Rufus Wainwright, Carling Apollo Hammersmith, 30th October 2007
In heaven, all gigs will be like this. They will open with a short, but sweet support set, on this occasion from honey-voiced singer-songwriter Scott Matthews. The addition of a string quartet provided some soothing Robert Kirby-esque arrangements and I felt that, for once, the stronger influence was Tim rather than Jeff Buckley. Then, with little messing about, not one but two very generous sets from star of the show Rufus Wainwright, amounting to two and a half hours of breathtaking entertainment that comfortably justified the £38 ticket price.
Over the past three or four years, Rufus has gradually been accruing all the necessary components of the perfect songwriter and entertainer. He has a unique ability to be frivolous, disposable, playful, camp and hilarious on one hand, yet touching, affecting, profound and deeply insightful on the other. He’s at his very best when he somehow pulls all this off simultaneously. Those people who genuinely believe that Robbie Williams is the greatest entertainer of our time are missing something in their lives!
Rufus is in outstanding voice tonight. Where once he had a tendency to exaggerate or slur his words as if drunk, tonight his phrasing is crisp and clear. His voice is big and full of gravitas without being overbearing or grating. It is a voice that can be self-mocking or completely sincere depending on the context. His unamplified take on a Scottish folk song (title translates as ‘hearthrob’ apparently) is truly spine tingling, and evidence not just of his family background, but also of his own sublime talent.
The first set centres largely on new album ‘Release The Stars’, with its grandiose horn and wind flourishes and unrestrained pomposity. Opening with the title track is an unpredictable but effective gamble – the horn arrangement veering into New Orleans Marching Band territory. We’re treated to a mournful ‘Going To A Town’ and an utterly hilarious ‘Tulsa’ (dedicated to Killers frontman Brandon Flowers - ‘amazingly talented, wonderfully handsome, hopelessly het-e-ro-sex-ual!’). The closing one-two of the vulnerable ‘Leaving For Paris’ and extravagant ‘Between My Legs’ gives Rufus the opportunity for some unsubtle humour (‘we’ve left Paris, we’re now between my legs!’) and one lucky everyman from the audience gets to do the closing theatrical voiceover. He does this very gamely, in appropriately overblown style, with accompanying hand gestures.
Those hoping for some back catalogue gems would no doubt have been satiated by a superbly moving version of ‘The Art Teacher’ (for all his love of massive orchestration, there’s little doubt that Rufus is as much a master when alone at the piano) and a playful ‘Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk’, complete with some all-too-human gaffs, which Rufus endearingly does not attempt to disguise.
The second set is less predictable, not least because of Rufus’ costume change into lederhosen. Although it fills in all the remaining gaps from ‘Release The Stars’, there are also two wonderful selections from the Judy Garland show, the aforementioned Scottish folk tune, a crackling, tempestuous ‘Beautiful Child’ and a real curveball choice in ‘The Consort’, one of the finest tracks from ‘Poses’. It all ends with an extended arrangement of the magnificent ‘14th Street’, which out-Sondheims Sondheim and gives the exquisite band a chance to show their chops. Breaking free from the meticulous arrangements, they sound positively liberated.
There’s still a generous encore though – including ‘I Don’t Know What It Is’, a wonderfully expressive ‘Danny Boy’ (the Rufus original, not the folk song) and a delicious solo performance of ‘Poses’. By now, Rufus is now in a bath robe, and as a cluster of technicians quickly remove the piano, it is clear there is something of a surprise underneath it (the bath robe, not the piano). In drag, Rufus and some charismatic dancers then perform a karaoke version of the old standard ‘Get Happy’. No, really. I’d say it was a prime YouTube moment but, really and truly, you just had to be there.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
The Resurrected
Steve Earle - Washington Square Serenade
Bettye LaVette - Scene Of The Crime
It's not really necessary to add to the voluminous amount of writing about Steve Earle's career trajectory, including time spent as a convicted criminal and drug addict, other than to say that his more recent output has been some of the boldest and most exciting of his career. 'The Mountain', a bluegrass album made in collaboration with the Del McCoury band is one of the best contemporary examples of the genre, whilst 'Jerusalem' and 'The Revolution Starts Now', both politically confrontational albums unrepentant in their stark polemic, both bristle with raw tension and excitement.
'Washington Square Serenade' represents yet another sidestep, consisting of rhythmically driven acoustic guitars and some rather intrusive beats from Dust Brother John King. The basic musical template isn't really anything new for Earle, so the addition of drum machine backings seems like rather a forced way of reinventing the same wheel. Ultimately, when you're as literate and compelling a songwriter as Steve Earle, there isn't a great obligation to embrace modernity, especially when the result risks removing the timeless quality from the music.
The presence of a song like 'Satellite Radio' (Earle himself now presents a radio show Stateside) is intriguing given that much of 'Washington Square Serenade' sounds tailor-made for daytime radio airtime. 'Down Here Below' is the kind of talky narrative song that Earle does brilliantly, but it disintegrates into a rather bland singalong chorus that detracts from its overall force. Similarly, the first introduction of those 'beats' on 'Tennessee Blues' immediate push the song away from the margins and into the middle of the road. The album concludes with a rather ill-advised neutering of Tom Waits' excoriating 'Way Down In The Hole'.
Yet, in its more organic moments, 'Washington Square Serenade' is a pure delight. There are a clutch of simple, affecting love songs with less cluttered arrangements which give Earle's wisened voice greater room to communicate. 'City of Immigrants' is as broad and encompassing as its subject matter necessitates, with a provocative rhythm track that sounds more natural than its more overtly 'produced' counterparts.
Perhaps the production would work better if it was all more carefully integrated, instead of the beats so often sounding more like a casual afterthought. Earle's songwriting voice is still a confident and compelling one, but too often 'Washington Square Serenade' sounds dangerously bland. There are some lovely songs here, but an unadorned acoustic performance of them (like those Rick Rubin-produced Johnny Cash albums) might well have been more daring and more artistically successful.
Until a couple of years ago, when the wonderful 'I've Got My Own Hell To Raise' appeared on the Anti label, soul singer Bettye Lavette had rather disappeared from the radar. Seemingly a victim to the music industry's more fickle and unpredictable machinations, Lavette was making money as a jobbing singer, but firmly without the reputation and critical acumen she so clearly deserved. That album, produced by Joe Henry and comprising a collection of songs from empathetic female songwriters (Dolly Parton, Lucinda Williams etc), changed all that, and also served as a timely reminder of her gritty and gutsy performances on classic soul sides like 'Let Me Down Easy' and the swampy 'He Made A Woman Out Of Me'.
Her next step was to return to the legendary Muscle Shoals studios where she cut her now infamous 'lost' album 'Child of the Seventies', one of the great albums by a female soul vocalist and almost left for good on the cutting room floor. Appearing on the record is David Hood, the bass player on the original sessions. Hood is father of Patterson Hood, from outstanding southern rockers Drive By Truckers who, taking time out from his main project, organised all the musicians and songs for this recording.
The emphasis here is very much on Lavette as soul survivor. Over time, this could easily get a little tiresome but one can hardly begrudge her the chance to vent her spleen here. It's all the more exciting because she mostly does this through the vehicle of other people's songs. By contrast with its predecessor, all the songs here, with the exception of the sole original, are the work of men. It's a timely reminder of how the great art of interpretative singing is rather rapidly dying out. Lavette is one of the few singers left who could proudly proclaim 'I don't write songs, I sing them.'
And boy does she sing! There's a whole world of life experience in that husky but commanding voice and right from the album's opening lines ('I've been this way too long to change now/You're gonna have to take me as I am!') there's a sense that her conviction and commitment have not been diminished by the passing of time. There's a righteousness and self belief on 'Choices', and her take on Frankie Miller's 'Jealousy' is appropriately smouldering and sensual.
'The Scene of the Crime' again emphasises the close connections between soul and country music, not just through the presence of Memphis legend Spooner Oldham on Wurlitzer (how resonant that old electric keyboard sounds here), but also through interpretations of songs from gifted songwriters firmly entrenched in the American tradition - Willie Nelson, John Hiatt and, perhaps less illustriously, Don Henley. The album's finest moment, as highlighted by Patterson Hood in his sincere and eloquent sleevenotes, is a version of 'Talking Old Soldiers', an obscure Elton John song. Lavette completely transforms it, turning it into a grand old statement of defiance and survival.
Unlike the Steve Earle record, there's little conscious attempt to push Lavette into the modern world. Instead, we get a brilliantly solid old soul sound, expertly crafted by the Drive By Truckers, providing the firm foundations for Lavette's merciless extemporising. The upbeat tracks feature some of the clearest, firmest backbeat grooves of this year or any other, whilst the ballads are deftly and sensitively handled, particularly the amount of space left in the rendition of Willie Nelson's 'Somebody Pick Up My Pieces'.
You know you've achieved legendary status when you can get away with referring to yourself in the third person. On that basis, the one original song here, 'Before The Money Came (The Battle of Bettye Lavette)', should ensure Lavette's place in the pantheon of soul legends is at last secure. The brazenly autobiographical lyrics were apparently captured by Patterson Hood from snippets of recalled studio conversation, and they neatly sum up the themes of this project and the unrelenting spirit of this determined woman.
Bettye LaVette - Scene Of The Crime
It's not really necessary to add to the voluminous amount of writing about Steve Earle's career trajectory, including time spent as a convicted criminal and drug addict, other than to say that his more recent output has been some of the boldest and most exciting of his career. 'The Mountain', a bluegrass album made in collaboration with the Del McCoury band is one of the best contemporary examples of the genre, whilst 'Jerusalem' and 'The Revolution Starts Now', both politically confrontational albums unrepentant in their stark polemic, both bristle with raw tension and excitement.
'Washington Square Serenade' represents yet another sidestep, consisting of rhythmically driven acoustic guitars and some rather intrusive beats from Dust Brother John King. The basic musical template isn't really anything new for Earle, so the addition of drum machine backings seems like rather a forced way of reinventing the same wheel. Ultimately, when you're as literate and compelling a songwriter as Steve Earle, there isn't a great obligation to embrace modernity, especially when the result risks removing the timeless quality from the music.
The presence of a song like 'Satellite Radio' (Earle himself now presents a radio show Stateside) is intriguing given that much of 'Washington Square Serenade' sounds tailor-made for daytime radio airtime. 'Down Here Below' is the kind of talky narrative song that Earle does brilliantly, but it disintegrates into a rather bland singalong chorus that detracts from its overall force. Similarly, the first introduction of those 'beats' on 'Tennessee Blues' immediate push the song away from the margins and into the middle of the road. The album concludes with a rather ill-advised neutering of Tom Waits' excoriating 'Way Down In The Hole'.
Yet, in its more organic moments, 'Washington Square Serenade' is a pure delight. There are a clutch of simple, affecting love songs with less cluttered arrangements which give Earle's wisened voice greater room to communicate. 'City of Immigrants' is as broad and encompassing as its subject matter necessitates, with a provocative rhythm track that sounds more natural than its more overtly 'produced' counterparts.
Perhaps the production would work better if it was all more carefully integrated, instead of the beats so often sounding more like a casual afterthought. Earle's songwriting voice is still a confident and compelling one, but too often 'Washington Square Serenade' sounds dangerously bland. There are some lovely songs here, but an unadorned acoustic performance of them (like those Rick Rubin-produced Johnny Cash albums) might well have been more daring and more artistically successful.
Until a couple of years ago, when the wonderful 'I've Got My Own Hell To Raise' appeared on the Anti label, soul singer Bettye Lavette had rather disappeared from the radar. Seemingly a victim to the music industry's more fickle and unpredictable machinations, Lavette was making money as a jobbing singer, but firmly without the reputation and critical acumen she so clearly deserved. That album, produced by Joe Henry and comprising a collection of songs from empathetic female songwriters (Dolly Parton, Lucinda Williams etc), changed all that, and also served as a timely reminder of her gritty and gutsy performances on classic soul sides like 'Let Me Down Easy' and the swampy 'He Made A Woman Out Of Me'.
Her next step was to return to the legendary Muscle Shoals studios where she cut her now infamous 'lost' album 'Child of the Seventies', one of the great albums by a female soul vocalist and almost left for good on the cutting room floor. Appearing on the record is David Hood, the bass player on the original sessions. Hood is father of Patterson Hood, from outstanding southern rockers Drive By Truckers who, taking time out from his main project, organised all the musicians and songs for this recording.
The emphasis here is very much on Lavette as soul survivor. Over time, this could easily get a little tiresome but one can hardly begrudge her the chance to vent her spleen here. It's all the more exciting because she mostly does this through the vehicle of other people's songs. By contrast with its predecessor, all the songs here, with the exception of the sole original, are the work of men. It's a timely reminder of how the great art of interpretative singing is rather rapidly dying out. Lavette is one of the few singers left who could proudly proclaim 'I don't write songs, I sing them.'
And boy does she sing! There's a whole world of life experience in that husky but commanding voice and right from the album's opening lines ('I've been this way too long to change now/You're gonna have to take me as I am!') there's a sense that her conviction and commitment have not been diminished by the passing of time. There's a righteousness and self belief on 'Choices', and her take on Frankie Miller's 'Jealousy' is appropriately smouldering and sensual.
'The Scene of the Crime' again emphasises the close connections between soul and country music, not just through the presence of Memphis legend Spooner Oldham on Wurlitzer (how resonant that old electric keyboard sounds here), but also through interpretations of songs from gifted songwriters firmly entrenched in the American tradition - Willie Nelson, John Hiatt and, perhaps less illustriously, Don Henley. The album's finest moment, as highlighted by Patterson Hood in his sincere and eloquent sleevenotes, is a version of 'Talking Old Soldiers', an obscure Elton John song. Lavette completely transforms it, turning it into a grand old statement of defiance and survival.
Unlike the Steve Earle record, there's little conscious attempt to push Lavette into the modern world. Instead, we get a brilliantly solid old soul sound, expertly crafted by the Drive By Truckers, providing the firm foundations for Lavette's merciless extemporising. The upbeat tracks feature some of the clearest, firmest backbeat grooves of this year or any other, whilst the ballads are deftly and sensitively handled, particularly the amount of space left in the rendition of Willie Nelson's 'Somebody Pick Up My Pieces'.
You know you've achieved legendary status when you can get away with referring to yourself in the third person. On that basis, the one original song here, 'Before The Money Came (The Battle of Bettye Lavette)', should ensure Lavette's place in the pantheon of soul legends is at last secure. The brazenly autobiographical lyrics were apparently captured by Patterson Hood from snippets of recalled studio conversation, and they neatly sum up the themes of this project and the unrelenting spirit of this determined woman.
A Date With ECM
The Edition of Contemporary Music label can always be relied upon to produce intriguing and challenging output in any given year but 2007 does appear to have been a particularly fertile time for Manfred Eicher's remarkable company. Whilst the label continues to sustain its highly individual aesthetic - music often emphasising atmosphere and mood over virtuosity or technique - it has done so whilst covering an increasingly varied and unpredictable terrain.
I am deeply sceptical of the rather more narrow-minded breed of music listener who, despite increasing evidence to the contrary, continue to assert that classical and jazz are somehow incompatible forms. Classical music is about formal composition, jazz is about improvisation and the two can only ever meet uncomfortably. Anyone still upholding this rather archaic and unimaginative view would do well to listen to the latest wonderful album from John Surman. Surman should have won the Mercury Music Prize for his outstanding 'Proverbs and Songs' album and I wouldn't have objected to him receiving a second nomination for the wistful, contemplative and thoroughly immersing collaboration with the Trans4Mation String Quartet on 'The Spaces In Between'. This is essentially a continuation of the approach Surman first deployed on 'Coruscating', but it is more successfully realised here, with the string players given more space for their own creative statements.
Surman switches between baritone sax, which provides a wonderfully smoky tone for the mysterious opener 'Moonlighter', bass clarinet and soprano, thus ensuring there is more than sufficient tonal variety throughout the album. He even sits out for the title track, allowing violinist Rita Manning to perform an exquisitely controlled and deeply expressive solo. The contrast between his exquisite soprano extemporisation on the bittersweet 'Winter Wish' and the more elusive, wispy sound of 'Moonlighter' is highly effective.
Whilst the most conventional of jazzers might be forgiven for mourning the absence of a rhythm section, the striking impact of the staccato passages of 'You Never Know' demonstrate that the quartet can operate as rhythm players in their own right, although Surman more often favours more languid forms of expression. The pivotal player here is double bassist Chris Laurence, both an orchestral musician and frequent Surman collaborator, and his binding role is fundamental to the music's impact.
Surman recycles a number of older compositions for this project, with extremely satisfying results. 'Where Fortune Smiles' was once restless and driving, but now sounds stately and graceful. 'Mimosa', originally written for Oud player Anouwar Brahem, retains some of its Middle Eastern stylings, but is successfully subsumed into the more European flavour of the rest of the project.
Surman's playing is distinctive and rich throughout, and his compositions are characteristically elegiac and flowing, leaving enough time and space for individual expression. What is most impressive is the smooth interpolation of Surman's melodies with the quartet's elegant accompaniment. 'The Spaces In Between' is a haunting, powerful statement of chamber jazz.
Paul Motian has long carved his own unique niche as a drummer far more interested in texture and space than in rhythmic propulsion or groove. He doesn't swing conventionally, yet his playing has a definitive musicality and invention that continue to mark him out as a world class musician. His bassless trio with guitarist Bill Frisell and towering saxophonist Joe Lovano may be the most fruitful means of capturing his prime concerns. Frisell is the perfect foil for Motian's sweeping, breathing playing. Motian leaves much of the rhythm implied rather than stated, and Frisell's guitar atmospherics (frequently imitated but never bettered by less creative musicians) help craft a spacious, introspective dynamic. There is a palpable conversation between the two musicians, but it is more ruminative than chattering. Whilst Lovano's sound is muscular and strong, he fits into this jigsaw with consummate ease. His playing has commanding authority, but also a snug empathy with the overall texture.
Much of this music has an isolated, desolate quality, particularly the eerie opener 'Cambodia', and the musical ideas are allowed to unfold at a decidedly gradual pace. Whilst the overall sense is of three musicians playing relatively freely, powerful melodies are delivered with pinpoint precision, such as on the beautiful 'Wednesday'. Even when Motian is on the surface somewhat provocative, intent on causing trouble on 'OneTwo', he is so completely locked in with Lovano's dexterous soloing that the effect is extraordinary. How exactly do they achieve this remarkable synergy?
I'm in two minds about the latest work from former Weather Report bassist Miroslav Vitous. Despite its title, 'Universal Syncopations II' is not much of a direct sequel to its predecessor, unless one considers it a more elaborately arranged, orchestral take on a similar folk-meets-jazz concept. Although there are brief appearances here from Randy Brecker and driving drummer Adam Nussbaum, this album lacks the star appearances of the first 'Universal Syncopations' project (which featured Chick Corea and Jan Garbarek amongst others). This time, Vitous has made himself master of all aspects of the process - composing, scoring, arranging, engineering and co-producing. To my ears, there is a sense that this has made this project a little too formalised and controlled. Whilst the orchestral and choral arrangements are dense and engaging, they are based mainly on manipulated sampled sounds, and therefore sound frequently jarring with the more organic nature of the accompanying music. Why not simply have recorded this as a live band with live orchestra? The opening 'Opera', whilst lengthy, is the most immediately successful statement here - fluent and confident, particularly with the benefit of Nussbaum's riveting percussion. Yet the less elaborate Gerald Cleaver takes over for the rest of the album, and the lingering sense is that this is only a half-realised musical statement, and a less confident integration of jazz and classical concerns than the Surman album. Luckily, that wonderfully resonant, coursing bass sound that Vitous has made entirely his own still takes centre stage amidst the orchestral clamour.
There are very obvious criticisms one could direct against the Tord Gustavsen Trio, now releasing 'Being There', their third album for ECM, and apparently the concluding part of an intended trilogy. These are the same criticims that tended to be leveled against the rather excellent Esbjorn Svensson Trio - namely that the group leader, in each case a pianist, is not a very dynamic or inventive improvisor and that the music therefore doesn't qualify as jazz. Well, who cares exactly what it is? Those who dislike est on such rigid grounds are probably more than a little envious of the group's stadium level success in Europe, whilst those who reject the lingering melodies of Tord Gustavsen are missing out on something emotionally charged and quietly affecting.
There's a delicacy and lightness of touch to the playing of all three musicians in the group. Listen to how the drums are so subtle that they often fade into the background. Whilst Gustavsen's extemporising is slow paced and rarely veers too far from the melodic theme, it has a grace and feeling that many of the more outrageous improvisers all too easily abandon. It is also entirely in keeping with the restrained, meditative quality of his compositions.
Whilst there's nothing on 'Being There' quite as immediate as the more infectious melodic statements with which Gustavsen peppered 'Changing Places' and 'The Ground', the gospel influences are brought more clearly to the foreground. The lightly funky 'Blessed Feet', for example, is an absolute delight. There's also more of a rhythmic drive to the expressive, touching 'Vicar Street'.
The more characteristic beauty the band have captured before is also sustained impressively on 'Being There', and there are moments of bittersweet melancholy and supremely understated calm. If it's a more insidious record than its predecessor, more subtly seeping under the skin, then that's probably a powerful quality. Gustavsen will have to develop his musical language for future releases but, for now, this thoughtful, deeply felt music has its own space and value.
Paul Bley is one of the most pivotal and influential of jazz pianists, yet he's rarely mentioned in the same breath as Keith Jarrett, Chick Corea or Bill Evans. How odd, given that his first foray into solo performance for ECM ('Open, to Love') came two years before the Koln Concert shattered all expectations. Bley has a more open, singing style than Jarrett, although he also favours right hand melodies accompanied by left hand chords. The nameless variations on 'Solo in Mondsee' are impressive elaborations on clearly stated musical ideas and themes. Whilst he frequently hints at pages of the standard repertoire, Bley is more concerned with emotional impact than referencing or thematic deconstruction. In a similar way to how Paul Motian gets tonal variety from the drum kit, Bley is chiefly concerned with contrasts at the Piano, rather than persistence or insistence. The music on 'Solo in Mondsee' is lush and deeply romantic.
One of the more revelatory jazz releases of recent years was 'Neighbourhood', the ECM debut from drummer/composer Manu Katche. Although Katche had been a frequent sideman for Jan Garbarek, he was perhaps better known at this time as a session and touring drummer for the likes of Peter Gabriel, Sting and Joni Mitchell. Few had expected his compositions to be so lucid and powerful, or that he could command such a top class frontline (both Garbarek and Tomasz Stanko made priceless contributions to the record). Now returning for 'Playground', Katche has wisely opted to maintain some of that album's qualities of deceptive simplicity, whilst not trying too hard to repeat the formula. The star frontline is replaced with Norwegians Mathias Eick and Trygve Seim and, whilst less well known, they prove to be every bit as effective. Seim's lighter tone makes for a neat contrast with the more forceful interjections made by Garbarek on 'Neighbourhood', whilst Eick is a more direct subsitute for Stanko's vulnerable lyricism.
The lyrical, atmospheric approach suits the ECM vision perfectly, and the very selfless playing of all five members of the group allow for a remarkably subtle interplay and conversation. The melodies are warm and immediate, whilst Katche has very successfully made himself a supporting player in his own group, to the great success of this light, airy music. It's not an abstract record at all though, with 'So Groovy' living up to its rather audacious moniker without piercing the overall mood. A little like the Tord Gustavsen record, the solos don't veer too far from the melodic template and there is little here that is radical or unconventional. Yet the feel is exquisite and the pervading warm mood pretty much irresistible.
Perhaps the pick of the bunch though is 'The Third Quartet', unsurprisingly the third album from guitarist John Abercrombie's Quartet with violinist Mark Feldman, bassist Marc Johnson and brilliant drummer Joey Baron. Not only is Abercrombie one of the master stylists and technicians of the jazz guitar, he is also superb at crafting bold, adventurous musical statements through hint and suggestion. This is partially because Abercrombie himself has a distict flair for veering between free rhythm and sprightly, locked on playing, but it's also because of the supreme quality of ensemble playing on display here. Feldman particularly is a brilliant addition - immediately making for unconventional textures and sounds. This music rarely ever feels daring or progressive - instead it sounds effortless - but there's a real alchemy here that may mark this album out as the pinnacle of the group's achievement so far.
The crackling, pulsating opener 'Banshee' is a brilliant example of this group's adventurous dynamic, although its driving qualities are perhaps a little misleading - much of the rest of this album is more ruminative and ponderous. Everywhere however there is a real intensity at work, however. Even when it's at its most quiet and restrained, the music has a force and impact that makes it impossible to ignore. Baron rises to the challenge of partially impersonating the late great Elvin Jones on 'Elvin', and there's also a spectacular reimagining of Bill Evans' exquisite 'Epilogue', during which Abercrombie is at the very top of his game. The originals all sustain a distinctive mood and eccentricity, and the whole album is immersing and hypnotic.
I am deeply sceptical of the rather more narrow-minded breed of music listener who, despite increasing evidence to the contrary, continue to assert that classical and jazz are somehow incompatible forms. Classical music is about formal composition, jazz is about improvisation and the two can only ever meet uncomfortably. Anyone still upholding this rather archaic and unimaginative view would do well to listen to the latest wonderful album from John Surman. Surman should have won the Mercury Music Prize for his outstanding 'Proverbs and Songs' album and I wouldn't have objected to him receiving a second nomination for the wistful, contemplative and thoroughly immersing collaboration with the Trans4Mation String Quartet on 'The Spaces In Between'. This is essentially a continuation of the approach Surman first deployed on 'Coruscating', but it is more successfully realised here, with the string players given more space for their own creative statements.
Surman switches between baritone sax, which provides a wonderfully smoky tone for the mysterious opener 'Moonlighter', bass clarinet and soprano, thus ensuring there is more than sufficient tonal variety throughout the album. He even sits out for the title track, allowing violinist Rita Manning to perform an exquisitely controlled and deeply expressive solo. The contrast between his exquisite soprano extemporisation on the bittersweet 'Winter Wish' and the more elusive, wispy sound of 'Moonlighter' is highly effective.
Whilst the most conventional of jazzers might be forgiven for mourning the absence of a rhythm section, the striking impact of the staccato passages of 'You Never Know' demonstrate that the quartet can operate as rhythm players in their own right, although Surman more often favours more languid forms of expression. The pivotal player here is double bassist Chris Laurence, both an orchestral musician and frequent Surman collaborator, and his binding role is fundamental to the music's impact.
Surman recycles a number of older compositions for this project, with extremely satisfying results. 'Where Fortune Smiles' was once restless and driving, but now sounds stately and graceful. 'Mimosa', originally written for Oud player Anouwar Brahem, retains some of its Middle Eastern stylings, but is successfully subsumed into the more European flavour of the rest of the project.
Surman's playing is distinctive and rich throughout, and his compositions are characteristically elegiac and flowing, leaving enough time and space for individual expression. What is most impressive is the smooth interpolation of Surman's melodies with the quartet's elegant accompaniment. 'The Spaces In Between' is a haunting, powerful statement of chamber jazz.
Paul Motian has long carved his own unique niche as a drummer far more interested in texture and space than in rhythmic propulsion or groove. He doesn't swing conventionally, yet his playing has a definitive musicality and invention that continue to mark him out as a world class musician. His bassless trio with guitarist Bill Frisell and towering saxophonist Joe Lovano may be the most fruitful means of capturing his prime concerns. Frisell is the perfect foil for Motian's sweeping, breathing playing. Motian leaves much of the rhythm implied rather than stated, and Frisell's guitar atmospherics (frequently imitated but never bettered by less creative musicians) help craft a spacious, introspective dynamic. There is a palpable conversation between the two musicians, but it is more ruminative than chattering. Whilst Lovano's sound is muscular and strong, he fits into this jigsaw with consummate ease. His playing has commanding authority, but also a snug empathy with the overall texture.
Much of this music has an isolated, desolate quality, particularly the eerie opener 'Cambodia', and the musical ideas are allowed to unfold at a decidedly gradual pace. Whilst the overall sense is of three musicians playing relatively freely, powerful melodies are delivered with pinpoint precision, such as on the beautiful 'Wednesday'. Even when Motian is on the surface somewhat provocative, intent on causing trouble on 'OneTwo', he is so completely locked in with Lovano's dexterous soloing that the effect is extraordinary. How exactly do they achieve this remarkable synergy?
I'm in two minds about the latest work from former Weather Report bassist Miroslav Vitous. Despite its title, 'Universal Syncopations II' is not much of a direct sequel to its predecessor, unless one considers it a more elaborately arranged, orchestral take on a similar folk-meets-jazz concept. Although there are brief appearances here from Randy Brecker and driving drummer Adam Nussbaum, this album lacks the star appearances of the first 'Universal Syncopations' project (which featured Chick Corea and Jan Garbarek amongst others). This time, Vitous has made himself master of all aspects of the process - composing, scoring, arranging, engineering and co-producing. To my ears, there is a sense that this has made this project a little too formalised and controlled. Whilst the orchestral and choral arrangements are dense and engaging, they are based mainly on manipulated sampled sounds, and therefore sound frequently jarring with the more organic nature of the accompanying music. Why not simply have recorded this as a live band with live orchestra? The opening 'Opera', whilst lengthy, is the most immediately successful statement here - fluent and confident, particularly with the benefit of Nussbaum's riveting percussion. Yet the less elaborate Gerald Cleaver takes over for the rest of the album, and the lingering sense is that this is only a half-realised musical statement, and a less confident integration of jazz and classical concerns than the Surman album. Luckily, that wonderfully resonant, coursing bass sound that Vitous has made entirely his own still takes centre stage amidst the orchestral clamour.
There are very obvious criticisms one could direct against the Tord Gustavsen Trio, now releasing 'Being There', their third album for ECM, and apparently the concluding part of an intended trilogy. These are the same criticims that tended to be leveled against the rather excellent Esbjorn Svensson Trio - namely that the group leader, in each case a pianist, is not a very dynamic or inventive improvisor and that the music therefore doesn't qualify as jazz. Well, who cares exactly what it is? Those who dislike est on such rigid grounds are probably more than a little envious of the group's stadium level success in Europe, whilst those who reject the lingering melodies of Tord Gustavsen are missing out on something emotionally charged and quietly affecting.
There's a delicacy and lightness of touch to the playing of all three musicians in the group. Listen to how the drums are so subtle that they often fade into the background. Whilst Gustavsen's extemporising is slow paced and rarely veers too far from the melodic theme, it has a grace and feeling that many of the more outrageous improvisers all too easily abandon. It is also entirely in keeping with the restrained, meditative quality of his compositions.
Whilst there's nothing on 'Being There' quite as immediate as the more infectious melodic statements with which Gustavsen peppered 'Changing Places' and 'The Ground', the gospel influences are brought more clearly to the foreground. The lightly funky 'Blessed Feet', for example, is an absolute delight. There's also more of a rhythmic drive to the expressive, touching 'Vicar Street'.
The more characteristic beauty the band have captured before is also sustained impressively on 'Being There', and there are moments of bittersweet melancholy and supremely understated calm. If it's a more insidious record than its predecessor, more subtly seeping under the skin, then that's probably a powerful quality. Gustavsen will have to develop his musical language for future releases but, for now, this thoughtful, deeply felt music has its own space and value.
Paul Bley is one of the most pivotal and influential of jazz pianists, yet he's rarely mentioned in the same breath as Keith Jarrett, Chick Corea or Bill Evans. How odd, given that his first foray into solo performance for ECM ('Open, to Love') came two years before the Koln Concert shattered all expectations. Bley has a more open, singing style than Jarrett, although he also favours right hand melodies accompanied by left hand chords. The nameless variations on 'Solo in Mondsee' are impressive elaborations on clearly stated musical ideas and themes. Whilst he frequently hints at pages of the standard repertoire, Bley is more concerned with emotional impact than referencing or thematic deconstruction. In a similar way to how Paul Motian gets tonal variety from the drum kit, Bley is chiefly concerned with contrasts at the Piano, rather than persistence or insistence. The music on 'Solo in Mondsee' is lush and deeply romantic.
One of the more revelatory jazz releases of recent years was 'Neighbourhood', the ECM debut from drummer/composer Manu Katche. Although Katche had been a frequent sideman for Jan Garbarek, he was perhaps better known at this time as a session and touring drummer for the likes of Peter Gabriel, Sting and Joni Mitchell. Few had expected his compositions to be so lucid and powerful, or that he could command such a top class frontline (both Garbarek and Tomasz Stanko made priceless contributions to the record). Now returning for 'Playground', Katche has wisely opted to maintain some of that album's qualities of deceptive simplicity, whilst not trying too hard to repeat the formula. The star frontline is replaced with Norwegians Mathias Eick and Trygve Seim and, whilst less well known, they prove to be every bit as effective. Seim's lighter tone makes for a neat contrast with the more forceful interjections made by Garbarek on 'Neighbourhood', whilst Eick is a more direct subsitute for Stanko's vulnerable lyricism.
The lyrical, atmospheric approach suits the ECM vision perfectly, and the very selfless playing of all five members of the group allow for a remarkably subtle interplay and conversation. The melodies are warm and immediate, whilst Katche has very successfully made himself a supporting player in his own group, to the great success of this light, airy music. It's not an abstract record at all though, with 'So Groovy' living up to its rather audacious moniker without piercing the overall mood. A little like the Tord Gustavsen record, the solos don't veer too far from the melodic template and there is little here that is radical or unconventional. Yet the feel is exquisite and the pervading warm mood pretty much irresistible.
Perhaps the pick of the bunch though is 'The Third Quartet', unsurprisingly the third album from guitarist John Abercrombie's Quartet with violinist Mark Feldman, bassist Marc Johnson and brilliant drummer Joey Baron. Not only is Abercrombie one of the master stylists and technicians of the jazz guitar, he is also superb at crafting bold, adventurous musical statements through hint and suggestion. This is partially because Abercrombie himself has a distict flair for veering between free rhythm and sprightly, locked on playing, but it's also because of the supreme quality of ensemble playing on display here. Feldman particularly is a brilliant addition - immediately making for unconventional textures and sounds. This music rarely ever feels daring or progressive - instead it sounds effortless - but there's a real alchemy here that may mark this album out as the pinnacle of the group's achievement so far.
The crackling, pulsating opener 'Banshee' is a brilliant example of this group's adventurous dynamic, although its driving qualities are perhaps a little misleading - much of the rest of this album is more ruminative and ponderous. Everywhere however there is a real intensity at work, however. Even when it's at its most quiet and restrained, the music has a force and impact that makes it impossible to ignore. Baron rises to the challenge of partially impersonating the late great Elvin Jones on 'Elvin', and there's also a spectacular reimagining of Bill Evans' exquisite 'Epilogue', during which Abercrombie is at the very top of his game. The originals all sustain a distinctive mood and eccentricity, and the whole album is immersing and hypnotic.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Mountain Moonshine
Band of Horses – Cease To Begin
The rather lovely packaging for Band of Horses’ second full length (a collection of photocards in keeping with the excellent design of their debut), with its moon and tide image, rather suggests a cold and foreboding work. In reality, ‘Cease to Begin’ is as much full of warmth and compassion as it is a lingering melancholy. It also represents a major stride forward for a band initially all too easy to deride as My Morning Jacket soundalikes. The parallels between the voices of Jim James and Band of Horses’ Ben Bridwell are still transparent but there’s a much broader musicality at work here which places BoH closer to an American folk tradition. Ultimately, there’s more of The Band and less of Lynyrd Skynyrd on ‘Cease To Begin’, a sign that the band are embracing subtlety as much as their beloved southern rock assault.
That being said, the opener ‘Is There A Ghost’ is something of a red herring. It’s by no means a bad song – indeed, it sounded positively thrilling when opening their set at London’s Scala earlier this year. On record though, its limitations cut through a little more than one might hope – it’s essentially the kind of blandly arranged chugging indie of which I’m increasingly sceptical. There’s an insistence and immediacy to its repetitive lyric and melody that sets it apart from the more elusive, slow burning dynamism on offer elsewhere on this fine album.
The overall approach here seems to be one of reducing the grandiose theatrics, instead opting for a more restrained and affecting sound. This is best evidenced by the beguiling 'No One's Gonna Love You', with its echo-laden guitars and haunting melody, effortlessly handled by Bridwell. 'Marry Song' is quite some distance from anything on the group's debut, emphasising lingering Wurlitzer chords over guitars, and again giving the melody plenty of space to breathe.
In this context, the group allow themselves plenty of opportunity for interplay, and things occasionally veer in unexpected directions. There's some spirited honky tonk amidst the lush, melancholy balladry and 'Ode To LRC' is something of a love song to a lost dog. The spirit of Neil Young is cursing through these songs, but the music is rarely ever as stodgy or relentless as Crazy Horse at their worst. Instead, 'Cease To Begin' offers a fresh spin on the Appalachian sound, and is as fresh and enthralling as the mountain air.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Them and Me, We're History, There Ain't Nothin' Left For Me
I like this blog to be mainly positive in outlook, but sometimes it's both satisfying and necessary to prepare a good hatchet job. There's been a lot of ten year anniversary nostalgia for 1997 recently (and I've joined in with this myself, it was at that pivotal point in my late adolescent life that shall always stick in my mind). There have been thoughts about OK Computer, Be Here Now but, oddly, nothing written about Blur's supposed 'reinvention' as Pavement-influenced marginals. Right now, given their announcement of new shows and new material, the focus is very much on The Verve.
I'll confess that ten years ago, they seemed special, even before everyone latched on. One event is particularly etched upon my memory - an Oasis show at Earl's Court, for which The Verve were support act. The horrible, leery, great unwashed Oasis fanbase jeered, hissed and booed, repeating their mind-numbing chants for the headline act throughout Ashcroft and Co's set (remember that Urban Hymns hadn't yet been released at this point). I was thinking privately to myself - there's something anthemic and uniting here, and you lot are going to feel very silly in a couple of months. I was right in some ways, and really quite wrong in others.
In 2007, I find 'Urban Hymns' completely unlisteneable, not just because its popular singles have been overplayed to the point of tedium, but because, with the greater knowledge that's come with ten further years of musical exploration, it's a wretched record. Richard Ashcroft had the kind of self aggrandising, misplaced conviction that now looks wholly unattractive in every sense. His vocals, whilst forceful, are also monotonous and his pitch is frankly poor, even for a pop singer. When Chris Martin introduced him at Live 8 as the greatest singer and songwriter in the world, I had to laugh.
I am now bored to tears by the predictable harmony of 'Lucky Man', the middling, meandering melodies of 'History' and 'The Drugs Don't Work', and the false leaps at grandeur that came with those cloying, sugary string arrangements. As for the quasi-mysticism and faux-philosophising of much of 'A Northern Soul' and all of 'A Storm In Heaven', they can take it all back. The rhythmic backbones of much of their less mournful material seem leaden and deadweight now.
Whereas Radiohead's OK Computer, whatever one might think of it, had an eerie presience in 1997 (accurately resisting the misplaced complacency of Cool Britannia) that has kept it relevant - exactly what does 'The Drugs Don't Work' really mean in 2007? Most of its spine tingling qualities appear to have evaporated with the passing of time.
Perhaps the group's legacy has been irreparably damaged by the feeble quality of Ashcroft's solo material, and I'm being unfair. Yet I can't help feeling now, whilst admittedly with the benefit of hindsight, that his lofty pretentions at poetry were all too transparent then too.
Yet people still seem to care about this group in 2007 in a way they simply didn't about Ashcroft's solo material - hence the massive ticket sales for the huge arena shows at the end of the year. I don't get it - it's past history, and I'm going to adopt a revisionist perspective for this one! If I want a slice of '97 nostalgia today, I'll dig out my knackered copy of 'Black Love' by the Afghan Whigs - now I was right on that one for sure!
I'll confess that ten years ago, they seemed special, even before everyone latched on. One event is particularly etched upon my memory - an Oasis show at Earl's Court, for which The Verve were support act. The horrible, leery, great unwashed Oasis fanbase jeered, hissed and booed, repeating their mind-numbing chants for the headline act throughout Ashcroft and Co's set (remember that Urban Hymns hadn't yet been released at this point). I was thinking privately to myself - there's something anthemic and uniting here, and you lot are going to feel very silly in a couple of months. I was right in some ways, and really quite wrong in others.
In 2007, I find 'Urban Hymns' completely unlisteneable, not just because its popular singles have been overplayed to the point of tedium, but because, with the greater knowledge that's come with ten further years of musical exploration, it's a wretched record. Richard Ashcroft had the kind of self aggrandising, misplaced conviction that now looks wholly unattractive in every sense. His vocals, whilst forceful, are also monotonous and his pitch is frankly poor, even for a pop singer. When Chris Martin introduced him at Live 8 as the greatest singer and songwriter in the world, I had to laugh.
I am now bored to tears by the predictable harmony of 'Lucky Man', the middling, meandering melodies of 'History' and 'The Drugs Don't Work', and the false leaps at grandeur that came with those cloying, sugary string arrangements. As for the quasi-mysticism and faux-philosophising of much of 'A Northern Soul' and all of 'A Storm In Heaven', they can take it all back. The rhythmic backbones of much of their less mournful material seem leaden and deadweight now.
Whereas Radiohead's OK Computer, whatever one might think of it, had an eerie presience in 1997 (accurately resisting the misplaced complacency of Cool Britannia) that has kept it relevant - exactly what does 'The Drugs Don't Work' really mean in 2007? Most of its spine tingling qualities appear to have evaporated with the passing of time.
Perhaps the group's legacy has been irreparably damaged by the feeble quality of Ashcroft's solo material, and I'm being unfair. Yet I can't help feeling now, whilst admittedly with the benefit of hindsight, that his lofty pretentions at poetry were all too transparent then too.
Yet people still seem to care about this group in 2007 in a way they simply didn't about Ashcroft's solo material - hence the massive ticket sales for the huge arena shows at the end of the year. I don't get it - it's past history, and I'm going to adopt a revisionist perspective for this one! If I want a slice of '97 nostalgia today, I'll dig out my knackered copy of 'Black Love' by the Afghan Whigs - now I was right on that one for sure!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Full Spectrum
Radiohead - In Rainbows
So, is it actually any good then? This being Radiohead of course, there are some fairly characteristic and dependable features of ‘In Rainbows’. Like its immediate predecessors, it merges the band’s preoccupations with conventional rock, glitchy electronica, jazz and contemporary composition, but on this occasion perhaps with a greater emphasis on rock instrumentation. Drums and guitars feature prominently, but rarely in a straightforward way. In essence then, ‘In Rainbows’ traverses fairly similar terrain to that already charted by ‘Hail To The Thief’, providing evolution in the band’s approach and processes, and providing an intelligent amalgamation of many of their creative ideas. Whilst it’s arguable that the group are no longer making great strides during the gestation periods between albums, they’ve certainly now found a happy hybrid sound that defies restrictive classification.
Whilst, controversially it would appear, I still rate ‘Hail…’ very highly – it’s at least the Radiohead album I most enjoy - ‘In Rainbows’ does reveal it as a little unfocussed and scattershot. The most impressive aspect of this very accomplished record is the band’s focus on specific techniques and styles of arrangements. A number of the tracks seem to have been built up from Phil Selway’s spidery, chattering drum loops and there’s also a clear emphasis on low rumbling bass lines and delicately plucked, often arpeggiated guitar parts. Selway also frequently leads the dynamic swells, moving away from a looped rhythm into bolder, swashbuckling cymbal work. If they haven’t made overt sonic progress since ‘Hail To The Thief’, it’s worth remembering exactly how far they have come since ‘Pablo Honey’. That album now sounds not just dull, but also rather quaint when placed next to the palpable futurism of ‘In Rainbows’.
‘In Rainbows’ is also the Radiohead album with the most intelligent use of space. The silences are as significant as the more familiar crescendos, and whilst there are intriguing orchestral flourishes, the defining feel is minimal and skeletal. The group arrangements are deft and thoughtful in delaying the entries of certain instruments – with Colin Greenwood’s bass proving particularly adaptable in this regard. This leaves plenty of room for the studio-enhanced atmospherics and orchestral colourings. Mood and texture are key elements of this vivid, compelling music – it never sounds overly dense or cluttered.
These songs have, in what is now traditional for Radiohead, been developed over a long period of time, and tested in live performance. There’s little sign of the supposed conflict and frustration that tends to result from this process though. Radiohead now sound not just fascinated by the possibilities of the studio for enhancing their compositions, but also a band working supremely well together. Just listen to the nimble interplay between Ed O’Brien and Jonny Greenwood’s guitars on the evocative ‘Weird Fishes/Arpeggi’ or the thrilling rush of ‘Jigsaw Falling Into Pieces’.
Also fascinating is the way the group are very effectively subsuming a greater variety of musical stylings into their overall sound. The beautiful ‘House Of Cards’ is ushered in on a deceptively light reggae drum beat, whilst the opening ’15 Steps’ betrays influences from the worlds of techno, dubstep and jazz, its off-kilter 5/4 rhythm immediately taking it to a place where most rock music dare not travel. The first half of ‘All I Need’ perhaps recalls Portishead or Massive Attack, with whom Radiohead have always shared a somewhat claustrophobic, paranoid vision. There’s also more than a hint of the influence of Mark Hollis and Talk Talk in the creative use of space in this music, particularly on the boldly minimal closer ‘Videotape’ or the superb ‘Reckoner’. The latter manages to combine Hollis’ gift for restrained impressionism with an almost funky groove.
Unfortunately, there’s still a massive gulf between the imagination and invention of the group’s music and the poor quality of Thom Yorke’s lyrics. He hasn’t yet spoken much about ‘In Rainbows’ but has said that, if it has a theme, it is about ‘anonymous fear - the kind of fear you get when sitting in a traffic jam and feeling you should be doing something else’. The band’s music now captures this Ballardian disconnection with consummate clarity, but Yorke’s lyrics remain detached fragments of vague rumination, never really capturing feeling and certainly never finding concrete solutions. Whilst his voice is not dehumanised here as it was in parts of ‘Kid A’ and ‘Amnesiac’, it’s still very much an integrated part of the wider whole rather than a lead instrument. His enunciation is deliberately poor, and the lyrics are frequently either very loose ideas or simply difficult to determine. I wonder now why he bothers writing them at all. Wordless songs would surely better convey his feelings of alienation and frustration, or would at least do so in a less repetitive manner. There’s a really predictable tone to some of his statements here (‘Don’t get any big ideas, they’re not going to happen’, ‘I’m an animal in your hot car’, ‘You’ll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking’, ‘Everybody leaves if they get the chance’ etc).
Luckily, the sound of his voice is still remarkable in its emotional force. This is particularly the case with his deployment of a pinched, nasal falsetto on the exquisite ‘Nude’, an effect that really heightens the song’s impact. He’s hushed almost to a whisper on the acoustic ‘Faust ARP’, strangely reminiscent of Nick Drake with its Robert Kirby-inspired string arrangement. By way of contrast, he gets unusually aggressive on the strident, angry ‘Bodysnatchers’, the most dirty and distorted work the group have crafted in some time. It sounds as if it was recorded in a tin shack, with Yorke shouting through his grievances from outside the door. Some have emphasised that this is Radiohead’s most straightforwardly melodic record in a while. ‘House Of Cards’ and ‘Nude’ aside, I’m not sure I agree with this – it seems to be far more about effect, implication and mood than about clearly stated themes.
‘OK Computer’ probably remains the group’s most popular release both critically and commercially because of its more reductive ‘anthemic’ qualities, many of which have been borrowed wholesale by numerous less talented artists lacking Radiohead's nuance and sensitivity (Muse, Keane and Coldplay spring immediately to mind). Radiohead have long since jettisoned any pretence at stadium dynamics. Even the decade-old ‘Nude’ sounds much more subtle and controlled in this context than it would have if recorded for ‘OK Computer’. It’s perhaps possible to argue that their music has occasionally risked becoming a little cold and sterile as a result of this thoughtfulness. I have the sense though that ‘In Rainbows’ has restored some humanity and possibly even some soul to their music. ‘Nude’, ‘All I Need’ and, particularly, ‘House Of Cards’ (one of the group’s most affecting songs to date) have a lush romanticism beneath their veneer of existential angst.
It’s tempting to conclude that, ten years on from ‘OK Computer’, ‘In Rainbows’ not only emphasises how prescient that album was in its refusal to follow the prevailing optimistic winds, but also how little the Blair-era actually achieved in changing the political and social landscape of Britain. I suspect, though, that once the cultural and political resonances of ‘OK Computer’ have worn off (if indeed they ever do), this powerful, highly inventive and pleasingly concise record may come to be seen as the pinnacle of Radiohead’s achievements. Like all their previous works, it rewards close attention and repeated listening. It’s too easy to take cheap shots at this band for their vaunting ambitions and unashamed high-mindedness. With U2 disintegrating into a mire of laughable blandness and REM worryingly looking to the superficial, self-regarding sheen of producer Jacknife Lee for their next record, there is no other globally successful rock group working at this level of creativity and invention. I can see a rainbow and it’s worth singing about it.
So, is it actually any good then? This being Radiohead of course, there are some fairly characteristic and dependable features of ‘In Rainbows’. Like its immediate predecessors, it merges the band’s preoccupations with conventional rock, glitchy electronica, jazz and contemporary composition, but on this occasion perhaps with a greater emphasis on rock instrumentation. Drums and guitars feature prominently, but rarely in a straightforward way. In essence then, ‘In Rainbows’ traverses fairly similar terrain to that already charted by ‘Hail To The Thief’, providing evolution in the band’s approach and processes, and providing an intelligent amalgamation of many of their creative ideas. Whilst it’s arguable that the group are no longer making great strides during the gestation periods between albums, they’ve certainly now found a happy hybrid sound that defies restrictive classification.
Whilst, controversially it would appear, I still rate ‘Hail…’ very highly – it’s at least the Radiohead album I most enjoy - ‘In Rainbows’ does reveal it as a little unfocussed and scattershot. The most impressive aspect of this very accomplished record is the band’s focus on specific techniques and styles of arrangements. A number of the tracks seem to have been built up from Phil Selway’s spidery, chattering drum loops and there’s also a clear emphasis on low rumbling bass lines and delicately plucked, often arpeggiated guitar parts. Selway also frequently leads the dynamic swells, moving away from a looped rhythm into bolder, swashbuckling cymbal work. If they haven’t made overt sonic progress since ‘Hail To The Thief’, it’s worth remembering exactly how far they have come since ‘Pablo Honey’. That album now sounds not just dull, but also rather quaint when placed next to the palpable futurism of ‘In Rainbows’.
‘In Rainbows’ is also the Radiohead album with the most intelligent use of space. The silences are as significant as the more familiar crescendos, and whilst there are intriguing orchestral flourishes, the defining feel is minimal and skeletal. The group arrangements are deft and thoughtful in delaying the entries of certain instruments – with Colin Greenwood’s bass proving particularly adaptable in this regard. This leaves plenty of room for the studio-enhanced atmospherics and orchestral colourings. Mood and texture are key elements of this vivid, compelling music – it never sounds overly dense or cluttered.
These songs have, in what is now traditional for Radiohead, been developed over a long period of time, and tested in live performance. There’s little sign of the supposed conflict and frustration that tends to result from this process though. Radiohead now sound not just fascinated by the possibilities of the studio for enhancing their compositions, but also a band working supremely well together. Just listen to the nimble interplay between Ed O’Brien and Jonny Greenwood’s guitars on the evocative ‘Weird Fishes/Arpeggi’ or the thrilling rush of ‘Jigsaw Falling Into Pieces’.
Also fascinating is the way the group are very effectively subsuming a greater variety of musical stylings into their overall sound. The beautiful ‘House Of Cards’ is ushered in on a deceptively light reggae drum beat, whilst the opening ’15 Steps’ betrays influences from the worlds of techno, dubstep and jazz, its off-kilter 5/4 rhythm immediately taking it to a place where most rock music dare not travel. The first half of ‘All I Need’ perhaps recalls Portishead or Massive Attack, with whom Radiohead have always shared a somewhat claustrophobic, paranoid vision. There’s also more than a hint of the influence of Mark Hollis and Talk Talk in the creative use of space in this music, particularly on the boldly minimal closer ‘Videotape’ or the superb ‘Reckoner’. The latter manages to combine Hollis’ gift for restrained impressionism with an almost funky groove.
Unfortunately, there’s still a massive gulf between the imagination and invention of the group’s music and the poor quality of Thom Yorke’s lyrics. He hasn’t yet spoken much about ‘In Rainbows’ but has said that, if it has a theme, it is about ‘anonymous fear - the kind of fear you get when sitting in a traffic jam and feeling you should be doing something else’. The band’s music now captures this Ballardian disconnection with consummate clarity, but Yorke’s lyrics remain detached fragments of vague rumination, never really capturing feeling and certainly never finding concrete solutions. Whilst his voice is not dehumanised here as it was in parts of ‘Kid A’ and ‘Amnesiac’, it’s still very much an integrated part of the wider whole rather than a lead instrument. His enunciation is deliberately poor, and the lyrics are frequently either very loose ideas or simply difficult to determine. I wonder now why he bothers writing them at all. Wordless songs would surely better convey his feelings of alienation and frustration, or would at least do so in a less repetitive manner. There’s a really predictable tone to some of his statements here (‘Don’t get any big ideas, they’re not going to happen’, ‘I’m an animal in your hot car’, ‘You’ll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking’, ‘Everybody leaves if they get the chance’ etc).
Luckily, the sound of his voice is still remarkable in its emotional force. This is particularly the case with his deployment of a pinched, nasal falsetto on the exquisite ‘Nude’, an effect that really heightens the song’s impact. He’s hushed almost to a whisper on the acoustic ‘Faust ARP’, strangely reminiscent of Nick Drake with its Robert Kirby-inspired string arrangement. By way of contrast, he gets unusually aggressive on the strident, angry ‘Bodysnatchers’, the most dirty and distorted work the group have crafted in some time. It sounds as if it was recorded in a tin shack, with Yorke shouting through his grievances from outside the door. Some have emphasised that this is Radiohead’s most straightforwardly melodic record in a while. ‘House Of Cards’ and ‘Nude’ aside, I’m not sure I agree with this – it seems to be far more about effect, implication and mood than about clearly stated themes.
‘OK Computer’ probably remains the group’s most popular release both critically and commercially because of its more reductive ‘anthemic’ qualities, many of which have been borrowed wholesale by numerous less talented artists lacking Radiohead's nuance and sensitivity (Muse, Keane and Coldplay spring immediately to mind). Radiohead have long since jettisoned any pretence at stadium dynamics. Even the decade-old ‘Nude’ sounds much more subtle and controlled in this context than it would have if recorded for ‘OK Computer’. It’s perhaps possible to argue that their music has occasionally risked becoming a little cold and sterile as a result of this thoughtfulness. I have the sense though that ‘In Rainbows’ has restored some humanity and possibly even some soul to their music. ‘Nude’, ‘All I Need’ and, particularly, ‘House Of Cards’ (one of the group’s most affecting songs to date) have a lush romanticism beneath their veneer of existential angst.
It’s tempting to conclude that, ten years on from ‘OK Computer’, ‘In Rainbows’ not only emphasises how prescient that album was in its refusal to follow the prevailing optimistic winds, but also how little the Blair-era actually achieved in changing the political and social landscape of Britain. I suspect, though, that once the cultural and political resonances of ‘OK Computer’ have worn off (if indeed they ever do), this powerful, highly inventive and pleasingly concise record may come to be seen as the pinnacle of Radiohead’s achievements. Like all their previous works, it rewards close attention and repeated listening. It’s too easy to take cheap shots at this band for their vaunting ambitions and unashamed high-mindedness. With U2 disintegrating into a mire of laughable blandness and REM worryingly looking to the superficial, self-regarding sheen of producer Jacknife Lee for their next record, there is no other globally successful rock group working at this level of creativity and invention. I can see a rainbow and it’s worth singing about it.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The NME Hits A New Low
OK, we'll ignore the stupidly small-minded 5/10 review of the actually mind-blowing Dirty Projectors album. We'll also ignore the pathetic, tedious campaign to get the Sex Pistols' 'God Save The Queen' to number one (it was a dreadful record then, it's still dreadful now - and how many more deserving 70s acts could the paper be re-evaluating?).
But we won't ignore the piece on Yeasayer. The band are entirely deserving of the coverage - indeed, credit to the NME for at last jumping on a sensible bandwagon. I've just pre-ordered their 'All Hour Cymbals' album for a bargain price from Play and am keenly anticipating its arrival in a couple of weeks. It's how the paper describes them that has sent me into an apoplectic rage though: 'World Music that doesn't make you want to puke'. What?! What does this really translate as? 'World Music made by White Americans'? Exactly what is the NME trying to say here? What do they define as World Music? The stupendous 2CD 'Best Of Ethiopiques' compilation I still need to blog about? The wonderful Ali Farka Toure and Toumani Diabate collaboration from a couple of years ago that still gets plentiful airplay in my home? Excellent releases from Tinariwen, Orchestra Baobab, the lush tango of Astor Piazolla, or Portuguese Fado music, Fela Kuti, Brotherhood of Breath? The Balkan music that has inspired Beirut, given a mildly positive review elsewhere in the paper? Not to mention a whole range of music from parts of the globe NME journalists won't have heard about, never mind visited. What a bunch of total morons.
But we won't ignore the piece on Yeasayer. The band are entirely deserving of the coverage - indeed, credit to the NME for at last jumping on a sensible bandwagon. I've just pre-ordered their 'All Hour Cymbals' album for a bargain price from Play and am keenly anticipating its arrival in a couple of weeks. It's how the paper describes them that has sent me into an apoplectic rage though: 'World Music that doesn't make you want to puke'. What?! What does this really translate as? 'World Music made by White Americans'? Exactly what is the NME trying to say here? What do they define as World Music? The stupendous 2CD 'Best Of Ethiopiques' compilation I still need to blog about? The wonderful Ali Farka Toure and Toumani Diabate collaboration from a couple of years ago that still gets plentiful airplay in my home? Excellent releases from Tinariwen, Orchestra Baobab, the lush tango of Astor Piazolla, or Portuguese Fado music, Fela Kuti, Brotherhood of Breath? The Balkan music that has inspired Beirut, given a mildly positive review elsewhere in the paper? Not to mention a whole range of music from parts of the globe NME journalists won't have heard about, never mind visited. What a bunch of total morons.
Let's Raise a Toast To Helium
Beirut – The Flying Club Cup
The prodigiously talented songwriter Zach Condon has followed up his debut ‘Gulag Orkestar’ with unfashionable rapidity. This time, his songs come with the added bonus of arrangements from former Hidden Cameras member and Arcade Fire collaborator Owen Pallett (with whom I once spent an evening in a Cambridge gay pub, ligger extraordinaire that I was back then). Advance word on ‘The Flying Club Cup’ (a tricky tongue twister of a title, that one) suggested it might display a radical change of direction, veering sharply into the world of French Chanson. Well, that influence is certainly present, not just in the French language song titles, but also with the emphasis on keyboards and accordians over mandolins, ukuleles or guitars. What is most impressive about this record, apart from its admirable brevity at 38 minutes, is the way these new preoccupations have been cleverly subsumed into Condon’s Balkan gypsy sound. This album very much represents an evolution rather than a revolution, which seems entirely appropriate at this stage of Condon’s still burgeoning career.
The drunken wooziness that characterised ‘Gulag Orkestar’ is still a defining feature of Condon’s sound, particularly on the deliberately ragged choruses of ‘A Sunday Smile’ and ‘Cliquot’. Satisfyingly though, Condon’s voice is afforded a much more confident and clear presence here, pushed forward in the mix and with much less of the mannered slurring that obscured many of the affecting words on ‘Gulag Orkestar’. These songs are written in a peculiar, almost archaic language referencing the folk tradition which gives them a compelling balance of clarity and allusion. What on earth is ‘The Penalty’ all about for example? ‘Our parents rue the day, they find us kneeling/Let them think what they may for they’ve good reason/Left for the lights always in season.’ These words have a deliberate, compelling flow but the precise meaning is somewhat elusive. ‘Cliquot’ is particularly fascinating – either delivered from a female perspective or a song about love between men (‘what kind of melody will lead my lover from his bed/what kind of melody will have him in my arms again?’).
Pallett makes his presence felt on the wonderful ‘Forks and Knives’, with its mix of elaborate orchestral swells and pizzicato strings. Throughout, his arrangements are thoughtful and inventive rather than smothering – there’s a wonderful moment on ‘In the Mausoleum’ when additional percussion enters, heralding a long instrumental passage dominated by Pallett’s hypnotic string melody. There’s a preoccupation with waltz time here that makes a refreshing change from the four-square stomp of most rock music (and which provides particularly fertile ground for Pallett’s arrangements).
Named in honour of a hot air balloon race, ‘The Flying Club Cup’ has some of the heady, celebratory rush that one might associate with such an event, but there’s also an underlying melancholy and mournfulness that the title conceals. Much like it’s predecessor, it’s a lugubrious and charming record, completely removed from any prevailing trends. It’s far more in tune with a recognisable folk tradition than the parodic, irksome ‘freak folk’ of Devendra Banhart and, whilst the songs seem lacking in contemporary resonances, they are seeped in a rich emotion that feels genuine and sincere.
The prodigiously talented songwriter Zach Condon has followed up his debut ‘Gulag Orkestar’ with unfashionable rapidity. This time, his songs come with the added bonus of arrangements from former Hidden Cameras member and Arcade Fire collaborator Owen Pallett (with whom I once spent an evening in a Cambridge gay pub, ligger extraordinaire that I was back then). Advance word on ‘The Flying Club Cup’ (a tricky tongue twister of a title, that one) suggested it might display a radical change of direction, veering sharply into the world of French Chanson. Well, that influence is certainly present, not just in the French language song titles, but also with the emphasis on keyboards and accordians over mandolins, ukuleles or guitars. What is most impressive about this record, apart from its admirable brevity at 38 minutes, is the way these new preoccupations have been cleverly subsumed into Condon’s Balkan gypsy sound. This album very much represents an evolution rather than a revolution, which seems entirely appropriate at this stage of Condon’s still burgeoning career.
The drunken wooziness that characterised ‘Gulag Orkestar’ is still a defining feature of Condon’s sound, particularly on the deliberately ragged choruses of ‘A Sunday Smile’ and ‘Cliquot’. Satisfyingly though, Condon’s voice is afforded a much more confident and clear presence here, pushed forward in the mix and with much less of the mannered slurring that obscured many of the affecting words on ‘Gulag Orkestar’. These songs are written in a peculiar, almost archaic language referencing the folk tradition which gives them a compelling balance of clarity and allusion. What on earth is ‘The Penalty’ all about for example? ‘Our parents rue the day, they find us kneeling/Let them think what they may for they’ve good reason/Left for the lights always in season.’ These words have a deliberate, compelling flow but the precise meaning is somewhat elusive. ‘Cliquot’ is particularly fascinating – either delivered from a female perspective or a song about love between men (‘what kind of melody will lead my lover from his bed/what kind of melody will have him in my arms again?’).
Pallett makes his presence felt on the wonderful ‘Forks and Knives’, with its mix of elaborate orchestral swells and pizzicato strings. Throughout, his arrangements are thoughtful and inventive rather than smothering – there’s a wonderful moment on ‘In the Mausoleum’ when additional percussion enters, heralding a long instrumental passage dominated by Pallett’s hypnotic string melody. There’s a preoccupation with waltz time here that makes a refreshing change from the four-square stomp of most rock music (and which provides particularly fertile ground for Pallett’s arrangements).
Named in honour of a hot air balloon race, ‘The Flying Club Cup’ has some of the heady, celebratory rush that one might associate with such an event, but there’s also an underlying melancholy and mournfulness that the title conceals. Much like it’s predecessor, it’s a lugubrious and charming record, completely removed from any prevailing trends. It’s far more in tune with a recognisable folk tradition than the parodic, irksome ‘freak folk’ of Devendra Banhart and, whilst the songs seem lacking in contemporary resonances, they are seeped in a rich emotion that feels genuine and sincere.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Permanence
Control (Dir. Anton Corbijn, 2007)
I’ve never really liked Biopics very much. First of all, enjoyment of them tends to depend on your appreciation for the specific subject. Secondly, particularly in films about music and pop culture, they tend to glamorise depression, mental illness, drug taking and alcoholism in a way that must be singularly unhelpful to many people. Rock legends rarely make for particularly sympathetic figures and there have been some mind-numbingly tedious films based on their lives (Oliver Stone’s The Doors springs most immediately to mind). I therefore approached photographer Anton Corbijn’s debut feature film ‘Control’, based on the life of Joy Division singer Ian Curtis, with some degree of trepidation.
I should also point out at the outset that it’s next to impossible for me to judge this film on accuracy, given that I wasn’t even born when Curtis committed suicide, and I therefore never got to see Joy Division perform (although I have seen their songs performed by New Order). There are some delightful period touches (particularly the emphasis on public telephones and circular dial phones, which seem wonderfully archaic now) and the depiction of late-70s Manchester seems plausible if perhaps a little stereotyped. The film is also careful to show the tension between the mundanities of Curtis’ domestic and working life, and his burgeoning aspirations as a singer. There is a wonderful shot in real time of his long walk from home to work, the camera eventually moving behind him to reveal the word HATE emblazoned on his back. It’s a striking combination of confidence and simmering resentment.
The film is certainly flawed. The early scenes depicting Curtis’ late-teens have a lightness of touch and are affectionately witty, but are also inevitably a little rushed. The charting of Curtis’ formative influences (Bowie, Glam Rock, Allen Ginsberg etc) is cursory at best. Much better are the representations of Bowie and Sex Pistols gigs, the former attended by Ian and Deborah, the latter attended by the band, where the camera focuses on the audience rather than attempting to restage the gigs themselves. This is a masterful and direct way of capturing the spirit and significance of these performances. The focus on Curtis also means that the character development of the other members of Joy Division is more than a little sketchy. The unfeasibly good looking Harry Treadaway gets only a couple of lines as drummer Stephen Morris, and the portrayal of Peter Hook and Bernard Sumner is perhaps a little one-dimensional, Sumner appearing naïve and excitable, Hooky outspoken and confrontational.
Former 10,000 Things vocalist Sam Riley may have got the part of Curtis because of his wonderfully accurate adoption of his onstage mannerisms, complete with bizarre on-the-spot marching dance. Ultimately, he’s perhaps a little too handsome to play Curtis – who I always saw as a deeply compelling but rather sexless performer – but he has the combination of furious intensity and solipsistic unease just right.
Indeed, in getting the actors to recreate Joy Division’s music rather than relying on existing recordings, the film captures the ragged, untutored rush of ideas that must have made this music so exciting at the time. Corbijn in fact first came to England in 1979 as a Joy Division fan, desperate to photograph the band and much of the impetus for this film has come from his own personal affinity with the group. The onstage scenes are brilliantly photographed, and there are a couple of spectacular set-pieces – the riot in Derby when Curtis was too disturbed to go on stage and his disturbing onstage attack of epilepsy. The judicious use of original recordings at key moments (‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ when Samantha Morton as Ian’s wife Debbie finally uncovers his affair with fanzine writer Annik, ‘Atmosphere’ at the film’s conclusion) also emphasises the intense emotional power of Curtis’ work that has now rendered it timeless.
The central performances are all excellent. Riley captures Curtis’ transition from romantic poet to guilt-laden adulterer with subtlety and impressive range, whilst Samatha Morton is dependably excellent as Ian’s suffering wife Deborah. Both have a convincing naivety that possibly explains their ill-advised marriage at the age of just eighteen. Their confrontations towards the end of the film are appropriately claustrophobic, and there’s a particularly powerful moment where Curtis interrupts sex to break down in tears. It’s a compelling and uncomfortable portrait of a turbulent, dysfunctional relationship where love has lost.
Equally convincingly portrayed is Curtis’ burgeoning relationship with Annik Honore, the Belgian fanzine writer. She offers him something ‘different’ (or ‘foreign’, as manager Rob Gretton, hilariously portrayed by Toby Keppel, puts it) – something enticing and irresistible, which brings him escape from the mundane, but only with concurrent terrible guilt when he returns home. When she asks him to ‘tell me about Macclesfield’, it proves the age old dictum that anything can sound sexy when said in a French accent. Whilst love interests are so often underwritten, Annik’s feelings are remarkably well drawn. She is neither rendered the villain of the piece nor an unwitting pawn in the story, but rather convincingly human with complex and conflicting emotions of her own (‘I’ve never felt like this before but I also feel I don’t know who you are’).
It’s worth pointing out that whilst this film depicts a life story that is undoubtedly sad and frequently bleak, ‘Control’ is a surprisingly tender and humorous film. There are some wonderful moments, such as when Gretton comforts Curtis after his onstage fit: ‘It could be worse mate’, he says, ‘you could be the lead singer in The Fall’. There’s a much more sympathetic portrait of the late Tony Wilson here than in Michael Winterbottom’s 24 Hour Party People, and, whether myth or reality, the scene where he signs Joy Division’s contract in his own blood is quite hilarious.
The film’s narrative arc is conventional but deftly handled, and its pacing is spot on. The script may occasionally tend towards the simplistic, but the moments of affecting humour more than compensate for this. The key to the success of ‘Control’ though comes with its almost effortless capturing of the energy and originality of the music. It also looks superb – fully justifying Corbijn’s decision to film in monochrome (apparently his memories of Joy Division are in black and white). Watching it, it’s easy to see just why Curtis has remained an iconic figure. In this sense, appreciation of Joy Division’s music is no pre-requisite to enjoying this engrossing and technically impressive film.
I’ve never really liked Biopics very much. First of all, enjoyment of them tends to depend on your appreciation for the specific subject. Secondly, particularly in films about music and pop culture, they tend to glamorise depression, mental illness, drug taking and alcoholism in a way that must be singularly unhelpful to many people. Rock legends rarely make for particularly sympathetic figures and there have been some mind-numbingly tedious films based on their lives (Oliver Stone’s The Doors springs most immediately to mind). I therefore approached photographer Anton Corbijn’s debut feature film ‘Control’, based on the life of Joy Division singer Ian Curtis, with some degree of trepidation.
I should also point out at the outset that it’s next to impossible for me to judge this film on accuracy, given that I wasn’t even born when Curtis committed suicide, and I therefore never got to see Joy Division perform (although I have seen their songs performed by New Order). There are some delightful period touches (particularly the emphasis on public telephones and circular dial phones, which seem wonderfully archaic now) and the depiction of late-70s Manchester seems plausible if perhaps a little stereotyped. The film is also careful to show the tension between the mundanities of Curtis’ domestic and working life, and his burgeoning aspirations as a singer. There is a wonderful shot in real time of his long walk from home to work, the camera eventually moving behind him to reveal the word HATE emblazoned on his back. It’s a striking combination of confidence and simmering resentment.
The film is certainly flawed. The early scenes depicting Curtis’ late-teens have a lightness of touch and are affectionately witty, but are also inevitably a little rushed. The charting of Curtis’ formative influences (Bowie, Glam Rock, Allen Ginsberg etc) is cursory at best. Much better are the representations of Bowie and Sex Pistols gigs, the former attended by Ian and Deborah, the latter attended by the band, where the camera focuses on the audience rather than attempting to restage the gigs themselves. This is a masterful and direct way of capturing the spirit and significance of these performances. The focus on Curtis also means that the character development of the other members of Joy Division is more than a little sketchy. The unfeasibly good looking Harry Treadaway gets only a couple of lines as drummer Stephen Morris, and the portrayal of Peter Hook and Bernard Sumner is perhaps a little one-dimensional, Sumner appearing naïve and excitable, Hooky outspoken and confrontational.
Former 10,000 Things vocalist Sam Riley may have got the part of Curtis because of his wonderfully accurate adoption of his onstage mannerisms, complete with bizarre on-the-spot marching dance. Ultimately, he’s perhaps a little too handsome to play Curtis – who I always saw as a deeply compelling but rather sexless performer – but he has the combination of furious intensity and solipsistic unease just right.
Indeed, in getting the actors to recreate Joy Division’s music rather than relying on existing recordings, the film captures the ragged, untutored rush of ideas that must have made this music so exciting at the time. Corbijn in fact first came to England in 1979 as a Joy Division fan, desperate to photograph the band and much of the impetus for this film has come from his own personal affinity with the group. The onstage scenes are brilliantly photographed, and there are a couple of spectacular set-pieces – the riot in Derby when Curtis was too disturbed to go on stage and his disturbing onstage attack of epilepsy. The judicious use of original recordings at key moments (‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ when Samantha Morton as Ian’s wife Debbie finally uncovers his affair with fanzine writer Annik, ‘Atmosphere’ at the film’s conclusion) also emphasises the intense emotional power of Curtis’ work that has now rendered it timeless.
The central performances are all excellent. Riley captures Curtis’ transition from romantic poet to guilt-laden adulterer with subtlety and impressive range, whilst Samatha Morton is dependably excellent as Ian’s suffering wife Deborah. Both have a convincing naivety that possibly explains their ill-advised marriage at the age of just eighteen. Their confrontations towards the end of the film are appropriately claustrophobic, and there’s a particularly powerful moment where Curtis interrupts sex to break down in tears. It’s a compelling and uncomfortable portrait of a turbulent, dysfunctional relationship where love has lost.
Equally convincingly portrayed is Curtis’ burgeoning relationship with Annik Honore, the Belgian fanzine writer. She offers him something ‘different’ (or ‘foreign’, as manager Rob Gretton, hilariously portrayed by Toby Keppel, puts it) – something enticing and irresistible, which brings him escape from the mundane, but only with concurrent terrible guilt when he returns home. When she asks him to ‘tell me about Macclesfield’, it proves the age old dictum that anything can sound sexy when said in a French accent. Whilst love interests are so often underwritten, Annik’s feelings are remarkably well drawn. She is neither rendered the villain of the piece nor an unwitting pawn in the story, but rather convincingly human with complex and conflicting emotions of her own (‘I’ve never felt like this before but I also feel I don’t know who you are’).
It’s worth pointing out that whilst this film depicts a life story that is undoubtedly sad and frequently bleak, ‘Control’ is a surprisingly tender and humorous film. There are some wonderful moments, such as when Gretton comforts Curtis after his onstage fit: ‘It could be worse mate’, he says, ‘you could be the lead singer in The Fall’. There’s a much more sympathetic portrait of the late Tony Wilson here than in Michael Winterbottom’s 24 Hour Party People, and, whether myth or reality, the scene where he signs Joy Division’s contract in his own blood is quite hilarious.
The film’s narrative arc is conventional but deftly handled, and its pacing is spot on. The script may occasionally tend towards the simplistic, but the moments of affecting humour more than compensate for this. The key to the success of ‘Control’ though comes with its almost effortless capturing of the energy and originality of the music. It also looks superb – fully justifying Corbijn’s decision to film in monochrome (apparently his memories of Joy Division are in black and white). Watching it, it’s easy to see just why Curtis has remained an iconic figure. In this sense, appreciation of Joy Division’s music is no pre-requisite to enjoying this engrossing and technically impressive film.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Fading Rainbow or Guiding Light?
I know the world and his wife are writing about Radiohead’s new ‘free’ album, but I’ve been encouraged to join in. Are Radiohead really undermining the music industry? A few days ago I would at least have argued that they were causing trouble. It’s less the fact that the album is being made available to download (this really is nothing new or particularly exciting) and more the timing of its release that is significant. The last ‘official’ word we heard on Radiohead’s latest was that it had now been put back for a 2008 release. Then came a series of bizarre red herrings before an official announcement that a new album would suddenly become available within ten days. This has caused a stir largely because it bypasses all the official channels, and it will be as damaging to the veritable institution of conventional music journalism as it will be to ‘the music industry’. There will be no advance speculation, previews, reviews or promotional interviews. Instead, with refreshing immediacy, the album will just appear, and everyday listeners will have the welcome opportunity of being the first to judge it.
This all ties in rather neatly with my analysis of Andrew Keen’s attack on Web 2.0 culture a few weeks ago. There is much talk now of the ‘death of the critic’. I still feel this is largely narrow-minded and hysterical – there will always be room for authoritative critical writing, it just may come from different places. Much of the initial reaction to ‘In Rainbows’ will now inevitably be generated from the Blogosphere. Naturally, I think this is rather exciting and healthy.
The other significant aspect of all this is the pricing system, which allows the consumer to decide how much the music is worth. Many have stated they will not pay in excess of £5 for it. Radiohead are no doubt able to do this because artists themselves receive only small proportion of revenue from physical CD sales (much of it is eaten by record label, distributors and vendors). By selling the record directly from a website, the band will receive 100% of the lucre. Even if everyone who downloads the album worldwide only spends £1 on it, that will probably still result in a healthy profit.
Particularly in light of further developments though, I don’t quite feel this is the death of the traditional music industry just yet. First and foremost, it’s worth noting that the band can only do all this by virtue of their massive level of success and acclaim, all achieved for them by the machinations (and budget) of EMI. Also, not only are the band releasing a boxed physical version that will ship in December for an extortionate £40 (‘Can you buy a good meal with that?’ questioned the group’s manager – of course you can!), but they have now announced that they will be signing a new major deal within a few days. Their manager has conceded that they still need the infrastructure and network of a major label to process and distribute physical product. How boring and conventional!
I suspect a lot of this may have to do with the realisation that Radiohead’s fanbase is broad, covering a wide range of ages and consumer habits. Teenage music fans (who would have been less than ten years old when ‘OK Computer’ was released!) may well embrace this means of distribution, but older listeners may well prefer the physical product. There are some consumers who are stuck firmly in the middle – I like maintaining libraries of CDs, vinyl, books and film, but I’m also rather excited by the new freedoms and flexibility offered by new technology.
There has long been a DIY, entrepreneurial spirit of independence in the music industry, but it has traditionally been a struggle to break even. This may well be changing, albeit more gradually than the loudest voices would suggest. A friend of mine genuinely thinks record labels as we understand them will soon be a thing of the past. I’m not sure what I think about this – but I certainly recognise a shift towards pockets of collectives building their own audiences (look at the Loop and F-IRE Collectives reigniting London’s tired jazz scene) and the increasing opportunities for artists to recoup their own investment, rather than forever being tied to major label debts.
This all ties in rather neatly with my analysis of Andrew Keen’s attack on Web 2.0 culture a few weeks ago. There is much talk now of the ‘death of the critic’. I still feel this is largely narrow-minded and hysterical – there will always be room for authoritative critical writing, it just may come from different places. Much of the initial reaction to ‘In Rainbows’ will now inevitably be generated from the Blogosphere. Naturally, I think this is rather exciting and healthy.
The other significant aspect of all this is the pricing system, which allows the consumer to decide how much the music is worth. Many have stated they will not pay in excess of £5 for it. Radiohead are no doubt able to do this because artists themselves receive only small proportion of revenue from physical CD sales (much of it is eaten by record label, distributors and vendors). By selling the record directly from a website, the band will receive 100% of the lucre. Even if everyone who downloads the album worldwide only spends £1 on it, that will probably still result in a healthy profit.
Particularly in light of further developments though, I don’t quite feel this is the death of the traditional music industry just yet. First and foremost, it’s worth noting that the band can only do all this by virtue of their massive level of success and acclaim, all achieved for them by the machinations (and budget) of EMI. Also, not only are the band releasing a boxed physical version that will ship in December for an extortionate £40 (‘Can you buy a good meal with that?’ questioned the group’s manager – of course you can!), but they have now announced that they will be signing a new major deal within a few days. Their manager has conceded that they still need the infrastructure and network of a major label to process and distribute physical product. How boring and conventional!
I suspect a lot of this may have to do with the realisation that Radiohead’s fanbase is broad, covering a wide range of ages and consumer habits. Teenage music fans (who would have been less than ten years old when ‘OK Computer’ was released!) may well embrace this means of distribution, but older listeners may well prefer the physical product. There are some consumers who are stuck firmly in the middle – I like maintaining libraries of CDs, vinyl, books and film, but I’m also rather excited by the new freedoms and flexibility offered by new technology.
There has long been a DIY, entrepreneurial spirit of independence in the music industry, but it has traditionally been a struggle to break even. This may well be changing, albeit more gradually than the loudest voices would suggest. A friend of mine genuinely thinks record labels as we understand them will soon be a thing of the past. I’m not sure what I think about this – but I certainly recognise a shift towards pockets of collectives building their own audiences (look at the Loop and F-IRE Collectives reigniting London’s tired jazz scene) and the increasing opportunities for artists to recoup their own investment, rather than forever being tied to major label debts.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Ridicule Is Nothing To Be Scared Of
The Decemberists @ London Royal Festival Hall
Until their most recent album ‘The Crane Wife’ was bizarrely afforded two UK releases, The Decemberists have not had much critical or commercial attention here. This makes it all the more surprising that the Royal Festival Hall (a rather sedate venue for their spirited live show) is pretty full, if not quite completely sold out. Maybe it’s the buzz that surrounds them on the internet (the ‘Pitchfork effect’ certainly worked for Arcade Fire and Broken Social Scene), or maybe it’s just that the British public have much more sophisticated tastes in indie-rock than the pages of the NME would suggest. It’s a strange mix in the audience tonight – a good balance between male and female, but on the whole rather middle-aged. It’s not often these days that I feel young at a rock gig!
The Decemberists are one of those bands that have quietly and gradually worked their way into my affections. If their preoccupation with history, myth and folklore initially seemed rather twee, I now feel that they are expanding the language of rock songwriting through exploring the possibilities of storytelling in its purest form. In the process, they are neatly proving that songs don’t always have to derive from personal experience. I have considerable respect for this, particularly as I find detached, narrative-based songs much harder to write than those I draw from personal emotions and experiences.
To John Kell’s horror (http://www.johnkell.blogspot.com/), I recently described The Decemberists as ‘prog folk’, and some of their recent output directed me to assume, quite mistakenly as it transpires, that they might possibly take themselves a little too seriously. Musically and lyrically, they have cultivated a penchant for the epic, and there are plenty of elaborate arrangements on display here, even with the band stripped back to its five-member core. Whilst they emphasise their more expansive side tonight, opening with a highly theatrical version of ‘The Tain’ (apparently the first UK performance of this extended work) and airing the segued epics from ‘The Crane Wife’, they are also remarkably jovial and entertaining too. They tear into ‘The Perfect Crime’ and ‘O Valencia’ with a reckless abandon that is a joy to watch and the so far unreleased ‘Culling of the Fold’ is a gleeful song ‘advocating violence’.
They are an appropriately odd looking bunch. Frontman Colin Meloy resembles a peculiar hybrid of history teacher, winsome indie tunesmith and, disconcertingly, Edward from The League of Gentlemen. Fortunately, he’s a lot more personable than such a description would suggest, providing lengthy and frequently hilarious asides in his onstage banter. He claims that he needs to stop because we haven’t paid for ‘spoken word’, but he is so ridiculously verbose that the chatter is nearly as welcome as the music. The brilliant exposition on the story of the stolen bicycle that forms the basis of ‘The Apology Song’ is a particular highlight.
In the extended works, there’s plenty of instrument swapping, with accompanying exaggerated gestures and handshakes. There’s also a boundless energy, with Meloy quite literally bouncing across the breadth of the stage and at one point even singing from the audience. He’s not even in the slightest bit embarrassed that he ends up requiring assistance to get back to his rightful position again. Tonight, the group’s combination of fairytale, dry humour and audience participation takes the word ‘quirky’ to bold new levels.
If there’s a gripe, it’s that the emphasis on suites of music leaves little time for wider foraging into their back catalogue – a ‘Song For Myla Goldberg’, ‘The Sporting Life’ or ’16 Military Wives’ would have provided some more concise bursts of pop joy. That’s a bit of a petty fanboy quibble though, and the inspired encore of deconstructed sea shanty ‘The Mariner’s Revenge Song’ more than compensates, with plenty of demented onstage antics and implausibly named guitarist Chris Funk exhorting us to scream as if swallowed by a whale. It’s an outpouring of unashamed collective insanity that neatly encapsulates the energy and spirit of this excellent concert.
Until their most recent album ‘The Crane Wife’ was bizarrely afforded two UK releases, The Decemberists have not had much critical or commercial attention here. This makes it all the more surprising that the Royal Festival Hall (a rather sedate venue for their spirited live show) is pretty full, if not quite completely sold out. Maybe it’s the buzz that surrounds them on the internet (the ‘Pitchfork effect’ certainly worked for Arcade Fire and Broken Social Scene), or maybe it’s just that the British public have much more sophisticated tastes in indie-rock than the pages of the NME would suggest. It’s a strange mix in the audience tonight – a good balance between male and female, but on the whole rather middle-aged. It’s not often these days that I feel young at a rock gig!
The Decemberists are one of those bands that have quietly and gradually worked their way into my affections. If their preoccupation with history, myth and folklore initially seemed rather twee, I now feel that they are expanding the language of rock songwriting through exploring the possibilities of storytelling in its purest form. In the process, they are neatly proving that songs don’t always have to derive from personal experience. I have considerable respect for this, particularly as I find detached, narrative-based songs much harder to write than those I draw from personal emotions and experiences.
To John Kell’s horror (http://www.johnkell.blogspot.com/), I recently described The Decemberists as ‘prog folk’, and some of their recent output directed me to assume, quite mistakenly as it transpires, that they might possibly take themselves a little too seriously. Musically and lyrically, they have cultivated a penchant for the epic, and there are plenty of elaborate arrangements on display here, even with the band stripped back to its five-member core. Whilst they emphasise their more expansive side tonight, opening with a highly theatrical version of ‘The Tain’ (apparently the first UK performance of this extended work) and airing the segued epics from ‘The Crane Wife’, they are also remarkably jovial and entertaining too. They tear into ‘The Perfect Crime’ and ‘O Valencia’ with a reckless abandon that is a joy to watch and the so far unreleased ‘Culling of the Fold’ is a gleeful song ‘advocating violence’.
They are an appropriately odd looking bunch. Frontman Colin Meloy resembles a peculiar hybrid of history teacher, winsome indie tunesmith and, disconcertingly, Edward from The League of Gentlemen. Fortunately, he’s a lot more personable than such a description would suggest, providing lengthy and frequently hilarious asides in his onstage banter. He claims that he needs to stop because we haven’t paid for ‘spoken word’, but he is so ridiculously verbose that the chatter is nearly as welcome as the music. The brilliant exposition on the story of the stolen bicycle that forms the basis of ‘The Apology Song’ is a particular highlight.
In the extended works, there’s plenty of instrument swapping, with accompanying exaggerated gestures and handshakes. There’s also a boundless energy, with Meloy quite literally bouncing across the breadth of the stage and at one point even singing from the audience. He’s not even in the slightest bit embarrassed that he ends up requiring assistance to get back to his rightful position again. Tonight, the group’s combination of fairytale, dry humour and audience participation takes the word ‘quirky’ to bold new levels.
If there’s a gripe, it’s that the emphasis on suites of music leaves little time for wider foraging into their back catalogue – a ‘Song For Myla Goldberg’, ‘The Sporting Life’ or ’16 Military Wives’ would have provided some more concise bursts of pop joy. That’s a bit of a petty fanboy quibble though, and the inspired encore of deconstructed sea shanty ‘The Mariner’s Revenge Song’ more than compensates, with plenty of demented onstage antics and implausibly named guitarist Chris Funk exhorting us to scream as if swallowed by a whale. It’s an outpouring of unashamed collective insanity that neatly encapsulates the energy and spirit of this excellent concert.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Look Mama, No Chords!
Polar Bear @ The Museum of Garden History
Outhouse @ The Oxford, Kentish Town
The Museum of Garden History in Lambeth Palace is an odd place to watch one of Britain’s most maverick and unusual jazz acts. With tables and chairs set out to allow for a rather sedate environment, and the addition of some healthy-looking food, it seems almost too civilised. Luckily, Seb Rochford’s increasingly brilliant group break out of the comfort zone with breathtaking musicality.
That only comes after an exceedingly lengthy, occasionally soporific support set from the appallingly named Sax, Lies and Audiotape (yes, we know sax sounds a bit like sex – ha bloody ha). A sax/electronics duo featuring the enervated and vigorous Tommaso Starace, the duo occasionally hit on a mysterious and engaging sound, particularly when odd samples (babies crying for example) floated in and out of the ether. Most of the time it sounded oddly directionless though, and a solo set from Starace might well have channelled more excitement. I had the sensation that Starace was frequently restrained by the meandering sounds in the background, which often failed to add texture or feeling. For such a long set, there simply wasn’t enough variety or changes in dynamic either.
Polar Bear have an intriguing set up – Rochford on drums, Pete Wareham and Mark Lockheart as a dual sax frontline, the redoubtable Tom Herbert on bass and Leafcutter John providing electronic interjections. They make this work through a musical alchemy that is visible as well as audible – I’ve rarely seen a bassist and drummer watch each other quite as intently as Rochford and Herbert. It’s no surprise that when they hit their driving rhythmic features they sound so completely locked in. The contrast between Pete Wareham’s gritty blowing (although more expressive than his unsubtle blasting for Acoustic Ladyland) and Mark Lockheart’s more considered explorations also makes for engaging listening. The two also mesh together effortlessly to complete Polar Bear’s patchwork of sound, yet all the musicians leave plenty of space for thought and feeling.
Rochford, particularly, is a considerate and sensitive musician. He plays at a restrained volume throughout, even when at his most vigorous, and there’s a musical creativity on display that realises the full instrumental potential of the drum kit. Rochford orchestrates both his accompanying rhythms and his extemporised statements with real care and dexterity, and his playing benefits from being more creative and expressive than technically virtuosic. He seems more interested in the range of sound he can draw from his kit than simply proving his technical muscle.
As a manipulator of sound, Leafcutter John has now assumed a pivotal role in the group, echoing some of the soloists’ musical figures and also filling spaces with his own ideas. Some people feel this isn’t musical – but the transformation of sampled sounds is now a vital and vibrant part of the contemporary musical landscape. Like his kindred spirit Matthew Herbert, Leafcutter John is playful, confident and innovative.
There are moments when the group veer into abstraction – but the chemistry always remains, and the contrast between intense swathes of sound, and more delicate interventions is sustained throughout. It’s a remarkable set – the new material demonstrating Rochford’s development as a composer, the whole performance showing his group’s deep connections and creativity.
Along with Fraud probably the main project of London’s vibrant, dedicated Loop Collective, Outhouse are a powerhouse group of improvising musicians directed by saxophonist Robin Fincker. They began their short tour last night at The Oxford pub in Kentish Town, home of a regular night promoted by Loop that I’ve been attending for some time. I’m increasingly convinced that this group of musicians are slowly bringing about a sea change in the rather constricted London jazz scene. By playing in each other’s ensembles and being active in their own promotion, they are not only cutting out the non-role played by lazy promoters with little idea how to organise complementary line-ups, but are beginning to build their own audiences. The likes of Jazzwise magazine and Jazz on 3 have been on the case for some time – it’s surely now time for everyone else to follow. The likes of Fraud, Jim Hart’s Gemini, Alcyona, Naadia Sheriff and Dog Soup represent some of the most exciting British music of recent years.
Like Polar Bear, there is no harmonic accompaniment, with just Jonny Brierley’s acoustic bass and Dave Smith’s ferocious drumming completing a muscular rhythm section. Also like Polar Bear, they veer between deceptively simple themes more concerned with rhythmic displacement than conventional melody and long passages of free improvisation. The music grew out of freely improvised jam sessions the group began back in 2006. It could be argued that they sometimes try and pack too many ideas into one piece – Fincker has to explain that the opening ‘Pig’ was indeed ‘just one tune’ and ‘just called Pig’. It was gleefully manipulative of time and phrasing, but sometimes seemed to veer too maniacally between ideas and sounds.
Dave Smith’s drumming is particularly frantic, perhaps gamely attempting to fill all the spaces that might usually be occupied by chordal accompaniment as well as providing the rhythmic core. Occasionally he is simply too loud, and he then risks obscuring the fluency of Brierley’s bass playing. He’s intensely creative though, and has an ease of movement around the kit that belies his unconventional, rigid posture. At one point, he uses a detached drum skin to play the rest of the kit – it’s a bizarre, almost surreal moment in a gig packed with surprises. Smith is also a master of asymmetrical time – his grooves in 7 or 11 sound unfathomably comfortable and fluent. He has developed a drumming language that is invigorating and confident.
Robin Fincker and Mark Hanslip connect brilliantly, particularly in the free sections, and there’s an intensity and energy in their playing that never sags. Occasionally, the deployment of some lyricism or grace might provide added armoury, but the rhythmic contrasts are so radical and unpredictable that there’s more than enough to sink the teeth into here. Most importantly, Outhouse’s music has an obvious joy that elevates it well above the realm of the purely academic. They have a bright future.
Outhouse @ The Oxford, Kentish Town
The Museum of Garden History in Lambeth Palace is an odd place to watch one of Britain’s most maverick and unusual jazz acts. With tables and chairs set out to allow for a rather sedate environment, and the addition of some healthy-looking food, it seems almost too civilised. Luckily, Seb Rochford’s increasingly brilliant group break out of the comfort zone with breathtaking musicality.
That only comes after an exceedingly lengthy, occasionally soporific support set from the appallingly named Sax, Lies and Audiotape (yes, we know sax sounds a bit like sex – ha bloody ha). A sax/electronics duo featuring the enervated and vigorous Tommaso Starace, the duo occasionally hit on a mysterious and engaging sound, particularly when odd samples (babies crying for example) floated in and out of the ether. Most of the time it sounded oddly directionless though, and a solo set from Starace might well have channelled more excitement. I had the sensation that Starace was frequently restrained by the meandering sounds in the background, which often failed to add texture or feeling. For such a long set, there simply wasn’t enough variety or changes in dynamic either.
Polar Bear have an intriguing set up – Rochford on drums, Pete Wareham and Mark Lockheart as a dual sax frontline, the redoubtable Tom Herbert on bass and Leafcutter John providing electronic interjections. They make this work through a musical alchemy that is visible as well as audible – I’ve rarely seen a bassist and drummer watch each other quite as intently as Rochford and Herbert. It’s no surprise that when they hit their driving rhythmic features they sound so completely locked in. The contrast between Pete Wareham’s gritty blowing (although more expressive than his unsubtle blasting for Acoustic Ladyland) and Mark Lockheart’s more considered explorations also makes for engaging listening. The two also mesh together effortlessly to complete Polar Bear’s patchwork of sound, yet all the musicians leave plenty of space for thought and feeling.
Rochford, particularly, is a considerate and sensitive musician. He plays at a restrained volume throughout, even when at his most vigorous, and there’s a musical creativity on display that realises the full instrumental potential of the drum kit. Rochford orchestrates both his accompanying rhythms and his extemporised statements with real care and dexterity, and his playing benefits from being more creative and expressive than technically virtuosic. He seems more interested in the range of sound he can draw from his kit than simply proving his technical muscle.
As a manipulator of sound, Leafcutter John has now assumed a pivotal role in the group, echoing some of the soloists’ musical figures and also filling spaces with his own ideas. Some people feel this isn’t musical – but the transformation of sampled sounds is now a vital and vibrant part of the contemporary musical landscape. Like his kindred spirit Matthew Herbert, Leafcutter John is playful, confident and innovative.
There are moments when the group veer into abstraction – but the chemistry always remains, and the contrast between intense swathes of sound, and more delicate interventions is sustained throughout. It’s a remarkable set – the new material demonstrating Rochford’s development as a composer, the whole performance showing his group’s deep connections and creativity.
Along with Fraud probably the main project of London’s vibrant, dedicated Loop Collective, Outhouse are a powerhouse group of improvising musicians directed by saxophonist Robin Fincker. They began their short tour last night at The Oxford pub in Kentish Town, home of a regular night promoted by Loop that I’ve been attending for some time. I’m increasingly convinced that this group of musicians are slowly bringing about a sea change in the rather constricted London jazz scene. By playing in each other’s ensembles and being active in their own promotion, they are not only cutting out the non-role played by lazy promoters with little idea how to organise complementary line-ups, but are beginning to build their own audiences. The likes of Jazzwise magazine and Jazz on 3 have been on the case for some time – it’s surely now time for everyone else to follow. The likes of Fraud, Jim Hart’s Gemini, Alcyona, Naadia Sheriff and Dog Soup represent some of the most exciting British music of recent years.
Like Polar Bear, there is no harmonic accompaniment, with just Jonny Brierley’s acoustic bass and Dave Smith’s ferocious drumming completing a muscular rhythm section. Also like Polar Bear, they veer between deceptively simple themes more concerned with rhythmic displacement than conventional melody and long passages of free improvisation. The music grew out of freely improvised jam sessions the group began back in 2006. It could be argued that they sometimes try and pack too many ideas into one piece – Fincker has to explain that the opening ‘Pig’ was indeed ‘just one tune’ and ‘just called Pig’. It was gleefully manipulative of time and phrasing, but sometimes seemed to veer too maniacally between ideas and sounds.
Dave Smith’s drumming is particularly frantic, perhaps gamely attempting to fill all the spaces that might usually be occupied by chordal accompaniment as well as providing the rhythmic core. Occasionally he is simply too loud, and he then risks obscuring the fluency of Brierley’s bass playing. He’s intensely creative though, and has an ease of movement around the kit that belies his unconventional, rigid posture. At one point, he uses a detached drum skin to play the rest of the kit – it’s a bizarre, almost surreal moment in a gig packed with surprises. Smith is also a master of asymmetrical time – his grooves in 7 or 11 sound unfathomably comfortable and fluent. He has developed a drumming language that is invigorating and confident.
Robin Fincker and Mark Hanslip connect brilliantly, particularly in the free sections, and there’s an intensity and energy in their playing that never sags. Occasionally, the deployment of some lyricism or grace might provide added armoury, but the rhythmic contrasts are so radical and unpredictable that there’s more than enough to sink the teeth into here. Most importantly, Outhouse’s music has an obvious joy that elevates it well above the realm of the purely academic. They have a bright future.
Messages Without Meaning
The Films of Apichatpong Weerasethakul
Thai film director Apichatpong Weerasethakul, who mercifully calls himself 'Joe', is currently the subject of a short retrospective at what we used to be able to call the National Film Theatre in London. Despite only having made five features so far, he fully deserves this attention, as one of the most audacious and original filmmakers currently at work, and for having significantly raised the profile of Thai cinema (his film ‘Tropical Malady’ was the first Thai film to win a critics’ prize at Cannes).
Perhaps his easiest film to digest is his most lengthy, the languid ‘Blissfully Yours’ which essentially unfolds in real time. It is ostensibly a tale of how a leisurely afternoon of al fresco sex is interrupted, but its subtle evocations of tensions and emotions, gradually revealed without dramatic confrontation or violence, is rather majestic. The lush attention to detail in the photographing of landscape and location is a genuine pleasure too. Whilst the deliberately slow pacing and lack of dialogue will seem unfamiliar to western audiences attuned more to the exaggerated action and the snappy scripting of American cinema, ‘Blissfully Yours’ seems remarkably conventional when placed next to his other works.
‘Tropical Malady’ is extraordinary, baffling, possibly visionary and certainly impressive. Its first half shares some of the subtleties and romanticism of ‘Blissfully Yours’, focussing on the blossoming romance between an unemployed illiterate city boy and a soldier. It strikes me as interesting that this film has been welcomed under the banner of ‘gay interest’ cinema, as this love is presented in an entirely matter-of-fact and non judgmental way. There is no reference whatsoever to identity politics, the relationship seems playful and tender without anguish or deliberation, and family members seem largely accepting and unquestioning. The most explicitly sexual moment comes when the two young men kiss and lick each other’s hands, an extraordinary moment of natural and unforced eroticism. Joe also demonstrates his brutally dry sense of humour with occasional deployments of camp – the hilarious duet between Sakda (the city boy) and a cabaret singer is a particularly brilliant moment, as is the diversion to an aerobics workout.
Yet after that moment of tantalising erotic play, Sakda mysteriously walks off into the darkness, the screen goes pitch black for ten seconds or more, and the film suddenly and quite unexpectedly changes direction. There’s a brief interlude exploring animal sprit myths, before Sakda and Keng reappear, Keng as a soldier at first chasing, and then being chased by, Sakda’s tiger spirit. There is little or no dialogue in this section and minimal music, yet the tension and claustrophobia is palpable. Joe achieves this through slow but deliberate camera movements, close-up shots expressing fear and bewilderment, and with a naturalist’s attention to the detail of the jungle.
Eventually, Keng the soldier learns more about his situation and his fate, communicating with a monkey to understand that he is both ‘prey and companion’ of the tiger. Ultimately, he must decide whether to free Sakda’s spirit by killing him, or allow himself to be devoured by him, and therefore enter his world. The final confrontation between Keng and the tiger is both mind-boggling and gripping.
What is all this about? The opening of the film may give hints as to its explanation, with an intertitle displaying a quotation emphasising the bestial nature of man that must be subsumed. So, what is Joe saying is bestial in this film? Is it the tender homosexual love depicted in the film’s first half? This seems unlikely, given that the film ends emphasising, in a unique way, the union between Keng and Sakda, and it seems unlikely that Joe would have portrayed the relationship so affectionately were this his underlying intention. I personally felt the film was emphasising that human relationships come with a peculiar combination of innocence and animalistic desires, the latter sometimes needing to be contained, but Joe himself offers no such clear explanation. It may also hint at the shifting patterns of domination and subservience within relationships too, and the extreme measures required to achieve genuine equality. Whatever it is actually about, ‘Tropical Malady’ is a compelling and fascinating film and quite possibly a masterpiece.
It also makes a lot more sense when placed next to ‘Mysterious Object at Noon’, Joe’s debut feature, pretty much unscreened in this country before now. This is shot entirely in black and white, and shares some of the blurring of fiction and documentary that characterised Abbas Kiarostami’s ‘Close Up’. It is a similarly challenging and effective film – even when it appears matter of fact, beneath the surface, there is a world of mystery, fascination and intrigue. The film shows Joe and crew travelling around Thai villages, attempting to make some kind of documentary about Thai life and culture. The result is the unfolding of a magical realist fairytale, narrated and elaborated by the people the crew meet on their journey, sometimes even acted out by them. It gives some context and background for the deployment of folk tale and mythology in ‘Tropical Malady’.
This offers no explanation whatsoever for ‘Syndromes and a Century’, however. This is Joe’s most recent film, and his contribution to the Mozart-inspired ‘New Crowned Hope’ project to which Tsai Ming-Liang also contributed the similarly outstanding ‘I Don’t Want To Sleep Alone’ (showing at the NFT in November). I must admit that Tsai’s film affected me far more on an emotional level – ‘Syndromes…’ does seem rather formalised and cold by comparison. Perhaps this is where its relationship to musical composition lies – in its emphasis on repetition, extended themes, motifs and developments. It is certainly puzzling and memorable.
I don’t share the sentiments of The Guardian’s film critic Peter Bradshaw that it is a ‘transcendentally happy’ experience though, nor do I agree with translator and critic Tony Rayns that it is an easy watch. There are moments when it is deceptively light, and this may be when the film is at its most accessible and charming but, taken as a whole, it maintains a dangerous balancing act between being hypnotic and being soporific, and any meaning or explanation is, in this case, completely elusive. There are also images that are exceptionally disquieting and unsettling – as claustrophobic and unpleasant as anything in a more conventional horror movie.
It is set consistently in a hospital – although the initial calm rural setting eventually gives way to a murkier, far more oppressive urban location in the film’s second half. Whilst it shares its bifurcated structure with ‘Tropical Malady’, it does not share that film’s sudden lurch to a radically different scenario – instead it repeats earlier scenes in different contexts, sometimes with words and themes echoed by different characters. Occasionally, there are even strong visual echoes such as the astonishing image of a large extractor pipe sucking in vapour in the second hospital’s terrifying basement, which reflects back on an earlier image of an eclipse. It’s almost as if nature is being channelled into man’s activities. The effect is both provocative and perplexing.
The film mostly seems to be dealing with unrequited affections, although this is not necessarily it key theme – the central female character, Dr. Toey, is doggedly followed by a colleague clearly besotted with her, whilst she attempts to divert him with stories about her own unfulfilled romantic feelings. There is a sketchier subplot about the hospital Dentist, also a semi-professional singer, and his growing infatuation with his Buddhist monk patient. The one relationship that appears to be based on reciprocated feelings is also fraught with tension, with the two parties clearly wanting very different paths in life. The relationship is possibly even meaningless when set against the other unconsummated romantic crusades, which Joe invests with more significance.
The first half of the film, with its hospital corridors seemingly unusually tranquil, has a feather-light touch and is really rather beautiful. It is essentially a series of wry, humorous vignettes but it sustains a casually elegant flow.
Both halves begin with Dr. Toey interviewing a new doctor, Dr. Nohng, for a job. In the first half he seems rather lost and detached, but in the second, he adopts a far more significant role, exploring the hospital’s unnerving basement, confronting a mentally disturbed patient with carbon monoxide poisoning, and invited to drink from a bottle with some ageing female doctors. It seems that all the lightness of the first half has vanished – in this dense, urban location with its high rise buildings, there is oppression, frustration and confusion in abundance.
Weerasethakul has described ‘Syndromes…’ as a ‘recreation of the lives of his parents’, both of whom were themselves Doctors, and his own memories of the hospital environment as a child. To this, he has added little by way of explanation. Is this film simply a rather languid and dreamy exploration of alternative realities or is it playing with Buddhist notions of reincarnation?
Joe has also said that his films are ‘about nothing’. Yet, the very fact that they are so haunting and immersing suggests otherwise. I found ‘Syndromes…’ his strangest work so far, at once both heart-warming and fearful. ‘Tropical Malady’ is completely extraordinary, vivid, powerful and imaginative. I would suggest these are films about everything and nothing.
Thai film director Apichatpong Weerasethakul, who mercifully calls himself 'Joe', is currently the subject of a short retrospective at what we used to be able to call the National Film Theatre in London. Despite only having made five features so far, he fully deserves this attention, as one of the most audacious and original filmmakers currently at work, and for having significantly raised the profile of Thai cinema (his film ‘Tropical Malady’ was the first Thai film to win a critics’ prize at Cannes).
Perhaps his easiest film to digest is his most lengthy, the languid ‘Blissfully Yours’ which essentially unfolds in real time. It is ostensibly a tale of how a leisurely afternoon of al fresco sex is interrupted, but its subtle evocations of tensions and emotions, gradually revealed without dramatic confrontation or violence, is rather majestic. The lush attention to detail in the photographing of landscape and location is a genuine pleasure too. Whilst the deliberately slow pacing and lack of dialogue will seem unfamiliar to western audiences attuned more to the exaggerated action and the snappy scripting of American cinema, ‘Blissfully Yours’ seems remarkably conventional when placed next to his other works.
‘Tropical Malady’ is extraordinary, baffling, possibly visionary and certainly impressive. Its first half shares some of the subtleties and romanticism of ‘Blissfully Yours’, focussing on the blossoming romance between an unemployed illiterate city boy and a soldier. It strikes me as interesting that this film has been welcomed under the banner of ‘gay interest’ cinema, as this love is presented in an entirely matter-of-fact and non judgmental way. There is no reference whatsoever to identity politics, the relationship seems playful and tender without anguish or deliberation, and family members seem largely accepting and unquestioning. The most explicitly sexual moment comes when the two young men kiss and lick each other’s hands, an extraordinary moment of natural and unforced eroticism. Joe also demonstrates his brutally dry sense of humour with occasional deployments of camp – the hilarious duet between Sakda (the city boy) and a cabaret singer is a particularly brilliant moment, as is the diversion to an aerobics workout.
Yet after that moment of tantalising erotic play, Sakda mysteriously walks off into the darkness, the screen goes pitch black for ten seconds or more, and the film suddenly and quite unexpectedly changes direction. There’s a brief interlude exploring animal sprit myths, before Sakda and Keng reappear, Keng as a soldier at first chasing, and then being chased by, Sakda’s tiger spirit. There is little or no dialogue in this section and minimal music, yet the tension and claustrophobia is palpable. Joe achieves this through slow but deliberate camera movements, close-up shots expressing fear and bewilderment, and with a naturalist’s attention to the detail of the jungle.
Eventually, Keng the soldier learns more about his situation and his fate, communicating with a monkey to understand that he is both ‘prey and companion’ of the tiger. Ultimately, he must decide whether to free Sakda’s spirit by killing him, or allow himself to be devoured by him, and therefore enter his world. The final confrontation between Keng and the tiger is both mind-boggling and gripping.
What is all this about? The opening of the film may give hints as to its explanation, with an intertitle displaying a quotation emphasising the bestial nature of man that must be subsumed. So, what is Joe saying is bestial in this film? Is it the tender homosexual love depicted in the film’s first half? This seems unlikely, given that the film ends emphasising, in a unique way, the union between Keng and Sakda, and it seems unlikely that Joe would have portrayed the relationship so affectionately were this his underlying intention. I personally felt the film was emphasising that human relationships come with a peculiar combination of innocence and animalistic desires, the latter sometimes needing to be contained, but Joe himself offers no such clear explanation. It may also hint at the shifting patterns of domination and subservience within relationships too, and the extreme measures required to achieve genuine equality. Whatever it is actually about, ‘Tropical Malady’ is a compelling and fascinating film and quite possibly a masterpiece.
It also makes a lot more sense when placed next to ‘Mysterious Object at Noon’, Joe’s debut feature, pretty much unscreened in this country before now. This is shot entirely in black and white, and shares some of the blurring of fiction and documentary that characterised Abbas Kiarostami’s ‘Close Up’. It is a similarly challenging and effective film – even when it appears matter of fact, beneath the surface, there is a world of mystery, fascination and intrigue. The film shows Joe and crew travelling around Thai villages, attempting to make some kind of documentary about Thai life and culture. The result is the unfolding of a magical realist fairytale, narrated and elaborated by the people the crew meet on their journey, sometimes even acted out by them. It gives some context and background for the deployment of folk tale and mythology in ‘Tropical Malady’.
This offers no explanation whatsoever for ‘Syndromes and a Century’, however. This is Joe’s most recent film, and his contribution to the Mozart-inspired ‘New Crowned Hope’ project to which Tsai Ming-Liang also contributed the similarly outstanding ‘I Don’t Want To Sleep Alone’ (showing at the NFT in November). I must admit that Tsai’s film affected me far more on an emotional level – ‘Syndromes…’ does seem rather formalised and cold by comparison. Perhaps this is where its relationship to musical composition lies – in its emphasis on repetition, extended themes, motifs and developments. It is certainly puzzling and memorable.
I don’t share the sentiments of The Guardian’s film critic Peter Bradshaw that it is a ‘transcendentally happy’ experience though, nor do I agree with translator and critic Tony Rayns that it is an easy watch. There are moments when it is deceptively light, and this may be when the film is at its most accessible and charming but, taken as a whole, it maintains a dangerous balancing act between being hypnotic and being soporific, and any meaning or explanation is, in this case, completely elusive. There are also images that are exceptionally disquieting and unsettling – as claustrophobic and unpleasant as anything in a more conventional horror movie.
It is set consistently in a hospital – although the initial calm rural setting eventually gives way to a murkier, far more oppressive urban location in the film’s second half. Whilst it shares its bifurcated structure with ‘Tropical Malady’, it does not share that film’s sudden lurch to a radically different scenario – instead it repeats earlier scenes in different contexts, sometimes with words and themes echoed by different characters. Occasionally, there are even strong visual echoes such as the astonishing image of a large extractor pipe sucking in vapour in the second hospital’s terrifying basement, which reflects back on an earlier image of an eclipse. It’s almost as if nature is being channelled into man’s activities. The effect is both provocative and perplexing.
The film mostly seems to be dealing with unrequited affections, although this is not necessarily it key theme – the central female character, Dr. Toey, is doggedly followed by a colleague clearly besotted with her, whilst she attempts to divert him with stories about her own unfulfilled romantic feelings. There is a sketchier subplot about the hospital Dentist, also a semi-professional singer, and his growing infatuation with his Buddhist monk patient. The one relationship that appears to be based on reciprocated feelings is also fraught with tension, with the two parties clearly wanting very different paths in life. The relationship is possibly even meaningless when set against the other unconsummated romantic crusades, which Joe invests with more significance.
The first half of the film, with its hospital corridors seemingly unusually tranquil, has a feather-light touch and is really rather beautiful. It is essentially a series of wry, humorous vignettes but it sustains a casually elegant flow.
Both halves begin with Dr. Toey interviewing a new doctor, Dr. Nohng, for a job. In the first half he seems rather lost and detached, but in the second, he adopts a far more significant role, exploring the hospital’s unnerving basement, confronting a mentally disturbed patient with carbon monoxide poisoning, and invited to drink from a bottle with some ageing female doctors. It seems that all the lightness of the first half has vanished – in this dense, urban location with its high rise buildings, there is oppression, frustration and confusion in abundance.
Weerasethakul has described ‘Syndromes…’ as a ‘recreation of the lives of his parents’, both of whom were themselves Doctors, and his own memories of the hospital environment as a child. To this, he has added little by way of explanation. Is this film simply a rather languid and dreamy exploration of alternative realities or is it playing with Buddhist notions of reincarnation?
Joe has also said that his films are ‘about nothing’. Yet, the very fact that they are so haunting and immersing suggests otherwise. I found ‘Syndromes…’ his strangest work so far, at once both heart-warming and fearful. ‘Tropical Malady’ is completely extraordinary, vivid, powerful and imaginative. I would suggest these are films about everything and nothing.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Above The Clouds
Dirty Projectors - Rise Above
Dave Longstreth is completely insane. Fortunately, both for him and for us, he’s also a maverick genius. His constantly shifting ensemble, Dirty Projectors, are the most unhinged and viscerally exciting live act I’ve seen this year, and ‘Rise Above’ is an utterly magnificent record. It’s supposedly a reinterpretation of Black Flag’s ‘Damaged’, constructed entirely from memory as Longstreth was left with the inlay but not the cassette of his original copy of the album. My knowledge of Black Flag is fairly limited, so this won’t be the most contextualised review I’ve ever written but I’m pretty sure the result sounds absolutely nothing like Black Flag. It is, however, the most strikingly original concoction to have emerged from the American rock underground in some time. It is clearly more about the inspiration and sensations Longstreth derived from Black Flag in his youth, than about the specific sound and arrangements of those songs.
Longstreth clearly has no reservations about adopting a ‘pick and mix’ approach to music, grabbing liberally from an open-minded range of genres. Oddly, the result is the most accessible Dirty Projectors record to date but that certainly doesn’t make it conventional or predictable. Longstreth veers off on any unexpected tangent that takes his interest – the rhythms are fragmented and changeable, the arrangements multi-faceted and compelling, particularly on this occasion in the use of vocal harmonies. His own rather anguished vocals might be an acquired taste, but they are softened by his sweet-sounding female counterparts.
The songs often begin in deceptively safe territory – perhaps with the strum of an acoustic guitar or with a clearly stated melody. There’s simply no guessing where they will end up though, or what route they will take to get there. Who could predict the sudden lurch into reggae that takes place mid-way through ‘Police Story’ or the switch between propulsive afrobeat grooves and some sort of contemporary wind and string arrangements that characterise ‘No More’ and ‘Depression’.
Even the most straightforward moments have real oddities when the veneer is scratched away. The title track begins with a Neil Young-esque trudge and is probably the closest Longstreth will get to being immediately infectious. Yet the melody, pleasing on the ear as it is, is considerably more exotic than anything Young might have penned, and perhaps derives more from roots reggae – Culture or Burning Spear may well have been on the Longstreth playlist at some point.
Longstreth’s music is consistently playful and stimulating, but there’s also the sense that he is striving for something powerful, contemporary and significant. My knowledge of Black Flag is not great enough to confirm whether the lyrics here are taken from the source material, but plenty of these songs apply neatly to current geo-political tensions, from the assertion that ‘we’re fighting a war we can’t win, they hate us, we hate them’ to the title track’s frustration with abuse and manipulation. It’s not exactly the most nuanced poetry you’ll ever hear, but it does have a brutal impact to match Longstreth’s dazzling sonorities.
‘Rise Above’ is an album as brilliantly unfathomable and disorientating as life itself. Yet it has its own peculiar internal logic – much of its invention sounds precise and mathematical, yet there’s a looseness and vigour in the playing that defies classification. It transcends just about everything.
Dave Longstreth is completely insane. Fortunately, both for him and for us, he’s also a maverick genius. His constantly shifting ensemble, Dirty Projectors, are the most unhinged and viscerally exciting live act I’ve seen this year, and ‘Rise Above’ is an utterly magnificent record. It’s supposedly a reinterpretation of Black Flag’s ‘Damaged’, constructed entirely from memory as Longstreth was left with the inlay but not the cassette of his original copy of the album. My knowledge of Black Flag is fairly limited, so this won’t be the most contextualised review I’ve ever written but I’m pretty sure the result sounds absolutely nothing like Black Flag. It is, however, the most strikingly original concoction to have emerged from the American rock underground in some time. It is clearly more about the inspiration and sensations Longstreth derived from Black Flag in his youth, than about the specific sound and arrangements of those songs.
Longstreth clearly has no reservations about adopting a ‘pick and mix’ approach to music, grabbing liberally from an open-minded range of genres. Oddly, the result is the most accessible Dirty Projectors record to date but that certainly doesn’t make it conventional or predictable. Longstreth veers off on any unexpected tangent that takes his interest – the rhythms are fragmented and changeable, the arrangements multi-faceted and compelling, particularly on this occasion in the use of vocal harmonies. His own rather anguished vocals might be an acquired taste, but they are softened by his sweet-sounding female counterparts.
The songs often begin in deceptively safe territory – perhaps with the strum of an acoustic guitar or with a clearly stated melody. There’s simply no guessing where they will end up though, or what route they will take to get there. Who could predict the sudden lurch into reggae that takes place mid-way through ‘Police Story’ or the switch between propulsive afrobeat grooves and some sort of contemporary wind and string arrangements that characterise ‘No More’ and ‘Depression’.
Even the most straightforward moments have real oddities when the veneer is scratched away. The title track begins with a Neil Young-esque trudge and is probably the closest Longstreth will get to being immediately infectious. Yet the melody, pleasing on the ear as it is, is considerably more exotic than anything Young might have penned, and perhaps derives more from roots reggae – Culture or Burning Spear may well have been on the Longstreth playlist at some point.
Longstreth’s music is consistently playful and stimulating, but there’s also the sense that he is striving for something powerful, contemporary and significant. My knowledge of Black Flag is not great enough to confirm whether the lyrics here are taken from the source material, but plenty of these songs apply neatly to current geo-political tensions, from the assertion that ‘we’re fighting a war we can’t win, they hate us, we hate them’ to the title track’s frustration with abuse and manipulation. It’s not exactly the most nuanced poetry you’ll ever hear, but it does have a brutal impact to match Longstreth’s dazzling sonorities.
‘Rise Above’ is an album as brilliantly unfathomable and disorientating as life itself. Yet it has its own peculiar internal logic – much of its invention sounds precise and mathematical, yet there’s a looseness and vigour in the playing that defies classification. It transcends just about everything.
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