frankly not great, so we glean amusement from the fact that our player thinks we’re listening to the classic Who Shot JR? EP by Jinx Removing, featuring the evergreen “Johnny Depp Was My Friend”.
It’s a pity, because the demo opens enticingly, flexing an old-school synth arpeggio in cheesy fashion, and we originally think we’re in for some distanced but loving vintage rave reconstructions, in the style of V/Vm cohort Chris Moss Acid. Then suddenly the big boy guitars and the over-wrenched vocals tumble into the frame, and we’re left with the desperate flounderings of a stage school Biffy Clyro. Sadly the singing is what really spoils the track, sounding like Molko taking the mickey out of Moyet, but then again the guitarist’s nods to Foreigner aren’t making him any friends either. Just to prove that context is everything, when the synth comes in again, it suddenly sounds tacky and nasally annoying. That was the bit we actually liked, but it’s been tarnished by association with the vapid Eurorock that engulfs it. Bastards!
Second tune “Fade 2 Black” makes a pyrrhic impact by being mastered much louder that its predecessor. Admittedly it is a harder hitting piece, but it never really gets close to “banging”, and has to settle for “perky” – and again, the vocals ruin the show, with horrible yo-yo phrasing - he sings “liyee-yives” instead of “lives” - before just going for broke and doing a full length “iyeeyiyeeyi” that reminds us queasily of Go West’s “We Close Our Eyes” (don’t pretend you don’t remember). Once again the synth gives us something to cling to, with a nice early 80s wibbly figure that you might have heard on an old episode of Rainbow.
Track four is a remix of the opener, and an uncredited fifth tune is kind of fun - providing your idea of fun is a cross between Technotronic and The Alarm – so it’s left to track three (which doesn’t have a title anything as interesting as iTunes’ suggestion of “Stay In School & Drink Your Milk”, so we refuse to acknowledge it) to provide some glimmer of hope. For once the guitars sound sinewy and powerful, the steppa’s beat underneath it all is tiny and tinny but manages to keep the track skipping playfully along, and the vocalist just gets on with singing the song, instead of drenching everything in annoying mannerisms. It’s hardly the best song of the year, but it does possess a yearning quality where the rest of the CD singularly fails to get off the starting blocks.
In saying this, we’re in danger of being forcibly escorted from the 21st Century, but we do feel, sometimes, that too many quotes and references can destroy music: yes, the keyboards on this demo sound like early rave and electro-pop, and the guitars tip the nod to Van Halen, but the problem is they don’t really do anything else. You can reference anything you like, but if the biggest selling point of your music is ultimately that you didn’t think of it, we’re really all going nowhere. Put the studied references behind you, and start trying to create something new. It’s time to leave school. But you can bring the milk if you like.
Saturday, 13 February 2010
An Emotional Gish
This was submitted to Nightshift but never used. Possibly because a mix up meant there were two writers present that night, and probably because it's a little dull. If you don't know, Simon Minter is - ah, go Google it yourself, this is the 21st century, you know.
A SILENT FILM/ COLOUR/ POLAR REMOTE – Big Hair, The Cellar 11/1/07
“Sort of post-rocky soundscapy stuff. With vocals”. So says promoter Jimmy Evil, describing Polar Remote. Well, its not award-winning criticism, but it does the job. Yes, they tick all the post-rock (with vocals) boxes, but end up making a pretty minimal impression. Highlights come when someone who looks like the brother Simon Minter’s been keeping locked in the attic trades guitar for buzzing organ, but it’s not enough to save the songs. This set’s like flicking through a haberdasher’s swatch: occasionally texturally enticing, but disjointed and profoundly unmemorable.
Borrowing Foals’ spatterjerk funk and welding on some slightly more accessible melodies, London’s Colour reminds us that there’s life in the nebulous post-rock genre yet, simply by being really tight and having a kick-arse drummer. The vocals sometimes strain to make an impact, but the overall effect is imposing. Every now and then we feel like we may have heard all this before…then we decide we’d be happy to hear it all over again, so it’s a rousing victory for Colour.
“Imagine a sort of piano led Radiohead”. We’re trying to explain A Silent Film to a friend before the gig. “What, like Keane?” Golly, careless talk really can cost lives. ASF may share an emotional simplicity with certain post-Coldplay yearners, but the similarity ends there. Aside from one Russ Conway Plays Planet Telex moment, this is forceful, intelligent song-writing delivered like a punch in the guts. Besuited frontman Rob attacks the mic with a cabaret fury that recalls Nick Cave, whilst the band fuses tuneful and bludgeoning with mystifying ease. Perhaps the emotion is a smidgin overplayed, but maybe it’s good for noisenik Wirephiliacs like us to go home with heartstrings tugged instead of chins stroked once in a while. With their huge presence and custom lightshow ASF make The Cellar feel momentarily like Wembley Stadium. Of course, the real test of a band like this is whether they can make Wembley feel like The Cellar, but that’s a question for the future. Keep an eye on this film, there may well be lots of twists and developments left to reveal.
A SILENT FILM/ COLOUR/ POLAR REMOTE – Big Hair, The Cellar 11/1/07
“Sort of post-rocky soundscapy stuff. With vocals”. So says promoter Jimmy Evil, describing Polar Remote. Well, its not award-winning criticism, but it does the job. Yes, they tick all the post-rock (with vocals) boxes, but end up making a pretty minimal impression. Highlights come when someone who looks like the brother Simon Minter’s been keeping locked in the attic trades guitar for buzzing organ, but it’s not enough to save the songs. This set’s like flicking through a haberdasher’s swatch: occasionally texturally enticing, but disjointed and profoundly unmemorable.
Borrowing Foals’ spatterjerk funk and welding on some slightly more accessible melodies, London’s Colour reminds us that there’s life in the nebulous post-rock genre yet, simply by being really tight and having a kick-arse drummer. The vocals sometimes strain to make an impact, but the overall effect is imposing. Every now and then we feel like we may have heard all this before…then we decide we’d be happy to hear it all over again, so it’s a rousing victory for Colour.
“Imagine a sort of piano led Radiohead”. We’re trying to explain A Silent Film to a friend before the gig. “What, like Keane?” Golly, careless talk really can cost lives. ASF may share an emotional simplicity with certain post-Coldplay yearners, but the similarity ends there. Aside from one Russ Conway Plays Planet Telex moment, this is forceful, intelligent song-writing delivered like a punch in the guts. Besuited frontman Rob attacks the mic with a cabaret fury that recalls Nick Cave, whilst the band fuses tuneful and bludgeoning with mystifying ease. Perhaps the emotion is a smidgin overplayed, but maybe it’s good for noisenik Wirephiliacs like us to go home with heartstrings tugged instead of chins stroked once in a while. With their huge presence and custom lightshow ASF make The Cellar feel momentarily like Wembley Stadium. Of course, the real test of a band like this is whether they can make Wembley feel like The Cellar, but that’s a question for the future. Keep an eye on this film, there may well be lots of twists and developments left to reveal.
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