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)

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)

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.