Purling Hiss - Weirdon (Drag City)

Opening with a squeal of feedback, Purling Hiss' new release marks a change of direction for the band; from low-down Acid Rock sludge to high-flying Indie. Brought to centre stage, founding member Mike Polizze's bedroom song writing fuses a great many styles from the American alternative scene: the skuzzy guitar pop of Dinosaur Jr, the heavy, moody grunge of Nirvana and Mudhoney - even flashes of those upbeat college rockers Husker Du.

While I hesitate to say it, Weirdon could be described as 'more accessible', a phrase often met with disdain and, in worse cases, can result in the severing of an original and dedicated fan base. Stoned rockers and headbangers can rest at ease though, the band haven't abandoned their dishevelled class and love of face melting jams. Instead, they've found a satisfying balance between the structured and the loose, the familiar and the uneasy that will only be guilty of picking up more attention.

Tracks like 'Sundance Saloon Boogie' and 'Learning Slowly' slam through verse, chorus, verse, chorus, only to shift gears and take off into psychedelic trips of soaring guitar melodies over steady beats. They are what all jams should be: sweet and colourful and mixed thick and sticky. Sadly, the second half doesn't quite maintain this trajectory. After cooling down with the smoky Kinks-like 'Reptili-A-Gena' and the kicking 'Where's Sweetboy', it begins to deflate and sag. By the time 'I Don't Wanna Be A...' arrives, moping about not making the track selection for Nirvana's Nevermind, I lost interest. Fortunately 'Six Ways To Sunday', a baked ballad with a blinding guitar solo, brings the mood back and dispels all doubts that Weirdon is a truly fantastic ride.

In this algorithmic age of ambition, achievement and perfection, it's unsurprising the slacker ethos never really went away. Through music, Purling Hiss capture that old wisdom behind lazy resistance. If boredom is the catalyst of creativity, then let it all go. We're all just winging it. Weirder is better. Play it loud. Play it cool.

(© Copyright 2014 Brendan Morgan)

Heroin In Tahiti - Death Surf (Boring Machines)

Mixing sluggish surf melodies with spacey Art Rock drones, this debut project from Heroin in Tahiti has caused a bit of a stir, undoubtedly effected by the way these two seasoned musicians from east Rome kept their identity a secret until its release. The blogosphere has been eager to attach labels such as Kroutrock to their sound, but Heroin In Tahiti seem to be at odds over outside comparisons preferring to cite Ennio Morricone’s music from the old Spaghetti Westerns as their main influence. The cool, unforgiving edge of these cult films, their rough characters and barren desert setting which lies on Heroin In Tahiti’s very doorstep, eek their way out of the EP. The whole record radiates with heat, dread, isolation and stoned paralysis.

The fact that they focus on their country’s cultural history during this age of global connection is worth noting but as always, there are some external influences going on; namely Surf Rock, an American export. It brings to mind the cinema of Tarantino and Rodriguez, who were in turn influenced by the Spaghetti Westerns and have been partly responsible for Surf Rock’s revival.

A relentlessly sinister mood sets in right from the start. The title track introduces their characteristic arrangement: minimal guitars, awash with distortion and massive reverb drift over a shimmering pool of sound effects and unusual percussion. It’s followed by ‘Spaghetti Wasteland’, trotting solemnly along and layering up on itself to make for a rich mix. Side B however is where they really prove themselves. Carefully building tension, ‘Ex-Giants on Dope’ is like a Mexican standoff where some serious shit is about to kick off and ‘Sartana’, with its ghostly wa-wa guitar and death bell tolling underneath, rides like a wild chase into the night.

Death Surf is an engrossing and hypnotic record, visual and vibrant with a definitive style. It holds you in its grip, right up to its unsettling conclusion. But I’d say the EP still feels chained by a film context. Some tracks, soaked in dense atmosphere and lacking a sense of narrative, can be stagnant and weighed down. Composed during times of disgruntled social unrest that continues to boil, Death Surf is still an intriguing example of Rome’s brooding underground scene.

(© Copyright 2012 Brendan Morgan)

Rise China! The Maybe Mars Revolution

While staying in Beijing for five days, I was especially eager to get a taster of what people listened to. Of course, like every nation welcoming in consumerism (China however has become a strange Capitalist and Communist hybrid), it has its own mainstream pop, or Mandopop as it’s known, as well as importing in plenty of western pop hits and club anthems. Hearing Lady Gaga pounding over the clay roof tops of the muggy streets is only a tiny part of the weirdness a trip to The People’s Republic of China yields.

With its various tones and accents, the Chinese language prevented me finding out much of anything. Eventually, due perhaps to all those gifts I laid out throughout my many visits to Buddhist temples, I was granted some good luck. The night before I was due to leave the city to catch a plane to Tokyo, I boarded Beijing’s swish tube network and zoomed up to the University district in the North West where I found club D-22. Since opening in 2006, only a year before the label Maybe Mars was set up, the club has a reputation for being the epicentre of upcoming music in Beijing. Little did I realise how important the venue is to the city’s student counterculture. Almost every home grown Chinese band worth mentioning has graced its small, smoky stage. Like living legends, their group pictures decorate its walls.

Before I go any further, it might help to put the label into context. Among a population 1.4 billion and rising, Maybe Mars is born out of an increasing desire for free expression, after it was ruthlessly suppressed under the dictatorship of Chairman Mao Zedong and his successors. It is a deep and complex history of violence and fear generated by a strangling state control and an uncompromising bid to modernise the country. As a way of banishing the demons of the past and in a desperate bit to be the great Nation it always dreamed of, China is currently absorbed in an almighty superiority complex. Its bloody history is a touchy subject, often swept under the carpet altogether as social problems and criticism simply get in the way. State TV blares out repackaged history and successful economic figures, the sports channels play their victories over and over.

These days, China’s collective of artists and musicians have been given more space in which to exercise and explore their talents, provided of course they don’t go too far. It explains why most Chinese keep out of politics, if they are aware of it at all. Though none of the bands signed to Maybe Mars latch on to any overt political activity or statement, its culmination shows the new desire to carve out artistic freedom from the ground up.

The internet is playing its part to help knock down old borders. A music movement in China might just be the last swing of the hammer. The Maybe Mars website offers live videos, streamable music, press coverage and a free compilation ready to download. Each of the twenty nine bands currently signed to the label make up a broad mix and don't worry, not everything is sung in Chinese. While incorporating many familiar western style and genres, they all hold on to a strong sense of individuality and respect for their musical origins. My favourite would have to be the outstandingly awesome Carsick Cars. Likened to the Postpunk guitar mashing sounds of Pavement and Sonic Youth (even touring alongside them back in 2007), the band dive headlong into dense, sometimes painful guitar textures inspired by the experimentations of Glenn Branca. ‘Guang Chang’ starts on feedback atmospheres and builds up, giving way to epic chords. Tracks like ‘Zhi Yuan De Ren’, with its king-sized riff and ‘Zhong Nan Hai’ (named after a Chinese brand of cigarettes) with its searing distortion drones, remind you how glorious and affirming Rock can still be.

Another band that put Maybe Mars in the spotlight are P.K.14. They join up a new-wave, Television like sound with the assertive poetry of their headman Yang Haisong (the guy also responsible for recording most of the label's bands). With real flare and a dedicated fan base, Demerit and Joyside represent the label’s hot-blooded, foot-to-the-floor punk groups. Ourself Beside Me, three cool Beijing ladies, play a different kind of sneering, eccentric, off-key punk inspired by the sleazy sounds of The Velvet Underground and The Fall. Using bicycle bells and plucked guitar harmonics over a lazy beat, their brilliant track ‘Sunday Girl’ shows Beijing’s sinister side.

The label has also just signed Duck Fight Goose. Sounding like a cross between Battles and These New Puritans, they are China’s answer to the math-rock scene. The band members give themselves animal alias’ (Duck, Goose, Panda, Dragon) and “refuse all kinds of sadness and play funny games with their instruments”. At D-22, I managed to see the duo called 10 (now renamed (((10))) after the recent earthquake in Japan) perform their characteristically long and ever-evolving sonic wizardry. Drinking Tsing Tao beer in the gallery up above, I got a bird’s eye view of the array of machinery bellow. Pedals, keyboards and iPads combined together to fill up the club, until it felt like the whole place was about to burst.

Maybe Mars breaks away from the production line method of imitation that we in the West came to associate with China. It’s a huge leap ahead of the music endeavours of the past and has attracted much attention and support from New York and London musos. According to one of the promoters I’d met in D-22, Maybe Mars is China’s only independent record label and as far as I know, the label focuses its sights mainly on Beijing and Shanghai. In this vast and varied country there must be plenty of others just waiting to get going.

For the present, Maybe Mars is on the front line of a musical revolution. The label takes upon itself the monumental task of nurturing a rising alternative scene and providing a voice for the country’s disillusioned youth. Like it or not, China is set to become a powerful force over the century. Few countries need a subversive Punk and Art Rock movement more. Put aside the China-phobic sentiments that are blowing about and clasp hands with the guys who are on the verge of making history.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

Teebs - Ardour (Brainfeeder)

Blooming with abstract colours and melodic detail, Ardour is a record cultivated out of art. A skateboarder turned painter turned musician, Mtendere Mandowa (aka Teebs) composes his music in the way he approaches his paintings. Many seemingly isolated fragments melt together in energy and expression. Ardour is a translation of his artwork to music.

The record was a project put together during two years of unemployment. While the rest of us would be groaning about job opportunities, Teebs just got busy and the freedom of electronic music seemed to suit his tastes. The production techniques like time shift and chopped sampling (possibly relayed to him under the watchful eye of Brainfeeder) are ubiquitous of folktronica and the likes of Gold Panda or Four Tet. His ethnic rhythms are off balanced and threaten to blow away if not for the weight of some hip-hop influenced beats. Acoustic samples of twinkling bells and various wind-chimes unite with cosy synths swelling in waves and pulses. It all simulates natural movement like wind gently tugging at clothes on a line.

When these fragments resolve into a more recognisable form – heard during the excellent groove of ‘Gordon’ – its drifting feel satisfyingly takes shape like a scrapbook of grainy photographs. ‘Double Fifths’ the albums first stand out track empolys a magical pitch-bending harp over wooden percussion and later on ‘Moments’ employs a cascading piano and ‘Wind Loop’ a sweetly rising chime melody.

Ultimately, Ardour’s impressionistic quality works itself into the background and into obscurity. As you begin to fall into the mood of a track it dematerialises and lurches to another. I imagine every one these 18 incidental tracks, the bubbly ‘Double Fifths’ for one swelling to a grand strings section or some kind of further elaboration. Instead they jaunt off like a shy bumble bee. Even the album’s end is flighty and inconclusive. This will either instil a sense of longing in the listener or struggle to make a mark.

Just like Modern Art, it goes for impact and for concise and polished expression. In this way Ardour is at odds with its enveloping atmosphere, though I doubt it was intentional as Teebs has allowed the record to take on its own home-made form. Ardour is definitely an experimental album; an exposés of his creativity set loose in a different medium. But it is the sights and sounds of his travels and experiences, as well as a blurring of art and music that make this a busy, beautiful record.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

The Scottish Enlightenment - Pascal EP

It’s only been a few months and already The Scottish Enlightenment have released another record. Each one is followed close behind by an assortment of nodding respect – the kind of respect reserved for established local legends, murmurs shared between people in the know. Once again, their new EP Pascal displays a further growth of their studious and noble soft Rock.

Since their amalgamation three years ago, the band has been repeatedly likened to Pavement and this connection has followed them around the blogsphere like a phantom limb, though not without an element of truth. Their simple mix and slacker guitar style are sometimes identical to the original American losers. However, David Moyes’ slurring baritone marks them out. His leadership and what the rest of the band can do with so little is impressive. In an interview he talks of their progression over the last three years: “the kind of enforced maturing that comes from coming home from a gig with your ears humming and finding your wife up with a screaming baby.” His song writing is just as real and down-to-earth – none of your contrived Rock n’ Roll lifestyles here. The focus is on their surroundings and on celebrating normal life which, as we all know, is complex stuff.

Pascal’s sombre tone doesn’t exactly fire poetry from my fingertips but no matter. The EP is best explained by its confessional and dreamy flow. The opening title track, with its warm guitars and intimate reverb, is the musical equivalent of a comforting hug. Next, ‘If You Would Just Try a Bit Harder’ drifts gently like a boat through sleepy seas and after the rippling piano of ‘Riverbed’ comes ‘All Homemade Things’, a touching number that showcases their tuneful guitar arrangements. Unfortunately, even with a rising guitar solo and an appearance of harp, ‘To The Dogs’ is a long, drawn out ending and I found myself cutting it short.

Scotland seems like one of the only places left that still puts faith in the good ol’ four-piece; a structure that will never die, so long as some hard work is gone into stretching its capabilities. Besides a maturity and authenticity, you can hear a wise resignation in The Scottish Enlightenment’s music. It feels good to know that even in our fast moving world, there’s a band out there that have settled down with a family and don’t care if they don’t keep up.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

God's Little Eskimo - In Play in Borely Rectory

Multi instrumentalism is a powerful tool to many a lonely composer, but it is still a tool and may or may not be put to good use. Would anyone in this age of plenty know, or care, whether a burst of brass for example was the result of a fifty piece band or a heavily edited keyboard patch? Does hard work, sweat and blood really matter?

God’s Little Eskimo (or God’s Little Inuit, if you’re being politically correct) is a solo project of the illusive Jonny Eskimo, a self declared ‘one manned band’ as well as a keen illustrator.

So yeah, he’s multi talented, blah blah what’s in it for us? Well, you selfish, superficial jackass, nothing for the impatient or mass consumptive. If the record were to take physical form, it would be a laboured piece of arts and crafts; like a wicker basket, or a knitted sweater. It has a scratched, everyman charm that unites the bedroom studio ethic of Wavves with the folksong expression of Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy. Steve Reich once said that the true folk music of our time was being made in the bedrooms and garages of ordinary people. Reich was right about a lot of things.

The clunky and grainy nature, an experiment in Gypsy Folk sensibilities, strays from the genuinely unsettling to the mournful and sad. Featuring a zither (yay), ‘Who’s That Calling Your Name’ begins cloaked in deceptive and enticing beauty only to crash into jarring dissonance. His finest track, ‘At The Base of Her Spine’ is also his most aggressive, shouting “Sink your teeth into my soul” in unreserved passion. Jonny sings in a high, minstrel style – like Jon Boden from Bellowhead on a comedown – and the music is wide awake, intimate and lovingly put together.

At Play In Borely Rectory rests directly on a thin line dividing brilliance and stupidity, sort of like Eddie Izzards ‘Circle of Cool’ gag. It teeters between the two, like an eccentric, pleasantly drunk trapeze artist. In this position, it’s a cult folk classic in hibernation. A record of such sincere strangeness will always find someone, somewhere to inspire. Who knows where it could go from there.

(© 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)

MIA - "Do Something Pretty" Fanzine

The internet has made gigantic nerds of us all. Every single one of us now is plugged in, discussing bandwith, sharing in petty conversation. The stereotype of the computer saddo is gone and has been inverted. Unconnected, you're seen as a fool, backward or a second rate citizen.

A term sounding almost dated today, 'surfing', is in need of a replacement. The word implies purposeless exploration, casually clicking here and there, letting your impulses dictate what you view. These days, we hardly 'surf', no way, we hunt! We stalk the cyber wilderness, red eyed and hungry with intent. We check our bankstatements, we spend hours on wikipedia references, we look intensively on blogs and disographies for unreleased material. It's our livelyhood. We track the rare, unseen beasts and the more we hunt, the better we get and the better we get, the bigger the game we bag. But the cyber forest is also getting older, more dense and perhaps a little darker too. Some creatures go unnoticed and lurk quietly in the shadows. It takes skill or fluke to locate them.

A couple weeks ago I decided to spend a free afternoon racking up as many fanzines and online music magazines as possible. I settled down with a mug of tea, a few vanilla cigarettes and an assorted selection of chocolate bisuits. Simon Reynolds from The Guardian appeared to share in my quest and published an article several days later (Christ! Sometimes these beasts you track are actually tracking you). In it, he discusses the comeback of the traditional, hand made fazine. It was inspiring, but right before I zoomed off to get my crayons and glue stick I discovered something - an example of the fore mentioned fluke. It was an online fanzine called 'Do Something Pretty' that hadn't been updated since the 20th of June 2005. Typical of many fanzines, due to one reason or another, it no longer functions. An internet mystery, now gathering dust in the Lost and Found. I attempted to speak with those involved but it's impossible to contact anyone who ran it due to an unfortunate script error. I can only guess from the live reviews list that the 'zine was centralised around Manchester.

It's a damn shame, but as Echo and the Bunnymen taught us, "Nothing Ever Lasts Forever". Some of the signed and unsigned bands they included are worth listening to. Some of them are still going, some are not. 'Do Something Pretty' claims in its underscore to be "dedicated to all things pretty in alternative, independent music & D.I.Y Culture". According to its own copyright dates, the site was set up in 2001. Therefore, it would have beared witness to a huge evolution in indie culture; the return of everything we loved about music, the movement from our brief flirtation with retro in the early decade to the foundations of our current experimental and arty pop scene. In retrospect, we can also see how the fanzine concluded on what was just starting up at the time: Folktronica. Four Tet's Everything is Elastic was one of the final albums to be reviewed and the other bands featured in 2005 share a similar style. There's a short news alert heralding the Arcade Fire debut Funeral which has become somewhat of a landmark as well as a review of the searing and insane The New Fellas by The Cribs. Even the fanzine title hints towards self impossed naivity and DIY expression, with perhaps with just a pinch of sarcasm. In all this, Beat Happening would be pleased.

'Do Something Prettys' last ever album review is of a band called Super Reverb with the halariously named title 'Avant Garde Is The French Word For Shit'. With swaggering confidence and a highly varied approach, it's quite a find. They balance perfectly between low-fi punk and jingly jangly psychadelia; but this is only the begninning. An extended viewing of the archives brings many other unknown bands into light and a few interviews with The Longcut and The Secret Machines feel very old indeed. There's a pre-mainstream-fame interview with the Kaiser Chiefs sporting a stupidly aimless quote from Ricky Wilson: "...who wants to see a band onstage anymore that think they’re cooler than you?" True words, Ricky. Too bad that attitude didn't stick. Hanging out with Girls Aloud proves they no longer relate to their audience on the level they once did.

Personified, 'Do Something Pretty' is like your best friends little sister, who's a fan of Belle and Sabastian, does arts and crafts and wears colourful querky clothes. Except reading it four years on feels like that little girl has all grown up and moved far away. Left as it is, in silent and untouched charm, it's a small piece of nostalgia.

The 'Floyd-Wizard' Syncronicity Effect

We all are aware of Pink Floyd's ability to weave powerful, forward-thinking rock. We know too well. We hear it over and over again, on every Rockumentary, in every 100 Greatest Albums list. The Dark Side of the Moon continually gets voted as one of the most influential albums ever produced. We know, we all bloody know. But, less discussed, is a sub cultural myth that attaches itself to the album. It sounds, at first, pretty nutty: pause a copy of it at the beginning in a CD player and, playing both at the same time, play Wizard of Oz on mute. Jesus Christ, this is what happens when you leave a group of wired students alone for an evening. Lies and bullshit you might say, but I tried it, and for a good half hour into the film, the syncronisation is astonishingly accurate. If you were ever looking for a modern legend, than this is it. No doubt, wispers floated around by way of the typically convincing see-it-to-believe-ploy and it roped me in. It drew me in as an ice-cream truck draws in sugar-junky children.

Similar is the overzealous interest behind conspiracy theories. I spent an evening watching the JFK assasination over and over on youtube to develop my own opinion (we'll meet Bill Hicks later at the docks). The 9/11 conspiracy documentary Loose Change still sits on my hard drive as well as my mind. The quest for truth can sometimes send you beyond basic logic and reason and the internet is more than happy to oblige, acting like a shitty little sewing circle in its desparate need to tell you what's "really going on".

But back to the case in hand. 2001: A Space Oddessy also presents another significant moment of timing, but of a different nature. Around the time of its release in 1968, reports that at the moment of the famous 'Star Gate' scene, nearing the thought provoking close of the film, an average dose of LSD kicks in at the very same moment when the character Dave begins his enlightening high-speed adventure. The zooming, colourful textures of the ensuing minutes suggests a strong psychadelic influence. It went down pretty well with the counterculture of its time, and I'm guessing it would have sent numurous kids into unavoidable paranoia. But then again, the weird is what you're after when you're tripping.

What both The Dark Side of Oz and The Acid Oddessy share in common is that these syncronisations are accidental, judging at least with what we know of the artists or directors intentions. Both are a part of the same intriguing phenomenon where two seperate artforms, one of sonic and one of film, mysteriosly combine. Is this the only occurance of its kind, or are there other couplings yet to be discovered? Has the Floyd-Wizard effect randomly struck elsewhere? I was itching to know and set out to see what I could find, only to be somewhat disapointed.

This subject initially appeared to me to be virgin material, ripe for the taking and I lept on it with enthusiastic glee. Books were writing themselves in my head, thesis' built on study and experimentation were coagulating together like rain drops on a window pane. But of course, as always, the internet is two steps ahead (there goes my publishing deal, god damn it) and lo' and behold a website called Syncronicity, dedicated to these pockets of discovery, proudly displays them in full geeky glory. Their archive is eccessively focused on the albums of Pink Floyd (they even have 2001: Space Oddessy coupled with Pink Floyd's Echos which someone kindly created on youtube) but there are a few more unique couplings to try out. The joining of Radiohead's Amnesiac with Dark Crystal is tempting. I'll admit, it's a little obessive this fascination with syncronicity and heavily implies the use of narcotics to aid enjoyment. You only have to scroll down to the bottom of the syncronicity webpage to reveal a mini purple mushroom (see picture), what's being hinted at here is evident. It most certainly comes off as an occupation for the dangerously bored or hazily wasted. Perhaps your brain's got to be crawling up the wall and running laps before the music and visuals seem to synchronise, but maybe not. As informative as the website is in its many suggestions, it doesn't beat an accidental discovery, because when you find one for yourself, it becomes your own. I remember watching Charlie Chaplin's Modern Times muted while playing The Flaming Lip's Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots a few years ago. A friend of mine would also mute the train journey scene of Spirited Away and drift off to it while listening to The Velvet Underground's beautifully droning Heroin. The idea is to culminate a mood or meditative experience. Obessive? Maybe, but you won't know until you try it, will you?

"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.

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.