Pre-Match Report

I used to be married to a girl who made mustard, but one day I got home and found she'd left me a Dijon letter.


Have a terrible feeling I've used that joke here before.  What the hell, it's brilliant, one more time won't hurt.

TINDERBOX FESTIVAL, 16/6/12, The Old Wharf, Cropredy

There are three activities that rural Oxfordshire excels in: voting Tory, playing Aunt Sally, and running tiny music festivals.  Alongside Truck and Cornbury, on any given summer weekend you can find a strange little festival somewhere in the county, with friendly musicians playing to small gaggles of happy listeners.  About half of them are run by Phil Garvey, seemingly.  However, even in this environment, Tinderbox stands out as an oddity.  In what is essentially someone’s garden just outside Cropredy, a small clutch of customers could listen to some experimental, primarily improvised music, sup a pint or a cuppa and eat a burger.  And that’s it.  Nobody selling funny hats, nobody trying to tell you about the social situation in Borneo, no hastily concocted extreme sports, just a gazebo with some leftfield music, and a few dozen ears to give it a chance.  And, at least one pair of ears can confirm that the quality was incredibly high.

Ostrichbox, a trio of composition students from Birmingham, open the day with three laptops and some glitchy, post-IDM rhythms.  Much of the set consists of pretty but inessential sonic baubles, all metallophone ostinati and tinkling bells, but there are moments of bleak beauty when a forlorn vocal enters, and melancholy melodies play against the chirrups and hums.

This ghostly folk song technique is built upon by Sounthend’s Lost Harbours, who wrap guitar, flute and primarily wordless vocals in a wraithlike mist of reverb and delay.   If you want the soundtracks to Once Upon A Time In The West, Twin Peaks and The Wicker Man distilled and served chilled, this excellent act should fit the bill.

In the US, the history of free and improvised music seems to be closely allied to revolutionary and race politics.  Here in the UK, it always seemed closer to light socialism, gardening and theatrical pranksterism.  Bolide bear this out, a clattering Art Ensemble of Brighton blowing hell for leather, but more interested in making each other chuckle than spreading a message.  The set is a squalling, ersatz space ritual, but despite the presence of myriad reed instruments, a gong and some fetching kaftans, this isn’t one of Can’s ethnological forgeries, it’s more like musicological fuckery.  Jon Hassell’s Fourth World technique involved taking global folk musics and immersing them in expensive Western gloss, but bands like Bolide offer a Fifth World, in which elements from across the planet sound equally cheap when smeared together in one long faux-freak blast.  It’s a more realistic vision of international cultural exchange, and it sounds a damn sight more entertaining, too.

Temperatures, from London, are another highlight, pitching drums and bass against vintage electronic hums sourced form a large analogue rack that may or may not be in tip-top condition.  Certainly, the electronic pulses have the wayward quality of an awkward child, and much of the fun of the set is the pull between tight rhythms and sloppy sonics.  The bass especially sounds as if it could morph into a self-conscious school swot jazz funk at any moment, whereas the vocals are tiny distorted guttural fragments, the logical conclusion of Alan Vega’s bargain Elvis schtick.  An act that creates lots of intrigue from minimal materials. 

It seems harsh to give the worst review to the act that has travelled the furthest to perform to such a small crowd, but Sylvia Kastel and Ninni Morgia from Italy – seriously – have the least to offer, in their mixture of cave-drip guitar and wailed ululations embellished by vocal treatments and guitar pedals.  There are enjoyable moments, the odd Fred Frith guitar flurry, or a ring modulated swoop, but the set feels like a parade of effects rather than a musical event.  Hell of a lot of ear-drilling treble, too, for a chilly afternoon.

We’ve seen festival organisers Red Square a couple of times, but today’s set is the most satisfying, perhaps because they’re playing on home turf (literally), rather than at the bottom of a Friday night rock lineup.  Their new drummer plays more straightforward rhythms than his predecessor, but these actually work wonderfully, providing a solid backdrop for simmering free guitar and some lightly ‘traneish sax lines that disappear into a labyrinth of digital effects.  They’re the band who pitch their improvisation closest to rock dynamics, Ian Staples’ compressed guitar sound owing far more to Hendrix or metal shredders than to Derek Bailey.  They occasionally get bogged down in a rhythmic furrow, and the odd tempo switch wouldn’t hurt, but the final track is a surprisingly groovy number, bridging the gap between Maceo Parker and Evan Parker, so this is a small criticism.  Ian, however, is wearing a deep red outfit and sky blues shoes; oh dear, bring back the kaftans.   

Shatner’s Bassoon are a five piece from Leeds, and are easily the most technically minded of today’s acts.  They have plenty of all-out free passages, but also some tightly arranged heads and traditional jazz solo spaces.  There’s a Hancockesque Rhodes sound ladled liberally, and some nods towards supper jazz, reggae and even calypso in the maximalist compositions, proving that sense of humour is as high on their list as a sense of exploration.  After a day of music that tended to clamour or drift, it’s refreshing to see a rhythm section signalling complex breaks, and a feel for traditional structural dynamics.  Shatner’s Bassoon are funny without being silly and musically intricate without being introspective.  Chris Morris would be proud.

Funnily enough, festival closers Space F!ght, from York, sound as though they could have been used by Morris in the background to an episode of Jam.  They place textural guitar and sax over crisp, Black Dog style beats, to create an avant-comedown music of jazz fragments and deep sonic horizons.  In a way their set might have worked better after a long day of sunshine and energy, rather than an afternoon of huddling away from the rain, but they still create a diverting sound world.

And as we walk all of ten yards back to the car, Tinderbox makes us think of The Streets’ lyric, “You say that everything sounds the same/ Then you go buy them”.    Anyone who’s moaned about the corporatisation of music festivals and predictable lineups, whilst being strip-searched in the queue for their five pound can of Tuborg, should check out next year’s Tinderbox: you might discover some of the best music you’ve ever heard, or you might hate every second of it, but you’ll know you’ve seen something created with love and honesty...and you might even get a free cup of tea if you ask the lady behind the counter about her herb garden...

Daft Punt

Here is my thorough review of this year's Punt festival.  I thought it was a strong night out, I saw nothing bad, and nothing phenomenal.  Mutagenocide were unoriginal and a wee bit sloppy (by the incredibly high standards of classic metal, anyway, where you have to be spotlessly good in a crowded field), but they were still worth a listen, and Manacles Of Acid were my favourite act.  It didn't feel as though there were enough surprises for me to call it a top rank Punt, but I guess that skipping last year  contributed to that somewhat.  It's a wonderful insitution, anyway, I'm looking forward to 2013 already!  


Elements of this review are to be found in Nightshift's Punt mega-article.

THE PUNT, Purple Turtle/ Cellar/ Duke’s Cut/ Junction/ Wheatsheaf, 16/5/12

Ostensibly, The Punt is a showcase for Oxford music, but secretly might not be.  Sounds like an idiotic observation, but in fact the annual night-long, multi-venue event isn’t a glossy advert for local sounds, or an aural taster menu to invite putative new listeners, it’s more like an initiation test for potential recruits to the scene.  In its duration and complexity The Punt is a challenge, not a night out – the musical equivalent of Atomic Burger’s Godzilla meal, the sonic sister to an episode of Takeshi’s Castle.  And if proof were needed curator,  Nightshift’s Ronan Munroe is a puckish trickster as much as a promotional ambassador, we need look no further the presence of Tamara Parsons-Baker as the opening act.  She is a performer of some talent, with a powerful voice, but her dark vignettes of wispy intensity are a deliberately perverse introduction to the night, barbed lines left hanging portentously in the room, wintry guitars providing the lovelorn backdrop .  It’s a strong set, but she’s at her best when she comes over as a more animated Leonard Cohen, and at her worst when she just sounds like someone bitterly sniping at their ex-partner.

Secret Rivals are a perfect foil to this opening gambit, with their melodic, 6 Music friendly pop nuggets.  On record we just keep on finding more to love in their scrappy indie pop flurries, but live they’re still a smidgen sloppy.  In a way that doesn’t matter, the joy of the band is that they toss the Mentos of pop into the Diet Coke of indie with gay abandon, and let the sugary mess explode across the venue.

Undersmile are a geologically-paced sludge metal band fronted by two atonally chanting ladies who look as if the creepy twins from The Shining have grown up listening to Babes In Toyland.  It all sounds horrifyingly like half-orc mating calls played at quarter speed, and is absolutely brilliant.  And also pretty rubbish.  But mostly brilliant.

The Duke’s Cut is a new Punt venue, and one where the fact that the performers are completely invisible to all but about ten of the audience is balanced by the decent ale and the cosy camaraderie.  Toliesel sound at first like The Band with some pub rock elements, and are perfectly pleasant, though they seem to be pushing too hard, turning sweet vocals into rough hollers.  But, we decide to stay for their whole set, and soon the music makes perfect sense, revealing winning melodies under the murk.  Even the crackles from a slightly overstretched PA add to the natural warmth of the music.  In a reversal of Punt logic, Toliesel win us over with slow increments of quality songwriting, rather than flashy bandstanding, making us glad we stayed the distance.  Although it was mostly because it was too much effort to push our way back out of the crowd.  We sincerely hope there was one random person sitting at one of the pub tables in the early evening, who was hemmed in and forced to listen for the entire night.

Simple probability dictates that there’s always one Punt act that gets an underservedly small audience, and this year it’s Band Of Hope.  Mind you, the fact that they’re playing in the cavernous Junction club compounds the problem.  Incidentally, the venue turns out to be a pretty good addition to the night, although we’re not sure a pile of rocks and road signs is a great decor choice, it makes the room look like a student’s back garden.  The band is a lush ensemble playing relaxing country and folk, with excellent flourishes from fiddle and pedal steel. At times they have a lackadaisical Sunday jam session air that erases some of the character form the songs, but “Baby You’re A Mess” is a solid gold winner.

We catch the end of Deer Chicago, and their sound, which can often seem unnecessarily bombastic and forcedly epic, works far better in a cramped sweaty Duke’s Cut.  Sadly, as things are running late we only catch a fragment of The Old grinding Young.  They sound a little like parent band Ute, but with Radiohead twitches replaced by expansive rootsiness.  Too early to tell whether this will prove a good move.

In contrast to the sludge avalanche of Undersmile, and the doomy prog of Caravan Of Whores, Mutagenocide proffer a far more traditional brand of metal.  There are elements of the post-Pantera stylings of previous Punt stars Desert Storm, but most of the set consists of resolutely old school chugging rhythms, twiddly guitar solos and growled vocals that are probably all about large-breasted elf duchesses in the Hades branch of Games Workshop. There’s very little to set Mutagenocide apart from a vast roster of metal acts up and down the count(r)y, but they’re enjoyable enough, the penultimate track pulling off some good aural pummelling.

When you see LeftOuterJoin expending vast amounts of energy playing live syn drums along with some pounding trance, you have to ask what the point of it is.  It would sound just the same (and fractionally more in time) if the rhythms were programmed.  But, artists don’t have to dwell in a world of cold logic, and in many ways the victory of this act is its very redundancy.  The set veers from excellent techno to cruddy Euro cheese pretty haphazardly, but the sheer spectacle is a euphoric joy.  The fact that he’s also brought trippy projections and two lasers into the Wheatsheaf, Oxford’s least rave-friendly venue, is worth as many extra points as you can tally. Plus there are some over-sized smoke machines, that trip the pub’s fire alarm, and cause the venue’s windows to be opened for the first time this millennium.  A set to remember.

Into the home straight at The Junction with rapper Half Decent.  His delivery is truly excellent, and the backing tracks are chunky but he does share a fault with nearly all live hip hop: paradoxically, what should be a match of visceral rhythms and intimate poetry, generally drifts into empty gesturing.  Half Decent spends a lot of his set asking us to dance and sing along, when he would do better concentrating on delivering some very wry, insightful fast-paced lyrics (and dumb fun lines like “Making girls wetter than a washing machine”, for good measure).  He puts on a good show to a gaggle of exhausted music fans, but we’re sure the rapturous stadium gig happening in his head was even better.

Manacles Of Acid is watched by the hardcore, the shell-shocked and those unbeatable party people who may live to regret it.  We started the night with a harrowingly bleak preacher disguised as a nice acoustic singer, and we end it with unforgivably niche electronica dressed up as a bright clubber’s party.  Using only vintage hardware (including a TR606 worn round the neck) the man named Highscores produces a seemingly endless string of classic acid house and Detroit techno which thrill s the faithful, but is clearly a closed book to half the room.  We fall into the former camp, loving the beautifully crafted layers of mutated basslines and crisp drum patterns.  There are confetti cannons and some sort of cross between a fly and a character from Starlight Express running round the room, who may or may not officially be part of the show, and it’s an uncompromising conclusion to the night.

And so we leave The Junction, dazed and deafened, feeling as though we’ve split the past five and a half hours equally between enjoying, working and speed drinking.  The Punt feels even more like a twisted musical hazing ritual as we wait woozily for the late bus home.  Thank you, Sir, may we have another?

Cats Would Be Republicans, Of This I Am Certain

-Doctor, doctor, I think I'm a pair of curtains!

-Well, you managed to make this appointment, and express yourself quite concisely, so I suspect the delusion isn't too deep-seated.  I think you'll be fine.

KING OF CATS – AMERICA (Bandcamp download)

We always feel that a musician must be doing something right if they violently split opinion – by which we mean the opinions of dedicated listeners, not the predictable, shallow spats between reviewers and some teenage band’s friends and family.  We have seen King Of Cats provoke more anger and distress in audiences than is anywhere near common, and we have witnessed seasoned promoters, engineers and gig-goers in rapt attention, throwing around terms like “genius” with gay abandon.  We dare say it’s nice to be universally lauded as an artistic messiah, but when disinterested parties are prepared to spend time arguing about your worth, you know you’ve made a good start. 

Brighton (via Oxford) denizen King Of Cats has raised these post-gig debates by creating an onstage avant-troubadour persona that’s half wryly confessional anti-folk Woody Allen, and half punk noise ointment fly, a japing Loki creating harsh electronic bleeps and screeching atonally in the middle of quiet ballads.  And perhaps this download, billed as the debut LP, demonstrates a maturing of the Cats sound: the record might be wilfully lo-fi and amateurishly oblique, but it’s built around real songs, songs that the King seems to be intent on respectfully delivering, rather than puckishly destroying.  Perhaps, to be brutal, a man who can’t sing in any conventionally recognised manner has found a way to use his voice to serve his fascinating little songs.  So, only “Recorded at the gathering of the tribes galley, New York City” (like Brooklyn Beckham, all tracks are simply named after the US location in which they were created, and all apparent typos and random capitalisations are the artist’s own) is an ugly King Of Caterwauls screech, whereas “Recorded at Maggie’s house, San Francisico” is a grunge Dylan buzz, and “Recorded on a cherry picker in seattle” uses a querulous spider-strand of a vocal line to sketch out a lyric of melancholic resignation.  It’s as if King Of Cats has given up trying to use his flawed voice to sing, and has worked out how to use it to act. If it’s good enough for Lou Reed...

Most tracks start and end with the nostalgic click of a tape recorder, and musically the LP follows suit, being primarily a collection of sparse, rickety acoustic skeletons on the verge of collapsing into dust, but this awkward delicacy serves the fragmented intimacy of the lyrics perfectly.  There are some subtly lovely touches too, “Recorded on a plane, in the high desert and seattle” pitching an almost melodic croon against some thin, stately keys, like The Folk Implosion channelling Federico Mompou, and our favourite, “Recorded in the damp in New Orleans” coming off like some spectral, netherworld Paul Simon duetting with a chirruping digital canary.  The unexpected tinny electronic drums on the closing track also offer a pleasing palette change.

Lyrically, like most Cats tracks, America’s songs are emotional, diaristic outbursts refracted and atomised until they read like emo haikus, but at their best they can be surprising, funny and moving.  “Recorded Next to the traintracks inFlagstaff Arizona” is our pick, opening with the typically opaque, “I bet you six pounds you’ll get what you want to, by the end of October”.  There’s a defeated bohemian air to lines like this, like a beat poet who has thrown out the asocial boasting and outsider celebrations (we always felt that Ginsberg at least partly saw “Howl” part one as a checklist), and replaced them with distanced self-disgust.  “Let’s prove we’re men by lighting fires and pissing them out again”, as a repeated refrain sardonically advises.

We’re not going to claim this album is great – at times it’s not even any good – but it does feel like a worthwhile work of art, at once heartfelt and deliberately confounding.  A local reviewer can spend a lot of time listening to music designed to rock a chum’s VI form ball, or calculated to attract a Radio 2 playlister, and that’s fine, but it’s always wonderful to hear idiosyncratic music made solely for the tiny fraction of the world who will understand it, even if we don’t always feel ourselves to be part of that miniscule fraternity.  One glorious moment in “Recorded in golden gate park, San Francisco,at the end of a show” sums up King Of Cats’s relaxed artistry, as we hear his keening voice in the background, and some audience members jockishly high-fiving next to the recording mike: If you find something to love in King Of Cats, you’ll be welcomed with open arms, but if you don’t, there’s no pressure.  You might even find yourself on his next LP.

No Bull

Yes, yes, the title is atrocious.

CAT MATADOR/ DALLAS DON’T/ PUMP SHARK/ ROBOTS WITH SOULS, Port Mahon, 20/4/12

Sometimes it doesn’t take much to be new.  Live looping stopped being surprising some time ago, and bass and drums duos litter hipster house parties like half smoked Camels, yet we’ve never seen anyone put them together.  Robots With Souls’ Steve Wilson balances a two string bass on a sparse drum kit, and samples up some big, dense rhythms over which he delivers fragmented lyrics with melodic intensity.  Somewhere in this marriage of indie crooning and dumbass mall sludge, a truly excellent new act has been created.  It’s a fantastic show, that in the sweaty crucible of the Port Mahon feels more a shared ritual than a gig.

Wycombe’s Pump Shark offer a twitchier take on rock intensity, jerky rhythms continually pulling the rug beneath soul-baring vocal howls.  There’s a little of the sensitive brutality of Fugazi in their mixture of choppy guitars and lopsided sincerity, but somehow the set never quite gets off the leash.  If Pump Shark could get over a certain studied restraint they could be powerful, but as it is the initial buzz dwindles before their half hour is up.

There’s something we adore about Dallas Don’t, but let’s be frank, it ain’t their playing.  The rhythms are sloppy and they’re rarely entirely in tune, but it doesn’t matter because their music tells stories, and each slurred vocal line conjures up images that massed ranks of well-drilled musos could never achieve.  The sound is a fascinating battle between erudite, melancholic indie and scruffy US rock – The Delgados morphing into Mudhoney, perhaps – and you get the feeling that if one side ever won the fight, the magic would dissipate, but for now this tuneful whirlwind of rage and romanticism is one of the best things in Oxford music.

A Cat Matador is a funny idea.  Wave a cape at your average moggy and you’ll get bemused disdain, not an enraged stampede.  And we feel roughly the same: Cat Matador play well enough, doing all the right things with violin-flecked indie, putting intricate snare patterns behind introspective Tindersticks laments, but we just can’t dredge up any excitement.  There are some mournful fiddle lines and clattering bursts of energy to snag our ears, but generally the feeling is that whilst Cat Matador and Pump Shark are decent enough bands, real character will always win out.

Walters, Duly

I typed "numbly undercut" instead of "nimbly" when I submitted this.  Actually kind of makes sense.  Decided to leave it at MIO, but have corrected here.  One for the future doctorates, I'd say.

RICHARD WALTERS – YOUNG TREES (self-released download)

As the 1980s collapsed into the 1990s in a fluorescent, floppy ball of smiling inanity, there was an intriguing trend amongst a certain breed of “inky” journalist (don’t forget, NME, Melody Maker and Sounds were all smudgy doorsteps of respectable opinion in those days).  As if in reaction to the laddish euphoria of the nascent baggy scene, or the crusty simplicity of post-acid dance music, a select coterie of writers retreated into a safe cocoon of poetic intensity.  In their reviews every keyboard was “ethereal”, every voice “lusciously evanescent”, and every guitar touched by man, child or beast turned out “coruscating”.  By the time Brit pop turned up, these guys must have either retreated sadly to their 4AD bowers or shrugged and joined The Wire, deciding that Derek Bailey was where it was at all along.  But we bring it up because we’ve been sitting on this record for weeks, wondering what critical vocabulary we have left to describe Richard Walters after years of lavish praise for his, ahem, lusciously evanescent voice.

Do people get bored of hearing Walters’ voice described as beautiful and delicate?  Hell, does he?  And, like a man who’s bored with paradise, like Oscar Lomax throwing his precious Snappy toy into the sea, can it be possible that we can get bored with music as wonderful as this?  Well, perhaps.  Two of the songs on this EP, whilst being jaw-droppingly lovely, are also a little par for the course.  “Infinity Street” does a nice line in breathy confessional – and probably no singer in the history of Oxford city can deliver a line as intimately as Walters – but never quite finds that Stina Nordenstam zone of disquieting secrecy; and “Dandelions” moves from pizzicato melancholy to mini-epic perfectly...almost too perfectly.

But, just as we’re getting jaded, this record hits us with some elegantly emotional songs to remind us why Walters is such a local treasure.  “Regretless” is a washed out ghost of a gospel celebration, a sort of teary-eyed opposite to blur’s “Tender”, and is beautiful, but the title track eclipses it, allowing a mournful cello and some typewriter percussion to embrace Walters, whose voice flutters round the notes as if it’s trying to keep from floating away, an Aspirin desperately trying not to dissolve.  Some backing vocals, like Disney bluebirds, step in, only to be nimbly undercut by lines like “I talk in platitudes”, that would give Walt the shivers.

And yet the closing number, “Bring On The Dancing Horses” stands above even this.  It’s a wan, spectral valediction, glistening guitars and bodiless backing vocals keeping the song balanced between bottomless despair and rough victory.  Yes, it’s a mystery that this record isn’t making waves at grown-up magazines like Uncut, but more importantly, Walters at his best makes us want to tumble into a weeping huddle one second, and leap into air, fists aloft the next. 

You can’t get much less bloody ethereal than that, eh?

The Joker In The Decade

Funny thing: when The Jukes sent an email to the Nightshift editor about my review, one of their points was that this website wasn't very popular. Since then, the review in question has comfortably become the most viewed page on here in recent memory, and most people seem to have been linked ffrom Facebook. The Jukes' Facebook? Or just a coincidence? I've no idea, but it's sort of intriguing.

Oh, and yes, I am unpopular. That's how you can tell I'm good.


SMILEX/ THE CELLAR FAMILY/ DEER CHICAGO, Coo Coo Club, Jericho, 2/3/12


We saw Deer Chicago a few years ago, and were impressed. Since then they’ve delivered on their potential, and got very slightly worse. Their sound has improved enormously, and is now a huge cascade of emotive noise that fair tumbles out of them. They’re capable of glistering crescendos, but sometimes we wish they’d vary the dynamics, and step away from the screaming stadium in their minds, to regain some of the subtlety of old. All this epic swooning is like super-strong Bavarian lager they sell in your local dodgy cornerstore: doubtless intoxicating, but not big on delicate flavours. A very good band, then, but perhaps not the one we expected them to become, which is out fault, not theirs.

The Cellar Family are less a band, more an annoying muscular twitch in sonic form. Tonight, they play beautifully, lancing their music’s scabrous boils with razor punk incisions, and flooding The Jericho with horrific, visceral imagery delivered with scientific coldness. It’s like a cross between Weird Tales and The Lancet, all buoyed aloft by wittily slurred guitar and snidely forceful rhythms. Humdrum punks take note: everyone can sneer, but only a band like this can actually communicate disgust.

Smilex are celebrating a decade of nefarious activity, balancing on a latex tightrope strung between twin poles of grubby punk sleaze and dumb cock rock preening. Whilst it’s tempting to dismiss Smilex as an eager panting puppy amongst rock beasts – gags like Motley Cruecut and Judas Verger would be almost too easy – tonight’s gig reminds you of just how good they are. Lee Christian, of course, embodies his stage school punk persona, dressed as Kenny Everett in the Blue Oyster Club, but his vocal yelps and drawls really do carry the songs well. The band spends a lot of time throwing rock shapes that probably moved from parody to habit nine years ago, but by Christ they can kick out a squall. As with Deer Chicago, it’s always best to take Smilex on their own terms. The way to have a bad time at their gigs would be to imagine what a band of this much ability and stage presence could achieve if they had any taste. The way to have a good time is to neck a crème de menthe spritzer and dive into the nearest wall of flesh. Who could complain about ten years of that?

Supple Be The Dye

Two reviews in this month's Nightshift, here's the first. In other news, I ordered a new turntable today, looking forward to some crisp vinyl sounds for the first time in a while.



COLOUREDS – ELASTIC EP (Download)


Diversity is a wonderful thing, of course, but we’re pretty sick of bands trying to cover a vast range of stylistic bases, as if they were investors diversifying their portfolios. It’s doubtless fun to be a polymath, but to be honest we’d prefer most musicians to stick to what they’re good at, and stop chasing public acceptance at every turn. After all, John Lee Hooker only needed three chords and an amplified boot to make some of the great twentieth century music. Over and over again.

No surprise, therefore, to find that we respect Coloureds. They have found a sound they are great at making, and are doggedly sticking with it, tonal development be damned. This EP consists of three separate tracks, but frankly they all sound like tiny variations on the single pulsating mutant anthem at the heart of all Coloureds tunes. As on previous releases, Elastic is a neat balance between the hulking and the intricate, chunky Duplo blocks of bass and gambolling percussion topped with jittering treble flecks and tiny vocal blips. It’s like an old Bitmap Brothers computer game remixed by a French house act with a taste for chubby disco grooves.

There are three additional remixes, that are decent enough, but in essence this EP should be filed under More Of The Same, with a cross-reference to Spazz Bounce Electro Euphoria. It’s a gorgeous record, and we hope Coloureds don’t go trying to catch the latest dancefloor fashion. A chameleon is wonderful beasts, but a blank-eyed alligator would crush its tricksy little body in unevolved saurian jaws in a micro-second. All hail the crocodile rock.