So, how long do we have to stand in this queue?Well, everyone in Oxford wants to see the no confidence debate. Unless their lack of confidence rests with the Union not with the Government. But don’t worry; by Trinity everyone will have remembered that the Bridge is the place to be on a Thursday, and the only people queuing in the rain on St. Michael’s street will be for the homeless shelter next door.
I heard it’s the world’s most famous debating society and invites amazing speakers.It’s certainly unique: where else is ‘librarian’ actually a desirable position? And you do get to see amazing world figures (and Jordan) shamelessly plug their new autobiographies. But nevertheless to my mind it’s still nothing on the Norwich Union.
What is the difference between the Union and OUSU?Left wing OUSU faces regular criticism for supporting Bolivian basket weavers above the interests of real students, while the Union, where politics can be divided into the right wing and the wrong wing, is slammed for cradling delusional basket cases above the interests of real students. If they appreciated their common disdain for the actual Oxford undergraduate the relations of the two institutions would be improved immeasurably.
I might be interested in getting involved. Who actually runs the union?The fat man on the door at speaker meetings. And he answers to Moscow. The elected officer’s responsibilities extend to sweeping up vomit after the termly balls-up, and working through their stalker-like tendencies by writing repeatedly to celebrities.
But do the officers get a lot out of it?Certainly. Not least the popularity they always craved at school. Any self respecting hack will have hundreds of friends, and at least five of them won’t be just on facebook. And if you harbour an ambition to be a nineteenth century Conservative politician the Union is undoubtedly the best place to start.
When do the elections happen? In 7th week, to allow the inevitable Tribunal to be settled by the end of term. Most Union elections offer more slates than Blaenau Ffestiniog, malpractice to rival a Hogarth painting, and a turnout lower than LMH’s position in the Norrington table.
What about Presidential Drinks? They sound fun: how should I go about getting an invitation?Well, that skirt is probably a start. But if that fails you’ll have to pay off the Abumafia like the rest of us. Once there you will swill gin and tesco value tonic from a plastic beaker, listen to various violent proposals for dealing with asylum seekers, and watch a fifty-something backbencher lure a upwardly mobile seccie to his hotel room with promises of work experience. At least by 3am you’ll be able to see who is really on the (still) standing committee.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005
Passe Notes: The Oxford Union
Figs, Figures and Figureheads
I TAP the change in my pocket loudly, brass ripples in a brown cotton puddle. Inside my head there is a dog tied to a post outside at night, waging its tail, waiting, abandoned with its tongue out. Thought is night. "The letter opener is mightier than the pen son," remember that.We sit in my father’s study as I look past the meniscus of the window to the darkening stencil of the trees, their varicose veins molesting the dimming clouds. The figs look back at me as eyes do from behind a lowered newspaper. Wallace composts. Mary speaks. Her long, dark wet hair drawn backwards over the collar of my mother’s white dressing gown – as sacred and as seldom as a dampening wedding dress. "Thanks so much for letting me stay." "I think it’s a good idea," I reply. A moth beats its dusty spinnakers into the fire – in love with light or petrified of dark. She glances at my father’s record player, its tinted box smattered with the parrots pure white deletions; it’s aluminum synapse dormant next to the rings of Saturn at a funeral. Her gaze rests upon my father’s bulging black journal that lies; a hunted whale beached on a sand of blue blotting paper. She turns its barred teeth into a flick book with the hard part of her thumb. "Was your father a writer?" "He was a character."He loved writing. He rained a swimmable pool of ecstatic ink. Plunging in with his billowing, squid like pen. But I just read his eyes – his eyes said it all. "My name’s Mary, by the way," she says casually as a leaf from my father’s journal mesmerizes her. "What’s your last name?""Flag. Look at this," she says holding a page out to me. My eyes digest the yellowing biscuit of history into energy. I see a list of trees my father had planted and the people he had dedicated them to. My wife Mary – All of the fig trees, 1971…My father – Mountain Ash, 1971, next to my mother… My mother – Eucalyptus, 1971, next to my father…My old friend from London Zadok Guthrie – Copper Beach, 1974…near the water mains…Mungo Milemould – Ceder, 1975, next to the ditches…My son – Beech, 1983, the highest point in the orchard…Gwyneth Woodbine – Twisted Hazel, 1986, next to the fig tree with the pregnant bulge…Ben Pigeon – Pink Horsechesnut, 1982, the barn owl nests in the branches…Jasper Waterhouse – Cherry, 1996 near the drains…Vincent Moon – Sycamore, 1997, in line with the new electric pylons…Maggie Demant – Japanese Mapel, 1997, the same direction as Japan, so that she knows that we miss her…Lucia Casterbeljac – Pussy Willow, 1998, behind the house.I had no idea. My father’s moon coral. His cast. "Inside each tree, son, there is one circle for every year and you know what they signify?" "What do they signify Dad?" "The end of the chapter. Like a book." "Like a book Dad?" "Daddy," he corrected. "What does "signify" mean Dad?"I sit amazed, my pupils dilating onto my face."Did you know he’d named all the trees?""No.""Sounds quirky and lovely."A détente.Mary speaks like a clattering quietness, "I have to go to the land of nod, they need me there…where am I sleeping?""Up the stairs and to the right, I’ll show you.""I’m sorry in advance if I wake you up, I walk and talk as much as I do when I am awake. I am a nightmare.""I could sleep through a boat load of grand pianos hitting the house!" I say as I close her door.I fall off the branch of my mind into my cold bed. The house creaks like the moon is resting on the roof. My lids submit for hours until I am jerked awake, my shop door left ringing. Mary is asleep on top of me. I know she is asleep because she is snoring…and talking. Our skins stick like cashmere on velvet, saliva on tongue. She lifts herself up so that her necklace tickles my nose. It glints in the blue sun of four AM. She moves like the metal splints that govern the wheels of old steam trains do and as softly as warm water moves over warm water. I feel something new. "Don’t ever wake people up when they are sleep walking son it’s dangerous." "What about sleep-sexing Dad?" She surged and slumped and I lay perplexed, terrified, submissive. She got up and lilted out of the room – her slender frame, a picture, moving from side to side as she shrank to the noise of two woolen socks on polished planks again. I sleep in shadows, but they are just the absence of shining.We sit in the kitchen as the sun’s spines puncture the corners of the room, the small crackling television showing pictures of bears fighting. The diodes wink with the blood of the smaller bear. I wonder if Wallace has turned into oil yet? My aching thighs remind me of my dream. Mary can’t remember hers, "I never can," she says, "Oh no! I didn’t wake you up did I, I woke my Mum up by singing once!" "I slept like the dead," I assure. Her teeth sink towards each other through the crumbs of fig-on-toast. She glances at the crossword, "Hmm…What’s the plural of vagina?" she says through a mouthful of my father’s dying wish. "You’ve got something in your teeth," I say.Figs, Figures and Figureheads continues next weekARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005
Building a reputation
Think of the one-man band and if you’re like me you’ll think of Dick van Dyke’s Bert in Mary Poppins, stamping and flapping his way around the streets of London. Chances are you
won’t think of Thomas Truax. But you should. Having just played at
Glastonbury this year for four nights in a row in the Lost Vagueness
Chapel, the eerily voiced troubadour hit Oxford on Tuesday and on
Wednesday night was featured on Radio One in a one-man band special.
And this one-man band is special. “I was just fed up of working with
live drummers” he drawls, “it kind of came about organically”. Truax decided that as a
substitute for unreliable bandmates and to fulfil his musical needs,
he’d design and construct his own instruments. And these are no normal
instruments, but rather the Cadillac Beatspinner Wheel, the Hornicator,
the Backbeater and his latest addition, Sister Spinster.“She’s retired actually”, he says lovingly of the Cadillac BeatspinnerWheel, a “Flintstones-era drum machine” whose primary feature is a
small motorised bicycle wheel that rotates, clacking, clanking and
chiming its way past various musical
adornments on its frame. In fact she’s been usurped, her throne taken
by Sister Spinster, a similar but smaller contraption. “I made Sister
Spinster mainly because she can fit on an aeroplane,” Truax explains,
although it’s hard to imagine the faces of airport security staff back
home at JFK Airport in New York, especially when Truax’ luggage also
contains the Hornicator, a modified
gramophone horn with strings and microphones that twang and sqeak with
various other-worldly noises, and the Backbeater, a multi-pronged
backpack that flaps and snaps in rhythm. I ask Truax if these
prehistoric solutions to the one-man act problem are a reaction against
the digital and synthesised age. “I haven’t made it a rule that I’ll
never do something with a laptop,” he replies, “but it can be an
unsatisfying live experience to see somebody bending over their
computer. I try to think of what would interest me if I were in the
audience”. And it works. In the endless parade of sharp-suited,
sharp-riffed and synthesised bands that plague modern music, jaws drop
when anything as original as Thomas Truax strolls up on stage. “I like
to see where the sounds are coming from,” he says, and without
realising it, the audience find that they do too.
But this is no straight novelty act either. This isn’t a man
desperately crying “Look at me, I’m wacky”. There’s music here too.
Often rich in lyrics, Truax’ sound ranges from “dark, romantic
lullabies to lively rock melodramas” and he is seen as part of the New
York based ‘antifolk’ movement that prizes honesty, integrity and
originality above everything else. “Personally, I try to steer away
from any specific labels,” he emphasises, “but the antifolk scene doesn’t really define a particular sound or even a particular approach”. Truax’ ghostly and mysterious tales hook the ear with their
melody and the mind with their words, calling for references to Captain
Beefheart’s originality coupled with Tom Waits’ narrative abilities.But Truax’ creative drive isn’t limited to music. For several years he
was a stop-motion animator for MTV’s ‘Celebrity Deathmatch’ and his
dedicated fanbase is kept up to date through the Wowtown News, a
sporadic e-mail newsletter detailing the latest happenings in Truax’
own fictional world, Wowtown. “I was brought up in Denver,” he
explains, “and it’s known as ‘Cow Town’. So Wowtown was my ideal place
to escape from the Cow Town”. In fact, the success of these stories alone has led
to requests from London’s Resonance FM for Truax to do an hour-long
show based upon them. “They wanted me to do it off the top of my head,”
he says, “but I kind of have to be in the right mood for that, so I
recorded some stories with sound-effects and music”.With a smile he adds, “I’m one of those people who just bites off more than they can chew”.
Nevertheless, things seem to be going from strength to strength for
Truax. “The crowds keep building each time I go to a town,” he states
matter-of-factly and he’s extremely modest about a recent NME article
branding him as achieving “musical godhood”. Certainly, the interest is
kindled by the unique gadgets and contraptions surrounding him on
stage, but it’s the songs that charm you and regardless of whatever
gimmicks surround them, a good song never loses its novelty.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005
Live
Paul LewisThe Sheldonian Theatre13 OctoberPaul Lewis has won much praise from critics for his CDs of the sonatas of Schubert, and rose to prominence as a performer at this year’s Last Night of the Proms. He now turns his attention to Beethoven’s thirty two piano sonatas, which he is recording for Harmonia Mundi and performing in their entirety in London, Edinburgh and Oxford. He inaugurated the Oxford cycle at the Sheldonian Theatre, and this will be followed by a further seven concerts in the next two years.He chose to begin with the three sonatas from Op.31, and the sonata Op.78. The Op.31 sonatas were designed as a contrasting set: the comedic G major and graceful E flat major sonatas surround the dark D minor sonata, sometimes called The Tempest, after Beethoven told his secretary, asking about the meaning of the work, to “just read Shakespeare’s The Tempest”. These were coupled with the Op.78 sonata, sometimes referred to as À Thérèse, a pupil of Beethoven’s, who could possibly have been his Immortal Beloved.From the outset of the G major sonata, Lewis’ style of Beethoven playing was made apparent. His range of dynamic contrast is extreme, fitting the sometimes exaggerated gestures of these works, and he emphasises the humour of Beethoven’s work with absolute clarity of fingerwork and phrasing. I have never heard a pianist highlight the ‘false ending’ of the first movement of this sonata with such wit, causing chuckles of amusement in the audience. The following Adagio grazioso in which a simple melody becomes progressively more over-ornamented was nonchalantly delivered despite the score’s ever-increasing demands. The rondo was given a charming finish, as the ending cadences, which become successively less confident, drew further laughter from listeners.The Tempest sonata then demonstrated the ‘minor-key’ side of Beethoven’s music. Lewis underlined the contrast between the two first movement themes, with the Adagio sections drawn out to near-stasis, sustained through skilful pedalling, while the frenetic Allegro was intensely driven. Following the balm of the slow movement, the final Allegretto, a sinister moto perpetuo, led ominously towards the depths of the keyboard for the inconclusive closing bars. After the interval, the brief Op.78 sonata was elegantly delivered, particularly the second movement, where the rapid passages of alternating notes between the hands were cleanly executed throughout. This sonata served as a prelude to the final sonata from Op.31. The fortissimo outbursts of the energetic Scherzo caused several people to be visibly jolted in their seats, perhaps as was Beethoven’s intention. The gentle Menuetto led into the last movement,a boisterous tarantella which built up to its close with an inexorable accumulation of momentum, ending the concert in grand style. Taking the peformance as a whole, Paul Lewis’ performance gave the impression of impulsiveness under great control, and a feeling of freshnessthat many performances of these sonatas lack. His next concert will be on the Friday 9 December, and it is something to look forward to with the utmost anticipation.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005
Not such great Scots
El PresidenteEl Presidenteout24 OctoberSince Franz Ferdinand smashed into the mainstream, the British music press has been looking to the Scots for the new band of the moment. This search seems to have resulted in virtually every new Scottish band being labelled “the next big thing”, even the mind numbingly mediocre. So it is no surprise that Glaswegian outfit El Presidente’s rise to prominence has been swift since the release of their limited single Rocket last year. From this success they have gone on tours with Kasabian, Oasis and Soulwax. There has been a high level of anticipation for their debut album, with the Guardian labelling them “the Glaswegian Scissor Sisters” but, with all the hype, the question is whether this album could see El Presidente become even bigger.The short answer is no. In truth, there can be no denying that founder and front man Dante Gizzi has the ear to write a good tune. The opening track, Without You, is basically a nice, friendly pop song for nice, friendly people: it combines singalong lyrics with a very gentle pop-funk riff. Rocket, evidently describing a hard drug binge, is a straight mix of a good dance beat with pop melodies, providing a vivid and driving mix, while Count on Me has a ridiculously catchy tune.However, catchy alone doesn’t do enough to mask the painfully pathetic lyrics, which Gizzi intersperses with random, mistaken ‘intellectual’ references, with little congruity with the subject. These can only be explained as half-hearted attempts to hide his near-total absence of artistic flair. If Gizzi had a good voice, his foolish and irrelevant musings might have been less noticeable. The problem is that he actually seems to take pride in his limitations, constantly repeating daft phrases until he sounds like a whining cat.These flaws are thrown into sharp relief when compared with bands such as the Scissor Sisters, whose ability to mix genres, interchange older styles with newer ones and amalgamate pop, funk, and dance into a fluctuous sound makes them brilliant. In contrast, El Presidente achieve this only in bits and pieces: I Didn’t Really has moments of Cure-like mellowness, while Come on Now makes a good dance track. The problem for El Presidente is that they haven’t brought their musical influences together, and seem to be constantly imitating a particular genre without concern for their own individuality. The result is that their album drifts at points into sounding more like a band covering older pop. Turn This Around is nice enough in itself, but leads the album into briefly sounding a bit too Spandau Ballet-esque for comfort. 100Mph is a meaningless rock song of the bad Aerosmith early-eighties phase.Ultimately, El Presidente do have their moments. They just need to rethink their style and choose what sort of band they’re going to be. Above all, there’s absolutely nothing Glaswegian about this band. Whereas Franz Ferdinand have simultaneously drawn on both the Glasgow art scene and a general northern down-to-earthness, El Presidente have no real individuality in their music or presentation. Their songs are of a distinctly poor pseudo-American ilk, with little innovation. They would do well to redefine their styles and settle on a music form that suits them.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005
Rachmaninov piano concertos Nos. 1 & 2
In 2004, Leif Ove Andsnes won a Gramophone Award for his coupling of piano concertos by Grieg and Schumann with the Berlin Philharmonic.Unfortunately, for all the anticipation surrounding this release, the result is a disappointment. The impulsiveness of his earlier live Rachmaninov recording has been lost in the frigid studio environment in the First Concerto, while even the live Second Concerto fails to produce the same spark, further hindered by misbalanced sonics.In the First Concerto, the first movement’s opening fanfare is taken at a rousing tempo which Andsnes fails to meet, giving a flaccid reading of the opening solo. The relief of the movement’s tension in the gigantic cadenza is frustrated by Andsnes’ emotional restraint. After a routine Andante, the final movement is much as the first: virtuosic and note-perfect but emotionally uninspiring. The infamous opening chords of the Second Concerto are judiciously executed with fine tone. When the orchestra enters, Andsnes subsides into an accompanying role, as the soloist in this concerto frequently must. Regrettably, he doesn’t emerge for the rest of the concerto. The second movement is probably the finest performance here. The extra orchestral volume aids the music, and Andsnes’ style fits the music perfectly. The quasi-glissando run at the opening of the final movement is then delivered in a rather asthenic fashion, setting the tone for the rest of the movement. Even at the majestic climax of the movement, the piano becomes lost within the orchestra, leading to a disappointing close.This release is an unfortunate combination of two rather ‘off’ performances by Andsnes. As his earlier releases have shown he has quite phenomenal pianistic technique and insight. However, neither of these is obvious on this disappointing disc.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005
Z
ZMy Morning Jacketout nowDespite universal critical acclaim and supporting slots for the likes of Idlewild and the Foo Fighters, My Morning Jacket are a band who have somehow remained firmly off the radar. Z, their fourth album, seems like a concerted effort to change that.Renowned for their distinctive brand of lush country-folk, My Morning Jacket are a 21st century update on artists such as Neil Young and Bob Dylan. Their breakthrough album, 2001’s At Dawn, was an understated masterpiece, seamlessly combining delicate acoustic guitars with subtle touches of electronica. For a band associated with dreamy, atmospheric music, the most striking feature of Z is its focus and clarity. By no means has their sound evolved beyond all recognition: Jim James’ rich, reverb-drenched vocals remain and the gentle acoustics of Knot Comes Loose and expansive psychedelia of Dondante recall the band’s earlier work. However, there has been a definite change in style in comparison to their previous albums, presumably due to a series of line-up changes during the past year. This is also the first album recorded outside of the band’s native Kentucky, and sees the band truly spreading their wings.Most noticeable is the shift towards electronica, which sees the band entering territory more normally associated with bands such as the Flaming Lips or Grandaddy. Under the influence of newly hired keyboardist Bo Koster, organs and synths dominate the album, in particular the jittery opening track Wordless Chorus, with its throbbing bass and rhythmic organ patterns.Also to the fore are the band’s pop sensibilities. Although they have always been melodic, the subtlety of My Morning Jacket’s work has meant that it has not always been accessible. On Z, tracks such as current single Off The Record and the gleeful What A Wonderful Man are the most immediate they have recorded, and will hopefully draw a wider audience into their quirkily enchanting world.Confident and progressive, Z is an impressive work for a band that are clearly still in a state of flux. A surprisingly effective change of direction for My Morning Jacket.ARCHIVE:2nd week MT 2005
Singled out
Finding Out True Love Is BlindLouis XIVout now« «« «This week’s first release comes from the weird and wonderful world of Louis XIV. Finding Out True Love is Blind, from the album The Best Little Secrets Are Kept, is an odd mix of sound effects, piano and a driving beat that links it all together. It’s hard to know whether or not to like this song. It’s certainly different, often breaking down to pure vocals with strange lyrics. It changes, grows, pulls, and leaves the listener wanting more but not knowing why. It effortlesslydoes what any good single should do: gives you a four-minute hit of the essence of the band. Surely it is alone in bringing a strange and eclectic style to the so often bland singles chart. A truly remarkable tune, if a somewhat acquired taste, Finding Out True Love Is Blind is a crazy, world-warping experience.Let Me Hold YouBow Wowout now« «Next up is a young man who’s an old hand at the pop music business. Only eighteen, Bow Wow has been in and out of the charts for five years. In Let Me Hold You, the lead up to the release of his Wanted album, he provides a passive R‘n’B tune that goes nowhere fast. Its chorus, while pleasant enough, fails to motivate the track, and the vocal dexterity doesn’t make up for the pointlessnessof a song that will be hit with insomniacs and few others. The pace is wrong and Let Me Hold You sounds disasterously out of date, a problem which is further emphasised by the weak video. While not offensively bad, like so much R‘n’B, it never even threatens to be passable. Bow Wow is due to appear in the third Fast And The Furious film and with a future like that, who needs musical success anyway?New YorkSteven Fretwellout now« «« «In contrast to overexposed Americans, Scunthorpe’s most promising son, Steven Fretwell, announces himself this week with New York. Sweet and sensitive, Steve is up there with the David Grays and James Blunts of this world. Only twenty three, he is a mixture of youthful dreamer and accomplished and experienced musician. Although lacking originality in the subject matter and not breaking any new stylistic ground, this song does what it’s meant to superbly well. It’s a dreamy and gentle leaving song, a staple for the emotional one-man-and-his-guitar artists. New York makes me want to pack up and leave for the bright lights and hope of America’s eternal city. With singer-songwriters like this, who needs anything else? Recommended to all, except homesick freshers.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005
Special honour for Pinteresque pretensions
Controversial, out-spoken and recently described as “a fully paid-up member of the awkward squad”, Harold Pinter was never going to accept the Nobel Prize for Literature quietly. While he made off with the hefty $1.3m prize, others began to question whether it was his plays or his political posturing which landed him the title of Nobel Laureate.On 13 October, Pinter became the first Brit to take the coveted award since VS Naipul in 2001. He had not been considered a frontrunner in the competition, with rumours tipping Turkish novelist Orhan Pamuk, Syrian poet Adonis and American writer Joyce Carol Oates. Pinter, who celebrated his 75th birthday this week, is undeniably one of the foremost representativesof modern British drama. But despite his near-celebrity status his plays have not always achieved the commercial success of his contemporaries, meaning that many of his works still have to be performed in subsidised theatres.The difficulty with Pinter’s plays is that the distinctive ‘Pinteresque’ style, for which he is so famous, seems to be created by the simple trick of withholding basic information, lendinghis humdrum dialogue an aura of elusive significance. In an attempt to develop an atmosphere of enigma and vague menace, Pinter creates a sense of detachment and rigorous control, rendering his characters little more than specimens in his theatrical experiment. Of course he has had dramatic hits, most notably with his early work, The Caretaker, a gritty, kitchen-sink style comedy which has spawned a generation of copycat recreations, but his later works have failed to similarly inspire audiences.This is not the first time that the Nobel committee has honoured a controversial playwright. Just last year, Austria’s rather unpopular Elfriede Jelinek took the prize much to the consternation of many of her countrymen, who were offended by her known hostility to the ruling right-wing Freedom Party. A cynic might note a political pattern emerging and one cannot help but think that the Swedish Nobel committee, a famously peace-loving country whose people, if not their government, were extremely vocal in their anti-Iraq war protests, would be impressed by Pinter, a man who has extolled pacifist, anti-American sentiments in the British House of Commons.Indeed, his hatred of America seems to verge on the pathological and in a speech made in October 2002 he claimed “the American elephant… has grown to be a monster of grotesque and obscene proportions”.Born in Hackney on 10 October 1930, Pinter was prosecuted for being a conscientious objector in 1949 when he refused to carry out National Service, and since then he has become increasingly vocal about his vehement opposition to Western imperialism and destruction. The American right-wingers are predictably unimpressed, with one pro-Bush website making the delightful understatement, “Pinter is not our kind of guy”. Pinter’s politics are hardly unusual within the predominantly liberal, left-wing luvvie community. The majority of modern British playwrights are notable for a dogged politicisation of their plays, to the extent that dramatistslike Tom Stoppard are criticised for not being political enough. There are many who hold with Pinter’s political views and few would deny him the right to speak out against the atrocities of war, but the fact remains that whether it was intended or not, the Nobel committee made a highly politicised choice of Laureate this year. However, perhaps the extremity of Pinter’s politics would be less significant if his literary canon was able to support the magnitude of the prestigious Nobel Prize alone.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005
Improv comedy
The Oxford Impsdir Jim Grant17 OctoberThe WheatsheafHaving recently returned from a tough spell at Edinburgh, the Oxford Imps are back in the warm and predictable atmosphere of their home turf, complete with familiar pub regulars. It is Monday night and the Imps, Oxford’s only improvised comedy troupe, are onstage at their adopted home, The Wheatsheaf pub in central OxfordDuring my pre-show interview with Hannah Madsen, who is co-founder, producer and fellow comedienne of the troupe, she prepared me for what to expect from the Oxford student crowd. “The audience doesn’t always know what’s actually funny”, she said, “So that part of the reward is re-educating them as the evening progresses.” Hannah’s warning is borne out: the more the audience tries to direct the humour towards predictable TV references and innuendo, the less material the Imps are left with. In the very first sketch, the Imps are offered “voluptuous spade” and “hairy armpit” as suggestions from sniggering audience members and as I snatch a glance at Hannah, who is onstage tonight she promptly rolls her eyes at one of the other performers in exasperation. Predictably the sketch suffers from a lack of momentum, and falls flat. Hannah has also mentioned to me in advance that the Imps like to play a game in which an audience member must shout out a profession, adding, “You would be amazed at how many people say ‘gynaecologist’ as a suggestion”.Forewarned is forearmed: it took almost half an hour but sure enough, a slightly muffled voice from the back of the room shouts it out, to be greeted with a trickle of laughter. Re-educating the audience may sound “a bit patronising”, as Hannah readily admits, but then the Imps’ own brand of humour is a little at odds with mainstream pub comedy, bringing an oddball, pantomimicedge to their improvised performances. Though she enjoys watching performers at London’s Comedy Store, led by such famous frontmen as Paul Merton, she feels their humour has evolved from the lager-lad ethos of “taking the piss”, which relies on a cynical upstaging of fellow comedians for effect.Though not without merit, it is a less spontaneous, less varied show than the Imps hope to achieve. With a distinctly trans-Atlantic cast, their style veers away from the traditionalBritish comedy model, their humour based instead on emotions and characters which subsume the occasional big comic moment for riotous applause at the end of each sketch. Their auditions are almost counter-intuitive, since they claim to turn away people who, despite being genuinely funny, prove incapable of supporting the rest of the cast. “You don’t need to be funny to start as an Imp”, Hannah insists, but you do need confidence and decisiveness. Their enthusiasm and spontaneity belies a strenuous work ethic, according to which every newcomer must undergo a term’s rehearsals before he is even allowed on the stage, and a strict ban on repeating gags prevents incipient staleness. If this all sounds too much like an Ivy League sports pep-talk, it is nevertheless a formula that has worked brilliantly so far.The Imps have performed 180 live shows and are so much a part of the fabric of Oxford culture that it is easy to forget their short lifespan. Even when they began in 2004, they appeared very much as the finished article, and two years on they have changed their members less regularlythan the staff of The Wheatsheaf. Having just spent a month in Edinburgh selling their show to a “more cultured” audience that expects more and forgives less than the students who will “laugh at anything”, this term might be the one time to catch them at their very best.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005
