MUSIC

Banjo plus accordion equals the sound of... no, that can’t be right. Julian Owen explores the singular sound of The Bad Joke That Ended Well.

Norris, bass player in The Bad Joke That Ended Well, has a simple explanation: “We don’t feel the need to change the riff if the riff is good.” Thus, a few weeks earlier, the group of young men on stage at the Louisiana who looked fit to chorus “Blue moon of Kentucky, keep on shining” in five-part harmony, instead locked into a motorifik groove you’d more likely hear echoing up from a Berlin basement club in 1972 and sat in it for ages. Immediately, Venue was hooked. “They are the anti-twee,” we recorded, “bringing an attitude pleasingly out of sync with the norm of their chosen instruments. When was the last time you saw a banjoist approach a microphone like [Metallica’s] James Hetfield? Further, that the song then broke into fleet banjo picking that wouldn’t frighten the Opry, hit a ‘Pinball Wizard’-like flying riff, and outro’d in an endless wave of – here’s something we’ve never written before – space-rocking country?”

Clearly, an explanation was required. It came last week, sitting outside No 1 Harbourside. In the meantime, Venue had worked out the story for itself: a bunch of friends with a deep love of country music pushing out in a new direction. You need to know the rules before you can break them, and so forth. The day before, Alex, lead singer, chief songwriter and banjoist, had returned from a 5,000 mile drive around the US. Of course he had. Musical pilgrimage to the Deep South, no doubt. So, Alex, let’s talk country. “We don’t really listen to that kind of thing,” he says. What, any more? “No, never. We don’t really listen to anything that would have banjo in it.” I pard your begdon? Poor Venue is more than a little discombobulated. It turns to Will. Will plays the accordion, and will surely help piece our theory back together. You must listen to at least a little accordion music? A long pause for thought, an outer expression describing an inner desperate wracking of brain. “I love Beirut,” he finally offers, slightly apologetically. OK, then so how in the name of...? “It just comes out like that,” says Norris. “Me and Matt [drums] come from more punk-rock bands in Hereford. It’s all about rhythm and maybe giving it a bit of guts. That’s another thing that separates us from the folk stuff.” A round-tabling of musical likes brings forth Everything Everything, indie electro-pop, LCD Soundsystem, The Jesus Lizard, Tom Waits, and – finally, banjo! – CW Stoneking.

Venue is not alone in being wrong-footed. “Remember when we borrowed that sound guy’s banjo?” asks John, the guitarist. “£500 banjo. He thought we were going to play it nice. Then we started and he looked as though he was going to kill us!” Seems the sound guy community is often troubled by the accordion, too. “I guess a lot of time they’re used by folkies and they want them to be quite audiophilish,” offers Norris. “We don’t really need a clean sound,” continues the man with a heavily deployed distortion pedal. “It’s not the point of what we do.” Although some sound would be good. When Venue goes to see the band again later that day – still only their sixth gig, having debuted in March – it takes four songs before the accordion makes it into the sound mix.

It’s a matter of collective pride in the group that they’re never had music tuition. Well, not much. Matt had three drum lessons, Alex had guitar lessons when younger, Norris none, Will stays quiet, and then John reveals: “I got my Grade 1 music.” Woah, professor! “That was my dirty little secret.” Instead, the clear musical empathy and unity of purpose is attributed to all having lived with each other at some point. “The discussions we have are relaxed, rather than band practice discussions where other things are going on. Less pressure.”

Back at that Louis gig, the lyrics appeared similarly unconventional, a series of non sequitur throwaway lines. Perhaps we weren’t listening closely enough, though, so tell us, Alex, what are the songs are about? “They’re a lot of nonsense. Nothing too deep. I don’t write about girls, anyway. No love songs.” A pause. “Well, I’ve got meaning for certain bits of it, but I wouldn’t explain because it would be... embarrassing. So we’ll say ‘throwaway lines’ and whatever you think it is, if it’s something brilliant, write that.” Later, he sends in a demo called ‘Soul Coffin’, and we’re able to hear him sing lines like “My lover she killed me with six inches of steel/Now I bleed in the kitchen while she rummage the house.” Yup, the Bad Joke have begun brilliantly.

THE BAD JOKE THAT ENDED WELL PLAYED FUCKERY WITCHCRAFT AT THE OLD FIRE STATION, BRISTOL ON SAT 30 OCT. 
 

Copyright Julian Owen 2010

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