WHITBY RIFLE CLUB
24: 07: 15
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Seven o’clock. Seven o’clock?!
In my day, that was lunchtime.
If I were Tom Found I’d
be furious. Actually I’d be delighted because then I’d be skinny, young, and
talented - but I’d still be pissed off at having to play to a mostly empty room
because no one arrives at a gig at
seven o’clock.
Jumper-clad and unhappy, Tom Found’s swooping melodies and
impressionistic lyrics were swamped by his own rudimentary and ill-mixed
guitar. Given the right support - decent sound and perhaps a band - he will be
a compelling performer in the future. On the evidence of demos, he has a good,
idiosyncratic voice with a warble resembling a more grounded Marc Bolan, and
the rare ability to write songs that keep your interest as they ramble
intriguingly. The last song, In The
Aeroplane Over The Sea was trippy in the literal sense, and I look forward
one day to hearing it, as opposed to trying to make it out through murky sound.
.....
Figmennt are a band who like to hide their tunes under a duvet of white
noise. Indistinct snatches of lyric (“Honesty these days never ends,” or was it “pleurisy”?) appear from behind tribal drums and cleverly-played feedback counter-melodies. Songs are reminiscent of the Teenage Fanclub, but the sound is all My Bloody Valentine. The slow interlude Secrets is interestingly creepy before it disappears under yet more white noise - from whence tunes emerge once more. Credit must go to the guitarist who kept the tunes coming every time they got buried under the wash of random sound.
The best song of the short set was She’s In My Head, with its Stone Roses feel and don’t-touch-the-brown-acid lyric. I wasn’t wearing my best shoes, so why would I want to gaze at them? I’d like to hear this group again though, especially if they decide to follow their more melodic instincts.
.....
Ten Foot Tom and the
Leprosy Crooks need no introduction, which is a
good job because no one got an
introduction at this gig. Tom Found told me who Figmennt were, I’ve known Ten
Foot Tom for ages, the Warhol Superstars had to be who they were, what with the
name and the hair, and that left Nocturnal Dictionary by a process of
elimination. Soundchecks were carried out before each set, so no one knew
whether a band was actually starting. Where
was the MC? Nor was there a table with CDs. There were no leaflets or
little business cards for you to stick in the slot in your mobile phone case
and later to pull out absent-mindedly whilst trying to pay for petrol. This was
a showcase for local talent in which everyone frantically avoided showcasing
anything.
I was going to do that bit at the end. I probably will again, just
to ram the point home.
Ten Foot Tom and band were in fine form. Eschewing a soundcheck,
levels were turned to approximate, and the unmistakeable riff of Saturday Night
kicked off a rollicking set. Some of the band’s endearing randomness has been
lost since the departure of guitarist Kyle - Tom can’t throw himself around the
stage when he’s covering all the guitar parts - but it has been replaced by an
in-your-face commitment to the material that reminds me of Wilko Johnson. Gone
too are the between-song retunings and detunings, leaving a punk-blues
half-hour of relentless energy, with a busy rhythm section providing bedrock
for unhinged vocals and cheese-slicer guitar.
Old favourites Liar and 1000 Wolves cut through the messy sound
to connect with a crowd that was filing in after between-set cigarettes; both
songs about ‘escaping’ small-town pettiness (the latter an escape to death row,
the former to hell itself because “there’s nothing going on in heaven”. Cheery
stuff.)
.....
After wearying delays, Warhol
Superstars emerged with a hell of a name to live up to. I’ll come to the
sound in a minute, but give them their due, they look really good. The singer wears a hooped jumper and hides curly hair
under a hat that makes him look like a cross between Dennis The Menace and
See-You-Jimmy. He is backed by a corkscrew-haired grin in a red jacket and a
flailing drummer who was probably great - he had the look of someone who knew
what he was doing - if only anyone could have heard him over the ridiculously
loud bass.
This band might one day get it together to the extent that they play
a set that is as much fun to listen to as it must be to play. They mix good
originals with a leaning toward the Libertines with substandard covers - Metal Guru, Boys Don’t Cry, which if they played them properly would be great.
Really, it was impossible to hear anything over the bass, so forgive the
negativity, but it got on my nerves.
The best song, by a mile, was apparently a new one, Spider, introduced promisingly with “if
you don’t like it, fuck off.” Don’t know what it was about - the bass and all
that - maybe spiders. Anyway it lived up to the snotty introduction and for
three minutes the band lived up to their name. More of this please.
.....
Nocturnal Dictionary took to the stage in a changed format with the bass-player on drums
and a fill-in on bass after the drummer broke her hand - which makes it all the
more impressive that they played a coherent, entertaining set that lifted an
appreciative audience from its drunken dozing. By now, well over three hours of
the concert had gone by, and you wouldn’t expect the crowd to be woken up by
twisty art-rock with tempo changes and saxophone solos. Nonetheless that is
what happened. Volcano and the clappy
instrumental Tate Hill were greeted
with stifled cheers. The latter is becoming a little local classic, the sort of
tune that the audience are going to remember when they’re recalling bands they
used to go and see. A new song, Devil’s
Letters, was excellent, a rare foray into simplicity.
The over-riding impression is of a band who have not only the
ability to play anything they want to, but the imagination to use that ability and not just show it
off. During technical problems, they are happy to improvise - the
singer/guitarist knocked off a serviceable Sunshine
Of Your Love while the sax player wrestled with microphones - and they have
no problem switching from a summery rocksteady tune with bible-referencing
lyrics to something slow and sleazy, to a jerky, artsy song about “a door off
its hinges - it floats away...”
If you haven’t heard this band, the closest reference points are probably
Vampire Weekend and Sparks, to name two groups thirty years apart. However
their main inspiration comes from their own imagination, and that is a rare
thing in pop music.
.....
 |
| Wounded drummer dances to her own band shock |
This was a good gig, no doubt, and was much enjoyed. It could have been
something great though. I’ve lived here long enough to know that to want to put
on a show is deeply uncool. But there is a lot of talent about at the moment, a
lot of people around the same age - 18, 19 - who are having a burst of
creativity. It needs showcasing properly - posters, CDs, t-shirts, not just
tweets and blog entries. It needs putting into a show, one that lasts two
hours, not four and a half, with the same amount of songs - no soundchecks,
much reduced mucking around between sets, and find some local smartarse to
introduce the bands. Then it’ll be great.
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