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

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.

‘If you’re drinking Southern Comfort, you’re coming with us. If you’re on the Red Bull, you’re going to be disappointed.’ Richard Catherall of Gappy Tooth Industries is explaining how this week’s Gappy Tooth night is going to become more chilled-out as it progresses.

Mind you, it isn’t difficult to be more chilled out than David K Frampton. His experimental electronica cranks the intensity up to 11 within seconds of his getting on stage, and it just gets louder and dirtier from there. Animated artwork from Collective Era provides some much-needed light and shade, but really the performance is just one man and his frenzied bellowing. He gathers an intensely appreciative mini-crowd, but when he pauses mid-set and says “I’m not finished”, a voice from behind me yells “We are!”

Toupe are a sorbet to cleanse the palate, which is a polite way of saying they’re very silly, interspersing songs with jokes and dodgy hip-hop covers. Bassist Grant keeps the one-liners coming, although he gets fed up with the surprisingly muted response to his banter and by the end of the show is reduced to making Inspector Morse jokes in an attempt to find something an Oxford crowd will react to. By popular vote their music is declared to be “smut-funk”.

The Mile High Young Team have a lot to follow, but they’re relaxed and assured. The set is a mixture of new material and songs from the Distance Between Them EP. Newie “Becalmed” is a cracker, lyrical sea metaphors melding perfectly with the ocean-like rhythms. (As an aside, I’ve never understood why a band so lyrically linked to water is called the Mile High Young Team.)

It’s a set that sees the band on top form, despite the absence of their cellist. The chemistry between the six members on stage translates into a lovely, chilled-out experience for the rest of us in the room.

It seems that the guy from Gappy Tooth was right: the night did get more chilled out as it went on. The atmosphere at the Wheatsheaf suggests that most people took the Southern Comfort option and came right along with it.

By Kate Griffin

In a rare combination of wit and soft-porn, working-class wank-mag Hustler once used the immortal tag-line, ‘Less Rabbit and More Beaver’ to attract the sleazebags away from the marginally-more-respectable Playboy, with its wholesome bunny-girls and weighty Norman Mailer-penned literary critiques. This week’s motto for Oxfordbands.com might be ‘Less Easter Bunny and More Beaver Fuel‘, with Leigh Alexander’s scuzzy punk rockers’ EP being reviewed (none-too-gently) here a few days ago, and as a second installment, our thoughts on their launch gig at the Bully.

Late-of-Birmingham troubadour Faceometer began proceedings with an uneven set of whimsical acoustic ballads, sung in a strange Tom Lehrer drawl. His take on the life of romantic polymath William Blake delighted the more literary types, but his excursion into spoken word, with a staggeringly dull tale concerning phone-sex workers (is this building up to be the sleaziest review ever on Oxfordbands.com?) was simply embarrassing. The best moment occurred during the closing track with the incorporation of various ad-hoc percussionists extracted from the audience, including a nonchalant Tim Lovegrove (Junkie Brush) who wandered straight from the Cowley Road onto the drum kit and provided the tune with a lovely swinging groove. A hit-and-miss act then, but at least he ended on a high.

Manic rawk-monsters Beelzebozo then took over, providing a good deal of uncomplicated entertainment, not to say decibels. Like their presumed antecedents Spinal Tap they seem to be affectionately sending up the theatrical nonsense that is heavy metal, but there’s an underlying commitment to their music which stops them being as offensively knowing as, for example, The Darkness. They combine a crowd of seventies rock influences with a lead singer who sounds rather like Dave Grohl during the shouty bits of the Foo Fighters, and they are impossible to dislike. There’s even the odd vocal harmony in there, so it’s not all hellfire and sulphur.

So to the EP launchers, Beaver Fuel. Some of the elements in this group are strong; Alexander has a nice line in lugubrious ballads which Peter Cook’s E.L. Wisty might have rejected as too otherworldly. Exhibit A is the notorious ‘I Want to Live in Your Buttcrack’, which is mostly excruciating but has undeniable cult appeal. The musicianship is pretty decent too, with the lead guitarist showing on the night that he could produce lively solos on demand, and bassist James Serjeant providing both solid musical support and a bit of stage interest, initiating the first on-stage pillow fight I’ve ever encountered (although I was on the receiving end of a fusillade of paper aeroplanes launched by The Young Knives a few years back).

Still, with all these plus points, it has to be said that the first few songs went for nothing, simply because Alexander’s baritone growl couldn’t cut through the racket of two electric guitars playing punky chords at once. It was noticeable that when the lead guitarist shut up during the vocal sections, you could actually hear some of what Leigh was blethering on about, and in a band that cares so much about the lyrics, vocal audibility should be a top priority. One or two of the quieter songs even reminded me of the Pixies, which is always welcome, although a brief mid-set detour into jazz felt like a trip down a cul-de-sac. Perhaps Alexander needs to sort his songs into material for band and solo treatment, as it’s a shame to hear (or rather, not hear) clever lyrics wandering like orphans in a sonic storm.

Beaver Fuel Myspace

Beelzebozo Myspace

Faceometer Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon.

Like the first snowfall of the year, live looping is a minor miracle that never fails to impress. Theo once again proves how useful a tool an infinite delay pedal can be in his opening bars, twining thick guitar lines together to create a wiry cord of dense riffing. Then he drops the guitar and starts slipping some chunky drums behind the loops. The resulting noise is clinical but remorselessly insistent and effective, something akin to AC/DC tunes under construction on the Cowley car plant’s conveyors. A secret part of us wonders what it might sound like if we could have drums and guitar at once (you know, like a band), and whether there might be another way of ending a piece than simply overloading the pedal and puffing out a hiss of white noise but this ultimately feels like cavilling. Go and see Theo, his music repays the patience needed to watch its genesis.

Adventurous locals might like to think of Action Beat as a cross between The Corvids’ kraut thump and the fuzzed reproach of The Fencott Disaster. The aural density of the thunderous noise initially excites, but the (unreasonably short) set ultimately fails to convince: it was too regulated to be an eviscerating noise, but too messy to succeed through hypnotic repetition. You could have the time of your life watching Einstellung or Ascension, but it appears that they don’t mix well.

Let’s get one thing out of the way before we go any further: Ashley Marlowe, Charlottefield’s drummer, is phenomenal. He powers into the kit with force yet restraint, and the contrast between prog embellishment and punk incision reminds us of Karl Burns’ work on the first Fall album. Frankly, for the first ten minutes of the set we barely noticed the rest of the band. Eventually our senses returned to normal, and we discover that the band make a most pleasant sound, shot through with flashes of Fugazi and tiny flecks of Part Chimp whilst a monolithic bass gels it all together. However, just as we had them pegged as a riotously adept and entertainingly generic alt.rock act, things start to shift. Slowly the music is changing gear, until finally we are left in the midst of endless deserts of guitar tones with deft cymbal flicks dancing above them. After a simply wonderful set, it’s easy to see why Charlottefield are always so welcome in Oxford, and we wonder how we’ve managed to miss them before.

 Charlottefield Myspace

By David Murphy

The town of Wallingford has plenty going for it. The rolling river, the historic markets, the old churches, even a big-up from Jerome K. Jerome. What it doesn’t have is any well-defined music scene, which meant that the Truck organisation took a bit of a gamble in putting on a gig here.

They needn’t have worried. The room was reassuringly full from the start, thanks in part to an excellent bill, including Danny and the Champions, whom I regrettably missed.

The gig didn’t start that well, however. A very nervous Rami gave us four songs of inconsequential and interminable annoyingness, centring on such compelling subjects as The National Lottery, Jack the Ripper and playground bust-ups. They weren’t without the odd line of wit, and Rami’s guitar-playing was perfectly fine, but the set seemed to go on long into the night.

Much better was local four-piece The Family Machine who conjured up tiny little gems of folky-pop melody in the vein of Dodgy, but didn’t feel the need to place them in a very elaborate setting. Specifically, the songs were all too short. It was almost as if front-man Jamie’s endearingly self-deprecating shtick had translated itself into the structures of their songs. Hey guys, you’re good! You’re not going to bore us if you tease that idea out for just another minute or so! Other strengths were the backup singing- a four-piece that can do quadrophonic harmony that well is a rarity. I also liked the lead guitarist, who provided clever, spaced-out sounds to broaden the solid fare of acoustic guitar, bass and drums, but the backing-track I would have left at home. On the one occasion they used it, it emitted a string of bloopy musical non-sequiturs that muddied the sound and reduced the band’s own impact. For a group that have been around a while, you feel that they still need more confidence in their own abilities, which are considerable.

There was no lack of confidence from The Epstein, who were magnificent throughout a superb set. Drawing mostly on their fine album, “Last of the Charanguistas” (reviewed elsewhere on this site), they gave us yearning, haunting, nostalgic country music, with heart but also with that crucial lack of self-pity which is the best thing about the genre, but also the most elusive. Olly Wills’ voice epitomises this; he can project profound emotion, but there is also a lack of sentimentality, of playing to the gallery, which is so important. Because this band is walking a tightrope. If they were ever once to betray a maudlin, indulgent, she-done-me-wrong mentality, then they could fall into that demo-monde of Stetson-wearing saddoes, faking Nashville accents in dodgy clubs up and down the country. What keeps them away from that is the sheer life of the performance- despite having four guitarists everyone is needed, everyone is vital. And they have songs to die for; one of my favourites is “Nothing changes in the Old Town” which didn’t even make the album. “That Dress That She Wore” and “Dance the Night Away” (with Joe Bennett blowing up a storm on trumpet) were transcendent glories and make you think that the Epstein could indeed rewrite musical fashion in Britain 2008.

Family Machine Myspace

The Epstein Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon

Firstly, apologies to Maria Ilett, who provided your reviewer with  shiny guest-list accreditation, only to be left unreviewed after an early exit. Despicable. In my defence, an emergency at work required my presence (unpaid) on Saturday morning so a post-midnight bedtime was a non-starter. Stay tuned for an imminent EP review by this artist.

Ute should really be my thing, with a glamorous female harpist paired with a decent male singer/guitarist . As always with acoustic acts, the Jericho audience loudly ignored most of what was going on onstage (although they provided hearty applause between songs-weird), but the pair didn’ t really have the tunes or presence to silence the loudmouths. The exception was the closing number which gave the harpist free reign to embark on a welter of scales and arpeggios that built to an impressive top-note climax-there was even the hint of a steal from Faure’s Requiem. The singer could certainly hold a tune, but he was too much in  thrall to whiny whingers like Matt Bellamy and particularly Thom Yorke to stamp himself on the memory. A more sympathetic environment (Holywell Music Room) and more inventive melodies are needed for this engaging duo to provide real impact.

The Peanut Albinos offer a compelling mixture of speakeasy jazz, Pogues-style aggression and beguiling ol’ timey country. For some reason, I found them rather scary; perhaps it was the beards and hats, or the rasping king-of-the-drunks excellence of the singer, but I felt an undercurrent of evil about some of the songs, especially the jazzy ones with their funereal banjo and air of mocking world-weariness. When the Great Depression hit and banker after banker took the plunge from the forty-first floor, you can imagine the Peanut Albinos playing away on the street corner as the emergency services searched the sidewalk for all the body parts. This sense of menace dissipates on the country songs where note-perfect harmony (with a spirit not far from The Band’s ’Rockin’ Chair’ or even the odd track by our own Epstein) and instrumental tenderness are the watchwords, although the chord progressions are a little more sophisticated than in most country tunes.

Still, even with these lyrical interludes I couldn’t help thinking that the Peanut Albino’s appearance may be a harbinger of hard times ahead, as if they were a group designed for some future Perfect Storm (with pricipal components being Sub-Prime, Credit Crunch, Stock Market Crash and Beckham being picked for England again). Put it this way, if they succeed, it probably means the rest of us are in the shit.

 Peanut Albinos Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon

Love it or loathe it, you really notice the effects of the smoking ban in the grotty toilet venues of this world. Where once a grimy, sweaty haze inhabited the room, there is now a clear view of all four walls, and the opportunity to take a deep breath without ingesting the recycled contents of 50 teenage lungs. Settle down, smokers - it’s just an observation!

It’s a bit unfair to refer to Oxford’s Wheatsheaf as a toilet venue, seeing as it plays host to some of Oxford’s finest entertainment on a regular basis. In particular, tonight is a monthly Quickfix Recordings night - that’s the label that has recently worked with Youthmovies, The Half Rabbits, and Smilex, amongst others, to produce some of the best sounds to come out of Oxford in recent years.

Tonight, Quickfix have brought us a mêlée of bands from near and far, and to kick things off local three-piece Savage Henry Is Dead take to the stage.

The Savage Henry sound is all about the noise they make when the stomp boxes kick in - it’s a meaty riff-fest that draws influence from Queens Of The Stone Age and System Of A Down, and mixes odd timings and instrumental breaks with more generic rock-out sections. There’s something about the vocals of Savage Henry’s frontman that prevents them blending seamlessly into the band’s sound, but it’s a minor problem in a set that wins over the scattered audience who have gathered at this early stage of the evening.

Next up, it’s Mary Bendy Toy. Now this is an odd one. I want you! I need you!” yelps the frontman, who looks a bit like Marilyn Manson half way through make-up, and I’m not sure that this audience would reciprocate the sentiment of those lyrics to the band, who appear to have plucked their members from different universes and placed them together on stage for the first time tonight. The highlight of a fairly dreary set is when a hand-propelled WW2 siren is employed during the final song. Man, those things rock! A moment of superb innovation in a set that otherwise failed to impress.

“Angular” is the word that instantly springs to mind as Striplight from London launch into their thirty-minute set. It’s mostly due the choppy guitar technique of Alex Mitchell, who looks and sounds like he’s been plucked straight out of Interpol. Vocalist Liz Tumber is Pink meets Annie Lennox, but with a very distinctive style of her own. She’s an energetic performer, girating around the stage and entangling herself in the mic cord from song to song. This is a class act, and with interest from renowned indie label Touch and Go, plus reworkings of their tracks by Roots Manuva and Tim ‘Love’ Lee under their belt, a step up to the next level mightn’t be too far off.

Headlining tonight are Oxford’s own The Courtesy Kill, a band who really look the part, it has to be said. With a lineup comprising three girls (vocals, guitar and bass) and two boys (lead guitar and drums), all good looking folk, The Courtesy Kill command the stage and look relaxed with it. Their sound is tight and accomplished, mixing memorable harmonies with attacky guitars, and bringing to mind No Doubt as the only obvious point of reference. Frontwoman Cat is simultaneously shy and confident, an act which endears the audience and causes a good deal of crowd participation, even if encouraging a bloke in the crowd to strip off takes up a little too much between-song banter time. The Courtesy Kill may need a little more time to perfect their sound, but they are without doubt one of the brightest musical prospects Oxford currently has to offer.

Good on Quickfix for putting together such a diverse and entertaining bill. It was a night with enough contrast and talent to be memorable, and to ensure this reviewer will be heading back to a Quickfix Recordings night in the near future to see what other treasures the label can dig up.

Wire Jesus are a favourite of mine, so it was a shame that they managed to lose their cellist, a victim of dodgy sat-nav technology and the gridlocked, Dantean rabbit-warren that is the Reading road system. The group performed pretty well as a five-piece (two singing guitarists, bass, drums and keys), although the sonority of the cello was missed on several occasions. They have a varied repertoire, ranging from Arcade Fire ecstasy to Deacon Blue whimsy (singer Mike Murray has a pronounced transatlantic twang in the style of Ricky Ross), and they are at their best when creating mighty walls of sound, for which Tim Perkins’ cello is essential. For that reason, one or two songs tonight verged on the underpowered, even twee side. Still, the majority of the tunes remain treasurable, and there were plenty of highlights, including the ultra-slick harmonies of Mike and Amy, Nicole’s frenetic cranking of her harmonium on the superb closer “Jenny’s Ghost” and bassist Tiki’s somewhat boozy banter, sample “only five of us tonight, still that means we get paid more…..”.

I would have paid Bowling Green’s Cage the Elephant anything not to play, but it couldn’t be helped. For the record, a collection of skinny longhairs made initially engaging and perfectly crafted Dadrock (Grandadrock?) in the Rolling Stones/AC/DC mould, complete with silly posing, dry ice-drenched stage and even (Lord love them!) a spoken intro on the lines of Spinal Tap’s Stonehenge. Towards the end, they varied the routine with a cocky, disco-influenced motormouth rant borrowed from Reverend and the Makers, but this brief nod to modernity was quickly followed by a V-sign as they played the last fifty-five minutes of Free Bird (or so it felt like) to complete a largely forgettable set.

Ulysses S. Grant (American Civil War general, binge drinker and occasional president of the United States) was once wandering in the Mexican desert when he heard the sound of wolves howling. His companion asked him how many he thought were making the din: Grant thought fifty, but replied “twenty” in case his pal thought he was a big baby (this was before Shiloh). It turned out there were only two. I suspect he would have made the same mistake had he chanced on the Raveonettes from a distance, as for a nominal two-piece they make a tremendous sound, covering all the aural spectrum in attractive, trance-inducing guitar noise. In addition there was a drummer whom I particularly liked: bearded, bewildered and denied a chair, he was the epitome of stoned-looking coolness. The most memorable aspect of the group is the boy/girl harmonies, which have a Scandinavian iciness to them, in contrast to the warmth of the equally effective pairing in Wire Jesus. The songs are simple, pretty and infernally catchy but are terribly derivative, being almost an effects-laden pastiche of the pop that Buddy Holly and the Everlys were serving up, getting on for half a century ago. A one-trick pony then, but a dashed good trick for all that.