Better late than never, here’s my review of what I believe should forever be known as;

EGGSTOCK!

A meeting of the great institutions in what passes for cultural life in the city of Leicester took place a couple of weeks ago when a showcase gig took place at the Phoenix Arts Centre to celebrate the general existence of Pickled Egg records, a fine label which has quietly built itself a strong reputation as an oasis in the wilderness for lovers of unconventional, uncategorisable, low-key pop genius.

First on are Zukanican, a bunch of blokes who look like they woke up this morning on Brighton beach after a particularly heavy night (my mistake, they’re actually from Liverpool), but who nevertheless get it together enough to cook us up a fine pile of freeform freak-groove soup. Two drummers help tie down the kind of complex yet instinctively joyous rhythm that propelled ‘Soon Over Babaluma’ era Can, over which we have some squelchy electronics, and a central focus provided by two horn players who, despite numerous instrument changes, never summon up the energy to quite capture the Bitches Brew-style interplay they’re gunning for, although they make some good noises to accompany the beats, and one of them does pull off a hell of a good Dolphy-esque run on the clarinet at one point. Decidedly pleasant, foot-tapping, acid-eating stuff at any rate.

Veterans of several hilariously shambolic botched performances at local gigs, and a seemingly ever-shifting line-up, The Fabulous Foxes seem pretty nervous about actually playing before a quiet, attentive audience. Although still applaudably short and silly, their set is a surprisingly restrained and gentle affair, with a lack of noise and chaos instead placing the emphasis on singer Ben’s shy and ruminative minimalist pop ditties – which turn out to be ever so nice.

Regrettably, advertised headliners Scatter can’t be present because, apparently, they’ve had a big argument and effectively split up (don’t quote me). If true, this is undoubtedly a shame, but nevertheless two of their number do arrive to treat us to a modest duo performance under the name of (I seem to remember) Nelle. And they’re very, very good, playing a relaxed and explorative set which manages to work its way through all yr. favourite aspects of the current wave of folk/psyche/improv/drone/whatever. A lady who must be kicking herself at the success of Joanna Newsom, such is their vocal similarity, sings slow-strumming, madrigal-esque folk mutations much in the vein of Fursaxa, long notes hanging suspended in the air like mean, mystical ol’ albatrosses. Her partner meanwhile gives a masterclass in drone, teasing blissful feedback textures from a bowed, ethnic instrument of some kind and a fine array of pedals. An absolute pleasure – if a mere fraction of Scatter can present this much tingling, sonic joy then hearing them at full strength must be an experience indeed.

James Green, of the band Big Eyes, plays solo acoustic guitar instrumentals, and I’m going to try my best to refrain from chucking around the few ubiquitous reference points inevitably dredged up to haunt practitioners of such material. Thankfully, he makes this easier for me by being fairly distinctive. Less reliant on blues and folk forms than many of his solo guitar peers, Green lets things get a bit more spaced out and uses one of those awesome delay/echo(?) boxes (where can I get one??) that allows him to loop and replay bits of his playing, accompanying himself and eventually building up a densely layered sea of ghost guitars. Beautiful. A pal joins him on ceremonial bell tinkling and weird mutated flute for a full-scale psyche-out on the distinctly Six Organs of Admittance style closing number.

Out in the normally sedate upstairs café meanwhile, Dragon or Emperor sound absolutely thunderous, tearing into their rhythmic bass/drum assault to the joy of a packed out room. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but they seem tighter, meaner, less jazzy than the last time I saw them, the yelped vocal exchanges adding to rather than distracting from the wonky juggernaut drive of the songs. The obvious Lightning Bolt comparison is only emphasised by the fact that the only glimpse I get of them from the back of the room is the reflection of a bass guitar neck in the window.

Back in the auditorium, Oddfellows Casino initially fail to charm me with their gentle songs of woozy summer afternoons and stuff. For all their lush instrumentation and jaunty tunes, they can’t help but come across as a bit self-satisfied. Music to accompany the kind of picnics where people drink champagne and witter on endlessly about how nice it is to see squirrels. Maybe there are dark woods full of malevolent, ankle-chewing badgers awaiting our happy, bourgeois campers somewhere in the corners of these songs, but don’t count on it. Something about the arrangements pleases and comforts me though - those languid, melancholy keyboards, those long, slow trombone / trumpet notes that you could curl up inside and go to sleep… where have I heard this before? I know – Robert Wyatt! That’s what all this is about – Oddfellows Casino really, really want to sound like Robert Wyatt! And who can blame them? I change my mind and decide to like them after coming to that realisation. Let’s face it, the world would be a better place if more groups tried to sound like Robert Wyatt.

It’s difficult to know what to make of de facto headliners George.
Their music is comforting yet unnerving. In theory, it’s warm and jangley, playing with familiar strains of mannered British pop. But there’s a massive tension in the music, starkly minimal with something nasty threatening to emerge, like a shattered wine glass in a costume drama dinner party. Nervous keyboards played like a school assembly recital; gentle but jagged rhythmic guitar strumming; strong, wavering voice like a mean-drunk Sandy Denny echoing around the big, dark hall. George seem like strange people. I can imagine all of their songs taking place in a microcosm of some phantasmagorical stately home; first a song for looking out from the upstairs balcony on some doomed frosty morning, then they add some pre-recorded voodoo drumming to evoke some guilt-fuelled Dionysian tryst in the spring-blooming garden. Maybe D.H. Lawrence had nightmares like this sometimes, I don’t know… Well that’s George anyway – they leave quite an impression, even if I’m not entirely sure what that impression is yet.

Which, to wrap things up rather too neatly, is probably as good a summation of the Pickled Egg mission statement as any.