Famous Villains, The Darlingtons and DJ Howla @ The Live Room, Taunton

At 7pm I strolled through the doorway of The Live Room expecting something downright bloody spectacular. I slapped down my fiver, procured a pint of cider and sat down to observe the wildlife flutter in and socialise. The bar staff were tense but visibly exited. A few photographers were doing the little dance they do, trying to get a feel for the right angles and best shots. The chemical smell of fresh paint filled the air. Everything was ready. The Live Room's opening night was underway.

Back before The Live Room, before The Perfect 5th, before the smoking ban, was Mambas Cafe and I can recall (with difficulty) a few nights of drunken bliss, sweaty moshing and loud music. Once an ideal stop for bands on their way up and down the South West, the building had a firm tradition for live music. When it closed down in 2010 it became just another empty facade on the high street, soon to be forgotten. It seemed for a while like that was it and I don't think I was alone in my relief when, two months ago, I heard it was going to be reopened by new ownership. The old layout, a bar and lounge area upstairs and a standing room in front of the stage downstairs, had been retained. The refit was swift and the design kept simple leaving more focus to the lighting and sound, the centre point of the venue. Now all that's left is the overwhelming task of reinstating its original reputation. No pressure.

Famous Villains had the honour of kicking off the night with a suitably energetic set. Travelling from Doncaster and looking a bit like Mumford and Son's rougish siblings, their upbeat Folk Rock songs, ringing chords and whiskey sodden sing-a-longs went down pretty well. After a while, they were "interrupted" as they jokingly declared, or rather swept aside by the almighty, messianic figure of Brian May as part of the promotion for the venue's opening. It's the sort of thing that Joe Strummer would have lent his support to years ago. Still, Brian will do. Cheers Brian.

For me, the real highlight of the evening was The Darlingtons, a local four piece who belted out a tight mix of sparkling guitar melodies reminiscent of The Foals coupled with the kind of melancholy you'd hear in The Editors, only with a lot more angst. At first glance, they have 'indie' oozing from every crack but their performance definitely outweighs their image. With towering distortion and warm textures, offset skilfully by some gentler moments, it was solid stuff and although their grand sound may deserve a slightly bigger venue, it would be great to have them back at some point.

After a short set of brilliant solo beatboxing from Dom Beatbox, we witnessed the return of a local DJ and legend Howla. His oldschool blend of familiar tunes with some nasty dubstep has definitely fermented well up in Bristol. Having been at the decks for years now (probably since birth) the guy knows how to throw a late night party. I left The Live Room seething with punters, doubtful that the opening night could have gone any better.

It's all too often that we recognise the value of something only when we lose it. Last year or two saw a cultural nose dive in the South West and the general public mood came down along with it. Time and time again I hear the phrase "there's nothing to do in Taunton" and I'd certainly count myself as one of the guilty. But I've come to realise that this attitude is unproductive and defeatist. We can't just sit around and expect to have it all sorted out for us. It's important for us to take charge of our local scene, now more than ever. If there aren't any decent bands around then stop complaining and start your own. We have to work hard for the things we love. Even Cheryl knows this.

Based on the variety of the line-up, The Live Room's management appear open to all styles and genres. Even its name steers clear of any particular implication and this open and diverse approach should be kept at the heart of the venue. It would be great to eventually see stand-up comedy, a poetry slam or even some kind of weird theatre production but for now, live music will do just fine. The real danger is that down the road, a lack of interest or a change of direction could turn it into just another generic club playing Radio 1's playlist on repeat for airbrushed posers all night. Like every small, sleepy town across this ailing country, Taunton needs a real venue that differs from the rest of the clubs, where the town's musicians, artists, fashionistas, poets, comedians, general eccentrics, freaks and weirdos can mix together, swap ideas, give each other support and perform their art. The Live Room will need our help to keep it this way.

So, I'll see you there.

(© Copyright 2013 Brendan Morgan)

The Ninja Bastard from Jersey

8am, St Malo, France. My girlfriend, an old friend from university and I desperately needed coffee and a place to zone out in peace. We had two hours to kill before we were to board a ferry back to the dump that is Portsmouth. Rising early to catch a bus into town, I was feeling childish and stupid on a lack of sleep. However, spirits were soaring. We had just spent the weekend camping at La Route Du Rock, a slapdash music festival in Brittany which boasted a superb line-up including Aphex Twin, Fleet Foxes, Mogwai, the remainder of Battles and a few new surprises like Blonde Redhead, Sebadoh and Electrelane. The music was flawless. With regards to the festival organisation however there was much to complain about, in true English fashion. It seemed the whole thing had been set up to squeeze as much cash from us as possible. Typically confusing and complex, there was only one admittance allowed into the main arena and we puzzled over the methodology behind buying ‘jetons’ (tokens) in which to procure drinks. Help was extracted with great difficulty but far easier then it would have been with my friend James’ ability with the language. One drunken Frenchman put it sarcastically:
“You are English, no? This should be simple for you.”
Huh. Quite.

Anyway, victorious over the French shrug, rain and some ridiculous rules, we unloaded our backpacks and tents we settled down at the back of a café in the ferry terminal. We passed two gentlemen occupying a table, each with a pint of piss coloured larger. They looked in a far worse state then we were. One was leaning over his drink, nursing a sore eye and the other, wearing a denim jacket, a studded belt and his left arm in a sling, peered out from behind his aviator shades scoping James out. You could sense that something was going to happen.
“I’ll bet I fucked more girls this weekend than you mate”.
I thought, “Who is this abrasive hipster?” getting myself ready in case something kicked off.
“I’m not surprised with a ‘tache like that.” James quipped back and he wasn’t wrong. It was a magnificent moustache, bushy and curling at the tips as well as being an excellent beer-foam sieve. This exchange had finished even before my brain even had the chance to grasp what was happening. It is precisely why I have James around. You can always rely on Londoners for some quick fire banter when needed. The West Country grass has obviously dulled my mind these last few years.
Having judged the sort of people we were, the guy eased back in his seat with a broad grin and soon we were all rattling away in a conversation embellished with his repeated requests for ‘ciggies’ despite the fact we’d already smoked everything we had and had to keep reminding him. When he staggered back inside in search for some, we asked his accomplice if he was always like this.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “He’s from Jersey. They’re all like that.”
The guy then revealed the story behind his bruised eye. Apparently, a few pay-by-day security guards at the festival took this poor guy aside to search him. Out of sight from the crowd, they happily proceeded to beat the shit of him and take his money. Mr. Moustache, once he returned from harassing the lady running the bar, had his own story to tell. While attempting to breach backstage, he punctured his bicep on the spike of one of those vicious looking metal fences. Hanging by his arm, it took several grown men to unhook him and bring him back to earth. I figured that having my only pair of trousers soaked wet during the downpour of the previous day was an easy ride in comparison.
Two French dockworkers joined us and the Jersey man slurred out some broken French with them. A couple seagulls swooped in and set all of our teeth on edge with their evil cawing. Their appearance sent him into a display of rage and he lashed out at them.
“Fuckin’ seagulls! Fuckin’ dinosaurs, man! Je déteste! Je déteste!”
It was justified anger but the dockworkers, assessing the intensity and possible danger of the early morning situation, quickened the enjoyment of their lattés and went out where they came in.
This encounter produced more than just a moment of rougish entertainment. Turns out this shambling loony was a singer in a band a few years back. Its name? Robot Ninja Dinosaur Bastards. I checked their MySpace page on my return to England, listening to their mental music and watching a video of them pissing about the National Museum. Each track, only about a minute in length, is a sharp slap in the face that leaves you blinking like a twat. Mixing 8 bit video game sounds and thrash guitar, they make a kind of bleep-core that our man in question screams poetically coupled words like “Mush Puke Kill Kid” over the top. It’s hard to describe but I’d say it all sounds like something the Minutemen would play on amphetamines, space invaders and post traumatic stress.
On the back deck of the ferry, we sat on a few plastic chairs, drank the last of our beer and watched him chain-smoke his way through a pack of cigarettes he was thrilled to have acquired. It was then we learned of the sad news: his band recently split due to the guitarist picking up sticks and moving to Japan (the mind boggles). I sensed bitterness and a feeling of betrayal but also hope. This here Jersey man had blagged his way into a signed band as a drummer and was being flown out to meet them. As long as they don’t find out he can’t play drums, its clear sailing.
So, a tip of the hat to another of the chosen among us. As I gaze out my window, wistful and high, it gives me comfort to know that he’s out there somewhere, frightening good society and causing much needed grievance. Thank Christ that even in this fragmenting, boredom ridden reality we live in now, the weight of the world isn’t enough to hold some of us down.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

The Black Angels (and Wolfmother) at Brixton Academy: 21/01/10

So how do you accurately recreate that 60’s vibe in an anal and corporate controlled society? Answer: You can’t. Even the hypnotic life affirming experience that is The Black Angels was not enough to shake off the cold and inhuman atmosphere of a gig in Hitler’s crows nest.

To get in and out of the O2 run Brixton Academy, even for a smoke, you have to get through a chain of SS goons, or ‘stewards’ as they call themselves. And they’re everywhere you turn, standing around like the miserable voyeurs they are; at every door, along the balconies, looking over your shoulder while you take a piss. The entire building is locked down like a military installation and with good reason, because Brixton is a tough side of town. Why not? Scrutinise and intimidate the kids until they feel low down and criminal. None of us can be trusted.

As press, I was given a pass to the VIP bar (a clever gimmick) reserved for the bands and their friends. Their plan: to coax the journalists into it and away from where all the real action is. From way up there with your four pound bottle of beer, looking out through the wide plastic windows, you can see just about everything and it transforms the gig into a spectator sport. The arena was packed and the floor bobbed and waved in a sea of human heads. There was beer flying overhead and baying for the headline, for Wolfmother’s arrival. I wasn’t fussed. I was there for The Black Angels after all.

On tour with the matriarch, all the way from Austin, Texas, The Black Angels caught my ear with their powerful 2006 album Passover. Pitchfork deemed the release “for the nostalgic […] and the monumentally stoned” which was apt, because at the time, I was both. An unholy union between Black Sabbath and The Velvet Underground, the band’s reverberating drones and mysticism are anchored to earth by the terrific weight of foot stomping Americana and echoing doom: “We can’t live, but we’re too afraid to die”.

On this evening, The Black Angels’ impenetrable sense of dread was shattered by a temperate reaction. The poor and heavily distorted mix didn’t help matters, being unable to give their layered style much needed space. Worst hit, were tracks such as ‘The First Vietnamese War’, a salute to time past and a parallel of our own hopeless war. What I gathered from overheard and one on one conversation displayed a similar frustration, though the residing opinion was one of nodding respect and interest and their subdued performance only heightened the intrigue. They had made an impression.

The O2 does controlled and organised fun like no one else. Its commodification of music seems to be in direct contradiction to Rock’s free spirit and left me with an empty gig experience. Irritably drunk, I left just as Wolfmother’s grip on the crowd was beginning to wane. I will be seeing The Black Angels again, most definitely, just not at any O2 arena. Among many other things we’ve lost, Brixton Academy should be returned to the people.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

We Fell to Earth and The Big Pink at The Electric Ballroom 22/10/09

My aversion to hype is now so refined that each time The Big Pink popped up on that TV advert, or an album review came into vision, I ignored it, childishly sticking my fingers in my ears and going “la la la la la”. Thanks largely to a blitzkrieg of promotion and the release of A Brief History of Love (an adequate debut album sporting an overused theme) the quality of the gig was being decided for me, before it had even started. So I kept my head down, avoiding every outside influence as best I could.

Gratefully, the supporting band set these anticipations aside giving me something else to think about. We Fell to Earth were a moping and moody Post Rock quartet with Math elements, stalked in the shadows by a droning, unsettling bass. Even though the bald singer sang (badly) like Phil Collins on the verge of a breakdown, they had clearly given their compositions ample thought and attentive care. And although not as well known, they proved themselves The Big Pink’s equals (seriously, check them out). Soon enough, on walked the headline dressed in their cyber Lou Reed chic. London was their last spot on the UK tour, a return to home.

I wanted to see The Big Pink because of ‘Velvet’. ‘Velvet’ is such an achingly good track and so unusual, like the product of some divine inspiration. It blows all the other tracks out of the water and their performance of it was a joy. The album title track was also well played proving they do have the odd reflective mood. Like being submerged in warm water or floating about in a Mark Rothko painting, each track blurred into the next preserving the hazy sensation. Their recent Radio 1 friendly single ‘Domino’s’ was what got the crowd bouncing and chanting in a sing-a-long. If you ask me, to close on their most popular single was a bit cheap, but I was the only one not ecstatically shouting along, so what do I know?

Without directly meaning to, The Big Pink bring shoegaze and noise art to the masses by adopting catchy refrains and by making the typical image of the oddball shoegazer much more sociable. Their textured hymns, made up of singing synths, electro beats and monster guitar distortion, transferred without blemish to the live setting. It took me a few days to work out that, aside from that generic crowd pleasing conclusion, their Electric Ballroom finale was strangely modest, short and razor sharp – possibly a reaction to their heavy exposure? I predicted much more improvisation and showing off but these cats appear to be shrugging off their rising fame. Once you brush all that hype away all that remains is the memory of a damn good evening.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Hazy Recollections and Eardrum Torture

When attending a gig, we like to feel that we’re in control of what we hear and that the artists are performing for us. Of course, not all bands intend to simply entertain. Some invite you to experience something unusual, unexpected and some push your patience even further, subjecting you to some seriously uncomfortable shit. I’ve been to gigs where it’s all out war between the band and the crowd over who will buckle first. Damn right. They just don’t know what’s good for them. Sometimes you need to be offended to be educated.

I recall an evening at the Bullingdon in Oxford, at the beginning of this empty and pointless decade (it was when the pub supported acts of all kinds rather than targeting the blues and folk audience to compete with the nearby Ex-Zodiac O2 Academy). On this memorable night a few local artists were touting their wears. The venue got busier and we, two friends from my halls of residence, got drunker. Snake Bite, the students drink of choice, was being consumed at a fatal rate. It’s the drink you grow to hate and, by the end of the first year, just looking at a pint of its swirling purple madness makes you gag. Ugh! Terrible stuff, but such was University; the days when the future was inviting. Optimism ruled and everything felt on an upward trajectory. It couldn’t last.

Nearing closing time, the pack was getting restless. A combination of sugary alcohol and low key music was boiling their blood. I imagine they were impatient for the cheesy, late night club disco. The fragility of the atmosphere was practically moist in its lusting for what was to come, a band called Holiday Stabbings.

And this was it: two guys with long, greasy hair crouching on the floor like Homo Sapiens fed an electric guitar and a mic'ed cymbal through a vast array of pedals and sound manipulators. By layering drones and whirling sounds from these two instruments, their improvisations were long, painful and, of course, highly pretentious. Tip-toeing around the pedals as best they could, they paced back and forth, tweaking a knob here, adjusting a control there – almost as if they were obeying the whim of a super machine, its anatomy gruesomely sprawled out on the stage.
I was hooked but it seemed I was the only one. “This is fucking awful” said one guy in front, sneering with arrogance. He was the kind of unimaginative twat who gathers all his stylistic accessories from The Matrix.
A few dirty posh girls behind him grimaced in agreement but kept silent. They knew deep down that to raise a fuss would be to fuck with the wrong scene. They were listening to pure mortality being pumped into their ears and no amount of sobbing under the covers in the early hours would make it all go away.

Someone else from the crowd placed a bit of paper on the stage with something written on it and one of the band held it to his face deep under his hair. Disgusted by words to this day I’ll never know, he threw it hilariously away like an angry child would an unwanted toy. So far so weird. Maybe we were being punished for our complacency; we shouldn’t have left our guard down. It reminded me of the headache inducing, now legendary Jesus and The Mary Chain gigs of the 80’s. Holiday Stabbings over-serious, misanthropic bravado was laughable though strangely captivating. Presumably be known to them at the time, this droning, mechanically distorted, tonal death-bringing style was being simultaneously cultivated by many other groups: Sunn O))), OM and Euthedral who is also from Oxford. It’s pretty safe to say that Holiday Stabbings did not go down well. The general public would once again learn to accept being tortured.

Several months later I would set up my own band with the two friends who joined me for the evening. I can’t speak directly for them but the evening inspired me. I realised that in order to make real music you have to ignore the masses, take risks and make enemies. Do it for yourself. With their myspace deleted and no trace of articles or contacts anywhere, I guess Holiday Stabbings were doomed to be despised and lost behind the sofa of history. When you think of the thousands, millions of bands who have fallen victim to the same fate, it’s hard not to feel a sense of melancholy. But yeah yeah, such is life and even the almighty Internet cannot preserve everything. Nothing ever lasts forever.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Jonquil, House of Brothers - The Borderline 13/06/09

It was 7pm and already Soho was wired and buzzing on a neon pill. Having never been to the Borderline before, I decided to head over early and gather intel on the local festivities. There was electricity in the air. The evening heat brought the hipsters, rockers, punks, drag queens, retro kings; every kind of oddly dressed weirdo out of the bars and pubs and on to the streets. This was my kind of scene. I felt included but inconspicuous; just another clown in some crazy circus.

But while the streets were vibrant and unpredictable, the Borderline was dark and lifeless. It was not the epicentre of Soho's Saturday reverberations but rather a musical retreat from the madness outside.

Using all the indie tricks in the book, House of Brothers opened to a slowly growing audience. The frontman was an emotional, swishy haired sort of chap of considerable ability, a strong posture and an honest voice. Despite missing a guitarist, they were tight and well controlled (although the harmonies were occasionally off). Not so much Jeff Buckley, more Pete Doherty fronting Wheat. It was all very reserved - too controlled perhaps - and every song ended abruptly.

The Outside Royalty, all the way from Pittsburgh, took it up a notch with their hunky dory, 'yeehaah' appeal. Their singer shuffled onto the stage on crutches gaining sympathy and locked attention from the crowd. They were a sort of orchestral Rock, like Arcade Fire or Broken Social Scene, making use of an odd array of instrumentation and hymn-like choruses. An electronic cello (always a plus in my eyes) added a folky element. Some tracks gave off a pipe tobacco whiff of Irish reels or jigs. Worth noting was their upbeat, post punk cover of 'Eleanor Rigby'. Tremendous whiskey drinking fun.

But every evening reaches its peak and, in retrospect, this probably happened sometime before Jonquil took the stage. Both Jonquil and I reside in Oxford and I've made an effort in the past to go and see them. What I remembered was their unbridled energy and confidence. It was definitely the Jonquil I knew at The Borderline - fragments of DIY Math Rock and textured melodies topped with a charming sense of good humour - but, avoiding any improvisation, they kept to safe territory. Though technically accomplished, it felt hollow somehow, like they were simply going through the motions. It would be foolish however to write them off. These boys won’t be dropping off the map any time soon. Compared with older nuggets such as 'Parasol' from their first EP this selection was underwhelming.

For me, the current Rock scene has always felt exclusive, like some big party I have to gate crash to be involved in. Just before the end at The Borderline, I took one last look around me; at all the trendy London kids and wondered what the rest of Soho was doing.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

The Oxford Punt - 13/05/09 (unedited version)

Hardly projecting bands to instant stardom, The Oxford Punt's purpose is one of mutual support and camaraderie among the city's independent scene. Nearly five years of living in Oxford and I've only just managed to drag my disorganised ass to this.

With a bit of initiative, you can get your hands on 'The Punt Pass'. It grants the holder the freedom to stagger from pub to pub and witness as much, or as little, as desired. Very few would pass up the chance to wave a bit of laminated card in a bouncers face and tell them to fuck off.

But before this moment of justice, cast a dubious eye over the double page spread in May's Nighshift - the infamously opinionated, local music 'zine - and you'd be forgiven in thinking that no pub would survive an invasion of calculator wielding boffins. Throughout the feature, like a stutter, the word 'math' occurs over and over; but not without some justification of genre. Recently, Foals, The Young Knives and A Silent Film have come to define the sound of this ancient city brimming with technically intricate, smarter-than-the-average rock. Perhaps something uncontrollable would break through the fog of indie pop in the most pretentious city in the country?

Mini rockers Hearts in Pencil were the first. It was club indie, dangerously close to the Kooks, but rescued by an adventurous guitarist and a powerful bassist; who, for the sake of trendy style, kept stroking his fringe. Musically mature beyond their years, they ended with a track not too dissimilar from Fugazi's echoing dub-punk. A sturdy set, short enough to prevent the front-man's off key swagger from pissing me off.

One drink downed, and at a different venue, Mary's Garden displayed a more sombre tone. They have been playing in Oxford for four to five years in various forms. Think a more daring and distorted version of The Editors lead by an infinitely cooler, New Romantic Gwen Stefani (in sound not appearance). We were also tortured with a corporate presentation from A Response Collective, complete with bogus philosophy and shitty MS graphics projected on a large screen. This is what Nighshift calls electronic music? More like confused prog with lazy sampling. "Thank you for coming out instead of staying in and watching reality TV" said the guitarist. I spluttered in disgust and nearly sprayed cider out my nose.

This band/insult provoked my escape and I found musical sanity from a band called From Light In Sound at the next venue. With tremendous energy and fervour, it was clear that shoegaze was the collective theme of the evening because... adding bricks to this wall-of-distortion, Spiral 25 were also well received. Similar to the psychedelia of The Black Angels, they flooded the room in a dense fog, put on black sunglasses and drew forth waves of mystic, textured Rock.

A small diversion took me to see how Oxford favourites The Winchell Riots were holding up next door. Their cascading melodies and gripping stage presence have sustained their popularity; but I find them affected, contrived and in need of a sobering slap to awaken them from wistful delusions of grandeur.

Ending the night and appealing not only to the drunk half of the audience, The Original Rabbit Foot Spasm Band were well loved. They clearly struck an old school chord with their ram-shackled, thirties gangster jazz. Rest assured, The Oxford Punt had secured its reputation for another year.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

25/02/09 - Brooke's Fine Art Fundraiser at The Wheatsheaf

Das Pop, playing at the O2 Arena, held no pull for me. A small indie gig at one of my favourite pubs was more my kind of thing. Wired from weed, several cups of coffee and a pre-listen of the band list on myspace, my photographer and I were ready, if a little uncertain what to expect. For the moment, we were ignorant of what was to come. We were out for a good time after all, and to check back into the local scene.

I had been invited by Graeme Murray, the drummer of the brilliant upcoming Oxford band Youthmovies. He was my contact for the evening and my only link to the social mess we unearthed. A small, soft spoken guy, unassuming in appearance, his ability at the drum-kit is undisputed. Two well known bands, Youthmovies and Jonquil, were to join forces as Vertical Montanas and headline the night; they had attracted quite a crowd.

Our curse as outsiders - my photographer and I never really felt welcome. They seemed to us to be a distant group. The new Indie Oxford wave is a different breed altogether. Fortunately, the music made up for the crowd and their perpetual blank, staring eyes. Navel-gazing and pretentious they stood like dead trees swaying to themselves. I attempted to arouse my photographer into a fighting frenzy, set him loose and see what would happen, all for the sake of bringing some excitement to a sedated atmosphere. Where was the beautiful chaos? If a bomb went off on stage, or one of the band members blew their own head off with a shotgun, these people wouldn't even raise an eyebrow. I was itching for a cattle prod.

The biggest, overall disappointment was missing Lee Riley, or better known as Euthedral, a one man electronic army. Shunned to the early evening slot, no doubt the audience wasn't interested. After hearing a couple tracks on his myspace page I was hooked. Sounding like Kevin Sheilds crossed with Nine Inch Nails while drawing from Sunn O))) and Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Euthedral bellows forth heavy static doom-drones in intriguing variation and colour. Occasionally, out of the overbearing darkness, there appear subtle melodies like lights in a fog. Moments cycle between an orchestra breaking the sound barrier and the primal howling of a god-like machine or mythical beast. I could only hope he offended as many indie kids as was humanly possible.

Witnessing it first hand however, it was not to be and we ended up arriving just before the last two bands. I bought a pint and we squeezed to the front. The second-to-last group strolled on. Reminiscent of 65 Days of Static and Minus The Bear, but with half the available instrumentation, they were an impressive trio. Cascading melodies and intricate quick-fire guitar duets, it went down like firey whiskey. Tempo and texture were suficiantly explored but I felt they could have done more with their choppy rhythms - a minor point, it was elegant and promising Smart-Rock.
When they finished, I asked a bystander who the band was. I couldn't recognise them from what I'd heard on myspace. He stumbled over the pronunciation.
"I think they're called he-red-ra? hred-da?"
Ahh Hreda, the name was confusing, common of many new bands. Sure, you can be all flavours of awesome, but creating new words in the English language can be arrogant and alienating to your audience.

My photographer had had his fun with taking pictures and crept to the corner to moan and pout about the clientele. The stage was being reprepared, pedal lights were blinking like a Christmas tree. With two drum kits already set up, this wasn't to be a typical set. By doubling up two bands and the band members, there by making a force of eight, it allowed those performing to relax and concentrate on a minimal, layered approach. Building a slow evolution of sound from one movement to the next, it was easy to loose yourself in the warm-sunlight tone but then be jostled back by jarring cross rhythms. The music took on the feel of a zoetrope, spinning grainy images around and around. They drew attention from Yannis Philippakis, the lead wizard of Foals. He had come possibly for the very same reason we had.
On seeing him, my photographer whispered casually in my ear.
"I want to hurt him" he said and downed the remainder of his drink.

He hates his voice you understand, and my photgrapher is a man who can be driven off the hindge over of the smallest things: boils, dirty socks, the scratching sound of wet sand. It's best to leave him be in these situations, trust me.

Despite the boredom, it was worth attending. For both bands, Vertical Montanas was a side project that displayed their improvisational capabilities as active and prominant musicians. If I had to draw a comparison between each band (difficult due to the overall variation) it would be their similar emotional goal, they were all striving towards the same sense of the 'sublime'. By stretching their materials and avoiding pigeon hole’ing, they are taking ground and putting up a flag for Oxford. My photographer however could not get over the dull, unwelcoming atmosphere. We felt trapped. The chaos we'd longed for earlier on seemed like the last thing we wanted now. Simultaniously, we both made the decision to escape into the medieval ally ways. We ended up talking shit to a chip van man and an attractive social worker girl who seemed far too interested in what we, two drunk and stoned fools, were both up to. Suspicion took hold. Even the usual gauntlet of Big Issue sellers frightened me. "We must get out of town immediately!" I thought, and my photographer and I ran for my house like children avoiding some horned devil.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

"It's like Halloween all year round" - Club Intrusion at the Cellar 10/06/08

Remember that story a month ago in the news? 'Ignorant, chav sons-of-bitches beat to death Goth Girlfriend' - just when you thought Britain was becoming reasonably civilised, white trainers kick your hopes firmly into the cold ground. Then, as if to make a side, the Daily Mail produces an article about Emo culture and its apparent push of suicide and dark arts. It all particularly depressed me, how was this kind of close-minded thing still occurring? Britain is jammed with so many different types of people with so many pockets of culture dotted around. "Dare to be different"; evidently the word 'dare' is now underlined. In any sense, why Goths and Emos specifically? I myself have been guilty of similar dislike of the culture in the past. They always seemed to me as immature, self absorbed over-romantics with whiny poetry. Interesting how much appearance dictates our views of people. I have my own experiences in this. Why, a few nights ago I managed to piss off numerous morons in a Reading drum and bass night, simply by looking like some geeky hippy. The time had come to transverse the Goth culture, move among them. Observe and see how the culture opporates(in it's long and continuing run of 25 years). I enlisted the aid of an associate for the evening; we'll call him Robby, after Robert Smith. Shit! Robby's brought out the eyeliner. Still unpredictable after all these years...

'Going Goth' - The Undercover Plan:
Pull every item of black clothing out of the wardrobe... put on "Cheer up Emo Kid" T-shirt, baggy black trousers and remove all beads and brightly coloured accessories... better leave on the studded wristband. Concert Tails? No no no, something less dramatic... eyeliner, of course... ill like a heroin addict or struggling theatre performer. Smeer wax into the hair... always put in much more than is necessary... spike it tall... now you're set! Looking... good? Maybe that's not the idea? Like punk, dress to offend... or at least dress to weird-out... the general public... they make sure they get a good look at you. You become "that kind of person"... a freak, a weirdo, a fuck-up... everyone is behind their social wall of normality... they fear what they do not understand.

And so off we went. Two sunken eyed night dwellers on the 'dignified' Oxford town. We stopped at the park for a pre-drink spliff to find a snobby, collar and tie, raaahhh party situated by the river bank. They'd gone through the trouble of erecting a tea-and-cakes tent and placing burning torches around it, virgins will be sacrificed. Some terrible glances in our direction, just ignore them and keep writing. "So this is what they spend their money on" I mention to Robby getting even more scrutinising looks - stub out that spliff I think, we're on the streets now. After gurgling down pints of cider at The White Horse, a tiny pub opposite the Sheldonian Theatre, we made our way to the Cellar for a smoke outside and to observe the various characters entering. Ahh, there's Edward Sissorhands, Tim Burton would be pleased. A green faced girl wearing a bed sheet and a lengthy jet-black wig approaches us. "I assume you're supposed to be the ghostly, lady person from 'Jane Eyre' by Charlotte Bronte?" I ask her.
"Who?" she replies, and pushes her long wig over her face immediately making her character known to us.
"The girl from the Ring!" she shouts. "Who needs books when you come out of a TV!" Quite literally, yes.
Edgar Allen Poe gets a brief mention from a sickly looking Coleridge Taylor called Andy, a guy Robby works with. Another well built, bearded gentlemen with a red devil face strolls past, he is to be confronted by a drunken Robby later in the evening - "You're spiderman! You're spiderman!" to which the bearded one replies: "No! I'm Not! I'm not Spiderman!" No alternate was given to us however. It's true Robby, Spiderman did go a bit "Emo" in the last film.
There is the traditional selection of Goth individuals with monstrously huge black boots, white painted faces and dominatrix, sadomasochistic leather... but also some interesting Venetian masks, 18th Century Romatic Literature attire. Of course, this is Oxford. No prizes for originality. Things are beginning to cook up now, the crowd we hoped for is steadily growing. We chuck our rollies against the wall and descend into the dungeon.
One girl with a blonde crew-cut (whome I later find out models in an online Goth/Cyber clothing range promotion) is finding it difficult to navigate down the steep steps into the club.
"It's hard to make it down in these boots" she laughs, unintentionally giving her own excessive attire a put-down. I give her a hand.
"Trust in the Converse" I say wiggling my right purple shoe and receiving a shush from Robby... we can't give away our cover you see.
Marylyn Manson pounds over the sound waves, some lumbering Lurch-sized dude in a riding coat is swinging alone on the stage. I've not yet seen Charles Manson. There's enough black to make a funeral director weep joyfully, or enough to make the void of space jealous. It turns out that it's the 7th Anniversary of Club Intrusion, hence the crowd, so a raffle is planned. It also later turns out that I win a bottle of wine and upon discovering this I approach the DJ box to collect it, grinning like the hidden hippy I am. I put the bottle aside foolishly thinking that, being a Goth Night, it would remain untouched. The bottle is eventually smashed and my sunglasses stolen - it's a typical club evening after all. Aha! There's Charles Manson, and his friend, Brian Molko from Placebo. A couple with bondage gear are tugging at each other playfully. And over there, jesus! Isn't that the crooning jazz singer from Twin Peaks?

We find ourselves on the edge of a group of dancing shadows after drinking and then smoking, drinking and then smoking. "Let's get right into it!" I yell to Robby. "Right into the nucleus of the thing!" Why not, imbibe the atmosphere and let ourselves be taken into it. We make our way into the centre past a girl wearing a fucked-up Alice-skirt throwing shapes with neon multi-coloured glow sticks - the light fantastic. The music took a bad direction on a change of DJ's, only pop and tacky electronica, and The Cure and Placebo from this point on. Finding unknown gothic music was too much to hope for at this stage.
As I start to feel the dirty electronic groove of Rob Zombie, I accidentally career into a wedding dress manga-angel, but she apologises herself - her wings flutter. "Crazy" I think, but I must stop smiling, I'm a goth, I'm a goth. But then I look about me and there are smiles everywhere. It's not an average club night after all. In fact, it's better, with a more enthusiastic, friendly atmosphere. I've never been to a club that had so many people approach me, just to chat and giggle and I've never been served chocolate cream cake with a drink at any bar before. What is the consciousness behind Goth? Perhaps a chance to access and grapple with the darker half of the human condition. Perhaps to play around with unsettling appearance and test the personal waters. It's like all culture really, a plateau of expression and creativity; or, like what Spiderman Goth said earlier, it's "like Halloween all year round!" It seems as if the general attitude is to bring everyone closer: "See, I'm a freak, I'm a looser like you. We all share the same suppressed emotions and problems. We can express ourselves together, write poetry, music and art. Celebrate being alive." What, to quote the Daily Mail, is so "evil cult" about that?

Lesser Panda, Num8er N1ne, Achiteq at The Confused Disco - 03/05/08

Only good things can come of combining charity and music and the Confused Disco at the Cellar was certainly one of these good things. The idea is cunningly simple: convince innovative and upcoming electronic artists to perform in one of Oxford's best underground clubs and watch the surrounding sub-culture stream in, followed closely by their pocket cash. The event proves that charity gigs can join thought provoking music with the feel-good feel of giving money to an ethical cause. It was an evening where the audience didn't have to feel guilty about getting drunk or worry about where their money is going and it also proves that the music selection doesn't have to suck up to the "popular" scene in a lame bid to be hip or cool. No, in fact the night's resulting electronic journey was catering for the more intelligent gig goer; and we got what we wanted: a beat ceremony of sonic experimentation.

Every group made their individual mark but it was Architeq that stood out for me, and almost no one paid any attention to them. They were the true promoters of the event's name, so strange and so brilliant that perhaps people were confused as to how to dance to it. But there was something for the indie fanatic also. Lesserpanda finished the live set by mixing electronic 8-bit gaming reference with rough edged guitar and, at the same time, showing remarkable variation of mood. Also notable was the first group a brother/sister duo called num8er n1ne with their erratic electro beats and rhythmic noise.

Finally, a local event for the both the musically discerning and ethical sub-culturalist. My hope is that we'll see more of the same from Oxjam in the future. And if this happens, you'd better make sure you don't miss it.

30/03/08 - The Purple Turtle; Duotone and The Cooling Pearls

The decision to attend the evening was unplanned. We had situated ourselves quite comfortably into a slow-grooved, crooning Jazz set at the Cape of Good Hope on, what we thought, was another mundane Sunday evening at Eight O’clock. I was joined by two close adversaries, both I know far too well: The first, a fellow music junkie and writer visiting Oxford on "business". The other my brother and possibly future lawyer considering my recent brush with hardnosed legal bullshit. We were catching up and continuing the usual philosophical discussions. China and Tibet was also given a mention but the international matter lulled us all into a reflective mood. Suddenly, after short phone call, a suggestion by our oxford visitor to move on to the Purple Turtle came up. These things happen when friends of freinds are involved. "Sweet Jesus," I thought "this man is more of an addict than I am!" It made perfect sense at the time of course. Blow even more money I don't have in town with the chance of finding more hidden music. Besides, the mood at The Cape was becoming a little too David Lynch.
The back stage at the Turtle was decorated with all kinds of candles, spinning lights, printed posters. There was enough visual delight to attract a large crowd of eeed-up students. Sadly, this didn't happen; it was too much to hope for. At some point in the following minutes a terrible thought struck me. I had become the person I described in my previous article; drunk and in need of some chaotically nasty or morbid entertainment. I was even on the same side of the room as he was that very night! Fuck... a moment of weirdness followed, it took me a good few minutes before I noticed a cello on the stage.
Before long, two guys walked on making up Duotone: lead by a cellist Barney Morse-Brown and complimented by a muted trumpeter. I managed to find out from Barney afterwards that he received classical training from Cardiff. His ability was incredible and his CV broad. Immediately, the soft, melodic wash drew everyone in the room in. Each track was built on layers of parts contributed by a sampler machine. It wasn't the first time I'd seen this, another artist I’d seen a while back called Celloman (of all things) also implements the use of live sampled cello. Duotone's approach was very different. It was much more subtle, very inventive and, as a plus point, Barney is a much more likeable person. Throughout each track he would swap between his guitar and cello to build homophonic effect. However well you use a sampler, it always sounds too organised and repetitive. "It's too perfect" was my brother’s initial response and I found myself waiting for some dark, searing moment that never came. I was able to grab a listen on his myspace page and was relieved to hear a more strong and substantial sound than the live sampler would allow him. Duotone is wonderfully appealing and gentle music; both provocative and innovative. I still couldn't help feeling that I'd one day find it lurking on an acoustic chill compilation somewhere. Fuck that. All power to him, Duotone is one of those artistic projects that truly deserve universal success. Oxford should be proud to have him around. Aaron Copeland and Phillip Glass would be.
The next group was something of a more acquired taste. Imagine if Joy Division or even The Fall originated from Exeter instead of Manchester, (and I don’t mean fucking Muse) this is a close step in understanding The Cooling Pearls. Comparatively, it holds broader, folkier instrumentation with quirkier lyrics. At the same time they carry on the ranting of Mark E Smith and the mourning spirit of Post Punk. A certain pastoral feel also emanates from the reverb'ed violin drawing colours and space over the top. I love a bit of makeshift folk/indie that's unashamed of error and low-fy quality. Fans of Arcade Fire and Broken Social Scene take note. Sadly, the mix on myspace is a little irritating in its extreme changes in dynamics. It also scared the shit out of me at one point, maybe that's exactly what they were going for. Due to their eccentric performance, I wouldn't be surprised. But I'll be fair; scaring the listener isn't the top of The Cooling Pearls menu. With track titles such as "Hot Lovin' in a Western World" I feel like I'm missing out on some private in-joke. The lyric "I fell asleep next to my girl", as bad it sounds, is perhaps an example of some ironic humour.
There are a few scattered cringe-worthy moments ("The Stars they Shield" halts in the middle for a drawn out nasally monologue) but at the same time, some truly stunning ones. One track ends with a saddening chant "the future is beautiful" capturing a glare of haunting foreboding fear. This I believe is the resonating theme of the Cooling Pearls: to all the lightheaded nonsense a darker edge laid bellow. And when the lead singer gave a peace sign at the end of the set was it somewhat ironic? Maybe that's me being ridiculous, if not pretentious. No, it was safe to say that things we're a little unclear at this point and preparations were put in place for departure. My two advisors and I made our way home, avoiding anymore discussion about that business in Tibet.

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.

Cog Wheel Dogs and Elapse O at the Port Mahon 10/02/08

Another trip to the Port is another musical discovery and another notable mark of the Oxford music scene. I evidently don't get out much. I also tend to be very late for things and didn't make too much of an exception for the evening. After missing the first two or three bands I arrived just in time to watch the last two, and thank christ I made it.

It's becoming harder and harder to get a feel for exactly what the "Oxford sound" consists of. A city with such variation in people will expectantly result in wide variation of style. All the tastes, interests and influences mix together like some crazy cocktail, spiked with drugs of course. Maybe that's just me. Generally, due to the amount of academia as well as the large quantity of students, theres no shortage of intellectual or provocative music. The power of choice, such a modern illusion...
In this sense, both bands were incredibly different. It was melody against texture, mood against mood and yet, somehow, they complimented each other. Cogwheel Dogs, an acoustic duo with a rough edge were first on the little paper list that hung in the doorway. Their songs, a combination of mornful blues and grunge was offset by the expressive cello unafraid of screaming and fucking with the tension. His experimentation of the instrument was refreshing when you think of how groups like Kings of Convenience use it. To them, it adds only accompaniment, a typical "hint of string". To CWD, it's a prominant voice, even competing with the heartbreaking plead of the singer. There is almost narrative or journey to the songs, like two characters telling a story. Throughout their set you could cut the audience atmosphere with a chainsaw. You could also cut the audience with that same chainsaw but that's just sick, amusingly off topic however. All eyes and ears were fixated on the delicate, soulful sound. I felt wounded somehow.

As if that wasn't enough, as if being cut open didn't affect me at all, on stroll Elapse O to initiate a final, noisier beating. Searing and intense, it was an overpowering set spaced out by the click of the pedal at the end of each track. Silence becomes haunting when they stop. My sympathies for the bass, it was dragged to it's absolute limits. A drone of pusling pro-tooled drums underneath, apocalyptic shouting over the top, all create a scraping mesh of texture leaving you feeling abused and completely stunned. Like any good gig, you feel you've been through something.
An awesome night and my critical side feels almost guilty admiting it. At the moment at least, the Port Mahon can do no wrong.