WE’RE OUT OF THE SEREN WOODS NOW. THIS IS A LIVE REVIEW OF THE TITULAR EVENT FOR MAPS MAGAZINE. MAKE YOURSELF A CUPPA, IT’S A LONG ‘UN.
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Small Town America All-Dayer
16.09.06 @ 93 Feet East, Shoreditch
The Small Town America All Dayer is, for the uninitiated, the banner under which a number of fledgling musical organisations arrange for a number of bands and acts to get together and play their music, for the aid of a worthy cause. Y’know, like Live 8. “For charity!?” you’re probably not crying out. “That means a French and Saunders special and the potential for someone off of Big Brother to inadvertently reveal their genitalia! All in the name of A Good Cause!” Well fear not, for such are the musical riches on offer that not only do you feel even better and noble for being here, but you can actually get a bit of exercise from having to dash from crowded, sweaty room to crowded, sweatier room. If Children In Need were this fun, we’d all be lining up to feed Wogan the Baileys that he so craves. On with the show.
On account of poor time keeping and not being scene enough to live in London, we arrive late, meaning we miss The Retro Spankees and Leila Zerai, which I obviously feel quite bad about. Punishment arrives in the form of boy-girl duo Tigerforce. Not because they are bad, but because they are so freakishly, unbelievably noisy that I assume this is karma catching up with me. On record, their songs are fairly cute and endearing. Live, they make no such concessions. They are vicious and direct, their tag team vocals a whir of yelps and yowls, their twin guitars ugly and distorted. There are samples too, blasted, apparently, from a mini disc player. Near the end, the spoken word intro to James Browns’ ‘Sex Machine’ is audible, shortly before Tigerforce launch into their set closer, all trashy hip hop beats and a toy drum kit. It’s great, it’s energetic and it’s addictive. And danceable, to a fashion. Lordy, what if this is the sex funk of the new millennium? If it is, expect more casual promiscuity than you, your mum, and your mum, can shake a leash at.
Hormones racing, it’s perhaps best to escape the understandably over heating room for the relatively arctic Main Stage, where Dead! Dead! Dead! are making some noise. Much like Tigerforce, their performance is heavy on energy, all twitchy heads and jerky hips, but their music is a different kettle of marine life. More dynamic, theirs is to be more controlled. The low key, loose and jazzy ambience of one number soon gives way to a joyous, spazzy stomp topped off by Brian McFadden a-like singer Matt Canning’s throaty bark. Which is all good stuff, but there’s something strange brewing on the second stage.
So I don’t really like Jetplane Landing that much. And with that I approach Andrew Ferris’ solo set with a degree of confusion and fear. Can righteous post hardcore work in such a setting? And since I’m stuck right at the front, will I be the victim of one of his visceral rants if I accidentally look disinterested? His first song doesn’t really alleviate my fears, a tiny drum machine on a music stand (!) providing a big, glam and vaguely inappropriate disco beat that never alters throughout the duration of the song. I look panicky. Has he noticed? Do I try and leave? What’s on next door? Is it lunch time? But then, it all goes right. Ferris ditches the drum machine, and belts out some Jetplane material, the previously concealed (to me, anyway) melodic heart of the songs being allowed to breath in this environment. The audience sings along, and all is well, the set growing into an unexpected highlight. Ferris is an engaging performer, so much so that he makes it perfectly acceptable for white men to cover Public Enemy, as he does to great effect when accompanied only by the drum machine on Bring The Noise. He then plays ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’. Apparently post hardcore singers can too, and thus, I leave for Dartz!’s set somewhat illuminated.
I leave Dartz!’s set shortly afterwards. They’re not terrible, silly, they just sound an awful lot like ¡Forward, Russia! minus the breathlessness. That said, the hand clap breakdown that sees the drummer come to the front of the stage half way through one song is great, and makes me want to jump up and down in a manner not suited to four o’clock in the afternoon.
Back on the second stage, one man electro pop freak show Pagan Wanderer Lu is suffering in the stifling heat. Technical problems mar opening song ‘The Memorial Hall’, its frantic tempo shift somewhat hindered by the poor volume. After this however, it seems plain sailing. Lu’s songwriting is a joyous thing, playful melody after playful melody tempered by an arch lyricism, evidenced by the likes of ‘Kofi Annan On Tv’. The instrumentation, the stinging guitar, crashing keyboards and freaky, mutated effects, all sound like the product of a number of wide eyed, e-number ridden children re-writing some mouthy folk songs. Our New Hospital Sucks is a particularly snotty, agitated highlight.
Frank Turner must be used to this by now. The ex of Million Dead frontman seems to have played so many shows in his current country/folk singer guise that it’s amazing he can muster the energy he does. Today’s set is as charismatic and rousing as is to be expected, Turner anecdoting the crowd silly, before rattling off a mixture of the by turns belligerent and unguarded songs that are set for release towards the end of the year. There are no covers and no Million Dead tunes, yet it’s hard to begrudge him casting off this crutch. As fun as his Chris T-T cover is, perhaps it was an act of kindness and/or penitence that he has stopped playing it, since the former must be chewing on his hairshirt at how Turner has taken this sort of thing and gained/maintained a loyal audience. ‘Worse Things Happen At Sea’ is delivered full on, Turner’s vocals growing to an abrasive holler, while new-ish song ‘The Ballad Of Me And My Friends’ is a wry, bittersweet lament for those directionless sorts who know nothing other than music. Tasty.
Apparently one of Frank Turner’s favourite bands are Oppenheimer. Which is odd, as their relentlessly uptempo dream pop seems at odds with all things hardcore. Regardless, they are still a charming little trifle of music, the duo consisting of singing drummer Shaun and guitar, keyboard and effects man Rocky. The latter rocks the sort of emo fringe that Wogan certainly wouldn’t approve of, but would have a grudging respect for. He would probably also have a certain interest in their music, which is more richly layered than you’d expect from a two piece, the aural equivalent of a Bailey’s milkshake. Despite this, the insistently four square drums become wearying, the winsome melodies not enough to prevent the onset of itchy feet. Indeed, Wogan has little time for twee. And this really is twee. Twee on toast, with a gentle amount of marmalade.
Upon returning to the second stage, I am presented with a problem. I Was A Cub Scout have their drum kit set up in the middle of the audience. This reduces space in an already cramped room. I am not what you’d call gangly, so for the purposes of getting a decent view, I sit on the bar. After IWACS start playing, I am presented with another problem; I need to dance, something difficult to achieve whilst seated. Do I forfeit my space, and run the risk of “shaking” my “thing” amongst reluctant, scornful audience members? No. I opt in the end for an undignified hip wiggle from on the bar. But it’s worth it, because IWACS are ace. It works thus; the singer triggers all manner of synth based delay and reverb soaked loops, all wash and ambience. This is then underpinned by the drummer’s thunderous accompaniment, like a picture of some hazy, far away land being thrown onto a rush hour motorway. The guitar, when there is guitar, is an equal rush of noise. When there are vocals, they are delivered sweet and emotive, without (obviously) sounding like Chris Martin. At one point, the singer jumps across to the drum kit to assist in a percussive breakdown that drowns out even Blood Red Shoes next door, the female contingent of which, we are informed by the doe eyed IWACS frontman, has very nice teeth. This is obviously great. Young love is a wonderful thing. But it doesn’t stop IWACS from potentially stealing the day from the much hyped sex grunge duo.
So it’s quite late in the day now. I’m hungry and thirsty, so we duck out for a while to nourish ourselves before the post-rock a-rama that 65DaysOfStatic’s set will undoubtedly be. This is no disrespect to Scanners and Vatican DC, but the programme’s assessment of their influences (Joy Division and The Dead Kennedys respectively) doesn’t bring any exciting light to my black little heart. Of course, I was wrong about Andrew Ferris, so check out their Myspace’s anyway. If you don’t like what you hear, kid yourself that at least you listenened for charity.
65daysofstatic are, for the blissfully unaware, a very serious band. They look serious, they play serious. Vicious twitching and sweaty brows. They also whip up a fantastic, heartless noise. Hearing this music produced in a live setting is impressive in itself, great torrents of sturm and drang pouring forth seamlessly and violently, but it becomes repetitive unnervingly quickly. The like of ‘Radio Protector’ and ‘Retreat! Retreat!’ have their intricacies, nuances and melodies (such as they are), but everything builds to the same darkly euphoric crescendo as the song before and after. A shame, since there is so much potential for a band of this obvious calibre. The world does need an intense, glitchy band like 65dos, but until their sonic ambition is matched by their songwriting ability, they will continue to be a thrilling, unsatisfying experience.
That’s it. Time to go home. It’s been a lovely day, and while Wogan may not need sleep, we certainly do. See you next year.
