In recent years, few musical descriptors have suffered from definitional creep as badly as ‘psychedelic’. Cardiff’s own Gene Madoc calls himself a “psychedelic folk artist”, but there’s next to nothing in the earnest acoustic troubadour’s trad-leaning repertoire that truly fits the bill. One track is titled Tethered To Expectation – somewhat unfortunately, as it underlines the disappointment that follows the anticipation his self-branding has built up.
Still, Madoc offers a reasonable take on the Young Marble Giants classic Brand – New – Life, apparently given the personal seal of approval by its author Stuart Moxham, who performed it himself at Wales Goes Pop! mere streets away at the Gate earlier this month. And closer I Feel Disdain – which Madoc accurately labels “a tirade” – quickens the pulse like a hit of caffeine, though not of anything stronger.
By contrast, Edwin R Stevens is a true original: the sort of musician who can floor you with nothing more than a naked guitar line and a few words. (It comes as little surprise to subsequently learn that he’s also a published author.) The veteran of projects such as Irma Vep and Yerba Mansa ventured out under his own name with 2023’s God On All Fours, and its successor A Plague Of Gimps is by turns absorbing, disturbing and pitch-black funny.
Stevens’ origins in Llanfairfechan and current residence in Glasgow have left an indelible imprint on his music – imagine Gruff Rhys transplanted from North Wales up the M6 to a scuzzy squat in Scotland’s second city. His winding David Berman-esque narratives are filtered through Aidan Moffat’s filthy mind, peppered with “Did he really just say that?” phrases like “Aryan bum disease” and “You made me Norman Bates’ mother” (Ugly Thing) and populated by characters who are compelled to collect their errant offspring from Thai jails (Blood In The Dumb Room) or who interrupt the performance of oral sex to declare that Germans should “apologise for their country” (The Bunker). Leftfield references – to Thomas The Tank Engine, to old copies of Kerrang! – abound, and a delicate instrumental is subverted by Stevens’ revelation that it was written to the sounds of his four-old-son straining to have a shit.
A set that begins with Stevens urging the audience to come forward while admitting “there’s nothing to see” ends with the refreshed maverick thanking us “for being so kind to this motherfucker who can’t even play his own songs”. “Neither can we”, comes the response. He expresses gratitude to Cardiff for coming out, before quickly correcting himself: “A proportion of Cardiff.” He may be a niche artist, an acquired taste, but those of us present are sold on his beautiful dark twisted fantasies.
Edwin R Stevens + Gene Madoc, Paradise Garden, Cardiff, Sat 11 Apr
words BEN WOOLHEAD photos NOEL GARDNER
