MOG

I've just returned from seeing (an evidently less than healthy) Scout Niblett playing at the Carling Academy in Oxford (UK). She made a false start on one song, her guitar was (as ever) slightly out of tune, her set was short, and, I was told, the performance wasn't up to her usual standard.

I thought it was brilliant.

Never previously having seen Niblett play live, I have no point of comparison. Obviously, she _is_ pretty ill - but she still performed with a mesmerising confidence. Scout Niblett's music somehow gives the impression of being 'boiled down' right to its key elements. She does not seem to be interested in the measured, slow-building transition, or, indeed, any real kind of musical synthesis. Much of what I find strong and compelling in her work is related to its raw juxtapositions and stubborn refusal to blur sharp dividing lines (no wonder Steve Albini chooses to produce her records). This music of extremes is very well served by the inherent drama of live performance: songs that might err on the side of wilfulness on record make perfect sense in this context.

Although, as I've said, the set was relatively short, almost every musical base seemed to be covered. Dynamics ranged from the shimmering of barely-strummed clean guitar to pounding drums, banshee vocals and industrially-distorted chords. When Niblett and her (superb) drummer - who plays on about half of the songs - are at full tilt in schitzophrenic death-folk nursery rhyme Let Thine Heart Be Warmed (a stunning track), they make as powerful a sound as any number of axe-wielding metallers with Marshall stacks, Niblett spitting and twitching out her lyrics with almost disturbing intensity.

The sense of ensemble between Niblett and her drummer is powerful: even when the tempo is being stretched and moulded, the two are absolutely together - each drawn-out pause almost vertiginous; each accent impeccably placed.

The set closes with the excellent 'Where are you?'. The first verse is lyrically extraordinary:

"We woke up late again And walked into town My hand held yours But who was prouder to be with the other? I think it was me, I think it was me, I think it was me."

- Matter-of-fact, moving, disarmingly vulnerable. She is, evidently, too unwell to play an encore - but, charmingly, _does_ return to the stage to acknowledge the persistent applause.