Gigs
Travis, Brookes University
Yass Yass. With mad joy and much goings I was sitting, yass yass sitting and listening to some sweet sweet music. Remy Zero they were called and they was some swingin' cats man, I was seriously diggin' what they were doing and my friend Pal Saradise was enjoying it very much. We just sat and shot the crap with these guys for about an hour, drinking beer and talking shit, and then we went out and saw them play, and man could those boys play. The singer's eyes blazed like jewels and the mad guitar player twisted his body all over as they mashed out some crazy bop. Sadly though it was over too soon. See the Remy Zero guys were not the main attraction, apparently some Scotch guys had come down with some crazy tunes and much happiness in their rainy songs, so we sat expecting. My man Pal Saradise had heard good things about these cats and he was beat. We were all beat, yass yass. "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" I said as we grooved our way across to the bar and saw Karlo Marxo sitting in the corner with a raptured face, but we left him alone to dig the moment his own sweet way. Anyway, there we were jumpin' and dancin' with an-ti-ci-pation when a bunch of guys came on. We thought they must have been the cleaners makin' the stage pure enough for these Travis cats to peddle their cool jazz sounds, but they picked up instruments. All of a sudden some very very un-sweet sounds overtook me and Saradise and we were transported away from that good, good place to somewhere that hurt. For an hour and a half we stood there, legs aching more than when we hitch-hiked from Abingdon to Mexico City, but still it didn't stop. Finally they pulled some kind of shit, and were attacking that real sweet chick Britney Spears with a horrible slow version of Baby One More Time, Bootsie it certainly wasn't. Anyhow those days are over now, and Pal has settled down with some Bluegrass and he hasn't the time for be-bop like he used to, but still I guess whenever either of us sees shit on the pavement we'll both think of Travis, maybe we'll smile and skip remembering Remy Zero, but we'll still think of Travis.
Remy Zero:
Travis: IIIII p"jk"w
The Flaming Lips, London Astoria
Best gig I've been to in ages. The frontman stumbled onto the stage with his hand to his head and blood pouring down his face. 'I'm OK really...' he explained, and the crowd cheered. '... but I'd like to think that if I had cut myself, we'd play on anyway.' We cheered even louder. The Lips describe themselves as a recording band rather than performers, but you wouldn't know it. Their songs are great, but they pack the show with gimmicks anyway. Handfuls of hole-punched confetti were thrown into the audience; songs were occasionally mimed by hand-puppets (including a nun, dog and what looked like an oven glove); and my personal highlight was the cover of Somewhere over the Rainbow complete with theramin solo. On top of this there were lyrics that, even coming from Radiohead, would make you think 'come ON cheer up!'. Strange thing was, it worked. No-one should be able to get away with this level of cheesiness, but the Lips do and I love it. They're on tour in the UK on 10-16th November. Go - you'll love it too.
HHHHH rt
Beth Orton, Shepherd's Bush Empire
Beth Orton has been relentlessly dogged by good press. The phrase 'critically acclaimed' hangs round her neck like an albatross. So it's a welcome surprise when the ethereal pixie the press have led us to expect fails to materialise. Instead, Beth Orton is someone you could have a laugh with. But between the unintelligible rhyming slang banter and dodgy dancing the Shepherd's Bush crowd is treated to that rare occurrence - a genuinely uplifting musical experience. After a disturbingly high-speed gallop through the opening songs Beth and the boys seem to relax. The songs are stripped down, the dancey beats of the album simplified, and we pay homage to that voice. The weaker album tracks suddenly find a new intensity and the singles are greeted like old friends, so much so that things get creepily Stars-In Their Eyes-esque as the intros to She Cries Your Name and Stolen Car provoke mass euphoria. But she's certainly got that work ethic sorted - four encores, including the night's finest moment - Orton's solo rendition of (future breakthrough single?) Feel to Believe. But really, hasn't the woman got a home to go to? Any complaints? Criminal under-use of that fine glitterball.
HHHHI mf
Longpigs, Oxford Brookes University
For one week only, the OxStu gives all you aspiring student indie-wank guitar bands its invaluable four-step guide: 'Gigs - Instant Success!'
Step 1: Mix well-known stuff in with the new material. Simon Longpig told us that the band were basically sick to death of the old album, but no-one wants to listen to 90 minutes of unfamiliarity, so we got good'uns like On and On, Jesus Christ, and She Said.
Step 2: Pace your set. The maturity and unity in the band's approach was obvious, the incredibly tight set proceeding neither too slow nor to fast. The Longpigs are at that happy stage between youthful excess and middle-age spread - Simon again: "the new shows reflect two years of our lives rather than twenty..." Wise words indeed.
Step 3: Indie is not enough! Travis may be content to peddle ultra-conservative emotionless soul-sapping guitar drones, but Longpigs at least are conscious of things like - gasp! - samplers, and - shock! - music that you can dance to. Steering clear of embarrassing dance-rock crossover tags, they still managed to mix some groove in with the rock. Very loud, but very pleasing to the ear. "Easy listening" was Simon's description.
Step 4: Dedicate songs to God, people who lie about being in love, and "Jar Jar Wobble from Star Wars". You can't really go wrong with that.
HHHHI pb
Beulah, The Point, Oxford
Beulah aren't English. They couldn't possibly be. They're so un-English I'm considering expatriation. They displayed style, pizzazz, professionalism, imagination, innovation, eclecticism, humour, ebullience and the unrivalled power to justify the flute's very existence. And, as you'd expect from a band with song titles such as If We Can Land A Man On The Moon, Surely I Can Win Your Heart, Beulah aren't exactly rock'n'roll. Indeed, when multi-instrumentalist Bill Swan broke a spotlight with his trumpet he tried to put it back together again. Bless him. Mind you, they're not as twee as all this suggests, and live they have a rough edge and huge sound almost undetectable on record. And it all looked so effortless. Until Brave Captain get their act together and record more than 121 seconds of music, Beulah are, in this country at least, totally peerless. It's enough to make your heartstrings break.
HHHHH ms
28th Oct 1999