Author: Oliver Gray

Volume

Oliver Gray

Have you ever been to a gig? Have you ever been obsessed with music? This is Oliver Gray’s memoir of 30 years spent dabbling on the periphery of the music business. It involves 300 pages of disasters, near misses, humiliations, and the (very) occasional triumph.

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Have you ever been to a gig? Have you ever been obsessed with music? This is Oliver Gray’s memoir of 30 years spent dabbling on the periphery of the music business. It involves 300 pages of disasters, near misses, humiliations, and the (very) occasional triumph.

(more…)

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Zander

Oliver Gray

When American roots musician Corey Zander sets out on his first UK tour, things start badly and rapidly get worse. Not even his drug-strewn rock and roll past could prepare him for the violence of his reception in provincial England. Oliver Gray’s first foray into fiction places love, crime and travel in an authentic context of rock history.

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When American roots musician Corey Zander sets out on his first UK tour, things start badly and rapidly get worse. Not even his drug-strewn rock and roll past could prepare him for the violence of his reception in provincial England. Oliver Gray’s first foray into fiction places love, crime and travel in an authentic context of rock history.

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Banjo On My Knee

Oliver Gray

Part travelogue, part guide book, part music memoir but mainly observational nonsense – Banjo On My Knee shows you how to survive a three-week journey through the music of America’s South and avoid some of the pitfalls of US travel.

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Part travelogue, part guide book, part music memoir but mainly observational nonsense – Banjo On My Knee shows you how to survive a three-week journey through the music of America’s South and avoid some of the pitfalls of US travel.

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Holliedelayz

Oliver Gray

They’’re coming your way, so you’’d better get ready. I’’m talking about a new band from Southampton, UK called the Delays. Melodic pop-rock from a band with perfect hairstyles is always in with a chance of crossing over, and the Delays have a better chance than most. But what is most shocking about them is that they cite their main musical influence as the Hollies.
It’’s fair enough. Like the Hollies did when they started out (and much like recent Amplifier cover stars the Cooper Temple Clause), the Delays pay massive attention to their hair and how it looks. Most importantly, though, they specialise in harmonies and high-pitched lead vocals from singer Greg Gilbert. Not Muse-style falsetto, but a Graham Nash high harmony. They sound lovely.
The Hollies are out on a fortieth anniversary tour right now. It takes them all over the world, including the US where, lest we forget, they once enjoyed a number one chart hit with “Long Cool Woman In A Black Dress”. Graham Nash, no longer with them but stull on great terms, has a travelling exhibition of his brilliant black and white photos doing the rounds, very well worth a visit if you get a chance. Nash and his various projects have always been considered cool, but the Hollies never achieved this cachet. If it’’s okay for the Thrills to be proud of sounding like the Beach Boys, then well done to the Delays for rehabilitating the Hollies. And congratulations to Amplifier for never having been afraid to include the Hollies in their musical orbit.
Well, the other day, I got to meet one of my childhood heroes, namely Bobby Elliott, the Hollies’ drummer. Bobby it was who was indirectly responsible for my receiving a beating from my Latin teacher, who cought me thwacking out the drum part to “Stay” with my fingers on the school desk. Bobby had heard about this injustice and wanted to make it up to me. It was amazing how many of my friends were insanley jealous, I guess because Bobby is quietly acknowledged as one of the great rock drummers, certainly head and shoulders above most Sixties’ tub-thumpers. But what they all wanted to know above all was “Is he really bald?”
Listen, of course Bobby Elliott is bald. He was bald from the very beginning, which was always a problem for Hollies photo sessions. Currently, he sports a baseball cap, but previous attempts at disguise have included a straw hat, a fedora and, during the seventies, a very obvious blonde wig. Nowadays, with image at a premium, it would present an even bigger problem, Could you see the Strokes, Franz Ferdinand or the Delays with a bald member? I don’’t think so.
The Hollies put on a tremendous show, featuring brain-scrambling psychedelic back-projections, a slight anomaly from this most undruggy of bands. The music is intact but nowadays increasingly incongruous. Last year, singer Allan Clarke retired to nurse his ill wife (retirement from a band being another previously unknown concept) and was replaced by Carl Wayne from The Move. Despite his excruciating cabaret patter, he does provide the opportunity for a selection of Move songs, reminding us what a fine band they were. Unfortunately, the bassist from Mud is also present, and we don’’t really need a selection from them as well.
With the obvious exception of Bobby, hairstyles, playing skills and above all, the harmonies, are reassuringly intact. Not many of us will be around to see it, but here’’s hoping the Delays will make it to their 40th anniversary tour. And that none of them will be bald.

From Amplifer magazine

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SXSW 2018

Oliver Gray
Here’s the full blow-by-blow. I only do it because my memory is going and I want to be able to look back in years to come.
Paul (photographer in chief), picked me up from Austin Bergstrom airport after the flight landed 30 minutes early and I’d been standing in the stifling heat in my UK winter gear. As usual, the airport was packed with cool-looking people unloading enormous flight cases filled with instruments and gear.
The music festival has been starting earlier each year and now they even list Tuesday in the official booklet, despite the dates actually being Wednesday to Saturday. I picked up my badge from the Convention Center, where it was noticeable that the traditional queues were completely absent. The general “quieter than usual” feel continued throughout the festival. What has happened is that the big names have almost completely disappeared (the biggest stars were Keith Urban and a secret show by ZZ Top). The result is a return to the original ethos of sxsw as a showcase for new talent.
We tried to find a parking space to start checking out the music early but failed, opting instead to pay a first visit to legendary Tex-Mex joint Gueros before having an early night. Planning sxsw in detail is essential and I’d done my homework in advance, ready to leap straight in. Remember that, although the official programme only starts at 8 pm daily, shows actually happen at hundreds of venues across town all day. All bands play multiple shows (I spotted one that played twelve but that is probably by no means a record). You see them pitch up in their vans, lug all their own gear on stage, set everything up, do a cursory sound check, play an energetic set and instantly have to vacate the stage with all their gear as the next band is already setting up. It’s an object lesson in professionalism.
We aimed to start at around 1pm each day, which left time for breakfast in Star Seeds Café. This was normally the only meal of the day, further nutrition being taken in the form of beers and margaritas.
Wednesday was largely spent at South By San Jose, an always reliable line-up in the sweltering car park of the Hotel San Jose on South Congress. An early highlight was Josh T Pearson, about whom I’d read a huge article in Uncut on the way over. Josh was on rollicking form with his new crowd-pleasing image. Despite his popularity in Europe, he’s almost unknown in his home town, with the audience at Hotel San Jose being sparse. I’d last seen him at the Mean Eyed Cat in 2011, when he was in his “meaningful bearded singer-songwriter” phase. The contrast could hardly be greater, as he is totally transformed into a smart, sophisticated white-jacketed all-round entertainer, introducing his “straight hits”. It was great fun and he finished off with a cover of a Neil Halstead song, before complimenting me on my John Murry t-shirt. If you look into their respective life stories, it’s no surprise that these two should like each other.
Straight after Josh came Jesse Dayton. Despite having the aura of a Texas road warrior, Jesse is in fact a sensitive, deep thinking individual as well as a spectacular guitar player with an unimpeachable band. Josh T Pearson was soon two-stepping to Jesse’s music with a very stylish lady. Soon, a circle formed round the golden couple to cheer them on. It was an utterly charming scene.
Next door, Gueros’ garden was overflowing with adoring fans awaiting the arrival of UK troubadour Frank Turner. I’m on record as not being a fan of his “shouty-strummy-preachy” style, but you’ve got to hand it to him. Everyone in the rammed venue knew all the lyrics and sang along enthusiastically, even when he was exhorting them to “Make America Great Again”. He had another eight shows to go, so disappeared quickly afterwards.
Antone’s is a much more intimate venue since its move, but an improved one too, with good sound and sightlines. I was excited because Joshua Hedley, a man who has played in my garden, has been signed to Jack White’s Third Man label and was showcasing here. It was a trifle embarrassing because it was so “straight country” that Paul hated it. Myself, I was in awe of the incredible collection of Nashville musos (in uniforms) that Joshua had brought with him, and loved the smooth professionalism of it all.
I hope I’m not giving too much away by saying that my free tickets are dependant upon doing a number of reviews for different publications – fair enough. But it does mean that I have to check out Hampshire artists, of whom there were several. So off I went to the relaxing confines of the Central Presbyterian Church for Portsmouth singer Jerry Williams, who’d crowdfunded her trip. It’s probably rude to say that I can’t remember any of her songs, but it’s also true. Next up was Winchester’s Flyte, the brother of one of whose members went to school with my daughter (hope you’re following this). They feature CSNY style harmonies and are normally an electric band, but on this occasion they went acoustic with a grand piano and it all sounded impressively ecclesiastical.
Having loved Low Cut Connie at last year’s festival and then at the Borderline in London, it was vital to go and see them at least once. This was a show in the bedlam of 6th Street at a long-established venue called The Parish. The sound was too loud, the lights too flashy and somehow the vibe wasn’t quite right, but nevertheless we were knocked out by a crazy band from Oklahoma called Broncho. More of both these two later. Bed was at 2.30 am.
Thursday started with a visit to the Day Stage in the Convention Centre, a pleasing oasis of calm and comfort. Not many people seem to actually find it, which is surprising in view of the fact that the sound and the sightlines are the best of any sxsw venues. Considering that Courtney Marie Andrews is a very fast-rising star, the number of people there was tiny. The environment suited her, though, and she performed a short but effective set. Some reviews have pointed out that there’s little variation in her strong-lunged approach to each song, and it’s true but it’s fine by me. Still miss Caitlin Rose, though – anyone know what she’s up to?
One of the best places for music at sxsw is the Day Stage at the legendary Waterloo Records, and that’s where the afternoon was spent. A Place To Bury Strangers made the most wonderful racket and finished their set by playing with something like an air hostess’s trolley out in the middle of the crowd – very exciting stuff. Apparently, on other occasions, they start out in the audience before heading to the stage later. Then came the most unlikely ever signing to the country-focused New West label, a feisty pop band led by Caroline Rose. Dressed in sports gear and medical scrubs, they entertained the crowd cheerfully. The Weather Station, who played numerous shows over the weekend, were less memorable, but not as dire as the turgidly dated (although very popular) sub-Coldplay anthems of Dashboard Confessional. Ugh. Time for some much-needed healthy food at the adjacent branch of Whole Foods.
A long walk back downtown took me to an Irish showcase in the tiny Velveeta Room on Sixth Street. Here is a good point to mention something that has been increasingly clear in recent years, namely a sort of involuntary segregation that has been developing. Sixth Street has become the hub for urban and rap music, while the traditional venues featuring more white music have largely dispersed themselves along Rainey Street and East Fourth Street, both endowed with scores of bars with music facilities.
The Irish showcase was extremely enjoyable and a good advert for tolerance, taste and good behaviour in a music venue. First up was a spiky punk trio from Derry with Undertones undertones, called Touts. I could have been their grandfather, and would have been proud to be. One of their songs was called “Go Fuck Yourself”. Next up was the acoustic harmony duo The Lost Brothers. I was fearful they’d die a death but no, the audience listened respectfully and appreciatively to their music. Finally, The Strypes generally laid waste to the place with their attitude-laden Feelgood-ish chunky, melodic two-minuters. They’ve invested in some great threads and look perfect. I was convinced when I first saw them here four years ago that they’d be huge, but they aren’t. Maybe it’s just true that there is no market for guitar bands any more.
A long and bracing walk took me to Rainey Street and a Tulsa showcase at The Bungalow. I feared the worst as a pop act called Branjae was playing and was worried for John Fullbright, who was following and I’d only ever seen solo before. No need to worry though, as he was playing with a bunch of friends and it was a very cheerful gathering. It was noticeable, however, that the momentum dipped whenever a friend came up to play and re-gathered pace whenever Fullbright took the lead, with his vocal and instrumental power. And what’s this? Yes, it’s Broncho again. You could hardly imagine a greater musical contrast. In my search for a way to describe them, I came up with “a mash-up of My Bloody Valentine, The Jesus And Mary Chain and Hawkwind”. Add in a bit of The Cure (singer Ryan Lindsey is a dead ringer for Robert Smith) and you have a potent and very atmospheric cocktail, as Lindsey jiggles as if flea-ridden, sings lyrics which may or may not be actual words and merges each song into the next with no breaks for applause or even a greeting. Anyway, I found them so irresistible that I went to see them three times in total.
Friday saw me wending my way again to Rainey Street for a showcase at Blackheart that I hoped would end up with Ezra Furman. What a pig’s ear the organisers had made of this. There was a spacious yard outside with a stage, yet they had programmed Ezra Furman and Frank Turner in the minuscule and very claustrophobic inside room. Luckily, that meant I was unhindered while watching Aaron Lee Tasjan outside. The previous year, I had been baffled by a low-key and – dare I say it – boring show from Aaron, and confused by the adulation. Then, at the End of The Road Festival in September, he appeared solo acoustic on the Garden Stage and went down a storm with a charming and funny performance. Here at Blackheart, he was in his electric guitar-shredding guise and the performance was thrilling. Clearly a man of many and diverse talents.
Amy Shark and a couple of other forgettable artists played outside but I ventured in to try and get a spot to at least catch a glimpse of Ezra Furman, but it was not to be. His band and crew dutifully set up all the gear but the frantic phone calls gave a clue as to what would happen: He simply didn’t turn up. An announcement gave mixed messages: He’s not well, but do come and see him (in a bigger venue) tomorrow. Who knows the explanation but I’d guess the overcrowding must have been an intimidatory factor. Never mind, normally sxsw throws up many of these situations (indeed, for many, it later did with cancellations relating to security issues).
We had a date with Lee Bains III And The Glory Fires (who played, I think, eleven times over the four days). This was at the Side Bar, next to Stubbs, and turned out to be a classic sxsw occasion. Inside the dingy venue was a set-up for bands that offered neither stage nor lights, so it was only possible to see the silhouettes of Cold Fronts, a great Pavement-esque outfit from Philadelphia. Outside on the sun-drenched patio, Lee Bains was on paint-stripping form. For me, he took the title of Best Band I Saw At SXSW (a rather subjective category, admittedly). Hurling himself round the tiny stage and challenging the audience with incredibly articulate political speeches and lyrics, Lee eventually ended up in the audience being mobbed by the ecstatic crowd. Wonderful in-yer-face stuff that made you feel glad to be alive and able to feel positive in a difficult world.
What a contrast the evening was. A friend of my daughter’s was organising a showcase in St David’s Historic Sanctuary, so of course I attended. The artist I saw was Lucy Rose. Fair play to her. She’s been through the industry mill, having been hyped by a major label to little avail. The current angle is that she’s now independent and succeeding against the odds, but boy, was her performance bland and inconclusive. But pay no attention to me, the audience lapped it up.
Next was a hike all the way to the wonderful Scoot Inn, where the musical quality was outstanding. I’d fallen in love with Austin’s Bright Light Social Hour on the Tropical Heatwave Cruise (see a different “note”) and it was lovely to see them wowing their home town. I feared for Hiss Golden Messenger when I saw that it was an acoustic duo set-up, but no, yet again they were treated with respect and attention by a well-oiled party audience. You don’t get that everywhere. Last on were Okkervill River. Yes, they exist again, nowadays in a completely different and much more quirky (but appealing) five-piece format.
The plan for Saturday was to take things a bit more easy. First up was Lucy’s Fried Chicken, a venue that always has an entertaining line-up. The problem is that it is what it says: If you don’t like fried chicken you’re going to starve. They don’t even do tea or coffee. Also, the sightlines are bad, so it’s not the best place to see a band. But I wanted to be there because of the Rublilators, the new band of Jon Notarthomas, who was Ian McLagan’s musical partner over the last years of Ian’s life. Jon did me the most enormous kindness this time last year and I was glad we made the effort, as the Rubilators are a bunch of enthusiastic Austin veterans who rock out with infectious style. After them came John Doe (of X), who has now made Austin his home and has a new acoustic trio.
Chickengate meant that we did the ultimate in sinfulness, namely having beer and margaritas for breakfast, back in Gueros. Just up the road is the Yard Dog. Normally we’d spend a lot of time in there but the crowds made it impossible even to see local act Li’l Cap’n Travis, although they sounded good. So instead it was off to the other side of town to the traditional Saturday Country Cantina at Licho’s. The line-up was less inspiring than in recent years but we saw Billy Strings, Dead Horses and Australia’s Ruby Boots in quick succession.
Back in town we entered a rather smart bar to see Christopher Rees, who’d been having a trying time on account of a banister-related ankle incident. Nevertheless, he was in fine voice. He’s one of the very few UK Americana artists who sounds really authentic.
The last evening was shaping up to develop into a disappointment. For years we’d been going to showcases organised by Canadian label Six Shooter, but the bigger they’ve become, the less fun the events are. This one contained many irritating factors: A cliquey atmosphere, people annoyingly smoking everywhere, sound leakage from next door, massively over-priced drinks (more than anywhere else in Austin), terrible sound plus a self-consciously quirky and not very good band (The Wet Secrets). Tempting though it was to stay on for Whitney Rose (simply so I could call this article The Wars Of The Roses on account of the many so-named singers), the temptation of another dose of Broncho and Low Cut Connie in the adjacent Clive Bar was too great.
And what a wise decision that proved to be. The vibe, with free St Patrick’s Day light sabres and flashing necklaces, was incredibly convivial and Broncho were even more mind-boggling than before. Low Cut Connie, meanwhile, were back at their sparkling best. The extraordinary Adam Weiner of LCC took the showmanship honours with his piano acrobatics and gradual disrobement, backed by a grittily committed bunch of highly supportive musicians. They all certainly know how to work an audience and the audience succumbs willingly, wreathed in smiles. I saw Rolling Stone’s David Fricke (who really has seen everything) being clearly overcome. In print, he declared the band and their classic new single Beverley to be ready for world domination. I can only agree.
That was it. Bed and the long trek to a snowy home via Amsterdam presented a climate challenge, but that’s another story.

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Glastonbury 2003

Oliver Gray

There are three things I’’d expected never to do in 2003. Number One was to experience Richard Thompson playing “Shoot Out The Lights” in full majestic electric flight. Number two was to experience Yes playing “Seen All Good People” live on a Sunday afternoon. And Number Three was to hear The Damned playing “Neat Neat Neat” in a full-on adrenaline rush at midnight. And guess what, I did all three within twenty-four hours at this year’’s Glastonbury Festival.
I’’ll be frank. I wasn’t really looking forward to the 2003 event, mainly because all the headliners had already played Glastonbury in recent years, some several times: David Gray, Manic Street Preachers, REM, Doves, etc., etc. It seems that the organisers, in the knowledge that they sell all 120,000 tickets within hours anyway, have become complacent about their booking policy. Either that or there aren’’t any superstars around any more. What? Radiohead? Yes, they were there too, but I don’t go to festivals to get depressed.
So strolling round the smaller stages was a deliberate policy this year, and how rewarding it turned out to be. On Sunday, the Acoustic Stage saw not only the return of Cerys Matthews, but also the birth of a new one in the form of Welsh chanteuse Amy Wadge. Neither of them are a patch on the the old Catatonia, unfortunately. Brilliant New York ex-punk Jesse Malin rocked himself a UK profile in the “New Tent” with a wild and wonderful performance which included a real Glastonbury Moment in the form of  “What’s So Funny ‘’Bout Peace, Love and Understanding”. I nearly cried. On the “Other Stage”, The excellently funky The Rapture were joined onstage by the Happy Mondays’’ Bez, looking disturbingly like Roger Daltrey. Shortly before, Arthur Lee with Love, all looking suitably baffled, had played the whole of  “Forever Changes”. Chuck Prophet, on the “One World” stage, wowed his devotees in the pouring rain, while remaining sprightly and dapper in a dogtooth jacket. He splattered mean and dirty guitar lines around like shrapnel and climaxed with a singalong version of the Clash’’s “Bank Robber”. This was just one of hundreds of Strummer tributes which movingly punctuated the weekend, this having been Joe’’s favourite stamping ground. The New Stage also featured a real tip for big future things in the form of intelligent Mancunian Gallagher lookalikes I Am Kloot. Up at the Acoustic Stage, I finally got the reason why Kathleen Edwards has so impressed North America. First, it’’s the upfront sexual chemistry between her and guitarist boyfriend Colin Cripps, and second, everyone likes a nice spot of Neil Young.
Meanwhile, on the bigger stages, we found all those American bands which play a variation on prog-rock with high-pitched vocals, multiple time signature changes, sumptuous keyboards and soaring melodies. Well, that’’s Yes, isn’t it? It’’s also the Polyphonic Spree (whose impact was diminished in direct relation to their desire to please), the Flaming Lips (who grabbed all this year’’s festival headlines on account of being themselves, but now more people have belatedly discovered their beauty and charm) and, of course, California’’s Grandaddy. This last band, having so comprehensively failed at SxSW, had pulled themselves together to the extent that their performance was rated by them, and the audience, as their best ever. Emotion hung heavily in the air as even that awkward old sod Jason Lytle allowed himself a few smiles. And Christ, were they loud. To think that this band used to be famous for their quietness. Main stage next year, beyond a doubt, and deservedly so.
REM were REM, David Gray was David Gray and Radiohead (so I understand) were Radiohead.
Really bad things: Do you know, there weren’’t any really bad things about Glastonbury 2003. Apart from Alison Moyet, who has completely lost it.
Really good things: The charming inability of any Americans to pronounce “Glastonbury”. To a person (Wayne Coyne, Michael Stipe, even Macy Gray), they invented a new form of fruit called a “Glastonberry”; Mogwai, genuinely playing “Happy Songs For Happy People” – who would have thought that?; David Gray’’s magnificent observation that, “It doesn’’t matter where you are, it always makes you feel better if you say ‘Fuck Tony Blair’”; Captain Sensible’’s equally magnificent observation: “Fuck Radiohead”; The Waterboys‘ “Whole Of The Moon”, live in all its glory on a sunny afternoon; and the fact that, when Yes’’s bassist John Squire brought out his triple-headed guitar, the entire audience, instead of whispering “far out, man”, simply screamed with laughter.
See you next year, 6 pm at the Cider Bus.

From Amplifier magazine

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sxsw 2017

Oliver Gray
(ALL PHOTOS BY PAUL DOMINY)
SXSW has got its mojo back after overcrowding and over corporatism had changed the vibe in recent years. I also got my own mojo back this year with the help of better selection of artists, familiarity with great and cheap eating places and a week of uninterrupted sunshine.
I’ll be clear: I had decided this would be my last sxsw. After fifteen consecutive years and with a bad ankle that made the traditional lengthy hikes impossible, this was to be the end. Now I’m not quite sure but on balance I’m thinking it’s a good idea to go out on a high. We’ll see.
A new policy sought to avoid the endless walking. It entailed selecting events in advance to go to and simply stay put. This was possible thanks to my friend Paul, who not only is a great photographer but also is conveniently a non drinker and therefore was willing and able to drive us around. The only issue was parking, but even in this we managed to get lucky most of the time.
The first morning saw us heading to Waterloo Records, a super music emporium that stages large scale daytime outdoor events to coincide with sxsw. It is luckily situated opposite a branch of Wholefoods that has a giant car park. At Waterloo you can see artists who will play showcases later in the day in places that are less accessible and more crowded, such as Stubbs. The whole thing is organised by Jessie, wife of Will Johnson of Centro-Matic.
The sun blazed on our necks as Hooray For The Riff Raff played one of their eight shows, Beach Slang came up with some very entertaining lighthearted grunge, Robyn Hitchcock and Emma Swift demonstrated their mutual devotion and Modern English, on a “comeback” tour, were hysterically pompous and dreadful. A quick visit to the atmospheric Ginger Man pub downtown for a nice encounter with Tom Heyman was followed by a very rewarding evening at Easy Tiger.
This event was the twentieth anniversary of Bella Union, in my opinion easily the best record label in the world. How exciting it was to experience BNQT, which is Midlake joined by Jason Lytle and Travis’s Fran Healey for a joyful run through of their various hits plus some new songs too. Other artists playing included Oklahoma’s excellent Horse Thief, and it was intriguing to observe label boss Simon Raymonde and his wife bopping along to every single act with endless enthusiasm. Their dedication to music is all too clear.
The next day saw a visit to Yard Dog Gallery on South Congress, which has a yard at the back that is covered by a gazebo during sxsw. It is really worth spending a whole afternoon there, because the music is invariably top notch and the audience respectful and very much “up for it”. A common characteristic of all the places I shall describe is the superhuman amount of alcohol consumed. I’m by no means teetotal but I tell you, the amount these guys put away is mind-boggling. Nursing a three dollar local IPA, I was hugely entertained by a highly-wired Austin Lucas (whose Alone In Memphis always brings a lump to the throat), who also duetted with Mara Connor. After that, the place was trashed by an incredible band from Philadelphia called Low Cut Connie, whose singer Adam Weiner spent most of his time leaping on and off his piano and into the audience, while his band crouched and prowled around him. Not since the Jim Jones Revue at the Mean Eyed Cat has such a seedy and dangerous boogie groove been heard in Austin. Could that be topped? Oh yes, with the supercharged political punk of Lee Bains III and the Glory Fires, music at its most primal and at the same time its most intelligent.
There’s much anguish in Austin as the quaint out of town venues are gradually being knocked down to make way for condos. Such is the fate of Maria’s Taco Express, so we made a final pilgrimage to sip a frozen Margarita, chomp some chips with salsa and enjoy the Mastersons, a duo that keeps getting better and better. Prior to that, Waterloo had hosted a slightly hungover Grandaddy and later, Austin’s own Spoon, who caused consternation as the surrounding roads were blocked by the crowds swarming to see them. We had to listen from the car park, as sxsw badges cut no ice here.
That evening saw one of the few Americana showcases taking place in a central venue. It was that of New West records, a label with an enviable roster of talent. Laying out their wares were the Secret Sisters (how must they feel now that sweet-voiced duos have become such an overcrowded market?) and Sara Watkins (slightly troubled by intermittent power cuts). Andrew Combs caused confusion – at least to me – by performing with Cale Tyson’s backing band (see below). Some members of the Deslondes used to be in Hurray For The Riff Raff and continue to pursue that rootsy direction with skill and energy. HFRR, meanwhile, have long since moved on from Americana showcases and were displaying their new political indie-rock direction at bigger events all over the city. The much-anticipated Aaron Lee Tasjan started on a tremendous high but rapidly declined into a set of bafflingly bland material that belied his flamboyant image.
The Americana highlight of my sxsw is undoubtedly Saturday’s annual Brooklyn Country Cantina extravaganza at Licha’s, curated by “Bug” Jenkins of the Defibulators. This exhausting succession of 25 artists (count them) lasts from 11 am to 11 pm over two stages and always throws up surprises and exciting moments. Cale Tyson and his (other) band brought things to a rousing climax (apparently he has different bands for different regions) but for me the highlight of the day, and indeed the whole festival, was a highly-emotional and deeply affecting twenty-minute set from Nashville’s Langhorne Slim. They don’t come better.
During that evening, I was gripped by a desire to nip to the nearby Hotel Vegas to see The Sloths , an ancient band of shock-rockers who’d reunited for sxsw. This was because we’d recently become sloth enthusiasts on a family visit to Costa Rica. The Sloths were hilarious (and I also bumped into the multi-talented Rusty Miller, from California). At one stage, I found a place to perch and try to make sense of the surrounding madness. Four deafeningly loud bands were blasting out from four stages all around, the sound melding into the craziest cacophony imaginable. Everyone in the crowd was drunk, drugged up and chaotically, blissfully happy. To most people, it would have been hell on earth. To me, with my unstoppable music addiction, it was classic sxsw and the purest bliss. 

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Haapsalu-tely fabulous

Oliver Gray

The opening up of Eastern Europe presents an opportunity for some great value weekend breaks in some fabulous and previously inaccessible places. Prague, Krakow and Budapest are all so attractive that already, you’re almost more likely to hear English voices than indigenous ones. On our recent trip to the Baltic state of Estonia, the rumours of Tallinn being swamped by the shameful phenomenon that is the UK stag party thankfully turned out to be exaggerated. However, two days were enough to explore the charming capital, which left the question, “Where shall we go now?” “Haapsalu”, suggested the lady in the tourist office. “Bless you!” I replied.

Tallinn’’s central bus station turned out to be anything but central, but we found it and were soon ensconsed in a steamed-up coach, heading through the Americanized suburbs and into the pre-coastal hinterland, which proved to be as gratifyingly desolate as we had hoped, each village more run-down and dilapidated than the last. The journey having been enlivened by the boarding of a group of completely vodka-bladdered teenagers on their way home from an all-night party, we were dumped at the “central bus station” of Haapsalu. This was the disused railway station, where turn of the century spa-users had descended in preparation for being transferred to their mud-treatment hotels, but is now a museum. Here, away from any tourists, no one had enough English to be able to help us, so we had to strike off blindly through the reed beds in search of the town. In the well sub-zero temperatures, we noticed that the reed cutters worked on regardless, even though the Baltic was frozen (yes, frozen) as far as the eye could see.

Skirting the lake which separated the town from the sea, we came upon the centre. The square contained an odd mixture of the old (several imposing houses in states of advanced disrepair) and the new (a truly incongruous deserted bowling alley), plus a police station, a couple of pubs (into one of which we disappeared for a couple of hours), a disco which had once been a cinema, and a beautiful folk museum, fronted, for reasons which were unclear, by a statue of the German dramatist Friedrich Schiller.

Haapsalu must have more museums per square kilometer than any other town in Europe. There are (count ’em): Läänemaa Museum, Ants Laikmaa Museum, Cyrillus Kreegi Museum, the Communications Museum, the Railway Museum, the Evald Okas Museum, the Castle Museum and the Haapsalu Art Gallery.

The focal point of the town is undoubtedly the impressive Episcopal castle in the centre, currently rapidly being restored with help fom the EU. Estonia has been ruled by the Germans, Danes, Swedes and Russians among others since the first occupation of the country in the 13th century, and all these conquerors have left behind fortified buildings.

Haapsalu Castle is a 13th century Bishop’s castle with an attached Dome church, set amidst the 16th century walls marking the expansion of the building. We ascended the tall Watchtower for impressive views over the city and the bay. In the Chapel of the Dome church is the site of the legend of the unlucky White Lady, walled in the castle alive as punishment for her sins.

Accommodation in Haapsalu is excellent value, as is eating out. In the summer, visitors can enjoy the beaches, the yacht harbour and, of course, the spa facilities in the various hotels. It’s a lovely place and ideal for those who like to go somewhere a bit different. As for us, we huddled in our Eskimo outfits, took a warming swig of delicious Vana Tallinn liqueur and headed back through the marshes for the bumpy bus ride back to Tallinn.

From the Mid-Hampshire Observer

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South By South West Festival 2016

Oliver Gray

I started sxsw 2016 with a nasty throat infection, which I blamed on the vicious ventilation on the plane. Was that why I found the music less interesting this year? I don’t think so, because it’s a brilliant event and I had a huge amount of fun, but somehow things didn’t click for me musically as much as usual.

First, all the good stuff. There were a couple of unique events that I’ll never forget. One was a “Song And Tell” session with Mercury Rev at the Ginger Man Pub. This took the form of Jonathan Donahue interviewing Bella Union’s Simon Raymonde and the band performing – sublimely – three songs: Holes, All Is Dream and Opus 40. It’s hard to describe how exciting it was to be close up with a band that more usually has to be approached through a mass of smoke and strobes. Indeed, that was the case just 24 hours later, as they performed a panoramic 90 minute greatest hits set at the Hotel San Jose. The bass was so loud that the ground quaked beneath us, which must have frightened off the assembled Texans, because at the end, I turned round to see that two thirds of the audience had left. Lightweights.

The other extraordinary experience came courtesy of Timmy Thomas. At the age of seventy, and having spent the last 20 years teaching music, Timmy’s career has experienced a sudden revival on account of “Why Can’t We Live Together” being sampled by Drake. Things got off to a strange start at Austin’s iconic Saxon Pub with Timmy lecturing us about world peace for ten minutes, not realising his mic hadn’t been switched on. But before long, his sublime band kicked in and hit a groove that had the place in ecstasy for an hour. It was such a privilege to be there.

Anyway, the whole point of sxsw is to check out new music and up and coming bands, so that is what I decided to do. It turned out to be less rewarding than I’d hoped, and I came home wondering whether music is in need of another punk-style shake-up. First, some official showcases. The much touted Hinds were a bit of a laugh, a cross between the Bangles and the Slits but without the chops of either. Talk about ephemeral. On electronica, Poliça was a bit pompous and Chvrches had better jokes than music. It was time to go off-piste.

First I went to Maria’s Taco Express, where the margaritas are cold and the salsa is red hot. Like other such venues in Austin, sxsw is used as an opportunity for band after band to play 30 minute sets with cursory sound checks. Performing here was Brian Whelan from LA, playing very infectious bar room rock, greatly entertaining but not really going anywhere. Following on from him was veteran Canadian Corb Lund and his band. Again, the sardonic country songs were enjoyable but generic and you had the feeling of having heard it all before. Is it unreasonable to want to be thrilled and amazed?

The search continued by way of two sessions at the Ginger Man Pub in central Austin. This is a great venue but it’s marred by a silly layout of extremely hard benches that run at right angles to the band, a sure recipe for a stiff neck. Here also, the format is an endless succession of bands that tune up, smash out six or seven three-minute guitar songs and disappear again. You only actually remember trivial things about them, such as that Blackfoot Gypsies had filthy trousers, Yoko And The Oh-Nos were a cross between ZZ Top and Boy George and that Soul Asylum should not try to perform their stadium anthems with acoustic guitars. You’d never consider buying a record by any of them and you wonder what exactly the point of them is. One band that stuck in the mind were called Dash Rip Rock. They came from Alabama and their songs included “Let’s Go Fuck In My Truck” and “Spank Your Panties”. It was alarming to be told that these weren’t ironic titles. The Bluebonnets stood out on account of being women, but that was really the only difference.

Please don’t get me wrong. None of these bands were bad as such. In fact, they could all play, they could all sing and rock out and they all had catchy songs and riffs. I went so far as to seek out the manager of the Ginger Man and congratulate him on the organisation. We didn’t see a single bad band there, but of real spark, innovation and brilliance there was little sign. A vicious thunderstorm that closed down many outdoor venues didn’t bother the Ginger Man, as, after a brief pause, they simply played on with yet another set of musos, this time some blisteringly loud, middle-aged rockers called The Sidewinders, who had forgotten they weren’t punks any more. I couldn’t bear to stay for the Waco Brothers, for fear it might be more of the same.

A lovely Saturday tradition is the Brooklyn Country Cantina, which showcases at least thirty roots / “Americana” bands over two stages. This is usually a great place to trawl for new talents, but not this year. David Wax Museum presented us with mock Mariachi, The Wild Reeds specialised in Coldplay-style soaring climaxes, Christian Lee Hutson was trying to be Andrew Combs and failing, Banditos were more banjo-thrashing and throaty vocals and as for Sam Outlaw, oh dear. Bland, good-looking young country singers, I’m so fed up with them. Whatever else this may be (and it may be commercially successful), it isn’t “outlaw country”. That I could handle. Things were redeemed a little by Daddy Long Legs and Daniel Romano, but they had both played the year before and so weren’t really “new”.

Well, okay, as I said, I started sxsw with flu but I don’t believe it tainted my experience and turned me into a grump. There definitely were positives to be found in the form of ubiquitous New Zealander Marlon Williams, whose songs actually sounded – phew – “different” and Canada’s Strumbellas, and “unique” is certainly a term you could apply to the brilliant BP Fallon, whose band currently includes Joe King Carrasco. The band to watch out of all this is Saskatchewan’s Kacy And Clayton, whose Fairport fixation permits them to write beautiful tunes, and Kacy Anderson had the voice of the week. In amongst all the rasping growls and yells of the other bands, her sweet, innocent tones stood out a mile.

 

 

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