To over-extend the supermarket allusion of comperes Aisle16, combo gigs are usually something of a pic 'n' mix.
You have your old favourite, whose well-proportioned concoction and blistering zest always satisfies (the sherbet lemon). There’s the one that’s suspiciously fruity, on account of all those artificial flavourings, and though jaunty in taste, it makes you feel sick after a while (the chewit). There’s the flavour of the month whose novelty wears off once you realise there’s not much to it (the flying saucer). There’s the ill-conceived (the fried egg) and then there’s the assortment with one duff confection that lets the side down (all-sorts, the speckled blue ones). In my crumpled paper bag tonight, Swearing At Motorists were my sherbet lemon, Misty’s Big Adventure, my chewit, The Pistolas, my flying saucer, Technikov, my fried egg and, I’m sorry to say, Aisle16, my soiled assortment. Technikov As a band Technikov look disparate, and they sound it. There's the occasional grunt of gratifying noise, but their performance is lacklustre and it looks to have been a mutual decision. More village than garage. Aisle16 The way it works throughout the evening is that while the stage is set up for the next band, Aisle16 come up front and stir the crowd into social outrage - well, fluff anyway – stirs a touch brisk. Ordinarily, they’re a collective of five poets and a comedian, but presently they appear to number only three: Ross Sutherland (funny, ha-ha), Joel Stickley (funny, peculiar) and Luke Wright ((funny, not). Sutherland and Stickley stick to the verse but Wright, perhaps to compensate for the absence of their professional comedian, dabbles in alt-com and expires on his behind. To be fair, not that many people hang around for the clever wordplay, preferring instead to displace fluids – it’s never easy when half your audience is either walking or talking. Sutherland shines, appearing as a smooth, well-groomed operator delivering a nice line in functional, neatly-slotting-together surrealism, much like the Scandinavian appointments for which he has a predilection. Stickley is the opposite, hirsute and gothic, more broken and staggered in his delivery, but equally witty - Sleeping With The NME is worthy of note. Wright’s poetry too isn’t half bad, if a little more militant, but when he steps outside into prose, tonight at least, he’s as funny as river blindness. Swearing At Motorists Swearing At Motorists raise the musical bar, and then vocalist/guitarist Dave Doughman scissor kicks right over it.
Employing the same school of thought as Jack White (i.e. three is a magic number). They dispense with bass, Joseph Siwinski’s drums being the only accompaniment Doughman’s explosive lo-fi guitar sound needs. At times, the frenetic Doughman pogos like a bee-stung gazelle, ricocheting off the nonchalant Siwinski - the 'Two-Man Who’ tag is not far wrong. They strike a coup de grâce with Flying Pizza (the opener on 2000’s Number Seven Uptown) and bow out. The Pistolas The gauntlet laid down at The Pistolas’ feet, they answer a warm reception with a tepid set. The Pistolas are well known on the Norwich circuit, but this year's Next Big Thing winners, to me, smack of style over substance. The band are fine and Paul Dewbery’s guitar stands out, but I defy anyone to find a musical bone in Simon Buller’s body. In my opinion, his screams for attention are more like those of a toddler throwing a wobbly than anyone he aspires to be like. This detracts from the rest of the band - only once does Dewbery come to the fore and show swagger. Misty's Big Adventure Misty’s Big Adventure: they’re a bonkers bunch, aren’t they, eh? Crazy. The Birmingham collective put on a show of consummate musicianship and kooky nuttiness with a dancing man called Erotic Volvo in a red monk’s habit, with lots of blue hands stuck to it. They mosey their way through a set list of songs that rank somewhere not far from Madness, and way below The Flaming Lips and Talking Heads on the totem pole of artifice and invention. Over all, not a bad night - if you like that sort of thing - but not a great night either. Not wishing to be an absolute party-pooper, there was plenty of fun to be had elsewhere, in the bar, and the foyer, but not much of the sort that comes from watching a band play. Wombat Wombat took place at the Norwich Arts Centre on Friday 17 December 2004. | 
