I saw my friend The Photographer just in the street on the way to the Tchai Ovna this evening, she really likes the place, likes the character. In the past six times I've been, after asking for my tea, I've waited patiently but the tea never comes. I had tea here a while ago, yogi tchai, my favourite, but the service, it doesn't serve. I wish it did, I really do, but well, I've give up on my tea ever coming. And for a tea shop, that's kind of bad.
The first act here tonight, My Kappa Roots, played so quietly I couldn't hear anything, guitar and whispers, even with a microphone, it was too quiet and didn't carry to the back of the room.
The final dramatic chord, possibly a 'G', was nice, but nothing special.
The second chap on, Morgan's Orange, was the opposite, a loud brash American, wandering about with his Cat in a Hat guitar. I was going to find nice things to say about him, but...
He seemed rude to the serving folk here, said he wouldn't swear and swore in the next few songs and his guitar was out of tune halfway through and never got fixed.
Sub-Tom Snowball surrealism, ten-a-penny campfire guitarist, too many weird noises, warblings and animal naming.
He held the crowd enraptured with cheeky asides and giggling, a travelling bard of a Ben Folds.
Another sea-change as next up is Ceyland, wee young girl sat up front, nervous with a twelve-stringer and the voice of an angel, doing the wailing thing too and it working. Neat dynamics on the guitar.
I dunno, seemed a bit pastoral, maybe its deepest blues maybe folk, I dunno the describing words. Check out the MySpace and figure it for yourself.
Maybe she could have done with a setlist.
Ooh, the Drive Carefully crew are here, and iamchemist
Not sure who the next chap was, he seemed awkward on stage, I think Ceylan introduced him to me as George, but he could be performing as The Owls. Stood at the front, quiet finger picked guitar, vocals drifting in and out. Neatly finished by ratehr than singing a verse, he explains what happens in it.
Oop, it seems I've stolen someone's seat, at an empty table, they'd nipped out for a half hour long cigarette. Aw man, I think I vaguely know them, ah well, there goes another MySpace Friend.
Oop, three folk on stage now, the first American chap, Ceylan and some deep voiced Nick Cave impersonator. Rather good really, I wish I'd listened to more of Nick Cave's stuff when I were younger. Oop, the guy singing has gone a bit Screamin' Jay Hawkins on us.
I didn't notice at first, but the awkward chap, George, is up playing too, crouched on the floor with a Casio.
Some way behind me, Adam Plimpton and Paul from The Martial Arts are muttering about their forthcoming Easter Sunday Plimptons gig, it should be rad.
Crikey, its all coming together on stage. The first American chap doesn't seem so offensive, awkward George seems comforatble in his role, the girl's wailings are perfect backing for Screamin' Jay. The elctrified acoustic guitar giving a neat drone before the dynamic vocal crescendos.
Paul doesn't seem convinced, "The ghost of Will Oldham would be shaking his fist saying 'it wasn't supposed to be like this'", but then he did get in for free. I thought it was okay even though I paid.