Going Out
Pop duo Ben and Jason (not to be confused with Ben and Jerry - they make ice cream), are somewhat hard to pigeonhole. That may be why the Zodiac's gig listings hideously mis-describe them as a "Jeff Buckley inspired pop duo." Slightly bemused by this misnomer, Ben Parker (singer and guitarist) ponders "it's obviously a vocal range thing". That's where the similarity ends - Ben and Jason tend not to produce the drab navel-gazing that characterized Buckley. In fact, in person they are jovial to the point of farce, so much so that they are a lazy journalist's nightmare - when asked where their inspiration comes from, Ben deadpans "from the ground". Similarly, any attempt to throw them in with the NME - created, New Acoustic, 'quiet is the new loud' scene falls flat on its face - "we were glad that we didn't get lumped in with that, because we'd have got lumped back out with it". On stage they play with the comparison using their typically ironic and self-deprecating humour; "we are a rock band after all - we're not part of this New Acoustic thing. Who the fuck are Turin Brakes? Who the fuck are Turin Brakes touring America with the Stereophonics?" The wit of that comment masks a genuine sense of injustice at being, in their own words, "a brilliant but underselling group." Not that you'd guess that on the basis of a quick glance around the full, but slightly pungent, downstairs bar (what does the Zodiac smell of? Answers on a postcard to Ria).
After a tight but lifeless performance by Britpop's nearly men, Delta, the crowd rise to Ben and Jason's ethereal but bouncy songs. The group are clearly in great form - they play the songs with a relish, enthusiasm and bonhomie that is utterly infectious. Even the interludes are packed with one-liners that would do Frank Carson proud. Not oblivious to the fact that it's Valentine's Day, Ben even introduces one of their more reflective songs informing us that "this goes out to all you lovers out there", with his tongue ready to burst through his cheek. In this age, where spending extortionate amounts of money on nauseously tacky gifts is considered the best way to display affection, it comes as little surprise when Jason reveals that some of their friends are choosing to spend Valentine's night in the band's company. With this in mind it's ironic that Ben and Jason's weakest moments tonight are the slower, more
(ahem) romantically-orientated songs (although, as Jason reminds us, only one Ben and Jason song was not about breaking up - and that was a B-side). Ben and Jason, at their best, bring to mind a dozen other groups, without sounding much like any of them (hence the unfortunate Jeff Buckley comparisons).
When asked how they avoid the boredom of travelling between dates, they reply, "we've got into tea." Apparently, instead of snorting coke and trashing hotel rooms, they gather in someone's room and sample some Earl Grey. That epitomises them - eccentrically avoiding cliches and stereotypes, while making eclectic and varied music.
Autochtone. What on earth can we say? 'You've Got To Promise Me' evolves from Sigur Ros synth into the streamlined power of Six By Seven; the magnificently-titled 'Your Tear- And Mascara-Stained Tissues Still Litter My Bathroom' whips out a My Bloody Valentine-esque riff. Superlatives will follow when breath has been regained.
"Remember Status Quo?" interrupts a punter, surreally. " 'The kids don't give a damn about no trumpet-playing band; it ain't what they call rock'n'roll.' " Endless City Lights, purveyors of tediously proficient folk-pop, are likened to Gorky's by post-rock luminaries, but realistically, during a really angry clarinet jig, are aural torture. Indulging in minor hecklage, there is disapproval from the bands onstage to those in the crowd, reinforcing a general view that Ox2 should endorse fledgling student bands whether or not they are, actually, shit. The responsibility to defend the possibilities of art can be abdicated by IMSoc, students and even Meanwhile, Back In Communist fucking Russia..., but as we offer the entirety of this godforsaken wasteland outside (except Cherwell, who we must concede is rather wonderful after all), it will never be abdicated by us. "You're the indie Simon Cowell," someone gasps, aghast. Why, thank-you.
Ex-MBICR singer (yes, you heard) Ed, surname possibly Harcourt, has the most heavenly voice we've ever had the pleasure to hear, but Our Man In Havana's tortured emotional angst wears thin. "Tuning issues," comments Pete MBICR. Quite. Autochtone claim unanimous victory, then, and the bitching begins. Please, get over yourselves. Until next week, kids...
21st Feb 2002