12/03/08 - "I want Acoustic, I must be getting on" - Dan Sandman at the The Purple Turtle

There's a mixed blessing that follows a DIY attitude to music. In one sense it's empowering to the individual allowing them to open up in their music and express the present; without the oppression technical brilliance promotes, without fear of judgement and in sweet, sweet freedom. Unfortunately, when everyone realises that they too can pick up a guitar and whine some pseudo-emotional confession over the top, a critic's job becomes even more difficult. We have to become more discernable and sometimes crueller to artists. As much as you'd like to, you just can't finish every review with the words "at least they tried". Modern music journalism rests entirely on the opinion now, no longer focused on what is right or wrong. This is essentially a problem with the internet in fact, with blogs in particular. How can you pay equal or deserved attention to the mass of information we have to cope with? Affectively, I'm communicating to myself typing this, pathetically hoping someone gives a shit. I can shout anything if I wanted, SWEATY BALLS!
See, no one heard. So now I continue to write for myself.

The Purple Turtle in Oxford tries its best to support the local music scene. A variety of evenings are on selection, from pig-fuck punk to singer-songwriter cascades. Wednesday evenings tend to be the acoustic or minimal stage (called 3 Spirit) giving the artists a chance to breath in an intimate atmosphere. What I expected was a gaggle of 'douchebags with guitars' trying to outdo each other with the exact same drivel. Fortunetly, this turned out to be very wrong. When my 'associate' and I arrived at the venue we were welcomed by the sound of a folk duo of classic nature and, oddly enough, contrasting appearance. The guitarist, a grubby truckdriver perched on stool couldn't be any more different, visually at least, than the singer, a long blonde with a breathy voice. Their set was a little too cute and cuddly at times but none-the-less relaxed and enjoyably traditional - a good tone to open on. The small cave in the back of the Purple Turtle, the candles and small crowd all lent toward an enjoyable hazy vibe.
The real plug of the evening was what came afterwards: Chris Monger, a local indie music producer/performer and Dan Sandman, a beat/king-bum poet and guitar player from Camden; dropping his usual electronic sound for the evening and for a small minimal selection of instruments including a tiny Rhodes keyboard. Incidentally, Monger is responsible for producing Sandman's debut record In Technicolour released, as I gathered, quite recently. I could have sworn I heard his name somewhere before, perhaps in a London music paper - perhaps he came to Oxford a while back and I subconsciously stored his name in some derelict part of my brain. In any case and thinking back about it now, his set was surprisingly engaging. It wasn't pretentious or preachy, no no. His music found the very thing that modern folk has forgotten: how to not take itself so fucking seriously. Each song had this ability to drift in and out of various shades and colours, a possible theme to his music given the record title. Despite some predictable endings and occasional sickly-sweet melodies the songs were laden with chirpy, sympathy poetry overseen by an earnest approach and experimental guitar work. It was well crafted and unique. One Oxford high collar in the croud was making a brash scene and generally whooping the place up as best he could. Understandably, drunks have little patience for quiet, reflective music and he was beginning to try his luck.
"We should have an orgy!" he bellowed, getting half assed laughs from the surrounding audience then pointing directly to me "...he can join us!".
"But we have no otter's nipples" my 'associate' quickly responded. This reference to Ancient Roman sex parties confused him effectively and he tried his best to regain his former repose, but to no avail. His larger soaked head betrayed him.
"We should all come next week in togas" I added, silencing the poor, smarky fool enough to allow the evening to continue on in a reasonable condition.
No doubt, Sandman has delt with worse. His light-hearted attitude and sarcastic humour stems from events such as these. Anyone who deals with hecklers gets my approval. Monger, although blatently a nice guy, came across as some bar-chord bashing, emo Bob Dylan complete with harmonica. Well, at least he tried.
...Shit.