I'm so far behind with this blog that it's getting ridiculous. There's something in the region of 20-25 albums to write about now! Before I get on to them, though, it's worth a quick discussion of some excellent gigs.
Last weekend saw The Flaming Lips bring their show back to the UK, this time to play at the Royal Albert Hall, by some distance the biggest indoor venue they've performed in here. Before the show, I had wondered whether or not they would simply repeat the same old show - projections, fake blood, glove puppets and all of that. Actually, I'd neglected just how long it has been since they last toured here (perhaps the relative youth of the crowd was testament to this - they have grown in popularity markedly since the release of 'Yoshimi...'). The 'wow' factor of the Flaming Lips show has been massively amplified, now incorporating hundreds of giant balloons, streamers, ticker tape, a collection of famous superheroes and, most amusingly, an army of Santa Clauses doing battle with an army of aliens. The latter supposedly represented a conflict between the Christian religion and the Church of Scientology, with 'the Flaming Lips and all of you stuck in the middle'. It doesn't need a genius to infer from all this that the show was tremendous fun.
The Flaming Lips remain unique in being just about the only band with a major label budget to appear on stage during pre-gig soundchecks. So, whilst Steven Drozd, Michael Ivins and a new hoard of roadies and techies set up the intricate details on stage, Wayne Coyne cheered, punched the air, and deployed his wonderful contraptions that ejaculated streamers high into the air. I can't think of another band that manages to exploit the usually tedious wait between support act and main performance with such gusto.
There's always a debate about whether entertainment requires a band to be distant from their audience. Coyne proves magnificently that it's possible to be a showman and be at one with your audience. His first act is to appear on stage inside an inflatable plastic bubble and then to crawl over the audience inside it - a brilliant opening gambit that immediately wins over the crowd before a note has even been played. Once Coyne is safely back on stage, they launch into a warm and energetic 'Race For The Prize' - still a great song despite its familiarity.
There is plenty of idealist chatter throughout about how enthusiasm can save the world and the show places us in the middle of a giant cosmic war, at keeping with the concept behind both 'Yoshimi..' and new album 'At War With The Mystics'. Coyne's inability to resist sentiment reached a zenith when a Flaming Lips fan, who had been due to propose to his girlfriend at a cancelled Lips New Year's Eve show in California, was invited on stage to 'repropose' on stage at the Albert Hall. Mercifully, to save us all embarrassment, she had not changed her mind.
The only problem with all this organised fun was that the band left themselves little time to actually play their songs. In the space of a 90 minute set, they only managed to squeeze in thirteen songs, with only four selections from the new album, and one an amusing but throwaway jam involving a toy keyboard that produced farmyard animal noises. This left some of their best songs unplayed (no 'Fight Test', 'One More Robot', 'Waiting For A Superman', 'What Is The Light', 'When You Smile' or 'Lightning Strikes The Postman'), whilst some of the more ambitious new recordings have yet to be translated to live performance. I'd also like to see them return to some songs from 'Zaireeka' too. What with it being a 4-CD extravaganza and all that, it's not too easy to get to hear those songs, many of them outstanding.
That being said, the songs that were played were consistently excellent. The new songs fared particularly well, with 'The W.A.N.D.' being delivered through an electronic megaphone and new single 'The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song' already provoking a mass singalong. During the more ponderous 'Vein Of Stars', a mirrorball was lowered and the venue was drenched in stars and glittery reflections. They treat us to a consummately controlled rendition of the epic 'Spark That Bled' from 1999's 'The Soft Bulletin' and an obligatory 'She Don't Use Jelly', although the band seem to have lost none of their wide-eyed enthusiasm for this wonderfully quirky pop song. The cheesy piano singalongs which conclude 'Yoshimi...' and '...Jelly' are an absolute delight. The band have one more trick up their sleeves with the encore - a savage blast through Black Sabbath's 'War Pigs' that neatly encapsulates their obvious frustration with George W Bush's America. It sounded triumphant.
As I was getting my bag from the cloakroom at the end of the gig, I overheard a conversation containing some rather lukewarm reactions to the gig. I can perfectly understand the frustration at so few songs being played - but the idea that Wayne Coyne might be 'arrogant' struck me as somewhat strange. Here is a frontman who knows the value of putting on a good show, and making the audience an intrinsic part of that performance. It's the same trick that Bruce Springsteen has consistently pulled off over many years, simply utilising more gimmicky methods. To me, Coyne comes across as warm, humane, genial, perhaps even modest - he's acutely aware of his limitations, but still keen to achieve everything he can. We certainly need more bands like this to crossover to mainstream success.
The following day, I attended Calexico and Iron and Wine's only London show at the Forum in Kentish Town. What a wonderful evening this was - strongly reminiscent of one of those revue shows of the 1960s, where a number of artists would be involved, occasionally performing together, with the bare minimum of interruption. The stage was arranged thoughtfully, with a vast range of instruments including keyboards, marimba and other percussion, lap steel guitar and bandoneon. The backdrop was a range of projections, including the distinctive artwork that has come with both Calexico and Iron and Wine's recent releases, set against a white mesh. This made for a strangely intoxicating effect and I have to confess there were a few occasions when I was drawn more to the images at the expense of the music.
Iron and Wine kicked off proceedings with a deceptively calm performance full of subtlety and grace. I wondered if Sam Beam's quasi-whispered vocal tones would translate well to this kind of venue, but it worked pretty well, despite the painfully audible hustle and bustle at the two bars. He remains one of American music's most distinctive lyricists, frequently creating his own syntax to encapsulate his peculiar rustic world. For me, with a little more exposure, he could be part of a grand American literary tradition incorporating Walt Whitman, William Faulkner, Cormac McCarthy, Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan. Sadly, too few people are aware of his extraordinary gifts. Like Dylan, his songs tend to extemporise lyrical ideas through melodic repetition, and a couple of the songs perhaps drifted on a little too long. He kept things interesting through through subtle shifts in dynamics and phrasing - nuances that very few modern singer-songwriters manage to capture. Best of all were the opening 'Sodom, South Georgia' and an unnamed new song, which once past a rare moment of forgetfulness, sounded rich and full.
He then brought out a backing band, including some members of Calexico, to tackle the bluesier side of his output, including some songs from last year's 'Woman King' EP. There was a good feel for the music displayed here, although it was perhaps a little relentless, lacking the careful sensitivity of the more stripped down arrangements. It also seemed a little under-rehearsed, with a couple of gaffes, notably when the guitarist using an E-bow appeared to start one of the songs in completely the wrong key. Oops.
The first half of the show concluded with Iron and Wine and Calexico joining forces for a short set of three tracks from last year's outstanding mini album 'In The Reins'. There was a splendidly groovy 'Red Dust', a lengthy and mysterious 'Burn That Broken Bed' and a rendition of 'Prison on Route 41' every bit as powerful and compelling as the recorded version. The band sounded loose but engaged and the dusty desert sound was captured brilliantly. It certainly left me wanting a lot more.
After a short break, we were treated to a short set from Mexican singer/guitarist Salvador Doran, something both unexpecetd and immensely fulfilling. Doran has a massive, quasi-operatic voice, but uses it to perform something akin to flamenco music, with rapidly strummed guitar patterns and strange vocal popping and clicking noises. It was remarkably spirited and enervating.
Then Calexico performed a mostly captivating headlining set, drawing mainly on new album 'Garden Ruin' (which I still have to review at some point) and 'Feast Of Wire'. John Convertino's delicate and considered drumming provides not just rhythm, but texture and colour as well and whilst much has been made of the straight-ahead rock elements of the new album, the songs that stood out for me were the elegant and sensitive 'Cruel', Yours and Mine' and 'Panic Open String'. Of the older material , 'Not Even Stevie Nicks' remains one of their best songs, and it sounded particularly cinematic in live performance. A faithful rendition of Love's 'Alone Again Or' and a positively rollicking 'Crystal Frontier' bring things to an appropriately rousing conclusion.
The band make full use of their varied instrumentation, with multi-instrumentalists swapping between brass, guitar and percussion. Paul Niehaus' lap steel guitar was played to perfection throughout. Niehaus is a real talent, perhaps his only limitation being a slight (but sufficiently scary) resemblance to Edward from Royston Vasey's Local Shop. John Kell felt that some of the tunes had got buried somewhere in the middle of the set. In that Joey Burns seemed perhaps overly keen to reshape and contort the melodies in some songs, he may have a point, although my attention was held mostly by the commanding performance of a uniquely inventive band that effortlessly crosses genre divisions.
Pleasingly, Iron and Wine returned for the encore, joined once again by Salvador Doran for 'He Lays In the Reins' before delivering a sublime and haunting version of 'All Tomorrow's Parties'. All very well, and by this stage it was getting pretty late for a Sunday evening - but the only two songs left unplayed from 'In The Reins' were 'A History Of Lovers' and 'Dead Man's Will', my two clear favourites. Oh well - with such a rich display of musicianship and poetic craft on display, minor quibbles are hardly important.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Old Masters Return
Donald Fagen albums, it must be admitted, are not like buses. You wait 12 years and then you only get one, usually with a meagre 8 new songs. Still, he's certainly been busy in the years since 1993's 'Kamakiriad', reviving the Steely Dan moniker, completing several lengthy tours and recording two new highly acclaimed (and highly polished) Steely Dan albums. 'Morph The Cat' now completes a loose conceptual trilogy begun with 'The Nightfly'. It sees Fagen musing with wry glee on post 9/11 (in)security and fear and his own encroaching mortality. The juxtaposition of the personal and political is neatly engineered, and Fagen's sardonic and pointed wit remains uniquely barbarous.
Over the course of these 8 songs, Fagen addresses current preoccupations and concerns. He creates a marvellous surrealist metaphor in the title track, the cat being a peculiar feline apparition floating over New York city. It appears to provide only misleading comfort - a false sense of security. It's difficult to imagine a less responsible approach to airport security than the hilarious 'Security Joan', where Fagen relishes the prospect of being a suspected terrorist interrogated by a female security guard. On 'Brite Nitegown', Fagen describes meeting the Grim Reaper in a dream with tacit acceptance of his ultimate fate. Best of all is his sincere tribute to the late Ray Charles on 'What I Do', a song that goes some distance towards explaining Fagen's own musical heritage.
'Morph..' is unlikely to reach the unconverted, however. For those immune to the lithe, metronomically regulated funk grooves of late-period Steely Dan, this is likely to simply be more of the same. I would concede that this music could be more consistently engaging were Fagen to allow his undoubtedly excellent musicians more breathing space. Much like on Steely Dan's 'Two Against Nature' and 'Everything Must Go', there is hardly even a drum fill to break the perfectionist pulse of each track. Can this really be the same Fagen who approved the extraordinary Steve Gadd drum solo on 'Aja'? Sometimes the approach is compelling, such as on the crisp groove of 'Brite Nitegown', which casts an appropriately hypnotic spell. Other tracks ('The Great Pagoda Of Funn', 'The Night Belongs To Mona', 'Mary Shut The Garden Door'), despite some typically incisive lyrical ruminations, seem a little overlong and elusive.
Still, at its best, 'Morph The Cat' demonstrates the steely interplay between highly literate, irony-laden songs and expressive, jazz-inflected musical extrapolation that has always characterised Fagen's best work. Whilst it occasionally steps beyond the urbane territory Fagen has defined so well into refined smoothness, there's plenty of detached charm and smoky elegance to these songs. Whilst one suspects that Fagen is not in any way a spiritual man, it's hard to think of a more pithy encapsulation of the gospel-blues heritage that he playfully plunders than this epithet on Ray Charles from 'What I Do': "Well you bring some Church/but you leave no doubt/As to what kind of love you like to shout about". It's good to see Fagen maintaining his spirits in a world gone mad.
Another legend who knows much about walking the tightrope between the sacred and profane is Prince. His latest effort, '3121', comes after yet another label switch, and has been hailed as a major return to form (didn't that come with 2004's patchy-but-promising 'Musicology'). Talk of 'form' here is rather pointless - Prince can churn out disarmingly good tunes in his sleep, it's simply that he's elected to indulge his every whim in recent years, from extended improvisations on the much maligned 'NEWS' to simply recording and releasing his every breath (the 3CD 'Emancipation').
I enjoyed a rather amusing discussion with two American strangers at Oxford Circus underground station regarding the origins of this album's somewhat enigmatic title. They had the somewhat unsubtle theory that the numbers 3, 1, 2 and 1 relate to Prince's obsession with sex - a threesome, some solo action, a conventional coupling, before finally concluding that it's actually better on your own (surely a somewhat tragic and unexpected resolution to years of sexual adventure?!). Actually, it's much less interesting - it apparently relates simply to US release dates.
I'm not convinced that this is the evidence of Prince's musical resurrection. Admittedly, 'Black Sweat' is his best single for aeons, taking in some of the sounds and innovations of modern R&B (particularly the Atlanta crunk sound) and processing it all through his own distinctive vision. It is playful, uncompromising and unashamedly sexy. There are some other impressive moments here - from the moralising party vibe of 'Lolita' to the poptastically infectious 'Love', but nothing comes close to matching the questing spirit of 'Black Sweat'.
With new female protege Tamar in tow (not another Mayte, surely?), Prince indulges his penchant for very cheesy ballads (the Latin tinged 'Te Amo Corazon' and the nauseatingly titled 'Beautiful, Loved and Blessed'). There's no denying that Prince has mastered the love ballad and 'Arms Of Orion' and 'Purple Rain' stand as two exquisite examples of his peculiar genius. The ballads here may just be a step too far into saccharine territory though. They are certainly disconcertingly glossy.
The title track should provide an enticing overture for the whole project, with its lavish description of an absurd Paisley Park house party, but it actually comes across as more of the lumbering funk most clearly associated with 'Exodus'-period NPG (remember that masked White Room performance, anyone?). By the end of the album, he's also drifted towards shakier lyrical ground, forsaking the hedonistic impulses of the album's first half in favour of some rather sanctimonious philosophising. At the height of his artistic success, Prince could chart both the conflict and the overlap between the sexual and spiritual drives with consummate ease. The impression here is more that the album's massively more entertaining moments are compromises to ensure some degree of commercial success.
It seems grossly unfair to describe a Prince album as generic, given that he has arguably done more than any other modern artist to break down genre conventions. It's just that all this is ground that he has mapped out many times before. Where once it was remarkably fertile, it now appears to be in danger of running dry. The highpoints here would make for an effective mini-album that would stand as a timely reminder of Prince's talents. As a whole album though, it feels slightly queasy and uncomfortable. I can't help but feel that the now unfairly discarded 'Musicology' made for a more consistent, less ponderous and more entertaining listen.
Pick of the bunch is the secular return of soul legend Candi Staton. Still scandalously most famous here for the disco hit 'Young Hearts Run Free' and for providing the vocal sample on The Source's endlessly rehashed dance anthem 'You Got The Love', last year's compilation of her southern soul gems on the Honest Jon's label (part owned by Damon Albarn) provided a welcome opportunity to reassess her impact and achievement. The success of that release has tempted her away from the Gospel train (following in the recent footsteps of Bettye Lavette and Solomon Burke) back into the mainstream fold with 'His Hands'.
The obvious choice of producer for this project would have been the in-demand Joe Henry, whose faithful invocation of the classic soul sound would have worked well here. Instead, Staton has joined forces with Lambchop producer Mark Nevers who, whilst pulling off a similar trick, has added some of his own subtle studio trickery, most noticeably on the eerily atmospheric title track. This is one of those records that operates in its own territory, refreshingly free from the influence of any prevailing trends. The playing is stately, but also appropriately sensual. Staton's voice is arguably a little wearier now, occasionally cracking slightly - but her choice of material has made the additional vulnerability a welcome ingredient.
As well as being an accomplished writer herself, Staton is a genuinely skilled interpretative singer and she tackles material from Solomon Burke and Merle Haggard amongst others with sizzling relish. This album would be worth the entry fee alone for the astonishing title track, penned specifically for her by Will Oldham, providing yet more evidence of his status as one of the greatest living American songwriters. The hands of the title are used to invoke erotic love, domestic abuse (which Staton herself endured for many years) and the compelling spiritual love of God. Staton's performance on this track is tightly controlled, but fearsomely convincing and she adds great power to Oldham's words with her spine-tingling phrasing. It's unlikely that there will be a more overwhelming vocal performance captured this year.
It sets a high watermark that the rest of the album inevitably can't quite match, but 'His Hands' is nevertheless a consistently engrossing and rewarding listen, overflowing with gritty emotion and rousing passion.
Over the course of these 8 songs, Fagen addresses current preoccupations and concerns. He creates a marvellous surrealist metaphor in the title track, the cat being a peculiar feline apparition floating over New York city. It appears to provide only misleading comfort - a false sense of security. It's difficult to imagine a less responsible approach to airport security than the hilarious 'Security Joan', where Fagen relishes the prospect of being a suspected terrorist interrogated by a female security guard. On 'Brite Nitegown', Fagen describes meeting the Grim Reaper in a dream with tacit acceptance of his ultimate fate. Best of all is his sincere tribute to the late Ray Charles on 'What I Do', a song that goes some distance towards explaining Fagen's own musical heritage.
'Morph..' is unlikely to reach the unconverted, however. For those immune to the lithe, metronomically regulated funk grooves of late-period Steely Dan, this is likely to simply be more of the same. I would concede that this music could be more consistently engaging were Fagen to allow his undoubtedly excellent musicians more breathing space. Much like on Steely Dan's 'Two Against Nature' and 'Everything Must Go', there is hardly even a drum fill to break the perfectionist pulse of each track. Can this really be the same Fagen who approved the extraordinary Steve Gadd drum solo on 'Aja'? Sometimes the approach is compelling, such as on the crisp groove of 'Brite Nitegown', which casts an appropriately hypnotic spell. Other tracks ('The Great Pagoda Of Funn', 'The Night Belongs To Mona', 'Mary Shut The Garden Door'), despite some typically incisive lyrical ruminations, seem a little overlong and elusive.
Still, at its best, 'Morph The Cat' demonstrates the steely interplay between highly literate, irony-laden songs and expressive, jazz-inflected musical extrapolation that has always characterised Fagen's best work. Whilst it occasionally steps beyond the urbane territory Fagen has defined so well into refined smoothness, there's plenty of detached charm and smoky elegance to these songs. Whilst one suspects that Fagen is not in any way a spiritual man, it's hard to think of a more pithy encapsulation of the gospel-blues heritage that he playfully plunders than this epithet on Ray Charles from 'What I Do': "Well you bring some Church/but you leave no doubt/As to what kind of love you like to shout about". It's good to see Fagen maintaining his spirits in a world gone mad.
Another legend who knows much about walking the tightrope between the sacred and profane is Prince. His latest effort, '3121', comes after yet another label switch, and has been hailed as a major return to form (didn't that come with 2004's patchy-but-promising 'Musicology'). Talk of 'form' here is rather pointless - Prince can churn out disarmingly good tunes in his sleep, it's simply that he's elected to indulge his every whim in recent years, from extended improvisations on the much maligned 'NEWS' to simply recording and releasing his every breath (the 3CD 'Emancipation').
I enjoyed a rather amusing discussion with two American strangers at Oxford Circus underground station regarding the origins of this album's somewhat enigmatic title. They had the somewhat unsubtle theory that the numbers 3, 1, 2 and 1 relate to Prince's obsession with sex - a threesome, some solo action, a conventional coupling, before finally concluding that it's actually better on your own (surely a somewhat tragic and unexpected resolution to years of sexual adventure?!). Actually, it's much less interesting - it apparently relates simply to US release dates.
I'm not convinced that this is the evidence of Prince's musical resurrection. Admittedly, 'Black Sweat' is his best single for aeons, taking in some of the sounds and innovations of modern R&B (particularly the Atlanta crunk sound) and processing it all through his own distinctive vision. It is playful, uncompromising and unashamedly sexy. There are some other impressive moments here - from the moralising party vibe of 'Lolita' to the poptastically infectious 'Love', but nothing comes close to matching the questing spirit of 'Black Sweat'.
With new female protege Tamar in tow (not another Mayte, surely?), Prince indulges his penchant for very cheesy ballads (the Latin tinged 'Te Amo Corazon' and the nauseatingly titled 'Beautiful, Loved and Blessed'). There's no denying that Prince has mastered the love ballad and 'Arms Of Orion' and 'Purple Rain' stand as two exquisite examples of his peculiar genius. The ballads here may just be a step too far into saccharine territory though. They are certainly disconcertingly glossy.
The title track should provide an enticing overture for the whole project, with its lavish description of an absurd Paisley Park house party, but it actually comes across as more of the lumbering funk most clearly associated with 'Exodus'-period NPG (remember that masked White Room performance, anyone?). By the end of the album, he's also drifted towards shakier lyrical ground, forsaking the hedonistic impulses of the album's first half in favour of some rather sanctimonious philosophising. At the height of his artistic success, Prince could chart both the conflict and the overlap between the sexual and spiritual drives with consummate ease. The impression here is more that the album's massively more entertaining moments are compromises to ensure some degree of commercial success.
It seems grossly unfair to describe a Prince album as generic, given that he has arguably done more than any other modern artist to break down genre conventions. It's just that all this is ground that he has mapped out many times before. Where once it was remarkably fertile, it now appears to be in danger of running dry. The highpoints here would make for an effective mini-album that would stand as a timely reminder of Prince's talents. As a whole album though, it feels slightly queasy and uncomfortable. I can't help but feel that the now unfairly discarded 'Musicology' made for a more consistent, less ponderous and more entertaining listen.
Pick of the bunch is the secular return of soul legend Candi Staton. Still scandalously most famous here for the disco hit 'Young Hearts Run Free' and for providing the vocal sample on The Source's endlessly rehashed dance anthem 'You Got The Love', last year's compilation of her southern soul gems on the Honest Jon's label (part owned by Damon Albarn) provided a welcome opportunity to reassess her impact and achievement. The success of that release has tempted her away from the Gospel train (following in the recent footsteps of Bettye Lavette and Solomon Burke) back into the mainstream fold with 'His Hands'.
The obvious choice of producer for this project would have been the in-demand Joe Henry, whose faithful invocation of the classic soul sound would have worked well here. Instead, Staton has joined forces with Lambchop producer Mark Nevers who, whilst pulling off a similar trick, has added some of his own subtle studio trickery, most noticeably on the eerily atmospheric title track. This is one of those records that operates in its own territory, refreshingly free from the influence of any prevailing trends. The playing is stately, but also appropriately sensual. Staton's voice is arguably a little wearier now, occasionally cracking slightly - but her choice of material has made the additional vulnerability a welcome ingredient.
As well as being an accomplished writer herself, Staton is a genuinely skilled interpretative singer and she tackles material from Solomon Burke and Merle Haggard amongst others with sizzling relish. This album would be worth the entry fee alone for the astonishing title track, penned specifically for her by Will Oldham, providing yet more evidence of his status as one of the greatest living American songwriters. The hands of the title are used to invoke erotic love, domestic abuse (which Staton herself endured for many years) and the compelling spiritual love of God. Staton's performance on this track is tightly controlled, but fearsomely convincing and she adds great power to Oldham's words with her spine-tingling phrasing. It's unlikely that there will be a more overwhelming vocal performance captured this year.
It sets a high watermark that the rest of the album inevitably can't quite match, but 'His Hands' is nevertheless a consistently engrossing and rewarding listen, overflowing with gritty emotion and rousing passion.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Eureka!
Finally, See Tickets come through for me - 1 Stalls Standing ticket for Bruce Springsteen and the Seeger Sessions Band at the Apollo in Hammersmith on the 8th May!
It will be interesting to hear Springsteen tackle some roots, folk and gospel material in a relatively intimate venue. Why couldn't it have been this easy for the Devils and Dust tour, which I didn't manage to get to!
It will be interesting to hear Springsteen tackle some roots, folk and gospel material in a relatively intimate venue. Why couldn't it have been this easy for the Devils and Dust tour, which I didn't manage to get to!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Urrgh
What in the name of Morrissey have they done to Uncut magazine? I know that relaunches and redesigns are considered essential to maintain interest (and sales) in the ever-shifting media landscape (or something like that) but what is this? A horribly cheesy 'Passion of Morrissey' cover with Steven Patrick himself radiating a heavenly glow; a logo clearly striving to look classy but actually looking cheap and nasty; a facsimile of the free CD behind the actual mounted CD which takes up a third of the available cover space; redesigned sections with more pictures and less text; lumbering new releases and reissues together in an 'expanded' review section (which also rips off the horrible 'top 10' idea from the Observer Music Monthly) and to top it off a supposedly improved film section which contains not even half the number of reviews as usual. It doesn't exactly leap from the shelves anymore!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
A Quick Update
...So many albums to write about, so little time. So at some point in the next few weeks expect some thoughts on new albums by Grandaddy, Calexico, Semifinalists, Toumani Diabate's Symemtric Orchestra, Band Of Horses, Arthur Russell, Neko Case, Ariel Pink, Mogwai, Prince, Jenny Lewis and The Watson Twins, Secret Machines, Clogs, Donald Fagen, Centro-matic, Candi Staton and Team lg.
It's been a good year so far - although it's yet to throw up a masterpiece. Some are citing the latest album from Destroyer - when the heck is it going to get a UK release?
It's been a good year so far - although it's yet to throw up a masterpiece. Some are citing the latest album from Destroyer - when the heck is it going to get a UK release?
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Touring The Angel
Depeche Mode, Wembley Arena, 3/4/06
It seems like Depeche Mode are one of those juggernaut bands who are always touring (the Rolling Stones of 80s bands) but in reality Mode tours roll around relatively infrequently. This latest mammonth world jaunt in support of last year's well received 'Playing The Angel' album brought them back to the UK for the first time in five years.
As ever, last night's show at Wembley Arena (still an unpleasantly gargantuan venue, but the rebuild has at least made some attempt to improve the stolid atmosphere) was a spectacle. The stage set featured giant silver pods, behind which the keyboards, synths and computers were cleverly concealed, presumably to hide the fact that Andy Fletcher still appears to do absolutely nothing for the majority of their performances. Hanging from the stage was a strange silver spacecraft message displaying key lyrics and predictable Mode words (pain, suffering, love, angel, sex, death). One has to get passed the occasional clunkiness of Martin Gore's lyrical preoccupations to enjoy a Mode show - and no doubt this element of the stage design pleased the residual goth element of the fanbase. The visuals were sparer than last time round, mainly focussing on cleverly treated images of the band's performance, with occasional interjections (peculiar images of naked women and shots from the band's justly revered video output).
Dave Gahan remains the band's strident visual focus, completely uninhibited in his camp, slightly sleazy onstage antics. He's clearly been practising his Freddie Mercury moves too - prancing about the stage with mic stand swinging. The stage set includes a catwalk into the crowd (have they been watching AC/DC shows?) which Gahan struts down with rampant showmanship, and no sense of irony whatsoever. He knows how to entertain the crowd, letting them do most of the work on the choruses of the best known hits ('Enjoy The Silence' and 'Personal Jesus' particularly). When he does bother singing, he demonstrates his growing vocal stature too - his voice sounding stronger and his range more commanding with each new Mode project. Significantly, he has finally been allowed to make a songwriting contribution by the notoriously controlling Gore - and his two efforts performed tonight ('I Want It All' and 'Suffer Well') are standouts among the newer material, bolstered by some relentlessly pounding live drums. Gahan is such a potent presence on stage that the set inevitably sags a little when Gore takes over lead vocal duties - although the piano and vocal encore of 'Shake The Disease' provided some welcome respite from the electro-industrial sturm und drang. Gore's selections mostly play to his strengths - and 'Home' is reworked with an inventive synth string-laden arrangement. New track 'Macro' is no less of a howler in a live setting though - its lyrics lurching uncomfortably towards self parody.
Predictably the set list concentrated on the new material (mercifully the far superior first half of the album) and the 1989 classic 'Violator', from which all four singles are played with a gusto that suggests the band have not lost interest in them yet. The crowd already seem to have embraced the new songs, with 'John The Revelator' and 'Suffer Well' particualarly well received. This tour has surprised with its shift away from the darker recent material in favour of some well-worn eighties classics. 'Ultra' and 'Songs Of Faith And Devotion' are given only cursory glances with jsut one and two songs selected respectively (still no 'Barrel Of A Gun'! No 'It's No Good'?!?!) but instead we get a deliriously enjoyable encore including 'Just Can't Get Enough' and one of the defining songs of the 80s 'Everything Counts'. Earlier, we were treated to a tremendously attacking version of 'A Question Of Time' and a potent 'Behind The Wheel'.
At these shows, it's hard to believe that the Mode are a band constantly at dispute between records, so strong is the camaraderie on stage, not least the playful campness of the relationship between Gore and Gahan (taken to an hilariously cheesy extreme on the closing ballad 'Goodnight Lovers'). The tagline for this tour has been 'Pain and Suffering in Various Countries'. Gore and Gahan can try and be as dark and foreboding as they like - but they can't hide the fact that this show was all about good, clean fun.
It seems like Depeche Mode are one of those juggernaut bands who are always touring (the Rolling Stones of 80s bands) but in reality Mode tours roll around relatively infrequently. This latest mammonth world jaunt in support of last year's well received 'Playing The Angel' album brought them back to the UK for the first time in five years.
As ever, last night's show at Wembley Arena (still an unpleasantly gargantuan venue, but the rebuild has at least made some attempt to improve the stolid atmosphere) was a spectacle. The stage set featured giant silver pods, behind which the keyboards, synths and computers were cleverly concealed, presumably to hide the fact that Andy Fletcher still appears to do absolutely nothing for the majority of their performances. Hanging from the stage was a strange silver spacecraft message displaying key lyrics and predictable Mode words (pain, suffering, love, angel, sex, death). One has to get passed the occasional clunkiness of Martin Gore's lyrical preoccupations to enjoy a Mode show - and no doubt this element of the stage design pleased the residual goth element of the fanbase. The visuals were sparer than last time round, mainly focussing on cleverly treated images of the band's performance, with occasional interjections (peculiar images of naked women and shots from the band's justly revered video output).
Dave Gahan remains the band's strident visual focus, completely uninhibited in his camp, slightly sleazy onstage antics. He's clearly been practising his Freddie Mercury moves too - prancing about the stage with mic stand swinging. The stage set includes a catwalk into the crowd (have they been watching AC/DC shows?) which Gahan struts down with rampant showmanship, and no sense of irony whatsoever. He knows how to entertain the crowd, letting them do most of the work on the choruses of the best known hits ('Enjoy The Silence' and 'Personal Jesus' particularly). When he does bother singing, he demonstrates his growing vocal stature too - his voice sounding stronger and his range more commanding with each new Mode project. Significantly, he has finally been allowed to make a songwriting contribution by the notoriously controlling Gore - and his two efforts performed tonight ('I Want It All' and 'Suffer Well') are standouts among the newer material, bolstered by some relentlessly pounding live drums. Gahan is such a potent presence on stage that the set inevitably sags a little when Gore takes over lead vocal duties - although the piano and vocal encore of 'Shake The Disease' provided some welcome respite from the electro-industrial sturm und drang. Gore's selections mostly play to his strengths - and 'Home' is reworked with an inventive synth string-laden arrangement. New track 'Macro' is no less of a howler in a live setting though - its lyrics lurching uncomfortably towards self parody.
Predictably the set list concentrated on the new material (mercifully the far superior first half of the album) and the 1989 classic 'Violator', from which all four singles are played with a gusto that suggests the band have not lost interest in them yet. The crowd already seem to have embraced the new songs, with 'John The Revelator' and 'Suffer Well' particualarly well received. This tour has surprised with its shift away from the darker recent material in favour of some well-worn eighties classics. 'Ultra' and 'Songs Of Faith And Devotion' are given only cursory glances with jsut one and two songs selected respectively (still no 'Barrel Of A Gun'! No 'It's No Good'?!?!) but instead we get a deliriously enjoyable encore including 'Just Can't Get Enough' and one of the defining songs of the 80s 'Everything Counts'. Earlier, we were treated to a tremendously attacking version of 'A Question Of Time' and a potent 'Behind The Wheel'.
At these shows, it's hard to believe that the Mode are a band constantly at dispute between records, so strong is the camaraderie on stage, not least the playful campness of the relationship between Gore and Gahan (taken to an hilariously cheesy extreme on the closing ballad 'Goodnight Lovers'). The tagline for this tour has been 'Pain and Suffering in Various Countries'. Gore and Gahan can try and be as dark and foreboding as they like - but they can't hide the fact that this show was all about good, clean fun.
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