I'm a bit broke at the moment, poor old me, but here are some of the albums I would be buying if I had the funds...
Caribou - The Milk Of Human Kindness
Spoon - Gimme Fiction
The Decemberists - Picaresque
The Books - Lost and Safe
Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti - Worn Copy
Mugison - Mugimama, Is It Monkey Music?
Keith Jarrett - Radiance (damn ECM double CDs - this one will probably be over £20!)
Magnolia Electric Co. - What Comes After The Blues
Acoustic Ladyland - Last Chance Disco
Sleater-Kinney - The Woods
Quasimoto (Madlib) - The Further Adventures Of Lord Quas
Ryan Adams - Cold Roses
Smog - A River Ain't Too Much To Love
Electrelane - Axes
Stevie Wonder - A Time To Love (single is surprisingly not bad)
Stephen Malkmus - Face The Truth
John Prine - Fair And Square
Herman Dune - Not On Top
...all of which would appear to be among the year's most essential albums. Why they all have to come out within the space of a month is beyond me! No doubt we'll have a drought for the rest of the summer.
I've also just heard that not only is Kate Bush supposedly returning with a new album later in the year, but the B-52s have reformed and are back in the studio as well. Fantastic!
Monday, May 02, 2005
Bad Timing
I do love you The Windmill, I really do - but if you're going to locate your music venue a good 10 minutes walk from Brixton station, it would be really helpful if you managed to finish your gigs in time to catch the last train. On Friday, I bit the bullet and left the Major Matt Mason USA gig early, but I steadfastly stayed to the end of the Broken Family Band set on Saturday and left myself a lengthy journey home on two night buses.
The Mason gig was a bit of a mixed bag - I was both horrified and amused to see the return of the strange vertically challenged performance poet I once saw play with Hot Chip at the Spitz club (the line-up that left Alexis Taylor in an exceptionally grumpy mood, as Hot Chip took to the stage over an hour late). His screechy rhymes are bearable for about 10 minutes and, mercifully, that was about the length of his set. I then remember a band who had some pleasant harmonies, but some very dull arrangements and a girl group (who I think were called Pantsuit), who included the drummer from Schwervon! amongst their number and played a sharp, punchy set of endearing girl pop.
Matt Mason himself played an engaging solo set, full of dry humour and laconic vocalising. I was not familiar with his songs - but given the reliance on his delivery and lyrics, they were the kind of songs that, given attentive listening, reap immediate rewards. One song saw Mason sing from the perspective of a dog and was quite brilliant - a kind of slowed-down, drawling skiffle song. Later, he brought some of the members of Pantsuit on stage for a couple of numbers, but the pace remained as hazily listless as ever. An enjoyable set - but it was sadly at this point that I had to depart.
The Saturday line-up was more consistent. The opening set from The Morning People (fronted by Sam Inglis, who used to run the singer-songwriter night at The Boat Race in Cambridge, and still runs it at its new home The Man On The Moon) was wonderful. These were inspired, humorous and sharp indie-pop songs given a twist of Americana by virtue of some lovely slide and lead guitar. They also had a keyboard player who favoured the high-register, plonky one-finger keyboard lines that are infectious as hell. There were just so many fantastic songs here - a song arguing, quite convincingly, that even the achievements of minor celebrities should be recognised. Strange metaphors were in abundance, most notably on the delightful 'Rocking Horse Shit'. 'Older Women' provided a light-hearted, if probably sincere, paen to the virtues of the, erm, older woman. It certainly made me chuckle, even if it did rather steal the thunder from Chris Trigg's equaly splendid 'Older Girls', as yet unheard except by a select few. 'Guilty Pleasures' provided exactly the kind of thrill its title implied it might. This is the sort of band that deserves to be heard by more people - but will no doubt sadly remain playing a small clutch of gigs in pub backrooms. Check out their website http://www.themorningpeople.com and be sure to catch them next time they make it to a venue near you.
After that, we had the acoustic singer-songwriter Elephant Micah, who closely resembled Joel Gibb from the Hidden Cameras, but sadly lacked Joel's gift for an insistent melody. In fact, even Joel's less subtle modes of provocation would have been welcome here, as the set was so calm and meandering it proved all too easy to ignore.
Next up were Abesentee, clearly strong favourites of The Broken Family Band, as they had already filled the support slot at The 100 Club a few months ago. Nothing had changed much in their set - the two most striking elements of their act, being the girl with the peculiar retro fashion sense (huge bug glasses and cowboy hat), and the tiny frontman with an unnervingly deep voice (sounding not unlike Smog's Bill Callahan). They sounded pleasant, but only occasionally enervated enough to be truly striking, and I was unable to distinguish the words, which may have acted against them. Still, there's plenty of promise and it would seem more than likely that I might catch them again some time soon.
As for BFB, this probably won't rank among their best gigs. It wasn't as drunken and riotuous as the first of their three gigs at The Windmill that I've seen, and it certainly didn't have the hometown thrill of their Strawberry Fair performances. In fact, despite Steve Adams' apparent drunkenness, they still used the occasion as an opportunity to showcase new material, most of which seemed to start with a slow drawl and suddenly accelerate into a brisk country-punk hoedown. This harmonisation of the two most distinct elements of their sound may provide them with the refashioning of the established formula that they really need, and I thought that there was plenty of promise in songs like 'You're Like A Woman' and 'The Booze and The Drugs', even if lyrically, they seemed to be mining an already familiar seam. Talking of mining, in leaving early, John Kell was unlucky to miss a fantastically raucous interpretation of Leonard Cohen's 'Diamonds In The Mine' which proved to be the highlight of the gig for me. They then played a couple of songs that may have been new, or may have been very old (I still haven't got round to picking up a copy of 'The King Will Build A Disco') and a strangely subdued encore of 'Devil In The Details' and the beautiful 'John Belushi' (clearly now a firm fan favourite judging by the number of people singing along). They ended with 'In Yer Bedroom' and I left, hoping to just catch the last train, but actually missing it by a matter of seconds. Ho hum.
The Mason gig was a bit of a mixed bag - I was both horrified and amused to see the return of the strange vertically challenged performance poet I once saw play with Hot Chip at the Spitz club (the line-up that left Alexis Taylor in an exceptionally grumpy mood, as Hot Chip took to the stage over an hour late). His screechy rhymes are bearable for about 10 minutes and, mercifully, that was about the length of his set. I then remember a band who had some pleasant harmonies, but some very dull arrangements and a girl group (who I think were called Pantsuit), who included the drummer from Schwervon! amongst their number and played a sharp, punchy set of endearing girl pop.
Matt Mason himself played an engaging solo set, full of dry humour and laconic vocalising. I was not familiar with his songs - but given the reliance on his delivery and lyrics, they were the kind of songs that, given attentive listening, reap immediate rewards. One song saw Mason sing from the perspective of a dog and was quite brilliant - a kind of slowed-down, drawling skiffle song. Later, he brought some of the members of Pantsuit on stage for a couple of numbers, but the pace remained as hazily listless as ever. An enjoyable set - but it was sadly at this point that I had to depart.
The Saturday line-up was more consistent. The opening set from The Morning People (fronted by Sam Inglis, who used to run the singer-songwriter night at The Boat Race in Cambridge, and still runs it at its new home The Man On The Moon) was wonderful. These were inspired, humorous and sharp indie-pop songs given a twist of Americana by virtue of some lovely slide and lead guitar. They also had a keyboard player who favoured the high-register, plonky one-finger keyboard lines that are infectious as hell. There were just so many fantastic songs here - a song arguing, quite convincingly, that even the achievements of minor celebrities should be recognised. Strange metaphors were in abundance, most notably on the delightful 'Rocking Horse Shit'. 'Older Women' provided a light-hearted, if probably sincere, paen to the virtues of the, erm, older woman. It certainly made me chuckle, even if it did rather steal the thunder from Chris Trigg's equaly splendid 'Older Girls', as yet unheard except by a select few. 'Guilty Pleasures' provided exactly the kind of thrill its title implied it might. This is the sort of band that deserves to be heard by more people - but will no doubt sadly remain playing a small clutch of gigs in pub backrooms. Check out their website http://www.themorningpeople.com and be sure to catch them next time they make it to a venue near you.
After that, we had the acoustic singer-songwriter Elephant Micah, who closely resembled Joel Gibb from the Hidden Cameras, but sadly lacked Joel's gift for an insistent melody. In fact, even Joel's less subtle modes of provocation would have been welcome here, as the set was so calm and meandering it proved all too easy to ignore.
Next up were Abesentee, clearly strong favourites of The Broken Family Band, as they had already filled the support slot at The 100 Club a few months ago. Nothing had changed much in their set - the two most striking elements of their act, being the girl with the peculiar retro fashion sense (huge bug glasses and cowboy hat), and the tiny frontman with an unnervingly deep voice (sounding not unlike Smog's Bill Callahan). They sounded pleasant, but only occasionally enervated enough to be truly striking, and I was unable to distinguish the words, which may have acted against them. Still, there's plenty of promise and it would seem more than likely that I might catch them again some time soon.
As for BFB, this probably won't rank among their best gigs. It wasn't as drunken and riotuous as the first of their three gigs at The Windmill that I've seen, and it certainly didn't have the hometown thrill of their Strawberry Fair performances. In fact, despite Steve Adams' apparent drunkenness, they still used the occasion as an opportunity to showcase new material, most of which seemed to start with a slow drawl and suddenly accelerate into a brisk country-punk hoedown. This harmonisation of the two most distinct elements of their sound may provide them with the refashioning of the established formula that they really need, and I thought that there was plenty of promise in songs like 'You're Like A Woman' and 'The Booze and The Drugs', even if lyrically, they seemed to be mining an already familiar seam. Talking of mining, in leaving early, John Kell was unlucky to miss a fantastically raucous interpretation of Leonard Cohen's 'Diamonds In The Mine' which proved to be the highlight of the gig for me. They then played a couple of songs that may have been new, or may have been very old (I still haven't got round to picking up a copy of 'The King Will Build A Disco') and a strangely subdued encore of 'Devil In The Details' and the beautiful 'John Belushi' (clearly now a firm fan favourite judging by the number of people singing along). They ended with 'In Yer Bedroom' and I left, hoping to just catch the last train, but actually missing it by a matter of seconds. Ho hum.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Growing Older Gracefully
Two momentous events happened this week, and neither had anything to do with the impending general election (more of that in an imminent post). First, a new Bruce Springsteen album was released. For me at least, this was inevitably a major event, made all the more exciting by the advance whispers that Devils and Dust would see a return to the stark acoustic narratives of Nebraska and The Ghost of Tom Joad. Sony had kept the album tightly under wraps, pompously refusing to send out advance promos to the media and instead inviting everyone to one of those highly irritating listening parties that seem to be the current means of preventing pre-release internet leaks. Surprisingly enough, I was not important enough to attend. Despite the contractual restrictions apparently placed on the media, some mixed reports did seep out over the weekend, including a snobby, patronising and uncharacteristically off the mark review from Andy Gill in the Independent, baffled indifference from Alexis Petridis in the Guardian and an enthusiastic thumbs up from the consistently hopeless Observer Music Monthly. So far, the signs were not especially promising. Still, an exceptional article in the Observer review from Sean O' Hagan managed to put the album in its wider context, and was bold enough to finally suggest that Tom Joad may be the quintessential Springsteen album (it is).
The first thing to note about D&D is that the notion that it is the conclusion of a trilogy begun with Nebraska is only half the story. It does indeed contain some of Springsteen's most evocative storytelling, including the songs composed during the Tom Joad acoustic tour in 1996. Yet, it also contains a small cluster of roots rockers, a couple of which venture into something approaching new territory. If anything, it is closer in sound to 'Tunnel Of Love', the solo project in which Springsteen steadfastly refused to provide a chest-beating follow up to 'Born In The USA', although it's by no means as nakedly personal as that album - it largely retains the character-based storytelling approach of the acoustic albums. This is no bad thing, as Sprinsteen remains the best storyteller in popular music.
Secondly, much like The Rising before it, it's a bit of a mixed bag. It contains some great songs, but it also contains a couple of major turkeys. It doesn't share its predecessor's bloated length (it's surprisingly concise), but it does suffer from similar errors of judgement over tracklisting. The rockier tracks are mostly clustered in the first half, rendering the second half a bit of a chore, despite the quality of the songs. Comparisons with the best Springsteen albums may render it a minor work, but such a judgement may prove to be harsh - because it is still an incisive, mature and frequently moving piece of work.
Sadly, the only thing most writers seem to have noticed is the track 'Reno', which, gasp! shock! horror!, makes explicit reference to oral and anal sex! With a prostitute! It's in character of course, and is actually a great deal more subtle than your average chart pop hit (and significantly less offensive). That it's actually a powerful and affecting song contrasting the isolation and desperation of purchased sex with a deeper love existing only in distant memory seems to have escaped the critics' attention. Still, at least they were bothering to read the lyric sheet whilst they supped champagne at the listening party.
Some other tracks follow familiar Tom Joad territory - 'Matamoras Banks' is another song about immigrants at borders, and basically repeats the formula of 'The Line'. It's empathetic and sensitive, but not as devastating as the earlier song. 'Black Cowboys' is a classic Springsteen family narrative, which sees the slow ebb of 'the ties that bind', with its young protagonist fleeing on a train. It's wistful, delicate and composed with considered clarity. 'The Hitter' tells a boxer's story with Springsteen's characteristic blend of the elegance of poetry and the descriptive detail of prose. He sounds appropriately ragged and worn on this exquisite mini-epic. 'Jesus Was An Only Son' is a faith song where Springsteen has previously been more allusive (dismissed as 'questionable Christian piffle' by Andy Gill in The Independent, although I found it personal and introspective rather than preachy and confrontational). 'Silver Palomino' is wonderful, a song about a horse that acts as a metaphor for two young boys trying to come to terms with their mother's death.
Then there are the peculiar departures - 'Maria's Bed' is rootsy and uplifting, bolstered considerably by Soozy Tyrell's violin and Patti Scialfa's gospel-inspired chanting. This is one of a few tracks where Springsteen affects a different vocal approach, moving into an unusually high register and sounding something akin to Ryan Adams doing an impression of Neil Young. It's striking and irresistible. Equally superb is 'Long Time Comin', which takes the dogged rock blueprint of 'Lonesome Day' and 'Counting On A Miracle' and adds a welcome country lilt through some marvellous slide guitar work. It is also blessed with one of Springsteen's best lyrics in ages - as direct as it is sublime, the final verse particularly beautiful ('Out 'neath the arms of Cassiopeia/Where the sword of Orion swoops/It's me and you Rosie, cracklin' like crossed wires/And you breathin' in your sleep'). Less successful is 'All The Way Home', a generic rocker marred further by the plodding thud of a drum machine, a device that seems to be more frequent in Springsteen songs with Brendan O'Brien on production duties. It is the most thoroughly unremarkable Springsteen song since the days of 'Human Touch' and 'Lucky Town' - it could have sat comfortably on those albums, and in fact, a cursory glance at the sleevenotes does indeed date the song back to 1991. Why Springsteen decided to revisit such a lightweight piece of work now is anybody's guess.
Then there is a batch of songs caught somewhat uncomfortably between the two camps. 'All That I'm Thinkin' About' is yet another car song (but it's not as entertaining as 'Pink Cadillac'). It feels like it should have a Chuck Berry-esque chug to it but it's actually quite restrained, and the falsetto vocal sound more uncomfortable here than on 'Maria's Bed'. The title track opens the album in a worthy and dignified fashion - a lyric inspired by soldiers in Iraq being something we might expect from Bruce Springsteen in 2005. I was impressed by this track on first listen, as it builds from a subtle, introspective opening into a much bigger sound. On further listening, its impact is dulled, however. The chord sequence and melody are slightly predictable, the lyrics more benign platitudes than anything really incisive, and Brendan O'Brien's production is also at its most intrusive here. 'Leah' is a straightforward acoustic love song, but with a bigger arrangement and imposing chorus. It makes for a welcome, more poppy diversion from some of the weightier material here.
At its best, 'Devils and Dust' is substantial and involving - at its worst, it is somewhat inconsequential. This makes for a slightly uncomfortable mix, but there are certainly many more highs than lows, and Springsteen's desire to find new ways of presenting familiar ideas is admirable. His place in the pantheon of classic songwriters already assured, Springsteen is perhaps becoming more adventurous in his maturity.
The second major event was a secret Sleater-Kinney gig (billed as Slutty Kitty) at the tiny Barfly venue in Camden Town. This proved to be an absolute treat. I can't really offer too informed a review - much of the set was new material (new album 'The Woods', recorded with Dave Fridmann, is released at the end of the month) that I was hearing for the first time. I'm also only familiar with part of the Sleater-Kinney back catalogue, being something of a Johnny-come-lately to this most remarkable of bands. Like most music obsessives, and all weblog writers, my passion can occasionally drift into self-righteousness, so it's important to check myself every so often by admitting my past mistakes. I used to hate Sleater-Kinney - Corin Tucker's harsh vibrato used to make me wince, and I struggled to find much in the way of nuance or melody in the few songs I'd heard. Frankly, I was very, very wrong. Tonight, as they were at the Mean Fiddler last time I saw them, Sleater-Kinney were kinetic, thrilling and adventurous. The sound they achieve with two guitars and drums is colossal, much of it based around the visceral brilliance of Janet Weiss' drumming. The interplay of vocal lines and guitars is increasingly dextrous, without being overly ponderous or pretentious.
What struck me most at the Barfly is the way in which Sleater-Kinney effortlessly combine the angularity and confrontation of the post-punk movement with more historical influences. 'One Beat' betrayed an increasing engagement with blues, improv and heavy rock, and 'The Woods' promises to further these preoccupations, with what sounded here like more dynamic and sustained results. The Beefheart-esque improv explosion towards the end may have been a bit too much, but it didn't sound too unhinged - the band always sounded locked together and in control. They reward the small but energised crowd (who warmly received the new material) with a brilliant three song encore.
They are also brilliant performers - Corin contorting her face as she bellows frequently unintelligible lyrics, Carrie bounding around the stage with relentless energy, Janet's hair flailing all over the place as she pounds out her intricate backbeats. They perform with such gusto that they seem like a fresh, new proposition - it's astounding that they have been performing for over ten years now. They have lost none of their primacy or urgency. It's a powerful combination - and this is a band that should not be missed - catch them when they return to Europe in the summer for festivals, and hopefully a few more UK gigs.
Oh, and Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds are playing Alexandra Palace in August, a mere stone's throw from my home, and a great use for some of that recently acquired Birthday money! There are some advantages to getting older!
The first thing to note about D&D is that the notion that it is the conclusion of a trilogy begun with Nebraska is only half the story. It does indeed contain some of Springsteen's most evocative storytelling, including the songs composed during the Tom Joad acoustic tour in 1996. Yet, it also contains a small cluster of roots rockers, a couple of which venture into something approaching new territory. If anything, it is closer in sound to 'Tunnel Of Love', the solo project in which Springsteen steadfastly refused to provide a chest-beating follow up to 'Born In The USA', although it's by no means as nakedly personal as that album - it largely retains the character-based storytelling approach of the acoustic albums. This is no bad thing, as Sprinsteen remains the best storyteller in popular music.
Secondly, much like The Rising before it, it's a bit of a mixed bag. It contains some great songs, but it also contains a couple of major turkeys. It doesn't share its predecessor's bloated length (it's surprisingly concise), but it does suffer from similar errors of judgement over tracklisting. The rockier tracks are mostly clustered in the first half, rendering the second half a bit of a chore, despite the quality of the songs. Comparisons with the best Springsteen albums may render it a minor work, but such a judgement may prove to be harsh - because it is still an incisive, mature and frequently moving piece of work.
Sadly, the only thing most writers seem to have noticed is the track 'Reno', which, gasp! shock! horror!, makes explicit reference to oral and anal sex! With a prostitute! It's in character of course, and is actually a great deal more subtle than your average chart pop hit (and significantly less offensive). That it's actually a powerful and affecting song contrasting the isolation and desperation of purchased sex with a deeper love existing only in distant memory seems to have escaped the critics' attention. Still, at least they were bothering to read the lyric sheet whilst they supped champagne at the listening party.
Some other tracks follow familiar Tom Joad territory - 'Matamoras Banks' is another song about immigrants at borders, and basically repeats the formula of 'The Line'. It's empathetic and sensitive, but not as devastating as the earlier song. 'Black Cowboys' is a classic Springsteen family narrative, which sees the slow ebb of 'the ties that bind', with its young protagonist fleeing on a train. It's wistful, delicate and composed with considered clarity. 'The Hitter' tells a boxer's story with Springsteen's characteristic blend of the elegance of poetry and the descriptive detail of prose. He sounds appropriately ragged and worn on this exquisite mini-epic. 'Jesus Was An Only Son' is a faith song where Springsteen has previously been more allusive (dismissed as 'questionable Christian piffle' by Andy Gill in The Independent, although I found it personal and introspective rather than preachy and confrontational). 'Silver Palomino' is wonderful, a song about a horse that acts as a metaphor for two young boys trying to come to terms with their mother's death.
Then there are the peculiar departures - 'Maria's Bed' is rootsy and uplifting, bolstered considerably by Soozy Tyrell's violin and Patti Scialfa's gospel-inspired chanting. This is one of a few tracks where Springsteen affects a different vocal approach, moving into an unusually high register and sounding something akin to Ryan Adams doing an impression of Neil Young. It's striking and irresistible. Equally superb is 'Long Time Comin', which takes the dogged rock blueprint of 'Lonesome Day' and 'Counting On A Miracle' and adds a welcome country lilt through some marvellous slide guitar work. It is also blessed with one of Springsteen's best lyrics in ages - as direct as it is sublime, the final verse particularly beautiful ('Out 'neath the arms of Cassiopeia/Where the sword of Orion swoops/It's me and you Rosie, cracklin' like crossed wires/And you breathin' in your sleep'). Less successful is 'All The Way Home', a generic rocker marred further by the plodding thud of a drum machine, a device that seems to be more frequent in Springsteen songs with Brendan O'Brien on production duties. It is the most thoroughly unremarkable Springsteen song since the days of 'Human Touch' and 'Lucky Town' - it could have sat comfortably on those albums, and in fact, a cursory glance at the sleevenotes does indeed date the song back to 1991. Why Springsteen decided to revisit such a lightweight piece of work now is anybody's guess.
Then there is a batch of songs caught somewhat uncomfortably between the two camps. 'All That I'm Thinkin' About' is yet another car song (but it's not as entertaining as 'Pink Cadillac'). It feels like it should have a Chuck Berry-esque chug to it but it's actually quite restrained, and the falsetto vocal sound more uncomfortable here than on 'Maria's Bed'. The title track opens the album in a worthy and dignified fashion - a lyric inspired by soldiers in Iraq being something we might expect from Bruce Springsteen in 2005. I was impressed by this track on first listen, as it builds from a subtle, introspective opening into a much bigger sound. On further listening, its impact is dulled, however. The chord sequence and melody are slightly predictable, the lyrics more benign platitudes than anything really incisive, and Brendan O'Brien's production is also at its most intrusive here. 'Leah' is a straightforward acoustic love song, but with a bigger arrangement and imposing chorus. It makes for a welcome, more poppy diversion from some of the weightier material here.
At its best, 'Devils and Dust' is substantial and involving - at its worst, it is somewhat inconsequential. This makes for a slightly uncomfortable mix, but there are certainly many more highs than lows, and Springsteen's desire to find new ways of presenting familiar ideas is admirable. His place in the pantheon of classic songwriters already assured, Springsteen is perhaps becoming more adventurous in his maturity.
The second major event was a secret Sleater-Kinney gig (billed as Slutty Kitty) at the tiny Barfly venue in Camden Town. This proved to be an absolute treat. I can't really offer too informed a review - much of the set was new material (new album 'The Woods', recorded with Dave Fridmann, is released at the end of the month) that I was hearing for the first time. I'm also only familiar with part of the Sleater-Kinney back catalogue, being something of a Johnny-come-lately to this most remarkable of bands. Like most music obsessives, and all weblog writers, my passion can occasionally drift into self-righteousness, so it's important to check myself every so often by admitting my past mistakes. I used to hate Sleater-Kinney - Corin Tucker's harsh vibrato used to make me wince, and I struggled to find much in the way of nuance or melody in the few songs I'd heard. Frankly, I was very, very wrong. Tonight, as they were at the Mean Fiddler last time I saw them, Sleater-Kinney were kinetic, thrilling and adventurous. The sound they achieve with two guitars and drums is colossal, much of it based around the visceral brilliance of Janet Weiss' drumming. The interplay of vocal lines and guitars is increasingly dextrous, without being overly ponderous or pretentious.
What struck me most at the Barfly is the way in which Sleater-Kinney effortlessly combine the angularity and confrontation of the post-punk movement with more historical influences. 'One Beat' betrayed an increasing engagement with blues, improv and heavy rock, and 'The Woods' promises to further these preoccupations, with what sounded here like more dynamic and sustained results. The Beefheart-esque improv explosion towards the end may have been a bit too much, but it didn't sound too unhinged - the band always sounded locked together and in control. They reward the small but energised crowd (who warmly received the new material) with a brilliant three song encore.
They are also brilliant performers - Corin contorting her face as she bellows frequently unintelligible lyrics, Carrie bounding around the stage with relentless energy, Janet's hair flailing all over the place as she pounds out her intricate backbeats. They perform with such gusto that they seem like a fresh, new proposition - it's astounding that they have been performing for over ten years now. They have lost none of their primacy or urgency. It's a powerful combination - and this is a band that should not be missed - catch them when they return to Europe in the summer for festivals, and hopefully a few more UK gigs.
Oh, and Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds are playing Alexandra Palace in August, a mere stone's throw from my home, and a great use for some of that recently acquired Birthday money! There are some advantages to getting older!
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Murphy's Law
Pure Reason Revolution, Fans Of Kate- The Barfly, Chalk Farm 18/4/05
Bloody typical. The one time I actually arrive early for a pre-arranged meeting, there is all manner of chaos at Chalk Farm, involving what purported to be a defective train, but what may well actually have been a passenger on the track (especially likely given the strong police and emergency service presence outside the station). I got a justified taste of my own medicine in having to wait half an hour for John Kell to arrive (through no fault of his own). Ho Hum - given the irony, I guess it was appropriate that we ended up drinking Murphy's rather than Guinness inside the venue.
This proved to be a rather more nostalgic evening than I had expected. John Kell had played me a Pure Reason Revolution track whilst I was sitting in on the alumni edition of John Kell Vs. Satan, and from him I knew they had a track on the latest compilation in the Abuse Your Friends series (my old band Hyperfuzz were featured on number one). I also subsequently found out that my friend Seb (lead guitarist in aforementioned teen punk combo) had been asked to join the band on guitar. Had he actually told me that the band featured two former members of fellow teen pop-punkers Gel (who we supported on a number of occasions) and one member of girl punk group the Period Pains, the event would have seemed less like a series of odd coincidences, and more like an intricately connected, somewhat incestuous web. At last it all made sense! What's more bizarre is that I completely failed to recognise either Jon or Andrew from Gel, as they both looked radically different (bulkier and more hairy to put it politely). With two members of Gel, one member of Period Pains, all of Hyperfuzz, and apparently also the once omnipresent Emmy-Kate Montrose of Kenickie, it felt like a big old Friday Dynamite reunion. Anyway, more of PRR later....
First, the support acts. The opening act were called something like Make Your Good Escape, and they played highly proficient rock music that would not have been out of place in the pages of Kerrang! magazine. Not really my cup of tea, but they had a lot of energy, and they seemed more distinctive than the average heavy rock band largely due to some vigorous and technically impressive drumming.
Next up were the much touted Fans Of Kate, who have already received a couple of plays on the new Steve Lamacq afternoon show on BBC 6Music. It would be churlish not to admit that I quite enjoyed their set, bristling as it was with self-effacing charm, zest and a clutch of memorable tunes. Nevertheless, the somewhat conventional and chugging arrangements began to irritate by about half way through the set, and by the end I felt rather like I'd been pushed repeatedly against a brick wall. This was not in itself an entirely un-entertaining experience, but they were perhaps in danger of pummeling some very good pop songs into submitting to a somewhat predictable and generic format. Certainly, the set was perilously close to being samey.
Pure Reason Revolution took the longest setting up, and not without reason. With their banks of synths and keyboards, laptops, electronic drums and guitars they were certainly making use of that new advance from Sony (who are apparently hoping they will break America). How the two brothers from Gel went from 'Picture Frame' and 'Rosie and Jim' to this I'm not entirely sure. They played a near-continuous set of hypnotic, proggy grooves which were punctuated by harmonies straight out of the Crosby, Stills and Nash songbook, and fervent passages of cock-rock action. This made for an unconventional and striking combination. Some people I spoke to remained unconvinved by this staunchly unfashionable sound. I admit that the first reference point that sprang to my mind was Mansun (a band now at least partially unfairly ridiculed) but I wonder if PRR might have more commercial potential than they realise. OK, so 12 minute single 'Bright Ambassadors Of Morning' is hardly likely to be the most played track on your local GWR station - but they seem to have already amassed considerable interest, as well as something approaching a cult following. They are certainly techincally proficient and fearlessly indulgent, but the gift for a good pop melody that Jon displayed with the perpetually effervescent Gel clearly has not deserted him. They also had a remarkably polished sound, that made me temporarily forget I was in the claustrophobic confines of the Barfly (I could easily have been in an enormodome, watching this band open for the likes of Rammstein or Metallica!). The voices meshed together with consummate ease, and the band proved considerably more interesting when utilising the unusual juxtaposition of harmonies and heavy rock than when relying on meandering instrumental passages. I was slightly frustrated by the relentlessness of it all, particularly the insistence on playing a virtually continuous set with scant acknowledgement of the presence of an audience. This could only have added to the slightly unfair preconceptions of this band as pretentious, elitist, arty or other such stereotypes.
At the end, I left Seb vascilating over whether to accept the offer to join the band (it might well entail enduring a gruelling touring schedule as the band focus their efforts on the States). I must admit that I long for the opportunity for one of my musical outfits to be heard by a wider audience. But hey, like the Murphy's, I'm not bitter....
Bloody typical. The one time I actually arrive early for a pre-arranged meeting, there is all manner of chaos at Chalk Farm, involving what purported to be a defective train, but what may well actually have been a passenger on the track (especially likely given the strong police and emergency service presence outside the station). I got a justified taste of my own medicine in having to wait half an hour for John Kell to arrive (through no fault of his own). Ho Hum - given the irony, I guess it was appropriate that we ended up drinking Murphy's rather than Guinness inside the venue.
This proved to be a rather more nostalgic evening than I had expected. John Kell had played me a Pure Reason Revolution track whilst I was sitting in on the alumni edition of John Kell Vs. Satan, and from him I knew they had a track on the latest compilation in the Abuse Your Friends series (my old band Hyperfuzz were featured on number one). I also subsequently found out that my friend Seb (lead guitarist in aforementioned teen punk combo) had been asked to join the band on guitar. Had he actually told me that the band featured two former members of fellow teen pop-punkers Gel (who we supported on a number of occasions) and one member of girl punk group the Period Pains, the event would have seemed less like a series of odd coincidences, and more like an intricately connected, somewhat incestuous web. At last it all made sense! What's more bizarre is that I completely failed to recognise either Jon or Andrew from Gel, as they both looked radically different (bulkier and more hairy to put it politely). With two members of Gel, one member of Period Pains, all of Hyperfuzz, and apparently also the once omnipresent Emmy-Kate Montrose of Kenickie, it felt like a big old Friday Dynamite reunion. Anyway, more of PRR later....
First, the support acts. The opening act were called something like Make Your Good Escape, and they played highly proficient rock music that would not have been out of place in the pages of Kerrang! magazine. Not really my cup of tea, but they had a lot of energy, and they seemed more distinctive than the average heavy rock band largely due to some vigorous and technically impressive drumming.
Next up were the much touted Fans Of Kate, who have already received a couple of plays on the new Steve Lamacq afternoon show on BBC 6Music. It would be churlish not to admit that I quite enjoyed their set, bristling as it was with self-effacing charm, zest and a clutch of memorable tunes. Nevertheless, the somewhat conventional and chugging arrangements began to irritate by about half way through the set, and by the end I felt rather like I'd been pushed repeatedly against a brick wall. This was not in itself an entirely un-entertaining experience, but they were perhaps in danger of pummeling some very good pop songs into submitting to a somewhat predictable and generic format. Certainly, the set was perilously close to being samey.
Pure Reason Revolution took the longest setting up, and not without reason. With their banks of synths and keyboards, laptops, electronic drums and guitars they were certainly making use of that new advance from Sony (who are apparently hoping they will break America). How the two brothers from Gel went from 'Picture Frame' and 'Rosie and Jim' to this I'm not entirely sure. They played a near-continuous set of hypnotic, proggy grooves which were punctuated by harmonies straight out of the Crosby, Stills and Nash songbook, and fervent passages of cock-rock action. This made for an unconventional and striking combination. Some people I spoke to remained unconvinved by this staunchly unfashionable sound. I admit that the first reference point that sprang to my mind was Mansun (a band now at least partially unfairly ridiculed) but I wonder if PRR might have more commercial potential than they realise. OK, so 12 minute single 'Bright Ambassadors Of Morning' is hardly likely to be the most played track on your local GWR station - but they seem to have already amassed considerable interest, as well as something approaching a cult following. They are certainly techincally proficient and fearlessly indulgent, but the gift for a good pop melody that Jon displayed with the perpetually effervescent Gel clearly has not deserted him. They also had a remarkably polished sound, that made me temporarily forget I was in the claustrophobic confines of the Barfly (I could easily have been in an enormodome, watching this band open for the likes of Rammstein or Metallica!). The voices meshed together with consummate ease, and the band proved considerably more interesting when utilising the unusual juxtaposition of harmonies and heavy rock than when relying on meandering instrumental passages. I was slightly frustrated by the relentlessness of it all, particularly the insistence on playing a virtually continuous set with scant acknowledgement of the presence of an audience. This could only have added to the slightly unfair preconceptions of this band as pretentious, elitist, arty or other such stereotypes.
At the end, I left Seb vascilating over whether to accept the offer to join the band (it might well entail enduring a gruelling touring schedule as the band focus their efforts on the States). I must admit that I long for the opportunity for one of my musical outfits to be heard by a wider audience. But hey, like the Murphy's, I'm not bitter....
Monday, April 18, 2005
Wind Power!
Another account rather than a proper review, and another thrilling evening I'm pleased to report. My new band Correspondent played their second ever gig (albeit a gig that felt like the first in a really dedicated music venue) at The Windmill, Brixton last night. The Windmill remains one of my favourite London pub venues - it's a place where the promoters and DJs seem to actually have knowledge of music, good taste, and common sense. It's one of the rare places where they manage to put together a diverse line-up of acts that doesn't feel uncomfortable or inappropriate.
Starting off tonight were Ironpaw, two young guys from Kansas who sadly promised a little more than they delivered. With ukelelees, and guitar-case percussion, they looked endearingly ramshackle. They had some pleasant, country-tinged chord sequences (although I did indeed realise, in the middle of Correpondent's performance as I predicted I would, that the song they blatantly plagiarised was the not entirely credible 'Julia' by Chris Rea, so not an indie or country track at all!). These sat somewhat uncomfortably with shouty, chanty vocals that seemed designed more for the football terrace than an intimate pub venue. Still, impressive that they travelled all this way to play a clutch of shows in London - and there may be enough quirkiness in their sound for them to build on.
I was up next with Correspondent, and this seemed an altogether more confident and professional performance than our debut. It also felt enjoyable and entertaining - whereas I felt the first airing of the same set of songs a few weeks ago might have come across as a little po-faced. Various people remarked that the difference between this band and Unit can be summed up in that lyrically, Jeremy Warmsley likes to write about girls, whereas Brendan from Unit likes to write about doing nothing (a little unfair, perhaps - he does occasionally engage with the outside world!) and musically, Unit are a bit all-over-the-shop, whereas Correspondent are more straight ahead indie. I certainly accept the latter point (especially as I don't think it was intended as a criticism). I had been concerned that Correspondent might have been a lot less original a prospect than we had hoped, but I now feel comfortable that we are performing good quality songs with energy and conviction, which is more than enough. Much like Unit, however, we need to improve our engagement with the audience - some proper song titles might be a good starting point! We should be doing some recording soon, so watch this space...
Up next were another American act, this time all the way from Salt Lake City came Will Sartain. I'm not sure if this was a solo singer-songwriter and band, or if that was the name of the band (remember the 1980s confusion over the band called Danny Wilson?) but I can be sure that they were really rather good. The first few songs had jaunty rhythms and quirky vocals that reminded me a little of Ben Folds Five, and they performed with remarkable gusto. Each song seemed to be a mini-epic, with intricate twisting structures and several compelling melodies. Towards the end, it all started to get a little samey - but with their slight hints of psychedelia, classic pop and American indie, these guys had melded together a disparate set of influences with real success.
The headline act were some really nice guys from Switzerland, with the most refreshingly un-arsey drummer I've ever met (he let me use his rather substantial collection of cymbals, including a colossal China which I very much enjoyed crashing during Correspondent's set). Sadly, it was all running a bit late and I needed to get home by this stage - they seemed a bit dark and proggy, with intriguing instrumentation, including electronics, but I can't really pass a useful judgement from the soundcheck and the first song.
Starting off tonight were Ironpaw, two young guys from Kansas who sadly promised a little more than they delivered. With ukelelees, and guitar-case percussion, they looked endearingly ramshackle. They had some pleasant, country-tinged chord sequences (although I did indeed realise, in the middle of Correpondent's performance as I predicted I would, that the song they blatantly plagiarised was the not entirely credible 'Julia' by Chris Rea, so not an indie or country track at all!). These sat somewhat uncomfortably with shouty, chanty vocals that seemed designed more for the football terrace than an intimate pub venue. Still, impressive that they travelled all this way to play a clutch of shows in London - and there may be enough quirkiness in their sound for them to build on.
I was up next with Correspondent, and this seemed an altogether more confident and professional performance than our debut. It also felt enjoyable and entertaining - whereas I felt the first airing of the same set of songs a few weeks ago might have come across as a little po-faced. Various people remarked that the difference between this band and Unit can be summed up in that lyrically, Jeremy Warmsley likes to write about girls, whereas Brendan from Unit likes to write about doing nothing (a little unfair, perhaps - he does occasionally engage with the outside world!) and musically, Unit are a bit all-over-the-shop, whereas Correspondent are more straight ahead indie. I certainly accept the latter point (especially as I don't think it was intended as a criticism). I had been concerned that Correspondent might have been a lot less original a prospect than we had hoped, but I now feel comfortable that we are performing good quality songs with energy and conviction, which is more than enough. Much like Unit, however, we need to improve our engagement with the audience - some proper song titles might be a good starting point! We should be doing some recording soon, so watch this space...
Up next were another American act, this time all the way from Salt Lake City came Will Sartain. I'm not sure if this was a solo singer-songwriter and band, or if that was the name of the band (remember the 1980s confusion over the band called Danny Wilson?) but I can be sure that they were really rather good. The first few songs had jaunty rhythms and quirky vocals that reminded me a little of Ben Folds Five, and they performed with remarkable gusto. Each song seemed to be a mini-epic, with intricate twisting structures and several compelling melodies. Towards the end, it all started to get a little samey - but with their slight hints of psychedelia, classic pop and American indie, these guys had melded together a disparate set of influences with real success.
The headline act were some really nice guys from Switzerland, with the most refreshingly un-arsey drummer I've ever met (he let me use his rather substantial collection of cymbals, including a colossal China which I very much enjoyed crashing during Correspondent's set). Sadly, it was all running a bit late and I needed to get home by this stage - they seemed a bit dark and proggy, with intriguing instrumentation, including electronics, but I can't really pass a useful judgement from the soundcheck and the first song.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
VALIDATED!
Colonel Bastard, MJ Hibbett and The Validators, Unit - The Man On The Moon, Cambridge
Obviously I can't really review my own gig - so this is going to be more of an account of what proved to be a quite brilliant night in Cambridge. Thanks must go to Cambridge local heroes Colonel Bastard for arranging this gig - it really was a great pleasure and privilege to play with some bands I actually like rather than a couple of random pub rock seventies throwbacks as usually happens. Self-promotion is the way forward - I intend to begin by honouring my promise of an exchange with Colonel Bastard - I hope we can repeat this line-up in London at some point soon.
Things got off to a terrible start, largely because of my EXTREME LATENESS. Some people (specifically John Kell) will tell you this was not exactly out of character - although having driven for three hours (across London North to South to pick up a bass amp - back again to avoid the apparently clogged M25 and then out to Cambridge) it was not entirely my fault this time. My reckless haste up an almost entirely empty M11 at least meant that the equipment arrived only just over an hour late, and frankly it could have been much worse. Sadly, that still left no time for adequate soundchecks - and I felt it was more than a little unfair that it was us, the latecomers, who managed to get a sneaky level check in before the doors opened.
Whilst we still have a few friends left in Cambridge, I wasn't sure how many people would be there. It transpired that a surprisingly good crowd turned out, which made me feel that my effort had been worth it. We began our groovy mash-up with a pretty storming version of 'Television' - Brendan getting crazy on the guitar, and Dan starting the silly cat dancing far too early in the set! Our new set list continued to work wonders, as there was far less arsing around (although Brendan's guitar tuning nightmares did return to haunt us tonight - we've finally bought an amp, a new guitar is now on the wishlist). We had intended to change it slightly from the previous gig at the Betsey Trotwood, but were ruthlessly curtailed as time seemed to slip from our fingers. Fair enough - it was my fault it was all running a bit late! So, our anti-Bush rant to backing track 'Monkey King' was an unfortunate casualty ('miditastic' as the soundman so accurately described it), as was the Turtle's sublime piece of wry borderline misogyny 'O Woman'. There always seems to be a gaping hole when these songs are absent - but the void was at least partially filled by new song 'The Explorer', given an even more energetic performance tonight than at its debut a couple of weeks ago, and it may well become a standard set closer. I love the lyrics - and the way it veers between half and full time without batting an eyelid. It's one of my current favourites. All good, although the onstage sound was frustratingly muffled and it's always annoying not to be able to hear the vocals. I wondered if place names were repeated during the improvised chorus to 'Shooting People'. This week we will be working on live versions of 'All EYes On You', 'Listen It Out', 'Highway 75' and 'Secretary Of State' - all to be given their live debut in the not too distant future. Check http://www.unit-hq.com for new live dates as they are confirmed.
The full set was:
TELEVISION
SLEEP WHEN YOU'RE DEAD
SHOOTING PEOPLE
EDGE OF TOWN
LOVER'S MESH
2C OTHERS AS THEY C ME
THE EXPLORER
After a quick trip to a cashpoint on the realisation I had no money for drinks - on came MJ Hibbett and The Validators. I've seen them a couple of times now, as well as MJ Hibbett solo, but this was comfortably the best of the bunch. Mark was understandably concerned about playing so many new songs - but I didn't find this a problem at all, simply because the songs are among his most articulate, immediate and entertaining. I particularly enjoyed 'The Gay Train' and 'Tell Me Something You Do Like' and it's refreshing to hear a songwriter so adept at identifying the state of the nation, but also of singing about it all with such infectious positivity. Best of all was a song about the brutal reality of the Thatcher years that may or may not be called 'The Fight For History' - provocative, incisive and also good fun. The band were also on top form, with Frankie Machine's great steal from 'This Charming Man' an extra level of irony to 'The Lesson Of The Smiths'.
All these songs seem to deploy the same four chords - but this doesn't matter a jot, because Hibbett and band can reap so many rewards from what might appear to be a limited framework. The inclusion of a violin with multi-effects also adds to the quirky appeal of their sound. Their performance brought a great beaming smile to my face - and that's a big compliment, if it doesn't sound too cheesy. The Validators are recording a new album imminently - I'm really looking forward to its appearance later this year. MJ Hibbett's own account of the evening can be read at http://www.mjhibbett.com
Headlining were the superb Colonel Bastard, who played many songs I remembered from my student days, but in considerably more polished and impressive versions. I don't think it would be overstating the case to say that this is some of the best indie guitar pop I've heard in recent months - so much more distinctive and enjoyable than most of the po-faced tripe in the pages of the NME. It's music with zest, intelligence and charm to boot. Martin White also has a great sense of humour - "I'm MJ White" he says, "so for one night only we are MJ White and The Vindicators!"
There are classics in abundance - the hilarious 'Peter Sissons' and 'Boring Gordon' are songs which revive the great British tradition of character and narrative in songwriting (and in this respect, Colonel Bastard hark back not just to the power pop of XTC, but also to Ray Davies and The Kinks). They end with a gloriously ragged version of their 'punk rock opera' 'Whitley Grange' which has lodged itself in my consciousness and now refuses to go away. They also looked great in their suits and hats, and had energy and enthusiasm in bucketloads. Tonight has made me realised that, whilst we have some great material, Unit need to go away and work quite hard on this aspect of our performance.
Afterwards, it was all back to Ben from Colonel Bastard's place for an aftershow with BEER - although it involved negotiating a maze of Cambridge backstreets that I never even knew existed. Thanks again to everyone involved.
Obviously I can't really review my own gig - so this is going to be more of an account of what proved to be a quite brilliant night in Cambridge. Thanks must go to Cambridge local heroes Colonel Bastard for arranging this gig - it really was a great pleasure and privilege to play with some bands I actually like rather than a couple of random pub rock seventies throwbacks as usually happens. Self-promotion is the way forward - I intend to begin by honouring my promise of an exchange with Colonel Bastard - I hope we can repeat this line-up in London at some point soon.
Things got off to a terrible start, largely because of my EXTREME LATENESS. Some people (specifically John Kell) will tell you this was not exactly out of character - although having driven for three hours (across London North to South to pick up a bass amp - back again to avoid the apparently clogged M25 and then out to Cambridge) it was not entirely my fault this time. My reckless haste up an almost entirely empty M11 at least meant that the equipment arrived only just over an hour late, and frankly it could have been much worse. Sadly, that still left no time for adequate soundchecks - and I felt it was more than a little unfair that it was us, the latecomers, who managed to get a sneaky level check in before the doors opened.
Whilst we still have a few friends left in Cambridge, I wasn't sure how many people would be there. It transpired that a surprisingly good crowd turned out, which made me feel that my effort had been worth it. We began our groovy mash-up with a pretty storming version of 'Television' - Brendan getting crazy on the guitar, and Dan starting the silly cat dancing far too early in the set! Our new set list continued to work wonders, as there was far less arsing around (although Brendan's guitar tuning nightmares did return to haunt us tonight - we've finally bought an amp, a new guitar is now on the wishlist). We had intended to change it slightly from the previous gig at the Betsey Trotwood, but were ruthlessly curtailed as time seemed to slip from our fingers. Fair enough - it was my fault it was all running a bit late! So, our anti-Bush rant to backing track 'Monkey King' was an unfortunate casualty ('miditastic' as the soundman so accurately described it), as was the Turtle's sublime piece of wry borderline misogyny 'O Woman'. There always seems to be a gaping hole when these songs are absent - but the void was at least partially filled by new song 'The Explorer', given an even more energetic performance tonight than at its debut a couple of weeks ago, and it may well become a standard set closer. I love the lyrics - and the way it veers between half and full time without batting an eyelid. It's one of my current favourites. All good, although the onstage sound was frustratingly muffled and it's always annoying not to be able to hear the vocals. I wondered if place names were repeated during the improvised chorus to 'Shooting People'. This week we will be working on live versions of 'All EYes On You', 'Listen It Out', 'Highway 75' and 'Secretary Of State' - all to be given their live debut in the not too distant future. Check http://www.unit-hq.com for new live dates as they are confirmed.
The full set was:
TELEVISION
SLEEP WHEN YOU'RE DEAD
SHOOTING PEOPLE
EDGE OF TOWN
LOVER'S MESH
2C OTHERS AS THEY C ME
THE EXPLORER
After a quick trip to a cashpoint on the realisation I had no money for drinks - on came MJ Hibbett and The Validators. I've seen them a couple of times now, as well as MJ Hibbett solo, but this was comfortably the best of the bunch. Mark was understandably concerned about playing so many new songs - but I didn't find this a problem at all, simply because the songs are among his most articulate, immediate and entertaining. I particularly enjoyed 'The Gay Train' and 'Tell Me Something You Do Like' and it's refreshing to hear a songwriter so adept at identifying the state of the nation, but also of singing about it all with such infectious positivity. Best of all was a song about the brutal reality of the Thatcher years that may or may not be called 'The Fight For History' - provocative, incisive and also good fun. The band were also on top form, with Frankie Machine's great steal from 'This Charming Man' an extra level of irony to 'The Lesson Of The Smiths'.
All these songs seem to deploy the same four chords - but this doesn't matter a jot, because Hibbett and band can reap so many rewards from what might appear to be a limited framework. The inclusion of a violin with multi-effects also adds to the quirky appeal of their sound. Their performance brought a great beaming smile to my face - and that's a big compliment, if it doesn't sound too cheesy. The Validators are recording a new album imminently - I'm really looking forward to its appearance later this year. MJ Hibbett's own account of the evening can be read at http://www.mjhibbett.com
Headlining were the superb Colonel Bastard, who played many songs I remembered from my student days, but in considerably more polished and impressive versions. I don't think it would be overstating the case to say that this is some of the best indie guitar pop I've heard in recent months - so much more distinctive and enjoyable than most of the po-faced tripe in the pages of the NME. It's music with zest, intelligence and charm to boot. Martin White also has a great sense of humour - "I'm MJ White" he says, "so for one night only we are MJ White and The Vindicators!"
There are classics in abundance - the hilarious 'Peter Sissons' and 'Boring Gordon' are songs which revive the great British tradition of character and narrative in songwriting (and in this respect, Colonel Bastard hark back not just to the power pop of XTC, but also to Ray Davies and The Kinks). They end with a gloriously ragged version of their 'punk rock opera' 'Whitley Grange' which has lodged itself in my consciousness and now refuses to go away. They also looked great in their suits and hats, and had energy and enthusiasm in bucketloads. Tonight has made me realised that, whilst we have some great material, Unit need to go away and work quite hard on this aspect of our performance.
Afterwards, it was all back to Ben from Colonel Bastard's place for an aftershow with BEER - although it involved negotiating a maze of Cambridge backstreets that I never even knew existed. Thanks again to everyone involved.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Happy Birthday!
I can't believe I've managed to let In League With Paton's first birthday slip by (can it really be a year since I started this?).
So anyway, March 25th 2005 was the date - but I have no problem with a belated celebration!
In other news - for those in the Cambridge area there is a gig alert - TONIGHT - Colonel Bastard, MJ Hibbett and The Validators and Unit (my band!) at The Man On The Moon. It promises to be an excellent night!
So anyway, March 25th 2005 was the date - but I have no problem with a belated celebration!
In other news - for those in the Cambridge area there is a gig alert - TONIGHT - Colonel Bastard, MJ Hibbett and The Validators and Unit (my band!) at The Man On The Moon. It promises to be an excellent night!
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Return Of The Mode
This has made me quite excited.....
http://www.nme.com/news/112011.htm
Following the remix album, it seems Depeche Mode are fashionable once more! Ben Hiller has produced some of the most intriguing British albums of recent years (Doves - Some Cities, Elbow - Cast Of Thousands, Blur - Think Tank) so I have very high expectations of this project.
http://www.nme.com/news/112011.htm
Following the remix album, it seems Depeche Mode are fashionable once more! Ben Hiller has produced some of the most intriguing British albums of recent years (Doves - Some Cities, Elbow - Cast Of Thousands, Blur - Think Tank) so I have very high expectations of this project.
Fun, Fun, Fun
Redjetson, Libreez, Twentysix Feet, Jeremy Warmsley – The Marquee 11/4/05
Truth be told, this was a bit of a frustrating evening, although clearly a labour of love for its promoter, who twice admonished us for sitting at the candlelit tables when we should have been standing in the middle watching the bands. Well, fine – and I’m all in favour of showing respect for the artists on stage (the woman in front of me who had an exceedingly loud conversation all the way through Jeremy Warmsley’s set did annoy me somewhat). However, first of all, the artists on stage need to show a corresponding degree of respect for their audience and two, don’t provide the tables if you don’t want people to use them. Promoters also need to use some modicum of common sense when putting events like this together. I’m by no means closed minded in my tastes, and I support diversity (anyone who has ever heard In League With Paton on CUR1350 or read this blog would realise this), but this line-up just felt somewhat uncomfortable in its self-conscious bucking of conventions.
Jeremy Warmsley opened the night convincingly, with brash energy. It’s hard for me to write critically about a friend – especially one whose music I certainly have admiration for, but there can be little doubt that Jeremy is a songwriter brimming with potential. On disc, he demonstrates a tremendous skill with atmospherics and production trickery. Live, and entirely solo, his songs are necessarily more skeletal – although he manages to get some interesting results from his heavy reliance on guitar loops and effects. Shorn of the layered vocals and electronic punctuations, ‘After The Fact’ and ‘Centre Of Things’ sound closer to the post-punk and new wave inspirations currently very much in vogue. Jeremy manages to avoid academic references by means of his inventive, spiky guitar playing and distinctive, powerful, slightly nasal vocals. He’s also reliable with a good melody – although his best songs twist and turn in unpredictable directions rather than relying on verse/chorus structures. He’s tremendously self-confident, and his talent is manifest. It’s refreshing simply to see a solo singer-songwriter not content to sit on a stool and blandly strum at an acoustic guitar. John Kell described him as ‘a more interesting Sondre Lerche’ – which, for those familiar with the work of either songwriter, pretty much hits the nail on the head. Both have a penchant for angular, quirky pop songs, although Lerche’s appeal rests more on a certain naivety and innocence, whilst Warmsley’s rests largely on his sheer precociousness.
The set was not without its problems, however. The murky sound didn’t help much, with a reverb-laden vocal so boomy that it became very difficult to discern Jeremy’s half-hearted between-song banter or even what he was singing about. Why do sound engineers do this? Granted, reverb can be a useful tool in crafting a mysterious sound (My Morning Jacket might well be the best recent example), but Jeremy’s voice has an unusual, striking character of its own – and this was unfortunately submerged in echo this evening. Given what I could comprehend, I’m not entirely convinced that Jeremy has found his voice as a lyricist yet. His words can seem a little self-absorbed or detached and he doesn’t yet have the poetic qualities of the classic songwriters. Still, this may come, as he experiments more with narrative in songs like ‘5 Verses’ (one of the highlights this evening) or comes closer to universalising his own experiences. He has largely abandoned his older songs that, although less original, had considerable warmth and charm. His more recent material however does demonstrate an admirable desire to escape the spell of his immediate influences, and tonight justifiably earned him a warm reception.
Whilst Jeremy undoubtedly takes his work very seriously (and some might even find him lacking in humour), it did seem more than a little unfair to lump him with such a po-faced line-up tonight. Twentysix Feet at least had voluminous commitment and energy (the singer’s highly physical performance seemed to leave him suffering from an unpleasant back injury). They also had a robust, impressively loud sound, incorporating electronics without sounding too mechanistic or clunky. It was, however, possibly all a bit too relentless. They were at their best when they allowed subtler textures and hints of melody to pierce through the metallic sheen. Still, possibly ones to watch, as this kind of prog-metal seems to be very much the rage right now (see also Oceansize and Pure Reason Revolution).
When Libreez began setting up, John Kell remarked that they ‘looked a bit indie in a Strokes- rather -than- Belle -and -Sebastian -kind -of -way’. Much to our mutual horror, he could not have been more wrong. This was art-wank of the most uncomfortable and embarrassing kind. As a jazz trained musician who has grown up instilled with the modern jazz tradition, I am open to the avant garde, and I dismiss improvised music with reluctance. This, however, really was utterly hopeless. One thrumming, dissonant chord was repeated over and over again, behind which the drummer bashed out intricate, impulsive interventions with considerable fervour. There was also a saxophone player, who attempted neither the squawking ferocity of an Evan Parker, nor the cool sophistication of a John Surman. He just warbled aimlessly over the top. It was 15-20 minutes of continuous meandering noise. If it was a jazz-club style satirical joke, it was complete genius – but I get the feeling these people are aiming for the heart of the improv pitch – and are therefore taking it all very seriously indeed. It didn’t have the intensity for free jazz, nor the aggression for rock or the melody for pop. All the great jazz pioneers – from Duke Ellington and Miles Davis to John Coltrane, Ornette Coleman and Cecil Taylor, all learnt the rulebook before they attempted to break it. These foolishly confrontational imbeciles demonstrated little or no knowledge of the tradition from which they were self-righteously stealing. The only positive comment I can make about this performance was that the silence at the end of their deluge of mindless noise was about the most sublime sound I heard all evening.
Redjetson finished the night with some slow-paced, doggedly tempestuous post-rock. We stayed for a few tunes that were not exactly unengaging – but felt like too small a reward after such a massive endurance test. They at least incorporated affecting melody into their tried and tested sturm und drang, sounding tough and, at least initially, powerfully arresting. Yet, without Jeremy’s appealing subversion of pop songwriting conventions, this line-up would have been insufferably po-faced and excessively serious. Whilst talent was evident, the evening was desperately in need of a sense of fun.
Truth be told, this was a bit of a frustrating evening, although clearly a labour of love for its promoter, who twice admonished us for sitting at the candlelit tables when we should have been standing in the middle watching the bands. Well, fine – and I’m all in favour of showing respect for the artists on stage (the woman in front of me who had an exceedingly loud conversation all the way through Jeremy Warmsley’s set did annoy me somewhat). However, first of all, the artists on stage need to show a corresponding degree of respect for their audience and two, don’t provide the tables if you don’t want people to use them. Promoters also need to use some modicum of common sense when putting events like this together. I’m by no means closed minded in my tastes, and I support diversity (anyone who has ever heard In League With Paton on CUR1350 or read this blog would realise this), but this line-up just felt somewhat uncomfortable in its self-conscious bucking of conventions.
Jeremy Warmsley opened the night convincingly, with brash energy. It’s hard for me to write critically about a friend – especially one whose music I certainly have admiration for, but there can be little doubt that Jeremy is a songwriter brimming with potential. On disc, he demonstrates a tremendous skill with atmospherics and production trickery. Live, and entirely solo, his songs are necessarily more skeletal – although he manages to get some interesting results from his heavy reliance on guitar loops and effects. Shorn of the layered vocals and electronic punctuations, ‘After The Fact’ and ‘Centre Of Things’ sound closer to the post-punk and new wave inspirations currently very much in vogue. Jeremy manages to avoid academic references by means of his inventive, spiky guitar playing and distinctive, powerful, slightly nasal vocals. He’s also reliable with a good melody – although his best songs twist and turn in unpredictable directions rather than relying on verse/chorus structures. He’s tremendously self-confident, and his talent is manifest. It’s refreshing simply to see a solo singer-songwriter not content to sit on a stool and blandly strum at an acoustic guitar. John Kell described him as ‘a more interesting Sondre Lerche’ – which, for those familiar with the work of either songwriter, pretty much hits the nail on the head. Both have a penchant for angular, quirky pop songs, although Lerche’s appeal rests more on a certain naivety and innocence, whilst Warmsley’s rests largely on his sheer precociousness.
The set was not without its problems, however. The murky sound didn’t help much, with a reverb-laden vocal so boomy that it became very difficult to discern Jeremy’s half-hearted between-song banter or even what he was singing about. Why do sound engineers do this? Granted, reverb can be a useful tool in crafting a mysterious sound (My Morning Jacket might well be the best recent example), but Jeremy’s voice has an unusual, striking character of its own – and this was unfortunately submerged in echo this evening. Given what I could comprehend, I’m not entirely convinced that Jeremy has found his voice as a lyricist yet. His words can seem a little self-absorbed or detached and he doesn’t yet have the poetic qualities of the classic songwriters. Still, this may come, as he experiments more with narrative in songs like ‘5 Verses’ (one of the highlights this evening) or comes closer to universalising his own experiences. He has largely abandoned his older songs that, although less original, had considerable warmth and charm. His more recent material however does demonstrate an admirable desire to escape the spell of his immediate influences, and tonight justifiably earned him a warm reception.
Whilst Jeremy undoubtedly takes his work very seriously (and some might even find him lacking in humour), it did seem more than a little unfair to lump him with such a po-faced line-up tonight. Twentysix Feet at least had voluminous commitment and energy (the singer’s highly physical performance seemed to leave him suffering from an unpleasant back injury). They also had a robust, impressively loud sound, incorporating electronics without sounding too mechanistic or clunky. It was, however, possibly all a bit too relentless. They were at their best when they allowed subtler textures and hints of melody to pierce through the metallic sheen. Still, possibly ones to watch, as this kind of prog-metal seems to be very much the rage right now (see also Oceansize and Pure Reason Revolution).
When Libreez began setting up, John Kell remarked that they ‘looked a bit indie in a Strokes- rather -than- Belle -and -Sebastian -kind -of -way’. Much to our mutual horror, he could not have been more wrong. This was art-wank of the most uncomfortable and embarrassing kind. As a jazz trained musician who has grown up instilled with the modern jazz tradition, I am open to the avant garde, and I dismiss improvised music with reluctance. This, however, really was utterly hopeless. One thrumming, dissonant chord was repeated over and over again, behind which the drummer bashed out intricate, impulsive interventions with considerable fervour. There was also a saxophone player, who attempted neither the squawking ferocity of an Evan Parker, nor the cool sophistication of a John Surman. He just warbled aimlessly over the top. It was 15-20 minutes of continuous meandering noise. If it was a jazz-club style satirical joke, it was complete genius – but I get the feeling these people are aiming for the heart of the improv pitch – and are therefore taking it all very seriously indeed. It didn’t have the intensity for free jazz, nor the aggression for rock or the melody for pop. All the great jazz pioneers – from Duke Ellington and Miles Davis to John Coltrane, Ornette Coleman and Cecil Taylor, all learnt the rulebook before they attempted to break it. These foolishly confrontational imbeciles demonstrated little or no knowledge of the tradition from which they were self-righteously stealing. The only positive comment I can make about this performance was that the silence at the end of their deluge of mindless noise was about the most sublime sound I heard all evening.
Redjetson finished the night with some slow-paced, doggedly tempestuous post-rock. We stayed for a few tunes that were not exactly unengaging – but felt like too small a reward after such a massive endurance test. They at least incorporated affecting melody into their tried and tested sturm und drang, sounding tough and, at least initially, powerfully arresting. Yet, without Jeremy’s appealing subversion of pop songwriting conventions, this line-up would have been insufferably po-faced and excessively serious. Whilst talent was evident, the evening was desperately in need of a sense of fun.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Music From The Margins
Prefuse 73 – Surrounded By Silence (Warp)
A more appropriate title might well have been ‘Surrounded By Special Guests’, so prominent are collaborations on this album. This work has been heavily criticised in some quarters for being fractured and fragmented, which seems odd to me given that these were the same people who heaped plaudits on its predecessor (‘One Word Extinguisher’), which was an equally bitty record. Herren’s working method is to ensure that his tracks are mercilessly concise, hence ‘Surrounded By Silence’ manages to squeeze a testing 21 tracks into its 70+ minutes. Whilst this approach tends to be a major obstacle to enjoying most conventional hip hop albums for me, it works perfectly with Prefuse 73. This is mainly because Herren is intelligent and talented enough a producer to know that short does not necessarily have to mean insubstantial.
What an array of guests Herren has amassed for this one – El-P, The Books, Broadcast, Aesop Rock, Kazu from Blonde Redhead, Beans – it’s a critical list of the most significant figures in contemporary experimental music. Reading the album credits feels a little uncomfortable – you could be forgiven for pre-judging Herren and assuming that he has depended on the talents of others to carry an otherwise lacklustre work. Luckily, this is not the case. The crucial point to remember is that Herren is not a lyricist – so collaborations are to some extent a necessity if Herren is going to progress beyond a narrow audience and convert more traditional rap fans.
This isn’t to say that there are no problems with ‘Surrounded By Silence’, just that the scattergun approach has always seemed to me to be one of Herren’s endearing idiosyncrasies. The slight malaise that drags down much of this record is its slight trepidation. It doesn’t ever go straight for the jugular like previous Prefuse releases, and it sounds slightly tentative and afraid to be audacious. The stuttering, fearlessly intricate beats of previous albums have been replaced by flatter, slightly plodding, more generic hip-hop conventions. The jazzy infusions of ‘One Word Extinguisher’ have been replaced by more familiar murky atmospherics.
There are some notable stand-out moments. Kazu’s breathy, slightly distant vocal adds some appealing mystery to ‘We Got Our Own Way’, whilst El-P and Ghostface sound ragged and fiery on ‘Hide Ya Face’. Beans retains his quixotic, quirky wordplay on the excellent ‘Morale Crusher’. Elsewhere, some of the collaborations feel strangely fruitless. The Books are one of the most inventive and distinctive electronica acts of the moment, but Herren can do little to improve on their already comfortable blueprint on ‘Pagina Dos’. ‘Just The Thought’, featuring Masta Killa and Gza of the Wu-Tang Clan ought to be a bewildering and brilliant clash of styles – but it disappoints simply by fault of not sounding fresh enough.
‘Surrounded By Silence’ also suffers as an album because of the lack of a unifying theme. The best hip hop albums of recent years have been powerful thematically as well as musically (take Cannibal Ox’s ‘The Cold Vein’, a dazzling, almost overwhelmingly brutal record that is evokes contemporary New York with grim and uncompromising realism). As a compilation, ‘Surrounded By Silence’ would be an impressive display, capturing both the successes and failures of an intelligent producer. As an album, it’s something of a frustrating challenge. It does reap rewards, but some of Herren’s sharper edges have been blunted in the process.
Sage Francis – A Healthy Distrust (Epitaph)
Sage Francis is a white rapper who has endured the inevitable comparisons with Eminem. Why are music journalists so lazy? Eminem is a hugely marketable proposition, with a cartoon style and populist production. Francis is uncompromising, with an acid tongue, and a brings a wry, refreshingly liberal perspective to his probing social commentaries. Their chosen genre of performance and the colour of their skin may well be their only common ground. It’s unlikely that Francis will enjoy Eminem’s massive success, but ‘A Healthy Distrust’ is a brilliant record nonetheless, elaborate, articulate, and hitting all the right targets with admirable rigour.
I picked this up largely because of ‘Sea Lion’, a collaboration with Will Oldham that works remarkably well. I’m always endeared to rappers and hip hop producers who seek out new ways of incorporating melody without relying on lazy cut and paste samples from classic soul records (compare this with the complete tedium of Kanye West and his helium segments). ‘Sea Lion’ is a deceptively simple record, with its skeletal guitar and woozy melody, and its effect is something close to intoxicating. It’s one of the finest tracks I’ve heard so far this year.
Fortuitously, there’s plenty more of interest elsewhere on this record. Francis is an engaging and often fearless rapper, dismissing radio stations that ignore him because they are afraid of veering from ‘clear channel playlists’ and best of all undermining rap’s casual homophobia by depicting the gun as a phallic symbol on the remarkable ‘Gunz Yo’. He even gets metaphysical on ‘Sun Vs. Moon’, stating that ‘the Devil only exists because of your belief in him’ and envisioning a ‘cock fight’ between the sun and moon. ‘Slow Down Gandhi’ seems to encompass as many topics as possible – berating political bandwagonists whilst providing something approaching a cogent analysis of America’s current political cul-de-sac. When placed next to the wealth-obsessed, bling nightmare of the current mainstream hip hop scene, we have an articulate poet, characterised by extreme scepticism (as the title implies) who is capable of reflection as well as braggadocio, and who is unafraid of confronting darker forces in the world around him.
Francis has also employed some inventive and creative producers to help him out. Alias, one of the numerous members of the Anticon collective, provides something close to folky ambience, particularly evocative for ‘Escape Artist’ and the aforementioned ‘Sea Lion’. There are also memorable contributions from Reanimator and Daddy Key. Best of all is Dangermouse, who gives a menacing undercurrent to ‘Gunz Yo’, placing the cut and paste schtik of ‘The Grey Album’ in a more intriguing context. All the contributions cohere more easily than the latest Prefuse 73 effort, at least in part due to Francis’ engagement with wider themes, and ‘A Healthy Distrust’ seems to work effortlessly.
Alasdair Roberts – No Earthly Man (Drag City)
I had high expectations of this record, not least because Alasdair Roberts has delivered two of my favourite records of recent years with ‘The Crook Of My Arm’ and ‘Farewell Sorrow’, and also because production duties on this third solo album are handled by Will Oldham. It is, of course, a natural move for Roberts. He has collaborated with Oldham before (on the Amalgamated Sons Of Rest project, also with Jason Molina) and benefited from Oldham’s patronage when fronting the now justly revered Appendix Out.
Oldham’s production makes for a considerably more challenging record. These songs delve right back into the folk tradition –with dirge-like melodies, and relentless, droning accompaniments. Oldham creates a mysterious space through which Roberts can thread his delicate, wispy vocals. Deeply respectful of the tradition from which he has drawn these songs, Roberts commits to singing all the verses, and the songs are typical of their idiom in their length and tendency towards repetition. This makes for a difficult listen – but the obstacles to enjoyment are counterbalanced by the ease with which Roberts inhabits this distant world of murder and sin. There are some who would question whether Roberts can really justify recording a collection of Scottish folk ballads – but listening to ‘No Earthly Man’, it becomes immediately clear how deep his understanding of the genre is. This is the music he has grown up with, refashioned for the contemporary folk world.
There are times when the effect is mesmerising and hypnotic. Opening track ‘Lord Ronald’ is typical. It is unusually floaty, but is cemented by Roberts’ endearingly vulnerable voice, the striking poetry of the lyrics and the respect for the traditional melody. Oldham provides some appropriately spectral backing vocals that weave in and out of the mix. It’s unusual to hear traditional music that sounds this original and fascinating, whilst also capturing the timeless quality of folk music. It’s easy to imagine these ballads as campfire songs – but they have been refracted through the restless imaginations of Roberts and Oldham. Even when they adopt something close to a conventional approach, such as on the acoustic lament ‘Sweet William’, it still sounds distant and almost alien. The paradoxes at the heart of this deeply impressive record make for a confounding but engaging experience.
Antony and The Johnsons – I Am A Bird Now (Secretly Canadian/ Rough Trade)
I bought this very hyped record after being so sick of reading about Antony that I simply had to hear the music speak for itself. Given the knowledge that this was an album of highly theatrical cabaret torch songs, I was expecting to admire it more than appreciate it. I’ve been somewhat guilty of prejudging it – this is an exquisite album, and one that is virtuous in restraint as well as elaborate expression. At just over 35 minutes, it is brilliantly brief. A longer album might well have given us too much of Antony’s tremulous vibrato. As it stands, we are left wanting more. Not only this, but there is much subtlety to be found beneath the theatrics.
This doesn’t have much in common with the Prefuse 73 album – but it does share that record’s preponderance for special guests. ‘I Am A Bird Now’ gives gainful employment to all the musical cognoscenti who have offered Antony their patronage – from critics’ darling Rufus Wainwright to fallen icon Boy George, via Lou Reed and overrated new folk minstrel Devendra Banhart. Some of them pale into insignificance next to Antony’s exquisite phrasing. Boy George guests on the sublime ‘You Are My Sister’ but it rather sounds like he’s trying too hard to emulate Antony’s distinctive style, Banhart is left floundering. Lou Reed offers a typically droll semi-spoken intro to the outstanding ‘Fistfull Of Love’ (sic) and therefore fares much better simply by being himself. Wainwright and Antony have already collaborated on the outrageously camp ‘Old Whore’s Diet’ (from Rufus’ excellent Want Two album), and they repeat the trick here.
Yet Antony manages to emerge sounding not only the freshest but also the most impressive talent here, particularly at the beginning and end of the album. The first three tracks are extraordinary. On ‘Hope There’s Someone’, he genuinely evokes memories of Nina Simone with his hovering, vulnerable tones, and he lends a sensuous, soulful quality to ‘My Lady Story’. Best of all is the delightfully simple ‘For Today I Am A Boy’, where the vocals are multi-tracked in delirious harmony. Significantly, whilst these tracks play heavily on Antony’s gender bending persona, they do not sound contrived or unconvincing, but instead entirely natural. This all reaches its apotheosis in the outstanding closer ‘Bird Guhrl’, which seems to sum up Antony’s thematic preoccupations very neatly, whilst also being remarkably free in its expression.
This is not just an album of cabaret torch songs, however. It’s clear that Antony’s inspiration runs deeper than that – there are hints of Southern Soul in the brass punctuations of ‘Fistfull Of Love’, and ‘My Lady Story’ might betray an interest in 80s electronics. The overall sound is both coherent and distinctive – and the salacious, sultry mood also comes tinged with mournful sadness and regret. ‘I Am A Bird Now’ is moving, evocative and timelessly beautiful.
A more appropriate title might well have been ‘Surrounded By Special Guests’, so prominent are collaborations on this album. This work has been heavily criticised in some quarters for being fractured and fragmented, which seems odd to me given that these were the same people who heaped plaudits on its predecessor (‘One Word Extinguisher’), which was an equally bitty record. Herren’s working method is to ensure that his tracks are mercilessly concise, hence ‘Surrounded By Silence’ manages to squeeze a testing 21 tracks into its 70+ minutes. Whilst this approach tends to be a major obstacle to enjoying most conventional hip hop albums for me, it works perfectly with Prefuse 73. This is mainly because Herren is intelligent and talented enough a producer to know that short does not necessarily have to mean insubstantial.
What an array of guests Herren has amassed for this one – El-P, The Books, Broadcast, Aesop Rock, Kazu from Blonde Redhead, Beans – it’s a critical list of the most significant figures in contemporary experimental music. Reading the album credits feels a little uncomfortable – you could be forgiven for pre-judging Herren and assuming that he has depended on the talents of others to carry an otherwise lacklustre work. Luckily, this is not the case. The crucial point to remember is that Herren is not a lyricist – so collaborations are to some extent a necessity if Herren is going to progress beyond a narrow audience and convert more traditional rap fans.
This isn’t to say that there are no problems with ‘Surrounded By Silence’, just that the scattergun approach has always seemed to me to be one of Herren’s endearing idiosyncrasies. The slight malaise that drags down much of this record is its slight trepidation. It doesn’t ever go straight for the jugular like previous Prefuse releases, and it sounds slightly tentative and afraid to be audacious. The stuttering, fearlessly intricate beats of previous albums have been replaced by flatter, slightly plodding, more generic hip-hop conventions. The jazzy infusions of ‘One Word Extinguisher’ have been replaced by more familiar murky atmospherics.
There are some notable stand-out moments. Kazu’s breathy, slightly distant vocal adds some appealing mystery to ‘We Got Our Own Way’, whilst El-P and Ghostface sound ragged and fiery on ‘Hide Ya Face’. Beans retains his quixotic, quirky wordplay on the excellent ‘Morale Crusher’. Elsewhere, some of the collaborations feel strangely fruitless. The Books are one of the most inventive and distinctive electronica acts of the moment, but Herren can do little to improve on their already comfortable blueprint on ‘Pagina Dos’. ‘Just The Thought’, featuring Masta Killa and Gza of the Wu-Tang Clan ought to be a bewildering and brilliant clash of styles – but it disappoints simply by fault of not sounding fresh enough.
‘Surrounded By Silence’ also suffers as an album because of the lack of a unifying theme. The best hip hop albums of recent years have been powerful thematically as well as musically (take Cannibal Ox’s ‘The Cold Vein’, a dazzling, almost overwhelmingly brutal record that is evokes contemporary New York with grim and uncompromising realism). As a compilation, ‘Surrounded By Silence’ would be an impressive display, capturing both the successes and failures of an intelligent producer. As an album, it’s something of a frustrating challenge. It does reap rewards, but some of Herren’s sharper edges have been blunted in the process.
Sage Francis – A Healthy Distrust (Epitaph)
Sage Francis is a white rapper who has endured the inevitable comparisons with Eminem. Why are music journalists so lazy? Eminem is a hugely marketable proposition, with a cartoon style and populist production. Francis is uncompromising, with an acid tongue, and a brings a wry, refreshingly liberal perspective to his probing social commentaries. Their chosen genre of performance and the colour of their skin may well be their only common ground. It’s unlikely that Francis will enjoy Eminem’s massive success, but ‘A Healthy Distrust’ is a brilliant record nonetheless, elaborate, articulate, and hitting all the right targets with admirable rigour.
I picked this up largely because of ‘Sea Lion’, a collaboration with Will Oldham that works remarkably well. I’m always endeared to rappers and hip hop producers who seek out new ways of incorporating melody without relying on lazy cut and paste samples from classic soul records (compare this with the complete tedium of Kanye West and his helium segments). ‘Sea Lion’ is a deceptively simple record, with its skeletal guitar and woozy melody, and its effect is something close to intoxicating. It’s one of the finest tracks I’ve heard so far this year.
Fortuitously, there’s plenty more of interest elsewhere on this record. Francis is an engaging and often fearless rapper, dismissing radio stations that ignore him because they are afraid of veering from ‘clear channel playlists’ and best of all undermining rap’s casual homophobia by depicting the gun as a phallic symbol on the remarkable ‘Gunz Yo’. He even gets metaphysical on ‘Sun Vs. Moon’, stating that ‘the Devil only exists because of your belief in him’ and envisioning a ‘cock fight’ between the sun and moon. ‘Slow Down Gandhi’ seems to encompass as many topics as possible – berating political bandwagonists whilst providing something approaching a cogent analysis of America’s current political cul-de-sac. When placed next to the wealth-obsessed, bling nightmare of the current mainstream hip hop scene, we have an articulate poet, characterised by extreme scepticism (as the title implies) who is capable of reflection as well as braggadocio, and who is unafraid of confronting darker forces in the world around him.
Francis has also employed some inventive and creative producers to help him out. Alias, one of the numerous members of the Anticon collective, provides something close to folky ambience, particularly evocative for ‘Escape Artist’ and the aforementioned ‘Sea Lion’. There are also memorable contributions from Reanimator and Daddy Key. Best of all is Dangermouse, who gives a menacing undercurrent to ‘Gunz Yo’, placing the cut and paste schtik of ‘The Grey Album’ in a more intriguing context. All the contributions cohere more easily than the latest Prefuse 73 effort, at least in part due to Francis’ engagement with wider themes, and ‘A Healthy Distrust’ seems to work effortlessly.
Alasdair Roberts – No Earthly Man (Drag City)
I had high expectations of this record, not least because Alasdair Roberts has delivered two of my favourite records of recent years with ‘The Crook Of My Arm’ and ‘Farewell Sorrow’, and also because production duties on this third solo album are handled by Will Oldham. It is, of course, a natural move for Roberts. He has collaborated with Oldham before (on the Amalgamated Sons Of Rest project, also with Jason Molina) and benefited from Oldham’s patronage when fronting the now justly revered Appendix Out.
Oldham’s production makes for a considerably more challenging record. These songs delve right back into the folk tradition –with dirge-like melodies, and relentless, droning accompaniments. Oldham creates a mysterious space through which Roberts can thread his delicate, wispy vocals. Deeply respectful of the tradition from which he has drawn these songs, Roberts commits to singing all the verses, and the songs are typical of their idiom in their length and tendency towards repetition. This makes for a difficult listen – but the obstacles to enjoyment are counterbalanced by the ease with which Roberts inhabits this distant world of murder and sin. There are some who would question whether Roberts can really justify recording a collection of Scottish folk ballads – but listening to ‘No Earthly Man’, it becomes immediately clear how deep his understanding of the genre is. This is the music he has grown up with, refashioned for the contemporary folk world.
There are times when the effect is mesmerising and hypnotic. Opening track ‘Lord Ronald’ is typical. It is unusually floaty, but is cemented by Roberts’ endearingly vulnerable voice, the striking poetry of the lyrics and the respect for the traditional melody. Oldham provides some appropriately spectral backing vocals that weave in and out of the mix. It’s unusual to hear traditional music that sounds this original and fascinating, whilst also capturing the timeless quality of folk music. It’s easy to imagine these ballads as campfire songs – but they have been refracted through the restless imaginations of Roberts and Oldham. Even when they adopt something close to a conventional approach, such as on the acoustic lament ‘Sweet William’, it still sounds distant and almost alien. The paradoxes at the heart of this deeply impressive record make for a confounding but engaging experience.
Antony and The Johnsons – I Am A Bird Now (Secretly Canadian/ Rough Trade)
I bought this very hyped record after being so sick of reading about Antony that I simply had to hear the music speak for itself. Given the knowledge that this was an album of highly theatrical cabaret torch songs, I was expecting to admire it more than appreciate it. I’ve been somewhat guilty of prejudging it – this is an exquisite album, and one that is virtuous in restraint as well as elaborate expression. At just over 35 minutes, it is brilliantly brief. A longer album might well have given us too much of Antony’s tremulous vibrato. As it stands, we are left wanting more. Not only this, but there is much subtlety to be found beneath the theatrics.
This doesn’t have much in common with the Prefuse 73 album – but it does share that record’s preponderance for special guests. ‘I Am A Bird Now’ gives gainful employment to all the musical cognoscenti who have offered Antony their patronage – from critics’ darling Rufus Wainwright to fallen icon Boy George, via Lou Reed and overrated new folk minstrel Devendra Banhart. Some of them pale into insignificance next to Antony’s exquisite phrasing. Boy George guests on the sublime ‘You Are My Sister’ but it rather sounds like he’s trying too hard to emulate Antony’s distinctive style, Banhart is left floundering. Lou Reed offers a typically droll semi-spoken intro to the outstanding ‘Fistfull Of Love’ (sic) and therefore fares much better simply by being himself. Wainwright and Antony have already collaborated on the outrageously camp ‘Old Whore’s Diet’ (from Rufus’ excellent Want Two album), and they repeat the trick here.
Yet Antony manages to emerge sounding not only the freshest but also the most impressive talent here, particularly at the beginning and end of the album. The first three tracks are extraordinary. On ‘Hope There’s Someone’, he genuinely evokes memories of Nina Simone with his hovering, vulnerable tones, and he lends a sensuous, soulful quality to ‘My Lady Story’. Best of all is the delightfully simple ‘For Today I Am A Boy’, where the vocals are multi-tracked in delirious harmony. Significantly, whilst these tracks play heavily on Antony’s gender bending persona, they do not sound contrived or unconvincing, but instead entirely natural. This all reaches its apotheosis in the outstanding closer ‘Bird Guhrl’, which seems to sum up Antony’s thematic preoccupations very neatly, whilst also being remarkably free in its expression.
This is not just an album of cabaret torch songs, however. It’s clear that Antony’s inspiration runs deeper than that – there are hints of Southern Soul in the brass punctuations of ‘Fistfull Of Love’, and ‘My Lady Story’ might betray an interest in 80s electronics. The overall sound is both coherent and distinctive – and the salacious, sultry mood also comes tinged with mournful sadness and regret. ‘I Am A Bird Now’ is moving, evocative and timelessly beautiful.
Monday, April 04, 2005
One Step Forward and Three Steps Back
…As Paula Abdul and MC Skat Kat sang back in early 1990. This is part one of what will most likely become a two-week long megapost as I try to work my way through all the CDs that I’ve picked up over the last couple of months or so. I have decided to begin with the upfront pre-releases, so I can at least appear as if I’m one step ahead of the game.
Teenage Fanclub – Man-Made (Pema)
It exists and it’s finally here! Words cannot express the beam of joy that exploded across my face as I came across a promo of this record. This is what I’ve been waiting five long years for!
Alan McGee used to say that he never knew quite what to make of each new Teenage Fanclub album when they first played the finished product to him, as it always took him at least twenty listens to appreciate them. Given the immediate chiming pop appeal of albums like ‘Grand Prix’ and ‘Songs From Northern Britain’, I always found this notion a little baffling. With ‘Man-Made’, however, I begin to see his point. I have to concede that on first listen I was slightly underwhelmed by this – the songs are lovely of course, but the melodies are sometimes slightly more obtuse than usual, the production seems deliberately muffled, and the trademark harmonies, whilst still very much in the frame, are less of a feature than on previous albums.
But wait! It’s a real grower! ‘Man-Made’ may be less immediate, but it benefits greatly from a more subtle approach to arrangement and production. There are some wonderfully heart-stopping moments on this album, many of them entirely unexpected. I love the way the middle-section in the thumping ‘Time Stops’ suddenly gives way to some delicately bucolic acoustic guitar plucking, the way the main arrangement of ‘Flowing’ fades out, just leaving some warmly fuzzy lead guitars to conclude the song, and the way ‘Slow Fade, the paciest and most aggressive recording they’ve made since the days of ‘Thirteen’, ends a good minute before you expect it to. This is probably Teenage Fanclub’s most musically intelligent album to date, and the muted production sound (courtesy of John McEntire of Tortoise) frequently sounds strangely appropriate, such as on the dry, touching and carefully arranged ‘Only With You’.
As for the songwriting, this is The Fannies’ most democratic album so far, with each member of the band composing four songs. Luckily, the days when the words ‘Raymond’s going to sing this one’ inspired a slightly uncomfortable feeling are long gone. Since the remarkable blossoming of his songwriting talents on ‘Songs From Northern Britain’, Raymond McGinley has never looked back, and ‘Man-Made’ marks an admirable continuation of this trend. The aforementioned ‘Only With You’, with its vulnerable arpeggios, tinkly piano and muted rhythm guitar is one of the best tracks here, and the closing ‘Don’t Hide’ features a similarly inventive arrangement. ‘Feel’ (Feel what? The sunshine of course, what else?!?) is a typical Teenage Fanclub summery pop song, whilst ‘Nowhere’ has a pleasant Byrdsian shimmer.
Gerry Love has some gems too – ‘Born Under A Good Sign’ may not be the most substantial song here, essentially being built on a repeated chord sequence and ending with a huge psychedelic duelling guitar solo, but it certainly has energy and enthusiasm in droves. Much better though is ‘Fallen Leaves’, which, with its chorus claiming ‘the future’s here’ is one of the most uplifting songs in this set. ‘Save’ is one of the songs that takes a while to get to grips with, but it features some lovely rhythm guitar playing and benefits from the juxtaposition of a lingeringly infectious chorus with a slightly more underplayed melody in its verses.
Norman Blake is such a dependable songwriter that it hardly needs to be stated that he writes the album’s warmest, most familiar and comfortable songs. I’d be very surprised if album opener ‘It’s All In My Mind’, with its chugging rhythm and naggingly insistent melodic line was not used as the album’s lead single. He also offers the simple sugar rush of ‘Slow Fade’, the delicate melancholy of ‘Flowing’ (although perhaps the lyrics here rest a little too much on familiar sentiment) and the rustic folk of ‘Cells’, another of the album’s most engaging moments. He hasn’t written anything here quite in the same league as ‘Neil Jung’, ‘I Don’t Want Control Of You’ or ‘Did I Say’ though, and perhaps the one thing ‘Man-Made’ lacks is an absolute killer song.
However, that’s not really what it’s about – it’s an album where all three songwriters seem entirely comfortable and at ease, and where the arrangements have become as important as the melodies. It’s a remarkably coherent and consistent work, and if given time, may be seen as one of their most successful records. It remains to be seen whether there’s anyone left in the music press who still cares (I can’t imagine the current staff at the NME getting too excited about this) – we can only hope that this album brings The Fannies the dues they so richly deserve. Britain’s finest songwriters since Lennon-McCartney are still going strong.
Four Tet – Everything Ecstatic
Is that title just meant to imply extreme happiness – or is there a trippy drugs influence behind this album? Either way, it sees Kieren Hebden veer away from the music somewhat uncomfortably dubbed ‘folktronica’ (understandably, Hebden has felt uncomfortable with this tag) and back into the realms of percussion-heavy electronica and free-jazz inspired swampy grooves. If anything, this album is closer to ‘Dialogue’, Hebden’s debut as Four Tet, than to any of his subsequent work under the moniker.
Previous album ‘Rounds’ was so successful because it carefully integrated tiny fractured melodies, and intriguing harmonic implications into its ethereal electronic mix. This made it both more accessible and more engaging. ‘Everything Ecstatic’ is a less easy listen – many of its ideas seem almost self-consciously complex and confrontational, but it marks another interesting sidestep from one of our most inventive producers and composers.
There are moments of sheer brilliance – opening track ‘A Joy’ has some exuberant multi-tracked beats that manage to sound naturalistic and organic. ‘High Fives’ is more densely textured and evocative, and possibly the closest this album comes to recreating the elusive mystery of ‘Rounds’.
Elsewhere, there are plenty of rhythmic flourishes and squawking saxophones, and single ‘Smile Around The Face’ is perhaps a little too repetitive, with its high pitched ostinato melody the main focus, it borders on irritating.
Hebden remains as inventive as ever, and ‘Everything Ecstatic’ is admirable for its cavalier approach to genre convention. Hebden has melded a number of different styles together here and, for the most part, has successfully shaken off the apparent stigma of journalistic tags. It’s much less accessible than his recent highly acclaimed albums, and may have the effect of pushing him back into the margins when he should be reaping commercial rewards. The open-minded will find it engaging and compelling.
New Order – Waiting For The Sirens’ Call
It feels a bit churlish – but there’s just something not quite right about this new album from New Order. They are now a highly marketable proposition, based on their enduring status as influential pioneers. Yet, like all of the New Order releases post ‘Technique’, there’s not actually all that much innovation going on here. It feels comfortably familiar (sometimes persistent and infectious), and some of the tracks have a lovely summery pop vibe. The sound, however, as always characterised by the uniquely melodic bass lines of Peter Hook and the robotic drumming of Steven Morris, has not really been embellished or developed much for this release. Sometimes, it even feels like a more polished, neutered version of the classic New Order sound.
The first single, ‘Krafty’ very much sets the tone. It’s entirely unobjectionable, and comes with a string of instantly hummable hooks and melodies. It has that lingering atmosphere (hammered home with some trademark swirling synths and clanging guitars) that marks out the best New Order pop songs. Taken in isolation, its enjoyable enough, but when placed next to a string of very similar sounding songs (‘Who’s Joe?’, ‘Hey Now, What You Doing?, ‘Turn’) it no longer sounds distinctive.
Whereas ‘Krafty’ has enough rhythmic propulsion and feeling to render it engaging, there are some real low points on this album that just sound totally contrived. Worst of all is the electro reggae of ‘I Told You So’, which genuinely starts out sounding like Ace of Base. I’m entirely in favour of the band expanding their reach (and this album clearly demonstrates that they need to reinvent themselves somehow), but genre parody is not really the best approach. Equally, ‘Jetstream’, with the moonlighting Ana Matronic of the Scissor Sisters feels like an uncomfortable attempt to broaden their target audience. The closing ‘Working Overtime’ is a clunky rather than quirky Stooges-inspired turd.
The more conventional, guitar-dominated pop songs certainly fare better, but Bernard Sumner’s lyrics and vocal lines remain frustratingly inconsistent. Plenty of people have hailed this album as a success simply because of its ‘quality songwriting’. I would certainly concede that an album of quality songs would be enough from a band that has already done so much to break the mould. However, ‘Waiting For The Sirens’ Call’ simply isn’t consistent enough an album to fit that description.
Mu – Out Of Breach
Readers of John Kell’s Unpredictable Same fanzine (http://www.kingofquiet.tk) might remember be waxing lyrical about the debut Mu album ‘Afro Finger and Gel’ in the first issue. I stated then that it’s hard to explain why a talentless Japanese girl shouting over minimal percussion and bass backdrops was so thrilling, and the point is worth repeating. ‘Out Of Breach’ basically provides more of the same and is, if anything, even more extreme. It could not exactly be described as melodic, but it remains memorable and convincing nonetheless.
It all works best when the extraordinary producer Maurice Fulton cooks up his most hypnotic grooves. ‘Tigerbastard’ essentially repeats the tricks of cult classic single ‘Let’s Get Sick’, with its relentless driving beat and flurry of agogo and cowbells. The title track is magnificent, with Mu’s voice made to sound disconcertingly masculine with some canny use of vocal effects. The overall impact is disquieting and sinister. It’s also dance music that genuinely makes you want to dance, whether in a club environment or within the privacy of your own home.
If the music is uncompromising and confrontational, Mu’s voice is something else entirely. She is totally tuneless – and often grating – as she shrieks and hollers her way through her primitive English lyrics, frequently incomprehensibly. Luckily there’s an accompanying lyric sheet, which does not reveal her to be a great poet, or indeed much of a master of the conventions of grammar. There is, however, something entirely appropriate about her self-righteous, fundamental screaming that combines perfectly with Fulton’s crazed, psycho-delic take on house music. On ‘Tigerbastard’, one of the best tracks, Mu disses her old record label with remarkable anger and self-belief. It all sounds peculiarly liberating – and Mu definitely comes across as a feisty woman – someone you wouldn’t want to double cross or meet in a dark alleyway.
Best of all is the timely ‘Stop Bothering Michael Jackson’, where Mu defends the troubled former King of Pop with a near religious fervour. It’s a weirdly calculated chaos of pounding drums and violent vocal outbursts and, unsurprisingly, Martin Bashir does not escape from Mu’s unstoppable wrath.
‘Out Of Breach’ tails off slightly towards the end, when the vocals start to dominate the music a little too much, and Fulton breaks away from his beats into more abstract territory. Nevertheless, it’s a more consistently experimental work than its predecessor, and shows that this extraordinary team are honing and improving their sound. It’s difficult to know how long the thrill will last (there are only so many albums of this kind of material anyone could take), and it’s certainly not for everyone, but ‘Out Of Breach’ marks another step on a challenging and adventurous path.
Many more reviews to come later this week….
Teenage Fanclub – Man-Made (Pema)
It exists and it’s finally here! Words cannot express the beam of joy that exploded across my face as I came across a promo of this record. This is what I’ve been waiting five long years for!
Alan McGee used to say that he never knew quite what to make of each new Teenage Fanclub album when they first played the finished product to him, as it always took him at least twenty listens to appreciate them. Given the immediate chiming pop appeal of albums like ‘Grand Prix’ and ‘Songs From Northern Britain’, I always found this notion a little baffling. With ‘Man-Made’, however, I begin to see his point. I have to concede that on first listen I was slightly underwhelmed by this – the songs are lovely of course, but the melodies are sometimes slightly more obtuse than usual, the production seems deliberately muffled, and the trademark harmonies, whilst still very much in the frame, are less of a feature than on previous albums.
But wait! It’s a real grower! ‘Man-Made’ may be less immediate, but it benefits greatly from a more subtle approach to arrangement and production. There are some wonderfully heart-stopping moments on this album, many of them entirely unexpected. I love the way the middle-section in the thumping ‘Time Stops’ suddenly gives way to some delicately bucolic acoustic guitar plucking, the way the main arrangement of ‘Flowing’ fades out, just leaving some warmly fuzzy lead guitars to conclude the song, and the way ‘Slow Fade, the paciest and most aggressive recording they’ve made since the days of ‘Thirteen’, ends a good minute before you expect it to. This is probably Teenage Fanclub’s most musically intelligent album to date, and the muted production sound (courtesy of John McEntire of Tortoise) frequently sounds strangely appropriate, such as on the dry, touching and carefully arranged ‘Only With You’.
As for the songwriting, this is The Fannies’ most democratic album so far, with each member of the band composing four songs. Luckily, the days when the words ‘Raymond’s going to sing this one’ inspired a slightly uncomfortable feeling are long gone. Since the remarkable blossoming of his songwriting talents on ‘Songs From Northern Britain’, Raymond McGinley has never looked back, and ‘Man-Made’ marks an admirable continuation of this trend. The aforementioned ‘Only With You’, with its vulnerable arpeggios, tinkly piano and muted rhythm guitar is one of the best tracks here, and the closing ‘Don’t Hide’ features a similarly inventive arrangement. ‘Feel’ (Feel what? The sunshine of course, what else?!?) is a typical Teenage Fanclub summery pop song, whilst ‘Nowhere’ has a pleasant Byrdsian shimmer.
Gerry Love has some gems too – ‘Born Under A Good Sign’ may not be the most substantial song here, essentially being built on a repeated chord sequence and ending with a huge psychedelic duelling guitar solo, but it certainly has energy and enthusiasm in droves. Much better though is ‘Fallen Leaves’, which, with its chorus claiming ‘the future’s here’ is one of the most uplifting songs in this set. ‘Save’ is one of the songs that takes a while to get to grips with, but it features some lovely rhythm guitar playing and benefits from the juxtaposition of a lingeringly infectious chorus with a slightly more underplayed melody in its verses.
Norman Blake is such a dependable songwriter that it hardly needs to be stated that he writes the album’s warmest, most familiar and comfortable songs. I’d be very surprised if album opener ‘It’s All In My Mind’, with its chugging rhythm and naggingly insistent melodic line was not used as the album’s lead single. He also offers the simple sugar rush of ‘Slow Fade’, the delicate melancholy of ‘Flowing’ (although perhaps the lyrics here rest a little too much on familiar sentiment) and the rustic folk of ‘Cells’, another of the album’s most engaging moments. He hasn’t written anything here quite in the same league as ‘Neil Jung’, ‘I Don’t Want Control Of You’ or ‘Did I Say’ though, and perhaps the one thing ‘Man-Made’ lacks is an absolute killer song.
However, that’s not really what it’s about – it’s an album where all three songwriters seem entirely comfortable and at ease, and where the arrangements have become as important as the melodies. It’s a remarkably coherent and consistent work, and if given time, may be seen as one of their most successful records. It remains to be seen whether there’s anyone left in the music press who still cares (I can’t imagine the current staff at the NME getting too excited about this) – we can only hope that this album brings The Fannies the dues they so richly deserve. Britain’s finest songwriters since Lennon-McCartney are still going strong.
Four Tet – Everything Ecstatic
Is that title just meant to imply extreme happiness – or is there a trippy drugs influence behind this album? Either way, it sees Kieren Hebden veer away from the music somewhat uncomfortably dubbed ‘folktronica’ (understandably, Hebden has felt uncomfortable with this tag) and back into the realms of percussion-heavy electronica and free-jazz inspired swampy grooves. If anything, this album is closer to ‘Dialogue’, Hebden’s debut as Four Tet, than to any of his subsequent work under the moniker.
Previous album ‘Rounds’ was so successful because it carefully integrated tiny fractured melodies, and intriguing harmonic implications into its ethereal electronic mix. This made it both more accessible and more engaging. ‘Everything Ecstatic’ is a less easy listen – many of its ideas seem almost self-consciously complex and confrontational, but it marks another interesting sidestep from one of our most inventive producers and composers.
There are moments of sheer brilliance – opening track ‘A Joy’ has some exuberant multi-tracked beats that manage to sound naturalistic and organic. ‘High Fives’ is more densely textured and evocative, and possibly the closest this album comes to recreating the elusive mystery of ‘Rounds’.
Elsewhere, there are plenty of rhythmic flourishes and squawking saxophones, and single ‘Smile Around The Face’ is perhaps a little too repetitive, with its high pitched ostinato melody the main focus, it borders on irritating.
Hebden remains as inventive as ever, and ‘Everything Ecstatic’ is admirable for its cavalier approach to genre convention. Hebden has melded a number of different styles together here and, for the most part, has successfully shaken off the apparent stigma of journalistic tags. It’s much less accessible than his recent highly acclaimed albums, and may have the effect of pushing him back into the margins when he should be reaping commercial rewards. The open-minded will find it engaging and compelling.
New Order – Waiting For The Sirens’ Call
It feels a bit churlish – but there’s just something not quite right about this new album from New Order. They are now a highly marketable proposition, based on their enduring status as influential pioneers. Yet, like all of the New Order releases post ‘Technique’, there’s not actually all that much innovation going on here. It feels comfortably familiar (sometimes persistent and infectious), and some of the tracks have a lovely summery pop vibe. The sound, however, as always characterised by the uniquely melodic bass lines of Peter Hook and the robotic drumming of Steven Morris, has not really been embellished or developed much for this release. Sometimes, it even feels like a more polished, neutered version of the classic New Order sound.
The first single, ‘Krafty’ very much sets the tone. It’s entirely unobjectionable, and comes with a string of instantly hummable hooks and melodies. It has that lingering atmosphere (hammered home with some trademark swirling synths and clanging guitars) that marks out the best New Order pop songs. Taken in isolation, its enjoyable enough, but when placed next to a string of very similar sounding songs (‘Who’s Joe?’, ‘Hey Now, What You Doing?, ‘Turn’) it no longer sounds distinctive.
Whereas ‘Krafty’ has enough rhythmic propulsion and feeling to render it engaging, there are some real low points on this album that just sound totally contrived. Worst of all is the electro reggae of ‘I Told You So’, which genuinely starts out sounding like Ace of Base. I’m entirely in favour of the band expanding their reach (and this album clearly demonstrates that they need to reinvent themselves somehow), but genre parody is not really the best approach. Equally, ‘Jetstream’, with the moonlighting Ana Matronic of the Scissor Sisters feels like an uncomfortable attempt to broaden their target audience. The closing ‘Working Overtime’ is a clunky rather than quirky Stooges-inspired turd.
The more conventional, guitar-dominated pop songs certainly fare better, but Bernard Sumner’s lyrics and vocal lines remain frustratingly inconsistent. Plenty of people have hailed this album as a success simply because of its ‘quality songwriting’. I would certainly concede that an album of quality songs would be enough from a band that has already done so much to break the mould. However, ‘Waiting For The Sirens’ Call’ simply isn’t consistent enough an album to fit that description.
Mu – Out Of Breach
Readers of John Kell’s Unpredictable Same fanzine (http://www.kingofquiet.tk) might remember be waxing lyrical about the debut Mu album ‘Afro Finger and Gel’ in the first issue. I stated then that it’s hard to explain why a talentless Japanese girl shouting over minimal percussion and bass backdrops was so thrilling, and the point is worth repeating. ‘Out Of Breach’ basically provides more of the same and is, if anything, even more extreme. It could not exactly be described as melodic, but it remains memorable and convincing nonetheless.
It all works best when the extraordinary producer Maurice Fulton cooks up his most hypnotic grooves. ‘Tigerbastard’ essentially repeats the tricks of cult classic single ‘Let’s Get Sick’, with its relentless driving beat and flurry of agogo and cowbells. The title track is magnificent, with Mu’s voice made to sound disconcertingly masculine with some canny use of vocal effects. The overall impact is disquieting and sinister. It’s also dance music that genuinely makes you want to dance, whether in a club environment or within the privacy of your own home.
If the music is uncompromising and confrontational, Mu’s voice is something else entirely. She is totally tuneless – and often grating – as she shrieks and hollers her way through her primitive English lyrics, frequently incomprehensibly. Luckily there’s an accompanying lyric sheet, which does not reveal her to be a great poet, or indeed much of a master of the conventions of grammar. There is, however, something entirely appropriate about her self-righteous, fundamental screaming that combines perfectly with Fulton’s crazed, psycho-delic take on house music. On ‘Tigerbastard’, one of the best tracks, Mu disses her old record label with remarkable anger and self-belief. It all sounds peculiarly liberating – and Mu definitely comes across as a feisty woman – someone you wouldn’t want to double cross or meet in a dark alleyway.
Best of all is the timely ‘Stop Bothering Michael Jackson’, where Mu defends the troubled former King of Pop with a near religious fervour. It’s a weirdly calculated chaos of pounding drums and violent vocal outbursts and, unsurprisingly, Martin Bashir does not escape from Mu’s unstoppable wrath.
‘Out Of Breach’ tails off slightly towards the end, when the vocals start to dominate the music a little too much, and Fulton breaks away from his beats into more abstract territory. Nevertheless, it’s a more consistently experimental work than its predecessor, and shows that this extraordinary team are honing and improving their sound. It’s difficult to know how long the thrill will last (there are only so many albums of this kind of material anyone could take), and it’s certainly not for everyone, but ‘Out Of Breach’ marks another step on a challenging and adventurous path.
Many more reviews to come later this week….
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
'Man-Made' But Divinely Inspired
Teenage Fanclub, The Scala, London 29/3/05
It’s been a while since we’ve seen The Fannies round these parts. Their last tour was a couple of years ago, and that was a jaunt to promote a greatest hits compilation. Back then, I genuinely feared that it might be the last we saw of them, despite Norman's assurances that they would record a new album. This show is one of two low-key dates aimed at the loyal fanbase to test the water for new material, and it's wonderful to have them back. It’s therefore surprising how little new material they opt to perform this evening – I was basically expecting pretty much the whole of the new album (‘Man-Made’, out May 9th) to get an airing plus a few rarely aired fan favourites from the back catalogue. What we actually got was the first half of ‘Man-Made’ spread evenly throughout the set, along with a fair few now comfortingly familiar classics. Teenage Fanclub therefore remain the most steadfastly predictable of live acts. For some bands this might be considered pejorative, but it is this sturdy dependability that make this band a national treasure. With every Fanclub gig, you know basically what you’re going to get and they pretty much always deliver the goods, leaving the audience feeling warm and elated. This show was no different.
After a pleasant if slightly drifting set from support act Green Peppers (melancholy acoustic singer-songwriter stuff), TFC took the stage and launched into ‘It’s All In My Mind’, the opening track from ‘Man-Made’. This chugging and characteristically infectious tune sounded effortlessly bright and remarkably assured given it was actually the first time the band had played it live. The sound of the band was full, and the vocal harmonies in the chorus seemed a little more subtle and underplayed than usual. A wonderful guitar solo from Norman with what looked like an E-bow really brought the track to life. Perhaps unwisely, they followed it with ‘Time Stops’, thus opening the gig with the opening two tracks on the new album. This one was a little more tentative, and suffered from an overly prominent bass twang. Still, the chorus was lovely and Gerry’s voice sounded in fine form.
From the outset the band were in excellent spirits, Norman joking about his glasses falling off, and Raymond exchanging a few words with a heckler who denounced his endearingly messy new long hair with the words ‘where are the scissors, Raymond?’ In fact, Raymond McGinley is something of a revelation these days. His slightly uneasy stance still makes for a marked contrast with Norman Blake’s effusive and relaxed confidence – but as a songwriter and performer, he improves with every new release. He takes on most of the lead guitar duties these days, and plays with verve throughout tonight’s show. His songs provide some of the evening’s highlights – ‘Verisimilitude’ as the first universally recognised song, ‘Your Love Is The Place Where I Come From’ as a beautiful, emotionally direct lament complete with comedy glockenspiel, ‘About You’ as the song that at last gets the somewhat restrained audience jumping and singing along. He also provides one of the highlights of the encores, but more of that later…
The new songs all sounded confident and intelligently arranged, from the sugar rush of ‘Slow Fade’ (easily the paciest thing they’ve recorded since the days of ‘Thirteen’ ‘Don’t blink’, says Norman, ‘it’s so short you might miss it!’). Gerry contributes the marvellous ‘Save’, which whilst a little elusive on record, sounds absolutely lovely here – particularly thanks to some delightful pedal steel guitar work. Raymond’s ‘Nowhere’ is more jangly and less immediate, but it has some wonderful lead guitar work. I don't want to say too much more about them now, as a review of the album is on its way!
The band cover all bases by playing material from throughout their career, including second ever single ‘God Knows It’s True’ and ‘Did I Say’, the exquisite, rapturous gem of a new track on the best of primer. We get some favourites that weren’t performed as regularly as they might have been on the last tour (‘I Don’t Want Control Of You’ and ‘Near You’ were both excellent) and ending with a flurry of classics proves to be a wise move, and shows how well this band can judge the pacing and timing of a good set. Only ‘Thirteen’ is cruelly ignored – given a slightly longer set, we might have heard ‘Radio’, ‘Norman 3’ or ‘The Cabbage’ at least. As it stands, the set very much favours Grand Prix the albums subsequent to it.
Best of all are the encores, where they premier ‘Only With You’, one of the best of Raymond McGinley’s songs, with its inventive arrangement and slightly wistful melody. It was very touching indeed, and brought a sense of reverential hush to the venue, before much of the audience laughed over the solo piano at the end because they had started clapping well before the end. They always seem to end with ‘Everything Flows’ these days, which makes it all the more amazing that they can still play this early classic with such radical gusto. It sounds for all the world like they only wrote it yesterday. This, ‘Start Again’ and ‘Don’t Look Back’ sound colossal and at last the audience seem engaged.
The band seem genuinely surprised when the crowd refuse to stop cheering until a second encore is delivered. They return to play an endearingly ragged, unrehearsed version of ‘Alcoholiday’ – a former live favourite that seems to have fallen off the radar a little in more recent years. It was an inspired choice. Whilst it left regulars like ‘The Concept’ and ‘Starsign’ unplayed – it was crowd-pleasing enough to mean that this didn’t really matter.
The problem now is surely that this band simply have too many great songs. With ‘Man-Made’ added to the mix, they now have a vast plethora of material to draw from, and it would be impossible for them to deliver absolutely everything. I would have loved to hear some less frequently aired gems (‘Going Places’, ‘Winter’ or ‘Speed Of Light’ would have been great, and they don’t seem to play ‘Neil Jung’ enough these days either), but this was clearly not the kind of set they opted for this evening. Teenage Fanclub were reliably great tonight – but they were preaching to the converted. I have this little glimmer of hope that ‘Man-Made’ will at last bring them to a wider audience, but it’s depressingly unlikely. Through their rigid adherence to the old-fashioned virtues of beautiful harmonies, a good tune and some rollicking guitar solos, The Fannies remain our very best songwriters - a crucial but criminally ignored piece of Britain's pop legacy.
It’s been a while since we’ve seen The Fannies round these parts. Their last tour was a couple of years ago, and that was a jaunt to promote a greatest hits compilation. Back then, I genuinely feared that it might be the last we saw of them, despite Norman's assurances that they would record a new album. This show is one of two low-key dates aimed at the loyal fanbase to test the water for new material, and it's wonderful to have them back. It’s therefore surprising how little new material they opt to perform this evening – I was basically expecting pretty much the whole of the new album (‘Man-Made’, out May 9th) to get an airing plus a few rarely aired fan favourites from the back catalogue. What we actually got was the first half of ‘Man-Made’ spread evenly throughout the set, along with a fair few now comfortingly familiar classics. Teenage Fanclub therefore remain the most steadfastly predictable of live acts. For some bands this might be considered pejorative, but it is this sturdy dependability that make this band a national treasure. With every Fanclub gig, you know basically what you’re going to get and they pretty much always deliver the goods, leaving the audience feeling warm and elated. This show was no different.
After a pleasant if slightly drifting set from support act Green Peppers (melancholy acoustic singer-songwriter stuff), TFC took the stage and launched into ‘It’s All In My Mind’, the opening track from ‘Man-Made’. This chugging and characteristically infectious tune sounded effortlessly bright and remarkably assured given it was actually the first time the band had played it live. The sound of the band was full, and the vocal harmonies in the chorus seemed a little more subtle and underplayed than usual. A wonderful guitar solo from Norman with what looked like an E-bow really brought the track to life. Perhaps unwisely, they followed it with ‘Time Stops’, thus opening the gig with the opening two tracks on the new album. This one was a little more tentative, and suffered from an overly prominent bass twang. Still, the chorus was lovely and Gerry’s voice sounded in fine form.
From the outset the band were in excellent spirits, Norman joking about his glasses falling off, and Raymond exchanging a few words with a heckler who denounced his endearingly messy new long hair with the words ‘where are the scissors, Raymond?’ In fact, Raymond McGinley is something of a revelation these days. His slightly uneasy stance still makes for a marked contrast with Norman Blake’s effusive and relaxed confidence – but as a songwriter and performer, he improves with every new release. He takes on most of the lead guitar duties these days, and plays with verve throughout tonight’s show. His songs provide some of the evening’s highlights – ‘Verisimilitude’ as the first universally recognised song, ‘Your Love Is The Place Where I Come From’ as a beautiful, emotionally direct lament complete with comedy glockenspiel, ‘About You’ as the song that at last gets the somewhat restrained audience jumping and singing along. He also provides one of the highlights of the encores, but more of that later…
The new songs all sounded confident and intelligently arranged, from the sugar rush of ‘Slow Fade’ (easily the paciest thing they’ve recorded since the days of ‘Thirteen’ ‘Don’t blink’, says Norman, ‘it’s so short you might miss it!’). Gerry contributes the marvellous ‘Save’, which whilst a little elusive on record, sounds absolutely lovely here – particularly thanks to some delightful pedal steel guitar work. Raymond’s ‘Nowhere’ is more jangly and less immediate, but it has some wonderful lead guitar work. I don't want to say too much more about them now, as a review of the album is on its way!
The band cover all bases by playing material from throughout their career, including second ever single ‘God Knows It’s True’ and ‘Did I Say’, the exquisite, rapturous gem of a new track on the best of primer. We get some favourites that weren’t performed as regularly as they might have been on the last tour (‘I Don’t Want Control Of You’ and ‘Near You’ were both excellent) and ending with a flurry of classics proves to be a wise move, and shows how well this band can judge the pacing and timing of a good set. Only ‘Thirteen’ is cruelly ignored – given a slightly longer set, we might have heard ‘Radio’, ‘Norman 3’ or ‘The Cabbage’ at least. As it stands, the set very much favours Grand Prix the albums subsequent to it.
Best of all are the encores, where they premier ‘Only With You’, one of the best of Raymond McGinley’s songs, with its inventive arrangement and slightly wistful melody. It was very touching indeed, and brought a sense of reverential hush to the venue, before much of the audience laughed over the solo piano at the end because they had started clapping well before the end. They always seem to end with ‘Everything Flows’ these days, which makes it all the more amazing that they can still play this early classic with such radical gusto. It sounds for all the world like they only wrote it yesterday. This, ‘Start Again’ and ‘Don’t Look Back’ sound colossal and at last the audience seem engaged.
The band seem genuinely surprised when the crowd refuse to stop cheering until a second encore is delivered. They return to play an endearingly ragged, unrehearsed version of ‘Alcoholiday’ – a former live favourite that seems to have fallen off the radar a little in more recent years. It was an inspired choice. Whilst it left regulars like ‘The Concept’ and ‘Starsign’ unplayed – it was crowd-pleasing enough to mean that this didn’t really matter.
The problem now is surely that this band simply have too many great songs. With ‘Man-Made’ added to the mix, they now have a vast plethora of material to draw from, and it would be impossible for them to deliver absolutely everything. I would have loved to hear some less frequently aired gems (‘Going Places’, ‘Winter’ or ‘Speed Of Light’ would have been great, and they don’t seem to play ‘Neil Jung’ enough these days either), but this was clearly not the kind of set they opted for this evening. Teenage Fanclub were reliably great tonight – but they were preaching to the converted. I have this little glimmer of hope that ‘Man-Made’ will at last bring them to a wider audience, but it’s depressingly unlikely. Through their rigid adherence to the old-fashioned virtues of beautiful harmonies, a good tune and some rollicking guitar solos, The Fannies remain our very best songwriters - a crucial but criminally ignored piece of Britain's pop legacy.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Radio Radio
Yes, for the first time since last year's Glastonbury Festival I will be hitting the radio airwaves once more! In League With Paton (the radio show which gave this blog its name) will be returning to Cambridge University's radio station, CUR1350, for one show only - as part of a special day of alumni programming - next Saturday at 1oam. Visit the website (http://www.cur1350.co.uk) for more information for how to tune in online. I shall publish a playlist on this site after the show.
The more observant among you may have noticed that I have now added numerous links to the sidebar (scroll down a bit and you'll see them). This should be a pretty useful resource to anyone interested in the music and film I write about here - if you're not familiar with any of these sites, be sure to check them out!
The more observant among you may have noticed that I have now added numerous links to the sidebar (scroll down a bit and you'll see them). This should be a pretty useful resource to anyone interested in the music and film I write about here - if you're not familiar with any of these sites, be sure to check them out!
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
The End Is The Beginning and The Beginning Is The End
5x2 (Dir: Francois Ozon)
This new film from Francois Ozon, the enfant terrible of French cinema, appears to have divided critics somewhat and I must admit that I was surprised by my own somewhat ambivalent feelings towards it. Ozon strikes me as one of the most promising among younger directors, and I would happily deploy him as armour to bolster my argument against those tedious ‘golden age theorists’ who think cinema is in a state of terminal decline. He has made films that veer from the wilfully perverse (‘Criminal Lovers’, ‘Sitcom’) to the lightweight and farcical (‘8 Women’, ‘Swimming Pool’ ‘Sitcom’) via a brilliantly intense examination of grief and loss (‘Under The Sand’) that remains his finest work to date. He has demonstrated both his prolificacy (a new film seems to emerge every year) and his deftness of touch arguably more successfully than the similarly lauded Michael Winterbottom, who may yet prove to be a jack of all trades but master of none.
‘5x2’ is without doubt his most mature and technically accomplished film yet. It is closest to ‘Under The Sand’ in atmosphere and impact. Like Mike Leigh’s recent ‘Vera Drake’, this film effectively utilises close-ups and claustrophobic theatrical situations to deconstruct its portrait of a disintegrating marriage. Like Gaspar Noe’s recent shocker ‘Irreversible’, it tells its story backwards, but with a much greater degree of subtlety. In fact, it may be the case that this film is too subtle – by leaving far more unstated than it includes, it proves somewhat elusive.
It begins superbly, with the divorce of its two protagonists – an uncomfortable office scene demonstrating cannily how a once emotional intimacy has been reduced to legalistic terminology, the rubble of a collapsed love. Ozon’s greatest success in this movie is to have the couple go to a hotel for one final act of love, rather than merely going their separate ways. What follows is the most torrid and uncomfortable sex scene I have ever witnessed in the cinema, and one that merits far more column inches than any of the ‘real sex’ in Winterbottom’s apparently simplistic ‘9 Songs’. It begins uneasily enough, but when she appears to change her mind, it appears to become rape. By virtue of the backward arc of the narrative, these moral complications are left unexamined, and we are left with a somewhat complicated view of Gilles, the husband, as the film progresses, and one, which I must admit left me viewing him in a somewhat unsympathetic light for the entire duration of the film.
The middle sections of the film are equally complex and problematic. Ozon depicts a party where Gilles’ homosexual brother and his new boyfriend, a blandly handsome and unashamedly promiscuous Mediterranean type come round for dinner, alcohol and soft drugs, and a rather stilted examination of conventional and unconventional relationships ensues. The results are appropriately uneasy – but I do wonder if this is the kind of conversation real people have at dinner parties. It’s essential for Ozon’s narrative structure that it appears – but does it really shed any light on the mystery of human relationships beyond the merely prosaic? Although this is the least camp of Ozon’s films, he seems unable to resist the introduction of a gay element here, and it just feels a little incongruous given the closed, introverted nature of its central couple. Also, using homosexuality as a means of elucidating differences between ‘conventional’ and ‘unconventional’ relationships strikes me as an entirely unnecessary and unhelpful dichotomy (this film will only reinforce the opinion held by evangelicals and right-wingers that homosexuality threatens to destroy the institution of marriage) – but that’s for an entirely different discussion.
Ozon then moves to depict the birth of their child, in complicated medical circumstances, with real technical mastery. This is the one section of the film where I felt an emotional connection with the characters, and it was a careful, controlled examination of how one central event can undermine intimacy and trust between two people. When Gilles fails to appear at the birth to support his wife, there is a sense of palpable inevitability (especially given the reverse structure of the film) – a line has been crossed and the consequences will not be reversed. The earlier scenes, where we see Gilles bonding intimately with his son far more than with his wife, are now thrown into much sharper focus by this section of the film, and his unsympathetic character more carefully illuminated.
The marriage sequence shows us the untainted abandon and excitement of romance effectively, but it is also where Ozon makes his most significant misstep. By introducing a nameless hunk to tempt Marion into adultery on their wedding night, Ozon indulges his taste for the palpably absurd. It’s almost as if, to provide some balance for his resolutely unsympathetic portrait of Gilles, he has to give Marion a flaw of her own. Unfortunately, this scene is just so clunky and mishandled that the tactic misfires spectacularly, leaving the audience confused and frustrated. It also seems to imply that the marriage was doomed from the very outset – which gives the film an even greater sense of overbearing inevitability.
The final holiday resort scenes, which finally show us where Marion and Gilles first meet, are quietly charming, but the character of Gilles’ former girlfriend of four years seems tokenistic and underwritten, and her outpourings of jealousy and frustration seem like stereotyped and conventional female responses to the encroaching threat of ‘the other woman’, whether real or imagined. Again, Ozon’s direction is more subtle than his writing, and we are left with the sense that these early flourishings of intimacy are left underplayed and are something of a missed opportunity.
Some people may feel moved by this film’s conclusion, and may feel that the reverse narrative adds dramatic and emotional weight. Others may feel that it adds only cynicism and inevitability to an already slight portrayal of a disintegrating marriage. I felt sandwiched uncomfortably between these opposing viewpoints. I desparately wanted to react without cynicism to this accomplished piece of film-making – but it would be giving Ozon too much dramatic license to ignore this film’s significant flaws. Given his love of theatre, and his comfortable handling of comedy and farce in earlier pictures, it is a surprise that its Ozon’s writing here that lets him down somewhat. I felt we needed to know more about this film’s central characters – not even the most intense of marriages can possibly exist in complete isolation. The film is excellent and effective in portraying honestly the profoundly irrational actions of human beings (Gilles does not seem to know why he cannot bring himself to support Marion during childbirth). A lesser director would have made a film where the characters’ actions were more calculated and less convincing (and this makes the film’s two major slips – the dinner party conversation and Marion’s wedding-night temptation) seem even more superfluous. ‘5x2’ is as engrossing a film as one might expect from Ozon – but it doesn’t achieve the poignancy and profundity of Bergman, arguably the best director of these claustrophobic pieces (‘5x2’ will inevitably be compared unfavourably with ‘Scenes From A Marriage’, or perhaps more appropriately with its imminent sequel ‘Saraband’). Still, perhaps at this stage that kind of creative brilliance is an unrealistic expectation – and Ozon is a less weighty and more playful director than Bergman anyway. It may be satisfying enough that he is continuing to develop his control and technique, expanding his range along the way.
This new film from Francois Ozon, the enfant terrible of French cinema, appears to have divided critics somewhat and I must admit that I was surprised by my own somewhat ambivalent feelings towards it. Ozon strikes me as one of the most promising among younger directors, and I would happily deploy him as armour to bolster my argument against those tedious ‘golden age theorists’ who think cinema is in a state of terminal decline. He has made films that veer from the wilfully perverse (‘Criminal Lovers’, ‘Sitcom’) to the lightweight and farcical (‘8 Women’, ‘Swimming Pool’ ‘Sitcom’) via a brilliantly intense examination of grief and loss (‘Under The Sand’) that remains his finest work to date. He has demonstrated both his prolificacy (a new film seems to emerge every year) and his deftness of touch arguably more successfully than the similarly lauded Michael Winterbottom, who may yet prove to be a jack of all trades but master of none.
‘5x2’ is without doubt his most mature and technically accomplished film yet. It is closest to ‘Under The Sand’ in atmosphere and impact. Like Mike Leigh’s recent ‘Vera Drake’, this film effectively utilises close-ups and claustrophobic theatrical situations to deconstruct its portrait of a disintegrating marriage. Like Gaspar Noe’s recent shocker ‘Irreversible’, it tells its story backwards, but with a much greater degree of subtlety. In fact, it may be the case that this film is too subtle – by leaving far more unstated than it includes, it proves somewhat elusive.
It begins superbly, with the divorce of its two protagonists – an uncomfortable office scene demonstrating cannily how a once emotional intimacy has been reduced to legalistic terminology, the rubble of a collapsed love. Ozon’s greatest success in this movie is to have the couple go to a hotel for one final act of love, rather than merely going their separate ways. What follows is the most torrid and uncomfortable sex scene I have ever witnessed in the cinema, and one that merits far more column inches than any of the ‘real sex’ in Winterbottom’s apparently simplistic ‘9 Songs’. It begins uneasily enough, but when she appears to change her mind, it appears to become rape. By virtue of the backward arc of the narrative, these moral complications are left unexamined, and we are left with a somewhat complicated view of Gilles, the husband, as the film progresses, and one, which I must admit left me viewing him in a somewhat unsympathetic light for the entire duration of the film.
The middle sections of the film are equally complex and problematic. Ozon depicts a party where Gilles’ homosexual brother and his new boyfriend, a blandly handsome and unashamedly promiscuous Mediterranean type come round for dinner, alcohol and soft drugs, and a rather stilted examination of conventional and unconventional relationships ensues. The results are appropriately uneasy – but I do wonder if this is the kind of conversation real people have at dinner parties. It’s essential for Ozon’s narrative structure that it appears – but does it really shed any light on the mystery of human relationships beyond the merely prosaic? Although this is the least camp of Ozon’s films, he seems unable to resist the introduction of a gay element here, and it just feels a little incongruous given the closed, introverted nature of its central couple. Also, using homosexuality as a means of elucidating differences between ‘conventional’ and ‘unconventional’ relationships strikes me as an entirely unnecessary and unhelpful dichotomy (this film will only reinforce the opinion held by evangelicals and right-wingers that homosexuality threatens to destroy the institution of marriage) – but that’s for an entirely different discussion.
Ozon then moves to depict the birth of their child, in complicated medical circumstances, with real technical mastery. This is the one section of the film where I felt an emotional connection with the characters, and it was a careful, controlled examination of how one central event can undermine intimacy and trust between two people. When Gilles fails to appear at the birth to support his wife, there is a sense of palpable inevitability (especially given the reverse structure of the film) – a line has been crossed and the consequences will not be reversed. The earlier scenes, where we see Gilles bonding intimately with his son far more than with his wife, are now thrown into much sharper focus by this section of the film, and his unsympathetic character more carefully illuminated.
The marriage sequence shows us the untainted abandon and excitement of romance effectively, but it is also where Ozon makes his most significant misstep. By introducing a nameless hunk to tempt Marion into adultery on their wedding night, Ozon indulges his taste for the palpably absurd. It’s almost as if, to provide some balance for his resolutely unsympathetic portrait of Gilles, he has to give Marion a flaw of her own. Unfortunately, this scene is just so clunky and mishandled that the tactic misfires spectacularly, leaving the audience confused and frustrated. It also seems to imply that the marriage was doomed from the very outset – which gives the film an even greater sense of overbearing inevitability.
The final holiday resort scenes, which finally show us where Marion and Gilles first meet, are quietly charming, but the character of Gilles’ former girlfriend of four years seems tokenistic and underwritten, and her outpourings of jealousy and frustration seem like stereotyped and conventional female responses to the encroaching threat of ‘the other woman’, whether real or imagined. Again, Ozon’s direction is more subtle than his writing, and we are left with the sense that these early flourishings of intimacy are left underplayed and are something of a missed opportunity.
Some people may feel moved by this film’s conclusion, and may feel that the reverse narrative adds dramatic and emotional weight. Others may feel that it adds only cynicism and inevitability to an already slight portrayal of a disintegrating marriage. I felt sandwiched uncomfortably between these opposing viewpoints. I desparately wanted to react without cynicism to this accomplished piece of film-making – but it would be giving Ozon too much dramatic license to ignore this film’s significant flaws. Given his love of theatre, and his comfortable handling of comedy and farce in earlier pictures, it is a surprise that its Ozon’s writing here that lets him down somewhat. I felt we needed to know more about this film’s central characters – not even the most intense of marriages can possibly exist in complete isolation. The film is excellent and effective in portraying honestly the profoundly irrational actions of human beings (Gilles does not seem to know why he cannot bring himself to support Marion during childbirth). A lesser director would have made a film where the characters’ actions were more calculated and less convincing (and this makes the film’s two major slips – the dinner party conversation and Marion’s wedding-night temptation) seem even more superfluous. ‘5x2’ is as engrossing a film as one might expect from Ozon – but it doesn’t achieve the poignancy and profundity of Bergman, arguably the best director of these claustrophobic pieces (‘5x2’ will inevitably be compared unfavourably with ‘Scenes From A Marriage’, or perhaps more appropriately with its imminent sequel ‘Saraband’). Still, perhaps at this stage that kind of creative brilliance is an unrealistic expectation – and Ozon is a less weighty and more playful director than Bergman anyway. It may be satisfying enough that he is continuing to develop his control and technique, expanding his range along the way.
Good Things Come To Those Who Wait
Rilo Kiley at the Marquee 16/3/05
I normally hate all seated gigs, but a chair would have been a great relief at this one. I haven’t been kept waiting for a band this long since the days of the Cambridge Boat Race, where, lovely venue thought it was, they frequently spent three times as much time setting up as the band spent on stage. It was 10pm by the time they finally appeared, and thoughts of missing the last train home did begin to enter my mind around this time.
This was all made much worse by the cloyingly earnest performance from support act Marc Carroll. He is the kind of ‘artist’ that makes the term ‘singer-songwriter’ sound horribly offensive. Every line was hammed-up and overwrought, every chord strummed with an unpleasant and grating faux intensity. This quite literally heavy-handed strumming style was so relentless and uniform that it made the numerous guitar changes seem like mere window dressing. Unfortunately, you can't polish a turd. That being said, ‘Crash Pad Number’ was at least a pleasant slice of Byrdsian jangle pop, even if it did bear more than a passing resemblance to ‘Manic Monday’ (Prince wrote that y’know, a piece of pop trivia considerably more interesting than anything Carroll’s career will ever result in).
Rilo Kiley’s performance has drawn some harsh criticism from some quarters, not least from John Kell, who has declared Rilo Kiley to be MOR. I sort of see where he is coming from – they are more glossy and less lyrically substantial than many of the glowing reviews of their albums have accounted for, and there was an unexpected emphasis on fuzzy dual guitar solos in a vaguely 70s FM radio rock style. Yet, ‘MOR’ has always struck me as an overused and somewhat unhelpful term and, to these ears at least, there was little that was Middle of the Road about this performance. It was technically impressive, with some striking slide guitar flourishes, and surprising levels of rhythmic inventiveness where so many alt. Country combos are merely functional. At times, the dazzling musicianship was thrilling and the intricate arrangements always fascinating. I'm slightly wary of simply dismissing quality musicianship as MOR, and Rilo Kiley are most certainly not Keane. If we’re going to use one of those annoying critical terms (and be frustratingly pedantic at the same time), we might better dub Rilo Kiley AOR. They are perfectly pitched at the Word Magazine readership (Word promoted tonight’s show) and are most likely to appeal to mature, middle-aged, reasonably conservative listeners, rather than some of the surprising number of indie kids in the audience. Not only this, but they also bolster their sound a little for live performance, frequently emphasising the rock element to their sound as much as the country. Occasionally this spills into self-indulgence, as the biting ‘Does He Love You?’ disintegrates into a rather aimless jam session.
Jenny Lewis and Blake Sennett make for a slightly unusual pairing at the front – he looks like your typical indie fop, and she could easily be the queen of a beauty pageant. Her voice lacks rough edges, but is engaging, and her phrasing is crisp. She is let down tonight by a slightly problematic sound mix, which swamps her understated delivery beneath the wall of guitars. Still, ‘Portions For Foxes’ is more energetic than on record, and ‘I Never’ sounds suitably sultry. Best of all was a brand new song, which had a slightly unconventional melody, and demonstrated that this band are still expanding their reach.
The Arcade Fire gig earlier this month ended with a spectacular set-piece bringing band and audience closer together, and Rilo Kiley conclude proceedings with a similarly good natured flourish. They invite Word’s Andrew Harrison and members of the audience to invade the stage for a singalong finale of ‘With Arms Outstretched’ (from ‘The Execution of All Things’), one of their sweetest songs and, as it turns out, clearly a fan favourite. It left me feeling somewhat warm and sentimental.
Whilst this music will certainly not change the world, I very much enjoyed this set, and it marked Rilo Kiley out as genuinely worthy songwriters, rather than the mere pretentions at worthiness that characterise the likes of Damien Dempsey or indeed Marc Carroll. I concede that they will need to be braver with future releases (I suspect that, despite the assumptions of its title, 'More Adventurous' is probably neither more nor less adventurous than its immediate predecessor). The one new song here hinted that this might be a realistic possibility - let's hope so.
I normally hate all seated gigs, but a chair would have been a great relief at this one. I haven’t been kept waiting for a band this long since the days of the Cambridge Boat Race, where, lovely venue thought it was, they frequently spent three times as much time setting up as the band spent on stage. It was 10pm by the time they finally appeared, and thoughts of missing the last train home did begin to enter my mind around this time.
This was all made much worse by the cloyingly earnest performance from support act Marc Carroll. He is the kind of ‘artist’ that makes the term ‘singer-songwriter’ sound horribly offensive. Every line was hammed-up and overwrought, every chord strummed with an unpleasant and grating faux intensity. This quite literally heavy-handed strumming style was so relentless and uniform that it made the numerous guitar changes seem like mere window dressing. Unfortunately, you can't polish a turd. That being said, ‘Crash Pad Number’ was at least a pleasant slice of Byrdsian jangle pop, even if it did bear more than a passing resemblance to ‘Manic Monday’ (Prince wrote that y’know, a piece of pop trivia considerably more interesting than anything Carroll’s career will ever result in).
Rilo Kiley’s performance has drawn some harsh criticism from some quarters, not least from John Kell, who has declared Rilo Kiley to be MOR. I sort of see where he is coming from – they are more glossy and less lyrically substantial than many of the glowing reviews of their albums have accounted for, and there was an unexpected emphasis on fuzzy dual guitar solos in a vaguely 70s FM radio rock style. Yet, ‘MOR’ has always struck me as an overused and somewhat unhelpful term and, to these ears at least, there was little that was Middle of the Road about this performance. It was technically impressive, with some striking slide guitar flourishes, and surprising levels of rhythmic inventiveness where so many alt. Country combos are merely functional. At times, the dazzling musicianship was thrilling and the intricate arrangements always fascinating. I'm slightly wary of simply dismissing quality musicianship as MOR, and Rilo Kiley are most certainly not Keane. If we’re going to use one of those annoying critical terms (and be frustratingly pedantic at the same time), we might better dub Rilo Kiley AOR. They are perfectly pitched at the Word Magazine readership (Word promoted tonight’s show) and are most likely to appeal to mature, middle-aged, reasonably conservative listeners, rather than some of the surprising number of indie kids in the audience. Not only this, but they also bolster their sound a little for live performance, frequently emphasising the rock element to their sound as much as the country. Occasionally this spills into self-indulgence, as the biting ‘Does He Love You?’ disintegrates into a rather aimless jam session.
Jenny Lewis and Blake Sennett make for a slightly unusual pairing at the front – he looks like your typical indie fop, and she could easily be the queen of a beauty pageant. Her voice lacks rough edges, but is engaging, and her phrasing is crisp. She is let down tonight by a slightly problematic sound mix, which swamps her understated delivery beneath the wall of guitars. Still, ‘Portions For Foxes’ is more energetic than on record, and ‘I Never’ sounds suitably sultry. Best of all was a brand new song, which had a slightly unconventional melody, and demonstrated that this band are still expanding their reach.
The Arcade Fire gig earlier this month ended with a spectacular set-piece bringing band and audience closer together, and Rilo Kiley conclude proceedings with a similarly good natured flourish. They invite Word’s Andrew Harrison and members of the audience to invade the stage for a singalong finale of ‘With Arms Outstretched’ (from ‘The Execution of All Things’), one of their sweetest songs and, as it turns out, clearly a fan favourite. It left me feeling somewhat warm and sentimental.
Whilst this music will certainly not change the world, I very much enjoyed this set, and it marked Rilo Kiley out as genuinely worthy songwriters, rather than the mere pretentions at worthiness that characterise the likes of Damien Dempsey or indeed Marc Carroll. I concede that they will need to be braver with future releases (I suspect that, despite the assumptions of its title, 'More Adventurous' is probably neither more nor less adventurous than its immediate predecessor). The one new song here hinted that this might be a realistic possibility - let's hope so.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Death Becomes Them
The Arcade Fire, King's College Student Union, 8th March 2005
I don’t normally go in for hyperbole, but this really was something quite special. Besides, I got there before the NME anyway. The anticipation for The Arcade Fire’s first gig outside North America had reached feverish levels seemingly entirely by word of mouth (and the web), the gig having comfortably sold out before the NME fell into rapture over the wonderful ‘Funeral’ album. There were several important people in the audience, including Steve Lamacq and XFM’s John Kennedy and also, so I’m reliably informed, Bjork. These people are not the nation’s tastemakers for nothing – and in this case, they should be lauded for lending their support to this remarkable band.
If anything, The Arcade Fire are a more invigorating and distinctive prospect live than on record. From the word go, they are a band that manage to appear intensely serious (or maybe seriously intense?) about their work, but also thrillingly entertaining. Whilst much of this is down to how they look on stage (they all look slightly odd and are dressed in dark suits), the music and the performance are even more captivating. They open with ‘Wake Up’, one of the more immediate songs on ‘Funeral’, its insistent one chord attack giving way to an entirely unpredictable change of pace and feel. With all six members of the band singing loudly in unison, it delivers a palpable sense of drama and occasion that immediately marks this band out for larger territories than student union bars.
From the outset, this is a set that, while necessarily mostly drawing on the immediately familiar material from ‘Funeral’, remains engaging and unpredictable, full of unexpected twists and turns. These twists take various guises, from the carefully plotted merging of two of their most rhythmically insistent tracks (‘The Power Out’ and ‘Rebellion (Lies)’), to the fearless instrument swapping, sometimes mid-song. There is a vast plethora of instruments on stage, from the conventional guitars-bass-keyboards-drums set up to the more unusual varieties of percussion (glockenspiel and steel drum) and accordion. They utilise these instruments ingeniously, so that the gig is as much a visual spectacle as an astonishing display of musical invention (witness one member wearing a motorcycle helmet and then proceeding to hit it repeatedly, before moving to the side of the stage to give the PA stack a good beating). The sound has remarkable clarity for a basic bar venue, and every detail is clearly audible. Whilst ‘Funeral’ may have resulted from the deaths of several family members during writing and recording, its songs are also unfashionably romantic, and are essentially thrilling escapist dreams that translate brilliantly to live performance.
The band seem genuinely overwhelmed by the warm reception – and the banter does not extend much beyond slightly uncomfortable thank yous. No big problem, however, as they save the best for last. After their elegant, mysterious rendition of Talking Heads’ ‘This Must Be The Place’ (David Byrne joined them onstage in New York earlier this year) and a final, elaborate and highly theatrical delivery of album closer ‘In The Backseat’ (where the lead vocals are delivered with dramatic precision by Regine Chassagne), the band appear to disappear from the stage, but beating drums and ghostly voices are still clearly audible. The realisation suddenly dawns that the band themselves are snaking through the crowd – a quite brilliant ending to a wonderful performance. No matter how seriously they may take themselves, or indeed how intensely worshipped they may be by the music press, this is clearly not a band that intends to neglect its audience. Whether they will be able to repeat this trick when they play the larger Astoria Theatre in June remains to be seen – but either way, that is a gig which those not lucky enough to grab a ticket for this show simply must attend.
A whole batch of album reviews to follow soon....
I don’t normally go in for hyperbole, but this really was something quite special. Besides, I got there before the NME anyway. The anticipation for The Arcade Fire’s first gig outside North America had reached feverish levels seemingly entirely by word of mouth (and the web), the gig having comfortably sold out before the NME fell into rapture over the wonderful ‘Funeral’ album. There were several important people in the audience, including Steve Lamacq and XFM’s John Kennedy and also, so I’m reliably informed, Bjork. These people are not the nation’s tastemakers for nothing – and in this case, they should be lauded for lending their support to this remarkable band.
If anything, The Arcade Fire are a more invigorating and distinctive prospect live than on record. From the word go, they are a band that manage to appear intensely serious (or maybe seriously intense?) about their work, but also thrillingly entertaining. Whilst much of this is down to how they look on stage (they all look slightly odd and are dressed in dark suits), the music and the performance are even more captivating. They open with ‘Wake Up’, one of the more immediate songs on ‘Funeral’, its insistent one chord attack giving way to an entirely unpredictable change of pace and feel. With all six members of the band singing loudly in unison, it delivers a palpable sense of drama and occasion that immediately marks this band out for larger territories than student union bars.
From the outset, this is a set that, while necessarily mostly drawing on the immediately familiar material from ‘Funeral’, remains engaging and unpredictable, full of unexpected twists and turns. These twists take various guises, from the carefully plotted merging of two of their most rhythmically insistent tracks (‘The Power Out’ and ‘Rebellion (Lies)’), to the fearless instrument swapping, sometimes mid-song. There is a vast plethora of instruments on stage, from the conventional guitars-bass-keyboards-drums set up to the more unusual varieties of percussion (glockenspiel and steel drum) and accordion. They utilise these instruments ingeniously, so that the gig is as much a visual spectacle as an astonishing display of musical invention (witness one member wearing a motorcycle helmet and then proceeding to hit it repeatedly, before moving to the side of the stage to give the PA stack a good beating). The sound has remarkable clarity for a basic bar venue, and every detail is clearly audible. Whilst ‘Funeral’ may have resulted from the deaths of several family members during writing and recording, its songs are also unfashionably romantic, and are essentially thrilling escapist dreams that translate brilliantly to live performance.
The band seem genuinely overwhelmed by the warm reception – and the banter does not extend much beyond slightly uncomfortable thank yous. No big problem, however, as they save the best for last. After their elegant, mysterious rendition of Talking Heads’ ‘This Must Be The Place’ (David Byrne joined them onstage in New York earlier this year) and a final, elaborate and highly theatrical delivery of album closer ‘In The Backseat’ (where the lead vocals are delivered with dramatic precision by Regine Chassagne), the band appear to disappear from the stage, but beating drums and ghostly voices are still clearly audible. The realisation suddenly dawns that the band themselves are snaking through the crowd – a quite brilliant ending to a wonderful performance. No matter how seriously they may take themselves, or indeed how intensely worshipped they may be by the music press, this is clearly not a band that intends to neglect its audience. Whether they will be able to repeat this trick when they play the larger Astoria Theatre in June remains to be seen – but either way, that is a gig which those not lucky enough to grab a ticket for this show simply must attend.
A whole batch of album reviews to follow soon....
Monday, February 21, 2005
Slow and Steady Wins The Race
Well I promised posts over the weekend, and have failed in my duty largely due to vegetating in front of Snooker on the TV (if there is a true genius in sport right now, it’s surely Ronnie O’Sullivan, anything but slow and steady this weekend – more frantic and unstoppable). Nevertheless, whilst only really half awake, I did make it to the Royal Festival Hall to catch Low, a band I’ve been meaning to see live for years, and have never quite got round to it. Perhaps sleepiness is not the best state to be in for this band, even with the slightly weightier material from their new album, they are still as stately and understated as ever.
Still – sleep was not an option during the mercifully brief set from the London Dirthole Collective. What a cacophony! Four percussionists beat out exactly the same perfunctory rhythms on their skeletal drum kits, guitarists stab at spiky two chord riffs, and the singer babbles incomprehensible gibberish tunelessly over the top. It was either riotous genius or mindless crap. I err towards the latter.
Second support act Kid Dakota made for a welcome contrast. Yet another two-piece band (although they were joined by Low’s Zak Sally on bass for the final few songs), they had some powerful moments, thanks largely to the singer’s distinctive, slightly abrasive voice, and an unusually aggressive take on the usual Americana influences. Low have been touring the States with Pedro the Lion (and particularly aware readers will recognise that the title of this post is a reference to that band) – what a treat that would have been. Despite the manifest qualities of Kid Dakota, probably a prospect I would have relished a good deal more than this uneasy, confrontational line-up.
Low themselves were reliably sublime – and, perhaps more surprisingly, a rare lesson in how to craft a world of intriguing sounds from a bank of guitar effects pedals. Laden with reverb, Alan Sparhawk’s guitar sounded impressively full-bodied, and otherworldly. It had real engaging presence during some of the newer numbers, particularly a thrusting and engaging ‘Monkey’, the crisp and unusually infectious ‘California’ and it also added texture and poise to the more subtle, beautifully distant ‘Silver Rider’. Underpinning all was the rumbling, menacing presence of Zak Sally, whose bass playing was both more audible and more expressive than it is on record, and the skeletal, rudimentary beatings of Mimi Parker.
Like Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker are a husband and wife team who harmonise with unbelievable clarity and beauty. Minimal, delicate songs are rendered powerfully moving due to both the poetic intimacy of the lyrics and the smooth intertwining of the voices. The sound is something akin to a spider’s web, elegantly crafted, but with a brittle vulnerability that makes it even more enticing. It all comes together perfectly in the encore, where they play a brilliantly balanced combination of ‘Sunflower’ and the early song ‘Fear’ (on the request of their sound engineer).
There is also much warmth from the band during the obligatory banter – they thank us all for funding their families for so long. Whilst tuning his guitar, Sparhawk asks the audience if there is anything they want to get off their chests. When one shouts out ‘I don’t like Brussels Sprouts’, he replies with scorn: ‘Is that the best you can do – I was hoping for something more profound.’
My only gripe was the brevity of the set. With the two encores taken into account, they played up to the 11pm curfew, but it still felt there was a relative paucity of material. They got through the bulk of the new album, but didn’t manage all of it (I would have liked to hear the uncharacteristically breezy ‘Just Stand Back’ in live performance), and there were only a handful of old tracks. Still, when these include the masterful ‘Laser Beam’, in which Mimi Parker’s voice gets to work its magic free from Sparkawk’s earthier tones and the mysterious, elusive ‘(That’s How You Sing) Amazing Grace’, it’s probably churlish to complain. Still, why no ‘Dinosaur Act’?!?
Still – sleep was not an option during the mercifully brief set from the London Dirthole Collective. What a cacophony! Four percussionists beat out exactly the same perfunctory rhythms on their skeletal drum kits, guitarists stab at spiky two chord riffs, and the singer babbles incomprehensible gibberish tunelessly over the top. It was either riotous genius or mindless crap. I err towards the latter.
Second support act Kid Dakota made for a welcome contrast. Yet another two-piece band (although they were joined by Low’s Zak Sally on bass for the final few songs), they had some powerful moments, thanks largely to the singer’s distinctive, slightly abrasive voice, and an unusually aggressive take on the usual Americana influences. Low have been touring the States with Pedro the Lion (and particularly aware readers will recognise that the title of this post is a reference to that band) – what a treat that would have been. Despite the manifest qualities of Kid Dakota, probably a prospect I would have relished a good deal more than this uneasy, confrontational line-up.
Low themselves were reliably sublime – and, perhaps more surprisingly, a rare lesson in how to craft a world of intriguing sounds from a bank of guitar effects pedals. Laden with reverb, Alan Sparhawk’s guitar sounded impressively full-bodied, and otherworldly. It had real engaging presence during some of the newer numbers, particularly a thrusting and engaging ‘Monkey’, the crisp and unusually infectious ‘California’ and it also added texture and poise to the more subtle, beautifully distant ‘Silver Rider’. Underpinning all was the rumbling, menacing presence of Zak Sally, whose bass playing was both more audible and more expressive than it is on record, and the skeletal, rudimentary beatings of Mimi Parker.
Like Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker are a husband and wife team who harmonise with unbelievable clarity and beauty. Minimal, delicate songs are rendered powerfully moving due to both the poetic intimacy of the lyrics and the smooth intertwining of the voices. The sound is something akin to a spider’s web, elegantly crafted, but with a brittle vulnerability that makes it even more enticing. It all comes together perfectly in the encore, where they play a brilliantly balanced combination of ‘Sunflower’ and the early song ‘Fear’ (on the request of their sound engineer).
There is also much warmth from the band during the obligatory banter – they thank us all for funding their families for so long. Whilst tuning his guitar, Sparhawk asks the audience if there is anything they want to get off their chests. When one shouts out ‘I don’t like Brussels Sprouts’, he replies with scorn: ‘Is that the best you can do – I was hoping for something more profound.’
My only gripe was the brevity of the set. With the two encores taken into account, they played up to the 11pm curfew, but it still felt there was a relative paucity of material. They got through the bulk of the new album, but didn’t manage all of it (I would have liked to hear the uncharacteristically breezy ‘Just Stand Back’ in live performance), and there were only a handful of old tracks. Still, when these include the masterful ‘Laser Beam’, in which Mimi Parker’s voice gets to work its magic free from Sparkawk’s earthier tones and the mysterious, elusive ‘(That’s How You Sing) Amazing Grace’, it’s probably churlish to complain. Still, why no ‘Dinosaur Act’?!?
Friday, February 18, 2005
Ain't That Good News, Man Ain't That News
Two pieces of news to report which have raised my spirits in the last couple of days.
First off - Columbia Records are to release a new Bruce Springsteen album, Devils and Dust on the 26th April (presumably that would mean a 25th April release date in the UK). This album is appearing much earlier than expected, with all the recent chatter being just rumours based on some sessions Sprinsteen made last year at Brendan O'Brien's studio. Anyway, the news is now 100% official, and it would appear that the album marks a return to the more acoustic, folk-tinged territory of 'Nebraska' and 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad', which is absolutely fine with me, and will make a very interesting contrast to the gospel-inspired uplift of The Rising. Springsteen has apparently revisited some of the songs performed on his last acoustic tour ten years ago, but which didn't make the final cut for 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad' . What is even more exciting is that Sprinsteen is planning to tour again for the album, either with a small band, or solo and acoustic, playing shows in Europe as well as the US, and targeting theatres and small venues. Getting a ticket may well involve bribery or murder - but it will be absolutely essential.
Secondly, on a smaller scale - but no less exciting, some more news has finally emerged regarding the new Teenage Fanclub album. It's still not entirely clear which label will be putting it out, but it has a title ('Man Made') and is now planned for a spring release, which makes for a twelve month delay between the completion of recording in Chicago and the appearance of a finished product, which must have been frustrating for the band as well as the fans. Let's hope it gets some publicity (some newspaper reports in Scotland regarding their appearance at the Glasgow SECC Tsunami benefit gig and Norman Blake's recent chat on 6Music are some small but encouraging signs) and that the band play a few shows in support of it.
Some more reviews will appear over the weekend....
First off - Columbia Records are to release a new Bruce Springsteen album, Devils and Dust on the 26th April (presumably that would mean a 25th April release date in the UK). This album is appearing much earlier than expected, with all the recent chatter being just rumours based on some sessions Sprinsteen made last year at Brendan O'Brien's studio. Anyway, the news is now 100% official, and it would appear that the album marks a return to the more acoustic, folk-tinged territory of 'Nebraska' and 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad', which is absolutely fine with me, and will make a very interesting contrast to the gospel-inspired uplift of The Rising. Springsteen has apparently revisited some of the songs performed on his last acoustic tour ten years ago, but which didn't make the final cut for 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad' . What is even more exciting is that Sprinsteen is planning to tour again for the album, either with a small band, or solo and acoustic, playing shows in Europe as well as the US, and targeting theatres and small venues. Getting a ticket may well involve bribery or murder - but it will be absolutely essential.
Secondly, on a smaller scale - but no less exciting, some more news has finally emerged regarding the new Teenage Fanclub album. It's still not entirely clear which label will be putting it out, but it has a title ('Man Made') and is now planned for a spring release, which makes for a twelve month delay between the completion of recording in Chicago and the appearance of a finished product, which must have been frustrating for the band as well as the fans. Let's hope it gets some publicity (some newspaper reports in Scotland regarding their appearance at the Glasgow SECC Tsunami benefit gig and Norman Blake's recent chat on 6Music are some small but encouraging signs) and that the band play a few shows in support of it.
Some more reviews will appear over the weekend....
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
It's Valentine's Day, and I'm Catatonic
Patrick Wolf – The Borderline, 14/02/05
In search of something productive to do to avoid the tedium of Valentine’s day, I picked up a last minute ticket for this launch gig for Patrick Wolf’s ‘Wind in the Wires’ album at London’s charming Borderline venue – an intimate bar/log cabin which Mr. Wolf appeared to have sold out comfortably, albeit with rumours of an unusually substantial guest list. It seems that everybody I know (including myself, vaguely) has some kind of connection with Patrick – he once (already precocious at the age of just 15) played gigs at the Friday Dynamite club, where my first serious band (Hyperfuzz) also gigged regularly, he DJd at the Kashpoint club with Brendan from Unit, and Jeremy Warmsley apparently attended the same school for a while (yep, the one Patrick was supposedly bullied out of). I remember being completely baffled by his apparently random pluckings of a viola back in the Friday Dynamite days – but then I was in an energetic, if fairly unoriginal punk-pop band – perhaps it was just that he was already forging a more distinctive path.
If my earlier review of ‘Wind In The Wires’ seemed a little agnostic, then perhaps it just needed a few more listens. With this performance at least, the songs suddenly seemed to click for me. Playing with only rudimentary drums for accompaniment, Patrick still manages to create a remarkable sound on stage, and his voice is impressively expressive. He also sounds more powerful and less mannered live, which allows his songs a little more room to breathe. Dressed in a bizarre all-black costume, unfathomably tall, and with a peculiar floppy hairstyle, he cuts an imposing, handsome presence on stage – yet remains somehow unassuming and free from ego. He is as comfortable explaining the origins of his evocative narratives as he is with the performance.
The songs actually sound more unusual when played entirely on acoustic instruments. Free from the occasionally cluttered baggage of the programmed beats Patrick liberally employs on both his albums so far, these songs sound like a radical refashioning of folk music, with a bewildering array of neo-classical and contemporary influences thrown into the mix, from Bjork, Diamanda Galas and Kate Bush, to Stockhausen and Steve Reich. The tone and feel of the performance is kept varied by the constant switching of instruments – Patrick plays two different ukeleles, a viola and some wonderfully brooding heavy piano.
He gets through pretty much all of ‘Wind In The Wires’, and his tales of escape to the wilderness all have a strong sense of geography and place. He is as much aware of environment as he is of feeling and mood, and these may be the best songs about the West Country ever written. Particular highlights for me were the carefully constructed drama of ‘This Weather’, the quietly moving ballad ‘Teignmouth’ and the appropriately folky ‘Gypsy Song’.
Mercifully, he doesn’t attempt to play the entire album in order, and finds some room for other material as well, including ‘London’ and ‘Paris’, two of the highlights from his debut. He also performs ‘Souvenirs’, a song that didn’t quite make the cut for ‘Wind In The Wires’, and ‘Penzance’, one of the B-sides of ‘The Libertine’ single that surely should have been included. The latter sounds particularly inspired.
For the obligatory encore, he is joined by string group The Mulettes, who play frantic, endearingly under-rehearsed versions of ‘The Libertine’ and ‘Wolf Song’ to round off proceedings. ‘The Libertine’, with its dismissal of false idols who speak ‘with cliché and addiction’ sounds as if it might be aimed at one specific piece of current tabloid fodder, but whether it is or not, it certainly seems like a bold and original statement of intent – a refusal to tow the line that indicates just how far removed Patrick is from his contemporaries. This is all much more interesting than the over-rated likes of Devendra Banhart, and this could well be an exciting year for this exceptional musician.
In search of something productive to do to avoid the tedium of Valentine’s day, I picked up a last minute ticket for this launch gig for Patrick Wolf’s ‘Wind in the Wires’ album at London’s charming Borderline venue – an intimate bar/log cabin which Mr. Wolf appeared to have sold out comfortably, albeit with rumours of an unusually substantial guest list. It seems that everybody I know (including myself, vaguely) has some kind of connection with Patrick – he once (already precocious at the age of just 15) played gigs at the Friday Dynamite club, where my first serious band (Hyperfuzz) also gigged regularly, he DJd at the Kashpoint club with Brendan from Unit, and Jeremy Warmsley apparently attended the same school for a while (yep, the one Patrick was supposedly bullied out of). I remember being completely baffled by his apparently random pluckings of a viola back in the Friday Dynamite days – but then I was in an energetic, if fairly unoriginal punk-pop band – perhaps it was just that he was already forging a more distinctive path.
If my earlier review of ‘Wind In The Wires’ seemed a little agnostic, then perhaps it just needed a few more listens. With this performance at least, the songs suddenly seemed to click for me. Playing with only rudimentary drums for accompaniment, Patrick still manages to create a remarkable sound on stage, and his voice is impressively expressive. He also sounds more powerful and less mannered live, which allows his songs a little more room to breathe. Dressed in a bizarre all-black costume, unfathomably tall, and with a peculiar floppy hairstyle, he cuts an imposing, handsome presence on stage – yet remains somehow unassuming and free from ego. He is as comfortable explaining the origins of his evocative narratives as he is with the performance.
The songs actually sound more unusual when played entirely on acoustic instruments. Free from the occasionally cluttered baggage of the programmed beats Patrick liberally employs on both his albums so far, these songs sound like a radical refashioning of folk music, with a bewildering array of neo-classical and contemporary influences thrown into the mix, from Bjork, Diamanda Galas and Kate Bush, to Stockhausen and Steve Reich. The tone and feel of the performance is kept varied by the constant switching of instruments – Patrick plays two different ukeleles, a viola and some wonderfully brooding heavy piano.
He gets through pretty much all of ‘Wind In The Wires’, and his tales of escape to the wilderness all have a strong sense of geography and place. He is as much aware of environment as he is of feeling and mood, and these may be the best songs about the West Country ever written. Particular highlights for me were the carefully constructed drama of ‘This Weather’, the quietly moving ballad ‘Teignmouth’ and the appropriately folky ‘Gypsy Song’.
Mercifully, he doesn’t attempt to play the entire album in order, and finds some room for other material as well, including ‘London’ and ‘Paris’, two of the highlights from his debut. He also performs ‘Souvenirs’, a song that didn’t quite make the cut for ‘Wind In The Wires’, and ‘Penzance’, one of the B-sides of ‘The Libertine’ single that surely should have been included. The latter sounds particularly inspired.
For the obligatory encore, he is joined by string group The Mulettes, who play frantic, endearingly under-rehearsed versions of ‘The Libertine’ and ‘Wolf Song’ to round off proceedings. ‘The Libertine’, with its dismissal of false idols who speak ‘with cliché and addiction’ sounds as if it might be aimed at one specific piece of current tabloid fodder, but whether it is or not, it certainly seems like a bold and original statement of intent – a refusal to tow the line that indicates just how far removed Patrick is from his contemporaries. This is all much more interesting than the over-rated likes of Devendra Banhart, and this could well be an exciting year for this exceptional musician.
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