There's Life In The Old Dog Yet...

Bob Dylan – Brixton Academy 23/11/05

Maybe it’s just that the Brixton Academy is a much more suitable venue for the current Bob Dylan band’s mix of blues and roots music than the cavernous hell-holes of the Docklands or Wembley Arenas, but this show was by some considerable distance the best of the four Dylan shows I’ve seen (all of them post-‘Love and Theft’). Dylan is now a notoriously inconsistent performer. All sorts of theories abound – the voice degenerates towards the end of each tour, sometimes he just can’t be bothered, some, such as Andy Kershaw, believe that he just shouldn’t be doing it anymore. Well, nonsense. Dylan concerts still offer myriad pleasures – not least the chance to hear classic songs deconstructed and rebuilt to fit that decaying but still determined voice. So, when the familiar tones of the ‘Fanfare For The Common Man’ and that subdued announcement ring out (‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the poet laureate of rock ‘n’ roll….Columbia recording artist Bob Dylan’) there’s still anticipation and apprehension in equal measure.

There’s no doubt that Dylan seems more engaged than usual tonight. He’s still playing keyboards throughout (is it arthritis or a back problem that now prevents him playing guitar?), but the keyboards are positioned centre stage this time round, rather than hidden at the back as on the previous couple of UK tours. He plays the role of bandleader tonight, ushering in inspired shifts in dynamics and tone with a series of bizarre gestures and signals. His keyboard playing, although sometimes buried in the mix, is actually brilliant, and tonight he trades motifs with the guitarists, and uses the keyboard to punctuate the vocal lines. He plays excellent accompaniment for the soloists too.

Not only this, but on a handful of the songs tonight, he sounded vocally controlled and in real command of the material. There’s a sublime reading of ‘Shelter From The Storm’ where the phrasing is crystal clear and even the melody is handled adroitly. It’s a far more subtle, graceful and sensitive performance than we have come to expect in recent years. I have been a little fearful of hearing the ‘Blood On The Tracks’-era material being delivered in the wayward growl, but this was a version that retained the beauty of the original. ‘She Belongs To Me’ and ‘A Hard Rain’s-A-Gonna-Fall’ are also delivered in powerful, controlled renditions which suggest that, despite his obvious vocal deficiencies, Dylan can still sound committed. The latter is re-arranged, perhaps a little too smoothly for the apocalyptic prophecies of the lyric, as a light country shuffle that is very pleasing to the ear.

More intriguing still is a mesmerising ‘Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll’, very similar to the miraculous version performed at Wembley in 2003, where he intones the lyric in sharp, caustic phrasing that actually adds weight to an already emphatic song. There’s no real attempt to deal with the song’s original melody, but the different delivery entirely suits the song’s mood of righteous indignation. Where Dylan’s outrageously gifted musicians sometimes threaten to render him anonymous in live concerts, band and singer integrated effectively and intelligently here.

He can’t sustain the vocal quality for an entire show however. There are still some wayward moments. ‘Positively 4th Street’ suffers from phrasing which is hurried and pinched, while ‘Most Likely You Go Your Way and I’ll Go Mine’ is a little half-hearted. The dreaded ‘upsinging’ (a bizarre device whereby Dylan mumbles most of the line in a low monotone and then leaps an entire octave for the final word of each line) is mostly kept to a minimum, and even used surprisingly effectively on ‘Hard Rain’. Most perfunctory are the obligatory encores of ‘Like A Rolling Stone’ and ‘All Along The Watchtower’, where verses are repeated and most phrases rendered completely indecipherable. The audience lap it up of course, and the band’s playing on both is so outstanding as to ensure that it doesn’t really matter.

The band has had a major line-up shift since the last UK tour, with only the confidently groovy rhythm section of Tony Garnier (bass, now Dylan’s longest serving sideman) and George Recile (drums) remaining in place. Gone are guitarists Freddy Koella (who only lasted just over a year) and the exquisitely gifted Larry Campbell. The hole left by Campbell might well have proved fatal were it not for the addition of the remarkable multi-instrumentalist Donnie Herron, who divides his time between two steel guitars, mandolin and banjo. Completing the ranks are the near-motionless Denny Freeman and the more exuberant Stu Kimbell on electric and acoustic guitars. They are more conventional soloists than Campbell, Charlie Sexton or even Koella, but they play expressively and frequently with real subtlety.

They open with a few bars of legendary guitarist Link Wray’s ‘Rumble’ (Wray died last week) before segueing straight into a riveting ‘Maggie’s Farm’, which appears to have become a staple set opener. Although Dylan professes to be apolitical, it’s hard to believe that the political resonances of the lyric in post-Thatcher Britain are entirely lost on him.

The band are arguably at their best for the ‘Love and Theft’ material. ‘High Water’ is particularly impressive, with Donnie Herron’s nimble-fingered banjo playing contrasting with the tempestuous punctuations of guitars and rhythm section. The section where Dylan brings the band right down in volume before letting them explode again is absolutely electric. The inventive shift between straight and shuffle grooves in ‘Cry A While’ is handled masterfully, whilst ‘Summer Days’ remains a dependably thrilling closer for the main set. The latter, with a knowingly comic touch, provides a canny snapshot of Dylan’s current predicament (‘Riding along in my Cadillac car/The girls all say “you’re a worn out star”’ or, even better ‘you say you can’t repeat the past/ Whaddya mean you can’t, of course you can!’).

The show ends, as ever, with the entire band gathered around the drum kit in hilariously motionless poses, Dylan holding his trusty harmonica. They come back for the predictable aforementioned encores, but also find time for a surprise version of Fats Domino’s ‘Blue Monday’, although I can’t say I actually recognised it at the time as anything other than a blues standard.

The whole show is a carefully balanced mix of fiery blues and steel-guitar dominated roots country. It’s all a little more conservative than the ‘thin wild mercury sound’ that Dylan patented in going electric in 1966, but it makes for a refreshingly old-fashioned, anti-modernist combination. Even after the departure of Campbell, Dylan’s band may well still be the best blues band in the world.

Dylan continues to transform himself in ways that are wilfully perverse and frequently contrary to the expectations of his followers. Yet, it is this that has kept him relevant for over forty years. It is this that means he can get away without introducing the frequently unrecognisable versions of his songs, or even with a conscious failure to address his audience. If his interaction with his musicians and commitment to the finest moments of his back catalogue remain this strong, he’s not likely to quit for a while yet. Until next year, then….

Drawing the Curtain on 2005

In a bid to start work on my final albums of the year list, I've updated my 2005 tracking list over at Rate Your Music.

http://rateyourmusic.com/list/d_pat/in_league_with_patons_best_albums_of_2005

I've seen a number of bloggers claim that 2005 has been a disappointing musical year. How, exactly? To my mind, there's been a wealth of excellent releases, with some artists even having more than one entry in the list (Iron and Wine, King Creosote, Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, Howling Hex etc). I'm still not sure how the final top 75 will end up, but it's certain that a number of really good albums are going to miss out completely.

October and November always seem to bring gems - the new Broken Social Scene album on import, the excellent Wilco and Bonnie 'Prince' Billy live albums. The Nine Horses album is really interesting - a late bid for the top 10 perhaps?

The Top 75 will come just before Christmas, along with the singles and films of the year as well.

The Real Super Monday (Part Two)

A proper analysis of the superb set of releases from October 17th was promised a month ago – at last it is now here!

The most eagerly anticipated release of that day (aside from Stevie Wonder, which I’ve yet to hear) was ‘Playing The Angel’, the first album in over four years from Depeche Mode. The Mode are often either touted as stadium crowd-pullers to rival U2 or REM, or denounced as pitiful 80s throwbacks. Neither description captures the distinct quality that the band have captured on all their albums since ‘Violator’. ‘Songs Of Faith and Devotion’ had a strong spiritual-gospel dimension, whilst ‘Ultra’ was their darkest work since ‘Black Celebration’ (now nearly 20 years old and still their masterpiece), with Dave Gahan at his lowest ebb during the recording sessions. Tim Simenon’s production also leant it additional gravitas. By contrast, the now widely disliked ‘Exciter’ mostly sounded calm and dreamlike. To these ears, it pushed the band into new and subtler territories, but its approach has been almost entirely rejected for ‘Playing The Angel’, which frequently sounds like a very self-conscious attempt to recapture the popular essence of ‘Violator’.

It opens brilliantly, with a harsh wall of guitar fuzz and one of the band’s most immediate and powerful opening gambits. ‘A Pain That I’m Used To’ is hardly anything surprising, but it’s crisp production and neat contrasts between smooth and savage sounds make it remarkably effective. Dave Gahan’s voice is in fine form here, richer and less imposing than on previous albums, but with more a great deal more depth and control. If he’s been taking voice coaching, it’s clearly paid off, as what follows is even better. On ‘John The Revelator’, a superb recasting of the classic blues standard as a sermon against religion, Gahan growls with glee.

Gahan in fact dominates all the finest moments here. Much has already been written about his confrontation with Martin Gore over the share of the songwriting, and his three efforts here are surprisingly good. ‘Suffer Well’ again fits a classic Mode model, with a memorable melody and intelligent, thoughtful production values. ‘I Want It All’ is slower, denser and less penetrable, it’s essence seemingly buried beneath atmospherics. ‘Nothing’s Impossible’ is a real grower though, and one of the best tracks here.

For all that is dependably impressive about ‘Playing The Angel’, there are also significant problems. Martin Gore has always walked a perilous path as a lyricist, and there are certainly lurches into hideous self parody here. The worst is the appalling ‘Macro’, where Gore sings in grandiose mock-operatic tones about seeing ‘the microcosm in macro vision’. Hit the skip button on your CD player at this point. Equally disappointing is Gore’s other vocal effort, ‘Damaged People’. Musically, it’s perhaps the closest track here to the ‘Exciter’ sound, but its theme of suffering outsiders perhaps suggests that Gore has now rewritten this song too many times.

Those who hoped that producer Ben Hillier (Blur’s ‘Think Tank’ and Elbow’s ‘Cast Of Thousands’) might alter the band’s approach or reinvent their sound may come away disappointed, although ‘Playing The Angel’ frequently sounds impressively slick and atmospheric. It’s just that it doesn’t quite reach the alchemical heights of the Mode’s best work – it’s neither their best nor their most original.

By contrast, My Morning Jacket’s fourth album, the mysteriously titled ‘Z’, has been hailed as a complete reinvention. Following the departure and replacement of two key members, things have certainly changed (most notably with the hiring of John Leckie as producer), although I’m not sure that this isn’t more a broadening of the palette than a radical transformation. They certainly haven’t completely abandoned their defining reverb-drenched sound, as many reviewers have mistakenly claimed.

Perhaps it’s because the tracks that sound most unlike their earlier incarnation come first. ‘Wordless Chorus’ and ‘It Beats For You’ are the two tracks that most clearly betray Jim James’ self-confessed fascination with modern R&B and soul. The former displaces guitars to the background in favour of some sweetly processed squelchy keyboards and a particularly limber drum beat. It also does exactly what it says on the tin in the sense that the chorus is indeed wordless. The layers of Jim James’ vocals sound superb. ‘It Beats For You’ is perhaps more elusive, with a spindly melody and understated arpeggiated guitar line. It’s still meticulously constructed, however, and the band have clearly benefited from the introduction of an outside producer.

Best of all are the two epics, the sinister waltz ‘Into The Woods’ (has Jim James really been listening to Sondheim?) and the extended closer ‘Dondate’. ‘Into The Woods’ has what may be the greatest opening line of the year (‘a…., a baby in a blender/both as sweet as a night of surrender’) and sounds something like a musical version of Neil Jordan and Angela Carter’s exquisite film ‘The Company Of Wolves’, which is stunningly appropriate.

Elsewhere, there are extensions of recognisable formulae. ‘What A Wonderful Man’ brings back the guitars and the bone-crushing drums, but adds a twist of ironic gospel. Similarly, the deliberately dragging pace of ‘Anytime’ is recognisable, but its twisting, unpredictable emphasis is. The reggae/ska dimension, previously a passing fascination, is brought spectacularly into the fore in the decelerated skank of ‘Off The Record’. It’s extraordinarily infectious, and even manages to pull of the trick of plagiarising the theme tune from Hawaii 5-O. Even more audacious is its subtly extemporised coda, which sounds like the band at their most effectively collaborative.

‘Gideon’ is perhaps the track that would have sat most comfortably on ‘It Still Moves’, with its massive, almost bombastic rock sound. Yet, it has a depth and control that that album never quite achieved. The same point makes works equally well for a comparison of the entire two albums. ‘It Still Moves’ was a monolithic rock behemoth and, at CD-busting length, far too heavy an experience for one straight listen. ‘Z’ meanwhile, at a clipped 41 minutes, is mercilessly concise, but still every bit as expansive and impressive. In seeking to develop the sound, My Morning Jacket have successfully retained their elemental potency.

Are Boards Of Canada really the reclusive world-changing saviours of electronic music or are they over-hyped, allowing their self-imposed mystique to overpower their music? If ‘Music Has The Right To Children’ was deceptively calm, with very sinister undertones in its repeated sampling of childens’ voices, ‘Geogaddi’ pushed them into terrifying territory. It frequently sounded threatening or menacing, and maintained a refreshing detachment from the wider trends in electronic music at the time. Yet, it also presented a quandary for the duo. Having defined a sound so perfectly, were they now in danger of falling victim to their own formula? The next album would have to be a defining statement to justify the adulation.

On first listen, ‘The Campfire Headphase’ is something of a disappointment. It sticks so rigidly to what is now a very familiar template that even its cover design closely resembles that of ‘Music Has The Right…’. It continues the rather frustrating structural approach of alternating full length pieces with frustratingly brief interludes. Sometimes the short sections are so effective you wish they had developed the ideas a little further. As a whole, the album threatens to become soporific, so cohesive and singular is its identity.

The most obvious change from previous albums is the addition of ‘live’ guitar parts, although they are mostly take the form of heavily manipulated samples. They are something of a double-edged sword, for although they help BoC make tentative steps towards something new, they also help ensure that ‘The Campfire Headphase’ is their most conventional sounding album to date. It’s the closest they have come to actually fitting the generic terms ‘pastoral electronica’ or ‘folktronica’ so often dished out to describe them.

It all flows seamlessly, as one might expect, although this time there are some obvious standouts. ‘Chromakey Dreamcoat’ relies heavily on the duo’s gift for developing repetitive patterns, whilst ‘Dayvan Cowboy’ most effectively integrates harmonic guitar parts with interjections of programmed melody. The beats here are also carefully realised, with seemingly untamed and disorientating crashing cymbals.

The music here is frequently pretty, evocative or otherworldly (most particularly the hypnotic ’84 Pontiac Dream’). However, there isn’t much that really breaks the mould and it never quite captures the attention in the way that its two predecessors managed. It’s becoming increasingly clear that the Boards Of Canada are going to have to reinvent themselves if they are to stay at the forefront of the genre.

Plucked from folk obscurity by a smattering of the new ‘freak-folk- fraternity (Devendra Banhart and Adem both guest), Vashti Bunyan has returned with her only collection of songs since ‘Just Another Diamond Day’, her collectable debut from 1969. Disappointed by the lack of recognition afforded the album on its original release, Bunyan disappeared, but has since become something of a cult figure. Her collaboration with the fantastic Animal Collective on the fascinating ‘Prospect Hummer’ EP earlier in the year brought her back into the limelight and augured well for this new set of songs.

Producer Max Richter has crafted a warm, intimate and absorbing setting for these touching and understated songs, allowing Bunyan’s timid but captivating voice plenty of space in which to weave its alluring web. Like Kate Bush’s comeback album Aerial, many of Bunyan’s new songs deal with domestic concerns, most prominently motherhood and the desire to protect her children. The clearest parallel with Bush’s record comes in ‘Wayward’, where Bunyan sings of ‘days going by in clouds of white washing, life getting lost in a world without end’. There’s also a sense of regret here though. In the same song, Bunyan confesses: ‘I wanted to be the one with road dust on my boots and a single silver ear-ring’.

Most of ‘Lookaftering’ is so exposed that it feels like it was recorded completely solo, with no superfluous intervention. There’s actually a wealth of additional accompaniment though. Richter himself plays a bewildering array of instruments, including glockenspiel, piano, mellotron, recorders and carefully integrated passages of Hammond organ. The recorder, always a callously despised instrument, actually helps imbue the set with a sense of wisdom gained through experience.

The melodies are skeletal and all the songs are remarkably concise. Similarly the lyrics eschew verbosity or poetic conventions in favour of capturing more universal emotions. Sometimes, however, Bunyan conjures words with the touch of magician. ‘Against The Sky’ tells of a tree being cut down, its stately delivery barely concealing a palpable sadness. ‘Turning Backs’ is more abstract, ending with the beautiful lines ‘indifference is the hardest ground, it is the stony silent sound, of plainsong echoing unfound until all the voices have left town’. Bunyan seems as apt at handling isolation as she is at domestic contentment.

In a world of unrestrained warblers, it’s refreshing to here such an unashamedly vulnerable and controlled singer, capable of delivering real and sincere feeling. ‘Lookaftering’ may well be the quietest triumph of the year.

Best of the bunch may well be the third album in as many years from Bunyan’s prolific collaborators Animal Collective. ‘Feels’ is certainly their most coherent statement yet – by some distance the most comfortable to listen to from start to finish. They have largely tamed their tendency for unwarranted provocation, although ‘Feels’ still contains plenty of material that could easily be described as ‘challenging’. It succeeds in assimilating the disparate elements of their sound – the peculiar yelping vocals, Syd Barrett-esque whimsy, the droning electronics and the clattering rhythms provided by percussionist Panda Bear.

The first half of the album is the most immediately stimulating, and contains the band’s most memorable songs to date. The single ‘Grass’ is outstanding, lulling the listener into a false sense of security before piercing the bubble with a series of savage staccato interruptions. Even better is opening track ‘Did You See The Words?’ with its intuitive grasp of melody. ‘The Purple Bottle’ may well be their densest track to date, brimming with nonsense wordplay and compositional invention. It’s unconventional structure is characteristically perverse, and a defining part of its intrigue.

The second half of the album is abstract, slippery and arguably even more unconventional still. It requires a considerable amount of hard work from the listener, as the drones and electronic elements become more prominent on tracks such as ‘Banshee Beat’ and ‘Loch Raven’. As with the Collective’s earlier albums, it’s all about the hints and glimmers of ideas that lurk just beneath the surface, and close listening is essential to uncover many of this exquisite record’s many subtleties.

There’s a whole load of catch-up reviews to come when I get round to it – including live albums from Wilco and Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, as well as studio sets from Chris T-T, Fiery Furnaces, Broken Social Scene, Bettye Lavette and much more!

Better Late Than Never

Kate Bush - Aerial

Twelve years! When Kate Bush last released an album (the criminally underrated 'The Red Shoes' in 1993), we had a Conservative government and Oasis had yet to even release 'Definitely Maybe'. Whole genres have passed by in the interim - Britpop, New Wave of New Grave, the New Acoustic Movement, Drum and Bass, Garage - much to her credit, Bush has existed independently of all trends, be they manufactured or sincere. Her long silence has of itself reaped many benefits. Whilst Kate has focused on motherhood and the domestic life, the extraordinary mystique that surrounds her has grown, enabling her to do the bare minimum of promotion in support of 'Aerial' (one interview to Mojo magazine, two more for BBC Radio) whilst the media publicity machine does most of her work for her. It would have been very easy for many of the female artists who betray her influence (Bjork, Tori Amos) to steal her thunder, but Bush has managed to secure her legacy with consummate ease.

As might be expected, 'Aerial' is wildly ambitious and, in places, quite barmy. It is by no means a masterpiece, but then Bush is too idiosyncratic an artist to produce completely flawless works. It is split into two short discs (around 40 minutes each). The first, subtitled 'A Sea Of Honey' is a collection of seven self contained songs, which are fascinating, peculiar and frequently frustrating. The second disc, subtitled 'A Sky Of Honey' is a conceptual suite, dealing with the passage of the seasons through the course of a single day. Potentially, it's a project riven with pitfalls and could easily have descended into cliche, but Bush just about makes it work (although it perches precariously on the precipice whenever she bafflingly decides to imitate birdsong).

'A Sea Of Honey' is bookended by two remarkable songs. The single 'King Of The Mountain', in which Bush envisages Elvis hidden away in Citizen Kane-style isolation opens the album in a suitably dreamy manner. In a career characterised by the marriages of seemingly opposing musical styles, this is one of Bush's most effective hybrids to date. Its clattering, off-kilter drumming and bizarre reggae chug meld effortlessly with Bush's strangely restrained vocals. It's an entirely charming piece. At the end comes 'The Coral Room', a stripped back piano and vocal ballad that deals obliquely with the death of Bush's mother. A close relation of the heart wrenching 'This Woman's Work' (from 1989's 'The Sensual World'), it is dramatically conceived and exquisitely touching. It provides a powerful reminder of Bush's artistry.

The tracks in between are more problematic. I'm actually rather taken with 'Pi', which finds Kate singing the number to 109 decimal places and marveling over a man infatuated with numbers. It's entirely in keeping with the album's overall theme of awe at the wonder and order of the natural world, and the unique fretless bass sound of Eberhard Weber enhances the texture and sound. 'Mrs. Bartolozzi' appears to be a paen to laundry, with apparently ludicrous lines like 'Washing machine, washing machine/sloosy sloshy, slooshy sloshy/Get that dirty shirty clean'. This being Kate Bush, it's probably about a whole lot more than that, and the lyric about her blouse wrapping around the man's shirt reinvents her old talent for investing the mundane and everyday with erotic imagination. Musically, it is delicate and vulnerable, but suffers from a somewhat hesitant and meandering melody.

'Bertie' is a song for her 'lovely' son. Delivered in a mock-baroque style, it is immensely twee and for every person who is touched by it there will be someone who finds it insufferably nauseating (one wonders what Bertie himself will think about it in a few years' time). With lyrics like 'you bring me so much joy and then you bring me...more joy', it's disappointing that Bush has not found the means to express her obviously genuine emotions more eloquently. 'Joanni' (Joan of Arc) is tough and memorable, with one of the album's more immediate and engaging melodies, but its clunky beats and dated synth string pads do it more harm than good. Much better is 'How To Be Invisible', with its lithe, lightly driving rhythm section and peculiar lyrical incantations. It's the kind of magical realism that only Bush can really pull off. In essence, 'A Sea Of Honey' is never dull, but its experiments are not always successful.

Despite its pretentions, the suite largely fares better. Skip the insipid spoken word intro from Bertie and you arrive at the exquisite 'Prologue' which marks a welcome return for the big drums that worked so well on 'King Of The Mountain'. These produce the album's grandest musical statement when coupled with Michael Kamen's oustanding string arrangement. Kate is in her element here, celebrating the passing of Summer into Autumn with lines like 'it's gonna be so good, we're gonna be dancing'. No doubt someone will describe it as 'pagan', without having any idea what Paganism really is.

Rolf Harris, who first guested on 'The Dreaming' returns here as The Painter, and it's hard to imagine how he resisted the temptation to add the lines 'can you guess what it is yet?'. His jovial, Cartoon Club/Animal Hospital persona doesn't sit very comfortably with the idea of 'A Sky Of Honey' as a grand artistic statement though, and there's something slightly uncomfortable about his appearance, despite its brevity.

'The Architect's Dream' is again exquisitely arranged, although its percussion does sound as if it may have been programmed with the drum pads on a 1980s Yamaha keyboard, but we'll forgive this quirk. Best of all are the closing tracks, which are energised, and full of the highly inventive vocal dexterity for which Bush is rightly lauded. 'Nocturn' is passionate and haunting and with the titles of both discs included in the lyrics, it neatly ties the themes of both discs together, giving the whole bizarre enterprise an appropriately cyclical feel. 'Aerial' is the first piece here that suggests Kate may actually have listened to anything even vaguely contemporary. Its pounding four to the floor bass drum and shouted chorus ('I wanna be up on the roof!') hints intriguingly at club music, most specifically the relentless vocal and rhythmic dynamics of Underworld. Still, with its meticulously realised vocal arrangement, this is still singularly the work of La Bush.

As, if we're honest, is everything else here. It may not be perfect, or even always comfortable, but it's hard to imagine any other artist with this level of courage and conviction. Occasionally her ideas guide her exceptionally well, at others they seem stifling and misguided. It's hard to know what to conclude about such a baffling and confounding record other than at its best, it is the most serious-minded and ambitious pop music of the year and it's certainly good to have her back. It seems unlikely that Kate will perform live again, however, and one serious question remains - is this the start of a new phase of Kate Bush's career, or is it her farewell transmission?

Primitive Technology

The mixtape still has a proud home in my ageing car stereo - so glad to see that others support its dying cause!

http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/collective/A6643172

That's Entertainment!

Jamie Lidell – The Scala, London 3/11/05

Yet again, the Scala was packed out for another Eat Your Own Ears promoted extravaganza, this time celebrating the brightest lights of the current Warp roster. Whilst Richard D James continues to abrogate any responsibility to his audience (packaging his only new material in impossibly expensive collectors’ editions), the young pretenders may be about to steal his electro crown.

First up was French maverick Jackson, whose ‘Smash’ album is arguably the most thrilling electronica album of 2005. His set tonight is uncompromising, furious and pulverising, alternating between glitchy, arrhythmic stutterings and dramatically powerful bass hits. It’s all a little disorientating but undoubtedly effective when he develops an idea into something that reaches the feet as well as the guts.

Next up was a very peculiar Japanese duo. I’m still not sure exactly who they were. If anyone can enlighten me, please leave a comment or email me! They positioned themselves shamelessly on that fine line between experimental genius and complete piffle, although more often than not I fear they crossed over into the latter. The audience were clearly divided, some nodding appreciatively and attempting to dance, whilst others booed ferociously. They consisted of a sampling device deployed to create swathes of sound, a remarkably unconventional drummer and a singer who screeched what sounded mostly like nonsense over the top of it all. Sometimes they generated ideas that sounded promising (particularly in their complex polyrhythmic figures), but all the elements always competed for attention. Frequently, the drummer seemed to be playing against the samples rather than with them and all the yelping and screeching became irritating after a while, a million miles from the cleverly choreographed vocal interplay of Animal Collective.

Jamie Lidell was frankly a revelation. Beginning his set on stage alone, he used live sampling and mixing to manipulate his vocals into entire layered performances. It felt like watching someone remix their own work live on stage, and really has only one precedent in modern dance music – the equally adventurous live sampling of Matthew Herbert, with whom Lidell has already collaborated. ‘Music Will Not Last’ makes for an awesome opener, and Lidell shows himself to be in adventurous spirit right from the outset. After a crazy cut-and-paste refashioning of crowd-pleaser ‘A Little Bit More’, he introduces the very special guests who join him for tonight’s show, the first time he has played with a live band on British soil.

Most of the guest musicians are gathered from hip Berlin label Kitty Yo, with Gonzales providing some gospel-infused piano flourishes, Taylor Savvy some exhuberant if slightly untutored drumming, Mocky the rock solid basslines and Snax the essential funky Rhodes keyboards and synths. They replay ‘A Little Bit More’ in the more conventional funk style that Lidell has recently adopted, and Lidell involves the crowd in some shameless call-and-response audience participation, every bit as good an ‘entertainer’ as that tedious twit Robbie Williams.
The band play through most of the excellent ‘Multiply’ album, with Lidell successfully wearing the clothes of his major influences – Otis Redding on ‘What Is It This Time?’, Sly Stone for ‘You Got Me Up’ (for which Mocky cheekily nicks the bassline from ‘Thank You For Talking To Me Africa’). Lidell generates so much energy and enthusiasm that this performance genuinely has some of the spirit of the legendary Stax/Volt revue shows. It’s just a shame that, drawing exclusively on ‘Multiply’ and ignoring Lidell’s radically different glitchy techno debut ‘Muddlin’ Gear’, it’s such a brief thrill. Lidell has been dismissed in some quarters as a Joss Stone for the electro set, which is grossly unfair. He arguably has a more instinctive feel for the music than Stone, despite her established soul patrons, and he always filters the past through a decisively modernist prism. If anything, it’s just great pop music.

Pornography and Death - A Winning Combination!

I’ve been quite fortunate in 2005 to catch some significant bands in their debut appearance on these shores – not least the remarkable Arcade Fire gig at King’s College. Tonight was the turn of the marvellous supergroup The New Pornographers, their first time in London at the wonderful Borderline venue for what turned out to be a very sweaty gig. That both bands should be Canadian is a happy coincidence – but one that hints at the quality and invention of the current crop of independent bands from that particular country. Some of the Canadians in the crowd tonight were clearly proud to be flying the Maple Leaf flag, despite being berated as ‘nerdy’ by lead vocalist Carl Newman. Fortunately for them, he checked himself – ‘don’t worry, it’s the kind of nerdiness that will get you laid every single night!’

First, a few words about the opening act, Immaculate Machine, who featured the talents of erstwhile New Pornographer Katheryn Calder, along with guitarist/co-vocalist Brooke Gallupe and demented drummer Luke Kozlowski. They turned in a set so bristling with energy and enthusiasm that even the NP’s own supercharged blitz seemed sedate in comparison. Their taut yet exuberant sound shared elements with the NP’s infectious, yet meticulously arranged music, although if anything they amplified some of the quirkier dimensions to this pop confection. With intricate harmonies set against the thunderous and unrestrained clatter of the drumming and some Marc Ribot-esque excoriating guitar they provided both volume and intelligence. There are some remarkable songs here too that span from the immediate and infectious (‘Phone No.’) to the more wiry and angular (‘No Such Thing As The Future’) via the deliberately insistent (‘So Cynical’).

Sadly, they currently have no distribution in the UK, but their excellent ‘Ones and Zeroes’ album is well worth investigating should an import copy crop up anywhere. The recorded sound is a little less colossal, but the songs still stand up well. They are possibly the best support act I’ve seen this year.

It’s tremendous credit to the New Pornographers that they manage to perform such a ferocious and engaging set, despite the absence of two crucial members. Dan Bejar, whose songs contribute a more contrived (in the original, positive sense of the word) dimension to their work, does not tour with the band. The enticingly glamorous Neko Case was absent from these European dates, apparently due to scheduling conflicts. Perhaps she was busy putting the finishing touched to her forthcoming album, expected early in 2006. It’s therefore a bit less of a supergroup than on record, and one that perhaps loses some of its range, albeit none of its bite.

It’s a show that mostly focuses on the songwriting talents of AC Newman, and he delivers his increasingly unpredictable pop songs with considerable gusto. It’s always a bit of an obvious tactic to open a show with the first track on your new album, but ‘Twin Cinema’ sounds so commandingly jagged tonight that it’s difficult to see an alternative selection. It’s also difficult to imagine a more captivating opening three than the aforementioned opener, followed by ‘Use It’ and the brilliantly compelling ‘Mass Romantic’. These are fabulously constructed pop songs, which sound both crisply comforting and uniquely ambitious. Calder does a confident job handling Neko Case’s vocal parts on the latter.

There are some rough edges, including some botched harmonies and an apparent uncertainty over the set list, but these only serve to add charm to an already blistering performance. Intelligently, they draw from all three of their albums, but for me the newest material sounds the most refreshing. ‘Twin Cinema’ is an album with many listens in it – its unusual songs twist and turn in numerous unexpected directions. ‘Jackie Dressed In Cobras’ is particularly unconventional, whilst ‘Sing Me Spanish Techno’ has a gleeful melodic playfulness as its focus. Tonight’s performances enhances its more aggressive, attacking qualities and reminds me that it will be due a high place in my increasingly crowded albums of 2005 list.

This was a gritty, convincing show – just a shame that it all seemed to be over so quickly.

The same could not be said of the wonderful HBO TV series Six Feet Under, which after five seasons of overwhelming, convincingly portrayed trials and tribulations, has become a regular delight that I’ve almost taken for granted. Tonight on E4, we were treated to its concluding episode. There will now be no more – a wise decision, for many of these things are recommissioned to tedium, whereby they lose their original impact and descend into pseudo soap operas. By ending before the inevitable rot could set in – Six Feet Under may well secure its place as a classic of modern American television.

This is not to say that the show was without its flaws. It suffered from a tendency to stereotype minor characters, we well as occasionally drifting into overplayed histrionics. Yet it could survive its more hysterical, or even its more whimsical-surrealist moments, because its central characters, with their inherent contradictions and self-righteous traits, were so convincingly human.

In a TV world dominated by endless generic sitcoms and hospital and police dramas, Six Feet Under seemed bracingly original. It’s difficult to imagine any UK writers pitching a show about a family business, let alone a family of funeral directors. In skilfully interweaving each episode’s self-contained personal story surrounding a particular death with the continuing journeys of its central characters, the show sustained quality and interest remarkably well.

This final series has been particularly effective, drawing on some of the show’s familiar themes and concerns without seeming repetitive, as each of the characters has moved to some sort of resolution. The performances have remained superb, particularly from the complex female roles. Rachel Griffiths has managed to make the turbulent Brenda sympathetic and repulsive in equal measure, and this series has been brilliant in detailing her mixed emotions towards Nate. Frances Conroy treads the fine line between regal presence and innate vulnerability masterfully as the matriarch Ruth Fisher – it’s her performances that will be most missed. Her brief turn in Jim Jarmusch’s Broken Flowers suggest that film roles may still await her. Best of all in this series has been Lauren Ambrose as the extreme and passionately rebellious Claire Fisher. In finally confronting both her need for escape and her need for something more regular, she achieves perhaps the toughest transition of all. Her unlikely relationship with Republican lawyer Ted was played out with plausible tenderness and compassion.

The final episode was perhaps not the greatest – with its obligatory tying up of all the remaining loose ends. It did, however, realise a convincing unity within the Fisher family and their associates – perhaps the first time all dysfunction and frayed emotions had been cast aside to give ‘a toast to Nate’ (brilliantly, his death earlier in the series had been the terrible catalyst for change). This would have made for a resoundingly positive ending, which the writers resisted. The camera then cut to an hilarious dream sequence with Peter Krause’s Nate in a pop promo from the heavens that completely shattered the mood. The remaining few minutes dealt mostly with Claire’s departure for a new life in New York. Leaving by car, her journey down the open road was intercut with a montage sequence illustrating the future deaths of all the major characters. A neat idea in theory – but the terrible make-up designed to show the ageing process undercut the pathos with a perhaps unintentional comedy. Six Feet Under has certainly always had a black comic streak – particularly in its tendency to always make the unthinkable happen. Yet, this didn’t quite work somehow. It reminded me a little of the ending of Spike Lee’s disastrous 25th Hour. Perhaps a more ambiguous final scene might have been better. If not that, then the episode centred on Nate’s funeral was so brilliantly handled that it might have made for a superior parting shot. That being said, it’s typical of this wonderful show to leave its audience not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

So Far Behind They Think They're Ahead

Uncut have already published their albums of the year list - with, ahem, this blog's 2nd favourite album of 2004 (The Arcade Fire) at the top spot! I suspect this is not the only list this band will top this year - and the passage of 'Funeral' from impressive debut to genuine classic now looks certain. It's intriguing that the UK press only picked up on them after they became a word-of-mouth success.

As for the rest of the list, there must be a marketing logic to being the first publication to compile an end-of-year list, but it looks very silly indeed from a critical perspective. They may have just given Kate Bush's comeback a somewhat confused and lukewarm review - but it's not unreasonable to expect many of their journalists would have included it in their voting had they actually heard it at the time of voting.

In Uncut's favour, they've manged to include genuinely excellent albums from Animal Collective, Boards Of Canada, Ariel Pink, Elbow and Doves, most of which occupy relatively lofty positions. Yet, if we look at how well Animal Collective are currently performing in the Rate Your Music (http://www.rateyourmusic.com) 2005 list, and their sell-out show at the Scala last week, we can see that there is much more of an appetite for challenging independent music than much of the industry accepts.

It's otherwise a mostly predictable list, and skewed in favour of rock/Americana and the trad canon. I've already confessed my guilty enjoyment of 'A Bigger Bang' - but in no way would I suggest it's the sixth best album of the year. Bob Dylan's 'No Direction Home' is at 3 - it's a compilation mostly consisting of alternate versions from his classic 60s period with no new material whatsoever! For some reason they do not elect to extend this bizarre logic of what constitutes new in 2005 to the collection of previously unreleased material from Judee Sill, which is considered a reissue!

I'd concede that it's not been a great year for electronica or hip-hop - but the likes of Roots Manuva, Dangerdoom, Sage Francis, Four Tet, Jackson and His Computer Band, Jamie Lidell and The Books all deserved consideration.

Even if we accept Uncut's trad-rock focus uncritically - why have they criminally ignored the likes of John Prine, Erin McKeown, Teenage Fanclub, The Broken Family Band, Smog, South San Gabriel, M Ward, Okkervil River, Sleater Kinney ('The Woods' surely channels the spirit of the blues as well as anything Jack White has been involved in), New Pornographers, Magnolia Electric Co etc?? The Calexico and Iron and Wine collaboration is a stunning omission - easily the most accomplished Americana release of the year. These are all records that their core readership could be expected to enjoy.

Like the NME in the early 90s, who would regularly give excellent reviews to the likes of Animals That Swim, whilst never affording them any real promotion, Uncut is continually failing to invest in the bands it purports to support. Even after his death, there has still been no cover feature on the great Warren Zevon. Why not! If Richmond Fontaine really are as great as Allan Jones claims - why have they not been given any real column inches outside the reviews section. Even with all this fuss over Arcade Fire - the cover feature still goes to David Bowie for the umpteenth time (at least it's a piece on The Man Who Fell To Earth, which I shall read before I judge too harshly). To expect any real quality of research or appreciation of different genres is too much to hope for when they can't even manage this!

Those tedious Britpop revivalists Kaiser Chiefs and the wildly overrated MIA get token entries at the arse end of the top 50. Mercifully, Coldplay are excluded!!