23/02/2006
I’ll apologise now if this review sounds a little hazy and made up. It probably is.
I have had to go away and come back to this review and 3 weeks on and it seems like it was a long time since we were at the 12 bar for the Winter Festival. Anyway, enough waffle, it’ll be time for the next one if I carry on.
So, to the night in question, despite a mad dash down Tottenham Court Road I didn’t make it to see Brother Clunk, although for the first half hour I was at the 12 bar I thought that the night began with a mad dash up Tottenham Court Road just in time to watch Brother Clunk to an already packed out 12 bar. But the fact is that amidst feelings of aren’t I brilliant? Isn’t he brilliant? Isn’t antifolk just brilliant?
As the set came to an end I found out that I had been watching JS all along (surely I should’ve recognised him from Angels Fight the City, obviously not.)
Needless to say the first act that I saw was a brilliant start to yet another brilliant Antifolk night.
Crushed together on the tiny stage Albino were next on, all together the group were excellent, throughout their set it strongly reminded me of something but I could’nt for the life of me think what.a bit like the band in a film or something? Answers on a postcard.. Strong on guitar ‘The religious song’ (“Can I get a Hallejlullah?”) got the whole crowd singing. It was not long ago that Paul Hawkins was playing his first Antifolk gig at the 12 bar, since then he’s become a big hit, and Albino recognised this by playing tribute to Paul. I bet he was proud!
I had been looking forward the chance to see Larry Pickleman again and when I took to the stage I was not disappointed. Like a comic version of Beck. The man is genius. The song about a cat in a bag is always a giggle.
I have yet to see a review of Spinmaster Plantpot that does’nt make reference to his height, so I’m not going to leave it out either. What he lacks in height he makes up for in volume songs about Jesus on his mobile, and a cover of James Blunt and trust me, how you’re imagining it sounded, it didn’t. Let’s just say you had to be there.
For those who haven’t seen Filthy Pedro recently (or at all) he has now teamed up with new kid on the block (I am REALLY sorry for the bad joke. My head said no, but my fingers typed it anyway) Thee Intolerable Kid, who added a new slant to Filthy’s set.
Misterlee looked very drunk. not sure whether to play fast or slow. They set the atmosphere with a lamp, the music was beautiful later the mood set off to country style.
David Cronenbergs Wife. Tom as usual was dancing. I was told by Larry Pickleman not to concentrate on DCW. But the nakedness. For those who were’nt in attendance, Tom got naked – but left his belt on. How can I not go on about it! Oh yeah, and the music was good too.
At each festival there is a girl who will make you jealous of her beautiful singing and lyrics, this time round it was newcomer Leila Music. A brilliant voice that I hope to hear more of in the future
One voice I hoped NOT to hear more of in the future was Paul Hawkins. Am I sure? Of course not. I was attempting another joke –which for future reference I should stop, I’m rubbish at them.
It’s not so long ago that Paul was a newbie to Antifolk. No longer the new kid he entertained us confidently with his unique and whimsical songsmithry and has moved onwards and upwards
I completely missed Kid Sister Phoebe. I’m rubbish!
As we reach the end of the night, those who have stuck around til the wee small hours are rewarded with the subtle reflective poetry of Thee Intolerable Kid. The gentle strums and lullaby like quality of his songs are enough to send us floating off home in a much contented state. Tonight he demonstrates his ability to write delicate compositions that sit perfectly in this darkened room played to a small appreciative crowd at 2.30 in the morning. Lucy joins him onstage for a quiet duet, and then he leaves us with the haunting slow lines. 'shed your skin, and dance around in your bones'.
That was worth staying for.
Review by Helen Irvine, Photo's by Dedee W.
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