Oz St. Fossils

Mrs. Toad was reading in the sun when they played on the Fir Meadows stage, and even though I wasn't listening to begin with, slowly my ears began to prick up. They were playing what sounded to my ears like old rag-time stuff, but they played it just a little off-kilter and with a slightly flat, un-singerly vocal delivery that made it a bit different and interesting. And they had a full-time saw player. Oh yes!
I enjoyed that, but I hadn't been listening properly, to tell the truth, so I decided to wander up to the gorgeous Woods Stage to catch another performance later in the afternoon. They had to drag their mad old piano (all the facing was removed, displaying its innards to the world) all the way up into the Oregon hills to play and the bass was made from a guitar neck attached to an old bass drum, so between the bizarre loveliness of the instruments and the leafy charm of the setting I was already inclined to like it before they even started.
Lead singer Felix Hatfield looks slightly stunned most of the time, but it gives the music a kind of wide-eyed sincerity that makes a fascinating combination with the deadpan delivery. He sings like he isn't trying overly hard to 'sing', if you know what I mean, and there are times when you think he's lost the tune altogether, only for him to reassuringly slip back into it a moment later. The music is a little like that as well. There are times when the wagon is so rickety that the wheels already seem to have come off altogether, only for it to casually right itself and carry on ambling its lurching way along the rutted, meandering path it had chosen to follow in the first place.
This deceptive fumbling is great to watch. They really seem to enjoy playing, and there is a sort of haphazard confidence about their sound that infuses the audience with good will. The dancing clarinet, echoing bar-room piano and spectral saw all bring engaging flights of fancy to a basic, good time beat, and you really just can't help but warm to them. I don't know how well their music will translate to the Georgian stone of Edinburgh in the Autumn, but I am listening to their live CD here on the boat in Nehalem, and it still carries that ramshackle magic from up in the woods. Definitely the find of Pickathon, if you ask me.