The Great 2004 Catch-Up Attempt Part One

The recent paucity of posting on this blog is by no means indicative of a lack of quality music. In fact, the situation is quite the contrary as I am currently collapsing under the weight of recently acquired CDs and vinyl. There is so much to review that I will inevitably have to spread it across two, possibly even three posts. In a no doubt futile attempt to pick up all the key albums of the year before I have to complete an albums of the year list, I’ve been feverishly spending in the last couple of weeks!

Neko Case – The Tigers Have Spoken (Anti)

Whilst this quite charming live album has on the whole been blessed with good reviews, I’ve also been dismayed by some slightly snobbish comments as well. Apparently, as it’s a live album, it’s merely an adequate stop-gap before Neko Case returns next year with her next ‘proper’ album (i.e. a studio recording). Some have also been critical of backing band The Sadies, claiming that they fail to recreate the mysterious and ethereal atmosphere of the excellent ‘Blacklisted’ album. I say both arguments are nonsense. Perhaps it’s simply because live albums are becoming increasingly de rigueur these days that critics have become slightly jaded about them - witness entirely unnecessary cash-in DVD tie-in products from Busted, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Robbie Williams et al and Pearl Jam releasing virtually every concert they play. Naturally, ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ is not one of those albums. The Sadies may not be as boisterous as The New Pornographers or The Boyfriends, nor do they pile on too much reverb to attempt to recreate the ‘Blacklisted’ sound. Instead, they adopt a different approach, providing a rich and textured backdrop for Case’s stunning vocals – a sound appropriately steeped in country music history, but also with plenty of elegance and glamour.

One very simple reason why this live album feels special is that it contains a plethora of previously unreleased material, including new compositions as well as carefully selected cover versions. It demonstrates conclusively that Neko Case is both a gifted singer-songwriter and an interpretative performer of real quality, a rare commodity in the industry at the moment. It’s gratifying that such a spirited version of Loretta Lynn’s ‘Rated X’ can sit comfortably alongside a nuanced and balanced piece of songwriting such as the title track. Whereas sometimes records with a ‘classic’ sound can come across as self-conscious or antiquated, ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ shows that Case and her musicians have a real passion for the music they deliver. One of the best examples is opening track ‘If You Knew’, which has energy and emotional depth. It has an appealing twang to it, and Case’s vocal is filled with the soulful resonances of Patsy Cline or Tammy Wynette. Equally brilliant is the rendition of Buffy Sainte-Marie’s ‘Soulful Shade Of Blue’, which features some brilliant pedal steel guitar playing courtesy of John Rauhaus. Here, Case sounds perfectly in tune with her source material, committed and full of character.

Every track here charms because they all capture, with considerable success, the intimacy of small club live performance. This is particularly true of the ballads and traditional material, which Case handles as well as more uptempo contemporary styles. The closing ‘Wayfaring Stranger’ is compelling, and makes for an intriguing feminine counterpoint to Johnny Cash’s much darker, masculine recent version. Sometimes the sound quality is slightly muddy, as on the lilting ‘Hex’, but rather than being a limitation, this actually adds warmth and immediacy to the music. An album of considerable merit in its own right, ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ by no means feels like a stopgap release. Listening to this album, I find myself again enchanted by Neko Case’s haunting, hypnotic and graceful music.

The Arcade Fire – Funeral (Merge)

Here is a quite superb album, and a serious late contender for album of the year. And, behold, they are Canadians! This is one of those albums that, whilst ostensibly an ‘indie-rock’ record, also manages to veer beyond classification. There are elements of other critically favoured bands – the relentless chug of Grandaddy, the arty sensibilities of Franz Ferdinand and the cinematic scope of Mercury Rev spring most immediately to mind. Yet there is also much more than these somewhat superficial comparisons. The Arcade Fire have that brilliant ability to produce the best results from their material through intelligent arrangement and deft employment of studio technique. ‘Funeral’ rivals recent landmarks from Doves and Broken Social Scene for inventive use of the resources of the recording studio. It is also positively brimming with original ideas and carefully orchestrated myth-making, not least through the packaging, which looks more like a mediaeval manuscript than a CD inlay. Clearly a band after my heart!

Nearly half of this album is devoted to four songs under the banner title of ‘Neighbourhood’ – a song cycle with the motorik drive of Can and the angular qualities of Talking Heads or Gang of Four. These songs also have something more refreshing and possibly more unfashionable than these undeniably modish influences as there is an unashamed and keening romanticism. Neighbourhood #1, subtitled ‘Tunnels’ is located in a post-apocalyptic space where the neighbourhood has been buried in snow, and two lovers meet in tunnels connecting their homes. It has grand ascending keyboard chords and dense layers of guitars and it sounds rousing and engaging. Neighbourhood #2 begins with a comfortingly familiar groove with rumbling tom drums and lightly plucked high guitar chords. After just a few seconds though, it reaches a new level with the highly unpredictable entry of an accordion. Neighbourhood #3, subtitled ‘Power Out’ is about as close to dance music as rock gets, with its wiry, tightly controlled groove. The fourth and final song in the cycle is ‘Kettles’, which is softer and more reflective, demonstrating that this extraordinary band are as adept at constructing slow-burning, less lavish orchestrations.

Elsewhere, there is also a palpable melodic sense, particularly on ‘Une annee sans lumiere’ and ‘Crown of Love’. The vocals are have that slightly cracked vulnerability that inevitably evokes memories of Mercury Rev or The Flaming Lips. The Arcade Fire can also extrapolate ideas that initially seem merely intriguing into colossal statements. ‘Crown of Love’ and ‘Wake Up’ almost have too many ideas, but somehow all the disparate elements are brought together to make a weird kind of logical sense. The songs are enhanced by the different tones and timbres the band manage to eek out from their instruments. ‘Rebellion (Lies)’ builds on a remarkably simple harmonic foundation with lush strings (in part courtesy of Owen Pallett and Mike Olsen from The Hidden Cameras), handclaps, infectious backing vocals and chiming guitars. It’s repetitious, for sure, but also completely irresistible.

‘Funeral’ is consistently inventive, defiantly romantic and also shamelessly memorable. It is one of those rare albums that manages to be simultaneously mournful and uplifting. Whilst intended as a collection of songs for the departed, it also sounds fresh and energised. It ties together all of the qualities needed for great pop music in a way that seems distinctive and, most importantly, genuinely thrilling. Unfortunately, it’s only available on US import here at the moment (although at an unusually reasonable price). A UK bidding war for next year seems more than likely and some live dates simply cannot come soon enough.

Califone – Heron King Blues (Thrill Jockey)

I’m only about ten months behind the times with this one – but in a way it’s gratifying to know that there are still some good records from earlier in the year that I have somehow managed to neglect. ‘Heron King Blues’ is a somewhat abstruse document from a highly unusual band that, given time, reveals itself as a quietly compelling juxtaposition of old and new. In essence, this is a refashioning and modernisation of traditional blues forms but whereas The White Stripes frequently opt for piling on the distortion and thrashing drums, Califone opt for a more subtle, if no less minimalist approach. Much of this music is built upon drone and repetition, and with its dependence on lightly plucked guitars, Waitsian percussion foundations and twanging banjos, it comes across like a countrified Steve Reich or Gavin Bryars.

The seven tracks here, most of them lengthy, display simple harmonic ideas which are extended to their logical conclusions. It frequently works very well, such as on the percussive ‘Trick Bird’ and ‘Sawtooth Sung A Cheater’s Song’ although the approach to melody is abstract and occasionally frustratingly elusive. There are times when the tracks require a more concrete, identifiable melodic feature. Nevertheless, the sound is fascinating, combining swampy blues textures with electronics and modern rhythmic interventions. The fourteen minute epic ‘2 Sisters Drunk On Each Other’ is clearly intended as the major track here. It’s certainly full of ideas, and it veers from a funky improvised groove to a repeating banjo loop. It’s a track that would have been ripe for analysis in the excellent (if characteristically dry) feature on the riff as a compositional tool that dominates the current issue of The Wire magazine. ‘Heron King Blues’ demonstrates considerable potential and is definitely worth investigating.

Khonnor – Handwriting (Type)

This is an intriguing debut from seventeen year-old Connor Kirby-Long, and in some quarters he is already being hailed as some kind of prodigy. I’m not sure that excessive hyperbole will help him much, as ‘Handwriting’ is more a set of skeletal ideas that could benefit from bolder realisation next time. It is the coherent and distinctive sound of the album as a whole that most impresses – a combination of acoustic strum and laptop textures that loosely resembles the current breed of electronic improvisers such as Christian Fennesz, although these ideas are filtered through more conventional song structures.

It’s relaxed and hazy almost to the point of being soporific but many of the songs here do repay close attention. With its mix of cascasding guitar, fuzzy drum loop and layered backing vocals, ‘Crapstone’ sounds hypnotic and otherworldy. The stark piano chords of ‘Kill2’ are haunting and mysterious. Best of all is ‘Phone Calls From You’, which is remarkably direct and moving in its own fuzzy way. On most of these tracks, Khonnor has left his muted voice hushed and low in the mix, giving it a feeling of impassive distance and detachment that seems appropriate for the calm melancholy of the music. Occasionally, it feels a little tentative, but with the benefit of experience, such quibbles will no doubt be ironed out.

Slightly more problematic are the lyrics which are sparse and unpoetic, almost like Haikus. Sometimes this approach works well, conveying emotions in the simplest and most direct of terms. The lyrics are certainly best when they do not rhyme, when Khonnor does reach for a more conventional approach, the results are somewhat forced, notably on ‘An Ape Is Loose’ which has the unfortunate opening image: ‘The night I called you on the phone/Your eyes were sealed with styrofoam’. Much better is ‘A Little Secret’ which sets an elusive tale of an unnamed person reading the contents of a letter and crying to a New Order-esque strum and electronic backbeat. It is all the more successful because we do not even the name of the central character in the song and we are not allowed to discover the contents of the letter. We are left only able to imaging the devastating contents of the letter.

There’s certainly a somewhat maudlin quality to the album as a whole, and Khonnor would appear to have learnt a great deal from his heroes Morrissey, My Bloody Valentine and Radiohead. Personally, I hope that the follow-up to this record employs some humour or irony to balance the wistful regret and slight tinge of self-pity, but for now this distinctive debut will certainly suffice.

Various Artists – Dave Godin’s Deep Soul Treasures Volume 4 (Kent)

It was with tremendous sadness that I opened this month’s Mojo magazine to discover the sad news of Dave Godin’s death. I was saddened first of all for the loss of one of the most passionate and genuine voices in music promotion, but also because the news of his death had not been more widely reported. It is such a shame that Godin remained a largely unknown figure. Godin ran a record label dedicated to publishing great rare soul music which otherwise would have remained unheard, and also owned his own record store. Most importantly, in his influential column for Blues and Soul magazine, Godin coined the terms ‘northern soul’ and ‘deep soul’. Whilst the first term refers to a genuine movement centred on the mod rare soul clubs of Manchester, the latter term arguably refers to something more spurious. It is this sub-genre that has provided the focus for his more recent tireless work as a compiler. The Deep Soul Treasures CDs are essential purchases for anyone with even a passing interest in classic soul music. By setting some rare gems alongside more familiar artists, they have enabled me to collect some of the very greatest soul singles whilst also introducing me to a plethora of soul vocalists of which I was entirely ignorant. Godin’s own liner notes reveal the tragedy of the vast number of hugely talented vocalists left languishing without funding or label backing. Many of the greatest records on these collections ended up being one-offs.

It’s arguable that Volume 4 of this collection is blunted slightly by familiarity, and by the fact that Godin had already spread so many great sides across the previous three sets. Still, there’s still a wealth of great stuff here, from neglected versions of established classics (Roy Hamilton’s take on ‘Dark End Of The Street’) to complete unknowns (Jaibi’s ‘It Was Like A Nightmare’, Matilda Jones’ awesome ‘Wrong Too Long) to the almost over-familiar (Clarence Carter’s ‘Slip Away’, Irma Thomas’ classic original version of ‘Time Is On My Side’ and The Miracles’ utterly peerless ‘Tracks Of My Tears’). The latter selections seem a little perverse as they are already on countless other soul compilations, but ‘Tracks of My Tears’ is one of my all time favourite singles (if not the very greatest), with its mercilessly concise but overwhelmingly brilliant lyric and an arrangement that is as close to perfection as pop music can get. Any compilation can only be enriched by its presence.

Volume 4 does benefit from containing a more diverse range of selections. The pace is still largely slow and mournful – with Godin favouring the emotional sweep and grand expression which characterises the deep soul movement., but this is also a collection filled with resonant, deeply powerful music delivered with character and gusto. Some of the very best singers are here, from the towering but vastly underrated voice of Garnet Mimms (‘My Baby’ is just one of the many tracks that demonstrate him to have been the true heir to Sam Cooke’s gospel soul crown). Bobby Bland delivers the gutsy, bluesy ‘I Pity The Fool’ and from Gladys Knight and the Pips there is the colossal ‘Giving Up’.

or the most part, these recordings sound pure, free from the interventions and impositions of developing technology. There is a rawness and spontaneity to the best tracks, despite their frequently lavish orchestrations. The rhythm sections of these soul house bands contain dynamic and tightly controlled playing that also helps to highlight the emotional gravity of the material. Most significant though are the brilliant vocalists, who frequently exert mastery over their instrument, expressing anguish whilst also reigning in the more tempting excesses. These are kitchen sink epics of love and loss that build to staggering heights, proving that pop music can capture universal themes with profoundly devastating impact. Godin’s final liner notes again demonstrate the range and depth of his passion for the music, as well as his vast knowledge of the field. This collection stands as a final great addition to a classic series of compilations. As an introduction to the most nakedly emotional styles of soul singing, they are indispensable.

Worth The Waits? - Tom Waits at the Hammersmith Apollo, 23/11/2004

'I know, I know - seventeen years...' Tom Waits sighs in a speaking voice even more singular and peculiar than his singing one. 'And do you know what I've been doing all this time? - yeah, traffic school. It's a graduate course. I think they might have a job for me if my singing career falls through.' This is one of the more straightforward comments during a gig which proves to be as memorable for surreal comedy as it is for the extraordinary dynamism of its music.

Whilst London has waited a long time to see another Tom Waits gig (most of the audience, myself included, had probably never seen him perform before), we have all had ample opportunity to familiarise ourselves with his distinctive vocal rasps and madcap musical approach. Since his return to recording with 'Mule Variations' in 1999, he appears to have entered another prolific phases, following it with the dual releases 'Alice' and 'Blood Money' in 2002, and now with the relentless, clanging primal blues of 'Real Gone'. Could the fact that the Waitsian oeuvre has now become so ubiquitous (and so influential) dilute the impact of finally seeing one of the greatest living songwriters live and in person?

Mercifully, the answer is absolutely not. Waits has moaned at length in interviews about how little he likes performing and travelling - but none of this is in evidence tonight. On stage, he cuts an imposing and wildly eccentric figure - slightly hunched, but animated with theatrical gesture and exaggerated expression. His voice too is extraordinary, and he also demonstrates tonight that he is adept at controlling and manipulating it. It can veer from a savage growl to a tender, emotive whimper. For all his experimenting and adventurous arranging, Waits brings plenty of the more emotive and affecting side of his musical personality to the show tonight. As mentioned above, he also brings bizarre stories - such as the auction of a cheese sandwich containing the impressed image of the Virgin Mary, and relating fascination with the sound of a spider strumming his web 'to attract the female spider'. He is as raffish and bohemian a character as his myth would suggest.

The Apollo is larger than the theatres that Waits prefers to perform in, yet it retains a sense of intimacy and occasion that is sorely absent from most of London's major gig venues. Brixton Academy this is not. It provides an apt atmosphere for Waits' sense of drama and performance. Even though my seat is near the back of the stalls, I don't feel distant from the action - in fact, I feel immersed and completely involved in the whole experience right from the outset. The opening 'Hoist That Rag', one of the best tracks on the new album, is an exhilirating rush of bare bones percussion (provided by percussionist Brain Mantia and Waits' youngest son, seemingly only about twelve years old), thrumming upright bass and the Cuban-inflected guitar of Marc Ribot. This stripped back sound provides the blueprint for much of the gig - and it is simply thrilling to hear such expert musicians make so much of so little. 'Make It Rain' has only the most fundamental of harmonic and rhythmic structures, but it sounds brutal and insistent, a sense only heightened by Waits' singing of half the song through a giant megaphone. Brain plays only a skeletal drum kit, but the range of sounds and timbres that emerge from it are constantly fascinating. Ribot is one of the world's greatest guitar players, and he is given ample opportunity to show off his chops during the show. His often lengthy solos are never anything less than engaging - a refashioning of blues forms characterised by a staggering ability to switch between languid fluidity and crisp stabs. There simply are not enough superlatives for his playing tonight.

Unsurprisingly, the set certainly favours the more recent material, with the lionshare of the evening being devoted to 'Real Gone'. I've been quite critical of the album elsewhere on this blog, but in live performance, I found the songs to be engaging and compelling - particularly the quieter, more reflective moments such as 'Sins of The Father' and 'Trampled Rose'. The primitive rhythmic thrust of the main set closer 'Shake It' and the foreboding of 'Don't Go Into That Barn' also made for captivating listening, even if they are merely extensions of a blueprint Waits had mastered before.

Set next to older material, the new songs also felt less remonstrative and overbearing than they do on what remains a slightly overlong album. I could never have predicted just how entertaining this gig was. When the audience started clapping on during 'Eyeball Kid', I thought oh no, this won't be appreciated, Waits is far too serious an artist for this. Of course, though, the song is one of Waits' most humorous, and he was happy to lead the audience through call and response chants of 'Hail Hail!' and 'Hallelujah!' which were splendid fun. He also plays 'Jockey Full Of Bourbon', one of the most familiar selection from his pioneering eighties period, and reworks the melody with little respect for the original tune. It's a demolition and reconstruction act worthy of Bob Dylan - except with Waits, you can still make out the words. In combining the rhumba and swing versions of 'Straight To The Top', one of the key tracks from 'Frank's Wild Years', his conceptual cabaret musical, he effortlessly combines the theatrical with the musical. He never falls into the trap of keeping a safe distance from his audience, or indeed patronising them. This is a consistently engaging and satisfying performance.

We also get a plethora of ballads that include some of his most moving songs. Marc Ribot moves from guitar to horn for a most welcome rendition of 'Fish and Bird', which provided one of the set's two great moments of emotinal intimacy and vulnerability. The other came with 'Day After Tomorrow', the quiet, plaintive and utterly brilliant concluding track on 'Real Gone'. It's tale of a soldier at war offers something more than arguments or analysis - it offers a real human perspective on war, something that has frequently been lost in recent debates over weapons and terror. It is brilliantly apt but also has that timeless quality that divides great songwriting from the merely adequate. Almost as good is the distinctive rendition of 'Alice'. Whilst on the album of the same name, this song was dominated by Waits' woozy barroom piano, it now assumes a new character thanks to Ribot's remarkably elegant acoustic guitar picking. With Waits hissing at the end of every verse ('there's only Alicccccccccce') it also has a slightly sinister edge.

For the encore, the stage crew wheel out an upright piano and we get a raft of Waits' blues and gospel tinged ballads. To combine all these songs together at the end feels like a somewhat stilted conciliatory gesture towards those Waits fans who prefer his piano playing to his maverick cabaret act. Whatever the motive, it's still great to hear these songs. 'Come On Up To The House' is as rousing as the old spirituals it shamelessly emulates, whilst 'House Where Nobody Lives' and the wonderful 'Invitation to the Blues' are positively gin-soaked. It's invigorating to hear Waits recapture this sound, despite his current status as teetotal family man. If Waits usually appears a frustratingly elusive character (a notoriously difficult interviewee who spends his life in splendid rural isolation with his wife and children), tonight he appears charismatic, enthusiastic and brimming with life. It's just a shame that the venue stubbornly stuck to the 10.30 curfew and wouldn't allow a second encore. After all this time (and the excessive ticket price), I think we all deserved it.

I can only really add two caveats to all this lavish praise. Whilst this was an outstanding concert - so were recent (and lengthier) performances from Brian Wilson and Bruce Springsteen, for which the prices were not quite so extortionate. It was also a stripped back show, where the focus was on the band and subtle lighting effects, rather than on props and theatrics - so I fail to see why such a staggering price was really necesssary. Also, the audience proved frustrating, from the hugely irritating obsessives behind me - 'but in Berlin there was cheering before he came on stage - surely they are going to start cheering now'. No, you twat. We'll cheer when the lights go out and when we want to if that's OK with you - and stop bragging about how many shows you've managed to attend. I'd rather savour the one and keep it special. Even worse were the seemingly endless flow of boho fools in pork pie hats and suit jackets. Just because you like the music does not mean you have to pretend that you are Tom Waits for goodness sake! Unsurprisingly the place was full of the great and good - Thom Yorke, Guy Garvey from Elbow and many more were apparently all present. I didn't succeed with any celeb spotting unfortunately. Actually, there weren't even any decent lookalikes, but the great lookalike game should probably be reserved for another post!

There is a good rumour going around that Waits will be back in London next spring for a week long residency at a smaller venue. If you can afford the prices, make sure you get there, you really won't regret it.

Lots of album reviews to come when I find a gap in my currently hectic schedule!

The London Film Festival

I haven't written about cinema for some time, but my appetite for watching films has remained voracious through recent months. I was particularly pleased to attend three films at this year's London Film Festival. It's the first time I've managed to enjoy this event, and it's worth stating that artistic director Sandra Hebron has produced a superb line-up of films. It's gratifying to see new films from the masters of world cinema in the enormous Leicester Square Odeon, a space usually reserved for the most hollow and banal of blockbusting 'entertainment'. Not only that, but this festival seems less concerned with glitz and glamour, and also less concerned with judging awards and prizes. Instead, it is a celebration of the great diversity and quality of modern cinema. Those that attest that cinema is in a state of perpetual decline need look no further for firm rebuttal of their arguments.

Having said that, all three of the films I saw at the festival were in some way flawed. Most disappointing of the three was Wong Kar-Wai's 2046. To my mind, the Hong Kong director is one of the greatest living film directors, and his visionary approach to narrative and structure has produced some beautiful films, particularly when combined with the stylish cinematography of his collaborator Christopher Doyle. His previous film 'In The Mood For Love' was an atmospheric and evocative masterpiece so much is expected of this picture, which has had a ludicrously troubled gestation. The baffling success of Zhang Yimou's Hero (a film that seemed to me to be all style no substance, all surface no feeling) has reawakened interest in Asian cinema, and it's no surprise that Wong's latest production is being greeted with zealous enthusiasm. It has employed something in the region of seven different cinematographers, and following a Cannes screening which confused many, it was deemed to be unfinished and the version showing in London was a re-editied version. Unfortunately, it still seemed fragmentory and frustratingly opaque. Some of its images are striking, particularly the mysterious shot which opens and closes the film. However, its ideas appear to have been pieced together almost at random, and the meaning of the film only starts to become clear in its final third. It's not an overlong picture at just over two hours, but it really seems to drag and, particularly in its middle third, feels dangerously repetetive.

It is supposed to be a sequel of sorts to the previous film, with Tony Leung reprising the same role. He plays a writer who stays in a hotel to work. He is inspired by room 2046, and the number becomes the title of his latest novel. The film intercuts scenes of his relationships with various women, which often seem fraught, intense and complex with some loosely realised scenes from his science fiction novel. The problem is that the sequence of the film is eliptical and elusive. The majority of the science fiction scenes are left to the end of the film, and don't really help elucidate much about the earlier scenes. Most of the encounters between Leung's character and the various women seem to be like circular arguments and don't appear to ever reach a resolution. Added to this is the problem that the leading female performances, from the undeniably beautiful Faye Wong and the ubiquitous Zhang Ziyi, seem to be overstated and bordering on histrionic. There really are only so many shots of teardrops and scenes of perpetual crying that any audience can stand. The film is bizarrely inconclusive about the nature of love and relationships, and plods along as an ill-conceived mess.

Dialogue is minimal, and music frequently employed. In fact, the film feels like a series of experiments in form, with a wide variety of stylistic devices and sounds being employed to vary the mood. Some are more successful than others, and there were times when I did feel strangely moved by the combination of music and image. Unfortunately, this is a film comprised of a series of tableaux that don't add up to a coherent whole. Wong has used complex editing and shifting cinematic styles before, to much greater effect, particularly in the outstaning 'Happy Together'. Here, there really is no narrative thread to grasp at. Towards the end of the film, Maggie Cheung returns as a character called Shieu-Lien, who shares a name with the character she played in 'In The Mood For Love', yet it is left ambiguous as to whether or not the two characters are meant to be the same. What does, at last, become clear, is that Tony Leung's character has been veering between a number of different women, searching for the more crystalline and higher love that he shared with the original Shieu-Lien. Why on earth did it take so long for Wong to make this point? Does it really justify the two hours of confusion we have just endured? No doubt many critics will be awed by the power of this film's mood and imagery into composing rave reviews - but images without coherent ideas or emotions behind them don't make for great cinema.

Given that I am not a big fan of Gregg Araki, I'm not entirely sure why I went to see his latest effort Mysterious Skin. I think it was mainly so I could judge for myself how well he tackled a weighty topic. His previous films 'Nowhere' and 'The Doom Generation' have been tacky, nihilistic films emphasising hedonism and violence. 'Mysterious Skin' addresses the subject of child abuse, and does so with decidely mixed results. It is nevertheless by some considerable distance Araki's finest work to date, and a sure sign that he is moving in the right direction.

Perhaps inevitably, Mysterious Skin reminded me of Lukas Moodysson's similar, but more coherent 'Lilya 4 Ever', particularly in that it contains some grim and unflinching scenes. Much of the film makes for disturbing viewing, and it is these harsh and compromising elements that are most successful. Araki's expose of the lack of options facing both young and old in smalltown America is hardly original, but is presented in a spare and entirely convincing manner here. This is all helped along by superb performances from the film's two leads, both taking considerable risks with their previously safe reputations by agreeing to take the roles in this film. Joseph Gordon-Levitt, better known as the long-haired kid in Third Rock From The Sun gives a brooding and mature performance here. Brady Corbitt (I believe one of the stars of the supposedly dire Thunderbirds movie) has to deal with a slightly more sterotyped and restrictive character, but manages to be sympathetic and moving nonetheless. The juxtaposition of the two characters' contrasting reaction to the abuses they suffered at the hands of their paedophile baseball coach are effective, and I found the final confrontation with their past to be particularly devastating.

Levitt plays Neil, a frustrated youth whose childhood endurances we are introduced to in pretty unpleasant detail. He is a difficult character, who clearly has problems forming meaningful relationships and he seems to drift into the seedy world of a gay hustler simply because he has nothing to do, and no longer really cares what happens to him. His apathy, and compulsion to keep repeating meetings with increasingly violent men, is troubling and believable, as is the blissful ignorance or inability to help of those who surround him. It all culminates with a deeply horrible rape sequence that left me feeling physically and mentally shaken. By contrast, Corbitt plays Brian Lackey, a young man frustrated by his loss of memory, believing that he had been abducted by aliens in his youth. The truth of his childhood ordeal has been cruelly withheld from him, and he gradually attempts to piece together his past, finding the major missing piece of the jigsaw when he finally tracks down Neil, with whom he had been on the same baseball team.
This side of the story presents more problems - the alien abduction storyline seems a little hoary and cliched, and adds an uncomfortable layer of surreal comedy to the proceedings. No doubt this came from the source material (Scott Heim's novel of the same name), but it may have been elaborated and heightened to complement the dreamlike atmosphere which infuses this otherwise harrowingly realistic picture. Indeed, there are a couple of surreal scenes (one involving that most depressing of cinematic cliches, suddenly falling snow) that seem like they belong in a different film entirely.

Ultimately, these issues are so devastatingly real and severe that they probably required a surer narrative presence than Araki's unsteady guidance. He seems unconcerned with lingering, and frequently cuts too quickly from one scene to another. This is surely a remnant of his low-budget exploitation style from films like 'Nowhere'. From the evidence presented here, Araki would be on much surer ground if he concentrates on a non-judgemental realism. This may well be where he might find his true cinematic voice.

A big event for me was the UK premier of the new film from Greek director Theo Angelopoulos. Angelopoulos is one of the true masters of cinema - with a distinctive personal vision comprised of stately pacing and elaborate long tracking shots and set pieces. Some critics felt that his last film 'Eternity and A Day' represented a compromise of his vision. I disagree wholeheartedly. It was without doubt a more accessible film than his earlier works - but it justly won the Palme D'or for its extraordinary resonance and humanist concern. I found it to be one of the most beautiful films I've ever seen and it repays repeated viewing. To my mind, 'The Weeping Meadow', the first part of a projected trilogy (at his rate of producing films, Angelopoulos may well be dead before he manages to complete the set), seems to be a retrogressive step back towards a more austere style of film making. Its palette of colours is more muted, and the mood is relentlessly tragic. It also repeats a number of Angelopoulos' regular concerns, most significantly the plight of stateless refugees. I'm confident, however, that repetition has not diluted these concerns, nor the deep humanism that characterises his films. It is still, of course, defiantly elaborate, and I simply have no idea how some of the characteristic set piece scenes in this film were constructed. Its images have a resounding power lacking in most western films, particularly the extraordinary middle section, which incorporates a flood and a funeral, and ranks with the best of Angelopoulos' work.

At the Q and A afterwards, many of the audience felt that the film contained little hope. In Eleni, Angelopoulos seems to have created a character that acts chiefly as a cipher for the suffering of Greek history more generally, and there is no doubt that her despair in this film is palpable. Yet, her plight to me seemed to be profoundly affecting, and it sustained this film throughout its lengthy three hours. There may not be hope as such, but as in all his films, Angelopoulos seems concerned chiefly with elucidating the harsh reality of life in times of war and confusion, and there is no doubt that his vision is sympathetic and passionate. This film is a powerful and compelling illustration of the devastation of war. In its focus on one small village, it is structured in microcosmic terms, yet has an epic sweep that is distinctive in its lack of bombast. It is certainly another powerful statement to add to one of the great canons of modern film-making.

It's been a while, so I've been saving a great outpouring of rage for this post. First of all, let's get the obvious subject out of the way first - the U.S. Presidential election. It may just be that I'm naturally pessimistic, but the result came as no surprise to me. It had been clear for some time that John Kerry had placed far too much emphasis on his personal war record, and far too little on developing a coherent vision, both in terms of foreign policy and domestic issues. Not only that, but the Bush team mobilised the evangelical vote with considerable relish and vigour, and Bush has now been re-elected on the deeply hypocritical platform of promising greater 'freedom and democracy' abroad, whilst offering the most intolerant and restrictive set of policies at home. I don't want to spend too much time here analysing what this might mean for the next four years - but it's enough to say that I don't expect Bush will modify his stance on the environment, the economy, or healthcare provision. I also don't expect too great a change in the U.S. approach to what Bush has liked to call 'rogue states'. This is, after all, a President whose perspective on the world lacks any kind of nuance or finesse, and he is only capable of viewing the world in contrasting extremes. It's doubly depressing that the death of John Peel and the re-election of a moron to the greatest seat of world power had to come within the same week.

Whilst the election result is not surprising, it remains dismaying, and I only hope that the most vital political voices in America continue to protest and speak out. Bruce Springsteen's first reaction to the result has been to place a newly recorded version of The Star Spangled Banner on his website - a statement characteristically designed to appeal to American pride as much as post-election despair. Springsteen at last took a risk with his commitment to the Vote for Change tour - although his politics can easily be gleaned from many of his songs, he has always been careful not to ally himself with either political party. R.E.M. have already spoken in interviews of their dismay and fear. Perhaps the most vital political voice in American music right now, Steve Earle, appeared in the UK this week. The concerts were sure to be energised and brimming with conviction - the songs remain as relevant as ever with Bush still in power.

I was particularly depressed by several comments on the REM and Springsteen messageboards bemoaning the 'arrogance of the liberals' and, using far more expletives than I'd like to use here, instructing their favourite musicians to keep out of political debate. Leaving aside the question of how these people can identify with Springsteen songs and yet still support Bush's tax cuts (a policy designed to benefit only the very rich, with little or no broader economic justification), it's depressing that so many seem to think that musicians have no right to a democratic voice. Nobody has to follow the advice of Springsteen and REM et al - the American population have proved more than capable of ignoring them altogether. Yet I value these performers precisely because they are prepared to go beyond simply entertaining a crowd, and are prepared to use their celebrity to status towards what they feel are good ends. I'm no fan of U2 - but at least Bono is prepared to rise above banality and put his celebrity to some positive use, even if he could substantially reduce third world debt quite easily by donating some of his vast personal fortune!

Frankly, we need voices as harsh and plain as Steve Earle more than ever now. The election campaign finally directed me towards his album 'The Revolution Starts Now', which I had been meaning to pick up for some time. I can't really place it in context, because the only other Steve Earle album I'm really familiar with is his excellent bluegrass set 'The Mountain', recorded with The Del McCoury Band. Unsurprisingly, 'The Revolution...' packs a much weightier punch. Written and recorded within a matter of weeks, it actually benefits from its slightly hurried process. The need to get the record out before the election has given it an energy and urgency that might otherwise have been compromised. I very much doubt that this is Earle's most subtle collection - but the thumping and insistent drum sound, and crisp, crunchy guitars seem appropriate for the cause. The album is bookended by two broadly similar versions of the title track, which makes for a rousing rallying cry, set to an infectious melody and driving straight-ahead rock n'roll groove.

Earle is particularly adept at using localised, personal stories to illustrate a broader political picture, most notably on the anti-war songs 'Home to Houston' and 'Rich Man's War'. The former is a rollcking country shuffle, while the latter is quite brilliant - a plaintive and quite moving exposition of both how the Iraq war has wasted American lives and merely perpetuate a cycle of violence and fear. Earle's voice is snarling and forceful against the acousticm guitar picking. These songs share Springsteen's ability to craft refined character studies, but are more politically charged and less compromising.

'The Revolution...' is importantly not without humour either. At the centre of the album are two hilarious and riotous tracks. 'Condi, Condi' is a, presumably ironic, love song to Condoleeza Rice, set to an angular, almost reggae-flavoured backbeat. 'Oh she loves me, oops she loves me not/People say you're cold but I think you're hot!' Earle sings with considerable relish. 'F The CC' requires little exposition, and certainly makes its defence of democratic freedoms abundantly clear. It's context is undoubtedly the criticism that has been dealt out to those who have spoken out against the Bush administration, along with the restrictions on civil liberties introduced with the Patriot Act. It makes for a highly entertaining rant.

Elsewhere, a duet with Emmylou Harris on 'Comin' Around' is plaintive and affecting, proving that Earle is just as capable of handling traditional country material as he is at producing ranting rock-outs. It's not all perfect - 'The Warrior' sees Earle attempt a more poetic lyric, with mixed results. Much of the imagery and the alliterative devices seem a little forced. The closing tracks are enchanting - but more personal, perhaps even sentimental. Whilst it is by no means the most subtle or nuanced album ever recorded, it does present an eloquent, forceful and determined opposition to the Bush administration, as well as some powerful songwriting. It's just a shame that protest statements such as this haven't managed to secure a result.

An arguably more surprising voice of protest is that of Eminem. It's deeply disappointing that his record company have not had the courage to release 'Mosh' as the first single from his new 'Encore' album, now brought forward to be released today following another internet leak (surely Interscope must realise it will still be on the net after its release?!?!). Instead, they've opted for the comfortingly familiar puerile cartoon rap of 'Just Lose It'. 'Mosh' really is a different beast altogether. So far, Eminem's capacity for righteous anger has only really been channeled on somewhat tiresome 'leave me alone I'm so famous it's terrible' rants. Here, for arguably the first time, he channels this anger towards something more productive and valuable.

Whatever you think of its sentiments, 'Mosh' is an incredible piece of work, a passionate and furious anti-Bush invective, underpinned by rhythmic insistence and considerable intelligence. It is a vitriolic outpouring of frustration and indignation, with a video that illustrates the lyric in even starker terms. Its images and statements are devastating alone 'no more blood for oil, we've got battles to fight out on home soil', strap an AK47 to the President and make him fight his own war, 'this weapon of mass destruction we call our President' - but their cumulative impact is strangely moving. It's partially Eminem attempting to mobilise his fanbase to vote, but it's also an impassioned broadside - with Eminem proclaiming his own leadership, guiding a whole audience to 'mosh' against the President. Intelligent and articulate are words that have often been used about Eminem by gushing critics. In this case, they may well apply.


The second issue to have angered me this week is considerably more trivial, but one that I still feel compelled to write about. I've read a great deal recently about 'changing listener habits' and 'changing attitudes towards music', and other such bland mediaspeak in the past few weeks. Apparently, only the over 40s are buying albums now (how then does that explain 300,000 sales and counting for McFly, and triple that for Busted?). The rest of us apparently prefer to listen to single tracks, most likely downloaded from the internet, than purchase expensive albums which consist of fifty per cent filler. I'm certainly not going to argue with the conjecture that albums are too expensive, especially when CDs now cost so little to mass produce. However, it does undoubtedly depend on what you buy and where you buy it. If you are a regular internet user, then Amazon, Play and other such sites sell CDs at increasingly reasonable prices. Some independent shops - such as Fopp, Selectadisc and Rough Trade are also mostly affordable, albeit only accessible if you live in London or another major city. I increasingly find that, if I shop around, I have little reason to spend more than £12 on a CD, unless it's jazz, which remains sadly marginalised and overpriced.

As for the quality issue - I can't help feeling that comment is more than slightly demeaning to the great wealth of excellent albums that have been released this year. In the first half of this year, I felt I might the year looked like being a little disappointing - I've now completely revised that opinion. Sure - if you waste your money on industry manufactured pap, you're best sticking with singles. The genres of hip hop and R&B are particularly guilty - there are numerous singles in these genres that are innovative and hugely exciting, but the albums are invariably overlong and tiresome - so it becomes harder to sort the wheat from the chaff. If you're open minded, and are prepared to look further to the margins, read more and listen to more, there is plenty out there that is worth the investment of hard cash. Believe me, I wouldn't be writing this blog if there wasn't.

Yet still there is a prevailing trend towards downsizing, compartmentalising and just plain old dumbing down. Nowhere has this been made starker than in the new NME yearbook (don't worry I haven't bought it - I just flicked through it at work). Here, the learned staff of the NME give us their 336 best tracks of the year. First of all, 336 is a strangely arbitrary number, and the exercise seems somewhat pointless to begin with (I find it hard enough to organise a top 50 into any kind of order). What makes it worse is that the tracks are grouped into sub-sets with vacuous and presumptious titles like 'ten for the pensioners' and 'ten floor-shakers'. The NME have at least retained John Mulvey, Dele Fadele and a handful of other writers I trust to make reasonably informed judgements on new music. Yet, these writers now seem entirely marginalised in their polls, instead making way for a youth wing keen to abandon all knowledge of musical history and start proclaiming even the most banal bands of the moment as life-changing revolutionaries. Judging by this list, they also seem to be entirely at the whim of prevailing fashions.

Just as vinyl remains sacred for DJs and collectors, so the recorded product will remain cherished by fans and obsessives for some time to come. Whilst I value the internet as a means of seeking out new sounds - I regularly read music sites and blogs and seek out streaming media from bands and artists who have caught my attention - I would never be entirely satisfied with owning music as a file on a hard drive. For one, it's even more likely to get damaged or go missing than if my CD collection is stolen (my worst nightmare aside from going deaf). I still value the time, art and craft put into a package - including lyrics, artwork and sleevenotes, and I get angry when record companies take my cash for poorly conceived products. I also, believe it or not, still value 'the album' and 'the single' as valuable entities. The only compilations I really trust are ones I've made myself, or mix tapes handed to me by friends. There are odd exceptions of course (Charlie Gillett's outstanding Sound of the City series, Dave Godin's deep soul collections, Rough Trade shops' peerless sets etc etc). Still, there's simply no better feeling than going to a record store, purchasing something that I've never heard just because I've had a tip about it, and finding that it's brilliant. Long may those days continue. That's why if you return to this site a little closer to Christmas, you'll find my selections of albums and singles of the year - I can't resist a good list making exercise.