The next time Chris Eynon plays a gig I’m going to hire 400 people to stand at the front, screaming. Fast becoming the go to man for last minute, high quality support (January saw a hastily arranged appearance with a mysterious sidekick; tonight it’s to cover Geoff Farina’s bereavement-induced absence) Eynon’s music as The Spines is a nourishing dose of electric guitar playing, one man sat head down and sending notes in weird directions. It’s not exactly a banging visual spectacle but there a houseload of fun to be had in this restless music, Eynon plugging his lead into a different amp socket every few minutes, dials turned each song, and sounds drawn out that go from chugging and thrumming to languid and lovely. He never does find that Hendrix hole, but I’m screaming already (inside).
Already garnering feverish audience response is Ratatosk, another one man show, this one the vehicle for local collaborator Rhodri Viney’s overflowing talents. His approach is to spirit up many-tracked walls of beauty via multiple instruments and loop pedals, and the sparse crowd go suitably held-breath bonkers. For me though, the thought that won’t stop pinging round my tiny brain is how much the music resembles that of Bristol dude Matt Elliot: in the wrenched Spanish guitar, abject dystopian lyrics and wailed crescendos it’s almost uncanny in places. Matt Elliot being practically a deity it’s hardly a bad thing, merely distracting in the same way as lots of people throwing chocolate at you, or a really awesome elephant in the room. You can’t lose.
“When is it acceptable to punch a midget in the face? When he compliments your wife’s hair.” Chris Brokaw may look like a cute, windblown tramp but he radiates a quiet, innate quality that transcends his stage limitations (one voice, one acoustic) and bare crowd banter (and that joke was told to him by a 12 year old by the way). His new album with Geoff Farina, ‘The Angel’s Message To Me’, is a grand treasure box of standards and covers, and it’s a pretty fine testament to missing friends that so much of it gets played so well tonight. It’s the most gentle form of relentlessness I’ve seen: strummed or picked, endless goodness gets seasoned with Brokaw’s fresh-but-lived-in voice like some weary platter of, well, great acoustic guitar songs. There may have been songs from his former bands Come and Codeine, I couldn’t say. But when a middle aged man on the dullest of instruments gets you reeling inside, he can do what he wants.
