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

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

‘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

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

Here’s a shot from last night’s Wheatsheaf Oxjam gig by Daniel Paxton. Photos of The Half Rabbits, Sennen, Sunnyvale and Cogwheel Dogs can be found over here.

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