The Klinker,
The Sussex, London
17 April 2003
The Klinker! A club to conjour with, and a place to witness the indigestibly strange among the ineffably great. Take The Unseemly Trio for starters, three genially odd chaps who pluck the exposed piano strings of one of two which adorn the back room of the Sussex pub while rattling a variety of objects, musical or otherwise. Where else can a trio build rhythmic magic from biscuit tins and biscuit bites – and include a gigantic comedy carrot-chomping solo? The key element about this venue and its regulars and passing patrons is that they may laugh and raise eyebrows, but the unexpected is what everyone comes along for after all.
Ben Owen is almost pulled onstage by an imaginary neck-hook, slapstick-style. He acts the gibberish buffoon, gurning and putting limbs into unwholesome positions to raise a chuckle or two. He slips into a Harpo wig for an eye-bulging routine, and a nondesript peaked cap for a Met Police copper on peacekeeping duty in downtown Baghdad. A few quickfire gags (“As I was proceeding down Baghdad High Street, I apprehended a man with a Kalashnikov. I said, where do you think you’re going with that then, Sonny? Oh, excuse me, you’re a Shi’ite” was the gist of what was simultaneously the best and worst joke) and Owen makes way for Michael Ormiston‘s first set of the night.
Ormiston is a revelation. Having studied throat singing in Mongolia, he’s the only westerner given his teacher’s blessing to pass on his knowledge in this country, and on the evidence he presents at The Klinker, he’s more than qualified to do so. At first accompanying himself with the two-stringed drone of a horse-headed instrument, Ormiston conjours the most evocative sounds in glorious harmony from his respiratory system, keening, growling and filling the room with an unnervingly beautiful drone. When he brings an layers of digital delay and realtime self-sampled loops with a mic’ed up mouth harp to give an extra twang, the effect is enveloping, fixating the room in hypnotic stasis as the waves of guttural, then keening, sound.
While Michael Ormiston takes a deserved break to lubricate what must be a somewhat dry throat, none other than Mike Oldfield and Art Garfunkel take their corner of the room into strange places when music really doesn’t have to be good to get by. Their skit on the very fact of not being in any way shape or form similar to either of their subjects it at once amusing and silly. Rattling bins which should have contained their limited edition CDs (but didn’t as it turns out), scraping violins until the cat screeches home or tweaking cow toys for fun and profit while thumping atonal chunks out on the second Sussex piano, they make for a knowingly stupid double act. As they torture both their guitars and voices in discordant close-harmony renditions of Pop songs medlies old and older, Oldfield and Garfunkel stretch the boundaries of listenabilty to snapping point. Their routine is not one for the hard of humour, and the good-natured audience banter is exchanged with the practised barbs of a comedy club; quintessentially Klinker, and a one-off set that will be talked about for days, at least.
Following a brief twiddle with multiple saxes, flutes and FX boxes from Ben Owen, and some more rattling and thumping from The Unseemly Trio, Michael Ormiston returns with Colin on didgeridoo and a collection of singing bowls. Once again the mood is electronic, but the addition of Oldfield and Garfunkel in more serious improv mood soon brings the room into chaotic throb and sussurus of strings and cunning lung capacities, booming low and scraping harshly between the ears. Ormiston wanders the audience with a heavy-duty hide drum, beating out a steady rhythm to change the mood. Thankfully, the opportunity to excoriate and elevate isn’t squandered on self-indulgence, and the slip back to quiet on Ormiston’s throat manipulations is measured and appropriate. For a finale, Ormiston performs one more traditional acoustic number, with Mike “Romuald” Oldfield sneaking back for some offset violin accompaniment.
What a night; what a club, and the selection of artists and their various elliptical peformances tonight under the gimlet gaze of the ever-eccentric master of ceremonies Hugh Metcalf in his barmy cabbage headgear is something close to the substance of a Klinker experience.
-Lester Bangs (allegedly)-
