FUCK THE COOKOO CLOCK.



Kleenex / LiLiPUT are slowly sending me insane.

I found the double CD anthology thingy on Kill Rock Stars in the library the other week.

The sleevenotes say that the band – I guess when they started under the name Kleenex anyway – weren’t any great shakes at speaking English, but sang in it anyway, throwing together stolen phrases and bits and pieces they thought were funny and so on.

The opening song is called ‘Nighttoad’. It goes kinda like;

Give yourself lust, try it again
Give yourself lust, you cannot undo
Give yourself lust, and try it forever
Try it forever, you can’t do it

Nightttoad, nighttoad, you are so big
Nightttoad, nighttoad, you are so sick
Nightttoad, nighttoad, you are everywhere
Nightttoad, nighttoad, you are so black

…and continues with variations on that theme, with a backing vocal chiming in with fairly random bursts of “Nighttoad!”, “Yeah!” and “Oi!”.

Now is this the kind of saucy, amphibian weirdness we want from our Swiss feminist post-punk? No it is not!

Far better to listen to ‘Die Matrosen’, which (as those who know it from the Rough Trade Shops Post-Punk compilation can attest) features the best use of whistling in popular music this side of Ronnie Ronalde, ‘HitchHike’, which is just plain ace, 'Igel', which has an over-excited Clanger on backing vox, or most of the other songs, which sound like the Slits if they were prison guards in a collapsing communist regime.

Now there’s a thought…

HEY Mr. SOUNDMAN, I WANT TO HEAR THE LYRICS!
London Gig Diary: OCTOBER

Maybe this could be a regular thing. Yeah, maybe my senseless verbosity will catch on. Maybe people will one day let me into things for free! Wow, imagine… ANYWAY, let’s get on with it…

The 333 on Old Street is a bit of a soulless brick wall of a basement venue with an unfeasibly high stage – the sort of place one can imagine an NME-sanctioned ‘punk’ group might choose for a lame PR ‘fans only gig’ or somesuch. But if there’s one thing that affiliates of the New York anti-folk crowd can be relied upon for, it’s bringing good vibes to whatever blackened dives they end up frequenting on their UK tours, and the familiar spirit of mutual politeness, modesty and gentle freak-flag flying reigns supreme at Schwervon!’s London performance.

Moldy Peaches associate Toby Goodshank stands alone and sings mournful songs of Myspace and LSD and Star Wars action figures, going all out for our “YES! We too are ugly and confused children of the turn of the 21st century, adrift in a fetid ocean of hurtful cultural detritus, desperately seeking communication and meaning!” responses. And with a certain degree of success it must be said, as his set has some good eyebrow-raising moments, but staring at his boots and using the same clumsy chord progressions in nearly every song are unlikely to win him many plaudits as a compelling live performer.

On next is Lisa Li-Lund, muse and occasional member of everybody’s favourite globe-trotting indie-rock Lotharios Herman Dune, and I confess it’s difficult for the likes of me to write-up her set objectively, simply because she is *so damn swoonsomely cute*. I know, I know, but it has to be said: sing whatever songs you like Lisa, I’ll love it. Those with a stronger resistance to the subtleties of feminine grace however may wish to note that Ms Li-Lund has a classically beautifully rich indie-torch song voice, gets a surprisingly sweet, droning sound out of a cheap keyboard and a somewhat worse one out of a cheap classical guitar and sings songs which owe a certain debt to the recent breathless confessionals of the brothers Dune, drifting into the late-night lovers blues of prime Leonard Cohen or shades of the most recent Cat Power album, all with an obligatory sheen of goofy lo-fi modesty. And good god almighty, how sweet does that all sound? Face it, I’m a pushover.

And I’m sure I must have enthused about them at some time in the past on here, but hurrah once again for Schwervon! One of the most just-plain-fun groups around, they could crack smiles and raise woops at a Jandek gig in an abattoir. And they’re getting more fiendishly rocking by the day it would seem, transcending their origins as a quirky hipster couple who decided to start a rock n’ roll band in their kitchen and tapping into a reservoir of mighty feel-good choogle. Despite cough medicine breaks and a collapsing drum-kit, woes are forgotten, heads are nodded and knees shaken in a slightly awkward manner and, well, you know the score here I’m sure: meaty, old fashioned guitar and drums boogie, cracked boy/girl harmonies, funny songs, the odd sad song and enough hooks to keep them frying up a big juicy haddock for tea every day of the year. In a very profound sense, they are GOOD.

Well whatever I may say about the 333, it’s a palace of decadent bohemian glory compared to The Fly on New Oxford Street, a vile, commercial, wee-smelling bar-less basement with a Friday night clientele consisting of about 15 amateur photographers, student newspaper hacks, mobile phone flashing Myspace scum and the like and a piss-poor sound system spurting tinny, echoey mud (and not in a good way). Bills of disparate bands are crow-barred together at random, and on the door they ask you which one you came to see and make a note of it – always the kiss of death. Resist this evil, friends.

I’m there to see Parts & Labour, a Brooklyn group who have come to my attention via the enthusiastic recommendations of Oneida, and it’s clear from the word go that the two bands have a thing or two in common. A hard-working trio set up for battle Mad Max style behind tabletop rigs of cheap keyboards and a mixer jacked through too-fucking-many battered effects boxes, additional floor pedals, a plain Squire bass, gaffa-tape all over everything and the kind of amps that mean business = time to duck! And so, yeah, a familiarly intense, hypnotic drums/bass/electronics power-assault is soon cleaving through the speakers and the sweat is a-flying. Rather than just the Oneida Teen Titans though, there’s a crucial distinction to be made here; like Oneida, Parts & Labour have the wisdom to offset their overwhelming racket with powerful, hard-driving songs. Unlike their Brah records patrons though, the younger band have no ambitions toward psychedelia, instead rooting their music within a kind of earnest, sheet metal urban personal=political dystopian punk commitment that strongly recalls the atmosphere and energy of Husker Du’s ‘Zen Arcade’ – and needless to say, is all the fucking better for it. The poor sound mix here tonight sadly renders the band’s vocals inaudible, but whatever their songs are about, they sound like they’re damn well about SOMETHING, and that’s good enough for me. Solid stuff for certain, and as an additional note, if any of you noise boys out there have ever wondered what a £10 Casio would sound like through a Sunn stack, here’s your chance to find out.

Finally a decent venue for a change, the Windmill in Brixton is a kick ass, out of the way spit n’ sawdust music pub type effort clearly run for the love of it, and the kind of place in which I have no doubt much Fun happens on a regular basis.

Opening proceedings there on this Monday night are the duo of Victoria Yeullet and Benjamin Prosser, on vocals and guitar respectively, and I think they could benefit from getting a catchier name, turning up the volume and playing more gigs because what they do together is beautiful thing indeed. Quietly smouldering wallflower-heartbreak blues is the order of the day; think the minimal hip-swing n’ stomp of Childish/Golightly duets and the, er, ‘Medway sound’, the sweet subtleties of the criminally underrated Mr. Airplane Man. A big, rich, resentful holler of a voice like Beth from the Gossip back when they were still an underdog garage band, totally sweet, impeccable guitar stylings dancing as close as a hatted white-boy dares get to the realm of Junior Kimbough or Bo Diddley, and a single bass drum with a bit of boom, boom, boom that creates a warm, heartbeat pulse that sticks in mind (or wherever it is beats live) even after they stop playing it. None of the bells and whistles of yr over-stimulated hipster bullshit music here, but mark my words kids – this is where it’s at. It hadn’t previously occurred to me to instigate a spurious Performance of the Month Award, but I think I will, purely so I can give it to these guys. I liked them so much I’ll actually break the habit of a lifetime and link to a Myspace. It’s all downhill from here. [UPDATE: It would appear the duo have now named themselves Congregation, so try this link]

Next on the bill, The Wave Pictures come with what is, for me anyway, an impressive CV of friends and collaborators; Andre Herman Dune has recorded a CD-R of cover versions of their songs, and their guitarist/frontman has appeared on stage with both the Dune and The Mountain Goats, not to mention guesting with Lisa Li-Lund the other night. So what’s this guy’s own band like, now I’ve finally got a chance to see them…? Well not completely revelatory, but pretty damn good actually with a few reservations. Do you enjoy the earnest, emotional indie song-writing prowess of The Go-Betweens, Hefner, the TV Personalities and the Wedding Present? Could you relate to a song about developing a frustrating love for a girl who loves the Beatles when you hate them and know that your band is better? Do you retain a certain fondness for that strange period between about 1979 and 1986 when boys in bands completely forgot how to look cool and sported grim £3 haircuts, BHS work trousers and expressions of glum resignation (“don’t ask me, I’m just the bass player”)? Do you nonetheless cling to the noble belief that any song can be improved by the addition of a ROCKING GUITAR SOLO? – if the answer to all these questions is ‘yes’, chances are you are a) pushing 40 and b)will love The Wave Pictures. They have some excellent songs and play them majestically with an honesty and bravery which should be a lesson to all, and the guitar rockin’ bits are particularly incongruous and awesome, like if the Smiths suddenly turned into Crazy Horse midway through a jangly instrumental break or something, but I dunno. Great set by anybody’s standards, but somehow, on some level, the Wave Pictures are just too kitchen-sink, too determined to wallow in the cringing detail of small-town English embarrassment and the banality of heartbreak to really pull off the cosmic rock power of love transcendence moves that they could so easily have ploughed into the rocking of worlds. Y’know what I mean..? John Peel would have fucking loved them, and they’re fighting the good fight, but I fear that they will never just be cool and free us.

As the tracks they’ve done together would tend to suggest, Jack Lewis shuns the acoustic showmanship of his brother Jeffrey, instead preferring to rock out with a ramshackle punk trio, currently christened The Cut-offs. Jack sticks to bass guitar, and whilst I’m not generally a big fan of singers who insist on playing bass (it’s so wrong! Don’t you think..? Or is it just me..?), this proves a good move as he’s great at it, whacking the shit out of thing and getting the main gist of his songs across with just those four ponderous stings. His songs are about… god, I dunno, a whole bloody bunch of stuff, I don’t really remember, but I certainly enjoyed them. Jack rather resembles Richard Hell in a strange sort of way I think –skinny, lanky guy as the lyric-slurring frontman, hunched over this weird, misshapen instrument and… ok, let’s leave it there. The other two guys rock too, lest they end up googling this and are disappointed I didn’t mention them. There’s a trumpet too. Weird, homemade, shoddy rock n’ roll – yeah! Best gig I’ve travelled to on a bus… ever, quite possibly.

HOW DID THE FEELING FEEL TO YOU?

A friend of Fred Neil and Peter Stampfel and an acquaintance of Dylan in his Greenwich Village days (mind you, who wasn’t – that boy sure knew how to network), Karen Dalton was one of the more humble and elusive presences in the ‘60s American folk scene and didn’t get an opportunity to cut what turned out to be her sole studio album, “It’s So Hard To Tell Who’s Going to Love You the Best”, until 1969.

It looks like this:



Reissued last month and getting some deserved attention from reborn folk fans, it is quite possibly the most beautiful and sad music you will ever hear.

Ok, ok, hyperbole – so maybe not THE, but as good a bet as any if you’re looking for contenders.

Although not a song-writer as such (at least not on the evidence of this album), and not possessed of any particularly unique stylistic innovations, Dalton nevertheless manages to sing like Billie Holiday and plays guitar like Nick Drake, and possesses the ability to imbue simple songs with an almost inexpressible gravitas in the manner of the great Jackson C. Frank – a combination which is surely worthy of launching a thousand ships.

Karen Dalton is essentially a blues singer, and if we limit our survey to white people born after the great depression, she is also one of the best. In a decade when every dude with a guitar (and a few ladies) seemed to be huffing and puffing trying to tap into the overwhelming machismo wounds of the blues, Karen understood the unfakable route back to spirit of the delta pioneers: she just opens up and sings quietly to herself, because she feels bad and needs to try to feel better. (See C. Summerlin’s exemplary work on the blues for further discussion of this point.)

Whilst an inattentive listener may accuse Dalton of swaying a little toward the bland mere nice-ness to which lady folkies are oft subject, and a stupid listener may even like that about her, the loss and deep unhappiness expressed within this album strikes me as very real. It sounds like the lament of someone who has spent a lot of time loving and a lot of time losing, and who is now just tired out with the whole thing.

Not at all ‘intense’ or ‘cathartic’ in the sense of modern music, the dominant mood here is one of fragile resignation. This is the blues of a woman who sits alone at the kitchen table contemplating a life of loneliness and burden, who lights a joint and for a moment is completely, silently happy just watching the smoke curling in the air and the still-life of tablecloth and wilting flowers, until the push and pull of the real world intrudes again.

You’ll find the same feeling in this album you found in Cat Power’s ‘Moonpix’ and ‘The Covers Record’ a few years back. You’ll listen to it before you go to bed each night and it will go straight to your broken heart like pot smoke to your brain, soothing and numbing and making things fuzzy round the edges and bearable – the best way to go to sleep when alone in a cold room.