ashryn’s gallery

In the absence of starters-to-be Desertship, the void was filled by el Cid a trio of drums, guitar and laptop. Never saying a word, they played an expansive set of spacious, overdriven instrumental rock. Songs were announced via colourful laminated title cards, placed on a music stand that faced the sitting audience at the Swan’s bar; they were they only point of contact with the punters, speaking for a drummer who felt his way through the set with his eyes closed and a guitarist who kept his focus firmly fixed on his guitar. And rightly so; it was a lovingly-restored 1960s left-handed Maton Firebird in classically contoured glossy red. The curious switch-and-dial covered beast spat feedback and echoey noisescapes that ranged from stompy to cosmic. el Cid, more than any other band on the night, had the greatest command over their material.

Funk-rock five-piece Hearts Moustache brought the lion’s share of supporters to the Swan, along with a couple of snazzy poncho/sombrero outfits that had travelled directly from a mate’s 21st birthday party. From the get-go it was obvious that they had a youthful purity of approach to their groove-craft and enough raw talent to use it.

With an insanely unaffected fender guitar attack coming from both sides of the stage and an unassuming singer with killer pipes (but modest mic-control technique), the Moustache were capable and likeable but unpolished. When they get more gigs under their belts and are less beholden to their influences, they’ll be pure magic. At this show they suffered from a sound that was heavy on bass and light on snare, plus a few derivative tracks.

They had the goods to get people dancing though, but no punters were up to the challenge. All up, they look like a band that’ll do very cool things in the studio, but whose smarter subtleties are being lost in a live mix. Their pure potential was confirmed in the last song, which was a ripper and will be golden if they ditch the intro-reprise at the end.

The band of honour, Hypnogogia brought their diverse and well-humoured sprawling rock to a somewhat emptier room. “Hello, we’d like to pretend we are a band,” was a greeting that announced their tongue-in-cheek attitude. The instrumental opening tune Hashish came across like an eerie western soundtrack showdown. From there, the vocal numbers began and the drummer switched from beaters to regular sticks. Walkin round the city streets lookin’ at stuff sounded like a twisted form of reggae with no hint of the Caribbean; a bedsit-reggae if you will, with a hint of the epic about it. Visually, Hypnogogia were as disparate as the other bands. They used tiny practise amps; their instruments ranged incongruously from a pointy black Ibanez (used for bone-dry un-metal tones) to a classy, classic well-rounded wood-grain bass.

There was nothing cohesive about their stage presence, save for a shared outlook and a cool lack of pomposity. Everyone bar the drummer took a turn at singing, suggesting they all have a hand in songwriting and explaining their hodgepodge of styles. Hypnogogia are willing to try anything, and even though their strike rate can be spotty, when they hit on something it is definitely worth it. Dirty Caveman Blues was a prime example: it was evil, enthralling and discordant, containing rare glimpses of one of the greatest Zeppelin-esque riffs ever. It proves that when everything comes together for them, Hypnogogia give you something few others could.

Taken in total though, their set went from terribly earnest third-rate garage band (with off-pitch warbling and out of tune guitars) to clever, animated and inspired insight. Killer moments of melody and riffery sit within stumbling, misdirected tomfoolery. Are they sloppy, grinning slacker-geniuses or idiot-savants?

The night ended as it should’ve begun, with Corona Sky arriving late to perform their last-minute-recruit duties as openers, filling in for Desertship. In a nutshell, this young trio (of possible grunge-revivalists) was almost half cover-band (anyone for Collective Soul tunes?) and all garage band. They were plagued by tuning problems and inexperience, but rocked as hard as they could in their Ramones and Hendrix t-shirts. During the fourth tune things fell apart for them timing-wise as well, but they soldiered on. Following up with Scream, they confirmed that although they should probably stick to playing at mates’ house parties for now, watching them was better than heading home. Euphoric Blade injected the first sign of groove, mixed with punk, and was followed by another extended tuning break. With seven people left indoors watching, things drew to a hard-working but anti-climactic close after a few more numbers. The beauty of it was that the Swan is around to give we the punters (and young bands like The Corona Sky) an opportunity to drink beer and to alterna-rock as much as we please.

ashryn’s gallery