Going out
Battle Of The Bands, then: the competition leading to fame, riches and in all probability a support slot with Meanwhile, Back In Communist Russia.... Last year's losers are here tonight, despite having rather transcended the thing; we soon discover why. "I've seen Chu Mi before. They're shit," advises Emily, and your opinion does largely depend on whether you find their name funny or not. Playing sub-Vandals punk, they launch into 'Currently In Capitalist Estonia', merciless piss-take and highlight of the night. Ox2 has never been so outraged; the subjects begin to mosh. As they snipe brilliantly at MBICR, "they've got a record deal; we're just a bunch of student chancers." Miaow. Evil Twin next, and, were it not Sunday, you'd think IMSoc had started broadcasting The Evening Session. The judges use all ten hands to count the Big Indie Bands referenced, but at least there's now some post-rock in the mix. Frontman Tim accuses Chu Mi of plagiarising Rancid, and Ox2 of not knowing who Rancid are. Don't patronise us, darling. Autochtone are next week's favourites, and by all accounts you're bloody lucky to have talked your way into moonlighting in that one. Vaughan, despite cello, violins and kazoo ("because the trumpeter's late" - rock'n'roll), peddle unengaging folk-pop, accepting an inability to hear the strings because "that's the natural ambience we want." There is pretentiousness, and then there is Belle & Sebastian. Phill from The Rock Of Travolta wrings imaginary tears from laughing eyes; we visit the bar.
Chu Mi triumph, then, but with their encore (RATM's 'Killing In The Name Of') reducing mighty finalists Malkovich to hysterics, they still have plenty of work to do. Two weeks and counting, boys...
Confession time. Everyone makes mistakes, and your normally infallible music editor is no exception. Martin Carr didn't front the Boo Radleys, Burnley are going nowhere near the Premiership and Chumbawamba are, emphatically, Not Shit. There are many reasons to scorn the Northerners' naive political agenda, not least dousing John Prescott at The Brits, Danbert Nobacon's adopted name, and "War Is Terrorism With A Bigger Budget", the oh-so-topical slogan adorning tonight's, um, extortionate merchandise stall. But since 1986 debut Pictures Of Starving Children Sell Records (hello, Mr Geldof), the octet's antics have embedded them in the public consciousness. They attract an unbearably large contingent of hippies (merely visiting the bogs renders Ox2 high), but there are costume changes and even a claret'n'blue lightshow (Burnley colours, naturally) for those expecting Levellers of a more historical kind.
Chumbawamba are not only anarcho-punk-agit-pop, they're defiantly D.I.S.C.O. They dedicate Human League-esque pop to David Blunkett (key lyric: "yer full o'shit"), punctuate layers of synth with Alice Nutter's trumpet (a fellow Burnley girl; what an apt moniker), and segue seamlessly into Backstreet Boys' peerless 'Backstreet's Back'. The much-maligned 'Tubthumping', meanwhile, is a victory anthem straight from the working-class territory of the terraces; even down to the demented baby depicted on its merchandise, it's a promotion of the non-synthesised, a furious reclamation of the self delivered through necessarily sensationalist means. Credit To The Nation collaboration 'Enough Is Enough' highlights the cyclical nature of history, whilst skewed folk integrates tradition whilst satirising its consequent conventions. From a cappella anti-fascist harmonising to Nobacon's attacks on Donald Rumsfeld, it is, as NME once said of the infinitely more fashionable Primal Scream, war you can dance to.
They have a claret tourbus, cover the Bee Gees and call Mark E Smith a "curmudgeonly old git". So, you still hate Chumbawamba. In the sophisticated Burnley vernacular which adorns those swift-selling T-shirts, "Well done. Now sod off."
The 'clique bands' are back. Ox2 recognises everyone in the Zodiac, and, as you'd expect, has a firm opinion on most. There are so many rock stars and wannabes here that it's like a credible version of Pop Idol, the final of which we are missing tonight. They had better be good.
Still, tonight is Juggernaut Records' launch of an EP featuring all four bands, and with a title like 'When I Wank On My Guitar, The Whole World Wanks With Me', what can possibly go wrong? Certainly not South Sea Company Prospectus, 2002's most hotly-tipped local band, who come on like Six By Seven with extended psychedelic loops, like a widescreen techno extravaganza with a raging rock'n'roll pulse. 'Coming Up For Air' is reminiscent of Mogwai, whilst the vocal samples and rhythmic twitch of 'She Makes Me Nervous' vastly improve on Death In Vegas. Worth missing Pop Idol for? Bloody hell, yes.
The sleek instrumental machine that is Six Ray Sun also provide futuristic electronica underpinned by pounding rock, driven by fearsome bass and Andy's aggressive vocals throughout. With the gorgeous Justin thrashing seven shades of shit out of his guitar, 'Wild Cats' encapsulates their consistently overwhelming rush of sound. Worth missing Pop Idol for? We don't even miss their wonderful Jacko cover. Without a doubt.
And so, once more, to Dustball, where Ox2 must shamefully rescind every word of her last, inebriated review. Former Unbelievable Truth drummer Nigel Powell is awesomely powerful, the discordant Fugazi influence is increasingly prominent, and in the hardcore explosion of 'If The Crash Doesn't Get You...', they play like men possessed. Vocalist Jamie concludes with a sly aside on the nature of instrumentals ("too common nowadays"), but their own, ferocious construction 'The Croc', is as good as anything showcased tonight. Worth missing Pop Idol for? Absolutely so.
Seven-strong and dressed in uniform black, The Rock Of Travolta boast strings, trumpet and theremin amongst their massed ranks of instruments - oh, and two guitars, two bassists and one hell of a drummer. Applying punishing bursts of guitar and discordant samples to thundering space-rock of labyrinthine complexity, there are jagged, angular structures and beautiful, resonant melody, a streamlined, synchronised attack of sophisticated savagery and brutal beauty. Worth missing Pop Idol for? TROT are so good they already know the result. "Gareth!" roars the crowd, wrongly. Leave it to the punters to make mistakes. This lot are pretty damn near perfect.
14th Feb 2002