Be Quiet! We Can't Hear the Noise.

Our first visit to Cafe Oto, which is shamefully close by. It's an absolutely wonderful venue: Despite showcasing some of the most experimental, earsplitting music imaginable, the system is wonderfully understated, just filling the room with sound, letting your presence in the space be enough exposure to the noise. They also have an excellent alcohol policy: An amateurishly biro-ed sign propped on the bar announces "No sales during the performances".

This was absolutely essential during the solo cymbal with mixing/processing by Oceans of Silver and Blood. Long episodes of clanging, chiming silence, gradually shifting rise-and-fall of frequency reverberation. The cymbal player was out of sight behind his huge tam-tam, which added to the drama. "When's the next noise coming"?

ARAR had charmed us with home-made radio transmitters, simple jury-rigged wave-form machines and a sound propelled by the humane ebb and flow of bass frequency.

Good Dog, Good Dog

We were at the Oxford Playhouse last Friday, for 40 minutes of brilliantly delivered relationship analysis through Lassie, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, and fearless self-examination. Stacey Makishi and her real-life partner Vick act out, in every sense of the phrase, a stream-of-consciousness dream sequence fuelled by the vivid visual and cinematographic residue of the thrashing, repetitive, resigned end of a relationship.

There are several tours-de-force: Vick pours water from a jug while stood at the top of a metal stepladder, into Stacey's mouth while she lays flat on her back at the base of the ladder, trying to sing through the waterfall; they both sit opposite each-other at a white-covered table, a pillow, a knife, and a black glove each between them and dinner when they both leap onto the table and eat like dogs.

Excellent visceral stuff delivered with gusto and good grace.