Authenticity, there’s a vexed musical issue. How much does it matter when appropriating sounds and techniques, and at what point can doing something inauthetically become a tradition in its own right? If you want a handy analogy, try the British curry house: despite claims to the contrary stencilled in the bottom of restaurant windows, we all know that the madras you buy on a Friday night is not quite like what has been prepared in Madras for generations, but would it be wrong to say that the British curry menu is now a culinary heritage in its own right; and anyhow, if it tastes good, does it matter?

These thoughts float in the back of the mind as the Peanut Albinos’ EP opens with “The Most Insignificant Things”, a gorgeous concoction of bass, percussion, mandolin and bowed saw with a distinct North African flavour. However, although it’s probably nothing like what might get played in Tunis on an average evening, it does fit seamlessly into the 60s spy theme exotica sub-genre – think The Man From UNCLE visits Marrakech – and could easily be drawn from the dusty depths of some Ninja Tune artist’s crate marked “Obscure Samples”. Like a good prawn balti, the really significant fact is that it’s deeply satisfying, the bass creating a rubbery backdrop for some plucked strings so clipped and sharp they sound like needles dropping into lakes of crystal. The whole piece exhibits the most wonderful poise and delicacy, when it could so easily have become a knowing pastiche. Follow up “To Be A Number” introduces some vocals and ups the drama quota, but could have come from the same imaginary soundtrack.

“Just Another Day”’s unexpected banjo lope drags us unexpectedly across the globe to some sort of hillbilly campfire, where the rest of the CD seems content to kick back and relax…except the unexpected encroachment of some drunken lumberjacks on the chorus does break the spell somewhat (although the Albinos somehow get away with it). From hereon in we’re in the world of the backyard country ballad, all brushed drums, finger pickin’ banjos, guitar strums and world weary laments. Once again, the sense of restraint and control is quite astonishing, and almost unheard of at this level, but perhaps the compositions are somewhat pedestrian: only “How Do You Sleep, My Dear?” makes any sort of bid for the listener’s memory on the EP’s second half, resembling something Springsteen might knock off in one of his quieter moods.

Still, despite the feeling that it slopes off rather unobtrusively after it had started with such colour and tension, this record is still a real treasure with an understated style that’s as unexpected in Oxford as the melange of influences. If they could get a bit of Tom Waits grit into the vocals we could have one of the most intriguing live acts around. Note to self: go to Peanut Albinos gig.

Peanut Albinos Myspace

By David Murphy

Smilex, purveyors of the lyric satiric,  have rarely been known to cause a pleasant sound. Indeed, their music could be ascribed the abrasiveness of a thorough sandpaper genital massage. But, for all that, it is bloody brilliant. Produced by ex-Skunk Anansie guitarist, Ace, the music is sinister, overbearing, raw and edgy to the point of extremity. There is no compromise: if at any point in the recording process a timid engineer has asked “d’you think we should tone down the distortion a bit?”  Smilex have undoubtedly replied with an evil grin; “no, keep it that way, we want to see bleeding ear drums.”  Make no mistake, they will never come anywhere near perfect, or even aesthetically pleasing, but they sound fucking good if you turn them up loud and dance like a leprechaun on magic mushrooms.
This seven track mini-album has been based on the “seven deadly sins” dreamt up by some boring old sod in bygone ages (Gregory the Great if Wikepedia can be trusted- Ed). In my blindness I can only see them as admirable qualities, but maybe if someone made me the pope I’d change my mind… The Sins – and the track titles – include; Sloth, Lust, Pride, Gluttony, Avarice, Envy and Wrath. Smilex major on WRATH. Never before has there been an ensemble of little energetic demons more capable of utterly destroying the subject of their evil attentions. And hell, why not? Because if anything’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. And the only proper way of dealing with the seven sins most worthy of eternal damnation, is with one bottle of absinthe, two of the biggest, greasiest pizzas you can find, complete nudity and Smilex, bloody loud and bloody offensive.

Smilex Myspace

By Ross Fisher

If I think about standing in the middle of a packed, sweaty Wheatsheaf next Wednesday watching Rubber Duck at the Punt, I can imagine being enthused by their bright funk-rock, but they don’t shine on this recording. The little sample from Max Romeo & The Upsetters’ ‘Chase the Devil’ which opens the album shows they’re taking their inspiration from interesting places, the rhythm section is universally solid, and the eco-political message of many of the songs is admirable, but nothing pulls me into the music or forces me to listen to it again.

Rubber Duck are at their best when everything’s laid back, as on ‘Medication’, where they begin to tap into the bluesy hip-hop of G Love & Special Sauce, or on the wonderfully shambling ballad, ‘Angel’. Crucially, in these tracks the vocalist begins to relax a little and his voice shows its great natural potential; elsewhere, his delivery feels forced and ends up being much too nasal. The up-beat tracks are more of a mixed bag: on one hand, despite its title, ‘Emotional Revolution’ is a pretty stolid reggae-tinged lump, on the other, songs like ‘Pop’ and ‘Ocean Tide’ have a gleeful dynamism about them. ‘Ocean Tide’ in particular benefits from not having its momentum undermined too much by the incongruous use of seemingly random samples which are scattered throughout the album and only serve to defuse the mood. It’s not that they aren’t there, but somehow they don’t impinge as much as elsewhere.

In a sense, the album has too many different genres battling for space, from reggae through funk and bossa nova to straight-up pop-rock and electronica and the extremely polished presentation of the material somehow doesn’t help this meld, but sanitizes and dilutes what they’re trying to do. So, I have confidence that the slightly sloppier, rougher presentation that inevitably accompanies live performances will see Rubber Duck come into their own; this album, however, doesn’t stand out from the crowd.

Rubber Duck Myspace

By Daniel Mitchell

Irate musicians will often attack a bad review for the lack of “constructive criticism”, which seems to be a serious misreading of the function of sites like this.  Surely critics aren’t writing for the benefit of the artists (who really ought to just jack it in if they don’t already think their work is excellent), but for our peers, other potential listeners.  So, although it may come up in the course of proceedings, how to make music better is of less importance to us than explaining what’s wrong in the first place.  Besides, the easiest way to make most God-forsaken demos better is simply to press Eject and then try to forget the whole sorry affair.

All of which preamble sounds worryingly like the buffer zone before a complete critical disembowelling for the execrably-named Boy Did Good, but the squeamish amongst you can rest assured that this won’t happen.  What we’re getting at is wondering whether, in this case, we have any real connection with our peers at all.  We suppose the pertinent question is, “Do you want to hear some average, but not unpleasant, indie rocking?” If the answer’s “Yes please”, then Boy Did Good are the ones for you; if not…well, let’s leave them to it, it’s a pretty harmless occupation, all things considered.

If you want to know what flavours of not-unpleasant indie rocking BDG trade in, we can tell you that “Characters & Pieces” has a skipping beat that reminds us a little of the baggy era, without the stoned charm, and that The Arctic Monkeys and The Kaiser Chiefs are momentarily brought to mind.  With the exception of some incredibly sludgy, almost dubstep-style bass interjections, the song has very little to claim your attention, though there may be some foot tapping in evidence.

“That Girl Is Dangerous” starts more promisingly, with a tinny one chord strum, some more suet bass and thumping toms; just when it threatens to become hypnotically heavy, it steps up into a forgettable new-wave trot, and our mind starts to wander once again.  The rhythmic playing throughout the demo is very tight, the vocals are perfectly acceptable, if lacking in character, and there are some interesting breaks, fills and tacets, but the song in its entirety is as unimposing as the clichéd femme fatale lyrics.

A comparable tom pattern underpins “You, Me & The Other Three”, which uses a similar alternating rhythm guitar trick to the last tune.  In fact, a couple of shimmering chords aside, this is just the last song remade from another perspective, as we learn that “that boy is trouble”. Something average remade less interestingly with the sex roles inverted, what does that remind us of?  Oh, yes, Grease II.

If BDG want some of that mythical constructive criticism, it all depends on what they want to achieve.  If they want to be a world class band of professional musicians, we’d encourage them to think about every single note they play and lyric they write, and immediately excise anything that sounds threadbare and secondhand.  Eventually, after much graft, they may come up with something exciting.  If they just want to have a laugh, play some gigs here and there, and sink some beers, then we’ve nothing to add: it’s all fine.  Keep at it.  Hell, it’s probably alright live.  Not sure we’ll be making the pilgrimage to Reading to find out, however.

Boy Did Good Myspace

By David Murphy

Not a lot of uncomplicated enjoyment on offer at tonight’s Oxjam fundraiser, which is a long way from saying there was no good music. Angular guitar-and-cello duo Cogwheel Dogs got the evening off to a more-than-decent start, with an immaculately played set of occasionally awkward, but often highly potent ballads. Latest single ‘Cress’ is a grower (pardon the pun) and tonight is performed with tremendous bluesy brio. The excellent, misty-eyed ‘Ghostwriter’ doesn’t suffer much from the absence of the hypnotic typewriter which graces the record, and even the underwhelming-on-CD ‘Anticoagulant’ seems better balanced tonight, with Rebecca Mosley’s ever-more-authoritative singing keeping Tom Parnell’s screeching cello from freaking out the squares just that little bit too much.

‘I Love You every Time You Smile’. Uhhhh. Sweet, right? Very Lionel Ritchie or Randy Newman? Read it a couple more times and it starts to look decidedly ambiguous. Anyway, this is the least-inaccessible tune in Sunnyvale Noise Sub-Element’s canon, and the best introduction to their arty, abstract post-rock constructions, which involves sophisticated programmed beats, samples and guitar playing which alternates between the almost indie-ish (as on the hypnotic riff of ‘Smile’) and ferocious squalls of terrifying noise. Indeed there is an almost comic disconnect between the visceral pounding that the boffinish Simon Minter gives his axe and the quiet, almost apologetic friendliness of his interactions with the audience. In an ideal world, Sunnyvale would have a residency at one of London’s more dangerous nightclubs, as their best numbers seem to be made for dancers at the very edge of reason, rather than the immobile chin-strokers of tonight’s Wheatsheaf.

On to Norwich’s Sennen, who threw soundman Joal into raptures with a set of indie pop that made him talk of bands like Seafood and other shoegazing luminaries. I’d throw in Teenage Fanclub and even the Raveonettes, due to their extensive use of unusually far-apart harmonies: sixths and octaves in particular. To be honest, I found most of their songs rather soporific: they’d give us two minutes of atmospheric post-punk (with the ultra-catchy ‘Blackout’ being a stand-out) or folky Furries-influenced ballads and then meander on with ever-decreasing returns. Still, the harmonies are wonderful and they’re not Turin Brakes, so for that relief much thanks.

Closing the evening were indie rockers The Half Rabbits, who I still can’t quite get. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, because I know they are really tight, they have a highly distinctive singer in Michael Weatherburn, they can rock as hard as Smashing Pumpkins and lots of cool people like them. In addition, they have an interesting ‘bubbling’ interplay between the bass and guitars which adds further to their originality (best heard on their most memorable song ‘This Changes Everything’), but I still came away from the gig unable to remember an awful lot of their set. I guess it’s not them, it’s me, but I still think Weatherburn’s vocal melodies verge from the nursery-rhyme to the incomprehensible with little in between. If they can find one or two more killer tunes they’ll be unstoppable.

By Colin MacKinnon

If you can stand talking to one for long enough, sooner or later an estate agent shall tell you that only one thing really matters in selling houses: location. And in music, the most significant element affecting our judgement is context.  Change the context and we’ll all think something new about the music. Sloppy funk covers might be fun in a youth club charity battle of the bands, but would seem pretty facile at a state funeral.  So much music works differently in the live arena than in the studio – Redox is one of the most entertaining live bands in town, but has anyone listened to the last EP more than once?

It’s with this in mind that we approach the new EP by one of our favourite locals acts, Stornoway, because there’s a great big sore thumb sticking out a mile, and that offending digit is EP closer, “The Good Fish Guide”.  Quite a good laugh live, with Jon Ouin intoning the title like a twisted ringmaster, whilst seven shades of hellish carnival unfold around him, with chanted fish breeds being traded with horse headed jazz (you have to see it to understand), but it’s a bit of a disaster on record.  A big clumsy whoop ushers in the song, and already our thoughts are wandering towards The Toy Dolls’ take on “Nellie The Elephant”, and that’s before the verses have nudged our memories towards The Divine Comedy’s “A Seafood Song” and the muted trumpet has caused us to shudder with recollection of The Big Ben Banjo Band.  It’s just a bit of a bloody mess, to be frank, with the stagnant air of a failed 5th form revue.  Even Jon can’t raise his game, and chooses some “funny” voices for his part, including a woeful Brummie and what might be Rolf Harris.  The only good things we can say about “The Good Fish Guide” are that it has a serious ecological message, it raises money for The Marine Conservation Society, and the unexpected quotation of “That’s Entertainment” by The Jam on muted trumpet made us chuckle.

OK, we’ve got that out of the way.  Phew.  The rest of the EP is thankfully as good, if not better, than Stornoway’s previous two majestic recordings, and manages to cram a myriad of ideas into each song, without losing sight of Brian Briggs’ gorgeously heroic yet melancholic vocals, that have the bittersweet tenor of a victory song sung by the last soldier standing.  “Unfaithful” opens with the sort of tremoloed 50s shoegazing guitar that mid-90s media darlings Madder Rose used to trade in, before a creamy vocal about cars and dreams starts lifting your hearts.  Just before it can turn into a twee Springsteen, however, an avalanche of dissonant piano collapses around us with a (sergeant) peppering of fairground melodies.

Even better is “The Pupil Of Your Eye”, which intriguingly mashes together two very different songs, one of which is a Sci-Fi new wave blast about “magnetic fields” and “electric currents”, featuring some fantastic wibbly keys, and the other is cheeky organ clomp.  They’d both be great songs on their own, and illogically they get better in company.

We hear some of the old Stornoway in “Here Comes The Blackout”, all folky guitar, fluid bass, subtle keys and close harmonies, which is a welcome break before the title track, in which Simon & Garfunkel take over a drum and bass session and some incredible cymbal work makes a sound like sunlight glinting from an icicle.  Except even better.  And after all that we still feel there’s plenty on these four tracks that we haven’t touched on, and that this EP is an embarrassment of riches…whereas the final track is just a bit of an embarrassment.  Of course, 95% of people will think exactly the opposite; that’s why the world is beyond hope.

Stornoway Myspace

By David Murphy

As I write this, Channel Four News is showing footage of the devastation wrought by Robert Mugabe’s thugs in Zimbabwe, formerly the bread-basket of Africa and now it’s most tragic failure. There are authenticated reports of eighty-four year-old women being beaten up simply for voting for the opposition, as well as torture and the burning of villages. In this terrible context, the power and moral strength of Sinini ka Ngwenya’s ‘Getjenge Republic’ shines all the brighter.

The catastrophe and terror that has befallen Ngwenya’s native country informs much of the record, most notably on its centrepiece, entitled simply, ‘Zimbabwe’. In the form of an open letter to Mugabe, Ngwenya lambasts the cronyism, corruption and barbarity that has become synonymous with that despairing land:

“We hate your politics, appointing your own mates to destroy the state…how can I be calm when you left us to die?”

Thabo Mbeki, arch-trimmer and appeaser, the Neville Chamberlain of the current crisis, is satirised economically. His much-vaunted ‘quiet diplomacy’ policy is searingly rendered as ’silent diplomacy’ and reminds us of the universal truth that evil triumphs when good men do nothing.

Turning to musical matters, on this song and others Ngwenya raps in a mixture of English, Zulu and Kalanaga (his mother tongue). The alternation is rapid (sometimes in the course of a sentence) and somewhat discomfiting to a British listener, but the general sense usually remains clear. But it is when he starts singing , in an effortless tenor, about the defenceless people back home that all resistance disappears. Tears are the only appropriate human response.

Quality abounds elsewhere on the record, which is something of a pot-pourri of African music. The most immediate track is ‘Ubuntu’ (togetherness), a hip-hop tune of some originality. Over a baroque, Michael Nyman-inspired backdrop (ably provided by producer John Blanchard), Ngwenya raps and sings of the joys of African life. Lines like ‘Spirit of Ubuntu, stay still… it’s the culture, the language, the dance and the big smile’ seem incongruous both in the context of the shivery minor-key backing track and the horror ably described elsewhere on the record, but it’s as if Ngwenya is consciously reminding himself and us of the good times in the past and better days to come, even while enduring the corrosive atmosphere of the present.

Other memorable numbers include the lovely pastoral ‘Rain in our land’, which features a silky chorus sung by the immaculate Haula Nakakembo, and the fine a capella ‘3 Lil Words’, in which Ngwenya captures the spirit and sound of Ladysmith Black Mambaza all on his own. Although these tracks testify to the man’s astonishing versatility and talent, it is the political songs on which Ngwenya touches greatness. On ‘Angimboni’, a low-key reggae groove (which nevertheless supports ensemble singing of amazing sophistication)  gives way to the bleakest of closing lines:

“I gotta move, my name is on the list
You will never know who they coming for when the nights falls
Maybe you, your mum, your gal too, who knows?”

There are those who despair of Africa, the Conradites who talk only of its horror and unknowability. But Ngwenya’s superb work insists on the universal values of freedom, love, decency and brotherhood. In the current crisis he is not alone ; they are reflected in the magnificence of the South African dockworkers who refused, in the face of their government’s paralysis,  to offload a shipment of Chinese weaponry which would undoubtedly have been used by Mugabe against his own people. Extremely enjoyable as much of this record is, Ngwenya’s triumph is as much moral as musical.
It deserves to be the soundtrack to a revolution.

Sinini ka Ngwenya Website

By Colin MacKinnon

There’s always a cracking atmosphere at the wonderfully odd Oxford Improvisers gigs, gigs of the sort that make any guestlist-snapping reviewer rife with qualms for swooping in on their close-knit and cordial culture. But never mind.

Nostromo are a local improv quartet with the affable O.I. promoter Dominic Lash on double bass. Mighty blower Pete McPhail is a dazzling multi-instrumentalist, wielding a clackity, tongued flute, and three saxes: an all-out alto, a moody baritone and a chirping soprano. Drummer Roger Telford initiates a gentle meltdown, merging into a somnolent, rumbling daze, bowing the edges of his cymbals into a rich magnetic haze. As it seems with the improv music I’ve come across, Nostromo play their instruments rather than their notes, surging into a beautiful spontaneous cacophony, with slumbering earth rolls from Telford. Things really get interesting when the keys and bass unexpectedly work together, which resembles an interplay of musical Tourette’s; a sudden peal of intermittent ‘chucking’ or sporadic conversation, a nervous shiver or a spluttered, accidental sentence. Nostromi supply rich, exciting viewing, and they aren’t afraid to slip into coherent tonality – a wonderfully brooding Sun Ra riff signals a triumphant finale.

Paulo Angeli is a superb player of the Sardinian guitar; an oversized take on the Spanish variety which is played upright. His European axe has been rendered into a fantastic Frankenstein’s monster apparatus of added-on music boxes, springs, prepared pegs and 16 direct inputs, with different strings diverting into either of PA’s speakers, a bobbing stereo effect created. His set begins with a credit card wedged in between the strings, plucking sprightly, variegated flickers. Attached to the instrument are six foot pedals, each corresponding to a string. While Angeli taps a mic’d up plastic bag, the pedals cause a magnificent rhythmic reverberation. A hand-held radio feeds into the guitar’s pick-up, bordering on white noise. Things grow; barred harmonics abound with crunchy low-strung string noise resonating around our freshly painted Port. This is astonishing playing – the captivating performer that makes you forget you’ve enthusiastically foot-tapped someone else’s chair for ten minutes. Angeli bows, smacks, raps his guitar into a harshness that soon turns tuneful. Distortion fills the PA, that lovely crunchy type: a tender crispy noise. Hammered-on walking bass, jaunty bebop melodic lines – Angeli’s multitasking capabilities reach astonishing heights. After a particularly moving cover of Bjork’s ‘Unravel’ , Angeli ends with a round of plucking and droning, allowing one glorious chord to remain for a good ten seconds, stands up and thanks the cracking Oxford Imps regulars.

By Pascal Ansell.

This ain’t good. When you listen carefully to the demo of an exciting new indie band and the only impression you’re left with is enhanced admiration for Robyn’s ‘With Every Heartbeat’ it ain’t good (like a nickel made of wood). But there you are; the only memorable tune on this four-song demo is a crappily-performed parody of the Swedish pop annoyance’s big hit. Occasionally this sort of thing can be a blast-witness Cake’s stumbling, stoned demolition of Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’, which will live to the end of time. Brookes University’s Vixens have a reputation to make though (they are inexplicably supporting Youthmovies at the Cellar soon) and the gamble has backfired. Their original songs sound derivative and tedious, and Robyn’s bit of nonsense eclipses all of them.

The first thing to say is that the vocalist is hopeless, singing throughout with zero-point energy and majoring in droning tunelessness. The cover mercilessly exposes his limitations but he’s not much better on the originals, swerving between a forlorn Jim Morrison impersonation on ‘All of us Liars’ and a half -hearted essay in Julian Casablancas posing on the forgettable ‘Modern Haste’. The instrumentalists do a passable impression of The Strokes on ‘Her Eyes’ but it’s a style which has been out of date for years now - why revive it? ‘Modern Haste’ sees Vixens, like far too many young bands, aping Editors (who aren’t much cop themselves) and ‘All Of Us Liars’ sounds like a Pearl Jam B-side.

If this review seems overburdened with refences to other artists, this is clearly because Vixens have yet to find their own voice. While this is admittedly common enough for student bands, the group must provide a speedy answer to the question of whether there is any talent underneath the karaoke incompetence. Youthmovies await.

Vixens Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon

Pub debates about bands can get heated, but you can rarely go far wrong if you say “They were better in the early days, before their production got too slick.”

Not so for Monkey Puzzle. While the likes of Pixies, Hole or REM might have sounded more interesting with their earlier, rougher production, Monkey Puzzle are an act in serious need of smoothening.

This two-track demo from the Oxford and Abingdon quartet suffers from low sound quality and poor mixing, which makes it hard to judge the songs on their own merit. However, opener ‘Astro Girl’ is likely to be a strong live track, with its crunchy guitars and infectious hooks.

‘Ashes’ is a disappointment after that. It’s too long, an attempt to be epic that doesn’t come off, although perhaps it would work with better production values and some more instrumentation to flesh out the melody.

I feel that it’s probably completely unfair to judge Monkey Puzzle on the strength of their demo. The kicking drums and impassioned vocals suggest they can do so much more than comes across on this record. They gig regularly, so anybody interested in how the band really sound would be better advised to see them live, where you can enjoy their stage presence and a cold beer at the same time. And perhaps afterwards you’ll be able to revive the classic pub debate about whether good production is always the enemy of keeping it real.

Monkey Puzzle Myspace

By Kate Griffin