The Sheffield Scenester

The Dancers At The End Of Time = monthly slew of things improvised, progressive, electronic, shamanistic and experimental, unified by free thinking and loyalty to creating sonic process before an easily commodified product.
The Grapes = long term willing host to the more left of centre approaches to popular music form.

To this point, myriad groups have operated under the “Dancers” banner, sometimes so fluid of membership that sound checks can involve numerous scratched heads whilst it is established who is actually part of the band for that night’s performance. Ergo, musicians turn up regularly in each other’s bands, lending the holistic whole as much a vibe of “pagan community gathering” as that of “music concert event”. The common link is sometimes the group’s defacto “curator” Ash (of whom more later). Tonight, however, Tim, (a.k.a The Loon, stalwart of Sheffield Live Radio) has a hand in all three bands on display, the melodic brainstem of each operation, whatever instrument he plays.

To commence, a fine fine debut from Velvet Rose, Tim on piano and a flame haired Rachael Edmondson on sax/vocals. She looks street savvy new waver but plays and thinks like a harmelodic student of Coltrane, precise spiraling refrains that leave much space for Tim’s piano reveries, dipping in and out of dissonance and serenity. She is leader though, flashing occasional glares at her partner if he tries to take her somewhere she doesn’t want to go. She sings too, caramel rich soulful voice, accruing extra poignancy in a sparsely populated room. She’s singing for herself but directly to you - a strangely fractured and discordant version of My Funny Valentine, to me, sums up that relationship perfectly.

Next, “ambidelics”: Mother Of Vinegar, 4-way blend of shamanistic bass, electronics, recorder, vocal gesturing, percussions, onstage mixing and hyper-interactivity. A simmering anger infests the first fifteen minutes - rafts of tension from synth and bass. Vocalist/taliswoman Lynn swings things about her head and babbles in whispered tongues of personal origin. Plaintive recorder sears the gloom, and onstage engineer/edifice constructor Mark makes forays into his team’s positions with two microphones, the sounds collected in which come out the other end of his mixing desk smashed and reconstructed into multiple layers which the band then proceed to alter course and follow, if you get my meaning. Mark’s role gives the whole, whether of ambient or unrestrictedly noisy nature, the unity of sonic, but each member provides the odd impression of experiencing the same thing on four separate levels: Monastically attired Ash, a study in concentration, Tim cross-legged on the floor shamanizing via the bass, Lynn dragging them skywards with hollers and howls, while Mark handles strategic developments with each calm flick of his mixer. A scathing sound, restrained but unruly. At one point, the bass plays a shanty-esque riff and the collective sound becomes like the inside of a stomach on a rough sea voyage around Cape Horn. Suddenly, Ash is behind drums, a cyclical electronic sequence breaks out and a scallified Tangerine Dream have just walked in and begun to pound away at us for the closing five minutes. Never less than a most unusual and engaging half an hour, an object lesson in the maxim: improvisation is about listening, and the right blend of people….

Finally, Einstein: a move to the “steadier”(?) waters of 70s style prog rock. Four long format live jam sessions with resemblance to the climbing of a mountain; get so far, plateau, pause, gather and then unleash energy for the next ascent, repeat, upwards, repeat. Tim, again, seated and watchful, playing Rhodes style organ chords this time whilst around him all shreddy hell breaks loose from the dueling guitars drenched in feedback and wah, tom-toms pounded with mallets and hair flailing around each ecstatic phrase. The two guitarists, clearly seasoned compadres, grin at each other a lot, perhaps attempting to implant in each other notions as to where the next movement ought to go. The first jam builds for no less than thirteen giddy minutes. By the second, motoric drums and thwanging bass are leading the charge, dancing (of sorts) has broken out among the, still sparse-ish, audience, onstage legs are planted some distance apart and yes, there is a genuine throb of bloodful, salacious energy about them, of the sort only a euphoric 70s proggy rock sound can attempt to inspire, probably. Total absorption, and it gets louder and louder through phases two and three. Howls of approval from the floor give them more impetus, strong red light flexes off an appropriately sunburst guitar in stage centre….revisiting older forms with the minds and energies of the young, for good or ill. For one wah-wah stained solo, the revelation of a knee length sock of rainbow colouration on the guitarist’s “wah-wah” leg, is almost astonishing. Solo complete, the trouser leg is artfully replaced around the lower limb.

Then, their coda, more sedate, perhaps needfully so. Sweat has been spilling for about an hour now. Their sound’s success is only really quantifiable during performance, before and after rendered obsolete. A momentary lapse of reason is demanded. For Einstein it is time to regroup before the next rock face of rock is scaled.

Words/Photos by Malcolm Lewis