Gwilym Simcock @ The Vortex, London 24/2/08
The sedate, candlelit, table-and-chairs set up at London’s Vortex Jazz Club provides an appropriate ambience for Gwilym Simcock’s performance, which veers between the playful and the richly emotive. Simcock has had an intriguing career so far, establishing himself as a pianist of international standing through his contributions to collaborative projects (Acoustic Triangle, Neon) and as a band member for other composers. It’s taken him a good five years to produce an album under his own name, but ‘Perception’ is as audacious and inspired a record as anyone could hope for.
It’s Gwilym’s birthday tonight, which lightens the mood somewhat and makes for an entertaining evening. It’s conceivable that he’s a musician who could come across as too intense, perhaps even po-faced – a prodigious talent who appears to have devoted every waking hour to practising. Yet tonight’s gig is genuinely a lot of fun, with Vortex manager Ollie Weindling presenting Gwilym with a rather meagre-looking birthday cake.
Simcock adheres to the two set jazz club formula tonight, but keeps matters interesting by playing the first set in a trio set-up and the second set with his full sextet (featuring legends Stan Sulzman and John Parricelli). The first set reveals Simcock’s formidable technique and improvisational flair (he threatens that his birthday allows him to take extra long solos). There’s also plenty of evidence of his extraordinary polyrhythmic invention, from ‘Spring Step’ and its tetchy shifting between half time, double time, swung and straight rhythms to his arrangement of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ which is truly fearsome in its audacity. Luckily Phil Donkin and Martin France are equals in this regard, France particularly revelling in the opportunity to display his dexterous daring behind the kit. Sometimes he plays a little too frantically, and certainly too loudly, but his constant risk-taking is admirable.
The first set also displays a side of Simcock’s writing and playing that might be too easily ignored. First of all, there’s a strong celebratory streak, much of it seemingly drawn from African harmony and rhythm. There’s also a clear playful quality too, and even in the midst of his most questing solos, Simcock is unafraid to strip things back down to their bare essentials, concentrating on developing simple ideas and motifs to their logical conclusions. There are plenty of teasing suggestions and subtle understatements too. He’s also keen to exploit the full range of sounds from the piano, frequently muting notes or plucking the strings directly.
Such predilections and themes are extended in the sextet set, which benefits greatly from the addition of the excellent young percussionist Ben Bryant, who, surreptitiously hidden behind a pillar at the back of the stage, creates constantly fascinating sheets of sound from an entire plethora of instruments. For much of this set, Simcock weaves tunes together, to make the most of the contrast between languid poignancy and joyful exuberance. The latter is most clearly evidenced on the intricate ‘Snakey’, but the two moods combine to intoxicating effect on a splendid ‘Time and Tide’. It takes Stan Sulzman a disconcertingly long time to realise he’s painfully out of tune, but once this is corrected, the music becomes thrillingly alive. With gleeful irreverence, Simcock promises to end the set with a ‘little country number’. He’s not too far from the truth, as the piece which follows hinted so strongly towards Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ that I wondered whether it might be a bold re-arrangement of that very tune. It certainly grooved as righteously as anything I’ve heard in some time.
Monday, February 25, 2008
In Praise of Robyn
I know I’m a few years behind the times with this piece, but one of the joys of blogging is that you can openly admit when you’ve been a little slow to latch on to something hyped or hip. I enjoyed Robyn’s album when it finally emerged in the UK last year as a clever pop record, but somehow neglected it when it came to compiling my albums of the year list. This was a huge mistake – a nakedly commercial pop record it may be, but it just might be the best pure pop album of the whole decade. It has certainly set a standard that the likes of Kylie, Girls Aloud, even Britney, will surely struggle to match. ‘Robyn’ is proof that just because something is market driven, infectious and broadly accessible does not mean it has to be vacuous or dispensable.
Bloggers everywhere have been sent into mind-blowing ecstasies over Britney’s ‘Blackout’. It’s an extraordinary record from an extraordinary person – an unforgiving and candid document of a young woman’s descent into psychological meltdown and an accompanying obsession with anonymous sex. It’s unpleasant and voyeuristic to admit it – but this makes for compelling listening. What ‘Blackout’ lacks though, is the genuine broad emotional depth of this album from Robyn, the entrepreneurial and self-motivating ambition behind it, and the intelligence, wit and insight of her lyrics. Whilst there’s something ironically conventional and predictable about Britney’s public torment, there’s something palpably unconventional and exciting about Robyn. She looks and sounds unusual, free-spirited and confident within herself, but all this cleverly conceals the inherent vulnerability of this album’s greatest songs.
The unapologetic, brash and refreshingly hilarious intro sequence might be poking fun at the self-aggrandising tendencies of pop stars, or it might be entirely serious. Either way, it’s completely masterful. Introducing Robyn as the ‘undefeated, undisputed featherweight champion on all five continents’, the sequence then audaciously claims that she split the atom, discovered a cure for AIDS and, perhaps most worryingly, even ‘outsuperfreaked Rick James’! Apparently she also has the world’s highest Tetris score. Clearly, she’s not a woman to be messed with.
The crisp electro of ‘Konichiwa Bitches’ continues the theme, playfully emphasising Robyn’s frustrations with the music industry and independent determination to succeed on her own terms. Rather brilliantly, it also features a quite superb boast about her breasts: ‘One left, one right, that’s how I organise ‘em/You know I fill my cups, no need to supersize em’. Somehow, it’s all far more interesting than, say, R Kelly tediously bragging about his sexual prowess. The following two or three tracks continue in this style, mixing defiant individuality with enticing production values. How refreshing it is to hear a female pop star delivering the style of lyrics more usually associated with the male dominated world of hip hop.
Having said this, the album’s success chiefly rests on its more sensitive moments. ‘Be Mine!’ and ‘With Every Heartbeat’, both successful singles, provide the emotional core of the set. The former is one of the strongest pop songs of recent years – a devastating and overwhelming lyric of unrequited affection set to a party beat and a deceptively jaunty melody. The impact is staggering – it’s an outrageously enjoyable and infectious listen that only reveals its underlying pain on closer inspection. ‘With Every Heartbeat’ makes virtues of repetition and relentlessness, creating a touching atmosphere through its cumulative impact.
There’s also the album’s sole ballad, a delicate flower of a song called ‘Eclipse’. A lesser artist would have used this as an opportunity to demonstrate technical prowess, range or virtuosity. Whether Robyn has any of these qualities is rather unimportant given the convincing nature of her vulnerability here. This is the most conventional song here – in essence a somewhat corny piano ballad – but she turns into something believable and touching.
‘Robyn’ is everything a pop record should be – unconventional, entertaining and inspiring, whilst simultaneously playful and lightweight. The production, some of which comes from Swedish electro legends The Knife, is as biting and intelligent as the lyrics. Resistance is futile.
Bloggers everywhere have been sent into mind-blowing ecstasies over Britney’s ‘Blackout’. It’s an extraordinary record from an extraordinary person – an unforgiving and candid document of a young woman’s descent into psychological meltdown and an accompanying obsession with anonymous sex. It’s unpleasant and voyeuristic to admit it – but this makes for compelling listening. What ‘Blackout’ lacks though, is the genuine broad emotional depth of this album from Robyn, the entrepreneurial and self-motivating ambition behind it, and the intelligence, wit and insight of her lyrics. Whilst there’s something ironically conventional and predictable about Britney’s public torment, there’s something palpably unconventional and exciting about Robyn. She looks and sounds unusual, free-spirited and confident within herself, but all this cleverly conceals the inherent vulnerability of this album’s greatest songs.
The unapologetic, brash and refreshingly hilarious intro sequence might be poking fun at the self-aggrandising tendencies of pop stars, or it might be entirely serious. Either way, it’s completely masterful. Introducing Robyn as the ‘undefeated, undisputed featherweight champion on all five continents’, the sequence then audaciously claims that she split the atom, discovered a cure for AIDS and, perhaps most worryingly, even ‘outsuperfreaked Rick James’! Apparently she also has the world’s highest Tetris score. Clearly, she’s not a woman to be messed with.
The crisp electro of ‘Konichiwa Bitches’ continues the theme, playfully emphasising Robyn’s frustrations with the music industry and independent determination to succeed on her own terms. Rather brilliantly, it also features a quite superb boast about her breasts: ‘One left, one right, that’s how I organise ‘em/You know I fill my cups, no need to supersize em’. Somehow, it’s all far more interesting than, say, R Kelly tediously bragging about his sexual prowess. The following two or three tracks continue in this style, mixing defiant individuality with enticing production values. How refreshing it is to hear a female pop star delivering the style of lyrics more usually associated with the male dominated world of hip hop.
Having said this, the album’s success chiefly rests on its more sensitive moments. ‘Be Mine!’ and ‘With Every Heartbeat’, both successful singles, provide the emotional core of the set. The former is one of the strongest pop songs of recent years – a devastating and overwhelming lyric of unrequited affection set to a party beat and a deceptively jaunty melody. The impact is staggering – it’s an outrageously enjoyable and infectious listen that only reveals its underlying pain on closer inspection. ‘With Every Heartbeat’ makes virtues of repetition and relentlessness, creating a touching atmosphere through its cumulative impact.
There’s also the album’s sole ballad, a delicate flower of a song called ‘Eclipse’. A lesser artist would have used this as an opportunity to demonstrate technical prowess, range or virtuosity. Whether Robyn has any of these qualities is rather unimportant given the convincing nature of her vulnerability here. This is the most conventional song here – in essence a somewhat corny piano ballad – but she turns into something believable and touching.
‘Robyn’ is everything a pop record should be – unconventional, entertaining and inspiring, whilst simultaneously playful and lightweight. The production, some of which comes from Swedish electro legends The Knife, is as biting and intelligent as the lyrics. Resistance is futile.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Natural Wonder
Mariee Sioux - Faces in the Rocks (Grass Roots, 2007)
Now here’s a classic example of how the blogosphere can be a force for good (eat that Grauniad!). Search for Mariee Sioux on Google and all the top ranking articles are from blogs. If anybody can find me a UK press review of this rather fine album, I’d be grateful for the pointer. It’s baffling in light of the predilection of this country’s music writers towards mystical hippy nonsense in the Devendra Banhart mould that Sioux has not been more widely recognised. Her delightful merging of Joni Mitchell-tinged acoustic reveries with Native American folk traditions makes for an appealing and engaging listen.
The persistent recourses to the marvels of nature, along with plenty of references to wizards and magic suggested I had good reason to be a little sceptical about this album. Yet strong recommendations from a number of bloggers I respect persuaded me to download it, and that proved to be a good decision. I rather wish I’d heard it in time to include it in my albums of 2007 list. If 2008 appears to have got off to a somewhat sluggish start, there are still plenty of riches hanging over from last year to digest (I also still need to blog about Food’s ‘Molecular Gastronomy’ at some point).
Yet Mariee Sioux’s voice, soft, delicate and full of mystery, compensates for some of the lyrical flights of fancy. There’s also a sensitivity and intuitiveness here in addition to the wide eyed wonderment. The layering of her vocals is peculiarly effective, giving a sense of eeriness as well as a natural beauty. It’s almost as if she is whispering responses to her own melodies. There’s also an assured marriage of fluency and understatement in her delivery. Similarly, the combination of intricate acoustic guitar lines and Gentle Thunder’s Native American Flute make for a less familiar slant on the bucolic folk template.
The songs are often lengthy and frequently mesmerising – beguiling in their power to haunt and captivate. There always seems justification for the length of the songs in that they travel on a clear journey and are much more than merely linear narratives. There’s something slightly ominous beneath the surface prettiness, yet the abiding mood is one of hope and joy. It’s a carefully constructed mood that captures the complexities and ambiguities of life itself.
Now here’s a classic example of how the blogosphere can be a force for good (eat that Grauniad!). Search for Mariee Sioux on Google and all the top ranking articles are from blogs. If anybody can find me a UK press review of this rather fine album, I’d be grateful for the pointer. It’s baffling in light of the predilection of this country’s music writers towards mystical hippy nonsense in the Devendra Banhart mould that Sioux has not been more widely recognised. Her delightful merging of Joni Mitchell-tinged acoustic reveries with Native American folk traditions makes for an appealing and engaging listen.
The persistent recourses to the marvels of nature, along with plenty of references to wizards and magic suggested I had good reason to be a little sceptical about this album. Yet strong recommendations from a number of bloggers I respect persuaded me to download it, and that proved to be a good decision. I rather wish I’d heard it in time to include it in my albums of 2007 list. If 2008 appears to have got off to a somewhat sluggish start, there are still plenty of riches hanging over from last year to digest (I also still need to blog about Food’s ‘Molecular Gastronomy’ at some point).
Yet Mariee Sioux’s voice, soft, delicate and full of mystery, compensates for some of the lyrical flights of fancy. There’s also a sensitivity and intuitiveness here in addition to the wide eyed wonderment. The layering of her vocals is peculiarly effective, giving a sense of eeriness as well as a natural beauty. It’s almost as if she is whispering responses to her own melodies. There’s also an assured marriage of fluency and understatement in her delivery. Similarly, the combination of intricate acoustic guitar lines and Gentle Thunder’s Native American Flute make for a less familiar slant on the bucolic folk template.
The songs are often lengthy and frequently mesmerising – beguiling in their power to haunt and captivate. There always seems justification for the length of the songs in that they travel on a clear journey and are much more than merely linear narratives. There’s something slightly ominous beneath the surface prettiness, yet the abiding mood is one of hope and joy. It’s a carefully constructed mood that captures the complexities and ambiguities of life itself.
A Two Tier Service
I've ranted on here about ticket sales for event concerts before, but I'm going to raise the issue again. Logging on to my ticketmaster account this morning, I discovered that at 08:59, there were no tickets whatsoever for REM's show in aid of the ICA at the Royal Albert Hall in March. All information online had stated clearly that tickets were due to go on sale at 9am today. Yet, there had been a presale, which began last Tuesday, for those with a VIP Entertainment Card (whatever the hell that is) and a corresponding password.
This begs the question of who these people are? Are they regular users of Ticketmaster's service such as myself? Probably not, as my email alert stated today as the onsale date. Are they members of REM's fan club? One would at least hope for that much given the costs of membership, something I've always studiously avoided (I don't consider myself an uncritical 'fan' of any band or artist, although Michael Stipe is certainly among my most respected performers). Why was this option not listed on REM's website with the rest of the ticket details?
If I try to book tickets with the public rush and miss out, I don't mind - it's ultimately always going to be a matter of chance. It's also much better now that tickets can be booked online than when one had to battle with constantly engaged phone lines or even camp overnight outside venue box offices (as I remember people doing when Bruce Springsteen played his Ghost of Tom Joad acoustic shows at the Royal Albert Hall). But there were no problems connecting or submitting the booking form this morning - it was simply that there were not any tickets available at any price level from the word go! What I dislike about this is the notion that there is a specific group of people, usually because of one particular corporate sponsor's vested interest, that is deemed more entitled to gain entry to a concert than everyone else. It's also worth pointing out that these presales are confusing, and massively disrespectful to paying audiences. Bjork, Radiohead and Bruce Springsteen concerts have all been recent examples where the pre-sale has been deployed, and audiences are constantly being given conflicting information about where tickets can be purchased from and precisely when they go on sale. This is a frustrating, unnecessarily complicated and unfair process.
Inevitably, there are already numerous tickets for sale on ebay, for vastly inflated prices (into the hundreds of pounds). No doubt moronic Gordon Brown still considers that these people are providing me with a 'service'.
This begs the question of who these people are? Are they regular users of Ticketmaster's service such as myself? Probably not, as my email alert stated today as the onsale date. Are they members of REM's fan club? One would at least hope for that much given the costs of membership, something I've always studiously avoided (I don't consider myself an uncritical 'fan' of any band or artist, although Michael Stipe is certainly among my most respected performers). Why was this option not listed on REM's website with the rest of the ticket details?
If I try to book tickets with the public rush and miss out, I don't mind - it's ultimately always going to be a matter of chance. It's also much better now that tickets can be booked online than when one had to battle with constantly engaged phone lines or even camp overnight outside venue box offices (as I remember people doing when Bruce Springsteen played his Ghost of Tom Joad acoustic shows at the Royal Albert Hall). But there were no problems connecting or submitting the booking form this morning - it was simply that there were not any tickets available at any price level from the word go! What I dislike about this is the notion that there is a specific group of people, usually because of one particular corporate sponsor's vested interest, that is deemed more entitled to gain entry to a concert than everyone else. It's also worth pointing out that these presales are confusing, and massively disrespectful to paying audiences. Bjork, Radiohead and Bruce Springsteen concerts have all been recent examples where the pre-sale has been deployed, and audiences are constantly being given conflicting information about where tickets can be purchased from and precisely when they go on sale. This is a frustrating, unnecessarily complicated and unfair process.
Inevitably, there are already numerous tickets for sale on ebay, for vastly inflated prices (into the hundreds of pounds). No doubt moronic Gordon Brown still considers that these people are providing me with a 'service'.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Meaning Of Life
Steve Lehman - On Meaning (Pi, 2007)
Ach! This eccentric, technically accomplished and highly individual album actually slipped out at the tail end of 2007, but surely must have been a serious album of the year contender. Alto saxophonist Steve Lehman is a major figure in a burgeoning wave of US jazz that is woefully ignored in this country (see also Scott Colley and Drew Gress, the latter of whom also appears here). He has some of the fearsome cutting edge fury of Steve Coleman, albeit without Coleman’s tiresome mystical pretensions and philosophical grandstanding.
These compositions are terrifyingly audacious, introducing intricate harmonic and rhythmic themes, with the players all having the conviction and courage to develop them fully. ‘Open Music’ and ‘Curse Fraction’ pull off the neat trick of being simultaneously mathematical and pretty, whilst the oh-so-cleverly titled ‘Haiku d’Etat Transcription’ is an appealing melting pot of ideas, somehow holding together in spite of the constant rhythmic meddling. At just 45 minutes, this is as mercilessly concise a jazz album as has appeared in recent years. It simply zips by, albeit so jam packed full of thrilling ideas that adding any more might have risked over-egging the pudding.
The group’s impact rests on two crucial elements – the consummate merging of sound between Lehman’s aggressive saxophone and Jonathan Finlayson’s pure-sounding trumpet, and the extraordinary precision of the rhythm section. Even at their most dexterous and adventurous, Drew Gress’ bass, Chris Dingman’s languid Vibraphone chords and Tyshawn Sorey’s remarkable drumming bond together with a powerful sealant. Sorey is particularly outrageous, risk-taking whilst holding a groove as tight as anything even Zigaboo Modeliste could muster.
Lehman’s doctrine is apparently ‘grooving without repetition’, and ‘On Meaning’ serves this central philosophy well. Even when the underpinning bassline is relentless, the soloists weave compelling and challenging ideas in and out of the mix, and Sorey’s troublemaking drumming rarely treads the same ground for too long. Lehman also seems as preoccupied with sound and texture as he is with rhythmic invention, so much of ‘On Meaning’ works as a hypnotic and immersing mood piece as well as a staggering display of musical virtuosity. Even at its most dynamic and asymmetrical, the music here still radiates energy and enjoyment, and sounds both intensely physical and palpably human.
Ach! This eccentric, technically accomplished and highly individual album actually slipped out at the tail end of 2007, but surely must have been a serious album of the year contender. Alto saxophonist Steve Lehman is a major figure in a burgeoning wave of US jazz that is woefully ignored in this country (see also Scott Colley and Drew Gress, the latter of whom also appears here). He has some of the fearsome cutting edge fury of Steve Coleman, albeit without Coleman’s tiresome mystical pretensions and philosophical grandstanding.
These compositions are terrifyingly audacious, introducing intricate harmonic and rhythmic themes, with the players all having the conviction and courage to develop them fully. ‘Open Music’ and ‘Curse Fraction’ pull off the neat trick of being simultaneously mathematical and pretty, whilst the oh-so-cleverly titled ‘Haiku d’Etat Transcription’ is an appealing melting pot of ideas, somehow holding together in spite of the constant rhythmic meddling. At just 45 minutes, this is as mercilessly concise a jazz album as has appeared in recent years. It simply zips by, albeit so jam packed full of thrilling ideas that adding any more might have risked over-egging the pudding.
The group’s impact rests on two crucial elements – the consummate merging of sound between Lehman’s aggressive saxophone and Jonathan Finlayson’s pure-sounding trumpet, and the extraordinary precision of the rhythm section. Even at their most dexterous and adventurous, Drew Gress’ bass, Chris Dingman’s languid Vibraphone chords and Tyshawn Sorey’s remarkable drumming bond together with a powerful sealant. Sorey is particularly outrageous, risk-taking whilst holding a groove as tight as anything even Zigaboo Modeliste could muster.
Lehman’s doctrine is apparently ‘grooving without repetition’, and ‘On Meaning’ serves this central philosophy well. Even when the underpinning bassline is relentless, the soloists weave compelling and challenging ideas in and out of the mix, and Sorey’s troublemaking drumming rarely treads the same ground for too long. Lehman also seems as preoccupied with sound and texture as he is with rhythmic invention, so much of ‘On Meaning’ works as a hypnotic and immersing mood piece as well as a staggering display of musical virtuosity. Even at its most dynamic and asymmetrical, the music here still radiates energy and enjoyment, and sounds both intensely physical and palpably human.
A Day In The Life...
Pat Metheny with Christian McBride and Antonio Sanchez - Day Trip (Nonesuch, 2008)
Some critics in America appear to be hailing ‘Day Trip’ as among the best records of Pat Metheny’s illustrious career, and perhaps his best trio album since ‘Bright Size Life’. Both are audacious claims, especially given that ‘Day Trip’ sounds accessible and conventional, perhaps even lightweight, in light of Metheny’s more ambitious achievements. It lacks the fire and fury of ‘Song X’ (his infamous collaboration with Ornette Coleman), the rigour and grace of his recent partnership with Brad Mehldau or the sheer compositional muscle and attention to detail of ‘The Way Up’.
Accessibility can often be a positive characteristic though, and Metheny certainly makes a virtue of it with this charming and enjoyable set. Joined by bassist Christian McBride and exuberant drummer Antonio Sanchez, the eleven mostly bristling tracks were cut in a single day of recording. It’s bustling with energy and tremendous momentum, and the sprightly, spontaneous group interplay is a refreshing tonic after the audacious rigours of Metheny’s recent work. There’s also an impressive, rapid fire flow of ideas, particularly from Metheny himself, who solos superbly throughout.
There’s fast and furious, rhythmically inventive playing on the opener ‘Son of Thirteen’ and ‘Let’s Move’, whilst ‘Calvin’s Keys’ is one of Metheny’s most straightforwardly enjoyable compositions in years. It even bears a passing resemblance to Nat Adderley’s ‘Work Song’. The nimble, light playing on this piece also recalls the great Wes Montgomery. McBride and Sanchez make for superb sparring partners throughout, Sanchez’s drumming bursting with dazzling technique, yet also retaining a subtle mystery and intrigue. Metheny’s guitar sings as much as ever, but McBride’s solos are also lingeringly melodic and lyrical.
Metheny brings out his nylon stringed acoustic for the haunting and mournful ‘Is This America? (Katrina 2005)’, a near-perfect elegy for the people of New Orleans and their suffering, with a clear and pure American melody that recalls Bill Frisell at his best. ‘When We Were Free’, actually revisited from 1996’s ‘Quartet’ album, adds further political implications but not at the expense of a superbly swinging groove.
It’s worth noting that a fair chunk of this material is revised from other projects. ‘The Red One’, which sounds a little out of place in this context, originally appeared on ‘I Can See The House From Here’, Metheny’s outstanding meeting with John Scofield. ‘Snova’ and ‘Son of Thirteen’ both originally appeared on Alex Spiagi’s ‘Returning’. Still, one of the delights of jazz as an idiom is the ability to constantly breathe new life into old material, and these stripped back trio versions create space and exciting new tensions.
‘Day Trip’ is not Metheny’s most original or dazzling work, but its performances are vivid and engaging, and it’s great to hear him back in a trio set-up after experiments with larger ensembles. It perhaps works most effectively as a document of spontaneous and immediate craftsmanship. It also works as a series of inspired and memorable signposts, both back to impressive moments from Metheny’s own career and the influences of other musicians. There are unlikely to be many albums this year displaying more verve, spirit and musical instinct.
Some critics in America appear to be hailing ‘Day Trip’ as among the best records of Pat Metheny’s illustrious career, and perhaps his best trio album since ‘Bright Size Life’. Both are audacious claims, especially given that ‘Day Trip’ sounds accessible and conventional, perhaps even lightweight, in light of Metheny’s more ambitious achievements. It lacks the fire and fury of ‘Song X’ (his infamous collaboration with Ornette Coleman), the rigour and grace of his recent partnership with Brad Mehldau or the sheer compositional muscle and attention to detail of ‘The Way Up’.
Accessibility can often be a positive characteristic though, and Metheny certainly makes a virtue of it with this charming and enjoyable set. Joined by bassist Christian McBride and exuberant drummer Antonio Sanchez, the eleven mostly bristling tracks were cut in a single day of recording. It’s bustling with energy and tremendous momentum, and the sprightly, spontaneous group interplay is a refreshing tonic after the audacious rigours of Metheny’s recent work. There’s also an impressive, rapid fire flow of ideas, particularly from Metheny himself, who solos superbly throughout.
There’s fast and furious, rhythmically inventive playing on the opener ‘Son of Thirteen’ and ‘Let’s Move’, whilst ‘Calvin’s Keys’ is one of Metheny’s most straightforwardly enjoyable compositions in years. It even bears a passing resemblance to Nat Adderley’s ‘Work Song’. The nimble, light playing on this piece also recalls the great Wes Montgomery. McBride and Sanchez make for superb sparring partners throughout, Sanchez’s drumming bursting with dazzling technique, yet also retaining a subtle mystery and intrigue. Metheny’s guitar sings as much as ever, but McBride’s solos are also lingeringly melodic and lyrical.
Metheny brings out his nylon stringed acoustic for the haunting and mournful ‘Is This America? (Katrina 2005)’, a near-perfect elegy for the people of New Orleans and their suffering, with a clear and pure American melody that recalls Bill Frisell at his best. ‘When We Were Free’, actually revisited from 1996’s ‘Quartet’ album, adds further political implications but not at the expense of a superbly swinging groove.
It’s worth noting that a fair chunk of this material is revised from other projects. ‘The Red One’, which sounds a little out of place in this context, originally appeared on ‘I Can See The House From Here’, Metheny’s outstanding meeting with John Scofield. ‘Snova’ and ‘Son of Thirteen’ both originally appeared on Alex Spiagi’s ‘Returning’. Still, one of the delights of jazz as an idiom is the ability to constantly breathe new life into old material, and these stripped back trio versions create space and exciting new tensions.
‘Day Trip’ is not Metheny’s most original or dazzling work, but its performances are vivid and engaging, and it’s great to hear him back in a trio set-up after experiments with larger ensembles. It perhaps works most effectively as a document of spontaneous and immediate craftsmanship. It also works as a series of inspired and memorable signposts, both back to impressive moments from Metheny’s own career and the influences of other musicians. There are unlikely to be many albums this year displaying more verve, spirit and musical instinct.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Buried Treasure # 6
REM - Up (Warner Bros, 1998)
Conventional wisdom dictates that REM are a great band who have lost their purpose, and that new album ‘Accelerate’ represents some sort of ‘return to form’. From the two tracks I’ve heard so far, it certainly returns them to sounding like a conventional rock group (albeit one with real energy, a quixotic temperament and artful musicianship). This simplistic assessment is inadequate. It only provides an incomplete, one-sided picture of the group’s period of reconfiguration following the departure of drummer Bill Berry. During this time, they revitalised themselves as a major touring group par excellence but produced a trilogy of albums that disappointed even their most ardent supporters.
‘Up’ was by some distance the bravest of these albums, born out of frustration and fractious relationships within the group, and completely revising the band’s working methods. The problem with the albums that followed it (the impressionistic ‘Reveal’ and the tepid ‘Around The Sun’) was not that they had too much in common with ‘Up’, but rather too little. They sounded over-produced, sentimental, hazy and vague, whilst ‘Up’ sounded skeletal and vulnerable, subtle and mysterious. Indeed it’s hard to believe that the same producer (Pat McCarthy) helmed the controls for all three albums.
‘Up’ is a long album that takes numerous listens to appreciate, and many listeners (fans and critics alike) did not seem to have the necessary patience. Musically, it is a mature work rich in complex feeling and sensations, and lacking immediacy. Whilst there’s no shortage of writing describing ‘Up’ as an incoherent folly, it is now my favourite REM album by a country mile. This is at least in part for personal, subjective reasons, but it’s also because it is an audacious and compelling album that retains the core virtues of REM’s songwriting style, whilst filtering them through very different arrangements and processes. It stands completely apart from the rest of their catalogue and is an album I can return to at any time and still discover new riches and previously concealed brilliance. Playing it last night at home, my flatmate came in and said ‘hang on, that sounds like Michael Stipe’. Having not heard it before, he clearly thought it was a Stipe solo project, so little like REM does it sometimes sound. Actually, it’s anything but that, and in spite of the apparent terse atmosphere during its recordings, successfully combines the distinctive musical personalities of all three of its creators.
When it was released, Michael Stipe came out fighting (in more than one sense), giving a number of his most candid and direct interviews, and expressing his sincere satisfaction with the finished product. Now, the band seem to have almost rejected it – playing few of the songs in live performances and, at least until ‘Accelerate’, self-consciously striving to satisfy Warner Bros. with a modernised ‘Automatic For The People’. There were a handful of moments on ‘Reveal’ that attempted to develop the intricate web of ideas and attention to detail found on ‘Up’, but ‘Around the Sun’ abandoned such concerns, preferring blandly strummed guitars, plodding tempos and woolly atmospherics. Although writers concentrated on the increased prevalence of keyboards, synthesisers and drum programming on ‘Up’, Peter Buck’s guitar remained a crucial presence, his peculiar distortion and simple figures adding much in the way of texture and mood. That he absented himself almost entirely from the worst moments of ‘Around the Sun’ was greatly to that album’s detriment.
Having attempted to demonstrate why it’s unfair to bracket ‘Up’ with ‘Reveal’ and ‘Around the Sun’ in a trilogy of disappointment, it’s now worth considering its own inspired and unique merits further. The group stated their intentions from the outset with the enigmatic ‘Airportman’, Stipe’s voice reduced to a hushed monotone amidst bossa nova drum programming (an insistent rhythm, completely uncharacteristic to the group, that is repeated all over the album) and floating keyboard textures. It’s the most alien, peculiar track that REM have crafted to date and immediately betrays the more European influence that predominates the album (‘Hope’ and ‘Walk Unafraid’ also hint at ‘Krautrock’ acts like Neu! or Harmonia) and provides a coherence that most critics seemed unable to uncover.
Everywhere there is a vivid attention to detail and meticulous concentration on how the songs sound. ‘Suspicion’ rests on a melody so subtle it is almost backgrounded, and many found the rudimentary drum machine uncomfortable (as if it was something REM shouldn’t be doing in the sudden absence of a drummer!). Yet, there’s the lingering melancholy of Barrett Martin’s Vibraphone (also playing a pivotal role on the sublime ‘Diminished’), and the way the song suddenly lifts towards the end, Stipe’s voice shedding some of its restraint and reaching a new level. The group pitted the sea-shanty melody of ‘The Apologist’ against an intriguing concoction of brushed drums, heavily distorted, swelling guitars and more familiar arpeggios. It sounded like a stark, industrial refashioning of their tendency towards gothic balladry.
Beneath all this fascinating weirdness, there were also plenty of more familiar elements. The irresistibly saccharine Brian Wilson stylings Mike Mills brought to ‘At My Most Beautiful’ and ‘Parakeet’ made the former cute and charming, the latter hypnotic and immersing. The use of pedal steel guitar had previously made the likes of ‘Country Feedback’ overwhelming and haunting, and, for these ears at least, imbued the emotional trial of ‘Diminished’ with a similarly devastating impact. Initially, I found ‘Daysleeper’ the most typical and characteristic song on the album (and the only obvious choice of first single), but what interests me about it now is the way the group merge their familiar acoustic tropes with sampled sounds and noises that really capture both the otherness and frustrations of nocturnal living.
Lyrically, ‘Up’ found Michael Stipe grappling, in frequently fascinating ways, for new techniques and means of self-expression. Sometimes he even seemed to be battling against himself. For a lyricist who frequently prefers stream-of-consciousness, surrealism and absurdity, he can often be disarmingly direct. ‘Losing My Religion’ may have become an anthemic powerhouse, but if one actually focuses on the lyric (one of the clearest encapsulations of unrequited infatuation I’ve ever heard), it becomes almost unbearably intense. A number of the songs on ‘Up’ (‘At My Most Beautiful’, ‘Diminished’, ‘Walk Unafraid’, ‘Falls To Climb’, ‘The Apologist’ and ‘You’re In The Air’) really flesh out this confessional approach. The setting of these very human and candid words (‘I want you naked, I want you wild’, ‘Hold my love me or leave me high’, ‘someone has to take the fall, why not me?’, ‘I will give my best today’ etc) to music that often feels stark and cold (in a positive way) gives ‘Up’ a disorientating and unsettling air of menace with its emotional clarity. Yet on ‘Why Not Smile’, the sentiment is so direct as to sound trite, Stipe enhancing the sense of irony by delivering the song in a flat monotone. It seems to be poking fun out of conventional love songs, yet the accompanying harmony is so straightforward and pretty that it could be one of those love songs – it’s very similar to the technique used so masterfully by Stephin Merritt in his various guises. Then there’s the unexpected interjection of the unlisted ‘I’m Not Over You’, just Stipe alone with an acoustic guitar, as pure and exposed as he’s ever sounded. The desperate loneliness of ‘Sad Professor’, brilliantly enhanced by Peter Buck’s unexpected bursts of guitar noise and the delicate underpinning percussion, even saw Stipe writing in character, something he doesn’t seem to have done much before or since.
I was only 17 when ‘Up’ was released, and only a handful of the tracks struck an emotional chord at the time (perhaps the most obvious examples). Yet as I’ve grown older, I’ve found the songs acquire a new and more direct personal resonance. ‘Daysleeper’ suddenly assumed a very obvious importance during the year I spent working night shifts for a television company, whilst ‘Walk Unafraid’ strikes me more as I become more accustomed to addressing some of the more personal aspects of my life publicly. It’s always gratifying to find an album that can follow and track you through the various stages of your life (as can Teenage Fanclub’s ‘Grand Prix’ for me), and I strongly suspect I will be drawing new insight and resonance from ‘Up’ for many years to come. Beyond that though, it’s such an unusual and mesmerising creation, in many ways as unforgiving as Radiohead’s ‘Kid A’ (I actually much prefer it to that album, but we’re on controversial ground here). Yet whilst Radiohead followed ‘Kid A’ with very successful juxtapositions of preoccupations old and new (best realised on the alchemical ‘In Rainbows’), REM failed to live up to that challenge. It's possible that this was because 'Up' sold respectably, but nowhere near enough to recoup Warners' 80 million dollar investment! Ironically, in addressing more commercial concerns, the group only served to diminish their audience further. I hope ‘Accelerate’ restores some faith in the group, but it also saddens me that they couldn’t take some of the very promising new adventures from ‘Up’ to their logical conclusion.
Conventional wisdom dictates that REM are a great band who have lost their purpose, and that new album ‘Accelerate’ represents some sort of ‘return to form’. From the two tracks I’ve heard so far, it certainly returns them to sounding like a conventional rock group (albeit one with real energy, a quixotic temperament and artful musicianship). This simplistic assessment is inadequate. It only provides an incomplete, one-sided picture of the group’s period of reconfiguration following the departure of drummer Bill Berry. During this time, they revitalised themselves as a major touring group par excellence but produced a trilogy of albums that disappointed even their most ardent supporters.
‘Up’ was by some distance the bravest of these albums, born out of frustration and fractious relationships within the group, and completely revising the band’s working methods. The problem with the albums that followed it (the impressionistic ‘Reveal’ and the tepid ‘Around The Sun’) was not that they had too much in common with ‘Up’, but rather too little. They sounded over-produced, sentimental, hazy and vague, whilst ‘Up’ sounded skeletal and vulnerable, subtle and mysterious. Indeed it’s hard to believe that the same producer (Pat McCarthy) helmed the controls for all three albums.
‘Up’ is a long album that takes numerous listens to appreciate, and many listeners (fans and critics alike) did not seem to have the necessary patience. Musically, it is a mature work rich in complex feeling and sensations, and lacking immediacy. Whilst there’s no shortage of writing describing ‘Up’ as an incoherent folly, it is now my favourite REM album by a country mile. This is at least in part for personal, subjective reasons, but it’s also because it is an audacious and compelling album that retains the core virtues of REM’s songwriting style, whilst filtering them through very different arrangements and processes. It stands completely apart from the rest of their catalogue and is an album I can return to at any time and still discover new riches and previously concealed brilliance. Playing it last night at home, my flatmate came in and said ‘hang on, that sounds like Michael Stipe’. Having not heard it before, he clearly thought it was a Stipe solo project, so little like REM does it sometimes sound. Actually, it’s anything but that, and in spite of the apparent terse atmosphere during its recordings, successfully combines the distinctive musical personalities of all three of its creators.
When it was released, Michael Stipe came out fighting (in more than one sense), giving a number of his most candid and direct interviews, and expressing his sincere satisfaction with the finished product. Now, the band seem to have almost rejected it – playing few of the songs in live performances and, at least until ‘Accelerate’, self-consciously striving to satisfy Warner Bros. with a modernised ‘Automatic For The People’. There were a handful of moments on ‘Reveal’ that attempted to develop the intricate web of ideas and attention to detail found on ‘Up’, but ‘Around the Sun’ abandoned such concerns, preferring blandly strummed guitars, plodding tempos and woolly atmospherics. Although writers concentrated on the increased prevalence of keyboards, synthesisers and drum programming on ‘Up’, Peter Buck’s guitar remained a crucial presence, his peculiar distortion and simple figures adding much in the way of texture and mood. That he absented himself almost entirely from the worst moments of ‘Around the Sun’ was greatly to that album’s detriment.
Having attempted to demonstrate why it’s unfair to bracket ‘Up’ with ‘Reveal’ and ‘Around the Sun’ in a trilogy of disappointment, it’s now worth considering its own inspired and unique merits further. The group stated their intentions from the outset with the enigmatic ‘Airportman’, Stipe’s voice reduced to a hushed monotone amidst bossa nova drum programming (an insistent rhythm, completely uncharacteristic to the group, that is repeated all over the album) and floating keyboard textures. It’s the most alien, peculiar track that REM have crafted to date and immediately betrays the more European influence that predominates the album (‘Hope’ and ‘Walk Unafraid’ also hint at ‘Krautrock’ acts like Neu! or Harmonia) and provides a coherence that most critics seemed unable to uncover.
Everywhere there is a vivid attention to detail and meticulous concentration on how the songs sound. ‘Suspicion’ rests on a melody so subtle it is almost backgrounded, and many found the rudimentary drum machine uncomfortable (as if it was something REM shouldn’t be doing in the sudden absence of a drummer!). Yet, there’s the lingering melancholy of Barrett Martin’s Vibraphone (also playing a pivotal role on the sublime ‘Diminished’), and the way the song suddenly lifts towards the end, Stipe’s voice shedding some of its restraint and reaching a new level. The group pitted the sea-shanty melody of ‘The Apologist’ against an intriguing concoction of brushed drums, heavily distorted, swelling guitars and more familiar arpeggios. It sounded like a stark, industrial refashioning of their tendency towards gothic balladry.
Beneath all this fascinating weirdness, there were also plenty of more familiar elements. The irresistibly saccharine Brian Wilson stylings Mike Mills brought to ‘At My Most Beautiful’ and ‘Parakeet’ made the former cute and charming, the latter hypnotic and immersing. The use of pedal steel guitar had previously made the likes of ‘Country Feedback’ overwhelming and haunting, and, for these ears at least, imbued the emotional trial of ‘Diminished’ with a similarly devastating impact. Initially, I found ‘Daysleeper’ the most typical and characteristic song on the album (and the only obvious choice of first single), but what interests me about it now is the way the group merge their familiar acoustic tropes with sampled sounds and noises that really capture both the otherness and frustrations of nocturnal living.
Lyrically, ‘Up’ found Michael Stipe grappling, in frequently fascinating ways, for new techniques and means of self-expression. Sometimes he even seemed to be battling against himself. For a lyricist who frequently prefers stream-of-consciousness, surrealism and absurdity, he can often be disarmingly direct. ‘Losing My Religion’ may have become an anthemic powerhouse, but if one actually focuses on the lyric (one of the clearest encapsulations of unrequited infatuation I’ve ever heard), it becomes almost unbearably intense. A number of the songs on ‘Up’ (‘At My Most Beautiful’, ‘Diminished’, ‘Walk Unafraid’, ‘Falls To Climb’, ‘The Apologist’ and ‘You’re In The Air’) really flesh out this confessional approach. The setting of these very human and candid words (‘I want you naked, I want you wild’, ‘Hold my love me or leave me high’, ‘someone has to take the fall, why not me?’, ‘I will give my best today’ etc) to music that often feels stark and cold (in a positive way) gives ‘Up’ a disorientating and unsettling air of menace with its emotional clarity. Yet on ‘Why Not Smile’, the sentiment is so direct as to sound trite, Stipe enhancing the sense of irony by delivering the song in a flat monotone. It seems to be poking fun out of conventional love songs, yet the accompanying harmony is so straightforward and pretty that it could be one of those love songs – it’s very similar to the technique used so masterfully by Stephin Merritt in his various guises. Then there’s the unexpected interjection of the unlisted ‘I’m Not Over You’, just Stipe alone with an acoustic guitar, as pure and exposed as he’s ever sounded. The desperate loneliness of ‘Sad Professor’, brilliantly enhanced by Peter Buck’s unexpected bursts of guitar noise and the delicate underpinning percussion, even saw Stipe writing in character, something he doesn’t seem to have done much before or since.
I was only 17 when ‘Up’ was released, and only a handful of the tracks struck an emotional chord at the time (perhaps the most obvious examples). Yet as I’ve grown older, I’ve found the songs acquire a new and more direct personal resonance. ‘Daysleeper’ suddenly assumed a very obvious importance during the year I spent working night shifts for a television company, whilst ‘Walk Unafraid’ strikes me more as I become more accustomed to addressing some of the more personal aspects of my life publicly. It’s always gratifying to find an album that can follow and track you through the various stages of your life (as can Teenage Fanclub’s ‘Grand Prix’ for me), and I strongly suspect I will be drawing new insight and resonance from ‘Up’ for many years to come. Beyond that though, it’s such an unusual and mesmerising creation, in many ways as unforgiving as Radiohead’s ‘Kid A’ (I actually much prefer it to that album, but we’re on controversial ground here). Yet whilst Radiohead followed ‘Kid A’ with very successful juxtapositions of preoccupations old and new (best realised on the alchemical ‘In Rainbows’), REM failed to live up to that challenge. It's possible that this was because 'Up' sold respectably, but nowhere near enough to recoup Warners' 80 million dollar investment! Ironically, in addressing more commercial concerns, the group only served to diminish their audience further. I hope ‘Accelerate’ restores some faith in the group, but it also saddens me that they couldn’t take some of the very promising new adventures from ‘Up’ to their logical conclusion.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Turning The Tide
kd lang - Watershed (Nonesuch, 2008)
Fascinatingly, it took an album of covers to get kd lang (I still find the insistence on lower case letters infuriating) to reveal her original voice. 2004’s ‘Hymns of the 49th Parallel’, an overwhelmingly spare and desolate collection of songs by fellow Canadian songwriters, at last made it abundantly clear just what a superb singer she can be. Rich in emotion and experience, her powerful but languid delivery imbued new life into songs many would consider beyond improvement (her unhurried phrasing and graceful purpose gave Joni Mitchell’s sublime ‘A Case of You’ its definitive reading). At last, she seemed to have stopped trying to emulate the great country singers, or the legendary crooners, and found a powerful space of her own.
‘Watershed’ is Lang’s first album of self-penned material in eight years, and also the first album she has self-produced. The latter fact may be just as significant as her return to composing, as this is as lush and seductive an album as I’ve heard in some time. Whilst much of it was apparently recorded at home, sometimes in single takes, it sounds as meticulously crafted as an expensive studio recording. Its arrangements are exquisite and its elaborate moods sophisticated and compelling. With fascinating instrumentation (occasional flourishes of vibraphone, delicate brush drums or subtle programming, pedal steel guitar and strings), ‘Watershed’ at last draws together all the seemingly contradictory elements of Lang’s musical personality into a fulfilling and intoxicating mix of heady balladry. The combination of sensual jazz stylings and the candour and emotion of country music merge with refreshing ease – particularly on the tender ‘Coming Home’. The pace is consistently slow and protracted, but this suits Lang’s voice perfectly – particularly in the way her vocal purity eschews virtuosity or florid complexity in favour of drawing as much resonance and emotion as possible from long notes. There’s a profound intimacy to this material.
‘Watershed’ also serves as a timely reminder of Lang’s expressive qualities as a lyricist. She has a precise and powerful economy with language (‘on the cusp of compromise/to living hell, I tripped and fell’) and a detailed insight into matters of the heart. The supreme longing of ‘I Dream of Spring’, with its contrast of perfunctory love with the thrill of real discovery, makes for a broadly erotic curtain-raiser (‘The world is filled with frozen lovers/The sheets of their beds are so very cold/And I have slept there in the snow with others/Yet loved no others before’). The gospel-tinged ‘Sunday’ is more candid, speaking of ‘Sunday afternoon, naked in your room’, fusing the spiritual and the sexual in the time honoured manner of the best pop songs. ‘Thread’ incisively captures the way fear can be a limiting and destructive factor in relationships. Best of all might be ‘Shadow and The Frame’, an impressionistic and sensual arrangement accompanied by a vulnerable and honest lyrical self-reflection.
‘Watershed’ is certainly Lang’s most open album, in a number of senses, its sensual and assured sound matching its introspective but affecting subject matter. There’s also a real sense of space in the music, which even the silky string arrangements never puncture. Lang has not really ever matched the commercial success of ‘Ingenue’, but perhaps the smooth tapestry of genres distilled here might render her an accessible performer again. This bears comparison with Feist’s ‘The Reminder’, one of my favourite records of last year - another enthralling and sophisticated pop record with real emotional depth.
Fascinatingly, it took an album of covers to get kd lang (I still find the insistence on lower case letters infuriating) to reveal her original voice. 2004’s ‘Hymns of the 49th Parallel’, an overwhelmingly spare and desolate collection of songs by fellow Canadian songwriters, at last made it abundantly clear just what a superb singer she can be. Rich in emotion and experience, her powerful but languid delivery imbued new life into songs many would consider beyond improvement (her unhurried phrasing and graceful purpose gave Joni Mitchell’s sublime ‘A Case of You’ its definitive reading). At last, she seemed to have stopped trying to emulate the great country singers, or the legendary crooners, and found a powerful space of her own.
‘Watershed’ is Lang’s first album of self-penned material in eight years, and also the first album she has self-produced. The latter fact may be just as significant as her return to composing, as this is as lush and seductive an album as I’ve heard in some time. Whilst much of it was apparently recorded at home, sometimes in single takes, it sounds as meticulously crafted as an expensive studio recording. Its arrangements are exquisite and its elaborate moods sophisticated and compelling. With fascinating instrumentation (occasional flourishes of vibraphone, delicate brush drums or subtle programming, pedal steel guitar and strings), ‘Watershed’ at last draws together all the seemingly contradictory elements of Lang’s musical personality into a fulfilling and intoxicating mix of heady balladry. The combination of sensual jazz stylings and the candour and emotion of country music merge with refreshing ease – particularly on the tender ‘Coming Home’. The pace is consistently slow and protracted, but this suits Lang’s voice perfectly – particularly in the way her vocal purity eschews virtuosity or florid complexity in favour of drawing as much resonance and emotion as possible from long notes. There’s a profound intimacy to this material.
‘Watershed’ also serves as a timely reminder of Lang’s expressive qualities as a lyricist. She has a precise and powerful economy with language (‘on the cusp of compromise/to living hell, I tripped and fell’) and a detailed insight into matters of the heart. The supreme longing of ‘I Dream of Spring’, with its contrast of perfunctory love with the thrill of real discovery, makes for a broadly erotic curtain-raiser (‘The world is filled with frozen lovers/The sheets of their beds are so very cold/And I have slept there in the snow with others/Yet loved no others before’). The gospel-tinged ‘Sunday’ is more candid, speaking of ‘Sunday afternoon, naked in your room’, fusing the spiritual and the sexual in the time honoured manner of the best pop songs. ‘Thread’ incisively captures the way fear can be a limiting and destructive factor in relationships. Best of all might be ‘Shadow and The Frame’, an impressionistic and sensual arrangement accompanied by a vulnerable and honest lyrical self-reflection.
‘Watershed’ is certainly Lang’s most open album, in a number of senses, its sensual and assured sound matching its introspective but affecting subject matter. There’s also a real sense of space in the music, which even the silky string arrangements never puncture. Lang has not really ever matched the commercial success of ‘Ingenue’, but perhaps the smooth tapestry of genres distilled here might render her an accessible performer again. This bears comparison with Feist’s ‘The Reminder’, one of my favourite records of last year - another enthralling and sophisticated pop record with real emotional depth.
Friday, February 01, 2008
A Note For Morrissey
It's diva-ish behaviour enough to walk off stage mid-show and cancel two further performances because of a common cold (compare it with Steven Adams of the Broken Family Band gamely sniffling and coughing through an excellent set at Koko late last year), but it's another thing entirely to refuse to reschedule the cancelled performances. Are we really expected to believe that Morrissey cannot find a MERE THREE DAYS in his calendar to honour his commitments at any point during the entire year? Will Morrissey and his promoters also be refunding or compensating those ticket-holders who bought the exceedingly expensive 'gold passes', supposedly entitling them to attend all six of his Roundhouse shows? Of course, ticket agencies are unlikely to refund their outrageous booking fees and transaction charges (now pocketed for no benefit whatsoever to the consumer), and those foolish enough to purchase tickets from touts at 'market rates' are unlikely to get any money back at all (no doubt the government still thinks these people are offering music fans a good service).
Yes, Morrissey is a contrary bastard at times and that's part of why he's an iconic figure - but this comes on top of a poorly selected Greatest Hits set nobody wants, consistently short sets that don't offer fans value for money and a moody and confrontational performance at the Palladium a couple of years ago. If you're going to get indignant at the NME for merely highlighting some of your more contentious opinions, it might be best to uphold some standards of professionalism in your own career. This might well be the last time I bother.
Many of the posts left on the Morrissey solo.com message board argue the same position. Yes, artists and performers should not follow the every will of their audience, and should challenge them where necessary - but there is still a duty of respect to any paying audience. Morrissey is billed to appear on tonight's Jonathan Ross show, which would be something of an insult if it goes ahead in the same week that he has cancelled supposedly 'historic' performances.
Yes, Morrissey is a contrary bastard at times and that's part of why he's an iconic figure - but this comes on top of a poorly selected Greatest Hits set nobody wants, consistently short sets that don't offer fans value for money and a moody and confrontational performance at the Palladium a couple of years ago. If you're going to get indignant at the NME for merely highlighting some of your more contentious opinions, it might be best to uphold some standards of professionalism in your own career. This might well be the last time I bother.
Many of the posts left on the Morrissey solo.com message board argue the same position. Yes, artists and performers should not follow the every will of their audience, and should challenge them where necessary - but there is still a duty of respect to any paying audience. Morrissey is billed to appear on tonight's Jonathan Ross show, which would be something of an insult if it goes ahead in the same week that he has cancelled supposedly 'historic' performances.
Subversion In The Night
Hot Chip - Made In The Dark (DFA/EMI, 2008)
Hot Chip’s third album, and their first to be released to a palpable sense of anticipation, is paradoxically both their most accessible and most confounding. It’s accessible in its sheer energy and playful zest, and also in its preponderance for deceptively sugary melodies. For all their reliance on the traits of R&B and dance music, first single ‘Ready For The Floor’ actually most closely resembles the infectious pop of Erasure or early Depeche Mode. On the other hand, the album is confounding in the sheer glee it takes in subverting expectations, deconstructing conventional song structures and restlessly flitting between genres and styles. It’s an album that, appropriately as it turns out, requires a bit of wrestling and confrontation.
Whilst Alexis Taylor and Joe Goddard’s bedroom recording ethos has mercifully been sustained here, there’s also a greater sense of ambition, a number of tracks having been recorded in a studio with the whole group. It’s therefore the first Hot Chip record to capture the thrill and insistence of their live shows. If there’s a downside to this, it’s that the beats sometimes rely far more heavily on the basic four-to-the-floor house template, with any intricacy left to additional percussion parts.
Yet there’s much more to this slippery record than simply a relentless party spirit. It’s intriguing that whilst comparisons often rest on the group’s enthusiasm for American R&B, Robert Wyatt has recently recognised them as kindred spirits and a collection of ‘English eccentrics’. This is perhaps best elucidated in Alexis Taylor’s thoughtful, elusive lyrics, which often capture a mood but leave precise meaning somewhat ambiguous. Alongside this is an increased tendency to veer away from the tired conventions of pop songwriting. Sometimes this results in songs that sound like several different pieces only loosely strung together – I’ve yet to get to grips with the mechanistic ‘Don’t Dance’. At other times, it has results that are both unpredictable and striking, particularly on ‘Hold On’, ‘Touch Too Much’ and ‘One Pure Thought’.
I’m baffled that some critics have suggested that ‘Made In The Dark’ is too rigorous – overly tight and ‘sexless’ (any album that features a song called ‘In The Privacy of Our Love’ cannot be entirely sexless!). Much of it has the intentionally ragged edges that have always characterised the group’s sound. It’s machine music with a human heart and a restless mind. I also detect a more aggressive, muscular approach here, particularly evident in the strident, unpredictable ‘Out At The Pictures’ or the irresistible ‘Hold On’ (which features Alexis, it’s safe to say not the stockiest man in the world, singing ‘I’ve a good mind to take you outside!’). Best of all is the amazing ‘One Pure Thought’ which neatly juxtaposes the spirit of New Order with the melodic African excursions of Paul Simon.
All of these bold, uncompromising and insistent tracks benefit from the increased vocal presence of Joe Goddard, who had seemed a little diminutive on much of ‘The Warning’. Here the group are again making brilliant use of the marked contrast between his inspired quasi-rapping and Alexis’ sweeter tones and bright melodies. This is particularly effective on the quirky, invigorating ‘Bendable Poseable’. ‘Shake A Fist’ is a trickier beast though, it’s enjoyably wide-ranging melody suddenly disintegrating into a wilfully irritating Todd Rundgren sample and mess of pitch-bending synths. It reminds me of the infuriating ending to ‘Baby Said’, otherwise one of the most direct and affecting moments on ‘Coming On Strong’.
Amidst all this riotous energy, the album comes to life in its quieter places. I know he won’t thank me for this comparison, but Alexis shares something with Damon Albarn in his comfortable mastery of the ballad form, something evidenced here by the exquisite and beautiful title track and the haunting and candid ‘In The Privacy Of Our Love’. There’s also the gospel tinged ‘We Are Looking For A Lot Of Love’, which sounds like a great R Kelly single with vulnerability replacing the bravado. It sounds a little like a superior update of an early Hot Chip track, ‘Making Tracks’, which appeared on the group’s San Frandisco EP. Whereas ‘The Warning’ really only had one song like this in the form of ‘Look After Me’, ‘Made In The Dark’ stands apart through increasing the quota.
It will take a while of living with this album before I can really decide if it coheres well, or is more a ragbag collection of audacious creative ideas. Either way, they are mostly brilliant ideas. There’s so much originality and personality here – but none of it outweighs Alexis and Joe’s supreme understanding of musical history and the songwriting tradition, which is more clearly elucidated here than on either of its predecessors. From the dark, the light creeps out.
Hot Chip’s third album, and their first to be released to a palpable sense of anticipation, is paradoxically both their most accessible and most confounding. It’s accessible in its sheer energy and playful zest, and also in its preponderance for deceptively sugary melodies. For all their reliance on the traits of R&B and dance music, first single ‘Ready For The Floor’ actually most closely resembles the infectious pop of Erasure or early Depeche Mode. On the other hand, the album is confounding in the sheer glee it takes in subverting expectations, deconstructing conventional song structures and restlessly flitting between genres and styles. It’s an album that, appropriately as it turns out, requires a bit of wrestling and confrontation.
Whilst Alexis Taylor and Joe Goddard’s bedroom recording ethos has mercifully been sustained here, there’s also a greater sense of ambition, a number of tracks having been recorded in a studio with the whole group. It’s therefore the first Hot Chip record to capture the thrill and insistence of their live shows. If there’s a downside to this, it’s that the beats sometimes rely far more heavily on the basic four-to-the-floor house template, with any intricacy left to additional percussion parts.
Yet there’s much more to this slippery record than simply a relentless party spirit. It’s intriguing that whilst comparisons often rest on the group’s enthusiasm for American R&B, Robert Wyatt has recently recognised them as kindred spirits and a collection of ‘English eccentrics’. This is perhaps best elucidated in Alexis Taylor’s thoughtful, elusive lyrics, which often capture a mood but leave precise meaning somewhat ambiguous. Alongside this is an increased tendency to veer away from the tired conventions of pop songwriting. Sometimes this results in songs that sound like several different pieces only loosely strung together – I’ve yet to get to grips with the mechanistic ‘Don’t Dance’. At other times, it has results that are both unpredictable and striking, particularly on ‘Hold On’, ‘Touch Too Much’ and ‘One Pure Thought’.
I’m baffled that some critics have suggested that ‘Made In The Dark’ is too rigorous – overly tight and ‘sexless’ (any album that features a song called ‘In The Privacy of Our Love’ cannot be entirely sexless!). Much of it has the intentionally ragged edges that have always characterised the group’s sound. It’s machine music with a human heart and a restless mind. I also detect a more aggressive, muscular approach here, particularly evident in the strident, unpredictable ‘Out At The Pictures’ or the irresistible ‘Hold On’ (which features Alexis, it’s safe to say not the stockiest man in the world, singing ‘I’ve a good mind to take you outside!’). Best of all is the amazing ‘One Pure Thought’ which neatly juxtaposes the spirit of New Order with the melodic African excursions of Paul Simon.
All of these bold, uncompromising and insistent tracks benefit from the increased vocal presence of Joe Goddard, who had seemed a little diminutive on much of ‘The Warning’. Here the group are again making brilliant use of the marked contrast between his inspired quasi-rapping and Alexis’ sweeter tones and bright melodies. This is particularly effective on the quirky, invigorating ‘Bendable Poseable’. ‘Shake A Fist’ is a trickier beast though, it’s enjoyably wide-ranging melody suddenly disintegrating into a wilfully irritating Todd Rundgren sample and mess of pitch-bending synths. It reminds me of the infuriating ending to ‘Baby Said’, otherwise one of the most direct and affecting moments on ‘Coming On Strong’.
Amidst all this riotous energy, the album comes to life in its quieter places. I know he won’t thank me for this comparison, but Alexis shares something with Damon Albarn in his comfortable mastery of the ballad form, something evidenced here by the exquisite and beautiful title track and the haunting and candid ‘In The Privacy Of Our Love’. There’s also the gospel tinged ‘We Are Looking For A Lot Of Love’, which sounds like a great R Kelly single with vulnerability replacing the bravado. It sounds a little like a superior update of an early Hot Chip track, ‘Making Tracks’, which appeared on the group’s San Frandisco EP. Whereas ‘The Warning’ really only had one song like this in the form of ‘Look After Me’, ‘Made In The Dark’ stands apart through increasing the quota.
It will take a while of living with this album before I can really decide if it coheres well, or is more a ragbag collection of audacious creative ideas. Either way, they are mostly brilliant ideas. There’s so much originality and personality here – but none of it outweighs Alexis and Joe’s supreme understanding of musical history and the songwriting tradition, which is more clearly elucidated here than on either of its predecessors. From the dark, the light creeps out.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Running Scared
No Country For Old Men (Joel and Ethan Coen, 2007)
When asked why his songs were always so achingly sad, the great Roy Orbison once wisecracked: ‘I’m from West Texas - there are a hundred different ways to be lonely there’. In a sense, everyone in this bleak and unforgiving new film from the Coen Brothers is rendered isolated or lonely, all against the backdrop of that stark and desolate Texas border landscape. It is this notion that, in spite of the film’s persistent and remorseless violence, gives the film an emotional core, aided considerably by the hauntingly beautiful cinematography of Roger Deakins.
Although it adds a characteristic layer of black comedy to Cormac McCarthy’s morally complex and deeply serious novel, it is the Coens’ least idiosyncratic film. It’s also arguably their best, as much for its powerful narrative and mood as for its superb performances. It’s certainly far superior to the superficial ‘Intolerable Cruelty’, the irritating ‘Raising Arizona’ or even the cult wisecracking of ‘The Big Lebowski’. The apocalyptic tone has more in common with their very best movies, the under-appreciated ‘Barton Fink’ and the masterful ‘Fargo’. Yet, in staying faithful to the outstanding source material of McCarthy’s novel, the Coens have found a new and more resonant cinematic voice.
Crucial to the success of the film is the casting of Tommy Lee Jones as a soon-to-be-retiring Sheriff, Ed Tom Bell. If the film perhaps has a flaw, it’s that Jones isn’t afforded enough on-screen time. He has precisely the right combination of laconic world-weariness and decent nature and his opening narration is pitch perfect. He relates the story of a fourteen year old he once sent to the electric chair, who had killed his girlfriend in cold blood. Bell says ‘the papers said it was a crime of passion, but he told me there weren’t no passion in it, that he’d been fixin’ to kill someone for as long as he could remember.’ This is the sound of a man who has seen horror and callous brutality punctuate ordinary lives, but has one last, unbearable challenge left in store for him.
The film weaves together different personal stories, all converging through the incomprehensible and merciless evil of the terrifying Anton Chiguhr (Javier Bardem, whose ludicrous bob hairstyle is sinister in itself). At the start of the film, we see Chiguhr being arrested, and then escaping through deeply unpleasant piece of cunning murder. We then see him show no qualms in killing an innocent truck driver with his grimly compelling weapon of choice – an air-propelled cattle-gun. Throughout the film, we are bombarded with examples of Chiguhr’s resourceful and unfeeling criminality.
Meanwhile, Llewelyn Moss (played by newcomer Josh Brolin) has stumbled across a trail of blood whilst hunting, and finds this leads to a grisly crime scene, at which he discovers several dead bodies (mostly Mexicans) a stash of heroin, and a suitcase containing two million dollars in cash. The film details his doomed attempts to assert ownership of the money, thereby leaving the audience with the uncomfortable question of whether he is an inadvertent innocent, stumbling into a world in which he simply does not belong, or whether he is himself complicit in an unstoppable cycle of criminality.
The film has familiar elements from the generic chase thriller, although it must be admitted that the Coens handle the chase sequences with terrific verve. There are supremely tense moments when both Moss and Chiguhr know the other is near, and one particular moment explodes cataclysmically. The film avoids relying too heavily on tropes and conventions mainly through its focus on the severe and unstoppable nature of Chiguhr’s evil. There’s a particularly chilling scene in which Chiguhr taunts the friendly owner of a gas station by asking him the most he’d ever lost in a coin toss, then getting him to call the toss of a coin that had ‘been in circulation for years just waiting for this moment.’ By the end of the film, it seems to be more the exertion of a warped kind of (im)moral authority and unflappable control that drives Chiguhr more than the recapturing of the money. Perhaps the Coens’ finest decision is, in spite of all the shocking killings that have come before, is to leave the film’s bloody (and somewhat inevitable) outcome to take place off screen.
The film is apocalyptic in outlook and tone, although Chiguhr’s confrontation with Moss’ wife Carla Jean (who bravely and righteously refuses to call his coin toss) is tempered by Tommy Lee Jones’ visit to his Uncle Ellis, another retired and injured lawman played superbly by Barry Corbin. The film concludes on a strange combination of security and disillusion – with Tommy Lee Jones recounting a dream in which he rides through a mountain pass, following his father into the distance, safe in the knowledge that he would be waiting for him at the end. He has the safety of retirement – but also the cruel knowledge that he, like most of the ordinary people he served, remains helpless in the face of the genius of real evil.
When asked why his songs were always so achingly sad, the great Roy Orbison once wisecracked: ‘I’m from West Texas - there are a hundred different ways to be lonely there’. In a sense, everyone in this bleak and unforgiving new film from the Coen Brothers is rendered isolated or lonely, all against the backdrop of that stark and desolate Texas border landscape. It is this notion that, in spite of the film’s persistent and remorseless violence, gives the film an emotional core, aided considerably by the hauntingly beautiful cinematography of Roger Deakins.
Although it adds a characteristic layer of black comedy to Cormac McCarthy’s morally complex and deeply serious novel, it is the Coens’ least idiosyncratic film. It’s also arguably their best, as much for its powerful narrative and mood as for its superb performances. It’s certainly far superior to the superficial ‘Intolerable Cruelty’, the irritating ‘Raising Arizona’ or even the cult wisecracking of ‘The Big Lebowski’. The apocalyptic tone has more in common with their very best movies, the under-appreciated ‘Barton Fink’ and the masterful ‘Fargo’. Yet, in staying faithful to the outstanding source material of McCarthy’s novel, the Coens have found a new and more resonant cinematic voice.
Crucial to the success of the film is the casting of Tommy Lee Jones as a soon-to-be-retiring Sheriff, Ed Tom Bell. If the film perhaps has a flaw, it’s that Jones isn’t afforded enough on-screen time. He has precisely the right combination of laconic world-weariness and decent nature and his opening narration is pitch perfect. He relates the story of a fourteen year old he once sent to the electric chair, who had killed his girlfriend in cold blood. Bell says ‘the papers said it was a crime of passion, but he told me there weren’t no passion in it, that he’d been fixin’ to kill someone for as long as he could remember.’ This is the sound of a man who has seen horror and callous brutality punctuate ordinary lives, but has one last, unbearable challenge left in store for him.
The film weaves together different personal stories, all converging through the incomprehensible and merciless evil of the terrifying Anton Chiguhr (Javier Bardem, whose ludicrous bob hairstyle is sinister in itself). At the start of the film, we see Chiguhr being arrested, and then escaping through deeply unpleasant piece of cunning murder. We then see him show no qualms in killing an innocent truck driver with his grimly compelling weapon of choice – an air-propelled cattle-gun. Throughout the film, we are bombarded with examples of Chiguhr’s resourceful and unfeeling criminality.
Meanwhile, Llewelyn Moss (played by newcomer Josh Brolin) has stumbled across a trail of blood whilst hunting, and finds this leads to a grisly crime scene, at which he discovers several dead bodies (mostly Mexicans) a stash of heroin, and a suitcase containing two million dollars in cash. The film details his doomed attempts to assert ownership of the money, thereby leaving the audience with the uncomfortable question of whether he is an inadvertent innocent, stumbling into a world in which he simply does not belong, or whether he is himself complicit in an unstoppable cycle of criminality.
The film has familiar elements from the generic chase thriller, although it must be admitted that the Coens handle the chase sequences with terrific verve. There are supremely tense moments when both Moss and Chiguhr know the other is near, and one particular moment explodes cataclysmically. The film avoids relying too heavily on tropes and conventions mainly through its focus on the severe and unstoppable nature of Chiguhr’s evil. There’s a particularly chilling scene in which Chiguhr taunts the friendly owner of a gas station by asking him the most he’d ever lost in a coin toss, then getting him to call the toss of a coin that had ‘been in circulation for years just waiting for this moment.’ By the end of the film, it seems to be more the exertion of a warped kind of (im)moral authority and unflappable control that drives Chiguhr more than the recapturing of the money. Perhaps the Coens’ finest decision is, in spite of all the shocking killings that have come before, is to leave the film’s bloody (and somewhat inevitable) outcome to take place off screen.
The film is apocalyptic in outlook and tone, although Chiguhr’s confrontation with Moss’ wife Carla Jean (who bravely and righteously refuses to call his coin toss) is tempered by Tommy Lee Jones’ visit to his Uncle Ellis, another retired and injured lawman played superbly by Barry Corbin. The film concludes on a strange combination of security and disillusion – with Tommy Lee Jones recounting a dream in which he rides through a mountain pass, following his father into the distance, safe in the knowledge that he would be waiting for him at the end. He has the safety of retirement – but also the cruel knowledge that he, like most of the ordinary people he served, remains helpless in the face of the genius of real evil.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The Gold Standard
Keith Jarrett, Gary Peacock, Jack DeJohnette – Setting Standards: New York Sessions (ECM)
Manfred Eicher’s ECM label is celebrating the 25th anniversary of these pivotal recordings by reissuing them as a boxed set (they were originally released across two years as three separate albums – Standards vol. 1, Standards vol. 2 and Changes). The group had convened before, for Gary Peacock’s 1977 album ‘Tales of Another’ (one of the greatest and least recognised albums of the 1970s), but this was the first occasion they ventured into the great American songbook. Along with Bill Evans, and some would now argue Brad Mehldau, Keith Jarrett’s long-lasting group have helped define the art of trio playing, and continue to draw new lifeblood from the standard repertoire to this day. There is so much colour and texture in Jarrett's playing that the Piano becomes its own orchestra. Given Jarrett’s current musical outlook, this reissue makes a lot of sense. He now performs a mixture of solo concerts and performances with this trio – and has not made a studio recording since The Melody At Night, With You (a work not intended for release, but rather as a gift to his wife, who had supported him throughout a long battle with chronic fatigue). He has completely abandoned formal composition, now claiming that there is no greater art than simply to play. This is a matter for some debate given his standing rests as much on his composing as his improvising, particularly the work for his European quartet in the 1970s. Yet this set re-emphasises the extent to which Jarrett and his colleagues are radical re-inventors of a particularly journeyed wheel.
The first disc is especially strong, and illustrates many of the stylistic hallmarks of this remarkable group. Both Jarrett and Peacock manage to make their instruments sing, Peacock’s bass richly resonating and with even Jarrett’s more complicated lines rooted in melody and feeling. The rewarding version of ‘All The Things You Are’, with the trio locked tight in an intricate but scintillating groove, suggests how this group find form and content liberating rather than restrictive, with a musical chemistry that manages to break expectations and conventions. The lively take on ‘The Masquerade Is Over’ suggests that DeJohnette can swing as well as he can provide muscular, swashbuckling cymbal work. Even better is ‘God Bless The Child’, one of the most fascinating and exciting recorded versions of this well-known composition, which is tinged with gospel fervour and rhythmic invention, whilst somehow still anchored in a powerfully simple idea. Jarrett is at his most percussive in his approach to the piano here. It sustains a subtlety and intrigue, with a carefully controlled dynamic range, for over fifteen minutes. It’s a piece of music I could listen to hundreds of times and from which I can always intimate new lessons and value.
All three musicians make powerful and compelling individual contributions but they always serve the greater purpose of the group dynamic. Particularly captivating in this regard is Jack De Johnette’s varying accompaniment to the contrasting solos of Jarrett and Peacock on the wide-ranging ‘So Tender’. His underpinning of Jarrett’s solo is insistent and fiery, drawing attacking sounds and emphasising the toms, but he immediately moves to something more delicate and playful to support Peacock’s lyrical bass solo. It helps the performance to capture a multiplicity of moods with all the tenderness the title demands. Similarly, there’s an appropriate degree of mystery and intrigue in his brush strokes on ‘Moon and Sand’.
What is particularly remarkable about these recordings is that, amidst the peerless collective extrapolation and improvisation, the original beating heart of these tunes remains very much intact. Jarrett frequently elaborates and extends the themes, or amends the harmony, but he never veers too far from the memorable templates. These pieces of music form a standard repertoire precisely because of the emotion and feeling contained within them, and because they contain simple, clearly stated ideas that both musicians and non-musicians alike can appreciate. Perhaps it’s ‘Never Let Me Go’, with its curious contrast of dark melancholy and lingering romanticism, the real highlight of the second disc, which most clearly demonstrates how this group can take the essence of a theme and use it as the starting point for the most exploratory of journeys. Although it is wordless, it paints a vivid picture of the complex combination of commitment and possessiveness in human relationships.
The third disc, originally released as ‘Changes’ demonstrates the group’s other side, that of collective free improvisation. Jarrett has talked of attempting to start his solo concerts with a completely blank slate, and although the two parts of ‘Flying’ are credited to him as a composer, it’s clear that it is really a thirty minute improvised performance. The first part is lyrical and broad, based around a simple pedal and featuring subtle and calm exposition. The second is tighter and groovier, with a dexterous and passionate drum solo. Given that these were recorded at the same sessions, it’s clear that they still belong in this set – as the standard material evidently provided the springboard for the spontaneity and creativity of these recordings. There's still plenty of order and logic to this material, clearly influenced by the relationship between form and inspiration the group found in the standard repertoire. It's a far cry from the fiery abandoning of all convention favoured by Evan Parker or Ornette Coleman (with whom De Johnette has also played), but it is every bit as charismatic and innovative.
It’s also worth recognising that all this material came as the result of recordings taking place over a couple of days. As good as Radiohead’s ‘In Rainbows’ is – one has to wonder whether it’s worth slaving over a brief collection of songs for four years when something as profound and magical as this can be crafted so quickly given the right conditions. Even in the jazz world, which values antique methods of live studio recording and the principles of spontaneity and one-off achievements, it’s hard to think of a younger contemporary musician working at Jarrett’s Herculean pace.
Jarrett is clearly a very difficult human being – extremely self-righteous, occasionally pompous, unrepentantly single-minded and completely driven towards original creativity. Yet he has crucial qualities too – an open mind towards broad ideas and contexts for his work. He has argued that, for him, ‘music is the end result of a process that has nothing to do with music’ – a process that has as much to do with life experience, philosophy, literature and personal outlook as it does with musical influences. With nearly 70 recordings to his name, Jarrett’s contribution to the development of the jazz language has been immense. It’s fascinating now to see how his playing has changed over time, and to observe just how pivotal these recordings were in his career. In the Mike Dibbs/Ian Carr documentary film ‘The Art of Improvisation’, Jarrett states that ‘the more experience a person has, the more simplicity is profound…but timing is the complex part of simplicity’. This set contains simplicity and complexity in equal measure, and timing may well be both its vitality and charm – the connection between these three musicians is instinctive and completely priceless. All three seem to know exactly what to play and exactly when to play it. Most importantly, they seem to still be learning something new whenever they convene.
Manfred Eicher’s ECM label is celebrating the 25th anniversary of these pivotal recordings by reissuing them as a boxed set (they were originally released across two years as three separate albums – Standards vol. 1, Standards vol. 2 and Changes). The group had convened before, for Gary Peacock’s 1977 album ‘Tales of Another’ (one of the greatest and least recognised albums of the 1970s), but this was the first occasion they ventured into the great American songbook. Along with Bill Evans, and some would now argue Brad Mehldau, Keith Jarrett’s long-lasting group have helped define the art of trio playing, and continue to draw new lifeblood from the standard repertoire to this day. There is so much colour and texture in Jarrett's playing that the Piano becomes its own orchestra. Given Jarrett’s current musical outlook, this reissue makes a lot of sense. He now performs a mixture of solo concerts and performances with this trio – and has not made a studio recording since The Melody At Night, With You (a work not intended for release, but rather as a gift to his wife, who had supported him throughout a long battle with chronic fatigue). He has completely abandoned formal composition, now claiming that there is no greater art than simply to play. This is a matter for some debate given his standing rests as much on his composing as his improvising, particularly the work for his European quartet in the 1970s. Yet this set re-emphasises the extent to which Jarrett and his colleagues are radical re-inventors of a particularly journeyed wheel.
The first disc is especially strong, and illustrates many of the stylistic hallmarks of this remarkable group. Both Jarrett and Peacock manage to make their instruments sing, Peacock’s bass richly resonating and with even Jarrett’s more complicated lines rooted in melody and feeling. The rewarding version of ‘All The Things You Are’, with the trio locked tight in an intricate but scintillating groove, suggests how this group find form and content liberating rather than restrictive, with a musical chemistry that manages to break expectations and conventions. The lively take on ‘The Masquerade Is Over’ suggests that DeJohnette can swing as well as he can provide muscular, swashbuckling cymbal work. Even better is ‘God Bless The Child’, one of the most fascinating and exciting recorded versions of this well-known composition, which is tinged with gospel fervour and rhythmic invention, whilst somehow still anchored in a powerfully simple idea. Jarrett is at his most percussive in his approach to the piano here. It sustains a subtlety and intrigue, with a carefully controlled dynamic range, for over fifteen minutes. It’s a piece of music I could listen to hundreds of times and from which I can always intimate new lessons and value.
All three musicians make powerful and compelling individual contributions but they always serve the greater purpose of the group dynamic. Particularly captivating in this regard is Jack De Johnette’s varying accompaniment to the contrasting solos of Jarrett and Peacock on the wide-ranging ‘So Tender’. His underpinning of Jarrett’s solo is insistent and fiery, drawing attacking sounds and emphasising the toms, but he immediately moves to something more delicate and playful to support Peacock’s lyrical bass solo. It helps the performance to capture a multiplicity of moods with all the tenderness the title demands. Similarly, there’s an appropriate degree of mystery and intrigue in his brush strokes on ‘Moon and Sand’.
What is particularly remarkable about these recordings is that, amidst the peerless collective extrapolation and improvisation, the original beating heart of these tunes remains very much intact. Jarrett frequently elaborates and extends the themes, or amends the harmony, but he never veers too far from the memorable templates. These pieces of music form a standard repertoire precisely because of the emotion and feeling contained within them, and because they contain simple, clearly stated ideas that both musicians and non-musicians alike can appreciate. Perhaps it’s ‘Never Let Me Go’, with its curious contrast of dark melancholy and lingering romanticism, the real highlight of the second disc, which most clearly demonstrates how this group can take the essence of a theme and use it as the starting point for the most exploratory of journeys. Although it is wordless, it paints a vivid picture of the complex combination of commitment and possessiveness in human relationships.
The third disc, originally released as ‘Changes’ demonstrates the group’s other side, that of collective free improvisation. Jarrett has talked of attempting to start his solo concerts with a completely blank slate, and although the two parts of ‘Flying’ are credited to him as a composer, it’s clear that it is really a thirty minute improvised performance. The first part is lyrical and broad, based around a simple pedal and featuring subtle and calm exposition. The second is tighter and groovier, with a dexterous and passionate drum solo. Given that these were recorded at the same sessions, it’s clear that they still belong in this set – as the standard material evidently provided the springboard for the spontaneity and creativity of these recordings. There's still plenty of order and logic to this material, clearly influenced by the relationship between form and inspiration the group found in the standard repertoire. It's a far cry from the fiery abandoning of all convention favoured by Evan Parker or Ornette Coleman (with whom De Johnette has also played), but it is every bit as charismatic and innovative.
It’s also worth recognising that all this material came as the result of recordings taking place over a couple of days. As good as Radiohead’s ‘In Rainbows’ is – one has to wonder whether it’s worth slaving over a brief collection of songs for four years when something as profound and magical as this can be crafted so quickly given the right conditions. Even in the jazz world, which values antique methods of live studio recording and the principles of spontaneity and one-off achievements, it’s hard to think of a younger contemporary musician working at Jarrett’s Herculean pace.
Jarrett is clearly a very difficult human being – extremely self-righteous, occasionally pompous, unrepentantly single-minded and completely driven towards original creativity. Yet he has crucial qualities too – an open mind towards broad ideas and contexts for his work. He has argued that, for him, ‘music is the end result of a process that has nothing to do with music’ – a process that has as much to do with life experience, philosophy, literature and personal outlook as it does with musical influences. With nearly 70 recordings to his name, Jarrett’s contribution to the development of the jazz language has been immense. It’s fascinating now to see how his playing has changed over time, and to observe just how pivotal these recordings were in his career. In the Mike Dibbs/Ian Carr documentary film ‘The Art of Improvisation’, Jarrett states that ‘the more experience a person has, the more simplicity is profound…but timing is the complex part of simplicity’. This set contains simplicity and complexity in equal measure, and timing may well be both its vitality and charm – the connection between these three musicians is instinctive and completely priceless. All three seem to know exactly what to play and exactly when to play it. Most importantly, they seem to still be learning something new whenever they convene.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Undermining Cynicism
Vampire Weekend - Vampire Weekend (XL, 2008)
I’m always somewhat cynical and suspicious about over-hyped ‘hot tip’ debuts such as this. My pre-release ambivalence on this occasion has been intensified by the fact that Vampire Weekend are the dashingly handsome, media-friendly export from a genuinely exciting Brooklyn rising that has also gifted us with the highly sophisticated Yeasayer and the dazzling originality of Dave Longstreth’s Dirty Projectors. Whilst the Yeasayer album seems to be ‘doing an Arcade Fire’ over here, building quite a buzz and helping the group sell out shows on the basis of word of mouth, critics and listeners alike seem not to have noticed Dirty Projectors at all (save for Plan B magazine, who have bravely elected to give the group a cover feature amidst the relative lack of interest elsewhere). In this context, it’s rather galling for Vampire Weekend to suddenly emerge in a blitz of PR, immediately gathering uncritical acclaim for their appropriation of African music – (the soukous and hi-life sounds especially).
In actuality, Vampire Weekend are a rather different prospect from these other groups. Yeasayer and DPs are in thrall to the possibilities of unexpected juxtapositions, whilst VW are really, at heart, a simple pop group. Fortunately, it transpires that they’re really rather good at being a pop group. Melodically, most of these songs have a slight reminiscence of the infectious but quirky vocal lines of James Mercer from The Shins, whilst musically they hint as much at the trendy fashions of recent angular indie-pop as they do at reggae or the influence of African rhythms and playing styles. There’s also a highly contagious sense of fun running riot through this mercilessly concise album that even the interjection of baroque chamber strings can’t stifle.
Most of the arrangements are skeletal, with plenty of space, allowing the brilliantly constructed melodies to cut through with piercing clarity. There’s a driving, taut rhythm section and either some spare and sustained chords on old analogue keyboards, or some spiky guitar playing over which Ezra Koenig delivers his frequently baffling lyrics. Simple though this backdrop may be, it’s delivered with such sprightly energy that it is rendered brutally effective. Whilst the music is never dense, the sounds the group select are usually intriguing, from the aforementioned string section to the mellotron textures on ‘A-Punk’. The African influences are cleverly subsumed within the overall ‘college-rock’ spirit (there’s even a song called ‘Campus’ for heaven’s sake), and the group even have the good humour to mock their preoccupations on ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa’ (‘it feels so unnatural, Peter Gabriel…’). It all works because the inherent joy and celebration in African music very much reflects this group’s vigorous sense of fun. Similarly, the chamber pop stylings of ‘M79’ are made to sound vibrant rather than twee.
Koenig’s lyrics are remarkably wordy, and it’s often difficult to decipher exactly what Vampire Weekend’s songs are about. They certainly seem inspired by unconventional themes, from architecture (‘Mansard Roof’), to attacks on the demands of punctuation (‘Oxford Comma’ – a song which more generally seems to attack boasts about money). There’s a vivid, almost literary amount of detail in these songs, but Koenig’s dry, understated delivery is appropriate for his material. That the songs retain an irresistible charm in spite of these potential pitfalls is perhaps a result of the group not taking themselves too seriously, and Koenig’s own irony-laden sense of humour. In fact, his distinctive personality helps save the album from drowning in its own reference points.
‘Vampire Weekend’ will not rank as the most technically sophisticated or ground-breaking album of 2008, but it will surely stand as one of the year’s most straightforwardly bright and enjoyable statements. These songs are remarkably simple, and make the art of small ensemble songwriting look almost comically easy. This is no bad thing. These vampires provoke more fun than fear.
I’m always somewhat cynical and suspicious about over-hyped ‘hot tip’ debuts such as this. My pre-release ambivalence on this occasion has been intensified by the fact that Vampire Weekend are the dashingly handsome, media-friendly export from a genuinely exciting Brooklyn rising that has also gifted us with the highly sophisticated Yeasayer and the dazzling originality of Dave Longstreth’s Dirty Projectors. Whilst the Yeasayer album seems to be ‘doing an Arcade Fire’ over here, building quite a buzz and helping the group sell out shows on the basis of word of mouth, critics and listeners alike seem not to have noticed Dirty Projectors at all (save for Plan B magazine, who have bravely elected to give the group a cover feature amidst the relative lack of interest elsewhere). In this context, it’s rather galling for Vampire Weekend to suddenly emerge in a blitz of PR, immediately gathering uncritical acclaim for their appropriation of African music – (the soukous and hi-life sounds especially).
In actuality, Vampire Weekend are a rather different prospect from these other groups. Yeasayer and DPs are in thrall to the possibilities of unexpected juxtapositions, whilst VW are really, at heart, a simple pop group. Fortunately, it transpires that they’re really rather good at being a pop group. Melodically, most of these songs have a slight reminiscence of the infectious but quirky vocal lines of James Mercer from The Shins, whilst musically they hint as much at the trendy fashions of recent angular indie-pop as they do at reggae or the influence of African rhythms and playing styles. There’s also a highly contagious sense of fun running riot through this mercilessly concise album that even the interjection of baroque chamber strings can’t stifle.
Most of the arrangements are skeletal, with plenty of space, allowing the brilliantly constructed melodies to cut through with piercing clarity. There’s a driving, taut rhythm section and either some spare and sustained chords on old analogue keyboards, or some spiky guitar playing over which Ezra Koenig delivers his frequently baffling lyrics. Simple though this backdrop may be, it’s delivered with such sprightly energy that it is rendered brutally effective. Whilst the music is never dense, the sounds the group select are usually intriguing, from the aforementioned string section to the mellotron textures on ‘A-Punk’. The African influences are cleverly subsumed within the overall ‘college-rock’ spirit (there’s even a song called ‘Campus’ for heaven’s sake), and the group even have the good humour to mock their preoccupations on ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa’ (‘it feels so unnatural, Peter Gabriel…’). It all works because the inherent joy and celebration in African music very much reflects this group’s vigorous sense of fun. Similarly, the chamber pop stylings of ‘M79’ are made to sound vibrant rather than twee.
Koenig’s lyrics are remarkably wordy, and it’s often difficult to decipher exactly what Vampire Weekend’s songs are about. They certainly seem inspired by unconventional themes, from architecture (‘Mansard Roof’), to attacks on the demands of punctuation (‘Oxford Comma’ – a song which more generally seems to attack boasts about money). There’s a vivid, almost literary amount of detail in these songs, but Koenig’s dry, understated delivery is appropriate for his material. That the songs retain an irresistible charm in spite of these potential pitfalls is perhaps a result of the group not taking themselves too seriously, and Koenig’s own irony-laden sense of humour. In fact, his distinctive personality helps save the album from drowning in its own reference points.
‘Vampire Weekend’ will not rank as the most technically sophisticated or ground-breaking album of 2008, but it will surely stand as one of the year’s most straightforwardly bright and enjoyable statements. These songs are remarkably simple, and make the art of small ensemble songwriting look almost comically easy. This is no bad thing. These vampires provoke more fun than fear.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Hit or Miss?
Cat Power - Jukebox (Matador, 2008)
This might be the trickiest album I’ve had to review on these pages. I’ve been an admirer of Cat Power, in spite of, or perhaps even because of, her legendary waywardness. I fell rapturously in love with ‘The Greatest’, her collaboration with an outstanding group of Memphis soul musicians, for its languid and subtle combination of soul and sensitivity. Yet, since then, I’ve wondered if this remarkable and original singer-songwriter has begun to lose her individuality. Whilst many admire the Dirty Delta Blues group who have accompanied her on recent tours and on this record, I find them a little heavy-handed and blustery, lacking the nuances of the Hi musicians who performed on ‘The Greatest’. Whilst it’s clear that she’s gained confidence and lost most of her crippling stagefright, I still found her an uncomfortable and meandering live performer, unsure of exactly how to interpret her material and mostly failing to communicate any real feeling.
Some of that hesitancy is also evident here, on an album that seems slightly confused about its identity. Many have suggested that ‘Jukebox’, an album mostly consisting of interpretations, is some kind of sequel to 2000’s ‘The Covers Album’. It isn’t quite that simple, as ‘Jukebox’ contains original song and a reworking of her own ‘Metal Heart’, which appeared in much starker form on the ‘Moon Pix’ album. Also, whilst ‘The Covers Album’ gave a revealing tour through Chan Marshall’s formative influences, ‘Jukebox’ seems more of an attempt to cement her current repositioning as a soul singer. She can certainly be soulful, but I’m not sure she is a ‘soul singer’ in the traditional sense at all. She’s certainly not helped much by her band here, who plod fairly relentlessly, oblivious to any need for light or shade in either dynamic or texture. Occasionally, the songs build gradually, but these predictable crescendos often merely serve to swamp her vulnerable singing.
Marshall’s phrasing is deliberately vulnerable and conversational. In live performance, this often makes her seem insecure and uncertain, but on disc, it can completely redefine the mood of a song. Her handling of ‘New York, New York’ that opens this collection completely abandons the macho swagger that underpins Sinatra’s version and replaces it with a keening desperation and longing. It doesn’t just say ‘if I can make it there’, it says ‘I need to make it there, but how on earth do I get there, and what will happen to me if I fail?’. It’s a distinctive and powerful reading, but it surely deserves a less leaden accompaniment. Recording this, and ‘Don’t Explain’, are audacious moves, given the song’s inseparable associations with particular artists (Sinatra in the case of the former, Billie Holliday and Nina Simone in the case of the latter). Yet there’s no denying that Chan Marshall imbues each with distinctive personality.
Less successful is her inversion of James Brown’s ‘Lost Someone’, which attempts to replace the emotional excess of the original with something ambiguous and non-committal. Unfortunately, it just ends up sounding hazy and tentative, and it certainly doesn’t move this listener. Similarly, the version of Bob Dylan’s evangelical ‘I Believe In You’ is all bluster and no fervour, with Marshall’s vocal seeming oddly disconnected and dispassionate, bathed in far too much reverb. At times, she’s completely overshadowed by the basic and uninteresting backing, mumbling unintelligibly in the background. It’s also arguable that her take on ‘Aretha, Sing One For Me’ strays too far from the melody and loses its celebratory impact, although the band ironically handle this one with more control.
I can’t help feeling that Marshall fares much better on the more country-tinged material here, where the backing is delicate and simple and the band take a backseat. ‘Silver Stallion’ and ‘Lord, Help the Poor and Needy’ are particularly gripping. Her version of Dan Penn’s ‘Woman Left Lonely’ is also aching and touching, and finds that neat intersection between the American folk and soul traditions that Penn so skilfully mastered. Best of all is her own ‘Song To Bobby’, a fascinating personal tribute to Bob Dylan that suggests her enthusiasm may have been akin to romantic infatuation. It’s also the album’s musical highpoint, carefully arranged and performed.
At its best, ‘Jukebox’ is an intriguing and compelling proposition, with Marshall sounding sensuous and mesmerising. Yet her precise intentions are often frustratingly obfuscated by the contradictory impulses at work here. She obviously desires to completely reinvent these songs but it also occasionally sounds like a parallel attempt to capture some form of authenticity has left the music rooted too firmly in the conventional.
This might be the trickiest album I’ve had to review on these pages. I’ve been an admirer of Cat Power, in spite of, or perhaps even because of, her legendary waywardness. I fell rapturously in love with ‘The Greatest’, her collaboration with an outstanding group of Memphis soul musicians, for its languid and subtle combination of soul and sensitivity. Yet, since then, I’ve wondered if this remarkable and original singer-songwriter has begun to lose her individuality. Whilst many admire the Dirty Delta Blues group who have accompanied her on recent tours and on this record, I find them a little heavy-handed and blustery, lacking the nuances of the Hi musicians who performed on ‘The Greatest’. Whilst it’s clear that she’s gained confidence and lost most of her crippling stagefright, I still found her an uncomfortable and meandering live performer, unsure of exactly how to interpret her material and mostly failing to communicate any real feeling.
Some of that hesitancy is also evident here, on an album that seems slightly confused about its identity. Many have suggested that ‘Jukebox’, an album mostly consisting of interpretations, is some kind of sequel to 2000’s ‘The Covers Album’. It isn’t quite that simple, as ‘Jukebox’ contains original song and a reworking of her own ‘Metal Heart’, which appeared in much starker form on the ‘Moon Pix’ album. Also, whilst ‘The Covers Album’ gave a revealing tour through Chan Marshall’s formative influences, ‘Jukebox’ seems more of an attempt to cement her current repositioning as a soul singer. She can certainly be soulful, but I’m not sure she is a ‘soul singer’ in the traditional sense at all. She’s certainly not helped much by her band here, who plod fairly relentlessly, oblivious to any need for light or shade in either dynamic or texture. Occasionally, the songs build gradually, but these predictable crescendos often merely serve to swamp her vulnerable singing.
Marshall’s phrasing is deliberately vulnerable and conversational. In live performance, this often makes her seem insecure and uncertain, but on disc, it can completely redefine the mood of a song. Her handling of ‘New York, New York’ that opens this collection completely abandons the macho swagger that underpins Sinatra’s version and replaces it with a keening desperation and longing. It doesn’t just say ‘if I can make it there’, it says ‘I need to make it there, but how on earth do I get there, and what will happen to me if I fail?’. It’s a distinctive and powerful reading, but it surely deserves a less leaden accompaniment. Recording this, and ‘Don’t Explain’, are audacious moves, given the song’s inseparable associations with particular artists (Sinatra in the case of the former, Billie Holliday and Nina Simone in the case of the latter). Yet there’s no denying that Chan Marshall imbues each with distinctive personality.
Less successful is her inversion of James Brown’s ‘Lost Someone’, which attempts to replace the emotional excess of the original with something ambiguous and non-committal. Unfortunately, it just ends up sounding hazy and tentative, and it certainly doesn’t move this listener. Similarly, the version of Bob Dylan’s evangelical ‘I Believe In You’ is all bluster and no fervour, with Marshall’s vocal seeming oddly disconnected and dispassionate, bathed in far too much reverb. At times, she’s completely overshadowed by the basic and uninteresting backing, mumbling unintelligibly in the background. It’s also arguable that her take on ‘Aretha, Sing One For Me’ strays too far from the melody and loses its celebratory impact, although the band ironically handle this one with more control.
I can’t help feeling that Marshall fares much better on the more country-tinged material here, where the backing is delicate and simple and the band take a backseat. ‘Silver Stallion’ and ‘Lord, Help the Poor and Needy’ are particularly gripping. Her version of Dan Penn’s ‘Woman Left Lonely’ is also aching and touching, and finds that neat intersection between the American folk and soul traditions that Penn so skilfully mastered. Best of all is her own ‘Song To Bobby’, a fascinating personal tribute to Bob Dylan that suggests her enthusiasm may have been akin to romantic infatuation. It’s also the album’s musical highpoint, carefully arranged and performed.
At its best, ‘Jukebox’ is an intriguing and compelling proposition, with Marshall sounding sensuous and mesmerising. Yet her precise intentions are often frustratingly obfuscated by the contradictory impulses at work here. She obviously desires to completely reinvent these songs but it also occasionally sounds like a parallel attempt to capture some form of authenticity has left the music rooted too firmly in the conventional.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Let's Uke Them!
A short while ago, I made the contentious claim on this blog that I always try to avoid writing from a fan’s perspective. Well, bollocks to it, on this occasion I’m going to make an exception. I am an MJ Hibbett superfan. It doesn’t matter at all that Hibbett’s guitar playing skills are technically limited, for he knows as many chords as he needs. Nor does it matter that he has a tendency to forget his own words or begin singing his songs in completely the wrong key. This is all part of his endearing appeal. I like Hibbett’s songs because they are both insightful and great fun, mixing poignancy and genuine humour in equal measure.
This is the first of Hibbett’s ‘Totally Acoustic’ nights I’ve attended (although I’ve seen him many times in other contexts), but you can certainly make a decent bet that I will be back for more. Strangely, this most closely resembled Tim Whitehead’s birthday gig at the Ram Jam club just before Christmas in its ‘friendly gathering’ atmosphere, much as I suspect Mark would be baffled to be compared with a jazz musician. There was much merriment and mild inebriation, as well as a ton of fun with a veritable ensemble of ukuleles, but more of that later.
At last, this is an event where the phrase ‘Totally Acoustic’ should be taken at face value. Hibbett and his supporting cast perform completely unamplified with no amps and no microphones. This particularly interests me as I’ve recently been rehearsing unamplified with a singer-songwriter, with satisfying and interesting results. I also cast my mind back to one of the most intriguing gigs I’ve ever played, with the early line-up of Hot Chip at a Cambridge University Ball, which was rendered completely acoustic for legal reasons. I remember Alexis hating the experience, but I found it fascinating – and, at least for one night, it completely forced me to change the way I approach music. For Hibbett, it provides an opportunity to focus attention squarely on his witty and spirited words, and to amplify the fun factor rather than the volume. At last a gig where my ears can emerge unscathed!
Beginning with a brief set on the ukulele, Hibbett immediately announces himself as a man after my own heart with his opener, ‘The Drummer’s Lament’. It’s a litany of problems unique to drummers (from parking and driving difficulties to the lack of interest in our solo projects) set to a lilting and infectious folk melody. Hilariously, he follows it with a brilliantly ramshackle double-time skiffle rendition of Morrissey’s ‘First of the Gang to Die’, in honour of Moz’s current residency at the Roundhouse. He just about manages to squeeze the words in, in a modest triumph of vocal dexterity. The significance of this is heightened at the end of the evening, when Mark plays ‘The Lesson of The Smiths’, in which he admits that his initial revulsion at stereotypical Smiths fans meant he missed the group in action when they were performing. Clearly Hibbett is in the mood, because he then plays a version of ‘Ask’ as well, perceptively highlighting that younger Smiths fans no longer seem to appreciate the significance of ‘the bomb’. The set ends with Hibbett’s manifesto to revolutionise primary music education, ‘A Million Ukuleles’, which prompts a far from spontaneous piece of audience participation from what has been dubbed a ‘ukulele flashmob’. Superb! It’s also worth noting that the song has an incisive and serious message though – that musical snobbery and elitism is profoundly unhelpful when it comes to inspiring children.
We’re then treated to a thoroughly charming set from Andy of Pocketbooks and Sunny Intervals. I’m not familiar with his work, but if cute fey indie boys are your cup of tea, he could hardly be more cute and fey. He also has a particular enthusiasm for verbose lyrics – some of which work brilliantly, some of them less so. I particularly appreciated his Haringey romance. Luckily, he’s also blessed with an unassuming demeanour and light sense of humour that imbue his songs with real warmth.
After a short break for food and beer orders, Hibbett returns with another set, this time on the acoustic guitar. He delves deeper into his back catalogue, and treats us to an encore of ‘Billy Jones is Dead’, juxtaposed somewhat uncomfortably with a typically hysterical ‘Boom! Shake The Room’. It would also take a particularly misanthropic and churlish person not to be touched by 'It Only Works Because You're Here', his story of an office romance between a female office worker and an IT support technician. Apparently, he plans to record this song in a Bossa Nova style, demonstrating new levels of ambition. What strikes me most during this set is Hibbett’s vivacity and exuberance, his positivity and honest appreciation of all that life has to offer, especially the elements that many so obviously take for granted. He’s not one for moaning, that’s for sure and I’m pretty sure that, as a result, he has fulfilled his promise to never make a wack jam. I left this gig feeling a little bit more alive.
This is the first of Hibbett’s ‘Totally Acoustic’ nights I’ve attended (although I’ve seen him many times in other contexts), but you can certainly make a decent bet that I will be back for more. Strangely, this most closely resembled Tim Whitehead’s birthday gig at the Ram Jam club just before Christmas in its ‘friendly gathering’ atmosphere, much as I suspect Mark would be baffled to be compared with a jazz musician. There was much merriment and mild inebriation, as well as a ton of fun with a veritable ensemble of ukuleles, but more of that later.
At last, this is an event where the phrase ‘Totally Acoustic’ should be taken at face value. Hibbett and his supporting cast perform completely unamplified with no amps and no microphones. This particularly interests me as I’ve recently been rehearsing unamplified with a singer-songwriter, with satisfying and interesting results. I also cast my mind back to one of the most intriguing gigs I’ve ever played, with the early line-up of Hot Chip at a Cambridge University Ball, which was rendered completely acoustic for legal reasons. I remember Alexis hating the experience, but I found it fascinating – and, at least for one night, it completely forced me to change the way I approach music. For Hibbett, it provides an opportunity to focus attention squarely on his witty and spirited words, and to amplify the fun factor rather than the volume. At last a gig where my ears can emerge unscathed!
Beginning with a brief set on the ukulele, Hibbett immediately announces himself as a man after my own heart with his opener, ‘The Drummer’s Lament’. It’s a litany of problems unique to drummers (from parking and driving difficulties to the lack of interest in our solo projects) set to a lilting and infectious folk melody. Hilariously, he follows it with a brilliantly ramshackle double-time skiffle rendition of Morrissey’s ‘First of the Gang to Die’, in honour of Moz’s current residency at the Roundhouse. He just about manages to squeeze the words in, in a modest triumph of vocal dexterity. The significance of this is heightened at the end of the evening, when Mark plays ‘The Lesson of The Smiths’, in which he admits that his initial revulsion at stereotypical Smiths fans meant he missed the group in action when they were performing. Clearly Hibbett is in the mood, because he then plays a version of ‘Ask’ as well, perceptively highlighting that younger Smiths fans no longer seem to appreciate the significance of ‘the bomb’. The set ends with Hibbett’s manifesto to revolutionise primary music education, ‘A Million Ukuleles’, which prompts a far from spontaneous piece of audience participation from what has been dubbed a ‘ukulele flashmob’. Superb! It’s also worth noting that the song has an incisive and serious message though – that musical snobbery and elitism is profoundly unhelpful when it comes to inspiring children.
We’re then treated to a thoroughly charming set from Andy of Pocketbooks and Sunny Intervals. I’m not familiar with his work, but if cute fey indie boys are your cup of tea, he could hardly be more cute and fey. He also has a particular enthusiasm for verbose lyrics – some of which work brilliantly, some of them less so. I particularly appreciated his Haringey romance. Luckily, he’s also blessed with an unassuming demeanour and light sense of humour that imbue his songs with real warmth.
After a short break for food and beer orders, Hibbett returns with another set, this time on the acoustic guitar. He delves deeper into his back catalogue, and treats us to an encore of ‘Billy Jones is Dead’, juxtaposed somewhat uncomfortably with a typically hysterical ‘Boom! Shake The Room’. It would also take a particularly misanthropic and churlish person not to be touched by 'It Only Works Because You're Here', his story of an office romance between a female office worker and an IT support technician. Apparently, he plans to record this song in a Bossa Nova style, demonstrating new levels of ambition. What strikes me most during this set is Hibbett’s vivacity and exuberance, his positivity and honest appreciation of all that life has to offer, especially the elements that many so obviously take for granted. He’s not one for moaning, that’s for sure and I’m pretty sure that, as a result, he has fulfilled his promise to never make a wack jam. I left this gig feeling a little bit more alive.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
It's All Gone Hazy....
The Magnetic Fields – Distortion
Much critical consternation has been prompted by Stephin Merritt’s typically flippant comment that the raison d’etre of the new Magnetic Fields album was ‘to sound more like The Jesus and Mary Chain than the Jesus and Mary Chain’. So, is ‘Distortion’ a pointless cut and paste job or a worthy addition to the Magnetic Fields catalogue?
There are two things worth recognising at the outset. First, whilst Merritt has recently focussed on conceptual rather than sonic conceits, this is not the first time he’s devised an album around a particular style of music. ‘The Charm of The Highway Strip’ took the spirit and themes of country music, and reconstructed the genre using very non-country sounding instrumentation. It’s also immediately obvious that there is something here that prevents ‘Distortion’ from merely being an homage to The Jesus and Mary Chain. Whilst that band certainly patented a template of lo-fi, fuzzy psychedelic pop, they were always as remarkable for their dour and humourless demeanour. Merritt’s characteristic irony continues to run riot here, and the best songs have that great combination of biting wit and sympathetic insight that unites all his work under a variety of monikers.
The album opens brilliantly, with the mischievous, semi-instrumental ‘Three-Way’ actually more closely resembling the late-60s garage rock explosion than anything the Mary Chain produced. Then there’s ‘California Girls’, a subversion of The Beach Boys’ surf-aesthetic that is as dry as a desert (‘They ain’t broke, so they put on airs/The faux folk sans derrieres/They breathe coke and they have affairs/With each passing rock star…’). It’s perhaps too easy a target for Merritt’s gleeful wrath, but it’s still an enjoyably savage indictment. Particularly amusing is the decidedly American pronunciation of ‘sans’ and the butchering of ‘squirrels’ to sound like ‘squirls’, purely so it rhymes with the song’s title! Then there’s the more languid, melancholy and drowsy ‘Old Fools’, which is more typical of the rest of the album. It features some very clever phrasing in Merritt’s vocal which suggests that critics arguing that Merritt has abandoned his preoccupation for musical theatre in favour of a return to basic indie-rock simply aren’t looking hard enough for the common threads in his work.
All these songs are characterised not just by the distortion of the album’s title, but also by rudimentary, pounding drums and thin, intentionally under-developed production values. There’s a spell in the middle of the album where this sound is put to particularly effective use. ‘Distortion’ reunites Merritt with vocalist Shirley Simms, who last appeared on his magnum opus ’69 Love Songs’, and it benefits from the vocal contrast. She’s especially impressive on ‘Drive On, Driver’, which seems to relocate Loretta Lynn in 1980s Glasgow, all its edges fuzzy and blurred. Simms also relishes the prospect of singing the album’s sublimely ridiculous highlight – ‘The Nun’s Litany’. Juiced with heavy irony, the song pokes fun at the selling of bodies, whilst also capturing a thinly-veiled melancholy (‘I should be good at spin the bottle, while I’ve still got something left to sell’).
Of the songs which Merritt himself sings, best of all is the delightful ‘Too Drunk To Dream’. Merritt’s exercises his brilliant mind by making this song actually sound drunk. This is Merritt at his very best, combining a poignancy to which anyone who has ever endured unrequited love or a break-up can easily relate with the kind of self-mocking hilarity which renders such situations absurd.
If there’s a problem with ‘Distortion’, it’s that this more playful element of Merritt’s song-craft is sometimes obscured by the album’s murky atmosphere and mostly leaden pace. Songs like ‘Xavier Says’ and ‘Till The Bitter End’, whilst having pretty enough melodies, actually sound rather apathetic and nondescript. I’m also a little agnostic about the repetitive, somewhat undeveloped ‘Please Stop Dancing’. The approach is more apposite when the languid, ponderous nature of the songs is exaggerated for comic effect, such as the marvellous ‘Mr. Mistletoe’ or ‘I’ll Dream Alone’.
There’s no doubt that the preoccupation with ragged, undefined noise inevitably makes ‘Distortion’ more one-dimensional than any of its predecessors. Listening to it, I can’t help yearning for slightly more variety. Yet within the background squall, there’s a vivid attention to detail which is entirely characteristic of Merritt. There’s also plenty of inspiration beyond the world of grubby indie, suggesting that Merritt is quite capable of filtering his love of camp pop and musical theatre through increasingly unexpected methods.
Much critical consternation has been prompted by Stephin Merritt’s typically flippant comment that the raison d’etre of the new Magnetic Fields album was ‘to sound more like The Jesus and Mary Chain than the Jesus and Mary Chain’. So, is ‘Distortion’ a pointless cut and paste job or a worthy addition to the Magnetic Fields catalogue?
There are two things worth recognising at the outset. First, whilst Merritt has recently focussed on conceptual rather than sonic conceits, this is not the first time he’s devised an album around a particular style of music. ‘The Charm of The Highway Strip’ took the spirit and themes of country music, and reconstructed the genre using very non-country sounding instrumentation. It’s also immediately obvious that there is something here that prevents ‘Distortion’ from merely being an homage to The Jesus and Mary Chain. Whilst that band certainly patented a template of lo-fi, fuzzy psychedelic pop, they were always as remarkable for their dour and humourless demeanour. Merritt’s characteristic irony continues to run riot here, and the best songs have that great combination of biting wit and sympathetic insight that unites all his work under a variety of monikers.
The album opens brilliantly, with the mischievous, semi-instrumental ‘Three-Way’ actually more closely resembling the late-60s garage rock explosion than anything the Mary Chain produced. Then there’s ‘California Girls’, a subversion of The Beach Boys’ surf-aesthetic that is as dry as a desert (‘They ain’t broke, so they put on airs/The faux folk sans derrieres/They breathe coke and they have affairs/With each passing rock star…’). It’s perhaps too easy a target for Merritt’s gleeful wrath, but it’s still an enjoyably savage indictment. Particularly amusing is the decidedly American pronunciation of ‘sans’ and the butchering of ‘squirrels’ to sound like ‘squirls’, purely so it rhymes with the song’s title! Then there’s the more languid, melancholy and drowsy ‘Old Fools’, which is more typical of the rest of the album. It features some very clever phrasing in Merritt’s vocal which suggests that critics arguing that Merritt has abandoned his preoccupation for musical theatre in favour of a return to basic indie-rock simply aren’t looking hard enough for the common threads in his work.
All these songs are characterised not just by the distortion of the album’s title, but also by rudimentary, pounding drums and thin, intentionally under-developed production values. There’s a spell in the middle of the album where this sound is put to particularly effective use. ‘Distortion’ reunites Merritt with vocalist Shirley Simms, who last appeared on his magnum opus ’69 Love Songs’, and it benefits from the vocal contrast. She’s especially impressive on ‘Drive On, Driver’, which seems to relocate Loretta Lynn in 1980s Glasgow, all its edges fuzzy and blurred. Simms also relishes the prospect of singing the album’s sublimely ridiculous highlight – ‘The Nun’s Litany’. Juiced with heavy irony, the song pokes fun at the selling of bodies, whilst also capturing a thinly-veiled melancholy (‘I should be good at spin the bottle, while I’ve still got something left to sell’).
Of the songs which Merritt himself sings, best of all is the delightful ‘Too Drunk To Dream’. Merritt’s exercises his brilliant mind by making this song actually sound drunk. This is Merritt at his very best, combining a poignancy to which anyone who has ever endured unrequited love or a break-up can easily relate with the kind of self-mocking hilarity which renders such situations absurd.
If there’s a problem with ‘Distortion’, it’s that this more playful element of Merritt’s song-craft is sometimes obscured by the album’s murky atmosphere and mostly leaden pace. Songs like ‘Xavier Says’ and ‘Till The Bitter End’, whilst having pretty enough melodies, actually sound rather apathetic and nondescript. I’m also a little agnostic about the repetitive, somewhat undeveloped ‘Please Stop Dancing’. The approach is more apposite when the languid, ponderous nature of the songs is exaggerated for comic effect, such as the marvellous ‘Mr. Mistletoe’ or ‘I’ll Dream Alone’.
There’s no doubt that the preoccupation with ragged, undefined noise inevitably makes ‘Distortion’ more one-dimensional than any of its predecessors. Listening to it, I can’t help yearning for slightly more variety. Yet within the background squall, there’s a vivid attention to detail which is entirely characteristic of Merritt. There’s also plenty of inspiration beyond the world of grubby indie, suggesting that Merritt is quite capable of filtering his love of camp pop and musical theatre through increasingly unexpected methods.
Heavyweight Innovators
David Torn’s Prezens, The Vortex, Sun 13th January 2008
The first great gig of 2008 also happens to be the first in a long list of splendid shows in The Vortex jazz club’s finest two month run since moving to its current Dalston home. There are performances from Phil Robson and Dave Liebman, with Liebman returning to collaborate with Vortex resident Evan Parker, plus appearances from Seb Rochford’s Polar Bear and the prodigious Gwilym Simcock amongst other highlights.
Torn’s appearance promotes his ‘Prezens’ album, his first group recording for the ECM label in over 20 years, and one of the most creative and exciting albums of 2007. The guest list tonight is like a who’s who of contemporary British jazz – with Robin Fincker and Dave Smith from Outhouse and Ingrid Laubrock amongst others present in the audience.
Torn is a chameleonic musical figure – gaining what must be a substantial income from soundtrack, production and session projects (he’s played with artists as diverse as King Crimson and Madonna). Tonight he performs on one of those rather nasty 1980s guitars that it’s easy to imagine being played by Satriani or Vai, but he’s far less interested in technical virtuosity than he is in the thrall of sound. Sometimes it’s thick and cacophonous, sometimes it’s blissful and atmospheric.
For this free improvisation project he has formed a superb group, featuring unconventional keyboardist Craig Taborn, saxophone colossus Tim Berne and Tom Rainey, one of the most inventive drummers in the world. The music they concoct tonight is somewhat less fiery than the apocalyptic and terrifying recordings – perhaps as a result of the more limited use of elecronics. Taborn crafts a world of intriguing noises, but Rainey’s drums are left spare and acoustic, rather than heavily treated as they often are on the disc.
This doesn’t mean it’s less interesting though. In the first set, Berne’s playing is more considered and mellifluous than usual, proving he has as much tonal control as predilection for the upper register of his instrument. He even starts out playing languid and stately chord tones. Torn creates vast sheets of sound, huge chords emboldened by considerable distortion and sustain, only rarely venturing into more fluid and intricate passages. The music is at its best when most stripped back – when Taborn plays simple synth bass patterns against Rainey’s supremely groovy backings (many of which appear to be in 6/4, drawing whole worlds of possibilities from time and rhythm).
The music in the second set veers further into abstraction, with Rainey more interested in the varieties of sound he can craft from the drum kit, and with the group as a whole leaving more space and silence. I felt this was more consistent and inspired than the Tim Berne multimedia performance at the Vortex last year, with Torn arguably having the clearer, stronger vision, drawing out the very best in his fine players.
The first great gig of 2008 also happens to be the first in a long list of splendid shows in The Vortex jazz club’s finest two month run since moving to its current Dalston home. There are performances from Phil Robson and Dave Liebman, with Liebman returning to collaborate with Vortex resident Evan Parker, plus appearances from Seb Rochford’s Polar Bear and the prodigious Gwilym Simcock amongst other highlights.
Torn’s appearance promotes his ‘Prezens’ album, his first group recording for the ECM label in over 20 years, and one of the most creative and exciting albums of 2007. The guest list tonight is like a who’s who of contemporary British jazz – with Robin Fincker and Dave Smith from Outhouse and Ingrid Laubrock amongst others present in the audience.
Torn is a chameleonic musical figure – gaining what must be a substantial income from soundtrack, production and session projects (he’s played with artists as diverse as King Crimson and Madonna). Tonight he performs on one of those rather nasty 1980s guitars that it’s easy to imagine being played by Satriani or Vai, but he’s far less interested in technical virtuosity than he is in the thrall of sound. Sometimes it’s thick and cacophonous, sometimes it’s blissful and atmospheric.
For this free improvisation project he has formed a superb group, featuring unconventional keyboardist Craig Taborn, saxophone colossus Tim Berne and Tom Rainey, one of the most inventive drummers in the world. The music they concoct tonight is somewhat less fiery than the apocalyptic and terrifying recordings – perhaps as a result of the more limited use of elecronics. Taborn crafts a world of intriguing noises, but Rainey’s drums are left spare and acoustic, rather than heavily treated as they often are on the disc.
This doesn’t mean it’s less interesting though. In the first set, Berne’s playing is more considered and mellifluous than usual, proving he has as much tonal control as predilection for the upper register of his instrument. He even starts out playing languid and stately chord tones. Torn creates vast sheets of sound, huge chords emboldened by considerable distortion and sustain, only rarely venturing into more fluid and intricate passages. The music is at its best when most stripped back – when Taborn plays simple synth bass patterns against Rainey’s supremely groovy backings (many of which appear to be in 6/4, drawing whole worlds of possibilities from time and rhythm).
The music in the second set veers further into abstraction, with Rainey more interested in the varieties of sound he can craft from the drum kit, and with the group as a whole leaving more space and silence. I felt this was more consistent and inspired than the Tim Berne multimedia performance at the Vortex last year, with Torn arguably having the clearer, stronger vision, drawing out the very best in his fine players.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Human Nature
Into The Wild (Sean Penn, 2007)
With ‘Into The Wild’, Sean Penn has made a beautiful film that captures the awe and wonder of the natural world in a way that many directors have attempted but where few have succeeded. The film is adapted from a book chronicling the existential wandering of Christopher McCandless, a wealthy young man in his early 20s who abandoned plans to study law at Harvard, donated his $24,000 savings to Oxfam, and ventured out into the wilderness, eventually reaching the remarkable frozen wilds of Alaska. As such, it is certainly a picture with rather heavy literary pretentions. The somewhat forced poetry of its voiceover, along with the film’s spectacular imagery, suggests a certain kinship with Terrence Malick’s ‘The Thin Red Line’, although it by no means scales that film’s considerable heights.
The central performance is a triumph of extreme method acting from Emile Hirsch, in whom Penn has certainly unearthed a major new talent. In the flashback sequences, he is handsome, charismatic and charming, but with the sequences in Alaska that bookend the film, he is pale, gaunt and monstrous, physically weakened beyond anything the audience could imagine. Throughout, he is remarkably resourceful, but also deeply reckless. He takes a number of uncalculated risks, any of which could have resulted in disaster. Travelling with as few possessions as possible, we see him brazenly making a fire from his remaining dollar bills
The film is intelligently structured, initially affording us only limited glimpses of McCandless’ background. As he pompously renames himself Alexander Supertramp and sets out across America to convene with nature, he initially seems both excessive and naïve. His quest is essentially a selfish one – and seems to stem from a desire to reject all forms of human relationships (something he inevitably does not achieve) in favour of pursuing a love of untamed nature and unrestricted freedom from the bland conventions of society. Hirsch is careful to bring out McCandless’ considerable charm as much as his disconnection and vanity, but as we are presented with gradually greater glimpses of his family background, we begin to learn how much of his actions stem from frustration, resentment and rage.
As a result of this, it is a shame that his family, completely unaware of his condition or whereabouts, are afforded such limited screen time. William Hurt and Marcia Gay Harden both give convincing, dramatic performances worthy of their talent – but are not allowed much space to develop as characters. We see brief hints of the darker elements of their relationship, and get a palpable sense of their grief, but our understanding of them is limited by Jena Malone’s clunky voiceover. Seeing them purely through this and McCandless’ own actions prevents us from appreciating them as complete human beings and from fully comprehending the devastating impact their son’s actions must have exerted on them.
I could also have done without some of Penn’s more messianic touches. There are too many shorts of Hirsch in grandiose poses. One example that lingers in the mind is a desperately cloying ‘Jesus on a mountaintop’ image, with Hirsch’s arms outstretched and Eddie Vedder wailing unpleasantly in the background. That being said, some of the accusations of pretension that have been levelled against Penn can be mitigated by the fact that the film relies heavily on McCandless’ own journals. Whilst these demonstrate his love of literature (books would appear to be permissible worldly possessions), they also betray his own self-aggrandising streak and unsuccessful lunges at poetry.
What really makes ‘Into The Wild’ both immersing and affecting is the wonderful cast of people that McCandless meets on his journey. There’s Vince Vaughan, performing splendidly against type as a hard drinking but good natured farmer whose criminal activities get him into trouble. There’s also a couple of ageing hippies who have refused to abandon their chosen lifestyle. McCandless’ unexpected entry into their lives restores spirit, vitality and honesty to their relationship. The hilarious young Scandinavian couple he meets whilst illegally canoeing down the Colorado river offer unexpected and welcome respite from the film’s serious tone by blasting out MC Hammer’s ‘U Can’t Touch This’ from a rather ugly boombox. There’s a teenage singer-songwriter with whom McCandless becomes emotionally, but not physically intimate. Best of all is a truly moving performance from veteran character actor Hal Holbrook, as a solitary old man who offers to adopt McCandless as his grandson. Having long ago lost his wife and children in an accident, he accepts McCandless’ presence as an opportunity to embrace life once more. The dialogue in all these scenes is spare and utterly convincing – at times the film seems to assume an almost documentary style, and it very much feels like we are observing very real, very touching conversations, filled with insight and mystery. Some critics have emphasised only the more selfish elements of McCandless’ behaviour (his refusal to stay in one place too long, and his ultimate rejection of the relationships) without observing the changes and benefits his presence brought to these people.
The film ends on an almost unbearably poignant note, with McCandless alone, poisoned, freezing and starving in his ‘magic bus’ in Alaska. He endures his final days by reading Tolstoy and Pasternak, scrawling the epitaph ‘happiness is only real when shared’ into his well-worn copy of ‘Dr. Zhivago’. It is the ultimate paradox that, in one sense, McCandless died having reached his desired destination and lived the life that he wanted to live. Yet the lingering sadness of these words suggest that he did this at a massive cost to his own personal fulfilment. There’s enough ambiguity here for audiences to make their own judgements about McCandless’ choices and behaviour – Penn sustains an admirably detached vantage throughout, and his lead actor is nuanced in giving a convincing portrait of a complex and driven young man.
With ‘Into The Wild’, Sean Penn has made a beautiful film that captures the awe and wonder of the natural world in a way that many directors have attempted but where few have succeeded. The film is adapted from a book chronicling the existential wandering of Christopher McCandless, a wealthy young man in his early 20s who abandoned plans to study law at Harvard, donated his $24,000 savings to Oxfam, and ventured out into the wilderness, eventually reaching the remarkable frozen wilds of Alaska. As such, it is certainly a picture with rather heavy literary pretentions. The somewhat forced poetry of its voiceover, along with the film’s spectacular imagery, suggests a certain kinship with Terrence Malick’s ‘The Thin Red Line’, although it by no means scales that film’s considerable heights.
The central performance is a triumph of extreme method acting from Emile Hirsch, in whom Penn has certainly unearthed a major new talent. In the flashback sequences, he is handsome, charismatic and charming, but with the sequences in Alaska that bookend the film, he is pale, gaunt and monstrous, physically weakened beyond anything the audience could imagine. Throughout, he is remarkably resourceful, but also deeply reckless. He takes a number of uncalculated risks, any of which could have resulted in disaster. Travelling with as few possessions as possible, we see him brazenly making a fire from his remaining dollar bills
The film is intelligently structured, initially affording us only limited glimpses of McCandless’ background. As he pompously renames himself Alexander Supertramp and sets out across America to convene with nature, he initially seems both excessive and naïve. His quest is essentially a selfish one – and seems to stem from a desire to reject all forms of human relationships (something he inevitably does not achieve) in favour of pursuing a love of untamed nature and unrestricted freedom from the bland conventions of society. Hirsch is careful to bring out McCandless’ considerable charm as much as his disconnection and vanity, but as we are presented with gradually greater glimpses of his family background, we begin to learn how much of his actions stem from frustration, resentment and rage.
As a result of this, it is a shame that his family, completely unaware of his condition or whereabouts, are afforded such limited screen time. William Hurt and Marcia Gay Harden both give convincing, dramatic performances worthy of their talent – but are not allowed much space to develop as characters. We see brief hints of the darker elements of their relationship, and get a palpable sense of their grief, but our understanding of them is limited by Jena Malone’s clunky voiceover. Seeing them purely through this and McCandless’ own actions prevents us from appreciating them as complete human beings and from fully comprehending the devastating impact their son’s actions must have exerted on them.
I could also have done without some of Penn’s more messianic touches. There are too many shorts of Hirsch in grandiose poses. One example that lingers in the mind is a desperately cloying ‘Jesus on a mountaintop’ image, with Hirsch’s arms outstretched and Eddie Vedder wailing unpleasantly in the background. That being said, some of the accusations of pretension that have been levelled against Penn can be mitigated by the fact that the film relies heavily on McCandless’ own journals. Whilst these demonstrate his love of literature (books would appear to be permissible worldly possessions), they also betray his own self-aggrandising streak and unsuccessful lunges at poetry.
What really makes ‘Into The Wild’ both immersing and affecting is the wonderful cast of people that McCandless meets on his journey. There’s Vince Vaughan, performing splendidly against type as a hard drinking but good natured farmer whose criminal activities get him into trouble. There’s also a couple of ageing hippies who have refused to abandon their chosen lifestyle. McCandless’ unexpected entry into their lives restores spirit, vitality and honesty to their relationship. The hilarious young Scandinavian couple he meets whilst illegally canoeing down the Colorado river offer unexpected and welcome respite from the film’s serious tone by blasting out MC Hammer’s ‘U Can’t Touch This’ from a rather ugly boombox. There’s a teenage singer-songwriter with whom McCandless becomes emotionally, but not physically intimate. Best of all is a truly moving performance from veteran character actor Hal Holbrook, as a solitary old man who offers to adopt McCandless as his grandson. Having long ago lost his wife and children in an accident, he accepts McCandless’ presence as an opportunity to embrace life once more. The dialogue in all these scenes is spare and utterly convincing – at times the film seems to assume an almost documentary style, and it very much feels like we are observing very real, very touching conversations, filled with insight and mystery. Some critics have emphasised only the more selfish elements of McCandless’ behaviour (his refusal to stay in one place too long, and his ultimate rejection of the relationships) without observing the changes and benefits his presence brought to these people.
The film ends on an almost unbearably poignant note, with McCandless alone, poisoned, freezing and starving in his ‘magic bus’ in Alaska. He endures his final days by reading Tolstoy and Pasternak, scrawling the epitaph ‘happiness is only real when shared’ into his well-worn copy of ‘Dr. Zhivago’. It is the ultimate paradox that, in one sense, McCandless died having reached his desired destination and lived the life that he wanted to live. Yet the lingering sadness of these words suggest that he did this at a massive cost to his own personal fulfilment. There’s enough ambiguity here for audiences to make their own judgements about McCandless’ choices and behaviour – Penn sustains an admirably detached vantage throughout, and his lead actor is nuanced in giving a convincing portrait of a complex and driven young man.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Unsatisfactory Overview
Morrissey - Greatest Hits
The Press Release for this compilation (the first release under Morrissey’s new contract with Decca) boldly states that ‘Greatest Hits spans Morrissey’s twenty year career as a solo artist’. In a sense, it’s not a lie – there are two tracks from solo debut ‘Viva Hate’ and plenty from his most recent album ‘Ringleader of The Tormentors’, in addition to the obligatory two brand new tracks. What this doesn’t quite reveal though is the album’s considerable bias in favour of recent material – all the singles from ‘You Are The Quarry’ and ‘Ringleader…’ are present, the bulk of them sequenced next to each other in the first half of the album. The ‘Ringleader…’ singles particularly emphasise the more generic, plodding rock into which Morrissey’s group can sometimes lapse. With only one disc, and just fifteen tracks, this leaves very little space to explore the rest of Morrissey’s patchy, but frequently inspired solo catalogue.
Perhaps it’s arguable that his earlier career has been compiled and collected before – with World of Morrissey and The Best of Morrissey, although neither of these compilations were entirely comprehensive either. I suspect that the real reasons for the poor selection are rather more prosaic – it’s likely that Decca got a good deal from Sanctuary on the licensing for the recent singles, but buying up the bulk of the back catalogue from a variety of other labels would have proved too costly. The early tracks they have opted for seem to have been chosen purely on the basis of chart position – how else to explain the inclusion of ‘Last Of The Famous International Playboys’ over ‘Piccadilly Palare’ or ‘November Spawned A Monster’?
What a tremendous shame this is – as this was a golden opportunity for a two disc, comprehensive overview of Morrissey’s solo work. Most disappointing is the compilation’s total failure to rehabilitate the reputation of the more than adequate albums Morrissey released during his supposed ‘wilderness years’. There is nothing at all from either ‘Southpaw Grammar’ or ‘Maladjusted’ – both ‘The Boy Racer’ and ‘Satan Rejected My Soul’ were punchy, infectious singles worthy of reappraisal. ‘Maladjusted’ also contained the quite wonderful ‘Trouble Loves Me’, a swooning ballad and favourite of recent live sets. That this selection also completely passes by ‘Your Arsenal’ and ‘Kill Uncle’ is more surprising – the latter is admittedly Moz’s least successful album, but the former was a critical and commercial success.
It doesn’t help that Moz has not always been entirely shrewd with his choice of singles. Many of the finest tracks on his best works (this is particularly true of 1994’s exquisite ‘Vauxhall and I’) have been album tracks. So, there’s no room for, say, ‘Now My Heart Is Full’, ‘Reader Meet Author’ or even ‘The National Front Disco’ (an excellent song which, unlike the nasty ‘Bengali In Platforms’, does withstand the allegations of racism). Similarly, who wouldn’t take the audacious and ambitious ‘Dear God, Please Help Me’ or ‘At Last I Am Born’ over any of the singles from ‘Ringleader…’ (with the exception of ‘You Have Killed Me’, which has one of his most memorable melodies).
On the plus side, ‘Suedehead’ and ‘Everyday Is Like Sunday’ still sound fantastic in spite of their 80s production values, and the two new tracks return Morrissey to the punchy, muscular production of Jerry Finn. ‘All You Need Is Me’ is familiarly self-aggrandising, but the self-mocking ‘That’s How People Grow Up’ makes grim fun of a succession of unrequited love affairs and develops the more confessional side of Morrissey’s work..It’s also worth remembering that ‘…Quarry’ was a bold comeback statement – ‘Irish Blood, English Heart’ and ‘The First of The Gang To Die’ are both insistent and pugnacious.
Anyone who already owns ‘…Quarry’ and ‘Ringleader…’ is unlikely to invest either time or money in this release, possibly downloading whatever they are missing in isolation. It’s hard to see what purpose this disc fulfils other than biding time before Decca drop the new Morrissey album in the Autumn, and giving him something to promote with his week of shows at London’s Roundhouse (not that mere self-promotion isn’t enough, as his belligerent litigation against the NME currently suggests). Hopefully the sets for these shows will venture further away from his most recent output.
The Press Release for this compilation (the first release under Morrissey’s new contract with Decca) boldly states that ‘Greatest Hits spans Morrissey’s twenty year career as a solo artist’. In a sense, it’s not a lie – there are two tracks from solo debut ‘Viva Hate’ and plenty from his most recent album ‘Ringleader of The Tormentors’, in addition to the obligatory two brand new tracks. What this doesn’t quite reveal though is the album’s considerable bias in favour of recent material – all the singles from ‘You Are The Quarry’ and ‘Ringleader…’ are present, the bulk of them sequenced next to each other in the first half of the album. The ‘Ringleader…’ singles particularly emphasise the more generic, plodding rock into which Morrissey’s group can sometimes lapse. With only one disc, and just fifteen tracks, this leaves very little space to explore the rest of Morrissey’s patchy, but frequently inspired solo catalogue.
Perhaps it’s arguable that his earlier career has been compiled and collected before – with World of Morrissey and The Best of Morrissey, although neither of these compilations were entirely comprehensive either. I suspect that the real reasons for the poor selection are rather more prosaic – it’s likely that Decca got a good deal from Sanctuary on the licensing for the recent singles, but buying up the bulk of the back catalogue from a variety of other labels would have proved too costly. The early tracks they have opted for seem to have been chosen purely on the basis of chart position – how else to explain the inclusion of ‘Last Of The Famous International Playboys’ over ‘Piccadilly Palare’ or ‘November Spawned A Monster’?
What a tremendous shame this is – as this was a golden opportunity for a two disc, comprehensive overview of Morrissey’s solo work. Most disappointing is the compilation’s total failure to rehabilitate the reputation of the more than adequate albums Morrissey released during his supposed ‘wilderness years’. There is nothing at all from either ‘Southpaw Grammar’ or ‘Maladjusted’ – both ‘The Boy Racer’ and ‘Satan Rejected My Soul’ were punchy, infectious singles worthy of reappraisal. ‘Maladjusted’ also contained the quite wonderful ‘Trouble Loves Me’, a swooning ballad and favourite of recent live sets. That this selection also completely passes by ‘Your Arsenal’ and ‘Kill Uncle’ is more surprising – the latter is admittedly Moz’s least successful album, but the former was a critical and commercial success.
It doesn’t help that Moz has not always been entirely shrewd with his choice of singles. Many of the finest tracks on his best works (this is particularly true of 1994’s exquisite ‘Vauxhall and I’) have been album tracks. So, there’s no room for, say, ‘Now My Heart Is Full’, ‘Reader Meet Author’ or even ‘The National Front Disco’ (an excellent song which, unlike the nasty ‘Bengali In Platforms’, does withstand the allegations of racism). Similarly, who wouldn’t take the audacious and ambitious ‘Dear God, Please Help Me’ or ‘At Last I Am Born’ over any of the singles from ‘Ringleader…’ (with the exception of ‘You Have Killed Me’, which has one of his most memorable melodies).
On the plus side, ‘Suedehead’ and ‘Everyday Is Like Sunday’ still sound fantastic in spite of their 80s production values, and the two new tracks return Morrissey to the punchy, muscular production of Jerry Finn. ‘All You Need Is Me’ is familiarly self-aggrandising, but the self-mocking ‘That’s How People Grow Up’ makes grim fun of a succession of unrequited love affairs and develops the more confessional side of Morrissey’s work..It’s also worth remembering that ‘…Quarry’ was a bold comeback statement – ‘Irish Blood, English Heart’ and ‘The First of The Gang To Die’ are both insistent and pugnacious.
Anyone who already owns ‘…Quarry’ and ‘Ringleader…’ is unlikely to invest either time or money in this release, possibly downloading whatever they are missing in isolation. It’s hard to see what purpose this disc fulfils other than biding time before Decca drop the new Morrissey album in the Autumn, and giving him something to promote with his week of shows at London’s Roundhouse (not that mere self-promotion isn’t enough, as his belligerent litigation against the NME currently suggests). Hopefully the sets for these shows will venture further away from his most recent output.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Postscript
This report on the BBC website is more comprehensive and balanced:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7179834.stm
It's particularly good to see that the report highlights the lack of returns servives offered by promoters or agencies. When tickets used to be sold almost exlusively by venue box offices, it was once even possible for event-goers who suddenly found themselves unable to attend to be refunded, and for the tickets to be legitimately resold at face value to others. I can't think of a single major ticket agency that currently offers this service.
I suspect that a blanket ban on unofficial reselling would be impractical and unhelpful given the lack of suitable returns policies. The problem at the moment though is that the secondary market is completely unregulated - and there seems to be little hint of any attempt to try and cap the grotesque prices at which tickets are resold on auction sites. Nobody in the Department of Culture, Media and Sport seems to have recognised that these 'secondary' prices have the effect of legitimising huge increases, well above the rate of inflation, in the standard prices charged for 'event' gigs, enabling the likes of The Rolling Stones, Madonna, Neil Young, Barbra Streisand and Dolly Parton to charge absolutely outrageous prices. Yes, demand and willingness to pay fuels the market - but there will always be people wealthy or silly enough to part with huge sums for one night in the company of their favourite performers. What's more worrying is that the promoters/artists levy that is being suggested here will merely increase the 'secondary' prices further.
A 'voluntary' solution across the industry will not work as touts themselves will not be party to it. Does the government not recognise that many of them are professionals in the art of reselling tickets? Similarly, it's hardly in the interests of ticket auction sites to restrict this kind of activity in any way. Why do the interests of the consumer seem to be the lowest on the list of priorities in this report? Entertainment should not be the preserve of a wealthy elite.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7179834.stm
It's particularly good to see that the report highlights the lack of returns servives offered by promoters or agencies. When tickets used to be sold almost exlusively by venue box offices, it was once even possible for event-goers who suddenly found themselves unable to attend to be refunded, and for the tickets to be legitimately resold at face value to others. I can't think of a single major ticket agency that currently offers this service.
I suspect that a blanket ban on unofficial reselling would be impractical and unhelpful given the lack of suitable returns policies. The problem at the moment though is that the secondary market is completely unregulated - and there seems to be little hint of any attempt to try and cap the grotesque prices at which tickets are resold on auction sites. Nobody in the Department of Culture, Media and Sport seems to have recognised that these 'secondary' prices have the effect of legitimising huge increases, well above the rate of inflation, in the standard prices charged for 'event' gigs, enabling the likes of The Rolling Stones, Madonna, Neil Young, Barbra Streisand and Dolly Parton to charge absolutely outrageous prices. Yes, demand and willingness to pay fuels the market - but there will always be people wealthy or silly enough to part with huge sums for one night in the company of their favourite performers. What's more worrying is that the promoters/artists levy that is being suggested here will merely increase the 'secondary' prices further.
A 'voluntary' solution across the industry will not work as touts themselves will not be party to it. Does the government not recognise that many of them are professionals in the art of reselling tickets? Similarly, it's hardly in the interests of ticket auction sites to restrict this kind of activity in any way. Why do the interests of the consumer seem to be the lowest on the list of priorities in this report? Entertainment should not be the preserve of a wealthy elite.
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