M U S I C

Fans of this French sixpiece may be disappointed if they expect more of the same dreamy textured swirls in evidence on 1995's singles compilation Refried Ectoplasm. Emperor Tomato Ketchup comes more from the planet of pop than the world of swirl, but that doesn't make it superficial. The focus of Stereolab's delicate, precise blend of electronic and organic has shifted from an even, unfolding flow to an unpredictable bag of rhythmic tricks that just cry out for the word 'quirky' to be applied to them (much as the hapless reviewer may resist).

It may seem throwaway at first, but it's all been put together with infinite thought, care and social conscience. The lyrics belie the music (the ones in English anyway), packed as they are with insights into life, society and philosophy. It makes all the difference to some songs; for instance, the simple philosophy of 'Motoroller Scalatron' transforms it from an inane pop song into something endearingly akin to a left-wing nursery rhyme (though I'd like to hear the five-year-old that could negotiate those syncopations).

Stand-out tracks for me would be the opener, 'Metronomic Underground' -- simple, sweet and sinister (unfortunately also verrrrry long and repetitive); the bubbling bass of 'Percolater'; 'The Noise of Carpet', an upbeat railing against fashionable apathy; the thoughtful circularity of 'Tomorrow is Already Here', and the low, hypnotic groove of 'Anonymous Collective'.

Evening Standard, 10 July, 1996

PALMERSTON North on a rainy Thursday night is not the most swinging of places, as the members of Syzygy discovered when they took to the stage and found that they outnumbered their audience. By the end of the second song, however, the audience had quadrupled in number (reaching double figures!).

I've never really been into jazz, under the impression that it's a cold, intellectual, fiddly kind of music with no guts. But after seeing Syzygy I'm prepared to totally rethink my preconceptions. This was compelling, evocative music with more drama than Alice Cooper - and guts? You could practically see them spilling out all over the stage.

But it's not all that accurate to simply label what Syzygy do as "jazz": there's a lot more to it than that. Imagine if jazz went out for a drink with Jimi Hendrix in a giant metropolis, got chased down dark alleys by crazed mutant aliens, sought refuge in an opium den, and woke up in the gutter with a tattoo it didn't remember getting - that might be closer.

Individually, the members of Syzygy are extremely talented. Bassist Paul Dyne was in complete control of the slippery rhythm that wriggles out of your grasp just when you think you've almost got hold of it; Geoff Henderson does things with his saxophone that I didn't know were humanly possible, taking the lead in most of the songs, and Joe Callwood's guitar spookily echoed him at times, with lots of noodling and even some melodramatic distortion. Chris O'Connor's drumming was dynamic and inventive, but better when other people were playing too; and John Bell on vibes (vibraphone, that is) added a softer tone, filling out the sound.

Together, they make a formidable quintet. Sometimes it came across a bit like five people in a jazz-off contest, all trying to out-hemi-demi-semiquaver each other, but it would always come back in together again with a soaring cohesion. Part structured and part improvised, the freeform bits were sometimes a little obvious - but if you couldn't tell they were making it up, what would be the point?

Highlights of the set were the aptly-named Demented Thing No. 1, which I'm not even going to try to describe, and and the more gentle Trees. Syzygy have a CD of that name coming out which will be well worth looking out for.

So much for a dead night in Palmy - all you had to do was close your eyes and you could spend the evening hurtling down the wild dark streets of Syzygy's imagination. More!

Evening Standard, 17 July, 1996

It was Inter-Generational Angry White Boy night at the Wild Horse last weekend: four all-male bands ranging across the age spectrum belted out an evening's worth of solid guitar aggro.

Local band Simnock were first up, on their inaugural excursion out of the garage. I'll admit I was dubious at first, but it's impossible not to like a band that describes itself as "ignorant heavy rock" (although I'm sure I distinctly heard the word 'deconstruction' mentioned at least once).

Next was Wellington's Cowcatcher, another pleasant surprise. They produced an intensely rhythmic cacophony, an excellent combination of extremely loose and extremely tight, served up with entertaining stage presence and liberal lashings of irony. Very original, very together, very cool.

Unfortunately The Warners - four aging rockers who look like they shouldn't even know each other - didn't go down quite so well. The crowd was less than receptive. "It's hard being so good looking," said the seedy Elvis clone singer, struggling to retain cred. His spiel and accompanying song about how he used to be really negative all the time, but now has seen the light and changed his ways, didn't help. If The Warners could have taken their own advice and changed their musical ways, they might have had a chance. But no, they've found their 80s bogan punk niche and they're sticking in it. The last couple of songs went a fair way towards saving them, but overall The Warners came across as more sad than angry.

But all that became less than irrelevant when Canadian legends NoMeansNo took the stage. This is punk at its cleverest. The lesson here for angry white boys with musical aspirations is that the best way to express intense rage is not necessarily with volume and aggression; it's with humour, irony, phenomenal talent and pure joy in the delivery. I mean, here's a grey-haired guy in his forties who wouldn't look at all out of place in an advertisement for building supplies, playing extremely hard extremely fast bass and singing a full-on song about bodybags, and all with a huge grin on his face like he's at the best barbecue of his life. What can I say but they're awesome; and this being their second visit to tiny-on-the-other-side-of-the-world Palmerston North makes NoMeansNo two of the best bands I've seen.

Evening Standard, 24 July, 1996

All three members of the Butthole Surfers, according to guitarist Paul Leary, "come from the same place of just hating what we heard, and wanting to make something that was even worse that people would hate even more and somehow get paid for it."

It's an ambition they've certainly fulfilled. Lots of the Buttholes' early albums were certainly bad in the conventional sense -- so loose, perverted and generally twisted they were in a class of their own. Unfortunately on Electriclarryland, the Buttholes' latest major label venture, they're just plain bad.

There's some back-to-basics punk that's all right, there's a hummable hip-hop-esque single, and then there's lots of inane, horrible crap.

The Buttholes have always had a reputation as a band that extends an irreverent middle finger at the Rock Establishment; and with Electriclarryland, they're continuing to do so by the cunning manouevre of getting it to pay them heaps of money for making no-effort crap music. The end result is that said Establishment also makes piles of cash for itself, and the Buttholes get to extend that middle finger at all their fans.

It's a win-win technique: thousands of suckers will buy it and enjoy it because the industry tells them to; old fans get to sneer "sell-outs" and savour their self-righteous scorn; and both band and record company are laughing all the way to the bank. The only loser is the music.

You've got to admire their audacity, but that doesn't mean you have to like the album. Then again, maybe I should just get a sense of humour.

Evening Standard, 15 November, 1996