ANVAR KHAN meets a band with no qualms about their lack of
musicianship.
BABYJUNKWORM are a band who have no illusions about the quality of
their music. They readily admit they cannot play their instruments --
guitar, drums, bass and keyboard. Neither can they sing. Their
compilation tape of original material is a glorious testimony to the
fact that in the world of amateur pop, any chancer who fancies himself
as a pop star can inflict mince on the public ear.
Listening to Babyjunkworm, the idea that musical instruments should be
so extortionately expensive, that no-one but the most serious and
dedicated would bother saving up to buy one, becomes very attractive.
Anyone can pick up a guitar, anyone can have access to a studio to
record, anyone can call themselves a musician.
Such opportunity, democratic as it may be, positively dumps on quality
control. The result is a live gigging scene where even a modicum of
talent comes across as worldbeating rock. Scotland's music scene on a
grassroots level, has the same calibre of product as the Edinburgh
Festival. There may be a lot to see, but you can bet your last fiver
that nine times out of ten you'll see substandard entertainment which
barely passes as mediocre.
Considering the band's frankness about their lack of talent (they
sound like schoolkids trying to impersonate early Depeche-Mode, without
the harmonies), Babyjunkworm come across as deluded. They believe they
are the ''best band in Scotland''. Lead singer and guitarist, Grant
Robson, begins his attempt to convince me of the band's alleged
individualism by correcting me on his surname. ''It's Worm'' he says,
''Grant Worm''.
Grant has a real reluctance to say anything straightforward or honest.
On ambition: ''Babyjunkworm are driving the bandwagon not jumping on
it''. On the imminent demo: ''We expect to be signed up and playing
Wembley in September.'' On success: ''I was born to be a pop star, I'm
just not famous yet.'' On band integrity: ''We're a bunch of fakes.''
Arrogance is not that interesting, as Grant ''Worm'' has sussed. He
backs up premeditated quips with a store of weird comments which he
distributes liberally, just in case I don't believe he's deep as well as
superficial. He tells me he sees Babyjunkworm members as Disney
characters with no pupils and asks me if I find that scarey. I don't.
Babyjunkworm are not precious, but they take a juvenile delight in the
ability to shock. Grant tells me about his last job, working in Tate and
Lyle in Greenock, but only because he hopes I might keel over in
disgust. ''My job was to test the size of crushed cattle bones which
they burn down to charcoal and use to decolourise sugar. I had to get
anthrax jags''.
For all the cynicism that performing music as a joke or dumb pastime
demands, the band are not actually cynical about life. This is the great
anomaly in Babyjunkworm. They are musical delinquents, but their songs
are all about the right to be exactly the person you want. But one man's
self-expression is this reviewer's agony.
It was when Grant Robson sat watching a documentary on BBC2 by David
Attenborough that he came up with the name for the band. The programme
focused on baby termites called junkworms. ''They live off rubbish,'' he
says ''just like us''. Sure, but they don't produce it.
On a brighter note, top of the range demos from as-yet unsigned bands
include Perfect World and Wah Wah Jack, and suggest there's still plenty
of talent on the Scottish club scene.
Paul Crolla, Rico, Tomaso Capuano, Ed Kilday and Paul Mitchell are
Perfect World. Their demo features three tracts, its I Hate Today, The
Storm and Turn Back. Theirs is a highly aggressive, muscular sound. Rico
punches out reprisals like Tyson in a room full of banamweights.
The band sing about frustration. ''I'm not alive'' grills Rico, ''I'm
just breathing. I watch all my dreams slip away, through a crack in the
ceiling.'' This is not bedsit fury, these are not the lazy thoughts of a
latent, sociopathic crazy. Perfect World are on a campaign against
powerlessness. ''I can't stand feeling this way'' pitches Rico, ''I hate
today''. The band manufacture the impression that if you get angry
enough you can do anything. Their attack on the Scottish music scene, a
scene which they describe as a ''quagmire of mediocrity'', is merely an
extension of their commitment to have some kind of interesting life. The
posers they plaster all over the city before a gig advertise their
positive attitude to their career and to their work. ''Apathy Sucks!''.
Perfect World produce a passionate, solid sound, the machinery of
base, drums and keyboard thrash about like a harpooned whale. They
describe themselves as the ''Grim reapers of pop''. The band are moody,
intense and good.
Wah Wah Jack, another unsigned Glasgow band, are four. Philip
Campbell, Colin MacRitchie, Alasdair MacDonald and Alastair Cochrane
have an average age of 20. Nevertheless, their own particular home-grown
brand of piano-based blues owes more to Chris Kristofferson, Billy Joel,
Jack Daniels and Malboro than current purveyors of countryfied soul.
Vocalist and songwriter Philip Campbell has a serious rasp in his
voice, something akin to a chain-smoking laboratory beagle. He soars
through the 4-track demo, which includes numbers Miss Uravicci, Receive
Me, Lose Your Mind and Find. Wah Wah Jack are currently producing high
quality, original material.
* Babyjunkworm play Helter Skelter at The Venue, Sauchiehall Street,
Glasgow, tonight. Both Perfect World and Wah Wah Jack will be gigging
around Glasgow in the near future.
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