Anyone who has ever heard Rick Danko of The Band sing ‘It Makes No Difference’ or ‘Caledonia Mission’ knows that only Canadians should be allowed to make country music. The Americans, although they invented it, always seem to make it too hokey, too tailored to conservative expectations. To those that doubt me, I have two words: Garth Brooks.

Vancouver’s Miriam Jones recorded her album in Nashville, but has retained a lot of her Canadian attributes. For a start, she seems to have been photographed standing on an ice-floe (not many of them in Tennessee, I believe) and is wearing an exceedingly fetching woolly hat (not the fashion accessory of choice in Knoxville). More pertinently, her voice has a northern, elfin quality which you sometimes hear in fellow Canucks Alanis Morrisette and Aimee Mann, and which gives her album of largely feel-good country pop an interesting twist or two.

I defy anyone not to be charmed by the sheer naturalness of the melodies in songs such as ‘Always Been Between’, or ‘Fancy Free’, both panegyrics to quirky domestic bliss. The former is my go-to song after a day of office traumas (it’s on a lot, these days), as the blissed-out swing of Jones’ faultless backing band married to the artless folk-tune conspire to dissolve away the suppressed ferocities and impotent rage accrued over the previous eight hours. The one thing that can re-ignite them is to read the lyrics; they are the weakest part of Jones’ game and in the following combination of nervously over-reaching imagery and howling inappropriateness she has produced a comedy classic:

‘You are somewhat elfin, forest-friendly yet refined

While an element of mofo keeps you coolly out of line’

To be fair, this is a nadir, and elsewhere Miriam’s writing solidifies, ( ‘Interstate’ for example, is an evocative road movie in song) but in general her lyrics are fussy and overly obscure. The best thing for the listener is to cover the lyric pages in impenetrable marker pen and just listen to her sing. ‘Fancy Free’ is just lovely, a song by a woman in love with creation, with no hint of irony or nostalgia in sight.

The record is not wall-to-wall country: ‘Love Let Me In’ is a well-sung piano and cello ballad which those that quietly enjoy The Pretenders’ ‘I’ll Stand By You’ but can’t take the more full-on experiences offered by such eight-octave brutes as Mariah Carey or Celine Dion might get some pleasure from. Jones’ Christianity, which is worn lightly on ‘Fancy Free’ is large-and-in-charge on the stern but austerely-impressive hymn ‘I Am One’.

I am orphan made daughter, I am a harlot made a wife

I am a poor man called to dinner, I am a stranger recognised.

It will be interesting to see how Jones’ British audiences, who will be significantly more self-conscious about religious testimony than their American counterparts, respond to such songs. The correct response would be to rush out and campaign to make ‘I Am One’ compulsory in all British churches, but perhaps more likely will be shuffling of feet and looking at the floor.

Miriam Jones has had some joy on the Oxford scene already, with airplay on BBC Oxford and gigs at the Jericho. She deserves to be welcomed, so long as she never, ever calls someone a mofo again.

Miriam Jones Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon

SUNDAY

Strolling past a random tent we find wizard-bearded Jeremy Hughes picking out some bucolic instrumentals on his guitar. He’s not officially part of the lineup, but frankly he’s better than at least half of the stuff we saw yesterday, and five minutes in his company is five minutes well spent. Plus you can’t deny he looks the part. It’s a neat start to a far more satisfying day of music; plus the sun stays out.

It’s not the sort of thing we’d normally do, but permit us to quote a poem, in full:

The music comes and goes on the wind,

Comes and goes on the brain.

This was Thom Gunn’s take on Jefferson Airplane, and it could easily refer to The Tim May Band’s set on the main stage. Their lilting folky AOR is expertly controlled and performed with some panache, but ultimately proves too polite to make much impression on us, even whilst we have to give them credit for their chops. The lyric “Nice to meet you, I must be going”, however, reminds us painfully of Phil Collins, so they blow it at the last hurdle.

I suppose it’s unhealthy prejudice, but forgive us for thinking that Tamara Parsons-Baker was going to be chortling jodhpurred lass singing nasal, plummy songs about palomino geldings. Imagine our surprise in being confronted with a beautifully clear voice that trickles through the air like a limpid stream above some subtle guitar. The first name that springs to mind is Laima Bite, even though some of the wispy Global Traveller lyrics remind us more of Jessica Goyder. There’s a slight danger of the featherlight tunes getting lost in the breeze, but this is still a great little start to the Second Stage’s day.

Vultures quickly ramp up the tempo with a series of early 60s pop nuggets that have approximately one riff and about 5 lyrics between them. This is not a criticism, in case you were concerned, and it’s like early Kinks played with Arctic Monkeys bounce and insouciance. There’s something about the way the drummer innocently stabs at the snare like it’s 1963 rather than whacking round the toms like it’s 1975 that puts a huge spring in our step.

The farcically named Bommerillo would have to do a lot to kill our mood, and their generic country rock is well turned and cheery even as it’s forgettable. On a Truck stage this wouldn’t last five minutes, but for now it’ll serve. A charming Californian bluegrass banjo player pours us a glass of homebrew and explains that US folk songs are exactly the same as English folksongs, “except at the end they hang the fucker”. Goodbye moral ambiguity. It turns out that Americans wanted simple endings long before Hollywood arrived.

We chat to Banjo Boy quite happily during Bourbon Roses’ set, as their straight up blues has little to offer, beyond some really rather decent harp playing (you know which sort of harp, don’t make me come down there). Once again, dubious non-native accents seem to be pretty common here on the Second Stage – we wonder if American folk musicians try to pretend that they’re Cornish…

“Tell me, Captain Strange, won’t you be my lover?”. This next band might have taken their name from “I Lost My Heart To A Starship Trooper”, one of our favourite camp SciFi disco romps (believe me, we’ve got a list), but they haven’t quite captured the fun with their sax-flecked ska-tinged cabaret rock. It’s quite like The Drugsquad with half the band missing, and maybe some fleshing out of the sound could reap dividends. The spirit is there, but most of the instruments aren’t.

We’re not 100% convinced by Stuart Turner’s growly voice – remember, we saw Mephisto Grande right here just 24 hours ago – but his chugging rockabilly guitar, replete with slapback sound, is a cracker. Banjo Boy offers Seasick Steve as a reference point, which can hardly be sneezed at – we certainly respect Stuart’s ability to lock into a groove and let his rhythms do the talking.

Toby is “the hottest new talent to come out of Oxford this year,” according to the MC. Never heard of him, we must admit. We do love to discover other pockets of music fan beyond out immediate Oxford Mafia circle, but in this case they’re welcome to keep Toby. The boy can sing, we’ll give him that, but his dull, slightly latin songs recall Ben Harper at his weediest, and even Jack Johnson (anecdote: a couple of years ago we overheard two teenage girls in a record shop excitedly discussing their purchase of the Jack Johnson album; we thought they meant the Miles Davis LP of the same name, and were on the brink of deciding that the young weren’t complete idiots, until we discovered our error). Toby’s music is accomplished, but only the way that building a model of Minas Tirith from lolly sticks is: accomplished, but pointless and faintly embarrassing. For a performer who’s not yet old enough to visit the beer tent, he has plenty of talent, but at the moment it is being squandered.

We should have watched Gunbunny instead, who seem to have improved roughly tenfold, if the brief snatch of their set we caught was indicative. Seriously tight and meaty grunge, it sounds like all of Mudhoney’s Superfuzz Bigmuff played at once. Do people still call this The Eynsham Sound? Hang on, did they ever call it The Eynsham Sound outside of our tiny mind?

Chantelle Pike has all sorts of elisions and vocal trills in her arsenal, but never pushes them too far, like certain R ‘n B divas we could mention (at least, we would if we could tell which one was which). Maybe her songs aren’t all winners, but “Save Me” for one puts us happily in mind of Juliet Turner, and she deserves her high billing.

Before the main stage home stretch we pop in on Deviant Amps, whose cheeky monkey zydeco pop is 50% The Ralfe Band, and 50% a bloody big mess. Good fun, though, and the Klub Kak contingent are dancing in force, which is entertainment in itself.

With their theatrical pomp, natural sense of drama and Woody’s intricate keys, Borderville burst onto the stage like a cross between ELP and Alvin Stardust. We’ll be frank, we have seen better sets from them, but full marks for the audacity of playing a lachrymose “Send In The Clowns” to an audience who were expecting to leap about to The Moneyshots…and then following it up with some Leonard Cohen. So, not up to their own high standard, but still light years ahead of most of the lineup.

It’s left to Witches to wrap up proceedings. At first we thought they’d blown it, the opening two numbers sounding rather like empty stadium bombast, but thankfully they soon settled into their dark, brooding mariachi menace; in fact they build to quite some heights of intensity, Dave at one point hopping round the stage waving some red maracas, looking for all the world like an air traffic controller who’s busting for the loo. “In The Chaos Of A Friday Night” is a jet black lump of insidious passion, which is balanced by a harpsichord-led tune that comes off like a baroque consort playing 80s Tangerine Dream, and over it all Benek’s trumpet lines arc poetically. There aren’t many local bands who could take lineup changes in their stride like this and still keep soaring onwards.

And with that, it’s off to the station to get the train (except we find a lift on the way, woohoo!), satisfied with another Charlbury. We can’t pretend the music was as good as last year, and as noted absence of The Beard Museum’s input was much mourned, but still we appreciate the enormous effort that has gone into creating a free weekend of entertainment, just for us. And, criticisms aside, we’d far rather be here for nowt than in Wakestock for £100+. We’ll be there in 2009, maybe we’ll bump into some of you; watch out for Banjo Boy’s homebrew, it’s a bit cheeky.

By David Murphy

SUNDAY

Having left David Murphy to root out the goodies during the sepulchral gloom of Saturday, your reviewer showed up at Charlbury on Sunday afternoon in brilliant sunshine, albeit with a howling gale for company. Rosa Klebb provided a strong introduction to the festival; indeed they could have been bussed in from the Isle of Wight circa 1969 to judge from the jangly guitars and shimmering Hammond organs on display. The latter barely needed the obligatory Lesley speaker, as the previously-mentioned howling gale pretty much did the job of phasing, distorting and generally weirding-up-the-vibe all on its own. Who needs a poxy rotating cabinet, when you have meteorology on your side? (They also had a pretty girl singer who has obviously listened to a few Airplane albums, which always helps).

Stannah and the Stairlifts were a bunch of good-timey old-timers playing mercilessly competent blues rock to a largely uncritical audience. And who am I to carp? If I never heard them again I guess I would cope, but lounging under the intermittent Cotswold sun, I wouldn’t have preferred anyone else at that moment in my life.

Liking ska-tinged funk-rock has replaced homosexuality as the love that dare not speak its name, and I was accused by a friend of digging (non-ironically) the efforts of London’s Captain Strange. Indeed, I pathetically felt the need to hastily back-track and pretend I was drunk when caught grooving (non-ironically) to one of their many toe-tappers. I don’t care, I like crazy tenor sax, tight-as-a-gnat’s chuff rhythm sections and hypnotic, slightly macabre lyrics. They had a brilliant tune called ‘I don’t believe that’ which I can’t find on Myspace, and may end up pining for as much as the Sigur Ros ‘Nothing Song’ from Vanilla Sky ( the bastards omitted it from the soundtrack album. Thank you, YouTube!). Oddly, the bass player had more stage presence about him than the nominal frontman, who looked like he wanted his mum. If the band played for about half an hour more than was good for them or us, and indulged in too much festival noodling, those are some of the more amiable vices.

Next up was the class act that is Chantelle Pike, a country-folk-pop singer who is part PJ Harvey and part Tammy Wynette. She was backed by a selfless drummer and bassist who toiled anonymously on a needlessly short leash. Still, they performed their function of augmenting Pike’s sometimes over-clever, sometimes not-clever-enough songs, but it’s Chantelle that really matters and I’ve never heard her sound so good. She has so much technical control, but the swoops and melismas are never overdone and are just part of her emotional rhetoric. She and her band get it exactly right on a song called, I think, ‘Sweet Symphony’ which is passionate, taut and has a superbly singable chorus. She needs more in that vein.

The schedulers inexplicably stuck a sixteen-year-old kid called Toby high onto the bill, and he proceeded to play flawless Spanish guitar for forty-five minutes while singing forgettable little songs in a pretty, posho voice, borrowed mostly from James Blunt. Fair play to him for all that tricky fretting, but it was a triumph of stamina rather than skill.

On to Borderville, who gallantly replaced those useless Moneyshots at the tenth hour, and performed their highly original rock cabaret with well-drilled precision. A polished four-piece now, their principal strengths are Joe Swarbrick’s twitchy, Bowiesque performance art and keyboardist Woody’s clever interstitial flourishes. I can’t say I liked any of it much: the luxuriation in artifice, the hysterical, screamy vocals, the lack of any genuine emotion in the songwriting other than the Brechtian satisfaction at the distance created; Borderville feel like a concept rather than a band. The superb cover of ‘Chelsea Hotel’ showed us Swarbrick’s fabulous vocal talent (he’s also a brilliant rock guitarist) before he moved back into the circus tent.

Closing the set in eternal sunlight were a favourite of mine, anti-folk doomsters Witches, and they were rubbish. Well, at least for the first three songs, which sounded shapeless and indistinct, uncertain parodies of some of their recent classics. They seem to be breaking in new musicians a lot at the moment, so we’ll cut them some slack. Anyhow, the set lurched up a few gears when they started playing songs from their excellent ‘Heart of Stone’ album, as well as the oldie ‘In the Chaos of a Friday night’, which rocked like Steppenwolf’s ‘Born to be Wild’. Difficult? Esoteric? Introverted? I’ve seen these guys in pink Shirelles wigs. As they moved into the second half of the set, even the new songs sounded ace. Sorry I doubted yis, brothers (and sister).

By Colin MacKinnon

SATURDAY

Charlbury’s a grand mix of your favourite local scenesters, some less well known (to us, anyway) Oxon musicians, and some random bands from places like Essex and Leeds, who frankly must wonder where in the name of holy fuck they are. We love it.

First up is the Leeds contingent, who kindly save us the effort of writing a review by calling themselves Dead Leg, which captures their clumsy loping pretty well. They offer litely funky Zep rock with a good drummer and a silly rawk vocal, and then they offer some more. Was that first number called “Batten Down The Hatches”? Oh yes! Does the following tune boast the refrain “Wanderlust, wanderlust, wooh yeah”? Damn straight! Do they actually claim their slow tune is “One for the ladies”? Scout’s honour! Do we grudgingly like them just a teensy bit? Yeah, they’re a laugh, we can imagine far worse openers. In fact, their attempt at rock hedonism falls wide of the mark in a lovably British way…perhaps in the same way that our dreams of musically freaking out with Mother Nature end up with us huddled in a kagoule opposite a train station…

Over on the other stage (the eccentric placing of the toilets means that everybody at this festival will see something on the Second Stage, which we rather like the idea of) Huck shimmers out ghostly slivers of country/blues laments, which would be rather lovely if the sound wasn’t mired in some horrible mid-range bubble, and his tuning wasn’t so wonky. He’s probably shooting for subtle, fragmented and delicate, but he’s ended up stuck in a maudlin and minimal country marsh. Can we do our Boggy Prince Billy joke now, please?

“Family time is over, people”. So claims Eliza from Ivy’s Itch, and her stunning orc maiden operatics doubtless send children round the festival running for cover, except the ones that think they’ve ended up in Where The Wild Things Are. It’s easy for frequenters of seedy basement gigs like us to forget just how powerful playing bloody loud can be, and after all that hatch-battening nonsense from earlier, Ivy’s Itch sear across the field with tautly reined-in sludge rock and artfully controlled cacophony. This is probably the best we’ve seen them, and it’s certainly the most cohesive – oddly we find ourselves thinking of Nirvana, especially their tribute to dumbass rock, “Aero Zepellin”.

Dave Oates is a big hearted, open throated, string strummin’, Van Zandt coverin’ classic singer-songwriter, who is perfectly adequate, but sounds woefully 2D after Ivy’s Itch, although some mandolin accompaniment enlivens proceedings. He also alleges that “Folsom Prison Blues” was written especially for the famous prison concert, which is about 15 years wide of the mark; whenever he wrote it, he certainly didn’t write what the lead guitar plays. Oops.

By the time Jamie Foley starts up, we’re beginning to really miss the Beard Museum input into this second stage, because we seem to be confronted by an average open mic night instead of the well picked selection of performers we saw last year. His performance isn’t terrible, but his sloppy pub voice is so far from “strong” and “unique” that we start to think that the programme writer must have been on a bet. Or at least have been Jamie Foley.

Nagatha Krusti bring some straight-up rocking with touches of rap, metal and ska, but most importantly they bring a bit of blooming fun to the Second Stage. We’d be lying if we said it was the tidiest and tightest set we’ve ever witnessed (it’s more a sort of Vague Against The Machine), but we are definite converts. They have some nicely silly cowbell too, which always tickles our fancy.

Much as we’ve always respected Rubber Duck’s ability, we’ve never quite been convinced; they’ve always sounded somewhat polite and tinny, whereas we expect sweat from our funk bands. Blood, sweat and beers. Out in the open air, however, the buzzing synths and the chirpy rhythms seem not only intoxicating but a neat companion to Nagatha Krusti. “Emotional Revolution” proves itself to be a solid gold toe-tapper, and we leave with our mind changed.

Some bands choose their covers to show their versatility, some do it for a laugh, whilst some just play the song they wish they’d written and make no pretences about how much they’ve nicked in the rest of the set: ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as evidence of this last breed, I give you billypure and their Waterboys tune. Still, there’s nothing much wrong with admitting your influences, and billypure throw out some well put together folk rock songs with some useful fiddle interjections. The kids love it, and there are moshing toddlers everywhere we look, which lifts the spirits. Careful though, kids: The Waterboys are harmless, but they can lead to stronger and more deadly vices, such as The Levellers. Tell a grownup if anyone offers you a dog on a string.

script’s opening tune is a tasty mixture of Blondie and Morrissey. Songs like this are superb, and belie the fact that this is the first gig for a new lineup (which is good, because the rhythm section is the best it’s been since script’s very early days); at other times, however everything gets a little timid, such as when four harmonising vocalists are managing to make less impact than one. script’s Pete Moore is the songwriting equal to anyone on the bill today, and tracks like “City Limits” are arresting, but they could do with loosening up if they want to capture the passing toilet-bound punter. File with The Mile High Young Team, and expect some great music from this line-up (if it can stay together for more than 10 minutes, that is).

If Ivy’s Itch played like demons, Mephisto Grande play like a vengeful Old Testament God with a serious hangover. As they intone “Will The Circle Be Unbroken” as a prelude to their own gospel-inflected gasoline rock, we imagine Mephisto as the soundtrack to judgement day. You can just see them bashing out some blues dirges behind St Peter whilst he checks his ledgers, Liam gappily grinning, shaking his head and pointing downwards.

Some lads are beating the shite out of each other, the rain has started in earnest and the bar’s closed: this looks like a job for…Smilex! Just as we consider sneaking off home our spirits are lifted with what is possibly the best set we’ve ever seen from Oxford’s cartoon punk crusaders. Lee’s unfortunate haircut is Travis Bickle via the council gardeners, but everything else about this set is perfect, from the high octane thump of the rhythm section, to the preposterous guitar heroics and the expected vocal tomfoolery. Smilex only really have one song, but it’s a cracker, and it’s testament to their honed craft that no matter how many times we see them, we always leave happy (and covered in beer if we’re too near the stage): in fact, could there be mileage in describing Smilex as the punk equivalent of Redox? In truth, there’s not really mileage in anything except shaking your head like a loon and just going along with the whole gloriously silly rock blancmange that is Smilex. Oh look, even the rain’s stopped.

By David Murphy

Anna McNicholl’s day job involves studying mediaeval history, but her chirpy retro-pop has its roots in the more recent past. There’s a definite Sixties vibe to her sunshiny tunes as well as to her current look. She cites Nick Cave, Tom Waits and Patti Smith as influences, but it’s difficult to detect any sort of gothic darkness in her sound. This artist is more about well-crafted power-pop tunes, Dylan-style folk and the occasional foray into more aggressive rock.

There’s plenty of light and shade lyrically, with some songs evoking Jagged-era Alanis and others painting more whimsical word-pictures. Latest album Light’s On is a showcase for her acoustic work, so the vibe is more mellow and folky than on previous album Storytelling.

She’s still only nineteen, but Anna McNicholl already knows how to write a song and bring it to life in performance. Let’s hope that over the next few years she will become a more rounded, assured musician. I would also like to see more collaboration with other artists (especially musician and producer Merle Joyce who plays drums on some of her tracks) and more musical experimentation. At this stage in her career, she has nothing to lose and everything to gain by pushing her own boundaries.

Anna McNicholl Myspace

By Kate Griffin

OK, it’s disclaimers a-go-go for this one. First, please bear in mind that Dario Derma Lena, Transmission’s new drummer, is a band-mate of mine, and
that Dan Austin, the lead guitarist of Archie used to be. With that in mind, off we go!

Archie are a four-piece shoegazey-type group (tonight stripped down to a two-piece), performing earnest acoustic guitar ballads on electric guitars. The lead singer shows some affinity with Squeeze’s Glen Tillbrooke and, less happily, David Gray, while Austin’s effect-drenched minimalism majors on spaced-out atmosphere, rather than melody. At their best, I could imagine them supporting Sigur Ros or, perhaps more  realistically, our own Winchell Riots. If so, they’ll need to get with the programme: in a four-song set, they train-wrecked once and had another near-miss. But I would still like to hear them  again, preferably with the full crew.
 For the Commonwealth took to the stage without soundcheck, allegedly because of a record company meeting, which suggests serious contenders. Without going that far, I can certainly see the puppeyish NME giving them the big big-up in the coming months, as they tick most of the boxes for excitation of that notoriously easy-to-please organ. Specifically, they are youthful, tuneful, on the bland side (Scouting for Girls are conjured up at one or two points) and would probably look good on the cover. To my ears, they are doing 1990s American college music, with the bass-line accidentally scrubbed by a tyro tracking engineer with first-day collywobbles, but the set is solid enough. To summarise: the lead singer’s haircut looked more expensive than his guitar.
On to headliners Transmission, whose farewell gig I played two years ago (who says the Oxford Music Scene is incestuous?) Still, trying to assume an unbiassed perspective,  I found the performance of their Muse-influenced first song of the night extraordinary. Lead singer Mark Cobb is a natural frontman, (he looks like a forty year old Keith Richards if the latter had laid off  95% of the drugs), and tonight he sang as if two years of backed-up showmanship had come bursting out of a collapsed dam. All octaves of an impressive vocal range were activated, with a howling falsetto particularly effectively used: I doubt Matt Bellamy could have been as good, although he would have loved to try as the song, with its theatrical Lisztian cadences, was fantastic. The band are without a weak link and gave solid support on this track and beyond-their guitarist is effortless and accomplished, the bass playing is unfussy and Lena’s high-energy drumming is perfectly plumbed into the system. However, the songwriting doesn’t always hold the level of their first triumph, with occasional  forays into straightforward pub-rocking, (one tune reminded me of Aerosmith, which can never be good), and another track with an Arabic-sounding intro just seemed plain odd. Having said all that, the band stands or falls by Cobb’s direct relationship with the audience, and with a mixture of brilliant singing, enthusiastically bad  dancing, and having a bloody good band behind him, he entertained old believers and newbies alike. Welcome back.

By Colin MacKinnon

Euhedral is Oxford’s own one-man drone wizard Lee Riley, who here offers three tracks of eminently listenable experimentation on a dinky three-inch CD. I’m not sure of the significance of the letters that make up each track title – those titles being ‘Kerf Caprine’, ‘Carper Knife’ and ‘Pincer Freak’ – but they do reflect the music in as much as they are rearranged, similar units that make up a different whole (although I would have gone for ‘Freak Prince’ or ‘Frank Pierce’ myself…)

‘Kerf Caprine’ sees a looped, slowly modulated melody become buried and blurred beneath mid-level, stretched-out whine. Just as it threatens to disappear up its own drone it is rescued by further layers – a heartbeat-pace pulse ordering the sound into linear flow – before it fades into organic bleeps and blips. ‘Carper Knife’ is more cloying; thick, mechanical, whirling sounds being obscured by dark shadows, almost fading into white noise before returning to gorge on its own feedback. ‘Pincer Freak’ is led by a fantastic-sounding techno thump; a modern disco classic hindered by overwhelming sheets of fog that suddenly lift towards the end of the track. The sound of a distant club space that finishes where it started.

This music sounds like it was improvised and played live, with a great control of loop manipulation and an artistic capture of subtlety and structure. Unlike many followers of the artists Euhedral is, I’m sure, familiar with – Black Dice, Boards of Canada, Aphex Twin, Double Leopards, Wolf Eyes – there is the good sense here to keep things realistic and rein in any misguided attempts at grand statement-making. The whole CD clocks in at just under fifteen minutes, with rewards to be had by concentrating on each sound being used, following its journey. Whilst there is a hint or two of a tendency to rely on library music/keyboard preset-style sounds – thunder here, twinkling there – Euhedral sounds fresh and original enough to stand out in a musical landscape that’s too full of noise/drone bandwagon-jumpers.

Euhedral Myspace

 By Simon Minter

Worldview is the current stage name of singer-songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Oliver Shaw, who specialises in preachy, abstract three-minute pop nuggets, whose levels vary from the tediously generic to the accomplished facsimile. This current crop is not his best (I’d look up his ‘Paying for It’ album to find his smartest work), but it’s very well-produced and musically varied enough to be worth a few listens.’One Rule for You’ attacks the smugness of those Christians who think they have God’s personal protection, while He dishes it up to the less deserving at the other end of the world. From that hypocrisy, Shaw points the moral that God doesn’t exist and anyone that believes in Him is a cretin:

And if life can be quickly cut short

Well then, what could life really be worth?

But you can’t draw from this the obvious conclusion

No, you have to live within the mist of positive illusions

(Quite a clutch, these cretins: C.S.Lewis, Graham Green and Evelyn Waugh for example, all wrote after Darwin’s evolutionary theory became widely-accepted and still believed, to say nothing of various theistic scientists such as evolutionary biologist Theodosius Dobzhansky and Francis Collins, who ran the successful Human Genome Project). If I am spending a lot of time on the lyric, that’s because the music is pretty but forgettable, a pastiche of Oasis with some smart programming work to give it a twenty-first century sheen. As mentioned before, Shaw’s singing isn’t very good in the main, suffering from limited range and emotional expression and this may point a clue as to why this song and others seem so dry and desiccated. They are like tiny theological treatises rather than songs with a living, breathing consciousness behind them.

Still, if you ignore the weedily hectoring polemic, there is some good music in here. ‘Jam Tomorrow’ is decent dance funk, and ‘Tourist’ is a successful floor-filler in the mould of New Order with a dash of Ultravox. In this last tune, Shaw’s lack of oomph in the vocal department is a positive good, making him sound rather like The Lightning Seeds’ Ian Broudie. The chorus, which benefits from added percussion, is the best thing on the record. ‘Designed For Life’ borrows heavily from Spandau Ballet but benefits from clever production work, incorporating bell chimes and synthetic strings to create a smooth, digestible confection. The lyrics, focussing on woolly concepts about ’standing out from the crowd, but not too far’ or the idea that in life we are ‘just managing the damage’ are competent but uninspiring

Elsewhere, things are adrift. ‘High Hopes’ has a powerful rocky groove, but the vocals are blown out the water by over-loud rhythm guitar, while ‘Buy Into It’ is more half-hearted, wobbly-sung Christian-baiting to cookie-cutter folk rock.

Shaw’s work, it will be seen, is never terrible; he’s too professional a producer for that; but the level of inspiration doesn’t seem very high here. The concepts are big, but the songs don’t do them justice- there is no plausible illustration of his world view in song, just a repeated assertion of it. He can only berate, he can’t seduce.

Worldview Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon

Together with Truck and Audioscope, the Punt remains one of Oxford’s must-do music events. The excitement starts at Borders, where people gather to meet and design their Punt routes with the dual aims of seeing more bands and drinking more beer than last year. It ends at the Cellar in a blur of noise, beer and bleach. The Cellar always smells of bleach. Apologies to bands missed or bands part seen.

Borders begins with a hastily eaten pasty and Desmond Chancer and The Long Memories. Harking back to the days when suited and booted crooners bashed out sad miserable ballads, this lot pile through a treacle-infused set of doom. The vocalist sings with a low level drone reminiscent of a broken vacuum cleaner, and while the group highlights the variety and diversity of the Punt, the singer’s voice seems to lack the depth needed to get this sort of music right. One of the songs claimed “there were no rainbows” – there were certainly no rainbows in Borders tonight.

Next, it’s a brisk walk to the Purple Turtle to see International Jetsetters. Formed by a who’s who of Oxford’s good and great, they work their way through an assured set in front of a rammed venue. The first two songs are their best by far, underlining the indie credentials of some of the band members, but the set is derailed as they veer into pub rock territory, the sort which would be enjoyed by estate agents everywhere. While the singer’s voice is pristine, some of the set reminded me of a long lazy Sunday lunch in some village outside Oxford, with a ROCK band providing the desert. More songs like the first two please.

Moving on, it’s Cat Matador at the Wheatsheaf, largely because we like the name. They are nervous it seems, but given more practice and confidence they could have something. Their songs are part pop and part misery, with the added texture of a violin, which I feel could be used more to accentuate melody, freeing up the guitar to provide a bit of bulk. They sound like the Tindersticks with the odd guitar jangle reminiscent of a whole host of post-hardcore bands. Towards the end the crowd swells, maybe signalling the end of another band and it’s time to leave. Good effort.

The Thirst Lodge live room shows that someone is taking music seriously there. There must be at least 18 miles of cable trays, lights and a good size desk. Black Skies Burn are a hardcore metal band with all the trimmings. Overpowering and LOUD, they scream their way through a set of unashamed thrash which must make the singer’s voice sore. The musicianship is second to none, with an amazing drummer, but that is it. Once the sheer fear of confronting this lot subsides, the songs become a blur of dull manic riffage, grumpy looking smirks and aggressive head nodding. Another beer please. Towards the end of the onslaught, the crowd cram in, no doubt anticipating Little Fish. A two-piece of drums and guitar, they spit and hiss their way onto the stage. The label interest shown in them is justified, as they play well-structured songs with the air of confidence that such interest brings. The crowd are going mad as the singer stares and jiggles around, manically strapped in to the pounding percussion to her right. Many of the songs seem heartfelt pleas and she reminds me of PJ Harvey as well as evoking other obvious two-piece band comparisons. In the end, the songs are nothing new: just well-done bluesy indie rock delivered with a venom that turns heads. They just seem to be trying a bit too hard tonight – relax and it will happen.

With several beers down, the walk back to the Purple Turtle flies by and time is running out on this year’s Punt. Raggasaurus bring the venue’s entertainment to a close. They are seemingly a bunch of fresh-faced kids fronted by an older, frazzle-haired singer, playing dub grooves which get the thinning crowd moving. Once again, the diversity of the Punt is underlined by the inclusion of this sort of band and its booming bass lines. The singer’s vocal style tends towards the ‘wailing of a strangled dog’ school and ultimately gets harder to listen to. While such exotic influences are to be applauded, the vocals ultimately force an exit from the venue.

Finally, it’s the Cellar. And yes, it smells of bleach. 50 Foot Panda are on and belting out a mishmash of drums and guitar played at pace and sounding like a dentist’s drill doing root canal work while a jumbo jet takes off outside. The noise is unrelenting and while some songs follow an experimental path, others just sound like two guys messing about in their garden shed. Get themselves more guitars to bolster their sound and 50 foot Panda may really reach the heights that they promise.

By Mark Baker

I hadn’t really planned to do Punt this year. My own tardiness had prevented my purchasing a pass and staying in one venue for the duration seemed against the spirit of the enterprise, so I had resolved to watch the free stuff in Borders then make for bed. To my surprise, I was with pass by eight o’clock (thanks to a generous pal) and managed to last the duration, fuelled by the variety of cheap lagers available from the five locations. So, what of the bands?

Faceometer were first up in Borders. Starting out as one man and a guitar, what followed were some witty, pretty little ditties. Eschewing any sort of PA, his voice and the acoustic carried remarkably well across the shop floor. A second guitarist joined the fray midway through, adding further weight with vocal harmonies and the occasional strum duel. The pair even managed to elicit some crowd participation at one point, something I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone manage with a sober audience before.

The latter of the bookshop-based entertainments was provided by Desmond Chancer & The Long Memories. The Long Memories provided some competent bar room jazz accompaniment to Mr. Chancer’s slightly ill fitting, Tom Waitsian voice. The show that they were putting on was possibly a little too incongruous with the bookish environment, as I could see them going down quite well in a proper venue, but poking my head over Romantic Fiction to get a look seemed more than a little wrong. Nice costumes though.

International Jetsetters managed to pack the Purple Turtle’s music catacomb. This was presumably because no other acts were playing at the time, rather than any massive following they’ve acquired. This may take a while yet, as their set did feel a little pedestrian. There was nothing wrong with the playing and some of the tunes weren’t half bad, but the overall sound seemed a little bland to me.

I did go to see Cat Matador next, who were first up in The Wheatsheaf, but can remember next to nothing at all about them. I can’t say whether that’s because of my own poor memory or because they failed to do anything that engaged my mind enough to force it to remember. I fear it may be a combination of the two. Probably quite average then (though my brain is probably somewhere below that).

I made it back to the P. T. just in time to hear the last thirty seconds of Tristan & The Troubadours set. Those thirty seconds were quite pleasant – I seem to recall liking the squelchy keyboard – but couldn’t really say much more with any authority. I moved next door to find Eduard Sounding Block kicking off in The Cellar. I had heard some talk of their playing nothing but U2 covers all night, but know too little of either act to say whether this was the case. What we did get was some of their epic (fill in verb of your choice here)core rocking, which is always a joy to see. Explosive guitars, jackhammer percussion and plenty of shouting. Can’t really go wrong, can you?

Back in The Wheatsheaf, the improvised funky dub type noises of the night were provided by Non-Stop Tango. It’s hard to know what to say about a completely improvised set you’ve only seen half of – certainly the sections I caught were excellently performed, if not entirely my cup of tea, but it’s utterly plausible with a group that are able to gel together as successfully as this that the tangents I missed may have surpassed the minutes I witnessed. Or they might have fallen apart, though that seems unlikely. It was time for me to dash once more having failed to formulate a proper opinion.

Foolishly I attempted to have a look at Little Fish next. I had been warned that the Thirst Lodge would be packed, but having only managed to hear a couple of songs at my last opportunity (having been dragged away by a girl I utterly failed to get off with), I decided to give it another shot. I managed to get as far as the doorway to the venue, where my passage was halted by sheer volume of people. The sounds drifting from the stage sounded rather good, but the cramped environs proved too much and I was driven away. Perhaps the band and I simply aren’t meant to be . . .

My final wander into the Turtle got me there just in time to catch the last minute or so of Elapse-O. That cheery wall of guitars thing that Oxford bands do so well crescendoed and then I was off next door again. I’m still unable to work out why I like David K Frampton. All of the elements are wrong, yet when they’re all stewed together they come out so right. Churning beats, flatulent feedback and screamed rawck chants should leave him sounding like a less verbose Andrew WK, but somehow it still manages to be far more enjoyable that. I wish that I could put my finger on what that extra element actually is - it continues to elude me. I can’t see it working on record, but as a live experience the man is electric.

Alphabet Backwards seem to have garnered quite a following of late, judging by the crowd packed back into the ’sheaf. To some degree I can see why – the quirky lyrics (”if we all threw an ice cube in the sea/Could we save the polar bears?”), some splendid keyboard work and a cheerful, contemporarily ‘indie’ sound obviously check many peoples boxes. For me, some of the tunes weren’t quite there yet, but the group definitely have potential.

Thirst had become inhabitable once more by the time I went for a look at Sikorsky. Two men, two laptops, who left me feeling painfully old with a Grand Theft Auto related shout out. Were they sampling from the game (there was certainly dialogue from somewhere in the following track)? Are they just enthusiastic players? Could they have been mocking the audience (especially those of us who didn’t understand their youthful referencing)? Perhaps I’ll never know. The music itself was fairly pleasurable, meaty beats with some simple though affecting washes pasted over the top. I departed just as a leather clad vocalist was joining them on stage – possibly a mistake, but, as is the nature of the night, there were other groups to explore.

Soft, sorry, 50ft Panda were that next group and jolly enjoyable they were too. Maybe it was the myriad flavours of booze churning in my belly, though it was more likely the band themselves that caused the joy I received from their set. Standing just far away enough from the post in rock to make them fun, while being close enough for them still pull out some interesting noodling. I was splendidly inebriated by this point, but maintain that my judgement was sound.

Someone had described the man who is Clanky Robo Gobjobs as ‘the ultimate floor emptier’ and it turned out that this wasn’t far of the mark. Never before have I seen a final Punt act playing to such an unpopulated room. With good reason though - Clanky is essentially doing the same thing as the aforementioned Mr. Frampton, yet somehow in his hands the same ingredients mix together into something entirely unpalatable. Perhaps it’s because his screaming seems to have a point (which is lost, because it is screamed) while his music lacks one (a single pre-recorded track per song, with no live manipulation). I only managed a couple of songs before staggering off into the night, ears ringing, but largely content.

By Alastair Tervit