Visit Sedgemoor Union for all your aural needs...
It was bloody cold out, and the thought of spending Friday night in church did not inspire me - especially as my lapsed Catholic state may have caused some slight singe marks as I passed through those heavy wooden gates. Instead, I found a kind of luxurious and fancilly-clad New Trinity with the kind of decor and tit-bits usually reserved for a classy wedding reception. Even though I tend to think of myself as rather debonair, I was not redeemed my one pound discount as they did not consider me 'great' nor 'magnificent', such as the evening was entitled.
A soiree rather like a twisted school concert ensued. All the elements were there - choirs, accordions, orchestras, flapping projectors, even water-logged toilets. However, the acts were altogether more grown-up and demanded a lot more attention than the average bored school kid trying to get the last fizzy fish out of his sticky penny-chew bag.
First up was The Balkanized, a Euro-trad accordion trio entertaining us with stamping feet, Russian sounding chants and a nice line in 'whoop' and 'huzzah.' Would have complimented a meal of goulash and rum nicely. They got the reticent congregation warmed up.
Next up were the nervous church dwellers Sacred (or perhaps Scared?) Harp Choir, who revived some dead old churchy numbers and spiced it up with a few novelty hats. Got the feeling they were canvassing for Jesus. They probably need a few more performances outside of the parish confines to get more confidence.
Then there was the fantastico sound of Chikinki, who gladly ruined the evening's sober beginnings. Chikinki are the kind of band that can turn the heads of the most gig-chatting tyrant. You know, the sort who stand at the front and talk/guffaw at a frequency and volume that can be heard even above a Napalm Death gig.
They burst into their first song, 'Scissors Paper Stones' and dirtied the holy surroundings with a thumping, edgy electronica with sauntering bad ass drum n bass beats and a vocal delivery reminiscent of Mick Jagger at his most drug addled.
The fact that the band are wearing 'chocks away' moustaches doesn't take away from the fact that you may be witnessing one of the most exciting and odd bands around. Rupert, the lead singer, does a dance like a baboon doing the twist, his arse cocked out as if to balance his erratic jive, and Boris (keyboard-thumper/techno-fiddler) rushes around the stage like a mad professor desperately trying to put out a laboratory fire. The Chikinki experience is very good example of successful experimentation, with the audience catching them mid - 'Eureka', as the diverse mix of sounds comes together right before your ears.
They can go from gothic histrionics (Delivery 25) to happy-sad ballads (Dark Skies) to razor sharp mod catchiness. (Like It Or Leave It). I would suggest you catch them soon on their tour, (listings with Chikinki interview) as there is nothing more satisfying than seeing a band so ripe and ready to pop in the mouth of The Big Time.
To calm down the restrained frenzy left in the wake of Chikinki, the Morning Star Small Orchestra gradually busy themselves onto the stage for a set of beautiful cowboy blues. A quick head count finds around 18 members, including a brace of violins, trumpets, female backing singers and a double bass. The wall of exquisitely written and arranged orchestral sound swells around the room like a sweet full perfume, led by a guitarist/singer with a Chris Isaak deadpan delivery. It was a rare treat to see so many accomplished musicians using their talents for something other than the traditional classical orchestra - and the whimsical sadness of the music really suited the evening's magnificent theme.
Last on, (though I do not think was a fair headliner) was Rita Lynch and her band. A kind of poor man's Alanis Morrisette to Morning Star's thinking man's trumpet, she bawled her way through a set so dull it was impossible to find a defining point to anchor my dislike. Let's just say her thirty-something crises were only elevating the bohemian middle classes out of their chairs, whilst younger people looked on. And the uninspired rock backdrop acted as a worn-out vehicle with which to peddle her grievances. Trying, very trying.
The night was sewn together by a solo oddity known as Paul Bradley acting as compere and musical interlude. He was a one man band with his amazing live recording studio, building up layer upon layer of bluesy rock and Irish rap-poetry on his box of tricks, sometimes overbearingly noisy but fascinating all the same, especially when a local nutter resembling William Shakespeare in tweed decided to go and investigate the curious technology, peering at Bradley's box and asking him questions mid-set.
To sum up:
Not Great: Rita Lynch's musical problem page, Paul Bradley's screeches, Sacred Heart's religious tirade.
Magnificent: Chikinki's drum n bass arse waving, Morning Star Small Orchestra melodious sweet shop, The Balkanized cheery euro jaunt.