Having a Quiet One

Have you ever lied to a co-worker or hairdresser that you had "a quiet one"? Maybe because you couldn't be bothered explaining what you actually got up to, or perhaps because you just knew you couldn't do justice to the special picture held in yr memory? I had both last week.

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Last Thursday night I joined an audience of no more than a dozen people in the poky basement of Tongue and Groove, where the stage was pushed back so that the bands played almost in the round between the other musicians' equipment and the awkwardly placed poles.

Local improvisers Blank Realm played first and were surprising as always. They started with their backs to each other crouched over guitar pedals, keyboard, bass/amp and a whistling doolackey covered with knobs, noodling and occasionally coming into chorus like a group of elderly people struggling collectively to remember some haunting tune from 70 years ago. The players and their drone rose until they bust through the clouds to peaceful weightlessness before... floating there for a little while. And singing. It was unexpected and very nice. Before they crashed down into - and here's the surprising part - a groove, of sorts. They weren't exactly chooglin' but there were no wave kinda drums and you could nod yr head and tap yr toes. They progressed through several movements and while their mental connection was palpable - I was impressed to learn that none of the parts were pre-written - instead of the set as a whole having some compelling form what remains in memory is a series of moments: a Jah Wobble bass riff; an accidentally polyrhhythmic guitar loop; piercing keyboard scree; ethereal singing; the pounding climax and unpretentious tail off. Heroically, one of them went straight to his night shift.

I went home to have some ice cream and do the washing up and came back to find Anonymeye (for whom this gig was a foreign tour fundraiser) plucking two acoustic guitar strings while fingering his laptop to produce digital rumble, which he cut off abruptly as he said "Thanks". I guess he sets up quickly.

Unlike the Realm, Secret Birds clearly worked out their parts if not the whole set beforehand judging by the 10c-sized turns and meaningful looks when cues were missed. Whittled down to a power trio of dblack and two kids he enticed by waving a bag of weed (just kidding: two talented musicians I didn't recognise) they performed A Celebration of The Riff In Rock Music With About Five Sweet Examples. The guitar channelled Sabbath via Sonic Youth with high melodic bass and syncopated drums straight from a '70s place somewhere between Faust and Santana. Crucially, the riffs were sweet. The band - but mainly the guitarist and his pedals - explored each one thoroughly, only going a bit long on one occasion. Perhaps the constant shapeshifting that keeps Secret Birds surprising for us also keeps it fresh for them because their effort was commendably disproportionate to the number of people in attendance. Unfortunately, I couldn't stay for Collapsicon.

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Friday night was even more intimate. In a bookshop I didn't even know existed, three orphic musicians reclaimed the descriptor "singer-songwriter" from the jaws of Cerberus before a seated, friendly crowd. Try that one out at the watercooler.

Helen sang gentle songs of empathy and ecstasy (not the kind discussed here in a previous post) with a timeless voice accompanied by graceful guitar, in a style somewhere between a folk lullaby and a spiritual. Just what I needed, and still do - one hopes for a record.

Brutal Hate Mosh is not a metalcore or oi-punk band. It is a drunk young woman fiddling with her ipod, laughing and occasionally singing along or strumming a guitar and it was as great as it could have been terrible. "Tell your girlfriend you've got gingivitis," she sang, kneeling on the floor and drumming on her chair. When you can express your lust for life through that sort of nonsense and chuck a Cat Power without being obnoxious, you're great.

Personality-wise, Harriet from Melbourne was the polar opposite of Ms Mosh. She was the sound of a person curled up under the covers, singing softly to herself in an old-time warble, one arm emerging to pluck a detuned guitar. As singular and special as this was it was also depressing. I exited, still quietly buzzing from the first two acts.

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This weekend promises to be eventful. The Tongue and Groove is bound to be a much tighter fit when No Anchor aweigh tonight and everyone should check out the launch of new indie dance night "Stolen" at the Step Inn on Saturday. Now and then, though, it's nice to have a quiet one.