The Peel, Kingston, Sunday 25th April.
Apr. 28th, 2004 06:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shermaramaA glorious sunny hot afternoon and a venue I've never been to before. Climbing the hill I saw the sign, rounded a hedge and found the largest collection of Black Sabbath t-shirts I've ever seen, soaking up beer and sun in a neat little garden complete with barbecue, gazebo and Orange Goblin.
Jecano were already on and I only caught two songs, but I wonder if that wasn't for the best. No band is going to do as well at five on a Sunday afternoon as when headlining on a Friday night. 'The Hive' was rushed and less musical, and the unknown other had great long guitar breaks that left the rest of the band treading water, and leaving that drummer treading water on muted hats is surely some sort of crime.
The Clams aren't going to fit on any bill easily, which means they're doing something original and you should find out more. Singable rock and roll, full of cheer and wit, but played heavier than ever is usual. They sound like a stoner band - they look like a stoner band, with Jesus on the drums - but they sound like a stoner band playing covers of some charming upbeat pop-rock. I can't get escape from the temptation to use the word 'kooky', but it's not a word that often goes with this much fuzz. Worst of all I can't find any recordings anywhere, theirs being an impossible name to search the web for.
Pig Iron. If I tell you that the bass player had a Confederate flag, a black cowboy hat, an English accent, a Rickenbacker *just* like Lemmy's and a tremulous uncertain backing vocal, and that he made them restart one song because they were playing it too fast, will you imagine the due contempt on reporting that the o of Iron has an umlaut? They were a bad pub version of Orange Goblin or maybe Black Label Society, themselves not bands at the height of originality, yet they huffed and puffed like they were reinventing rock by the second. Enthusiastic clatter-worthy drummer, indeed no-one was a bad instrumentalist and the singer had a fair pair of lungs on him, but the whole was clunky, ineffective, clumsy. The ending cover of Ace of Spades merely laid the final leaden slab on the tomb.
Sloth, I've heard, are a cult band, with obscure recordings of single tracks traded in great solemnity. Maybe this is why they're so cheerful in person. 'Everything slower than everything else' says the slogan and it's slow, all right, with meandering basslines crossing bars and a fine retro-doom sound, but I've never seen a doom band smile so much. The snare wires broke and the drummer played on but couldn't help turning his eyes up and laughing every time a snare fill came out like water dripping on a tarpaulin. Instead of the tortured whiner you might expect on vocals there was a bloke I could never teach a thing about hair-flinging, prancing and yelling and chucking the mike stand about. They weren't at all bad, though nothing ever really took off.
Orange Goblin are a very good pub band with an impressive singer, and it's hard to say that they were ever anything else. In previous years it was still believable that they might go on to something bigger, however, and the extra guitarist and the previous drummer brought an extra dimension that they've now lost. Not that any of it's bad, not that the fine pounding drummer can't negotiate the tricky times of Aquatic Fanatic and stay right on top of it, not that the bass and guitar don't do everything they could, as tight as they should, while the massive singer harangues the crowd and gurns til his eyes might pop out. It's just that the next step, from good song ideas and solid riffs well-executed to the true direct stream of indivisible music, isn't there. The crowd love 'em anyway, they're an ideal pub band, and throw themselves around even though the vast majority of the songs are lesser-known ones from the latest album. But, don't bother going out of your way to see them any more.
There's worse ways to spend a sunny afternoon, anyway. I'm just about to spend a clement evening playing the drums, for the first time in about a month, and have been smiling benevolent saint-like and peaceful all day at the prospect.
Jecano were already on and I only caught two songs, but I wonder if that wasn't for the best. No band is going to do as well at five on a Sunday afternoon as when headlining on a Friday night. 'The Hive' was rushed and less musical, and the unknown other had great long guitar breaks that left the rest of the band treading water, and leaving that drummer treading water on muted hats is surely some sort of crime.
The Clams aren't going to fit on any bill easily, which means they're doing something original and you should find out more. Singable rock and roll, full of cheer and wit, but played heavier than ever is usual. They sound like a stoner band - they look like a stoner band, with Jesus on the drums - but they sound like a stoner band playing covers of some charming upbeat pop-rock. I can't get escape from the temptation to use the word 'kooky', but it's not a word that often goes with this much fuzz. Worst of all I can't find any recordings anywhere, theirs being an impossible name to search the web for.
Pig Iron. If I tell you that the bass player had a Confederate flag, a black cowboy hat, an English accent, a Rickenbacker *just* like Lemmy's and a tremulous uncertain backing vocal, and that he made them restart one song because they were playing it too fast, will you imagine the due contempt on reporting that the o of Iron has an umlaut? They were a bad pub version of Orange Goblin or maybe Black Label Society, themselves not bands at the height of originality, yet they huffed and puffed like they were reinventing rock by the second. Enthusiastic clatter-worthy drummer, indeed no-one was a bad instrumentalist and the singer had a fair pair of lungs on him, but the whole was clunky, ineffective, clumsy. The ending cover of Ace of Spades merely laid the final leaden slab on the tomb.
Sloth, I've heard, are a cult band, with obscure recordings of single tracks traded in great solemnity. Maybe this is why they're so cheerful in person. 'Everything slower than everything else' says the slogan and it's slow, all right, with meandering basslines crossing bars and a fine retro-doom sound, but I've never seen a doom band smile so much. The snare wires broke and the drummer played on but couldn't help turning his eyes up and laughing every time a snare fill came out like water dripping on a tarpaulin. Instead of the tortured whiner you might expect on vocals there was a bloke I could never teach a thing about hair-flinging, prancing and yelling and chucking the mike stand about. They weren't at all bad, though nothing ever really took off.
Orange Goblin are a very good pub band with an impressive singer, and it's hard to say that they were ever anything else. In previous years it was still believable that they might go on to something bigger, however, and the extra guitarist and the previous drummer brought an extra dimension that they've now lost. Not that any of it's bad, not that the fine pounding drummer can't negotiate the tricky times of Aquatic Fanatic and stay right on top of it, not that the bass and guitar don't do everything they could, as tight as they should, while the massive singer harangues the crowd and gurns til his eyes might pop out. It's just that the next step, from good song ideas and solid riffs well-executed to the true direct stream of indivisible music, isn't there. The crowd love 'em anyway, they're an ideal pub band, and throw themselves around even though the vast majority of the songs are lesser-known ones from the latest album. But, don't bother going out of your way to see them any more.
There's worse ways to spend a sunny afternoon, anyway. I'm just about to spend a clement evening playing the drums, for the first time in about a month, and have been smiling benevolent saint-like and peaceful all day at the prospect.
