After that, discover [break to staple a comic] that pretty much the entire room is full of teenagers and mummies but fortunately I have the tiny sketchpad with me. I draw a picture for Merry Andrew -- fanart of his characters. Not the minicomic promised, but it's something...
Two songs into Wait for Coniston M. turns up to tell me who they all were and which bands they used to be in. Another blender band ... although I am enjoying it. A fairly soft wall of sound, kind of bouncy. A bouncy castle of sound. They have a singer, novel in this instrumental scene, and he's not bad. Although I do want to give him a kicking. Nothing personal, it's just that synaesthesic lass is digging all the incomprehensible dissonances and he keeps running this melody line that tries to make sense of it, and I'm not here for that. No sense, damnit. None of that shit.
(... oxfordhacker on synaesthesic lass: worst reveiwer ever.)
The final's detwiije. They play three tracks. Afterwards, the guitarist collapses in a heap by the stage door; when he's upright again, I go tell him it was worth it, which I'm sure goes down like a mouthful of ashes. Never mind, there's always one way to make it clear to artists that you really do think they're worth something [break to staple another comic] and so "Would you rather be followed by Forty Ducks for the rest of your life" goes home with me.
Via a rather circuitous route that takes in trick mountainbikers with overpumped wheels, the frontman of icelandic-ish band Eberg, Mr Bad-date-head-in-red-stripe and a very drunk man called Rim who was a bit too young to understand why we were all laughing at that.
Wait for Coniston (and what a great name that is) sound, Synaesthesic Lass says, a lot like Bezier curves. It took me a while to figure out what she meant by that, but once I saw it, it was obvious -- point, point ... adjust. They're also kind of yellow, and occasionally taste of toffee, or burnt sugar. That's just the undersound -- Syneasthesic Lass couldn't accomodate the singer, although he seemed nice enough to me. On a personal note, the drummer looked great. M. said he was left-handed, and that seemed to be the case. Some loose talk about forming a supergroup comprised entirely of sinister drummers ensued.
Then came detwiije. Synaesthesic lass sends congratulations [break to staple another comic] to detwiije; occasionally, a band's sound is dense and interesting enough that multiple bleedthrough occurs; that I get enough extra sensory muck that the brain panics and starts making stories out of the extra gubbins. My own stories, of course; detwiije have quite different names for these three tracks, but here's what I heard:
Track one: microlight flight (took in a vast badlands canyon, crashed before the track ended --- co-osmiic)
Track two: flyposting the desert (particularly striking for the repeated moving image of a car speeding into the distance on an empty highway, on all the flyposters, at the initial canyon's end, resolving from the actor's head as she dithered (dissolved) -- beautiful)
Track three: the barn (a bloody epic that kept taking the story to new and terrible places, under the uncomprehending gaze of farm animals, dust motes and the unforgiving plains -- brutal)
[break to staple another comic]Well, I'd best to bed now. Busy day tomorrow. I guess.