“Yeah, it’s a great start, boys; so, when’s the real singer going to finish it off?”

A smidgen harsh, we’ll admit, but Skirr is an LP that has clearly had lots of thought and expertise poured into its creation, but which falls down for us whenever the vocals start. It’s a praiseworthily varied record, impossible to sum up in a pithy description, but sophisticated electro goth would be the closest we could get to swiping at the truth in a snappy soundbite, and we really, really want to like it more than we do. But we don’t, and sometimes you just have to admit these things straight.

The opener “Null” is a brief burst of Future Sound Of London garnished with a snatch from “Never Can Say Goodbye” for no obvious reason, but thereafter “Exeat” sets the tone for the record, with chubby Eighties bass and a portentous vocal line occasionally exploding into hissing guitars, leaving a slight aftertaste of Psychedelic Furs. Elsewhere “Isthmus” (blimey, Grant, is this a tracklist or a championship game of Scrabble?) is a dark-hearted ballad dusted with synth oboe, loosely recalling Depeche Mode’s Violator, whilst “Acres To Hectares” is an improbable industro-rock rave up from 1990 with a caffeinated baggy beat and some wobbly keyboard squiggles suspended between the first flushes of techno and Radiohead’s Amnesiac, all underpinning a tune that surreally threatens to morph into “It Was A Very Good Year”. This is nothing if not eclectic and adventurous recording!

For the most part the music is highly intriguing, if perhaps evidence of too many dips into the Pick ‘N’ Mix counter of recent rock history, and there are only a couple of truly duff tracks: “Below The Seal” welds outdated guitars onto an Isaac Hayes conga rhythm, something in the manner of a blaxploitation theme as envisioned by the Sounds staff in 1988 - horrible, in other words - and “Shellac Skin” is a heavy, doomy trudge over a finger-in-ear folk club vocal melody about addiction that ought to be blackly imposing, but just sounds silly.

This is a collection of ear-catching oddments crying out for a great voice to bind them together, and if Scott Walker were to add his creamy voice to this grab-bag of neat ideas and production tricks it might really work; if Bryan Ferry were to drape a few louche vocal takes over the top it might be pretty fascinating; hell, even if someone who can’t really sing but who has a grasp of storytelling and drama, such as Jarvis Cocker, were to hove into view we’d love this LP. But, sadly, Grant isn’t any of these - in fact, he sounds much more like Russell Senior’s wayward vocal attempts on Pulp’s misfired second album, Freaks.

Let’s cut some slack, Grant doesn’t have a bad voice at all - you could imagine him fronting some grown up indie band, on Pink Hedgehog Records or somesuch - but he doesn’t have the gravitas or depth to his singing to pull off this rich confection. The closing track, “Scent & Snow” a simple piece of pop euphoria that sounds like the work of a band locked up for five hours with their management shouting “Write a hit!” through the keyhole, perhaps encapsulates the paradox of Skirr: it’s not a particularly good song, although it is bouncy enough, but Grant’s vocals work so much better in this unfettered environment. Just when we’re having fun, the record ends with over ten minutes of a single slowly oscillating keyboard tone, infuriating and fascinating in equal measure. Come to think of it, Pulp did this too, at the end of This Is Hardcore. But they’d learnt not to let Russell sing by that time, of course.

Grant Myspace

By David Murphy

I wonder at what point the 80s went from the decade of Thatcherism and social decay to retrospectively the coolest decade of the 20^th century. Hundreds of Primark kings and queens flooded the streets with the slogan “Born in the 80s” roaring out from t-shirts, and massive square-framed glasses became the coolest thing since Power Rangers. Similarly, the revival of Eighties electro-pop influenced music has been sudden and pervasive; we now have La Roux and Little Boots championing the good ship Indie, captained only a few years ago by the likes of The Strokes and The Libertines.

And so we come to The Response Collective’s new album Dark Is The Light. Every track on here is rooted firmly and immovably in the Eighties. But I don’t mean the good Eighties, with The Smiths, the last embers of Joy Division and the electronic genius of Severed Heads; I mean the Eighties of flaccid electro-gyration by the likes of Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark. The album gets off to a bad start in the opener Let That Be Your Last Battlefield, which tries to pull off an ambient soundscape in the vein of Brian Eno, but is blighted by a mundane, five-note guitar riff, which is repeated beyond the point of tedium. Things pick up slightly with the album’s title track, which sounds like New Order crossed with Dire Straits; the singer has a decent voice and the tune isn’t bad, but the whole thing is steeped so deeply in cheese that it would pose a genuine health hazard to the lactose-intolerant. There are some good ideas on show in the next few tracks; Follow Me Forever Sea features female backing vocals reminiscent of the ethereal Enya, while Moment Of Profanity is built around a dark hip-hop bass line that shows some interesting flexibility in TRC’s songwriting capabilities. However, these moments are often lost in an orgy of awful synth and utterly superfluous scratching. The contributions of the band’s resident “Turntablist,” the eponymous “Fireproof Skratch Duck,” are best likened to flies buzzing round your head (although he is surely a shoo-in for the most fantastically bizarre name on the Oxford music scene).

The album does have its redeeming features. Graham Pushed It throws out the lame synthwork for an upbeat guitar-driven sound that recalls The Cure’s In Between Days, while down-tempo number Turn It Out’s epic chorus borrows from Muse’s Megalomania and even perhaps the beginning of Bohemian Rhapsody. There’s some genuinely good stuff going on here. However, it’s difficult to look past the simple fact that Dark Is The Light is dated. Horribly dated. So dated you can almost hear the Zimmer Frame creaking in the background. It’s awash with self-indulgent guitar solos, tinny synthesized drums and cringe-worthy analogue soundscaping that make a mockery of the band’s claim that “Our mission is to provide new innovative music.” If this was an open homage to a bygone era of pop, that would be forgivable. But to dress it up as “innovative” is a different matter. Frank Zappa would be turning in his grave… 

The Response Collective Myspace

By Alex Lloyd

Just as you should never judge a book by its cover, you shouldn’t judge a band by the amount of time they spend spouting rubbish on internet message boards, although there’s always a feeling that spending that time practising rather than bickering might be more productive.

Secret Rivals are particularly verbose in this department, but listening to these three songs, you start to understand why - even their music sounds like they’re having a furious argument. `Point Of Subtraction’ finds the boy-girl vocal pair tripping over each other to have the last word. He’s breathless and slightly effete; she’s strident and tends to squeal but it tends to work okay in a messy kind of way since Secret Rivals seem to be all about punk attitude over melody or musical proficiency. A simplistic Buzzcocks pop thrash fizzes beneath the duelling pair but maybe they should grab themselves a couple of Prolapse albums and see how a bit more space between the protagonists might actually accentuate the sense of chaos.

`Moscow’ sees Secret Rivals dip into prettier, poppier territory, singer Clouds taking sole vocal duties over that trademark guitar fizz. Unfortunately the mix means she’s barely audible, never mind decipherable and the overall effect is like the awkward, slightly wayward first offering from a lost 80s jangle band.

Back to the kinder-core scrapping for `Break Song’, which offers a better glimpse of what Secret Rivals are aiming for (ostensibly the first Sonic Youth album), but equally demonstrates how much they need to tidy up their act and expand their horizons if they want to get there. Still, enough promise from a band whose energy levels alone keep your attention from wandering.

Secret Rivals Myspace

By Zoë Herriot

This is another EP, like the record from Hearts in Pencil earlier in the year, where there is a disconnect between the intriguingly arty record cover and the generic obviousness of a fair bit of the music. In the present case, the FLM record is graced by James Cottell’s elegant pencil-drawing of a child holding a balloon in the midst of a storm-lashed hayfield, but how this has any connection with the tidy but often-unspectacular rock on the inside defeats me.

Opener ‘Titan’ is built on a couple of basic classic-metal riffs, but instead of Bruce Dickinson operatics, the singer goes for an East End drawl, which actually works fine. The song itself is pretty forgettable, but there is evidence of power and co-ordination in the four-piece band’s meaty performance.

‘Following Dreams’ is closer to indie-rock, and indeed folk-rock. The former is represented in the pretty, finger-picked intro, the latter by the vocal melody, which has a pleasingly natural arc and is sung with a rather loveable guilelessness. The entry of the fuzzy rhythm guitar is predictable, but doesn’t damage the vibe too much. The lyric, describing the experience of a teenage runaway in the city, is unoriginal and clumsy in places, but the singer sounds both sincere and compassionate. In all, the song is a qualified success, though it could do with pruning to remove a few dead bars here and there.

The closing title-track again suggests that FLM are actually progressive folkies in disguise, as the triple time intro section borrows the chords from ‘Nights in White Satin’ by the Moody Blues. The singing is on the variable side, with an ungainly melodic line which pushes the vocalist into the comic depths of his range. Cutting their losses a couple of minutes in, the band junk the folk and introduce a distinctly odd bit of prog metal with some decent rock singing at the end, but this particular hybrid lacks much vigour.

Summing up, FLM have made a decently-produced record, and the band is made up of useful musicians with an ear for a tune, although the level of ambition is not high. There’s more than a little confusion about whether they are a melodic rock band or prog-metallers or indie revivalists, but if they can produce more tunes as attractive as ‘Following Dreams’ and less of the cookie-cutter rock, then they’ll be a welcome addition to the local scene.

FLM Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon

This is possibly of little interest to anyone, but the fact is that funk music provoked your reviewer to make his first tentative steps into the shark-infested minefield that is rock music criticism. Specifically, I objected to Armadillo Day at Northwestern University in Evanston, IL (the premier live music event of the year in those parts) being hijacked by a bunch of shaggy-haired stoner bores with names like Unkle Funkle playing fifteen-minute one-chord jams and being received with uncritical adulation by the equally-stoned undergraduate audience. And I wrote to the student rag to make my point in no uncertain terms. It elicited a lively response along the lines of ‘Butt out, Gramps’ (I was a post-doc) and ‘If he doesn’t like it here, why doesn’t he go home?’, which is usually a line of attack more appropriately directed towards Islamist terror-sympathisers.

So you’ll forgive me if I have certain prejudices against the genre. However, this rather brilliant little offering from Vibratonic, a refreshingly anonymous East Oxford collective (they have names like Natty Vader) is difficult, strike that, impossible, to resist.

Kicking off is the squelching, clav-tastic ‘Can’t Stop Loving You’, which dances along, propelled by a big-ass programmed beat, playfully taking on board all manner of eighties synths. If you can plug it in, and it goes ‘ping’ or ‘boing’ it’s in. Along the way, the producers have thrown in an infectious vocal refrain and cheeky-monkey muted trumpet, which is a delight. What’s apparent is that although it’s a complex brew, enough space has been left for every part to shine (I love the call and answer sections between the various synthesiser lines in the middle) and the whole is crunchily satisfying.

Equally good is the more obviously seventies-influenced ‘Wise Guy’, which doesn’t so much dance as strut (there may be a Neville Brothers influence in the rhythm section). Whether the guitars are live or just brilliantly sampled is a riddle I doubt I’ll ever solve (the group doesn’t play live as far as I can learn), but their combination with the fat synths and timeless Hammond organ is excellent. Vocals are handled by an unnamed female singer (unless Prince is slumming it in OX4 to spite his record company), with plenty of breathy energy and range- can we have an album of her?

‘Money’ takes us back to the intricate clav-work of ‘Can’t Stop’ and again kudos must go to the producer for keeping the balls in the air at once- it takes a sharp musical intelligence to maintain all those legions of keyboards bouncing off one another so merrily.

Closing the joint is ‘Here With Me’, an understated but playful mooch, which uses some gorgeous flute and a string sample which seems very, very familiar but which I can’t quite place (something from Marvin Gaye, perhaps? Throw me a bone here, guys!). Overall, the record is clean, clever and soulful, with no song outstaying its welcome (the cardinal virtue of funk, but seldom observed). The band is well named: despite my initial worries, they’ve proved themselves to be both vibrant and a tonic.

Vibratonic Myspace

By Colin MacKinnon

I don’t think I’ll be alone in my opinion that the acoustic singer-songwriter genre is engulfed by a mire of musical detritus. James Blunt, Jack Johnson, Paolo Nutini, this guy called Chris Townsend I had the misfortune to come across the other day: music would be so much better off without their soppy pap and inane, meaningless lyrics. I will give £10 to the first person who can tell me what this means: ‘Those three wise men/They’ve got a semi by the sea.’ I mean, really Blunt? Really?

Which is why it’s all the more gratifying to come across a band like Bay of Dogs. Their biography tells us that they are 20-year-olds Rob Mead (guitar) and Joe Wilson (vocals), who are ‘influenced by medieval tapestry as well as Nick Drake and Bat for Lashes.’ In fact, to my ears their sound has more in common with the genius of Jose Gonzalez than either of the above. Those unmistakable Gonzalez-esque chords hit you from the start with standout track ‘White Elephant’; soft vocals soar over driving rhythm guitar, while the minor-chord twist between verses is deliciously delicate. In fact, Rob’s guitar playing is really quite wonderful throughout these five tracks. ‘Nostromo’ and ‘Belief’ are built on beds of flowing fingerpicking, while ‘D. Gonzalez’ flits unsettlingly between two brooding guitar lines. The Nick Drake influence only really comes through in the gently melodic ‘Asylum, in which there’s even what sounds like a wood flute in the chorus. The vocals reveal elements of James Yuill, Gonzalez, and even perhaps a bit of Simon and Garfunkel. Occasionally, Joe’s tone slips slightly towards rock vocal melodrama. I’m being picky and it’s very subtle, but it’s something they would do well to avoid. Nitpicking aside, the vocals are accomplished and carry the tune well.

These songs are individual, maturely written, and, above all, just have great tunes. Bay of Dogs have managed to tap into the purity of songwriting that exists in this genre, avoiding the many pitfalls that have trapped the likes of Blunt and Johnson. If there’s one criticism that I would level against the band, it’s that the structure of their tracks is too formulaic and repetitive. Almost every track follows a repeated verse-chorus-verse-chorus structure, with little variation within or between songs. The tracks are short so they don’t linger, but it would be great to hear the odd middle eight or chord variation. That said, these guys have only been around for a few months, and in this first effort they’ve demonstrated a flair for writing original, engaging songs. I for one am looking forward to hearing what comes next.

By Alex Lloyd.