Interview An experimental band who sound bigger as they shrink, by Dominic Haley. Photography by Matilda Hill-Jenkins
Tara Clerkin Trio An icy wind is howling through the streets of South Tottenham today. Inside, Bagel, New River Studios’ resident house cat, is curled up amongst the sofa cushions and doing his level best to sleep. Unfortunately, four humans have recently invaded his sanctum and appear dead set on ruining it for him, with their clinking bottles and constant coos of adoration. He opens up an eye and tries to get them to shut up by fluttering his ears. It doesn’t work – it’s time for the nuclear option. Standing up, he arches is back, stretching every muscle before flopping off the couch to strut off across the bar, looking for somewhere with less annoying people. “Come back!” Tara Clerkin calls after him, feigning outrage. “We’re almost done.” The bus that has brought her and her bandmates – brothers Sunny-Joe Paradiso and Patrick Benjamin – might have left Bristol early this morning, but none look all that worse for wear for it. The trio is warming up after their photoshoot by sinking beers and chatting excitedly. For some reason, our conversation has spontaneously focussed on ways to fill the long hours of hanging about while waiting for gigs to start. “Honestly, I don’t mind this bit,” says Clerkin when I ask how they deal with the waiting periods. “It’s the hour before that I really don’t like; that’s when I start to get nervous.” Although the bar is quiet right now, in a few hours’ time New River Studios will be buzzing. There is a lot of excitement swirling around the Tara Clerkin Trio right now. With echoes of acid jazz, off-kilter psych-pop and ethereal electronica, the group’s sound sits nicely alongside experimental bands like Jockstrap. They are a product of Bristol – specifically, Bristol circa 2010, and the weird and wonderful experimental scene that grew up around cassette/record label/live promoters Howling Owl, which began when Joe Hatt and Adrian Dutt (both of noise band Spectres) moved to the city in an attempt to find somewhere in the South West where their band wouldn’t be booed off the stage. Alongside record shop Stolen Recordings, this live music collective became a lightning rod for Bristol’s DIY noise musicians, creating a ready-made community of collaborators and fellow travellers.
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