Post by Admin on Jul 19, 2011 10:23:51 GMT -5
Starla, Namesake, Eff-Sex
By Ali Swann
The Brickyard, Carlisle. Thursday 11th December 2003
In town, the Thursday Night Xmas Shopping is in full flow. Here, effort's been put into evoking some Christmas cheer - there's free sweets on the door and it's two quid in, ho ho ho. Who's first on? Well, if you don't know what Eff Sex are, then-
well-
let me paint you a picture: imagine The Music aping The Bloodhound Gang instead of regurgitating The Stone Roses. As heard through headphones, whilst taking a shit. In a packed lift.
Yep, that hideous. And just as entertaining. Where most bands may crave respect, fame, Single Of The Week in the NME, or even a fondle from one of the dollies off Hollyoaks, this lot will forever have to be content with the arse-end of any bill going on the Carlisle scene. They're the monkeys who gave up on typewriters. If all bands were like them, I'd give up on typewriters. And their frontman's like a monkey who just realised what consonants do, flinging verbal diarrhoea like he doesn't give a shit... which they clearly don't. All the tunes peter out two-thirds of the way through, and when their set also peters out two-thirds through, they hold a quiz. When they give the shit prizes out to their mates, they throw them back onto the stage. It's a chimps' tea party for both band and audience, a happy farce.
Namesake were hyped to me as the shit, funny (if not shit-funny) Anodize side-project. Thing is, unlike Eff Sex, they're not shit enough to be funny, and besides I'm generally not arsed about this angsty strain of Green Day/Offspring melodic punk. Namesake do however bear a trump card in that their singer's neither a snotty-adolescent Busted goon or a snotty-adolescent wannabe Billie-Joe Armstrong. Instead he puts honest heart into the melodies, hitting the right notes and lending them endearing maturity. This sits at odds with his custard pie in the face and his bandmate's Spider-Man costume though - maybe he just wants to have a dumbass party, as he climaxes the set stood soloing over the stage like Brian May astride Buckingham Palace. Well, it is his birthday, after all.
This is all very cheery, but I'm still left wanting and if I'd left then this review would never have made it to the page. Hooray then for the headline act: Starla bring a touch of class, and usher a fine chill in off the street - where the other bands try to banish the cold with slapstick stunts, these lot zip up their fleeces and implore us to snuggle closer while we wait for the gas man to come. They start proceedings with Silent Night, and lay down spectral tones from two keyboards that anchor the sound of their set, the tunes rocking gracefully like a drunken waltz on a windswept pier. Points of comparison? I hear traces of Sigur Ros in the vox, yet as a whole Elbow or Clearlake comes much closer to the mark. The dirges they nurture may not quite be epic, but they're ambitious, and Starla are assured enough to rein in the chatter and let the music convince. They're very nice, in a cold and longing way. They're so nice they acquiesce to doing an encore of Happy Birthday for Namesake's Richard, not so forlorn as to be too serious for the party.
By Ali Swann
The Brickyard, Carlisle. Thursday 11th December 2003
In town, the Thursday Night Xmas Shopping is in full flow. Here, effort's been put into evoking some Christmas cheer - there's free sweets on the door and it's two quid in, ho ho ho. Who's first on? Well, if you don't know what Eff Sex are, then-
well-
let me paint you a picture: imagine The Music aping The Bloodhound Gang instead of regurgitating The Stone Roses. As heard through headphones, whilst taking a shit. In a packed lift.
Yep, that hideous. And just as entertaining. Where most bands may crave respect, fame, Single Of The Week in the NME, or even a fondle from one of the dollies off Hollyoaks, this lot will forever have to be content with the arse-end of any bill going on the Carlisle scene. They're the monkeys who gave up on typewriters. If all bands were like them, I'd give up on typewriters. And their frontman's like a monkey who just realised what consonants do, flinging verbal diarrhoea like he doesn't give a shit... which they clearly don't. All the tunes peter out two-thirds of the way through, and when their set also peters out two-thirds through, they hold a quiz. When they give the shit prizes out to their mates, they throw them back onto the stage. It's a chimps' tea party for both band and audience, a happy farce.
Namesake were hyped to me as the shit, funny (if not shit-funny) Anodize side-project. Thing is, unlike Eff Sex, they're not shit enough to be funny, and besides I'm generally not arsed about this angsty strain of Green Day/Offspring melodic punk. Namesake do however bear a trump card in that their singer's neither a snotty-adolescent Busted goon or a snotty-adolescent wannabe Billie-Joe Armstrong. Instead he puts honest heart into the melodies, hitting the right notes and lending them endearing maturity. This sits at odds with his custard pie in the face and his bandmate's Spider-Man costume though - maybe he just wants to have a dumbass party, as he climaxes the set stood soloing over the stage like Brian May astride Buckingham Palace. Well, it is his birthday, after all.
This is all very cheery, but I'm still left wanting and if I'd left then this review would never have made it to the page. Hooray then for the headline act: Starla bring a touch of class, and usher a fine chill in off the street - where the other bands try to banish the cold with slapstick stunts, these lot zip up their fleeces and implore us to snuggle closer while we wait for the gas man to come. They start proceedings with Silent Night, and lay down spectral tones from two keyboards that anchor the sound of their set, the tunes rocking gracefully like a drunken waltz on a windswept pier. Points of comparison? I hear traces of Sigur Ros in the vox, yet as a whole Elbow or Clearlake comes much closer to the mark. The dirges they nurture may not quite be epic, but they're ambitious, and Starla are assured enough to rein in the chatter and let the music convince. They're very nice, in a cold and longing way. They're so nice they acquiesce to doing an encore of Happy Birthday for Namesake's Richard, not so forlorn as to be too serious for the party.