I almost certainly need to listen to it a bit more, and I may well come to revise some of these opinions, but seeing as it's streaming in its entirety over at the NME website, I thought I'd jot down some first impressions on the new Arcade Fire album.
The great handicap in reviewing an album that immediately follows a career defining debut is how to deal with the thorny problem of the record's relationship with its predecessor. I suspect that, on the whole, 'The Neon Bible' will be well received (perhaps even rapturously), but there are elements which might invoke reservations or perhaps even consternation in some quarters. The rapidity with which Arcade Fire have escalated from a word-of-mouth cult into big venue superstars is nothing short of astonishing, and there will inevitably be a small group of fans who now struggle to claim this band as their own. It's an understandable emotion, particularly among obsessive followers of new music, but it doesn't exactly facilitate objective judgment. It's also easy to forget that this is as much a problem for band as audience - how do you develop as artists, whilst retaining what made you special in the first place, when suddenly catering to a mass audience. The Arcade Fire have had to confront this much more quickly than might have been expected. That much of 'The Neon Bible' sounds bigger, grander and more ostentatious than 'Funeral' might also imply an element of clinical calculation in its production, although it has its fair share of more considered, nuanced moments too.
The Bruce Springsteen influence I detected during the band's recent Porchester Hall show is definitely here. The pompously titled '(antichrist television blues)' is pure working man's American rock, a distant cousin of 'Workin' On The Highway' perhaps. Even 'Intervention', with its colossal church organ, wouldn't sound entirely out of place on 'Born In The USA', although it mercifully eschews the more bombastic elements of that record's production. There's a lot of rather basic guitar strumming underpinning the big arrangements, and this makes for some other unexpected reference points. 'Keep The Car Running', with its acoustic guitars and mandolins, resembles 'Fisherman's Blues'-era Waterboys, and the chugging gothic fervour of 'Black Mirror' sounds something akin to the Velvet Underground jamming with Echo and The Bunnymen. So many bands resort to these basic chug and strum patterns, but it's because Arcade Fire use them as backdrops rather than formulaic templates that it works so well. These devices, predictable and over-familiar in lesser hands, provide energy and drive here, over which the band's trademark unison vocal chants and unusual instrumentation weave their more elaborate magic.
Whilst the handsomely re-recorded 'No Cars Go' and 'The Well and the Lighthouse' offer familiar theatrical thrills, 'The Neon Bible' does not entirely abandon quirky charm in favour of bold statement. The title track is wispy and mercilessly concise. Given a few more listens, it may turn out to be the album's most audacious and intriguing moment. The medley of 'Black Wave/Bad Vibrations' is unpredictable and admirably risky. It also provides some welcome space for Regine Chassagne's peculiar vocals, which despite the occasionally shaky pitching, never sound less than enthralling. Best of all is the stunning 'Ocean Of Noise', which has something of the tragic melancholy of Roy Orbison in its mariachi-tinged arrangement. The closing 'My Body Is A Cage' is colossal, but, as I suggested in my recent live review, also has a deeply soulful core.
I suspect if there's a major problem with 'The Neon Bible', it's more lyrical than musical. Over on his Uncut magazine blog, John Mulvey has criticised the use of religious imagery to convey a secular message as an over-worked trope. I'm not sure this is so much the problem, as more that the detail of this album's themes are less well defined than those of 'Funeral'. The romantic vision and wonderful imagery that characterised songs such as 'Tunnels' and 'The Power Out' helped make that album uniquely engaging. Here, there's a lot of dour reflection on the state of the world, but the sense of fear and doom is mostly rather vague and undeveloped. It's not disastrous by any means, but songs like 'Black Mirror' are very portentous, it's just not always clear precisely what they might be portending.
For those wondering how 'Neon Bible' will stand in this band's canon, it's worth recognising that its highlights provide welcome signs that they remain imaginative, impassioned and full of fire. It also shows them perfectly capable of expanding their reach. It's not quite a stunning masterpiece, but it's by no means a crushing disappointment either. For most people, that surely ought to be enough.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Blame Canada....
....for producing yet another band with real vision and quality. The oddly titled 'The Besnard Lakes Are The Dark Horse' is the second album on the wonderful Jagjaguwar label from Montreal's The Besnard Lakes, although it represents my first contact with this beguiling and fascinating band. The overall impression is of a neat combination of the languid melancholy of Low combined with the slow burning classic rock of My Morning Jacket. Throw in some inventive arrangements, Beach Boys-esque vocal harmonies and unconventional instrumentation, and you have the makings of a modern classic.
This doesn't mean it's an easy listen though. The eight songs are all lengthy and extravagant, the pace rarely gets above a gentle trot, and the lyrics are peculiarly oblique. Wisely, at just 45 minutes, the album as a whole refuses to outstay its welcome, and, once yielded to, the atmosphere is enthralling and hypnotic. There are all sorts of possible reference points - Jace Lasek's use of falsetto obviously belies the influence of Neil Young, whilst Olga Goreas' more understated, half spoken intonations resemble the contributions of Jill Birt to The Triffids.
There's an essential formula to the songs here, involving the careful development of an expansive, overwhelming texture from minimal beginnings. The band achieve this with control and finesse, and rarely, if ever, does the music descend to posturing or mock grandiosity. There's real rhythmic and melodic invention on epic tracks like 'And You Lied To Me', allied with a complete understanding of American musical tradition, occasionally drawing influence from southern rock as much as North American styles. The band also confidently master unpredictable diversions and false endings that are as entertaining as they are confounding.
The mysterious 'For Agent 13' has an alchemical quality, and with unusually direct lyrics, might be the most powerful track here ('I never meant to feel that way/To be so haunted by a touch/I play it back every day'). Yet it's the opening 'Disaster' that really stands out - oddly melancholic, yet also muscular and driving. The incorporation of strings and horns adds a majestic sheen to a song with a real sense of progression and imagination. 'Devastation' sounds like Sparklehorse in Alabama (and how much more interesting it would have been for Mark Linkous to have attempted something like this instead of the resoundingly tedious 'Dreamt For Light Years...').
This is a big behemoth of an album, but it's creative rather than indulgent, and full of passion and power. Catch the dark horse before it rides away.
This doesn't mean it's an easy listen though. The eight songs are all lengthy and extravagant, the pace rarely gets above a gentle trot, and the lyrics are peculiarly oblique. Wisely, at just 45 minutes, the album as a whole refuses to outstay its welcome, and, once yielded to, the atmosphere is enthralling and hypnotic. There are all sorts of possible reference points - Jace Lasek's use of falsetto obviously belies the influence of Neil Young, whilst Olga Goreas' more understated, half spoken intonations resemble the contributions of Jill Birt to The Triffids.
There's an essential formula to the songs here, involving the careful development of an expansive, overwhelming texture from minimal beginnings. The band achieve this with control and finesse, and rarely, if ever, does the music descend to posturing or mock grandiosity. There's real rhythmic and melodic invention on epic tracks like 'And You Lied To Me', allied with a complete understanding of American musical tradition, occasionally drawing influence from southern rock as much as North American styles. The band also confidently master unpredictable diversions and false endings that are as entertaining as they are confounding.
The mysterious 'For Agent 13' has an alchemical quality, and with unusually direct lyrics, might be the most powerful track here ('I never meant to feel that way/To be so haunted by a touch/I play it back every day'). Yet it's the opening 'Disaster' that really stands out - oddly melancholic, yet also muscular and driving. The incorporation of strings and horns adds a majestic sheen to a song with a real sense of progression and imagination. 'Devastation' sounds like Sparklehorse in Alabama (and how much more interesting it would have been for Mark Linkous to have attempted something like this instead of the resoundingly tedious 'Dreamt For Light Years...').
This is a big behemoth of an album, but it's creative rather than indulgent, and full of passion and power. Catch the dark horse before it rides away.
When You're Wrong, Admit It
I just want to take a moment to revise my review of the Bloc Party album a little. I think I said something about the lyrics being 'completely central to the record's achievement'. On closer inspection, this isn't really true at all. I certainly take issue with some of the harsher criticisms of Kele Okereke's lyrics, particularly as most of those objecting to the harsh treatment of London on 'A Weekend In The City' are of course fully paid up members of the London media set. Many of these people would find it difficult to imagine a London of real tension and brutality, let alone accept that it is the reality of life for many Londoners. Still though, there are problems with Okereke's approach, exacerbated by his tendency towards earnestness. 'Hunting For Witches', whilst admirably confronting the climate of fear, is a little clunky (although it sounds awesome), and the overlong 'Uniform' is genuinely uncomfortable and unpleasant. Okereke's portrait of disaffected adolescents does little to address the real reasons for their boredom, nor does it offer any solutions to this increasingly dangerous problem. The gimmicky production values on this track (hey, they've discovered vocoders!) only add to the discomfort. Essentially, it's one long angry rant with little substance. I haven't managed to hear 'This Is England' yet, but I suspect its omission from the tracklisting was probably a mistake.
Okereke uses the device of repeating simple lyrical ideas, sometimes to powerful impact, but just as frequently he merely emphasises some of his clunkier motifs. The more personal elements of this album may actually be far more substantial than the attempts at politial and social analysis, however laudable Okereke's intentions. 'Kreuzberg' is dense, compelling and moving, all whilst sustaining a daring lyrical simplicity. Apart from the reference to a 'teacher's training day' (those three words will never be made to sound poetic), 'I Still Remember' is equally affecting, albeit somewhat nostalgic. Whilst Okereke is perhaps confronting his sexuality in these songs, they are full of universal experience too.
Musically, the album has real drama and force, although it does sag slightly in the middle, at the same point at which Okereke's preoccupation with adolescent disaffection and cocaine abuse threaten to spoil the whole thing. Essentially, it's a mixed bag - but it at least provokes discussion, which is more than a lot of the derivitive British music currently plodding around.
Okereke uses the device of repeating simple lyrical ideas, sometimes to powerful impact, but just as frequently he merely emphasises some of his clunkier motifs. The more personal elements of this album may actually be far more substantial than the attempts at politial and social analysis, however laudable Okereke's intentions. 'Kreuzberg' is dense, compelling and moving, all whilst sustaining a daring lyrical simplicity. Apart from the reference to a 'teacher's training day' (those three words will never be made to sound poetic), 'I Still Remember' is equally affecting, albeit somewhat nostalgic. Whilst Okereke is perhaps confronting his sexuality in these songs, they are full of universal experience too.
Musically, the album has real drama and force, although it does sag slightly in the middle, at the same point at which Okereke's preoccupation with adolescent disaffection and cocaine abuse threaten to spoil the whole thing. Essentially, it's a mixed bag - but it at least provokes discussion, which is more than a lot of the derivitive British music currently plodding around.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Jokes, Reverence and Indifference
I've been out and about a fair bit over the last few weeks, so there are a few gigs to report back on.
I alleviated Valentine's Day blues to some degree by heading over to the Metro Club on Oxford Street to see the kind of bill you definitely don't get every week - The Crimea, Piney Gir and Paris Motel all at the same gig! Unfortunately, despite the fact that ticket agencies were billing this as a Piney Gir gig, John Kell (http://www.kingofquiet.co.uk) and I arrived at the venue to find her just finishing her set, having opened proceedings. The subsequent set from Alexander 'Festival' Hall (see what he did there?), hitherto unknown to this writer, only added to the sense of irritation, being as it was a bit self-consciously quirky and, ultimately, quite dull. So far, so disappointing.
Longstanding friends Paris Motel never disappoint though, and Amy May's malleable musical troupe have now expanded both in number and in sound. They find some room for some old favourites from the '071' EP, including the title track and 'Mr. Splintfoot', which with the beefed up sound now resembles Nick Cave's 'Red Right Hand' even more, but I guess even Nick Cave can't claim to own the blues. The new material is expansive and more muscular, and there's a sense of grandeur to rival The Arcade Fire. The sound engineering isn't so hot in the Metro though, so Amy's delicate but appealing vocals sometimes get drowned out. Nevertheless, it all suggests that the debut album proper from this band should be one of 2007's highlights, and there's a sense that this good humoured, romantic and charming group are becoming really rather special. They end with a lush, swooning take on Yeah Yeah Yeahs' 'Maps', providing further evidence that it really is one of the best songs to come from an American rock band in the last decade - it sounds just as magical in this very different setting.
The Crimea play with a vigour and intensity that never lets up, but their set is stifled by yet another indifferent London crowd. It's not the couples that cause the trouble though - it's the frustrated singles toasting their freedom. For God's sake, if you want to do that, go to a pub, not a gig! The familiar, highly infectious material from 'Tragedy Rocks' is dispensed with a bit early, and maybe with that crushing sense of obligation that often frustrates bands working on new material. The new stuff is a bit more forced and serious-minded - I couldn't decide whether or not much of it worked or not. I suspect the new album will require close attention. There's certainly evidence of development, but the strength of 'Tragedy Rocks' lay more in its melodies than its sonic invention, so I'm not sure they're pushing the right buttons here.
A rather different show last Friday at London's Barbican, featuring justly revered American saxophinist Joe Lovano playing with his Nonet, ably supported by veteran harmonica player Toots Thielmans, accompanied by the expressive, but slightly earnest American pianist Fred Hersch. The 84 year-old Thielmans was a real delight - taking obvious joy in performing, and delivering a set that effortlessly juxtaposed playful nostalgia with delicate melancholy. The musical relationship between Thielmans and Hersch was playful, and the results were frequently inspired. Thielmans' harmonica sound was consistently pure and clear, and he breathed life even into the hoariest of old standards. I particularly enjoyed his takes on 'Ne Me Quitte Pas' and 'Blue In Green'. The duo were joined by Lovano for a couple of pieces, and the subtle musical interplay was quietly inspirational.
I had massively high expecations of Lovano's set, with the saxophonist having just recorded my favourite jazz album of last year. He really is one of the most dynamic and creative improvisers in the world, with a clear knowledge of the jazz tradition, but a force and personality very much his own. If the set didn't quite live up to these expectations, it's almost certainly unfair to condemn it for this, as there were moments of palpable excitement.
I'll start with the bad though - a terrible microphone,which took the word 'unidirectional' beyond literal interpretation, rendered all the trumpet solos unintelligible. If the trumpeter took even a step away he became inaudible, and when he was right against the mic the sound was so muddy as to obscure the notes. My attention was also distracted from the other soloists by the off mic antics of the large band, who often slouched around, talked with each other, and generally looked oddly shambolic on stage.
Still, though, the playing was crisp and dynamic, and I very much enjoyed Otis Brown's very traditional drumming, on a small jazz set-up. When he exchanged 4s and 8s with the other soloists, it made for some inspired creation and release of tension. Tim Garland was also involved, and although the shout of 'let's hear from Tim Garland!' from one particularly moronic audience member riled me intensely (you can hear Garland in London almost every night of the week, given the ridiculous volume of work that comes his way), there's no denying that he provided one of the best moments of the whole concert when he soloed with just Brown's drumming for accompaniment. This was fiery, inventive and thoroughly musical improvising at its best.
Lovano's own soloing was as fluid and controlled as might be expected, and the themes were delivered with passion and clarity. Gunther Schuller's arrangements for the 'Birth Of The Cool' suite predictably provided the centrepiece of the show, although I wondered whether in live performance this seemed more reverent and less inventive than on disc. Lovano's own compositions from the same project fared better, with some really energetic performances.
A trip to Cambridge gave me a rare opportunity to catch a concert in the refined, over-comfortable environment of the Kettle's Yard art gallery. Regardless of the quality of music being performed, I could quite happily have drifted into sleep, slouched as I was on a couch at the side of the stage. This vantage point gave me an excellent view of the rather unconventional posture of Swedish pianist Soren Norbo, although pretty much completely obscured my view of the jovial drummer. Guesting with Norbo's trio was none other than British contemporary jazz legend Django Bates, albeit on a strange valve horn rather than piano. Those expecting a Bates performance may well have been disappointed, although his improvising on the horn was frequently remarkable and always dexterous. He even tried his hand at drums towards the end of the second set, with some more than passable free improvisation.
This was a strange old gig, and whilst the band seemed adept at a plethora of styles, from the broad and abstract to tightly controlled swing, their bizarre case of Attention Defecit Disorder left me a little perplexed. I sense that the main purpose of this gig was really to poke some fun at the jazz tradition by juxtaposing the very conventional with the very weird, and there was plenty of joking around, particularly from the maverick drummer. Some of this was light-hearted and effective, especially Bates' spontaneous and unpredictable bursts into song. Yet, the drummer's insistence on squeezing water bottles and banging on large plastic dustbins seemed unnecessary when his kit playing was creative and musical enough to stand on its own without resorting to gimmicks.
Some seem to cite Bill Evans as the chief influence on Norbo's playing, but I couldn't really detect this too much - I could hear much more of the European and Scandinavian traditions in his improvising than the American. His strange, stubby fingers didn't seem to restrict him too much, although his playing did sometimes match the stiffness of his posture, occasionally seeming more schematic and theoretical than emotional. Perhaps if the band had actually sustained even one of its good ideas to maximum impact, a little more feeling could have seeped through the veneer of slightly po-faced musical comedy. The encore, involving gargling water, certainly raised a few laughs, although mine may have been more in disgust than in amusement - it wasn't exactly pleasant! I'm glad I stuck it out though - Bates' horn playing genuinely thrilled me, and his use of electronic effects was intelligent too. The second set saw the band much more focussed and engaged, and there were moments I really enjoyed.
I alleviated Valentine's Day blues to some degree by heading over to the Metro Club on Oxford Street to see the kind of bill you definitely don't get every week - The Crimea, Piney Gir and Paris Motel all at the same gig! Unfortunately, despite the fact that ticket agencies were billing this as a Piney Gir gig, John Kell (http://www.kingofquiet.co.uk) and I arrived at the venue to find her just finishing her set, having opened proceedings. The subsequent set from Alexander 'Festival' Hall (see what he did there?), hitherto unknown to this writer, only added to the sense of irritation, being as it was a bit self-consciously quirky and, ultimately, quite dull. So far, so disappointing.
Longstanding friends Paris Motel never disappoint though, and Amy May's malleable musical troupe have now expanded both in number and in sound. They find some room for some old favourites from the '071' EP, including the title track and 'Mr. Splintfoot', which with the beefed up sound now resembles Nick Cave's 'Red Right Hand' even more, but I guess even Nick Cave can't claim to own the blues. The new material is expansive and more muscular, and there's a sense of grandeur to rival The Arcade Fire. The sound engineering isn't so hot in the Metro though, so Amy's delicate but appealing vocals sometimes get drowned out. Nevertheless, it all suggests that the debut album proper from this band should be one of 2007's highlights, and there's a sense that this good humoured, romantic and charming group are becoming really rather special. They end with a lush, swooning take on Yeah Yeah Yeahs' 'Maps', providing further evidence that it really is one of the best songs to come from an American rock band in the last decade - it sounds just as magical in this very different setting.
The Crimea play with a vigour and intensity that never lets up, but their set is stifled by yet another indifferent London crowd. It's not the couples that cause the trouble though - it's the frustrated singles toasting their freedom. For God's sake, if you want to do that, go to a pub, not a gig! The familiar, highly infectious material from 'Tragedy Rocks' is dispensed with a bit early, and maybe with that crushing sense of obligation that often frustrates bands working on new material. The new stuff is a bit more forced and serious-minded - I couldn't decide whether or not much of it worked or not. I suspect the new album will require close attention. There's certainly evidence of development, but the strength of 'Tragedy Rocks' lay more in its melodies than its sonic invention, so I'm not sure they're pushing the right buttons here.
A rather different show last Friday at London's Barbican, featuring justly revered American saxophinist Joe Lovano playing with his Nonet, ably supported by veteran harmonica player Toots Thielmans, accompanied by the expressive, but slightly earnest American pianist Fred Hersch. The 84 year-old Thielmans was a real delight - taking obvious joy in performing, and delivering a set that effortlessly juxtaposed playful nostalgia with delicate melancholy. The musical relationship between Thielmans and Hersch was playful, and the results were frequently inspired. Thielmans' harmonica sound was consistently pure and clear, and he breathed life even into the hoariest of old standards. I particularly enjoyed his takes on 'Ne Me Quitte Pas' and 'Blue In Green'. The duo were joined by Lovano for a couple of pieces, and the subtle musical interplay was quietly inspirational.
I had massively high expecations of Lovano's set, with the saxophonist having just recorded my favourite jazz album of last year. He really is one of the most dynamic and creative improvisers in the world, with a clear knowledge of the jazz tradition, but a force and personality very much his own. If the set didn't quite live up to these expectations, it's almost certainly unfair to condemn it for this, as there were moments of palpable excitement.
I'll start with the bad though - a terrible microphone,which took the word 'unidirectional' beyond literal interpretation, rendered all the trumpet solos unintelligible. If the trumpeter took even a step away he became inaudible, and when he was right against the mic the sound was so muddy as to obscure the notes. My attention was also distracted from the other soloists by the off mic antics of the large band, who often slouched around, talked with each other, and generally looked oddly shambolic on stage.
Still, though, the playing was crisp and dynamic, and I very much enjoyed Otis Brown's very traditional drumming, on a small jazz set-up. When he exchanged 4s and 8s with the other soloists, it made for some inspired creation and release of tension. Tim Garland was also involved, and although the shout of 'let's hear from Tim Garland!' from one particularly moronic audience member riled me intensely (you can hear Garland in London almost every night of the week, given the ridiculous volume of work that comes his way), there's no denying that he provided one of the best moments of the whole concert when he soloed with just Brown's drumming for accompaniment. This was fiery, inventive and thoroughly musical improvising at its best.
Lovano's own soloing was as fluid and controlled as might be expected, and the themes were delivered with passion and clarity. Gunther Schuller's arrangements for the 'Birth Of The Cool' suite predictably provided the centrepiece of the show, although I wondered whether in live performance this seemed more reverent and less inventive than on disc. Lovano's own compositions from the same project fared better, with some really energetic performances.
A trip to Cambridge gave me a rare opportunity to catch a concert in the refined, over-comfortable environment of the Kettle's Yard art gallery. Regardless of the quality of music being performed, I could quite happily have drifted into sleep, slouched as I was on a couch at the side of the stage. This vantage point gave me an excellent view of the rather unconventional posture of Swedish pianist Soren Norbo, although pretty much completely obscured my view of the jovial drummer. Guesting with Norbo's trio was none other than British contemporary jazz legend Django Bates, albeit on a strange valve horn rather than piano. Those expecting a Bates performance may well have been disappointed, although his improvising on the horn was frequently remarkable and always dexterous. He even tried his hand at drums towards the end of the second set, with some more than passable free improvisation.
This was a strange old gig, and whilst the band seemed adept at a plethora of styles, from the broad and abstract to tightly controlled swing, their bizarre case of Attention Defecit Disorder left me a little perplexed. I sense that the main purpose of this gig was really to poke some fun at the jazz tradition by juxtaposing the very conventional with the very weird, and there was plenty of joking around, particularly from the maverick drummer. Some of this was light-hearted and effective, especially Bates' spontaneous and unpredictable bursts into song. Yet, the drummer's insistence on squeezing water bottles and banging on large plastic dustbins seemed unnecessary when his kit playing was creative and musical enough to stand on its own without resorting to gimmicks.
Some seem to cite Bill Evans as the chief influence on Norbo's playing, but I couldn't really detect this too much - I could hear much more of the European and Scandinavian traditions in his improvising than the American. His strange, stubby fingers didn't seem to restrict him too much, although his playing did sometimes match the stiffness of his posture, occasionally seeming more schematic and theoretical than emotional. Perhaps if the band had actually sustained even one of its good ideas to maximum impact, a little more feeling could have seeped through the veneer of slightly po-faced musical comedy. The encore, involving gargling water, certainly raised a few laughs, although mine may have been more in disgust than in amusement - it wasn't exactly pleasant! I'm glad I stuck it out though - Bates' horn playing genuinely thrilled me, and his use of electronic effects was intelligent too. The second set saw the band much more focussed and engaged, and there were moments I really enjoyed.
The Vanguard vs. The Old Guard
Why is it that veteran music journalists so often have to resort to petty dismissals of us poor, insignificant bloggers? It's one of Petridish's hot topics in The Guardian, and increasingly the likes of Krissi Murison in the NME and even Paul Morley have been chipping in (how ignorant and inexperienced we all are! It's like we're all spotty virgins or something...). Is it perhaps because they feel genuinely threatened by the fact that internet writers are helping to establish acts, and that traditional print journalism may be under threat? If so, they are merely contributing to their own downfall. Here's an interesting piece from Paul Morley:
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/omm/story/0,,2012799,00.html
Reading this, it's difficult to comprehend how Morley was ever at the forefront of a Zeitgeist. He now writes, and frequently speaks, in sentences clunkier and more verbose even than mine, and with a marked lack of critical acumen. There's no selective judgement on display in this piece - yes the likes of Franz Ferdinand, Arctic Monkeys et al have been overrated, but exactly who in any journalistic sphere has been portraying Adem as some sort of revolutionary master? He's a lovely chap who writes good songs, and there's nothing wrong with that. And if Morley was disappointed when he heard Spiritualized's 'Feel So Sad' (assuming he was still aware at that point), or even the Spiritualized of 'Ladies and Gentlemen...', I'm a bit baffled as to why, ditto the thrill that comes from the real passion and enthusiasm for music evident in the work of LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy.
Let's not forget that all the really over-hyped, mostly reactionary bands of the moment (The Kooks, Arctic Monkeys, Babyshambles, The (sinking) Feeling, The Hours et al) have all been zealously praised by print journos. Take a closer look at the acts I've found via the blogosphere - Arcade Fire, Burial, Benoit Pioulard, Subtle, Broken Social Scene, Beirut, Susanna and The Magical Orchestra, Bat For Lashes - the difference in judgement and breadth of interest immediately becomes apparent.
Marcello Carlin (an experienced and authoritative writer both in print and online) writes an interesting repost over at Church Of Me (http://www.cookham.blogspot.com), which is all the more fascinating because his subsequent piece on Judee Sill's 'Heart Food' is both passionate and sceptical, as all the best music writing should be.
On a completely different topic, it's of course not just music where amateur writing can prove illuminating. My old school friend Alex Stein maintains a very interesting blog called False Dichotomies http://www.falsedichotomies.com , with some carefully balanced explorations of Israel/Palestine in particular. I don't elect to write about politics much here, but I do try and keep informed! It strikes me that unhelpful schematic presentations of issues rarely help us understand them. My current bugbear is 'the conflict between national security and civil liberties'. The two aren't mutually exclusive - we can and should have both!
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/omm/story/0,,2012799,00.html
Reading this, it's difficult to comprehend how Morley was ever at the forefront of a Zeitgeist. He now writes, and frequently speaks, in sentences clunkier and more verbose even than mine, and with a marked lack of critical acumen. There's no selective judgement on display in this piece - yes the likes of Franz Ferdinand, Arctic Monkeys et al have been overrated, but exactly who in any journalistic sphere has been portraying Adem as some sort of revolutionary master? He's a lovely chap who writes good songs, and there's nothing wrong with that. And if Morley was disappointed when he heard Spiritualized's 'Feel So Sad' (assuming he was still aware at that point), or even the Spiritualized of 'Ladies and Gentlemen...', I'm a bit baffled as to why, ditto the thrill that comes from the real passion and enthusiasm for music evident in the work of LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy.
Let's not forget that all the really over-hyped, mostly reactionary bands of the moment (The Kooks, Arctic Monkeys, Babyshambles, The (sinking) Feeling, The Hours et al) have all been zealously praised by print journos. Take a closer look at the acts I've found via the blogosphere - Arcade Fire, Burial, Benoit Pioulard, Subtle, Broken Social Scene, Beirut, Susanna and The Magical Orchestra, Bat For Lashes - the difference in judgement and breadth of interest immediately becomes apparent.
Marcello Carlin (an experienced and authoritative writer both in print and online) writes an interesting repost over at Church Of Me (http://www.cookham.blogspot.com), which is all the more fascinating because his subsequent piece on Judee Sill's 'Heart Food' is both passionate and sceptical, as all the best music writing should be.
On a completely different topic, it's of course not just music where amateur writing can prove illuminating. My old school friend Alex Stein maintains a very interesting blog called False Dichotomies http://www.falsedichotomies.com , with some carefully balanced explorations of Israel/Palestine in particular. I don't elect to write about politics much here, but I do try and keep informed! It strikes me that unhelpful schematic presentations of issues rarely help us understand them. My current bugbear is 'the conflict between national security and civil liberties'. The two aren't mutually exclusive - we can and should have both!
Friday, February 02, 2007
Triumph and Tribulation
Arcade Fire, Porchester Hall, 1st February 2007
Frankly, anyone wishing to instigate a premature backlash against this remarkable band really ought to think again. Of course, there's a level of anticipation for these five intimate London shows that could only come with feverish hype, and the critical consensus surrounding 'Funeral' naturally invites suspicion. Yet, whilst Arcade Fire have all the necessary indicators of a major band (a very 'big' sound, a strange mass of ideas which would be rendered chaotic by lesser groups, intriguing concepts and appealing lyrics), what really elevates them to another level entirely is the extraordinary rapport they have built with their audience. It's worth remembering that much of the buzz surrounding them came directly from the audience itself - through the internet, and word of mouth in general. I first wrote about 'Funeral' in late 2004 - it took the rest of the UK music press a good few months to notice its existence, let alone its quality.
Arriving at the venue early, and waiting for a friend, I observe the band of indie kids desperate to pick up a stray ticket by whatever means possible. The touts, however, have all been moved on by exceptionally zealous security, and the extra tickets released at 6pm appear to have already all been snapped up. Relief comes for these boys when none other than Win Butler should open the venue's backstage door. He asks me if I have a ticket, to which I reply that I do and I'm just waiting for a friend rather than loitering for a tout. We exchange friendly smiles and he moves on to the boys still waiting for what would appear to be impossible. When they say they don't have any tickets at all between them, Butler does something entirely unexpected - surreptitously beckoning them forward, he invites them through the backstage door and ushers them quickly into the venue. It's a wonderful, really quite touching moment (although these boys were admittedly very lucky to be there at the right time), and just the start of a gig these kids will surely never forget.
Opting to play gigs in grand old buildings entirely unused to hosting 11-piece grandiose rock bands does have its pitfalls of course. The sound is initially a little muddy, and it later transpires that the left hand stack of speakers has cut out completely. There are a few moments where Win and Regine particularly look a little uncomfortable with the onstage sound, and the whole affair did lack the seamless continuity of their first ever UK performance at King's College London in 2005, with a good deal more time spent on tuning and general faffing between songs.
There's also the more traditional problem of London audiences in general. It's clear from the outset that these are people who really want to be here, to the extent that they all managed to pick up tickets within two minutes of the onsale time. So why does it take so long for them to react to the extraordinary music being played? It's surely no radical surprise that these gigs are used to showcase upcoming new album 'The Neon Bible', but it really isn't until the band drop the more obvious choices from 'Funeral' towards the end of the show that things really get going. When they do, the results are revelatory. Hearing this mostly young crowd bellow back the complete lyrics to 'The Power Out' and 'Rebellion' gives further evidence that we are watching a genuinely significant rock band - one that can connect with people and inspire them in the way that The Smiths or Nirvana, whilst writing about dark and unusual subject matter. This leaves me with a troubling question at the end of the gig though: why are there no British bands achieving this right now?
All the niggles are really insubstantial though given how this band craft their sound, and how carefully they present themselves on stage. Dressed in matching uniform, constantly swapping instruments, bolstered by unconventional, driving string arrangements and French Horn, and often shouting out key lyrics in unison, this is a band every bit as exciting to watch as to hear. Of the new material, some of it chugs along reasonably predictably ('Black Mirror' particularly), albeit with a peculiarly gothic undertone and with energy and passion that elevate it above the indie conventions that underpin it. Some of the songs represent a real shift of emphasis, though. 'My Body Is A Cage' is outstanding, and with a hint of genuine soul that could have come directly from a James Carr or Percy Sledge. Unbelievably, 'The Well and The Lighthouse' succeeds in amplifying the more grandiose elements of the band's sound and there's even one song (possibly 'Antichrist Television Blues'?) that closely resembles Bruce Springsteen in full E Street Band pomp. No bad thing!
They squeeze in a handful of classics to keep people happy, in spite of turning down numerous requests for 'Tunnels'. There's a compelling rendition of 'Haiti', with Regine at her most theatrical and plenty of drum-thumping. Playing 'Cold Wind' (a limited edition single and the band's contribution to Six Feet Under) is a nice touch, and provides an ocean of subtlety amidst the thunderous clamour of much of the rest of the set. The medley of 'The Power Out' and 'Rebellion (Lies)', with Win Butler bursting into the crowd is simply electrifying.
They save the best for last though. After finishing with a typically intense new song, they process offstage with their instruments (including a giant upright bass), and a few minutes later emerge in the venue foyer, leading the crowd in an entirely acoustic rendition of 'Wake Up' (according to the NME, Butler had to scuffle with security to get this to happen, but I didn't manage to see this). The band then snake their way up the stairs and back into the hall whilst performing. We quickly follow them, and end up standing two feet away as they perform an acoustic take on The Clash's 'Guns Of Brixton' in the middle of the venue floor. It's a fascinating extension of the trick they developed in their early live shows, and there are very few other bands with the courage to really make something of their encores in this way.
It's rare to see a band so artistically successful, and so uncompromising in executing their ideas that are also so obviously unashamed to treat their audience to something special, and to make sure they go home satisfied. By descending literally to the same level as the crowd, the band emphasise the special relationship between themselves and their ardent followers. 'The Neon Bible' may or may not equal the achievement of its predecessor, but it promises to be at the very least a damn good album, and there's every sense now that this band can transcend temporal admiration to the next level - they may well turn out to be the key rock band of this time.
Frankly, anyone wishing to instigate a premature backlash against this remarkable band really ought to think again. Of course, there's a level of anticipation for these five intimate London shows that could only come with feverish hype, and the critical consensus surrounding 'Funeral' naturally invites suspicion. Yet, whilst Arcade Fire have all the necessary indicators of a major band (a very 'big' sound, a strange mass of ideas which would be rendered chaotic by lesser groups, intriguing concepts and appealing lyrics), what really elevates them to another level entirely is the extraordinary rapport they have built with their audience. It's worth remembering that much of the buzz surrounding them came directly from the audience itself - through the internet, and word of mouth in general. I first wrote about 'Funeral' in late 2004 - it took the rest of the UK music press a good few months to notice its existence, let alone its quality.
Arriving at the venue early, and waiting for a friend, I observe the band of indie kids desperate to pick up a stray ticket by whatever means possible. The touts, however, have all been moved on by exceptionally zealous security, and the extra tickets released at 6pm appear to have already all been snapped up. Relief comes for these boys when none other than Win Butler should open the venue's backstage door. He asks me if I have a ticket, to which I reply that I do and I'm just waiting for a friend rather than loitering for a tout. We exchange friendly smiles and he moves on to the boys still waiting for what would appear to be impossible. When they say they don't have any tickets at all between them, Butler does something entirely unexpected - surreptitously beckoning them forward, he invites them through the backstage door and ushers them quickly into the venue. It's a wonderful, really quite touching moment (although these boys were admittedly very lucky to be there at the right time), and just the start of a gig these kids will surely never forget.
Opting to play gigs in grand old buildings entirely unused to hosting 11-piece grandiose rock bands does have its pitfalls of course. The sound is initially a little muddy, and it later transpires that the left hand stack of speakers has cut out completely. There are a few moments where Win and Regine particularly look a little uncomfortable with the onstage sound, and the whole affair did lack the seamless continuity of their first ever UK performance at King's College London in 2005, with a good deal more time spent on tuning and general faffing between songs.
There's also the more traditional problem of London audiences in general. It's clear from the outset that these are people who really want to be here, to the extent that they all managed to pick up tickets within two minutes of the onsale time. So why does it take so long for them to react to the extraordinary music being played? It's surely no radical surprise that these gigs are used to showcase upcoming new album 'The Neon Bible', but it really isn't until the band drop the more obvious choices from 'Funeral' towards the end of the show that things really get going. When they do, the results are revelatory. Hearing this mostly young crowd bellow back the complete lyrics to 'The Power Out' and 'Rebellion' gives further evidence that we are watching a genuinely significant rock band - one that can connect with people and inspire them in the way that The Smiths or Nirvana, whilst writing about dark and unusual subject matter. This leaves me with a troubling question at the end of the gig though: why are there no British bands achieving this right now?
All the niggles are really insubstantial though given how this band craft their sound, and how carefully they present themselves on stage. Dressed in matching uniform, constantly swapping instruments, bolstered by unconventional, driving string arrangements and French Horn, and often shouting out key lyrics in unison, this is a band every bit as exciting to watch as to hear. Of the new material, some of it chugs along reasonably predictably ('Black Mirror' particularly), albeit with a peculiarly gothic undertone and with energy and passion that elevate it above the indie conventions that underpin it. Some of the songs represent a real shift of emphasis, though. 'My Body Is A Cage' is outstanding, and with a hint of genuine soul that could have come directly from a James Carr or Percy Sledge. Unbelievably, 'The Well and The Lighthouse' succeeds in amplifying the more grandiose elements of the band's sound and there's even one song (possibly 'Antichrist Television Blues'?) that closely resembles Bruce Springsteen in full E Street Band pomp. No bad thing!
They squeeze in a handful of classics to keep people happy, in spite of turning down numerous requests for 'Tunnels'. There's a compelling rendition of 'Haiti', with Regine at her most theatrical and plenty of drum-thumping. Playing 'Cold Wind' (a limited edition single and the band's contribution to Six Feet Under) is a nice touch, and provides an ocean of subtlety amidst the thunderous clamour of much of the rest of the set. The medley of 'The Power Out' and 'Rebellion (Lies)', with Win Butler bursting into the crowd is simply electrifying.
They save the best for last though. After finishing with a typically intense new song, they process offstage with their instruments (including a giant upright bass), and a few minutes later emerge in the venue foyer, leading the crowd in an entirely acoustic rendition of 'Wake Up' (according to the NME, Butler had to scuffle with security to get this to happen, but I didn't manage to see this). The band then snake their way up the stairs and back into the hall whilst performing. We quickly follow them, and end up standing two feet away as they perform an acoustic take on The Clash's 'Guns Of Brixton' in the middle of the venue floor. It's a fascinating extension of the trick they developed in their early live shows, and there are very few other bands with the courage to really make something of their encores in this way.
It's rare to see a band so artistically successful, and so uncompromising in executing their ideas that are also so obviously unashamed to treat their audience to something special, and to make sure they go home satisfied. By descending literally to the same level as the crowd, the band emphasise the special relationship between themselves and their ardent followers. 'The Neon Bible' may or may not equal the achievement of its predecessor, but it promises to be at the very least a damn good album, and there's every sense now that this band can transcend temporal admiration to the next level - they may well turn out to be the key rock band of this time.
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