Good Will Punting

Here's my review of this year's Punt festival. Fragments of it were used in Nightshift's roundup, but obviously only the nice bits, because they booked the acts.  Music In Oxford didn't do a review this year, sadly, so most of this is being seen for the first time.  Calm your thundering heart and read on.

Random thought for today, has anyone ever made this awful joke?  Cartoon frame of Minnie the Minx or similar, clearly the last one on the page, in which she's tucking into the traditional pile of mash with snorkers sticking out at angles having a "nosh up" in a "snooty" restaurant.  She's looking at us, saying.  "Reader, I married him *Chortle*".

THE PUNT – Purple Turtle/Cellar/Wheatsheaf/Duke's Cut/White Rabbit, 8/5/13

Like cultural futures market traders, some people go to see unsigned acts so that they can spot successes early on: “I saw them before you’d ever heard of them, chum” is a common cry, and might be one familiar to anyone who caught Young Knives, Stornoway or Fixers at previous Punts.  Tonight’s event is odd because, although it may well source a few similar anecdotes for future pub raconteurs, for those of us who live in the here and now the bill is chock full of potential, but a little short on match-fit performers and finished articles.

The Purple Turtle PA, sadly, doesn’t seem to be either of those.  As an engineer battles gamely throughout the night, the timings fall further behind schedule, and the sound becomes more and more wayward.  For Phil McMinn (who has played the Punt previously as part of Fell City Girl and The Winchell Riots, despite his cheeky onstage claims) this is a minor issue and, although the mix might be missing some laptop trickery, his acoustic songs with violin touches cut through technological difficulties. We’ve always admired rather than loved his previous acts, finding them too bombastic and desperately emotional to truly embrace, but this outstanding set hinges on his fantastic, ruby port voice, and a knowing way with melody and dynamics.  If the music is more down to earth than his old bands’, then the lyrics certainly are, touching on mountains, tents and, quite possibly, pony trekking and Youth Hostels, with a wordy dexterity that occasionally recalls Joni Mitchell.  Give that man a gold star, and some Kendall mintcake for his napsack.

More veterans stripping things down next door in The Cellar, as Listing Ships take to the stage for the first time as a trio, having lost a member to parenthood (which has probably killed more bands than drink, drugs and gate reverb put together).  No offence to the departed guitarist, but the band is a revelation as a threepiece, giving the compositions enough space to add a cheeky sashay to what was once a clumping krautcore goosestep.  Tonight keyboard parts reveal new squelchy qualities, and basslines suddenly exude the aromas of dub and New York punk funk: seriously, we can suddenly hear ESG in there, along with the predicted Tortoise and Explosions In The Sky. 

Candy Says...relax!  They might as well, they’re still soundchecking back at the PT.  Oh, they’re about to start...oh, no they’re not.  Must dash.

Beginning to know what a ping pong ball must feel like, we nip back to The Cellar for a bracing waft of Duchess.  We enter to a delightful bit of summery, Afropop fluff, which bears a marked resemblance to Bow Wow Wow.  It’s often lovely stuff, but they could do with going a little more wild (in the country) to lift these promising songs.  Perhaps if they swap one of the percussionists for some gigging experience, we’ll have a great band on our hands.

Limbo Kids have made some superb recordings, which is what you’d expect from members of Ute and Alphabet Backwards.  In the White Rabbit, though, the glacial fragments of late 80s chart hits they arranged into delicate towers of song seem to topple like so much icy pop Jenga.  The vocals are cheery but thin, the band look a little uncertain, and the whole affair is tasty, but somewhat undercooked.  This is their debut gig, we understand, and the conclusion is that they could well have been the best act of Punt 2014, but for now they’re just providing the hold music before our first visit to our favourite Oxford venue.

The Wheatsheaf, apparently held together by scraps of tattered carpet and the accrued tar of ancient cigarettes is not only our Oxford bolthole of choice, but also the most fitting venue for some proper rock in the Punt, making its rock ‘n’ roll case from the tattooed boozers in the downstairs bar to the leaking toilets in the venue above.  In the darkness with a pint of cheap ale is perfect place to see Bear Trap, a scuzzy quartet of grungers who look as though they should come from Oxford, Michigan, making mall rock in the back room of the local Lutheran chapel to kill drab small town weekends.  There are backwards baseball caps on- and offstage, all nodding vigorously to greasy rock that kicks like an irate lumberjack, but whines like a petulant teen.  We’d be lying if we said that these thrashed chords and raw snarls were in any way original, but we’d also be lying if we said we don’t sup back that cheap ale at double speed, with a dumbass grin on our silly face.

If Bear Trap look American, Ags Connolly doesn’t half sound it.  Not only is his music old school one-man melancholy country – or Ameripolitan music, as he and his fellow Shaniaphobes like to call their sound, to differentiate it from whatever stadium schmaltz is being labelled country this week – his voice is pure Midwest drawl, which is odd as when speaking he betrays his West Oxfordshire home.  Normally this would be an unforgivable crime, but Ags’ voice is just so damn good, unhurriedly lolloping along the melodies like a cowpoke taking an easy stroll back from church on a glorious day, that all is forgiven.  Like Bear Trap, his music isn’t going to break new ground, but if it’s looking to break a few hearts, it might just succeed.

Fearing that we’d neglect The Duke’s Cut if we didn’t make the effort to walk there now, we make the rush there to check out The August List.  Thankfully, it’s not as punishingly busy as last year, but it’s still hard to make out much of this enjoyable duo’s music from the back of the crowd, in the doorway of the Ladies’.  Experience tells us that the music is a sweet, smily balance to Ags’ lachrymose laments, with unhurried porch-swing ditties drifting in from some mythical Deep South farmstead.  There’s an unforced connection between their voices that you only get if the singers are brother and sister, or husband and wife.  Or, judging by their musical reference points, both.

We have thoroughly enjoyed Death Of Hi-Fi’s recent album, but live, and shorn of many of the guest vocalists, their music feels like a functional backdrop, rather than a main event.  Like the paranoid feeling that things keep happening in your peripheral vision, the music always seems as though it’s about to usher in something big - whether that’s a stunning guest turn or a brash corporate pep talk, we’re not sure – but it never quite does.  Only rapper N-Zyme really makes a mark onstage, and he displays a nervous energy that seems to hamper his performance a little.  A strong band best suited to the studio, perhaps.

Our experience of tonight’s Punt has been of people doing old things very well, and people doing new things that might need a little nurturing or rethinking before they’re great, but that doesn’t mean that any of the performances are bad.  Except Nairobi’s, that is.  It’s a little unfortunate for them that both Duchess and Limbo Kids have nodded towards the post-Foals African influenced rhythms they favour, and we try to bear in mind that the PT sound system is shot away, but even with these byes, what we see is clumsy and disappointing.  With guitars doing an ugly Hi-Life widdle over clunky drums and a vocal that sounds like a disconsolate moose, it’s as if this set has been put together solely to annoy Andy Kershaw.  Sadly, the wonky world music jam happening in the doorway of Moss Bros as we wend our way back to The Wheatsheaf is more satisfying.

Like a hideous breeding experiment between Stump and The Peking Opera, The Goggenheim bring some much needed theatricality to the Punt.  Everything about this band is grating, from the unjazz skronk of the sax to the repulsive Man At C&A striped vests to the shrill declamatory dada vocals, and yet, against all logic, their songs feel like glorious pop nuggets. Whilst the band nail the wayward blowouts of improvisors Bolide to trashy backbeats and Beefheartian trellises, matriarchal abstract diva Grace Eckersley wails and coos barely coherent mantras.  There’s an otherworldliness about The Goggenheim, as well as a love of the cheap and brash, as if it were the sort of thing two-dimensional sci fi monsters might listen to on their night off. 

And so, we leave the frugging Macra and boogying Aquaphibians and make our way to The White Rabbit for the Punt’s denouement.  In a way, the biggest revelation of the night is how well this works as a final venue: the Goggenheim provide a mystifying climax, and this welcoming little pub acts as a come down party.  We slurp down a nightcap and enjoy After The Thought, who starts off in the style of Artificial Intelligence electronic acts such as B12 or early Black Dog, and then adds a sizable tray of guitar pedals.  There’s a sparse, almost systems music feel to the loops and rhythms, and a lot of the set sounds like the third Orbital album with half tracks turned down and someone playing guitar over the top.  The effect is hypnotic but, just maybe, it’s not quite as good as the third Orbital album without half the tracks turned down and someone playing guitar over the top.  Like much of tonight’s bill, After The Thought is an act with a relatively short gigging history, and we’re sure that soon this enjoyably textured music will become even more encapsulating.  Whether Matt Chapman will become an “I saw him first” topic for future boasts we don’t know, but we do know that we’ve explored a varied set of local acts, and supported a bunch of excellent Oxford venues that should be cherished, which is perhaps enough of a boast for anyone with a real love of live music.

Are They Oon Dooctoor Whoo?

If you had an infinite number of monkeys, you wouldn't need an infinite amount of time.  Here's this month's Ocelot article:
  

I like Caffe Nero on Gloucester Green.  Whilst other chain coffee outlets cover their walls with sanitised snaps of coffee growers, or vacuous statements like “give yourself a break: yummy mocha”, Nero in Gloucester Green has, for some odd reason, some giant pictures of a man arguing with a traffic warden.  In the 1970s.  It’s only when the usual facile decor is replaced that you notice how ubiquitous it is.  It’s like the Bullingdon Arms; it used to have an infuriating stage backdrop that read “LIVE MUSIC” in vast, ugly letters.  To which you just wanted to shout, “I know!  And?”.   It looked as though it had been designed by a Stalinist propaganda minister after six minutes on Photoshop. 

Anyway, The Bully has had a significant refurb and, as well as boasting a crisp PA and a fetching space brothel design, the back room has replaced the vapid backdrop with a nice tasteful logo.  And if you’re planning on dropping in for a visit, you could do a lot worse than do so during a Haven Club promotion.  Every Monday you can expect this gaggle of Oxford gig veterans to provide a friendly night of approachable music.  The keynote is the blues, but there are also outlets for elegant pop, heavy rock, good time boogie and whatever the hell genre John Otway is.  We spend so much time sniffing out new bands, it’s easy to forget what a difference a switched-on, thoughtful promoter can make.  Why not nip over to www.havenclub.co.uk?

OOOD/ HARDCORESMEN OF THE TECHNOPALYPSE/ LEFTOUTERJOIN, It’s All About The Music, The Bully, 12/4/13

It’ll be hard for our more youthful readers to believe, but back in the 80s there was a huge debate about whether electronic performers should be classed as musicians.  It wasn’t just old bluesers who thought you shouldn’t be allowed to make a record until you’d played the same chord progression in a filthy cellar for 15 years straight that raised dissenting voices, the NME would be inundated with lilac-inked missives of florid disgust if an indie outfit went techno crazy and made a record with Flood or Andy Weatherall.  The dissenting movement has dwindled in size, and retreated from the barracks of Cool, but believe us, it still has some staunch followers.

LeftOuterJoin might be named after a nugget of SQL script, but keeps the Proper Music Police in check by playing all the drums for his hard trance live on electronic pads.  His set almost looks like a challenge: “Yes, it sounds like a drum machine, but it’s a real drummer, yet some of it’s still pre-recorded.  Have your rules collapsed yet?”  In fact, what he really looks like bobbling away behind his stand-up kit at great speed is a drug-addled member of International Rescue, but that’s by the by.   The music is decent, a sharper-edged version of the Platipus sound, although the rhythms inevitably become a little climax happy, and a lightly latin-inflected section is the standout.

Hardcoresmen Of The Technopalypse endears himself to us by wearing a hideous raver’s onesie and using the kit he clearly put in his loft after his last gig, a decade or so ago – funny to see someone juggling minidiscs and turning pots on fat black boxes after years of staring at Macbook backs.  In a reversal of the PMP’s dictums, the set would have been better if he’d done less onstage.  There were hints of sweet deep house songs on display, with rich vocals and thick 808 toms, but everything tended to get smoothed out with endless tweaks and squeaks.

Out Of Our Depth would confuse the PMP.  No real instruments get played, no sweats are broken, and yet their set shows the immeasurable value that years of experience can bring, and proves that traditional musical concepts are just as important to psytrance as anything.  Some witty Queen samples notwithstanding, the material of their set is similar to LeftOuterJoin’s, but every hi-hat is crisp and impeccably placed, and every newly introduced motif sounds exciting yet logical.  Quality and honed ability win the day, then, and nobody had to play the solo from “Sweet Home Alabama”.  Result! 

 

Buck An Ear

Jesus, I've been trying to think of a good title pun for this article ages, and this is the best I've come up with.  Nearly spent as long thinking that crap up as writing the review.  Pirates Of The Pedestrian nearly works, but only if I'm here to tell you to pronounce "Pedestrian" like "Caribbean".  And if you pronounce it "CaRIBBean", like them fellahs on the news, it won't work at all.  Bah.

THE CORSAIRS – WHAT’S MY AGE NOW?? (Foot Tapping Records)

Never judge a book by its cover, that’s the advice we’re given, but nobody ever applies it to record covers: if an album’s sleeve features four Hasselhoff rejects leaning awkwardly against a gleaming bonnet whilst a schoolgirl’s skirt falls off in the background, we can all be pretty certain it’ll be of negligible sonic value.  Faced with a huge list of potential reviews, we tell the editor to send us any that have turned up on an actual CD, because we’re old fashioned like that, and through the post comes some of the least enticing local band artwork we’ve ever seen.  It’s depressing when an album can remind you of the hideous Blink 182 not once but twice, but The Corsairs manage it, not only echoing the awful “What’s My Age Again?” in the title, but recalling the parent album Enema Of The State with the Naughty Nurse^TM on the cover art.  In fact, they don’t even managed to find their own Naughty Nurse^TM, but have clearly photoshopped in a stock image.  Add to this the fact that most of the endorsements in the CD booklet come from scooter fanatics, who are doubtless charming but not necessarily considered great rock music critics, and from The Oxford Mail, who are neither, and this looks to be one of the most depressing fifty minutes we’re likely to have this year.  And yet, like cover-judging motherlovers throughout history, we were pleasantly surprised.  We won’t claim this record is great, and nobody in wide creation would claim it was ground-breaking, but it does succeed at what it sets out to do...and if that’s to make a gaggle of lagered up Vespaphiles have a little frug, then fair enough.

The Corsairs are a not-quite-psycho-enough psychobilly trio, led by double bassist Mark Loveridge, and the record is split roughly equally between originals and crowd pleasing covers.   Of the latter, the best are a bennie-fuelled sprint through “Hangin’ On The Telephone”, which leaves the melody mangled and contorted in its lanky-legged race for the finish line, and a nice, sultry bluebeat take on “Tears Of A Clown”, swapping the original’s fairground richness for a taut, wiry sound.  Amongst those that fare less well are Prince Buster’s “Madness”, which seems pointless as the UK already boasts a pretty great cover version (have a guess who by), and “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”, which strains at the limitations of the rockabilly form, and strains at the edge of Loveridge’s vocal abilities; U2 are a band we consider to be desperately overwrought, but at least they hit the heights of bluster they shoot at.

The originals don’t buck any formulaic trends, but show an ear for a big chubby chorus hook, and a likable ability with a cheerful tick-tock Bill Haley rhythm.   We were convinced “Border Radio” was a cover of an early 80s rock ‘n’ roll throwback band until we checked the credits, which is proof that The Corsairs know their stuff, even as it ties them in double retro knots that will ward away most of this site’s readers.  “First Time” is the only clunker, sounding like an after school club trying to make like The Rembrandts,  but the record’s title track is something of a winner, pumping a clicky Western swing rhythm up to amphetamine speed so it sounds like Pinocchio skipping round Gepetto’s workshop high on creosote fumes, before racing headlong into a brattish rockabilly chorus. 

This isn’t CD we’re likely to be spinning again, but in fairness, The Corsairs aren’t best judged at a cluttered desk on an overcast Monday afternoon.  In the right atmosphere, at the right volume, with a beer in each hand and a Naughty Nurse^TM buffing your Lambretta, it might just all make sense...or at least make you stagger about happily at that time of night when making sense doesn’t seem desperately important.