The last BBC review I have in my annals. There may be more I've lost; if you find one that I haven't posted, blah blah, who the fuck am I kidding? Anyway, it's not that good, except for the line about Hannon, N. & Pop, I. that I shamelessly recycled for a recent Smilex review.
SMILEX/AT RISK, Cellar, 11/04
At Risk certainly took me back. The play just the sort of music that lttle local bands used to play when I first sneaked underage into gigs some years ago. Sadly, I thought that this harmless, ever-so-slightly gothic, indie rock was dull at the time, and the intervening years have done nothing to change my opinion. At Risk are just very dull, unfortunately. They're not terrible, and they're no worse than any number of bands, but there isn't much to say about them. I fear that the songs are non-starters, but it may help if they played a little less sloppily and if the singer didn't employ an odd strangulated tone (imagine Avril Lavigne having a crack at Mark & Lard's tight-throat style). I need something exciting after that...I wonder whether Smilex will do the trick...?
I heard the recording of Smilex' "Sex 4 Sale" and I confess it didn't grab me. People told me that when I saw the live show I'd understand, and the Lee was an astounding frontman. Again, I'll admit to having my doubts: taking your shirt off and jumping about have pretty low mileage with me.
Anyway, I'm proud to admit I was completely wrong. Lee's antics are original and, seemingly, spontaneous, as he throws himself around the room, drenching the audience with water, looking like a tiny, horrific cross between Neil Hannon and Iggy Pop. Still, these shenanigans are really only a mild distraction, when there's music of such sleazy quality.
The rhythm section grabs every track with the insane ferocity of Cujo in a butcher's warehouse, providing a tight springboard for the eyeball-popping vocal howls. The real star, however, is the guitarist, who throws out squalls of sound that seem uncontrolled, but weave beautifully into the rhythmic twists of the songs. It's a paradoxical effect, like watching tornado with right angles. The audience soon forget the liquid being sprayed over them by an over-zealous singer, and concentrates on the searing rock missives.
Let's be realistic, this band won't change your life, but for 45 minutes they will make it much, much more fun. And probably much more damp.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Cardioplosive
I've been teaching myself to touch type with an online course. Well, I already can touch type, but I only use 4 digits - I figure there must be a more efficient method, and I'm starting to get RSI in my right index finger. But, with years of bad habits, it's bloody hard. I sit there typing in groups of 4 specilaly selected letters & trying to get a high enough score to progress to the next lesson. It's a like a highly frustrating, and deeply boring, computer game. But, then all the computer games I grew up with basically boil down to pressing groups of letters at just the right times - amazing what you can do with a few blocky sprites and bleepy noises, eh?
JUNKIE BRUSH - HEARTS & MINES EP (Rivet Gun Records)
Considering that punk was always supposed to succeed on enthusiasm rather than musicianship ("Here are three chords: now form a band"), it's strange how rarely we come across a convincing punk group. Luckily the Green Day breed of Play-Doh punkers are now fading away, but even the more traditional bands tend to lack bite. Is it because this musical primitivism is ultimately pretty boring ("You've got no ideas: now stop the band"), or is it just that nobody round here has the same sort of nihilist anger that seemed to be common currency in the late '70s?
Whatever the answer, Junkie Brush are definitely in the running for best local punk act. Oddly, though, their greatest strength seems to lie in their exactness, attention to detail and their ability to hold back and control their performances, none of which are generally recognised punk values. This new EP, which is by far the closest they've got to capturing the menace of their live shows, has plenty of punk energy in approach, but is incredibly precise in construction. Somehow, that's a contradictory mixture, like a gleaming and lovingly personalised getaway vehicle. So every time we call Junkie Burhs "punk", it should be understood that there are a definite flavours of clinical US hardcore in the blend.
This isn't to say that Junkie Brush don't have a taste for the brash, absurd and cartoonish that personifies punk - the hilarious title of the first track, "Exhume His Corpse (And Make Him Dance For Money)" makes this clear. And if "Now She's Dead" gets a bit two-dimensional in its childish refrain of "I don't give a fuck, you don't give a fuck", the sneering chorus of "Yes, she was an animal" brings forth pleaant memories of The Sex Pistols on "Bodies".
To show that they have a bit of variation to their repertoire, "Find Another Way" lurches long with a blooze swagger, and the Nicole Steal remix of old favourtie "Monkey Grinder" brings an unexpectedly screamadelic baggy sound to the fore. Simplicity and directness are still the order of the day, however, and this record reminds us that sometimes that's all you need. So long as it's honest. And very very loud.
JUNKIE BRUSH - HEARTS & MINES EP (Rivet Gun Records)
Considering that punk was always supposed to succeed on enthusiasm rather than musicianship ("Here are three chords: now form a band"), it's strange how rarely we come across a convincing punk group. Luckily the Green Day breed of Play-Doh punkers are now fading away, but even the more traditional bands tend to lack bite. Is it because this musical primitivism is ultimately pretty boring ("You've got no ideas: now stop the band"), or is it just that nobody round here has the same sort of nihilist anger that seemed to be common currency in the late '70s?
Whatever the answer, Junkie Brush are definitely in the running for best local punk act. Oddly, though, their greatest strength seems to lie in their exactness, attention to detail and their ability to hold back and control their performances, none of which are generally recognised punk values. This new EP, which is by far the closest they've got to capturing the menace of their live shows, has plenty of punk energy in approach, but is incredibly precise in construction. Somehow, that's a contradictory mixture, like a gleaming and lovingly personalised getaway vehicle. So every time we call Junkie Burhs "punk", it should be understood that there are a definite flavours of clinical US hardcore in the blend.
This isn't to say that Junkie Brush don't have a taste for the brash, absurd and cartoonish that personifies punk - the hilarious title of the first track, "Exhume His Corpse (And Make Him Dance For Money)" makes this clear. And if "Now She's Dead" gets a bit two-dimensional in its childish refrain of "I don't give a fuck, you don't give a fuck", the sneering chorus of "Yes, she was an animal" brings forth pleaant memories of The Sex Pistols on "Bodies".
To show that they have a bit of variation to their repertoire, "Find Another Way" lurches long with a blooze swagger, and the Nicole Steal remix of old favourtie "Monkey Grinder" brings an unexpectedly screamadelic baggy sound to the fore. Simplicity and directness are still the order of the day, however, and this record reminds us that sometimes that's all you need. So long as it's honest. And very very loud.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Getting The Pip
I quite like this review, it manages to review 4 acts & make some broad observations within a pretty tiny wordcount. I wonder what Sac & Pip are doing no...they shold by rights be doing something amazing, but I hope they didn't blow it all with one good LP.
DAN LE SAC Vs SCROOBIUS PIP/ GIDEON CONN/ PRODUCERS WITH COMPUTERS/ RIZ MC – The Zodiac Apr08
“Thou shalt not create thy own Zwinky”
It’s easy to create new lyrics for Dan Le Sac and Scroobius Pip’s ‘net hit “Thou Shalt Always Kill”, because, like all great satire it simultaneously feels like self evident truth and a highly original creation. “What oft was thought, but ne’er so well expressed,” as Alexander Pope put it. Naturally it receives a riotous reception tonight, but the cabaret laptop rap recital we witness reveals Dan and Scroob to be more than a one click pony.
“Thou shalt not vote for us on The Road To V”
Whilst Scroob chats and flogs home made 7”s at the merch, label types hand out fliers offering free ringtones: like many satirists who attack the modes of dissemination, from the aforementioned Pope, to Wyndham Lewis, to Chris Morris, the Pip show has suddenly had to find a way of working with the very industry they’re lampooning. One way of doing this is just be really bloody good, and Dan’s laptop work is crunchy and incisive, whilst Pip’s delivery shows a keen knowledge of hip hop beneath his geeky persona. Witness the power of the bravely dissonant second number, addressing self harm in a blizzard of harsh electronic tones and impassioned intonation, or the subtle “Angles”, exploring the minefield around simple binary ethics.
The downside of youth culture success is having to share a bill with Producers With Computers, two fatuous gabbling striplings who risibly mix Kid ‘n’ Play with Grange Hill (although Riz MC is ace, and Gideon Conn is a likably messy cross between G Love and Twizz Twangle).
“Thou shalt not drink crap lager from a plastic cup at £3.15 a pop”
And yet, no matter how slick and regulated our cultural life may become, great artists always shine through. So long as Le Sac and Pip – and their audience – carry on with this fantastic and intelligent approach, there’s hope for our culture yet.
DAN LE SAC Vs SCROOBIUS PIP/ GIDEON CONN/ PRODUCERS WITH COMPUTERS/ RIZ MC – The Zodiac Apr08
“Thou shalt not create thy own Zwinky”
It’s easy to create new lyrics for Dan Le Sac and Scroobius Pip’s ‘net hit “Thou Shalt Always Kill”, because, like all great satire it simultaneously feels like self evident truth and a highly original creation. “What oft was thought, but ne’er so well expressed,” as Alexander Pope put it. Naturally it receives a riotous reception tonight, but the cabaret laptop rap recital we witness reveals Dan and Scroob to be more than a one click pony.
“Thou shalt not vote for us on The Road To V”
Whilst Scroob chats and flogs home made 7”s at the merch, label types hand out fliers offering free ringtones: like many satirists who attack the modes of dissemination, from the aforementioned Pope, to Wyndham Lewis, to Chris Morris, the Pip show has suddenly had to find a way of working with the very industry they’re lampooning. One way of doing this is just be really bloody good, and Dan’s laptop work is crunchy and incisive, whilst Pip’s delivery shows a keen knowledge of hip hop beneath his geeky persona. Witness the power of the bravely dissonant second number, addressing self harm in a blizzard of harsh electronic tones and impassioned intonation, or the subtle “Angles”, exploring the minefield around simple binary ethics.
The downside of youth culture success is having to share a bill with Producers With Computers, two fatuous gabbling striplings who risibly mix Kid ‘n’ Play with Grange Hill (although Riz MC is ace, and Gideon Conn is a likably messy cross between G Love and Twizz Twangle).
“Thou shalt not drink crap lager from a plastic cup at £3.15 a pop”
And yet, no matter how slick and regulated our cultural life may become, great artists always shine through. So long as Le Sac and Pip – and their audience – carry on with this fantastic and intelligent approach, there’s hope for our culture yet.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
Insert Corny Pun Here
I've got to go out in exactly one minute. Here's a shit old review of a great great gig.
HAYSEED DIXIE, The Zodiac, 11/04
The oddest thing about Hayseed Dixie is how much they remind me of crap British comedians. The front man has the sort of rainbow dungarees that the fat one out of Hale & Pace would wear when performing th Playschool sketch, whilst the guitarist on the left closely resembles Bobby Ball doing a gag about Austrian homosexuals. The other two look like they haven't changed haircut since their days in Cambridge footlights. Anyway, this is a response of my twisted mind, and is completely irrelevant.
The point is that hayseed Dixie are a red hot bluegrass fourpiece who turn their attentions upon 70s heavy rock, most notably AC/DC (geddit?). And they're spectacular. I notice that my colleague gave a rave review to Trash Fashion recently. You could apply the same criteria for success to Hayseed Dixie:
1) Make sure that, now matter how deep the irony, the music you borrow is ultimately ace
2) You won't get anywhere in this game unless you can play like the devil
And play they can. Winner by a nose is the electrifying finger-picking of bebereted (it IS a word) banjo player, who could make the very rock Gods who wrote the songs bow their heads in admiration. Thier take on revivalist hymns and traditional Appalachian numbers indicates that, behind the jokes, they could easily have been a straight American roots band.
Trouble is, if they did that, they wouldn't be able to fulfil their quest to get staggeringly drunk every night, which is a noble quest indeed, There isn't much more to say, in critical terms: Hayseed Dixie came with a job to do, and did it impeccably - "Fat Bottomed Girls" and "Walk This Way" being tweo personal highlights. In addition to this the drinks flowed, the Zodiac soundcrew quite rightly got the praise they deserved onstage (the monitors engineer was even handed beers periodically by the band) and the crowd loved it (Oxford pasty, my cotton-pickin' hiney!).
The Dixies offered us the best sort of cabaret: good mindless entertainment that, on closer inspection, turns out to be deeply thought out. Yeehah!
HAYSEED DIXIE, The Zodiac, 11/04
The oddest thing about Hayseed Dixie is how much they remind me of crap British comedians. The front man has the sort of rainbow dungarees that the fat one out of Hale & Pace would wear when performing th Playschool sketch, whilst the guitarist on the left closely resembles Bobby Ball doing a gag about Austrian homosexuals. The other two look like they haven't changed haircut since their days in Cambridge footlights. Anyway, this is a response of my twisted mind, and is completely irrelevant.
The point is that hayseed Dixie are a red hot bluegrass fourpiece who turn their attentions upon 70s heavy rock, most notably AC/DC (geddit?). And they're spectacular. I notice that my colleague gave a rave review to Trash Fashion recently. You could apply the same criteria for success to Hayseed Dixie:
1) Make sure that, now matter how deep the irony, the music you borrow is ultimately ace
2) You won't get anywhere in this game unless you can play like the devil
And play they can. Winner by a nose is the electrifying finger-picking of bebereted (it IS a word) banjo player, who could make the very rock Gods who wrote the songs bow their heads in admiration. Thier take on revivalist hymns and traditional Appalachian numbers indicates that, behind the jokes, they could easily have been a straight American roots band.
Trouble is, if they did that, they wouldn't be able to fulfil their quest to get staggeringly drunk every night, which is a noble quest indeed, There isn't much more to say, in critical terms: Hayseed Dixie came with a job to do, and did it impeccably - "Fat Bottomed Girls" and "Walk This Way" being tweo personal highlights. In addition to this the drinks flowed, the Zodiac soundcrew quite rightly got the praise they deserved onstage (the monitors engineer was even handed beers periodically by the band) and the crowd loved it (Oxford pasty, my cotton-pickin' hiney!).
The Dixies offered us the best sort of cabaret: good mindless entertainment that, on closer inspection, turns out to be deeply thought out. Yeehah!
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Critical Reaction
I've messed up a bit, posting the review of my most recent Gulliver's review first: it's not only the best of the records, but I think it's the best written review. So now you have a long tunnel into a drab past to look forward to, as the archives are raided. Yay.
Tedious explanatory note: Ronan is the editor of Nightshift, if you didn't know.
THE GULLIVERS - CHEMICALS (demo)
Last time we came across The Gullivers on record we surprised ourselves by discerning a little bit of blur in the midst of the punk rabble. Either we hit on something, or The Gullivers have been adapting their sound to reflect what we say in our reviews (don’t do it kids: we reviewers are all 40 year old, washed up alcoholic failed rockers living in Ronan’s basement and we know nothing. It was on the internet so it must be true). Well, we’ll give The Gullivers the benefit of the doubt and assume they have the good sense to ignore every word we say, and conclude that they’re just moving in a more pop direction at the moment. Certainly the three tracks on this EP take a chimpish jaunt through the new wave music hall that housed the best Britpop, all bouncy baselines and chirpy chappy vocals. “Black & White” could well be some deformed sibling of Supergrass’ “Alright”, reared for years in some dark pub back room, fed on driptrays and pork scratchings. It’s ugly, disjointed and gallons of fun.
“Dilemma” does the Lambeth walk even further down the geezer trail, sounding like a slightly punch-drunk Madness, the “sign on the dotted line” refrain recalling the patriarchal advice on their NHS satire “Mrs Hutchinson”. Again we’re reminded of blur, albeit their very earliest fumblings, such as “Come Together” or “Day Upon Day”. In short, there’s something wonderfully unpretentious about The Gullivers, and we can’t help but warm to their ramshackle refrains. Also nice to see they’ve finally put the last of their Arctic Monkeys/Babyshambles influences to bed, and are making much more interesting music for it.
It’s a pity that the messy “Needless To Say” has to finish the CD. Like an old man groping for his glasses after a nap, this sounds like a song bumbling about in search of a melody. For the first time on the demo the vocals stop sounding refreshingly unaffected and honest, and just sound atonal and lazy. Like Michael Stipe, it would seem that Mark Byrne sounds more assured the lower in the mix he is, and somehow the spell gets broken when the vocals take centre stage; he could also do with sticking to the shorter phrases of “Dilemma”, which allow his yelps to flit in and out without having to tackle tuning issues.
So, there’s still some work to be done, but The Gullivers keep knocking out demos at a respectable velocity, and each one is definitely better than the last, so here’s to them: hey, if they keep improving at this rate, they’ll be the best band in the history of music by 2027. Go see them now and you’ll have the best “Saw them before they were famous” story ever!
Tedious explanatory note: Ronan is the editor of Nightshift, if you didn't know.
THE GULLIVERS - CHEMICALS (demo)
Last time we came across The Gullivers on record we surprised ourselves by discerning a little bit of blur in the midst of the punk rabble. Either we hit on something, or The Gullivers have been adapting their sound to reflect what we say in our reviews (don’t do it kids: we reviewers are all 40 year old, washed up alcoholic failed rockers living in Ronan’s basement and we know nothing. It was on the internet so it must be true). Well, we’ll give The Gullivers the benefit of the doubt and assume they have the good sense to ignore every word we say, and conclude that they’re just moving in a more pop direction at the moment. Certainly the three tracks on this EP take a chimpish jaunt through the new wave music hall that housed the best Britpop, all bouncy baselines and chirpy chappy vocals. “Black & White” could well be some deformed sibling of Supergrass’ “Alright”, reared for years in some dark pub back room, fed on driptrays and pork scratchings. It’s ugly, disjointed and gallons of fun.
“Dilemma” does the Lambeth walk even further down the geezer trail, sounding like a slightly punch-drunk Madness, the “sign on the dotted line” refrain recalling the patriarchal advice on their NHS satire “Mrs Hutchinson”. Again we’re reminded of blur, albeit their very earliest fumblings, such as “Come Together” or “Day Upon Day”. In short, there’s something wonderfully unpretentious about The Gullivers, and we can’t help but warm to their ramshackle refrains. Also nice to see they’ve finally put the last of their Arctic Monkeys/Babyshambles influences to bed, and are making much more interesting music for it.
It’s a pity that the messy “Needless To Say” has to finish the CD. Like an old man groping for his glasses after a nap, this sounds like a song bumbling about in search of a melody. For the first time on the demo the vocals stop sounding refreshingly unaffected and honest, and just sound atonal and lazy. Like Michael Stipe, it would seem that Mark Byrne sounds more assured the lower in the mix he is, and somehow the spell gets broken when the vocals take centre stage; he could also do with sticking to the shorter phrases of “Dilemma”, which allow his yelps to flit in and out without having to tackle tuning issues.
So, there’s still some work to be done, but The Gullivers keep knocking out demos at a respectable velocity, and each one is definitely better than the last, so here’s to them: hey, if they keep improving at this rate, they’ll be the best band in the history of music by 2027. Go see them now and you’ll have the best “Saw them before they were famous” story ever!
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Beadle Bumble's About
Well, this is the only record review I've ever done for Nightshift. I must have got excited by the prospect, because I wrote something pretty florid. But, hey, it's a very nice record, and sometimes I'm just in a good mood, I guess.
THE WORKHOUSE – FLYOVER
Last month’s cover story aside, The Workhouse is Oxford’s great forgotten band. Despite ten years of beautiful music, they rarely seem to be discussed, don’t appear in any pundit’s Top Local Acts list, and to our knowledge are yet to instigate reams of grammatically dubious yabber on the city’s internet message boards. Whilst this is partly due a sporadic gig schedule and a generally unassuming nature (come on, they look like old rockabillies who should be clogging up Cornmarket, not a vital force in new music) this record should hopefully bring them a whole raft of new admirers even as it jogs more age-ravaged memories.
Flyover, like most of their work, shows strong textural sensibilities along with a penchant for racks of guitar pedals with big dials reading “scintillate”. The first references to spring to mind are, as ever, The Cocteau Twins and their 4AD cousins, but something in the stringent, even brutal, sparseness on display proves there’s more to it than that: Liz Fraser’s emotive glossolalia would sound bombastic amongst the glacial severity of Flyover’s hyperborean sonic architecture. Opener “Chancers” is a stately waltzing shimmer that could easily soundtrack the death dance at the end of The Seventh Seal, whereas “Sellafield” has a widescreen Morricone austerity that recalls obscure East European ambienteers The Ecstasy Of Saint Theresa. It’s not all icy emptiness, though, and despite the paucity of vocals this album is packed with songs, such as “Twinkling Lights”, boasting a simple heart-tugging melody worthy of Kraftwerk.
It could be claimed that The Workhouse’s output is a dispassionate essay in the distanced and clinical, but it’s all so oddly moving. The German Romantics knew that nothing said so much about humanity than huge paintings of uncaring mountainsides, and so The Workhouse realise that dignified melancholy can touch the listener more than countless emo screamers in Clubs That Cannot Be Numbered. It’s time for Oxford’s Nick Hornbies to rewrite their lists of favourite bands. Just watch that the tearstains don’t smudge the ink, Flyover can sneak up and have that effect. Do excuse us we..we think we’ve got something in our eye…
THE WORKHOUSE – FLYOVER
Last month’s cover story aside, The Workhouse is Oxford’s great forgotten band. Despite ten years of beautiful music, they rarely seem to be discussed, don’t appear in any pundit’s Top Local Acts list, and to our knowledge are yet to instigate reams of grammatically dubious yabber on the city’s internet message boards. Whilst this is partly due a sporadic gig schedule and a generally unassuming nature (come on, they look like old rockabillies who should be clogging up Cornmarket, not a vital force in new music) this record should hopefully bring them a whole raft of new admirers even as it jogs more age-ravaged memories.
Flyover, like most of their work, shows strong textural sensibilities along with a penchant for racks of guitar pedals with big dials reading “scintillate”. The first references to spring to mind are, as ever, The Cocteau Twins and their 4AD cousins, but something in the stringent, even brutal, sparseness on display proves there’s more to it than that: Liz Fraser’s emotive glossolalia would sound bombastic amongst the glacial severity of Flyover’s hyperborean sonic architecture. Opener “Chancers” is a stately waltzing shimmer that could easily soundtrack the death dance at the end of The Seventh Seal, whereas “Sellafield” has a widescreen Morricone austerity that recalls obscure East European ambienteers The Ecstasy Of Saint Theresa. It’s not all icy emptiness, though, and despite the paucity of vocals this album is packed with songs, such as “Twinkling Lights”, boasting a simple heart-tugging melody worthy of Kraftwerk.
It could be claimed that The Workhouse’s output is a dispassionate essay in the distanced and clinical, but it’s all so oddly moving. The German Romantics knew that nothing said so much about humanity than huge paintings of uncaring mountainsides, and so The Workhouse realise that dignified melancholy can touch the listener more than countless emo screamers in Clubs That Cannot Be Numbered. It’s time for Oxford’s Nick Hornbies to rewrite their lists of favourite bands. Just watch that the tearstains don’t smudge the ink, Flyover can sneak up and have that effect. Do excuse us we..we think we’ve got something in our eye…
Saturday, 26 September 2009
Stompin' At The Sav(el)oy
Hello, dear friends, valued strangers and evil spam spewing web-bots, and welcome once more to the David Murphy archives. Here's a review of Top 20 botherers Hot Chip from way before they were famous and the miniature monkey was yet to be wound. They were...quite good. Worth waiting for that verdict, I think you'll agree.
PS Although the BBC editor at the time published this claiming it was a gig at The Bully, this was incorrect. Also, I'm sure I originally indicated in thge copy who promoted the gig, and I think it may have been Vacuous Pop, but I'm not certain enough after all these years to say for certain.
HOT CHIP/ PINEY GIR/ NERVOUS_TESTPILOT, Wheatsheaf, 8/04
Anyone who says electronic music is always the same has got nervous_testpilot to answer to. Not that this would be too frightening as the pilot is quite small and, err, nervous, but the point is that Paul Taylor has the itelligence and musical imagination to make every performance completely different, in a way no supposedly exciting rock band could dream of.
After the tympanic scouring doled out at Truck, tonight he's gone for the danceably melodic. God, give some of those tunes a remix by Fatboy or Sash! and they'd be Top 10 material! Highlights are a crisp "Raiders Of The Lost ARP" and his trademark Queen-mangling gabba finale - OK, it's obvious, but it's so damned well done.
Speaking of doing things well, let us consider Exhibit B, Piney Gir. In lesser hands her kindergarten Korg schtick might wear thin, but underneath the playground melodies reclines a vocalist of great ability and discipline. Add to this A Scholar & A Physician's incisive and elegant production, whicc resists the urge to be too silly (except on a punk "My Genreration" cover, which palls on the second hearing), and everything in Camp Gir looks rosy. Having said this, I can imagine many people being left cold by tonight's textbook performance. I just can't imagine it would be much fun being them.
I'm uncertain about Hot Chip. They look like a mixture of The Beastie Boy's younger brothers and Cabaret Voltaire's chemistry teachers, and they sound like The Bloodhound Gang playing Prince's songs on Chicory Tip's keyboards. Their fiveman wall of electronic funk resembles a Benny Hill sketch about electro.
Trouble is, their suburban sleaze entreaties are sometimes full of wit, and sometimes and overstretched joke; some of the parping synth textures are clever and outrageously funky, whilst some are thin and annoying. Still, I'll be there to watch them next time, and I suppose any performance that leaves an old cynic like me so intrigued must be counted as a victory.
PS Although the BBC editor at the time published this claiming it was a gig at The Bully, this was incorrect. Also, I'm sure I originally indicated in thge copy who promoted the gig, and I think it may have been Vacuous Pop, but I'm not certain enough after all these years to say for certain.
HOT CHIP/ PINEY GIR/ NERVOUS_TESTPILOT, Wheatsheaf, 8/04
Anyone who says electronic music is always the same has got nervous_testpilot to answer to. Not that this would be too frightening as the pilot is quite small and, err, nervous, but the point is that Paul Taylor has the itelligence and musical imagination to make every performance completely different, in a way no supposedly exciting rock band could dream of.
After the tympanic scouring doled out at Truck, tonight he's gone for the danceably melodic. God, give some of those tunes a remix by Fatboy or Sash! and they'd be Top 10 material! Highlights are a crisp "Raiders Of The Lost ARP" and his trademark Queen-mangling gabba finale - OK, it's obvious, but it's so damned well done.
Speaking of doing things well, let us consider Exhibit B, Piney Gir. In lesser hands her kindergarten Korg schtick might wear thin, but underneath the playground melodies reclines a vocalist of great ability and discipline. Add to this A Scholar & A Physician's incisive and elegant production, whicc resists the urge to be too silly (except on a punk "My Genreration" cover, which palls on the second hearing), and everything in Camp Gir looks rosy. Having said this, I can imagine many people being left cold by tonight's textbook performance. I just can't imagine it would be much fun being them.
I'm uncertain about Hot Chip. They look like a mixture of The Beastie Boy's younger brothers and Cabaret Voltaire's chemistry teachers, and they sound like The Bloodhound Gang playing Prince's songs on Chicory Tip's keyboards. Their fiveman wall of electronic funk resembles a Benny Hill sketch about electro.
Trouble is, their suburban sleaze entreaties are sometimes full of wit, and sometimes and overstretched joke; some of the parping synth textures are clever and outrageously funky, whilst some are thin and annoying. Still, I'll be there to watch them next time, and I suppose any performance that leaves an old cynic like me so intrigued must be counted as a victory.
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