Something in ‘Downstairs at the Slaughtered Lamb’ suggested I was in for a dingy, morose evening of third-rate bands accompanied by a handful of long-suffering fans and the gloomy regulars. Nothing could have been further from the case. The venue can only be described as a well-kept hotel lounge from the sixties, with fake potted plants, mood lighting and kitch wallpaper. The audience was remarkably genteel as well, mostly made of up very happy Captive State fans/invitees. Credit to Captive State as they appear to be keeping the punters coming back well into their residency – or new punters coming in?

More on them later though, as we start the round up with Smokey Angle Shades. They’re a bedraggled, top-hat wearing acoustic four-piece with a Crosby-Stills-Nash & Young setup: 3 guitars plus a bass and all four singing in harmony. And they’re damn good.

Unfortunately these days, it is miraculous when a band gets more than 2 people to sing vaguely in harmony. Thus, any barbershop element inevitably leads to knee-jerk Beach Boys comparisons. But I refuse to stoop to that. The Shades are a cut above those poncy Beach Bums and firmly from the country-blues school of CSNY. Hearts are broken, soulful harmonies are delivered with gusto, and there’s no fucking surf-board in sight. Wrapping up a concise set, the principal hat-wearer shows some deft fiddle-playing skills, adding a touch of flair to an extremely competent performance. Go listen to them up on Myspace – but consider that their songs are better without drums. Smokey Angle Shades are the real McCoy, in stark contrast to the next guy.

For every original 60s hippy-country-rocker-type such as Neil Young, who can carry off a solo show with consummate ease, there is a similarly-clad imposter such as Major McCa who cannot. Long hair and beard may suggest the wise old rocker of experience, but McCa’s displaced baseball cap and somewhat tender years revealed him to be more of a North-American “Blink” nerd than anything else. And lack of experience told, as McCa delivered a solo set that was, frankly, a bit of a mess.

Almost with an air of desperation he tried to keep us entertained in different ways: some clarinet playing, a brief tap-dancing routine, and “playing bass with his feet” (on an organ-like pedal board). Original as these circus tricks were, none of them were pursued for any length of time or in the context of a good song, hence they just remained circus tricks.

Seeping through the jumble though were one or two toe-tappin’ tunes. A Jimi Henrix-like rocker with electric guitar plus bass drum had the arty spaciousness of the best White Stripes songs, but his constant verbal padding between songs, wandering off-stage with a non-amplified banjo that we couldn’t hear, forgetting his “drummer joke” and constant references to his own performance did wear thin. And no, playing bass with your feet does not make you the hardest-working man in rock and roll ahead of James Brown.

“You went to my school mate!” says Joseph Kennedy, lead singer of Captive State, as I arrive at the Slaughtered Lamb. Indeed. I seem to remember Joseph was the first pupil in Senior Choir whose voice broke. Before Mr Andrew kicked him out, Joe gave a raucous rendition of Bizet’s Duet from the Pearl Fishers, belting out his part in glorious tenor, drowning out all the other weedy trebles, and ending on a deafeningly high note with the words “Jusqu’à…. la mort!”. These days he lends his exuberance to Captive State, accompanied by co-founder Tom Bootle on keys plus a wealth of other musical talent including DJ, accordion and the horn section I was promised.

Captive State kickstart into Mona, the first song off their Elmore Grove EP, an excellently balanced funk-blues nugget. The drum part with its nonchalant hippy swagger, plus fingered guitar riff, provide a pulsating groove, overlaid with smooth brass and keyboard.  A drunk Scotsman standing next to me sees I’m taking notes. He points out that the phrasing of the line “Mona… is waiting to be queen”, makes Mona wait just that much longer, musically. This guy’s got to be a fan. Lazy and soulful, the tune is indeed top-drawer.

Captive State set the bar high, and the first handful of songs live up to the opener, including Lost, a chugging soft-rock number. Also from the EP, China White Doll appears to be their wave-your-lighter-in-the-air song. It had the drunk Scotsman in floods of tears. While not entirely my bag, the song showed moments of promise, including a dulcet Joni Mitchell “River”-like piano coda.

But as the gig went on, a worrying trend saw the State almost capitulate into middle-of-the-road Coldplay waftiness. The beats became plodding, the tunes less convincing and the balance spoilt by far too much keyboard “wash” – think Pink Floyd or Genesis at the wrong end of their careers. The audience, including the drunk Scotsman, seemed unperturbed. But the State went on to show their character, bringing the set back from the brink, thanks to their excellent musicianship and Joe’s relentless enthusiasm, ending on a cheeky kazoo.

Captive State are a tight, well-organised band. The various sounds blend seamlessly with each other, exemplified by dulcet horn, accordion and organ combos counterbalancing the general funkiness. They could do with being a bit more adventurous, as their setup certainly allows it, and steering clear of the M.O.R.

By B.M.

What is it with the countryside and metal?  Growing up on the West Coast of Scotland surrounded by lochs, fields and forests and a comfortable distance from scary and unknowable Glasgow, I always felt that the music of rural dwelling was predominantly gentle in style, with accordions, fiddles etc. heavily to the fore. But Oxfordshire seems different: Chalgrove, Cumnor and Wantage, despite overlooking some of the loveliest, most serene countryside in England, are just heaving with ferocious metal and hardcore punk bands.
 I’m not really the right man for the job of assessing the worth of the various competing groups, as I fogeyishly view the continuing production of these forms of music as a psychological phenomenon rather than a musical one, but in the absence of an Oxfordbands.com Hardcore Emo Speedmetal correspondent, I’ll give it a go. Chinnor’s Cabeza at least give us a variety of styles on their current demo. ‘The Flower Queen’s Daughter’ has a title that suggests a bit of Led Zeppelin pastoral nonsense, but actually imitates the bluesier end of that band’s output. There’s also a bit of Black Flag in the mix, with the singer approximating Henry Rollins’ manic mentalism, though the band’s sound is a lot thinner and the drummer is allowed to play with a jazzy freedom which would probably have had Rollins’  boot up his bottom if he’d drummed for the Flag.
Next up is ‘Abhorrent Visage’ which features non-abhorrent drumming (this time in triple time) and significantly bad singing. Halfway through, the band lurch into a jaunty little hop that might, if rescored by Mark Ronson , provide dance music for a fifties high-school prom, but which seems a bit girly for a group that majors in punk rock. They are notably more secure in their skins with ‘Corvazon’ which is almost the archetype of a U.S hardcore track; fast, shouty, a bit out of tune and two minutes long. Crucially, the energy level is high, with the drumming particularly buzzed and the singer tossing off the incomprehensible lyric with urgency and some conviction.
So, as I said, not my thing but I’ve heard a lot worse. The inventiveness of the drumming is the big plus for the band, they are righteously  tight and they can play a two-minute hardcore tune. The next Winnebago Deal? Dunno. I don’t recommend them, but I point them out.

Cabeza Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon

As moribund as a damp Tuesday stopover at Birmingham New Street, this set of songs by former Place Above guitarist Ben Philips seems designed to elicit nothing but boredom and depression in the listener. Ben likes his Radiohead, but whereas Oxford’s finest anatomists of angst could take gloomy subjects and render them with stupendous drama and pathos, Ben simply strums his acoustic and moans and groans about various undefined subjects. As a singer, he can hold a tune reasonably well, and he can accompany himself pefectly adequately, but there seems nothing in the music that is uniquely his own: the same chords, the same stock phrases. the same sad-sack introversion, I’ve heard a hundred singer-songwriters in this vein. The nadir is the interminable ‘Open Prism’ which says nothing many times over but in ever drearier ways:

“So cold, can you see me now? Just longing to jump in the fire
Desperate to feel the heat and stop living life on the wire.”

Philips has played around Oxford a fair bit now, and his obvious competence will ensure that he can open an evening without making a chump of himself, but there seems nothing here to draw the attention; as you listen to this, you can almost hear the buzz of audience conversation over the top of it.

B-Phil Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon

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