January 2003, The Track & Field Winter Sprinter
THE BROKEN FAMILY BAND are from Cambridge - over-educated, self effacingly charming and Indie with a capital I - about as far as you can physically and culturally get from Nashville. Yet they play country music. Over quicksilver slide guitar and lonesome harmonies, the lyrics mix wry Ray Davies mundanity with starry-eyed surrealism.

HERMAN DUNE are French/Swedish brothers fuelled by twin obsessions with country music and The Velvet underground. Chain-smoking drone-rock is mixed with spidery Silvertone cowboy guitar and minimalist jazz filigree, crawling across songs like a spider. They get everything a bit wrong, like Jonathan Richman making naive music that celebrates eating ice-cream instead of heroin. The brothers are weird. gorgeous, haunting, off-kilter, alienated and not quite right, but oh, so much better for it.

THE MENDOZA LINE are beautifully presented, but they're shiny and pristine where I want country music to be well-worn like and slightly frayed like a favourite pair of jeans. I only love country music when made by people from other countries.

AEROSPACE are unfeasibly attractive Swedes playing the Illustrated History of Jangle Pop, all chiming 12-string guitars and keyboards that sound like harpsichords. During a Spanish-style rave-up, the audience bursts into spontaneous synchronised fringe swinging. Those of us in the cheap seats clap. Everybody else rattles their Sarah Records badges.

OF MONTREAL dress like The Nazz in full-on fab Carnaby Street gear, and their guitarist does a George Harrison impression that would put The Rutles to shame. But there's a sense of humour and a loving playfulness more in line with Elephant6 or the whimsical homage of the Dukes of Stratosphear than the perils of the Oasis Weller Scene dad-rock. Pop nugget follows sticky psychedelic pop nugget, culminating in a freak-beat space-jam with AC30s a tremoloing and Electric Mistresses a-flanging and Mellotrons wibbling like the Electric Prunes demonstrating their far-out groovy sounds in the Vox showroom in 1966. Groovy, man, far out!

PRINTED CIRCUIT's giddy mix of synthpop and chattering IDM is entertaining and fun. To laptop screengazers, this is the future of music, squelches and octave-hopping disco basslines all chopped up with Speak'N'Spell samples and snippets of Kylie Minogue anthems. But retro-fetishism is retro-fetishism, whether the past iyou are glorifying is The Beatles of Giorgio Moroder.

MARSHMALLOW COAST are stoner-pop, as inoffensive as Bread. Overwhelming niceness wafts through like stale incense and peppermints.

CAPITOL K are electronica as made by long-haired, denim-clad Gods from Planet Rawk!!! They have guitar licks that would put Deep Purple to shame, alongside the glitchy stutter of Max/MISP, iMacs and Marshalls in perfect harmony, felching ARP key-bass and 7/4 time signatures. The future grown up alongside the past, like the dystopic steam-punk vision of Blade Runner. Walk through a modern city and you see futuristic Bauhaus-ian skyscrapers next to Gothic cathedrals. This is Capitol K's approach to technology and to music, a perfect collision of stuttering IDM beatz, lush shoegazer texture, gargantuan prog-rock guitar riffs and fey indie-boy vocals. Future Pop!
FIONA FLETCHER

The Apples in Stereo /Great Lakes, November 2002, 93 Feet East, London E1
The bands that make up the neo-psychedelic movement can be split neatly into two camps: either drug-weary drone (The Warlocks, BRMC at a push) or Day-Glo magical mystery tour. Tonight we get the best of both worlds. First Great Lakes, from Georgia, shuffle through their songs like a folktronic Polyphonic Spree, doling out lethargic acid-pop before blasting through their garagey encore "Conquistadors". But it's up to the Apples to really take the driver's seat on the magic bus. These lo-fi heroes are linchpins of Elephant 6, a seminal US collective whose aim is to recreate the patchouli-scented ambience of a San Francisco halls of residence in about 1967.

Tonight, however, they take to the stage in an explosion of power-pop frenziedness, chugging through songs like "Please" and "That's Something I Do" - previously paisley swirls of lysergic torpor - at Ramones velocity, conjuring a kind of Disneyfied punk. No-one can stop smiling and when "Signal in the Sky" - the song featured on the soundtrack to bug-eyed superheroes movie "The Powerpuff Girls" is aired it makes 35-year old men dance like little girls.

The lesson? Mangafied cartoon psychedelia can make you do goofy things.
Paul Brownell

Pow to the People 3
The Monarch, London
I normally make it a rule of thumb never to attend anything that ends in a number (sequels are never the same, are they) but this Easter perhaps due to mild chocolate intoxication I decided to lay that ideal to rest. I thought a day out in the fresh air of a Camden pub with nothing but Indie music and perhaps the occasional drink was what was called for. It's a dirty job but someone's got to do it.

This is Track & Field's third Pow to the People, all of them at the Camden Monarch and quite a line-up it was too. After a preliminary pint I headed upstairs to catch the last 5 or 6 songs by American band Sodastream. They ease us into this fine, sunny Easter Sunday with their plaintive and sombre songs. They gently swell and sway through some beautiful folk melodies and pave the way perfectly for Riviera who embody the late 70's, early 80's synth pop of Soft Cell and Human League. This they couple with the vocal delivery of Debbie Harry together with the presence and distance of Kraftwerk.

Woodchuck presented a much more organic sound with some very lush arrangements and two glorious singles for us to hang on to long after they've departed the stage. As with all Track & Field events, the songs played over the PA between bands were impeccable and I even forgot to venture downstairs to fill my glass. Thank heavens there was a bar upstairs. Cane 141 were a touch more lo-fi, but as the band members chopped and changed their instruments from electric guitars to moogs and back again the songs stood on the strength of the advanced melodies. Although at times the acoustic guitarist looked as though he'd rather have been somewhere else.

When Saloon took the stage the atmosphere seemed to increase a gear or two and the sound became noticeably better and louder. On this occasion they were edgy and more urgent than when I had seen them before and they certainly benefited from this urgency. Sure they were still in their anti star, non performance mode but there was a desire and warmth that balanced that stance and complimented their album very well.

I had never seen Black Neilson before but after this gig I would certainly try to see them again. They play their songs, or should I say dismember their songs with a mighty mournful noise that sometimes felt downright uncomfortable and tense beyond belief. Just as the song sounded like it was going over the edge they haul it back to the relative safety of downright uncomfortable. Top stuff!

This was not, if the truth be told, Camera Obscura's best night, they were plagued by the Darren Anderton of Guitar amps. It took a good half an hour to rectify this problem while they all stood around on stage looking somewhat ill at ease and nonplussed. During that half hour they don't play any songs at all or entertain us with their wit and charisma. It sounds like half of a Stereophonics gig. When they did start playing they were enchanting and ran through a good half of their fantastic debut album although they didn't play their first two singles, which are my personal favourites.

The Butterflies of Love were another band I had never seen perform live and if you are unfamiliar with their work they rock like f**k!!! They demonstrated supremely their awe-inspiring wall of jangle and I lost myself completely in tinnitus heaven. The songs were just working their way into my head without, I should add, any opposition when they floated away into the ether to be replaced by another gem. If you don't own any of their records, buy them because they are classics and as a live band they would give anyone a run for their money.

So there you go, Easter Sunday, 8 bands and as many great records as you could cram into the Monarch and all for a paltry £10. That's 66% of a ticket to see the great Gomez (and I don't use the term great lightly or indeed correctly). So save the money you would have spent on the Gomez ticket until next Easter and with the other fiver…well that will get two into the Betsy Trotwood for the next Track & Field club night.
Gary D Wollen

The Pattern - London, Toynbee Hall Arts Cafe
The Toynbee Hall Arts Cafe is exactly that. A cafe with its seats removed and a tiny stage erected, it's a surreal venue for the latest American hotshots to kickstart their UK tour.

By the time The Pattern manage to struggle on stage, the anticipation (and heat) generated by the sardine-packed crowd is reaching breaking point. Every conceivable vantage point is taken and with good reason too. From the first bar of the opener, "Finger Us", The Pattern launch into an MC5/Who/Black Flag blitzkrieg that makes a mockery of the non-existent PA system.

Singer Christopher Applegren can't hit a note all night but it couldn't matter less. The fact is that he's writhing around on stage like Iggy Pop with electrodes strapped to his testicles as his band turn out perfect two-chord punk-pop riffs one after another. The Pattern are so primitive, so simple, that every song played tonight could have been writtem by some obscure Cali-garage band thirty five years ago. We'd be none the wiser.

It matters not. Christopher's vocals are so indecipherable, the sound so chaotic, the venue so hot, it feels like we have been thrown back into an age where music was about feeling not analysis. "Mary's" is a vision of 1968 that would have Ocean Colour Scheme crying into their vintage guitars. "No Bones" could not be faster or more rockin'.

And as Christopher lies barely conscious at show's end where seconds earlier a drum kit once stood, there can be no argument. Their cafe playing days are officially over.
Robert Collins

Great Lakes/Tompaulin/Saloon
Leeds Josephs Well, August 19
A triple-header from London's Track & Field label brought to you by Automated Alice, featuring Athens, Georgia's best kept secret GREAT LAKES, plus Blackburn's angsty teenagers TOMPAULIN and SALOON.

Great Lakes is the song writing and recording project of Dan Donahue, Ben Crum and James Higgins though they are now an 8 piece band with a current line-up that includes Ben - guitar, electric piano; Jamey - drums, keys, guitar; Dan - synth, organ; Dottie Alexander - organ, clarinet, flute; Kevin Barnes - guitar, bass, drums, keys; Derek Almstead - bass, drums; Scott Spillane - horns; and Heather McIntosh - cello. Dan and Ben write most of the songs together. Their process is similar to that of Van Dyke Parks and Brian Wilson, or Elton John and Bernie Taupin. Dan writes lyrics, and Ben writes the melodies and music. Jamey also contributes music and lyrics. Their debut self titled album's reminiscent of 60's/70's piano led bands like the Zombies, The Beach Boys and The Bee Gee's though they also bring to mind the psych pop of the Chills, Galaxie 500 and the Flaming Lips.

They also have strong connections with the Elephant 6 collective with members of Neutral Milk Hotel and Of Montreal regularly playing with them and Robert Schneider from Apples (in Stereo) taking control of productions duties on their debut lp (out now on Track and Field).

Hailing from Blackburn, we have Tompaulin whose debut single "It's A Girl's World" was described in NME as "boy/girl vocals tell of teenage troubles in northern towns; 60's pop with sharp eye lyrics", oh and they don't sound like THAT bleeding Scottish band, well don't mention it arround them, they may take offence!

Saloon play "throbbing guitar riffs, menacing violins via John Cale and stabbing moog symphonies which build up to a captivating unit that takes a delicious hold of your senses."
TONY & ALICE

The Pattern, Track & Field, Tonight, Toynbee Hall Arts Cafe, Commercial Street, EC1
Working under the banner "The club for the music they don't play on the radio", the Track and Field Organisation (named after a Belle and Sebastian song) have established themselves as that rare thing: promoters with heart.

Moving in and out of pub basements in their mission to showcase the most interesting of London's underground indie scene without hype or fanfare, they complement their monthly residency at the Betsey Trotwood with one-off gigs, many of which feature bands signed to their own fledgling label.

Several of the bands that TAFO are drawn to are themselves drawn to 1960s West Coast pop, with tonight's headliners, San Francsico band The Pattern (whose frontman Chris Applegren, was formerly in the Peeches) whipping up mod with Detroit garage and a touch of Big Star, as evidenced on current LP Immediately (Wichita). They are joined by Comet Gain, who quitely craft sparkly retro pop gems on the ace Fortuna Pop! label, and Of Arrowe Hill.

Tomorrow night Track and Field band The Great Lakes play with Saloon at the same venue. Check out the TAFO website www.trackandfield.org.uk for information on what they are up to: they're a shadowy lot but well worth knowing about.
CLAIRE ALLFREE

Birdie
London E1 Arts Cafe
As anyone with a nodding appreciation of The Carpenters will tell you, being easy on the ears can mask a lifetime's minor tragedies. It's an irony lost on former Saint Etienne accomplices, Birdie, whose debut album title, "Some Dusty" had nothing to do with the big-haored '60s diva and everything to do with a botched stab at the easy listening of Lee Hazelwood's "Some Velvet Morning"

Guitarist and co-songwriter Paul Kelly is a sonic tinkerer, who nearly scrapped their new LP, "Triple Echo", after hearing Broadcast's latest. He's a nervy presence, constantly listening out for bum notes, but his input is leavened by singer Deborah Wykes' goofing around. You suspect she makes him come up with the odd chorus, too. Together with a spelindidly coiffured mod drummer, they inhabit a rarefied world - every keyboard trill, drum fill and bash of the tambourine attains crucial significance.

"Blue Eyed Son" hints at The Strands' stately psychedelia and "Such A Sound" rocks like dabbling-with-tunes-era Stereolab. As they regroup for a cover of folk-funker Ruth Copeland's "Thanks for the Birthday Card", former colleague Sarah Cracknell gives them the finger (though only to indicate that the Hammond needs turning up) and even Luke Haines raises a smile.

The only minor tragedy is that Radio 2 prefer Texas.
MARTIN HORSFIELD

POW! to the people 2 - The Monarch - Camden, Sunday 15th April 2001
Too many beers and too many bands at Easter Sunday's second Track + Field alldayer. First up Gospel Oak, David Comet Gain's indie-alt country super group. Nice. Vermont followed. New to us and featuring a fine quiff. Kicker on third, they played a blinder, fielding a substitute keyboardist, Kay from Comet Gain. Next up, Ireland's Olympic Lifts, think Collapsed Lung and you won't go far wrong. Half way through and it's the last date of the UK tour for the Aislers Set, joyous upbeat Bay area pop (come back soon, we miss you already). The Tyde came in next - pure Felt with bollocks. Surprise extra, half the Tyde leave, and their drummer takes centre stage in the form of Beachwood Sparks for a short spot on set. 6 done, 2 to go. The underated Clientele play simple songs with Alisdair's gentle vocals in the classic indie tradition. It's almost the end! Fonda 500, quite simply mad as hatters. Don't know how to describe their sound but it's good - catch them in Harlow soon. After a perfect pop day out, even the nightmare that is First Great Eastern with its rotten cargo of Westlife pension fund contributors, could not wipe the smiles from our bitter little faces.

Pow! To The People 2
The Tyde
The Monarch, London
If you're lucky a good band will transport you from the unlovely venue that you're squeezed into to a much nicer place. The Tyde manage to convince you that night is day, the April rain has gone and you're in small-town America where the sun is beating down and young hearts beating fast.

You guess what the mood is going to be with one glance at the band. It's the hair that does it. From the angelic curls of singer Darren Rademaker's overgrown mop-top to the long, lanky locks of drummer Chris Gunst, this is hair that no self-respecting British band could confidently sport. But then The Tyde are US from their paisley guitar straps to their fitted jeans, as free from the dictates of fashion as their songs are from unneccessary adornment-content to be country-tinged, soul-influenced. honest and simple odes to the complexity of passion.

Improper has the yearning refrain "What's the matter with my love?", which Rademaker sings in voice full of twangs, soothing against some understated keyboard funk and a guitar flourish. You can hear the sighs answer his plaintive cry, and that's the Tyde's strength, they draw us into their world; we're caught up in their longing. New Confession is more upbeat, with high, Beach Boys backing vocals-a sunny sound full of warmth and ease.

Though the songs are laid-back, The Tyde are intense to watch. There are no little jokes or sideways grins, just a headsdown professional attitude, especially from Gunst, whose forehead falls ever closer to his kit, his hair obscuring his face. The only aside Rademaker makes follows the song Strangers Again. "If you're a boy," he says in elongated vowels, "you can hide your love forever."

But you can't hide your passion. For the faster, more dancey rhythm of The Dawn, bass player and brother Brent Rademaker picks a chord and holds the note, allowing his whole body to shake as the sound reverberates and matches the groove of "Farmer" Dave's keyboards.

As the song progresses the music gets fuller and heavier, Knight and Darren Rademaker standing face to face, lost in their sound. They hardly seem to know we're there any more; and in a sense we're not.
BETTY CLARKE

January/Airport Girl/Saloon (Winter Sprinter)
London Aldgate East Arts Cafe
Previously worthy of the epithet 'pub rock Stereolab covers band', Saloon have evolved over the past few months into a much greater proposition. Tonight they play a blinder and show that they've developed into a band that really is worth checking out. Throbbing guitar riffs, menacing violins via John Cale and stabbing Moog symphonies build up to a captivating unit that takes a delicious hold of your senses.

For a record consecutive fourth year, Airport Girl are one of the most promising bands in Britain. This year, though, vocalist Rob Price's singing lessons have paid off (hurrah!), there's between-song banter (double hurrah!) and some of the band at least look like they want to be on stage (oh well, two out of three ain't bad). What Airport Girl lack in stage presence, however, they make up for by bringing on the drunken reels of a violinist for the ballads and having a seven-minute opus in the cut-and-thrust dirty melodic anthem of 'The Foolishness Of Love Is The Closest That We Come To Greatness' (triple hurrah and, while we're there, cheers).

Three nights in the doldrums of January have been augmented by Track And Field, an organisation that has rekindled London's indiepop community over the past two years with clubs, gigs and records. The second annual Winter Sprinter gig series has been a successful showcase for Britain?s up-and-coming indie acts. Sadly, it draws to a close with Poptones' signings January. The ninth band in three days of great bands, they?re without doubt a big disappointment. Their sepia-tinted, tremulous guitar offerings have the same kind of resonance as a stranger in the pub telling you his life story when you don't much care. Where on record they?re capable of the occasional romantic elegance, there's no opportunity to engage emotionally with this ponderous slo-core outfit live. Especially when the spectre of drum solos looms its ugly head, when you're reminded of, at best, shoegazing and, at worst, prog-rock over-indulgence.
BEN CLANCY

The Tyde
London Notting Hill Arts Club (April 11 2001)
Flares and lurid cowboy shirts? Check. Floppy fringes? Check. Jangly guitars? Check. Sun-kissed harmonies? Erm, yes - you get the picture. You really don't even have to ask if they're from the West Coast of the USA, but these sometime-Beachwood Sparkers' stylish schizophrenia transcends mere patische. Honest. The Tyde's oeuvre takes in doomed romance and lustful yearning soundtracked by thumping beat pop, languid, wistful country, and, on the closing epic 'Silver's Okay Michelle', a psychedelic wig-out that recalls 'Ladies and Gentlemen...'-era Spiritualized. Yet it's during this very song that singer Darren Rademaker wears his heart very firmly on his sleeve by blurting out the first few lines of Felt's 'Ballad Of The Band', and there's no doubt his vocal delivery is strongly reminiscent of obsessive-compulsive genius Lawrence Hayward - the storming 'Improper' pays a more indirect homage to the man who won't let anyone else take a dump in his loo. The Eagles-esque 'North County Times' and the quirkily poignant 'Your Tattoos' are a pointed reminder that we're dealing with a Californian cacophony which threatens to provide aural delight for, like, the whole summer and beyond, dude. Phew - talk about a revolution in the head.
ALAN WOODHOUSE

The Tyde/Delta
London Toynbee Hall Arts Cafe (April 9 2001)
Two rules of pop music: pastiche is a no-no and hero worship always results in worthy but dull platitudes. The Tyde unashamedly ape Felt's mid-'80s output, but cunningly escape retribution by approaching their Felt tribute with the same alchemy that made the original sound so great. They just know that the tuneful sorrow of early '70s Dylan and the acute melodic regret of Orange Juice coupled with the wild mercury sound of a double organ attack and chiming guitars is the sum of classic pop. This Los Angeles band even have the cheek to namecheck Felt's 'Space Blues' in their first song, 'All My Bastard Children', and get away with it in the warmth of their golden glow.

Delta, conversely, are too inflexible and glum to either transcend their influences or stand on an equal footing with them. So much so that for large parts of tonight's set they are no more than a bar blues version of Creedence Clearwater Revival. Fronted by the notoriously belligerent brothers that are Patrick and James Roberts, they too often come across like Oasis with two Paul Gallaghers. Despite all the coarse blues rocking, Delta would dearly love to be Buffalo Springfield. Sadly, they mostly lack the grace and melodic subtleties to fulfil their dreams. Yes, there are a handful of great songs in their set, but the good:bad ratio is a disappointing 40:60 at best. If Delta can ever replicate the delicate charm and spacious wonder of last year's album on stage, then they'd eventually promote themselves from the pub rock league to serious contenders.
BEN CLANCY

Tompaulin (Winter Sprinter)
London Toynbee Hall Arts Cafe
If you thought of the ideal elements for a band, Tompaulin would come pretty close. But you probably wouldn't imagine the chip on the their shoulder beneath their winsome charm.

They begin with singer Stacey McKenna waiting nervously for the guitars to be plugged in. She's a vision of well-studied 1960s style, from her Dusty Springfield eyes to her Mary Jane shoes. All eyes are on her, but she's not the only one looking for attention. As Jamie Holman strums his accoustic guitar, he is like Man at M&S, lost in melancholy.

When My Life on Buses finally begins, McKenna's sweet vocals are soft against the jaunty rhythm and end up battling against it. One hand cupped to her ear, she grimaces. Tompaulin soon settle into a brazen confidence, however, led by the light voice and strong opinions of Holman. Just as his songs reveal the mundane mutinae of life in a small town with both wistfulness and bitterness, his easy charm belies his bite. "Everything's not fucking yellow-not where I come from pal," he sneers in a swipe at contemporaries Coldplay. "And we're not driftwood either."

His devil-and-angel appeal makes Holman's songs stand apart from other loved-up guitar merchants filling the charts, For Tompaulin, carpet burns and football teams, boy hairdressers and council houses matter. Hailing from Blackburn, Holman takes the "it's grim but great up north" approach adopted by Pulp, marrying it with melodies and nagging rhythms.

Simon Trought's lead guitar is funky but with a 1960s feel, George Harrison discovering DirtyMind-era Prince before deciding on a love affair with the Stooges. As Amos Memon builds a steady drumbeat during Slender, Holman and McKenna counter the growing tension with airy voices; it's only as Trough's guitar screeches into punky life that the air of disquiet is shattered. It's a fantastic song that has the band grinning away as the final note fades away.

Tompaulin aren't content with being fine purveyors of quality scratchy pop; there's the rose-coloured hue of Wedding Song. As bass player, Katie Grocott takes centre stage, the warmth and fragility behind the bravado leave a lasting impression.
BETTY CLARKE

January 20 2001

Tompaulin (Winter Sprinter 2001)
Toynbee Hall Arts Cafe
London
This evening is the second night of the now annual Winter Sprinter series-think the Camden Crawl. but somehow more indie. Organised by the London-based Track & Field club, this three-night event makes All Tomorrow's Parties seem like the Smash Hits Poll-Winners' Party. Other bands playing this week include Birdie and January, but tonight belongs to north-west janglers Tompaulin.

Flame-haired singer Jamie Holman has a chip on his shoulder the size of Everest. After two single releases, he's fed up with being compared to Stuart Murdoch, and his band to Belle and Sebastian.

And he's got a point. Live, Tompaulin owe more to early Velvet Underground and Clinic, and even Dexy's make a sly appearance. "Slender" is caustic as it builds for five minutes, finally disintegrating to feedback, while "My Life As A Car Crash" contains an effervescent groove, more akin to Martin Carr's twisted songwriting style than any fey Scottish pop.

He won't let it rest. "Belle and Sebastian anybody? Don't fucking think so," he sneers as he walks offstage, and it's a fair point, well made. Tompaulin are their own band, and you'd be a fool to suggest otherwise.
JULIAN MARSHALL

Birdie/Lincoln/Ant (Winter Sprinter)
London Aldgate East Arts Cafe
London's Kicker have taken a broom to their hitherto uninspired soul pop crossover and swept away the bits that didn't quite fit. They pulsate with the sound of old soul gold and a vibrant pop veneer that's embellished by neat arrangements. It's such an accomplished blend that you have to salute them for appropriating The Jam's 'Start' and not once making you think of The Beatles' 'Taxman'. And when they cheekily rip off the riff from Brenton Wood's soul nugget 'Gimme Little Sign' you can forgive them, right? Right.

Last year's shouldabeens, Tompaulin, enter 2001 with everything to prove. Prove it they do with songs of exquisite beauty mixed with a hard-edged, caustic roughness. Singer-songwriter Jamie Holman snipes at his hometown Blackburn with the cynicism of an outsider who has to sail around the world just to prove to his peers that the world isn't flat. Guitars chime and jangle with an insistent guttural undertone that chews up the small town world, spits it out and looks for something more worthwhile. Which is a darkly romantic life spent with a mass that don't ever quite get that there are options other than ready-made culture, which is music that is equal parts beguiling and entertaining.
BEN CLANCY

Birdie/Lincoln/Ant (Winter Sprinter)
London Aldgate East Arts Cafe
File away your copies of Hefner's last sex-obsessed album, "We Love The City", and realise that there is a passionate songwriter in the band. It's Ant, the drummer, who moonlights with his guitar, exploring all of those lovetorn issues he's spent hours contemplating while hugging a tear-stained pillowcase. One man, one acoustic guitar and many moments of poignant introspection with a cool poise-recommended listening, oh yes.

Lincoln are a trio of heartbreakers who specialise in saloon bar country blues. It's very resonant and very touching for a while, but for all of their desolate intent they never manage to get out of first gear. They play for too long, but they've got a few great songs sparkling in the tedium and give every indication that they've got a classic up their sleeve. They just haven't written it yet.

Birdie shrug off some sound problems and show that really are the ones to watch. They've dispensed with the minimalism of 99s succint debut album, "Some Dusty", and have a whole new seductive sound of cool '60s beat-beatnik guitar, vibrant keyboards and poppy bass. They are the band you'd really hope to stumble across when you tune in to Radio 2, the band that play low-slung jazz inflected mod pop and put a delicious grin on your face. It's time for Birdie to really soar and tonight they almost get there. No matter, the rest of the year is theirs for the taking.
BEN CLANCY

Evening Standard
Jan 10 2001

A Night Off From Stargazing
Track & Field Winter Sprinter 2001
Toynbee Hall Arts Cafe
London
What with Meg Matthews threatening to air last year's dirty laundry in public if Noel Gallagher doesn't cough up, and All Saints promising something equally salacious if and when the Appletons part company with Mel Blatt and Shaznay, you'd be forgiven for thinking it was business as usual in pop's giddy firmament.

Not quite, since last night saw the minor matter of a total eclipse and the onset of Track and Field's three-night mini-season. What started out as an independent jaunt in the Betsey Trotwood pub is now a three-pronged attack on, ahem, mediocrity. The Track & Field organisers are attempting to recreate the old NME showcase, albeit spread with less Brats, before IPC's final music paper went corporate mainstream.

Following a solo acoustic outing by Ant-day job as Hefner's drummer-and the melancholia of Lincoln, Birdie's headliner should have been the brandy butter on the pudding. Sadly a semi-pro cock-up with the equipment left Deborah Wykes and Paul Kelly cooling their heels.

Still minor technical glitches are a good experience-for the audience. For Birdie, the excruciating hiatus encouraged them to dip into their Some Dusty disc with even greater resolve. Being formerly St Etienne helpers, Birdie are congenitally incapable of rocking out, but their gentle wash of girl-group pop influences and resonant jingling kept feet tapping.

Here was an agreeable night that never felt like the next big thing or rocket science. For that cliche you had to be stargazing. Sheer lunacy.
MAX BELL

Jan 9 2001

Winter Sprinter 2001
Toynbee Hall Arts Cafe
London
Getting the New Year off not so much with a bang as a whimper, the nine emerging bands performing at this three-day event organised by promoters The Track & Field Organisation and the Sausage Machine are proof this year's way to get noticed is to tread as quietly as possible.

Out of the nine, it is Lincoln who are currently getting the most exposure in Bands to Watch features: their New American sound-a formalised take on Ennio Morricone-uses trombones to grandly melancholic effect. They play tonight supported by Birdie, and Ant-the side project of Hefner drummer Anthony.

Tomorrow, the wonderfully named Tompaulin, whose gently poetic strummings attest to the power of impact in inverse proportion to attitude, and which have already earned them an unwanted Belle and Sebastian tag, will prove these days there's more to silvery low-key melodies than simply emulationg fey post-rock bands. They are supported by Kicker, whose adrenalised soul-soaked guitar pop makes them one of the more lively prospects, and alt.country rockers The Gospel Oak.

On Thursday, much-trumpeted new band January peddle their tender acoustic pop music, supported by Airport Girl and Saloon.

Much to get excited over, then, without having to work up a sweat.
CLAIRE ALLFREE

Track and Field Winter Sprinter 2001
Toynbee Hall Arts Cafe
London
It promises something a whole lot better than muddied knees and sneering sideline comments delivered by a sadisitic PE teacher. Although the Track & Field mid-winter event will appeal to precisely the same, terminally non-athletic outsiders. Over the three nights, everything from knock-kneed pop to kick ass rock represents independent labels like Alan McGee's Poptones and others flexing considerably less financial muscle, such as It Records and Action.

Headlining on the opening night are Birdie, who were formed by Deborah Wykes and Paul Kelly. Together, they were Saint Etienne's backing band, which in terms of superfluity, is akin to keeping a fire extinguisher on the Hindenberg, but their sweetly ethereal faded-Polaroid beauty occasionally hits the retro pop spot as last year's album, "Some Dusty" and recent single, "Such a Sound", attest. Ant(hony) music from Hefner's drummer completes the line up.

On Wednesday, Tompaulin lead the field. They're named after the Irish poet (and "Late Review" panellist) and their guitarist makes videos for Belle & Sebastian, so no, they're not much like Slipknot. Unsurprisingly, jingly, rather sugary sub-folk is their thing, despite having a song called "Ballad of the Bootboys". Bringing up the rear are country-pop soundscrapers Kicker and new alt-country rockers The Gospel Oak. All of this without the horrors of a communal changing room.
SHARON O'CONNELL

Winter Sprinter 2000
Tompaulin
The Betsey Trotwood
London
With the first line of the first song, Tompaulin announce themselves "I know she's got a boyfriend/But I guess we'll just take turns" Gotcha! This is a Belle & Sebastian thing, isn't it? Sweet voices and sour relationships, a resigned pluck of the guitar, shuffling drums and named after a BBC2 arts pundit. Perfect. Review written.

Except that Tompaulin are better than that. When the first song, "Carcrash" gets into its stride, it's almost funky. Like the Tindersticks on their last, Motown-influenced album, they might not have got much rhythm but they have got a lot of soul. If it wasn't quite so packed in here, people might even try to dance. The sleepy, ambiguous sadness of "Slender" and the Stereolab-with-a-heart rhythms of "Them vs Us" will slide into your head in the same understated way as the best of B&S. They have the same kind of reverse narcissistic aesthetic, but you don't need to feel embarrased to be a fan. On the downside, you won't join an exclusive club by saying you like Tompaulin, but on the upside, they are a simply irresisitible band.
TREVOR BAKER

Feb 2-Feb 8 2000

Sportique
The Betsey Trotwood
London
Sportique are both Spearmint without the northern soul inflections and a 30-Something Buzzcocks. Angsty, romantic, endearingly simplisitic, Sportique would rather charm your socks off than rip your clothes off. Deserve to have streams of Top 10 hits, but wouldn't complain if they didn't. Bless 'em.
DANIEL BOOTH

Woodbine
The Betsey Trotwood
London
After the last couple of years of being blugeoned with the billy club of big rock, it's good to know that small music hasn't gone away. Bands that write low-key and quirky (but good quirky) songs for the sake of it, rather than anthems for the gods of Morfa, are a prized commodity these days. Imagine Tortoise jamming with The Dandy Warhols. Now imagine that it sounds good (this might take a while). That's the noise this three-piece produce on two guitars (one slightly busted) and a kit of drums.

Opener "Nesquick" sets the pace. A sparse almost folky thing battered out without much thought for super-dynamics. It's soon followed by "Blue Bucket", an equally serene serving of blues made light by the added Mellotron.

But for the most part, it's what Woodbine do with silence, space and reverb that holds your attention. It's a deciduous sound which most likely goes very well with a gigantic, cartoon-style marijuana reefer. And as the excellent "Ban Everything" and (gasp!) catchy "I Hope That You Get What You Want" roll over and finish the set, you can almost hear the whole audience breathing out simultaneously.
EDDY LAWRENCE

I suppose you can almost trace this back to the Bowlie Weekender last April. In a very groovy room that held both the merchandise stalls AND the legendary message board, I picked up a flyer for a new London-based indie-disco called Track & Field. The name was taken from a song by some band or other. Steven, Paul and Russell promised the first Track & Field event in the summer, whilst constantly denying rumours that they could wear terry underwear.

The Betsey Trotwood is a cluttered affair, but has enough charm to justify its choice as a London venue. You'll need the Circle Line, Metropolitan Line, Thameslink or #55 bus to Farringdon to get there. Avoid the supporting pillar on ground floor level, its only purpose is to hold a rather suspect jukebox. Hearing those songs is like being shown photos of girls that you once fancied, before you, erm, refined your taste. Ho hum.

Tuesday 18/1/2000: We're in an upstairs room and the first band to huddle their way into the corner is The Action Time. This is a local six-piece that includes a pair of singing sisters and a young guitarist with a lot of shouty, Mark E Smith-esque snarling brilliance. Shades of Ash, at one point shades of Strawberry Switchblade, all drenched in honey flavoured 60s pop, black dresses and big eyes. A great chant of "I will fear no evil" draws their third song to a close. There is a great pastiche of Riders On The Storm, from the heart of the band's leopard skin synthesizer, that fits around a tale of how "It's raining all night long." New single Crash Landing recalls Blondie in their earlier, punkier days. The whole set cries out for a rousing cover version, which sadly fails to materialise. Still a good start to the 4x200-minute relay.

Next up are Woodbine. Now I used to have a dog with no legs called Woodbine and every day, I'd take him out to the park for a drag. Which aptly sums up a band with no tunes. The drummer was noticeably out of time and the band couldn't be bothered (or didn't have the capability) to tune their guitars. "Melancholic but dull" as my notes say. Where was the raw enthusiasm? And then, when even the Betsey jukebox seemed endearing, Woodbine came up with three corkers. Firstly, a punchy little piece of pop, next a beautiful song with a melody to match and finally an experimental, guitar-based number with a dual vocal and a blatant I Am The Woodbine intro to bring the set to a close. So the makings of a very good EP and a very bad Gomez tribute band all in one. Oh and "quite a nice voice" as My Mate Tony put it.

One of the great things about The Winter Sprinter is that you get a free helping of Track and Field DJ-ing in between each band. Tonight's highlights are Tracie's The House That Jack Built (a 1983 hit that 'proves' my age) and V Twin's Thank-U Baby: still gorgeous.

And on we go-enter Tram. Ah yes, a warm mellow selection. Good bass and soft drums layered with a trembly, rich guitar sound that leaves you yearning for a sunny day on a grassy bank. Tram's technique tends to focus on the musical sounds rather than the vocals. Overall, it's probably closest to The Clientele, but echoes of Hefner and the Cowboy Junkies are there somewhere. There's a great part when Tram use a haunting piano sound. If anything, they should develop this use of keyboards. It certainly made me want my Teddy!

Wednesday 19/1/2000: This is the one you missed, really missed. The T&F decks blast out tunes as diverse as an instrumental Je T'Aime (Moi Non Plus) and Bob Dylan's Obviously Five Believers from the tremendous Blonde on Blonde. And then there's the bands. Tompaulin are playing their third ever gig. Half-London, half-Blackburn with a blend of warm keyboards and cuddly guitars. And a cute singer in a lime green cardie that looks both warm and cuddly. And everything feels so fresh, if only you could bottle it. Tompaulin have melody, clarity and the words indie pop tattooed on their foreheads. Each song is short, but not too short. The second song is announced as "It's A Girls' World" and quickly leapfrogs back 10 years or so, to a sound that juggles Frazier Chorus and World of Twist. And then there's the lyrics that hinge it all together. And I hoped that I'd never end up saying it, but Tompaulin really could follow in the footsteps of the 16-legged groove machine that is Belle and Sebastian. It's probably closer to B&S doing Beautiful South covers, but that's not a bad place to start. It all drifts by effortlessly, a bit like the Popinjays on a good day. And there's the sign of every good indie band when you notice that the sound has that hint of Americana. Although the most resounding comment from the audience is "I've never seen such a short band", it seems that everyone is won over by the time that Slender (new single and token long song) brings things to a dazzling close. Thrilling.

Kicker are a five-piece who should do well. A new single is being financed by Track & Field on the back of the Winter Sprinter. Kicker have also got the right looks and tunes, which can only add to the momentum. The first track is an instrumental with trademark Hooky basslines. The band then launch into a superb hybrid of French pop and She Bangs The Drums-era Stone Roses. I couldn't see if the moogs had been let out to play, but it certainly sounded that way. Kicker have a spiky/snappy approach but were let down by the vocals being too quiet. Still a band that look like a sexy version of Elastica and sound like Stereolab playing Made of Stone is alright in my book.

Miss Mend are honoured by the sight of one man moshing. And there's a probable aural soup of My Bloody Valentine and Death in Vegas and, no doubt, many more. But whilst there's clearly something going on, it's difficult to fully appreciate it on first listen. Or when you need to get back to Farringdon tube station.

Thursday 20/1/2000: It's quite obvious that Day 3 has been given a lot of attention. The bands all play tighter and have bigger record deals, such as Fortuna Pop!'s Airport Girl. Again, they choose to open with an instrumental track. Theirs isthe stuff of trumpet, melodica and Reverand Black Grape at this village church's coffee morning. At times, Airport Girl's songs go a little C86 (boo) but then sometimes it's the sound of jingly-jangly (yay). And lyrically, there's the full indie attitude in song titles such as I'm Wrong You're Right. Another band that recall Ash (particularly so when they recall the guitar riff to Jesus Says), they're not afraid to make the occasional comedy quip. "This strays into pub-rock territory", except it's a stop-startish celebration, with trumpets and tambourines and a half-cousin from Liverpool called Lazurus. There's no better way to end a set.

Sportique are a beefy, popped-up Hefner/The Jam crossover with a healthy tinge of Dinosaur Jr and other assorted grungsters. Great, honest lyrics like "you don't believe a word I say 'cos I say anything". Sadly, the lyrics are not always audible, Their songs are fast-paced and bold. And they'd sound flipping ace on the Evening Session.

We'd better bring on Comet Gain. They're loud, shouty and noisy in all the right place. Again, familiarity would add to the appreciation. As would an air conditioning system. 70+ people in a upstairs room. Or "It's great to be in this tropical heat" as The Gain put it. There's a good chunk of chugging bass guitar a la Pixies. And lots of other loud, shouty, noisy bits too. But nothing you can really feel like writing about.

Friday 21/1 2000: And so to round everything off, we've an old fashioned Track & Field disco to welcome in the weekend. This is the stuff of "the music they never play on the radio". And it's all happening in both the basement (retro and punky) and the first floor (Scottish indie and others) whilst Phil Collins and "funky stuff" like Level 42 try their best to compete from the confines of the ground floor jukebox. It's a great atmosphere tonight and you can tell how far it's moved on since those early days of July 1999. As a one-off treat, an eight-girl ensemble in kitcsh black garb appears as The Actionettes for a single song performance. The indie Legs & Co, no less. We couldn't really decide which floor we preferred. But as the evening finally drew to a close, we heard the likes of Poodle Rockin' by Gorky's and B&S's Lazy Line Painter Jane, before it all went 2-Tone for an epic closing.

By that time, it had begun to feel more like a midsummer marathon rather than a winter sprinter. But a collective thank you to Steve, Russell and Paul: the stars of Track & Field (are beautiful people).
SIMON WHITE