Music To Buck An Ear To

I may not have achieved much during January, but I did come up with the name Cloaca Bilk, which any punk bands are welcome to have.

PEERLESS PIRATES/ OUI LEGIONNAIRES, Moshka, Wheatsheaf, 10/1/15

It’s hard to know what to say about Cheltenham’s Oui Legionnaires.  On one hand their twitchy post-rock flavoured emoting feels unexceptional and a good few years out of date, yet on the other they play with ability and passion that demands attention.  On one hand their angsty US yelps sound like Doogie Howser getting snarky with his ISP, yet on the other the insistent cubist guitar parts give them a Cap’n Jazz intensity that keeps them interesting.  On one hand their final off-mike refrain chanting undershoots its mark and falls awkwardly flat, yet on the other their toes inwards, balls of the feet, nervous tic meek-core energy is infectious.  It’s fifty-fifty; we’ll let them play the advantage and see if they can score in future.

Like Post-It notes and selfie sticks, Peerless Pirates’ main idea is so beautifully simple you’re annoyed you didn’t think of it yourself: The Smiths without the egos.  They’ve taken some of Britain’s greatest pop music, and stripped away not only Morrissey’s passive-aggressive poetics, but also Marr’s penchant for guitar hero classic rock chop-wankery; it’s as if the rhythms section ruled The Smiths, and they were always the best ones (smack notwithstanding).  And the true stroke of genius?  They’ve filled the void with pirates.  Pirates are synonymous with fun, where childhood abandon meets hard liquor and entry level cosplay, and pretty much make most things in life more enjoyable.  Over the years Peerless Pirates have become as tight as well-kept rigging and as solid as a hundred year old capstan, and slowly, unobtrusively their indie-shanty schtick has become one of the best nights out in Oxford.  Barring the odd dashes of Tex-Mex hot sauce, their sound has not noticeably developed, but their focus has, and we defy anyone to leave a set like this without a big silly-arse grin.

Plus, because Peerless Pirates were on our radar first, we’re able to dismiss a certain syndicalism and winkie obsessed comedian as a mere sartorial copyist of lead singer Cliff Adams. Revolution?  Maybe later; for now there’s a rum keg to be tapped.

That Petrel Emotion

I bought my first charity shop records of the year this afternoon, and I'll be at my first gig of the year in a few hours.  2015 has, therefore, begun.

I don't think this is a very good review, but my editor seemed pleased enough, so what do I know?

PETRELS, PADDOX, AFTER THE THOUGHT, Pindrop, MAO, 11/12/14

They called it Dronefest.  Hard to argue, as there isn’t a moment tonight when guitars or keys aren’t filling the air with drones.  Before any act has officially started, Lee Riley and members of Flights Of Helios and Masiro are sonically decorating both the venue space and the upstairs bar with thick tones, the sort that soon start to seep into every thought - one of Nightshift’s more wild-eyed writers greets us with “I’ve been here 45 minutes.  It’s brilliant!”   Apparently, lonely souls even continued playing to an empty foyer whilst the acts performed in the basement, although we can’t believe anyone listened (Schroedinger’s remix, anyone?). 

On the stage, After The Thought shifta slow, elegant notes round in the manner of Eno’s Shutov Assembly with early 90s twinkles a la vintage Global Communication, not to mention a penchant for heartbeat rate decay that’s positively Pete Namlook.  Although the set gets pretty claustrophobic and the high tones nag, it also sounds like warm, friendly pop music underneath.  Is Bubblegum Tinnitus a genre?  Or have the drones started to twist our thoughts, like a dystopian 70s alien infiltration.

Our first impression of Paddox is that it’s brave to puncture such prettiness with loosely sprayed static coughs and rusty corvid caws.  Our second thought is that it isn’t brave, but idiotic, and our third that it is clearly unintentional.  The set is awash with technical snafus, bad connections and unwanted hisses, and whilst there are delightful moments, not least a mournful Gavin Bryars violin motif that floats above the pulsing noise (deliberate and otherwise), we’re left feeling we’ve not seen a performance that it would be fair to judge.

Petrels set is inventive and varied, in a fashion that the event’s name might not have implied.  The excellent tonal tapestry brings to mind images of blasted souls trapped in an old Amstrad floppy drive, skirling seabirds enveloped in thick syrup (perhaps in tribute to the stage name) and even some Artificial Intelligence offcuts.  The set ends with a looping emotional chorus, like the refrain from a lost Spring Offensive song slowly disappearing into a searing sunset.  As we leave James Maund is still making guitar noise in the foyer.  Perhaps he’s still there.

Yucatan, You Can Jive...

Note: please do not put the words Christmas Special onto your gig poster, unless something special is actually going to happen.  And wearing a hat doesn't count.

MAIIANS/ KID KIN/ THE CRISIS PROJECT, Idiot King, MAO, 1/11/14

There are times when good sounds aren’t the same as good music.  The Crisis Project, a man from Bristol with a rack of tech, certainly knows which buttons to punch and which pots to twist to produce a tasty stutter, lurch or glitch, continually derailing what might just be warm house tracks with inventive treatments a la Funkstorung, but sometimes you just want him to stop and think about structure for a moment.  The second tune promises hints of early Black Dog, but soon gets swamped by the tricks and twiddles, until it’s more like watching a hardware tutorial than a gig.  Make us feel as though you’re gifting us art, not as though you’re selling us Kaos pads.

Kid Kin is almost the opposite, setting up surprisingly simple rhythms and spicing them with cleanly elegant keyboard lines and swathes of ultra-fuzz guitar crescendos.  The average Kid Kin track sounds like Mogwai jamming on the tension cues from a mid-afternoon game show, which might have ended up an overbalanced mess if he weren’t so adept at arrangement, constructing solid melodic edifices before swamping them with a deluge of warm reverbed strumming.  Some moments are overly nice, perhaps, but even then we’re reminded of Angelo Badalamenti’s knack for studied kitsch (ironically, as Twin Peaks was projected behind Crisis Project, whereas Kid Kin gets the first 30 minutes of Labyrinth, which rather shoots down the soaring sonic beauty).

Maiians, with their sleek yet bouncy double-drummer synth instrumentals at first seem like an Oxford music throwback, melding The Evening sand Sunnyvale with scrambled bits of The Egg.  Even bashing away in a dark basement there’s a seductive smoothness to their music, taking the kick of funk, but cosmetically covering the sweat and airbrushing out the solos, in a manner that recalls disco genius Arthur Russell.  Oxford has never been short of the arch, the articulate and the impeccably measured – and we’re not just talking about music – but it’s refreshing to see a band that takes controlled eloquence and adds dancefloor nous.  By the end of an impressive set, our reference points have morphed: Maiians are Tortoise at their warmest crossed with the sort of post-samba outfit you always see perking up the runners half way along the London Marathon...which is far more satisfying than pressing the machines that make the nice noises, as it turns out.

Croll Of Honour

Today's hangover cure: an extra hour in bed, and some Stravinksy.

DAN CROLL/ PANAMA WEDDING, Communion/ Transmission, Bully, 11/10/14

Going to see new bands at the moment is like one long pub quiz.  It’s not so much that the music is retro – pop’s been retro since the second minute of its existence – it’s just the current reference points are such odd mid-80s choices that we spend most of our time amongst trendy, bopping audiences with furrowed brow, trying to dredge up names that have lain dormant in the grey cells for 25 years.  New York’s Panama Wedding, for example, with their cleanly emotive, breathy vocals and bleached funk keyboard stabs, are essentially Huey Lewis crossed with Brother Beyond.  Two tracks in, presented with a riff redolent of “Owner Of A Lonely Heart”, we’re gearing up to abhor them, but it turns out that good pop music, played by a band that’s impeccably rehearsed without dropping into cynical posturing, will always melt the hardest heart.  “Uma” might be more suited to a rom com miniature golf montage than the Bully, but essentially these guys are Hot Chip with the irony replaced by gosh-darned American pluck and, frankly, they’re just as good.

When they’re not spinning Now 7 for inspiration, hip young things are copping some tricks from African music, although Dan Croll has recorded in Durban with the mighty Ladysmith Black Mambazo, so he has clearly taken his influences more seriously than most.  But, ignoring a few high life licks, tonight’s set owes far more to smooth, mildly euphoric pop, somewhere between Black’s Moss Bros sophistication and The Beloved’s cultured Ibiza comedowns.  Croll’s voice might be a little thin and falsetto-happy, but he has an articulacy that lifts the songs beyond mere fluff.  Whilst our favourite tonight  is “Can You Hear Me?”, an improbably huge bass drum making it sound like MOP’s take on “Cold As Ice” without the hip-hop, and whilst the odd guitar wail or gratuitous Meatloaf drum fill sticks in our craw, Croll, like his support, reminds us that well-made pop, with an ear for a ripe melody, will never go out of style, regardless of fashion’s whims.

Rooster or Riding Hood?

It's been so long, it feels weird not to be pasting an Ocelot piece in the introduction.  Not sure whether I'll be replaced yet.  Anyway...

LITTLE RED – STICKS & STONES (All Will Be Well Records)

Whilst it might be common practice to rely on first impressions in the arenas of job interviews, speed dating and general elections, we reviewers are supposed to look more closely, to sift the full evidence objectively before drawing a conclusion.  Pity, really, because it means that we judge this album by local trio Little Red to be a pleasant bundle of contemporary folk, when our hearts are still alight from the opening track, that made us sit up and take notice like nothing else on the record.

Said tune, “What Say You” is just charming.  From a clean finger-picked guitar figure, that has a whiff of the cosy, unflurried ‘70s library music style that Trunk Records christened Fuzzy Felt Folk, closely entwined male and female vocals bob on a charming little melody, like a toy boat on a choppy duckpond.   It sounds limpidly lovely, but like so many great folk tunes, the jaunty music hides a black heart, the lyrics telling of betrayal, disappointment and visceral knife crime.  There is a wonderful moment where the guitar drops out to let the vocals declaim the chorus unaccompanied, that structurally seems to owe more to club bangers than any folk tradition, and in all, the song is a micro-epic, hinting at a full and macabre tale in its 1’48” running time.

It would be unfair to criticise the remaining 8 tracks too harshly, but none of them can challenge this jewel of an opener.  There are plenty of sweet, sugary harmonies in the vein of Trevor Moss and Hannah Lou, and songs like “The Garden” recall our very own August List, albeit lacking in the bite that they would bring.  “Bonnie And Clyde” typifies the record, a beautifully put together little tune, right enough, but perhaps a touch too smooth, and with a “you and me against the world, babe” theme that is hackneyed and shopworn. 

In the future, we’d like them to either build on the wide-angled sounds of “Petal” or “Bonnie & Clyde” and make a giant, unashamed Clannad meets Fleetwood Mac studio confection, or alternatively to strip things down, get some dirt in the gears, and grind out something deeper and darker.  For now, this is an assured debut, with plenty to recommend it, but prettiness and poise might not bring out the best in Little Red – we’d like them to be rather less Little, and a much richer, bloodier Red.