No, I’ve never heard of it either. And if you walk along Crown Street in East Oxford without your wits about you, you’ll walk straight past it. The Winchester has a shadowy existence, having neither a reputation (for good or evil) nor even a sign. However, with the vital intelligence that “it’s above a pool hall” you may brave the door, unlike Kafka’s hero in ‘Before the Law’. In my case, I had the added clue of hearing Anton Barbeau‘s daft anthem to bananas floating out of the top window through the threatening humidity. With one exception, this was the best song of the night.
My Device are a high-voltage punk and hardcore trio from Brighton and of the three acts that I caught, fitted in best with the ‘Christ, what a heat, lets take all our shirts off’ atmosphere of this cloying, sweltering little room. Some comparisons with Fugazi came to mind, as well as the glory days of Black Flag, at least in the hectic energy and commitment to the performance. In addition they add a bit of pedal-stamping math rock to the mix and they are rather brilliant at what they do, even if the sonic assault allied to the blinding heat was rather overwhelming. There are a number of writers on this site who will love this band, but my attitude is that if I want to be assaulted I will do the conventional thing and wander around Lower Barton in a pink floral dress.
The Wookies took to the stage in their trademark beards and heavy brown suits, which must have been absolute torture, but they put on a spirited show, complete with waltzing lead guitarist. Their stock-in-trade is shouty, slightly camp prog-rock, with a brilliant keys player at the heart of everything good about the band. They fall down in two related areas: they possess three lead singers, but none are outstanding and perhaps due to their vocal limitations, are sorely lacking in memorable tunes. The exception is ‘In the Forest’, a mighty, breathless celebration of life and a fitting set closer.
King of Spain are named after Ashley Giles, a hangdog Warwickshire and England slow bowler of recent vintage. In his benefit season (that is, six months of legalised begging) he ordered a consignment of shirts bearing the logo ‘King of Spin’, but the type-setters had obviously been tanning the bevy and added an egregious ‘a’ to the last word. This had the ironic effect of turning Giles into a cult hero, with the crowds donning sombreros and strumming nylon-stringed guitars whenever the poor guy showed up at deep-fine-leg. Trust me that this story is a great deal more entertaining than the set put on by the tedious indie four-piece of the same name. Giles’ attritional style and workmanlike career are decent metaphors for the tiresome combination of lame rhymes (giraffe/laugh, anyone?), hackneyed lyrical themes (do we need yet more songs about chatting up birds in the boozer?) and enervated rhythms of this awful, awful band. I left after three songs, clutching a Magners in one hand and a saline drip in the other. Never again. Bring back the Port Mahon.