A Chap-Hopping Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah Day at The Pump, with Professor Elemental and Devil’s Doorbell

Every weekend there’s a dilemma on what to do, but one thing for sure, I’ve been busting to get back down The Pump like an ale tester needs a wee break….

Far from the name-dropping star-studded spacious venue of hipsters, The Pump is a renovated shack in Trowbridge blessed by vintage instruments as décor, and a hospitable ethos of hosting unorthodox, local or obscure acts, tried, tested, and needing to be on your radar; the latter certainly evident tonight. The thought this weekend that Brighton’s whimsical chap-hopper Professor Elemental was to take centre stage making it too tempting not to hang in Devizes. We rarely have hip hop let alone chap-hop here; the guaranteed and perfected over time simultaneous dancing and laughing this professor of rhyme evokes unto an audience, unsuspecting or not, is a joyful oddity we’re missing out on.

So there I was with a generous handful of others, those music lovers in the know, The Pump is a special and exclusive haven. Okay, I’ve seen the Prof before, an evening back when Sheer Music’s Kieran Moore hosted at the town hall, which ended with the professor rapping through a novelty horse’s head while the audience bounced blow-up unicorns around the room. Not your archetypal hip hop gig, the very reason I’m so eager to recapture it. I’ve also seen the support act, at the Sustainable Devizes Fair, though describing the offbeat setup doesn’t do it justice.

Laying it on the line, Devil’s Doorbell consists of a duo of bananas boater partners, one with a kazoo, ukuleles, a penchant for antique jazz and all the woobie doobas, the weebie deebie doos and shoobideedoos of Louis Prima on a Disney contract! The other, a jolly, jelly-legged bassist he’s profoundly in love with and vocal about, with a homemade instrument consisting of a lawnmower cord tied between a broom handle and a vintage washtub. If I’m not selling it to you, conformist, it’s a little piece of charm you need to hear for yourself.

Taking the ethos of New Orleans street jazz at its conception, a poverty-stricken time when musicians made their own junkyard instruments, Devil’s Doorbell not only explains this carefree and witty sound, but delivers it with such passion, it rubs off on you like melted Malteasers. It is, in short, a cheeky, Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah scat carnival to make James Baskett blush, and a set which is impossible to dislike, unless you’re as stiff-necked and Grumpus Maximus as Katie Hopkins in a neck brace at a mosque.

So after being teased by this dynamic duo of carefree jazz, in which no cover is more than ninety years old, yet remains buzzworthy and comical, attired in his uniform skyblue suit with clouds, and matching pith helmet, the Professor came, saw and did his thing sublimely. With minimal props this time, his charmasia and rib-tickling anecdotes and audience heckles flow between bursts of waxing lyrical, the sort of rhymes most rappers wouldn’t dream of toasting. It is a delightful thing, unique and wholesome, exhaling positivity into the air with his sunny side of the street prose.

If there’s a technical error, the professor uses it, if there’s an impromptu diversion, he’s on it like a cat on a mouse, giving his show the authentic and communal feel your average pretentious hip hop gig would avoid at all costs, and the dope beats your average comedian would shudder at. But most of all, it’s a big bag of fun.

Though kazoo blowing boaters plucking a lawnmower cord to Duke Ellington songs, and a leftfield comedian rapper with a distinctive debonair of Brighton’s avant-garde spirit and a bucket load of bizarre merch, may be as unusual at the Pump as anywhere else locally, it was of a quality you can take as standard at Trowbridge’s offbeat yet finest venue. Next week at the Pump psych-indie rock arrives in the shape of Bristol’s uber-cool My Octopus Mind with the Message in support, on Friday, and Saturday is reserved for folk rock, when Ameila Coburn, with two of the young, upcoming folk artists I’ve been raving about, Ruby Darbyshire and MEG in support; either is worthy of your attention.

Where the common venue prioritises profit and aims to attract and appease with a renowned name, The Pump will be the one introducing you to the next name, supporting the local circuit, ensuring your entertainment is affordable, and to pay it a visit is to be a human participant to the experience, rather than herded cattle. Hear thee, hear thee, I would warble if I were the Trowbridge town crier, long live the Pump, but I’m not, though right now feeling like I should yell it anyway!