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Tips / predictions for 2011:

more…
ginger as a mixer
drums
drummers
duos
synthetics
experimentation
collaborations
autonomy
home-made packaging
distribution outlets
imitation

less…
drums
reunions
hair
innovation
guitar
tradition
regard

On the Gindrinker side are two more songs from their stash of pickled character sketches and bleakly funny state of the nation yowls. ‘Bob Grainger: Sexual Pervert’ lurches queasily like the “mucky man” in question, horizontal guitar riff and slow drum machine thud pushing DC Gates’s vocals along, semi-spoken word rambles about a molester of animals, fish and stone walls (“It was mossy / He said”). Like a lot of Gindrinker songs, it reaches some sort of hysterical climax, rising comparisons to fellow explorers and tyrants Amelia Earhart and Enver Hoxha. It’s sleazy, brainy, high quality stuff. ‘Y Chromosome’ ups the tempo and adds some fine guitar from Graf, alternately stabbing and throttling like some bearded murderer. Lyrically, it’s a male of the species layed into for ugliness, uselessness, worsening the world through the misfortune of being born (Best line: “What went wrong with your daddy’s balls?”). The further adventures of Cardiff’s premier publican tag team don’t disappoint.

Joy Of Sex slink further down the alleyway. ‘Hypnic Jerk’ begins jerking between crisp riffing and drums thrown against a wall, before Max’s vocals stride in, agitated and cool. A chorus that rides on three guitar notes slides in, Rosie batting back lines as the whole thing creeps upwards unnervingly. A post punk, Wire-y direct hit. Growling bass runs through ‘Red Rocket’, more male/female voices in your head crawling toward almost-choruses. Joy Of Sex play with silence and clean minimalism like Prinzhorn Dance School or Young Marble Giants, wring dryly melodic twists out of them, and make great, blackened music, of which these two brief songs only give you a keyhole view. Your fictional stranger might think these two bands dark, twisted, obsessed, but they’d have to be impressed too.

Released September 13th. Try Spillers, Rough Trade or I Blame The Parents

http://www.myspace.com/gindrinker

http://www.myspace.com/joyofsex

With a bit of time to prepare this preview, I’m struck by the realisation that it’s not only easy to take Calvin Johnson‘s continued presence at the far periphery of the indie scene for granted, but it’s seriously difficult to understate the extent of his influence on two or more whole generations of artists, writers, organisers and DIY enthusiasts.  Snaking out from a localised Pacific Northwestern enclave in the early 80s across genders, musical styles and, yes, continents, it’s a spirit that endures in several of the Cardiff-bred and Cardiff-dwelling types he’ll rub shoulders with this coming weekend.

Founder of legendary Olympia, WN DIY outpost K Records (at some point home to Make-Up, the Microphones, Bikini Kill, Modest Mouse, Kimya Dawson, Mirah, Thee Headcoats, Love As Laughter, Built To Spill…), owner of Dub Narcotic studios, key organiser of ’91′s International Pop Underground Convention (watershed underground music festival both in terms of demonstrating possibilities and inspiring others, not least the Riot Grrrl movement) and oh yeah, damn fine songwriter (indiepop progenitors Beat Happening, killer Doug Martsch collab Halo Benders, indie-funk hipshakers Dub Narcotic Sound System and his three solo albums to date).

This last bit’s important – he’s still a captivating performer.  He’s visited Bristol a couple of times in recent years – a freezing basement in the Here shop, made to feel like the great cool-kid party you never got invited to, and the shabby grandeur of the Cube Cinema, where his trademark unaccompanied baritone rang around the old venue from bar to stage and back.  Almost logic-defyingly unselfconscious, his sweet, occasionally creepy hymns to classic teen themes of love, sex and dancing will be sung to sky and ceiling.

The Woodstick mini-festival has stayed under the radar for several reasons; it’s a classically word-of-mouth affair, the sort of thing you stumble across as you cross the bridge near Sophia Gardens and head through the park.  The rangers seem affable enough but you can never be sure with gatherings in public.  This year they welcome a fine line-up; acoustic singer-songwriter and School guitarist Ivan Moult, the folksy post-rock of Hail! The Planes, the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it return of Rhodri Viney’s early pseudonym Teflon Monkey (don’t miss), the skeletal post-punk aceness of Joy Of Sex, Threatmantics‘ newly fleshed-out viola-led charm and the 60s psych-pop nuggets of the Loves, all adapting to playing electricity-free under  the awning of a small tent to a crowd of cake and booze-addled wellwishers and curious passers-by.  Calvin Johnson has been snagged for a guest headline slot at 6pm, before he does his thing at Chapter in the tiny upstairs Media Point room – ticket details below, don’t dilly dally.

The following day, Ten Feet Tall host a showing of Heather Rose Dominic’s 2000 biopic of Johnson’s enduring label, The Shield Around The K, with a Q&A session with the man himself and discs spun by Gareth Campesinos! (an avowed fan who’s covered Johnson and referenced both he and K in lyrics), Lisa Cupcake (Bristol DIY mainstay, member of several Johnson-inspired bands and co-organiser of the Cafe Kino events in Grassroots Cafe a decade or so ago) and Gary Twisted.  All of whom, like Liz from Loose who’s hosting both events, could be said to have struck out in their fields as a result of the work of people like Calvin.  He finishes up the weekend back at the Cube on Monday 9th, with local indiepoppers the Bumblebees and the Middle Ones in support.  If any of this tedious waffle has struck a chord, you should be there for at least two of these events.  It won’t cost much.

WOODSTICK 3.0

Bute Park, Cardiff

Saturday 7th August 1.00pm – 6.30pm

CALVIN JOHNSON

THE LOVES

THREATMANTICS

JOY OF SEX

TEFLON MONKEY

HAIL! THE PLANES

IVAN MOULT

Compere DC Gates

Free ‘entry’ – donations/snack proceeds to CRY charity for Sudden Adult Death Syndrome

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CALVIN JOHNSON

Chapter Arts Centre, Cardiff

Saturday 7th August 7.30pm

£5.00 from http://www.wegottickets.com/event/83333 / £6.00 doors

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K RECORDS NIGHT

Screening of ‘The Shield Around The K’ – K Records film

Calvin Johnson Q&A

DJs Gareth (Los Campesinos)! / Lisa Cupcake (Bristol) / Gary (Twisted By Design)

Sunday 8th August 8pm

Free Entry

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CALVIN JOHNSON

THE BUMBLEBEES

THE MIDDLE ONES

Monday 9th August, Cube Cinema, Bristol 7.30pm

£5.00adv / £6.00 doors

Is the Buffalo the only frigging venue Joy Of Sex ever play? I’ve got visions of them rolling out of bed to the sight of the ‘What The Fuck’ sign, rehearsing downstairs before the bar opens, then choosing lunch from the extensive and affordable food menu. They’re still one of the capital’s finest bands: stripped down to their two-piece core (insert obligatory reference to their Spinal Tap-esque drummer history here), Max and Rosie send out sleek scrapings of guitar, bass and machine thud, short songs that ride on that densely melodic bass and smart, non sequitur lyrics. As a series of minimal post punk grinners it’s hard to beat, even if their final, new song slowly forces a harmonica on the audience. Set eyes and ears for the split single with fellow local dudes Gindrinker, launched in September with a gig in… well, not Clwb.

Hotpants Romance start playing. Some people leave after two songs. Suckers: the detuned hen night racket emanating from the stage is pure joy. Guitars that clang out three chords, rickety as old sellotape. Drumming at great cardboard box level. And a vocal baton that gets passe to each of the three members, every other line – unfettered screeching that contains with it all the open-eyed fun of being young and alive. It’s the primitive weirdness of the Shaggs, ramped up several hysterical and brilliant levels, played by three women in hotpants and wilting beehives. They’re in a band because it’s a laugh. These things are allowed to be fun you know.

The genre I keep wanting to peg The Lovely Eggs with is ‘twee grunge’, a possibly unhelpful category that allows for the fact that every ickle affectation is countered with surprisingly hefty guitar noise. But naff off genres: this is more like a joke that everyone’s in on, surrealist ramblings that have more teeth than a thirty-something couple singing about dinosaurs and olives perhaps should. David Blackwell is the most reassuring drummer in music – bleak thoughts evaporate next to his superbenign face. Holly Ross, on oldish, girlish vocals and guitar has more charisma than a plane crash full of indie dullards. Together, they do what all great bands do – create their own unmistakable world, in this case through force of winning personality as much as crooked tunes. Call it Eggworld (if you’re a twat). But this is automatic good times stuff, and the evening’s been full of it.

Bethan Elfyn presents a Cherryade Records night:

THE LOVELY EGGS
HOTPANTS ROMANCE
& JOY OF SEX

+ Joy Collective DJs

Thursday 15th July
8pm-4am
£5 entry / £4 NUS

THE LOVELY EGGS are David and Holly. One likes books and historical things, the other likes cine light shows and fixing things that are broken.

Their music is mainly influenced by the ecstasy of the modern mind and all its trappings, The Velvet Underground, Daniel Johnston, Sonic Youth, Jonathan Richman, The Make-Up, Moldy Peaches and Bikini Kill.

HOTPANTS ROMANCE are three girls in hotpants playing three chord songs for fans of The Ramones, The Headcoatees, The Slits and Huggy Bear.

“Hotpants Romance are easily my perfect band this year or any other” – Everett True.

The Lovely Eggs MySpace
Hotpants Romance MySpace

Vivers: There must be something wrong with me. Walking up Buffalo’s narrow stairs and hearing the sick thud of a drum machine that something’s died in, aided by gusts of bent cornet, leads to the happy thought “Great, Gindrinker are on”. Cardiff’s battered warriors draw the biggest crowd tonight, thick with wankers who never want bank holidays to end, and they witness a hundredth gig that’s part single launch, part permanent reaffirmation of quality and part ale-soaked exercise video. New songs dribble out, but nothing really changes: bracing anti-music of snarling tinpot guitar and rusted declarations from the Common Sense Party Of Hatred; more fun than poking bees’ nests, healthier than two Guinnesses. As always though: more cornet please.

Keef: A confession:  I’d not seen Joy Of Sex since Matt’s departure and their subsequent five-knuckle reshuffle (get it? Never mind).  It appears there’s been a bit of a revolving door drummer policy since then, with this being ex-Threatmantic Huw’s second gig with the band.  You’d never guess.  They look complete with his addition, to the point where the drum machine seems almost obsolete.  The much busier drumming noticeably changes their sound too, now heavier, less minimal, but with the low-end thump leaving plenty of space for some very nice spidery, cheese-wire guitar lines from Rosie.  She’s the secret weapon here, instantly comfortable in her new role and genuinely startling at the set’s close when taking centre stage for a Lene Lovich-esque vocal turn amidst doomy synths and ‘Metal Box’ bass.  Sign the drummer up full-time, rethink the horrid oar-shaped headless bass (please) and greatness awaits.

Vivers: Extradition Order take a couple of songs to get the genitals going; possibly the dull skinny tie look and false rumour of London origins. Sorry. But a few songs in the realisation dawns that this band are going for the ‘garage autopsy’ approach, a tricky move that involves sounding like Thee Vicars or similar Nuggets-mainliners only slowed down to a treacly pace, 45s played at 33 and stabbed randomly. The generic instruments are strung out and disjointed and at times one band member’s playing seems to have no connection to the next. This is A Good Thing, especially when screaming is added on top. What’s going on? At the frazzled heart of Extradition Order there’s a lot of good stuff, buried like a body.

Keef: Two of Extradition Order, though thankfully not the drummer, return swiftly as part of the David Cronenberg’s Wife live experience.  Tom Mayne does Antifolk the way it should be done; affable and engaging in person, turned out in natty suit, bootlace tie and specs and resembling a less seedy Neil Hamburger, Mayne eschews snottiness or confrontation ensuring his lyrical barbs are all the more effective.

They’re allied to above-average tunes, too, whether drawn-out and dirgey Velvets/garage monologues allowing Mayne’s curdled wit to poke through or snappy, Fall-indebted rockabilly belters like the magnificent ‘I Couldn’t Get Off’.  Then, when you think you’ve got him pegged, he slips in a sweetly sincere acoustic cover of a tune by under-the-radar US Antifolker Phoebe Kreutz.  They wrap up in little more than half an hour, a perfectly judged close to a night of bands whose surface similarities reflect more on shared label I Blame The Parents’s quality control than any musical predictability.

No apologies for turning this one on its head.  Three fine turns here, but hats off to Cardiff’s favourite bar-room philosophers GINDRINKER who with this gig reach the milestone of their 100th ‘live action’.  A standing ovation from the pavilion is surely only right and proper.  Plus, it’s only taken them five-and-a-quarter years to do it, which is both quicker and more entertaining than Geoff Boycott.  There’s a split single with tonight’s other local heroes Joy Of Sex in the offing, and they’ve not played much lately so they’re liable to go off at a cracking pace.  Get there early.

DAVID CRONENBERG’S WIFE, for the uninitiated, mine the same bleak, sardonic lyrical seams as Gindrinker’s DC Gates.  Loosely affiliated with the UK Antifolk mob, but don’t be put off;  Tom Mayne’s songs are witty, provocative and occasionally even affecting.  Two fine albums and a clutch of singles are available, so bring funds.  Think The Fall, Clinic, Country Teasers.  That sort of thing.

EXTRADITION ORDER are indie art-punk from Warrington.  “Some of their songs are like the Fall on laxatives and some are like the Monks overdosing on Red Bull”, apparently.  Well!

JOY OF SEX have cooled their jets somewhat since their initial burst of gigging activity a year or so ago, one Joy Collective-sponsored shindig aside; this will be a neat reintroduction to their charms.  Nagging, insistant minimal post-punk nuggets with a spiky charm and a raised eyebrow.

DAVID CRONENBERG’S WIFE

‘bitterly humorous lyrics.. a mix of The Fall’s 80s rockabilly inspired ‘Grotesque’ and the Velvet Underground’ [NME on “Hypnagogues”]

EXTRADITION ORDER

‘it basically sounds like the Sonics… Sharp riffs, wibbling organ and a vocal best described as demonic; this actually sounds like it’s got the dust and scratches of 30 years in a bar-room jukebox ingrained into it’ [Manchester Music]

JOY OF SEX

“a wired, boggle-eyed take on the fuzzily taut Pixies/Wire dynamic with criss-crossing vocals, wrecked song structures and seeming stream of conscious while still meaningful lyrics” [Sweeping The Nation]

GINDRINKER

“Gindrinker created their own violent micro-climate, blazing through their set with customary belligerent zeal… a pair intoxicated with paranoia and convinced that the world won’t listen, but shouting-out anyway from lowly stages in the homes of the vain” [Huw Menear, UWIC paper]

Buffalo Bar, Windsor Place, Cardiff

Monday 5th April
8pm-3am
£5 entry

David Cronenberg’s Wife Myspace

Joy Of Sex Myspace

Gindrinker Myspace

Extradition Order Myspace

Yeah, this website co-promoted this gig. There’s no place for impartiality in music writing, so ner. All three bands could have sucked megalithically, and played in front of zero people. In the event this, er, halfway happened, but what a blast. Only 20 people may have seen Bird Names, but all who did went on to form long term relationships with the people standing next to them. Here are the fractured, vaguely chronological thoughts of the two Joy Collective bulbs hamfistedly manning the DJ booth…

The man onstage has a hoof… Where’s Eynon?… Ben Frost’s only eight minutes long, and really depressing… It’s calypso, not reggae… Can we borrow your guitar?… “He’ll be here in 20 minutes, Casey can play tape noise over the DJing until he gets here” “Great”… Can I play Squarepusher?… Man in fingerless gloves makes noise like a doll with its string pulled out… Chris Eynon enters building to a round of applause and sits with borrowed guitar. Tonight this is The Spines… Gel with sand in it… Nicely picked out notes, gentle interference, in love… “Will, you’re never allowed to pick supports again”… Broken Leaf thinks we don’t have any Broken Leaf. You should see his face… Good suits… “Are all these songs about sex?”… Liz wants to do more gigs with us. Why?… Joy Of Sex sexy sharks… “Why can’t I fancy the drummer?”… Impressive rolling bleak rock moves, now more impressive… December month of plenty always… Everyone’s awkward tonight… “Got any Abba or Leonard Cohen?”… There’s Bird Names soap on the merch stall… Excellent cardigan… “Is ‘To Hell With Good Intentions’ too indie disco?”… You’ve got glowstick fluid in your hair… This first song is like a carny carousel… They’ve got proper songs!… Someone’s trying to arrange an indie disco after the gig via text… Is this a waltz?… Funny little noises stop, start and get jammed out… Group of noisy ladies arrive at front, talk, sneer at band, audience, get asked by audience member to “fuck off to the back”, they do… Huggable crayon pop… I am buying that soap… Tunes triumph… Bluetones get yanked after 30 seconds by many hands… Clean up, scour future listings…

Seems to be a lot of looping going on at the moment. Seems to be a lot of looping going on at the moment. Seems – anyway. Sing hosanna if you’re a pedal manufacturer, and hold Tartufi‘s hand through their first gig outside America. A big pile of kit onstage but only two people: Lynne Angel, who flits between bass and guitar, and Brian Gorman, on drums and xylophone reacharound. They rock like ghosts in a musical instrument shop: notes rise from one source after another, get swirled round the air, mingled with moon howling vocals and stop start decibel bursts. Machines achieve sentience and write great, awkward, impressive stuff.

Hey Buffalo Bar, I know you’re the Shoreditch cunthole of Cardiff, but showing Edward Norton’s horrific racist killing from American History X on the projection screen made Marnie Stern‘s first number just a liiiitle but Nathan Barley for me. Good choice whoever. Stern’s stoned bumpkin demeanor creates too much discord with the technicolour pinpricks of her records, and things only resolve themselves halfway through the set, ‘Patterns Of A Diamond Ceiling’ spewed out loud and vengeful. An awesome ‘Vibrational Match’ is next, and all clicks from here on in, escape velocity reached through cranky art garage and furious and (yes!) looped fret tapping. It’s like Marnie Stern finally remembering she is Marnie Stern the positivity spangled, super ahead guitar freak. When she’s in the zone, these home runs knock themselves out.