I had the pleasure of attending two superb gigs last week, although the contrast between the two could hardly be more striking.
First off was the launch gig for rising UK jazz star Soweto Kinch's second album 'A Life In The Day Of B19: Tales of the Towerblock'. If that title sounds a little convoluted, it's not all that surprising given the nature of the project. This is Kinch's grand attempt at a concept album, drawing together a variety of styles and approaches. If the Coltrane-influenced fiery blowing will satisfy those who admire his intense, energetic approach to jazz, the increased emphasis on his equally dexterous rapping may well serve to broaden his audience. There's real musicality on display here for those disillusioned with hip hop's dependance on programming and rehashed samples, whilst the humorous wordplay may draw in those who normally find jazz lofty and inaccessible.
The B19 of the album's title is a Birmingham postal code, and Kinch's main objective seems to be to produce a thematically coherent long work, full of rounded characters and fictional events. Essentially, this is as much the witty observational tradition of English pop songwriting as it is a rap record. It's possible to argue that the medium of rap simply allows Kinch to express these ideas more easily and literally than an instrumental collection would - but in combining rap and jazz so comfortably, he has created his own unique space in the current musical landscape. The album takes in all the humdrum mundanities of tower block life, as well as the obvious harships, but Kinch has for the most part deftly avoided stereotyping. There's no sign of any ASBOS this evening anyway.
The tragically romantic is captured neatly in the deceptively simple, wistful melody to 'Adrian's Theme', whilst there's perceptive self-awareness elsewhere. Kinch decries hip hop's slavish materialism in the ironic 'All About The M-O-N-E-E' which inevitably involves some amusing crowd participation. More amusing still is the 'Everybody Raps', in which Kinch gets aggressive, ranting at the ubiquity of hip hop in a fiery style reminiscent of hip hop. It matches the intensity of his ferocious sax playing.
There's very little dynamic contrast in the music, but there's plenty of structural complexities (sudden shifts in tempo and style, from straight ahead hip hop grooves into driving swing) that make for an unpredictable, exciting performance. Occasionally the cross-pollenation of genres doesn't quite work, as when the otherwise excellent 'Adrian's Theme' veers into a strange mock-baroque section. The band is superb throughout, Abram Wilson displaying masterful control of his trumpet's upper register and playing with passion and vigour throughout. The rhythm section is solid and mostly unobtrusive, but Kinch frequently allows them to expand on the groove templates. When they do, the results are thrilling. It all culminates in an impromptu freestyle with guests Jonzi D and Lyric L, during which the bizarre blind musician Raoul Midon (who plays trumpet without the instrument - quite extraordinary) makes an unnanounced guest appearance. Kinch clearly had no idea who he was, but seemed more than happy to let him invade the stage - and if the after-show chatter between the two is anything to go by, we might look forward to a collaboration soon. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to the album's September 25th release. Kinch and Abram Wilson return to London with a special joint show as part of the London Jazz Festival in November.
Then on Sunday it was over to my former local The King's Head in Crouch End to catch a really quite splendid show featuring Jeremy Warmsley and Piney Gir's Country Roadshow.
Little Sparta opened proceedings with some rather tedious strummy acoustic songs that ventured nowhere in particular in lazy fashion. The last track they played was a delightfully melodic, breezy pop gem - the others stubbornly refused to linger in the mind. Apparently they were without the performance poet with whom they've been collaborating - it's difficult to judge whether or not his presence would have made an improvement.
Piney Gir, by contrast, is tremendous fun. Her band have a natural feel for the country stylings she now brings to her songs (a number of them reworked from her electropop debut album). Vocally, she is at times a little shaky and off-key, but there's so much vitality and personality here that any shortcomings don't really matter too much. I enjoyed this spirited and entertaining set. The closing 'Greetings, Salutations, Goodbye' is a particular treat.
"Please can you tell that heckler to shut the f*ck up!" This is the sound of a rather agitated Jeremy Warmsley, during a gig at the Brixton Windmill a couple of years back. Tonight in the King's Head, now a somewhat intimate venue for him, he is amiably ruminating on the pitfalls of being a solo artist (sometimes you have no-one to eat with before the show), admiring his piano, joking with a slightly tipsy Piney Gir ("that's a very strange noise...I like it though") and, bless him, dedicating a song to me (apparently I'm 'Crouch End's answer to Lester Bangs', which makes a change from 'Crouch End's most eligible bachelor' I guess). That Jeremy has always been a guitar player and songwriter of real talent, also adept at finding unusual contexts and means of escaping troubadour pigeonholing, has never been in doubt. His ability to captivate a live audience has, in the past, been more questionable. The transition could hardly be more marked. Where once he seemed aloof, serious-minded, perhaps even self-important, he now seems confident, relaxed and in command of his material.
Along with the onstage persona has come a real development in musicality and control. His voice has always been distinctive but has previously tended towards the untamed. He now exercises more restraint, varying tone and volume to real impact. This is immediately apparent from the opening '5 Verses'. In an acoustic setting, it's more stark than its poppier recorded counterpart, and perhaps all the more effective for that. Jeremy now adds new contours to his already elaborate melody. Another song to benefit from the solo arrangement is 'If I Had Only', where the perceptive, self-questioning lyrics shine through, whereas they are a little murky on the more ponderous recorded version. Where other solo artists are content simply to recreate the recorded environments of their songs onstage, tonight Jeremy breathes new life into these songs. Clearly, in his hands, a song is never finished.
Switching between acoustic guitar and piano throughout, Jeremy seems to have wisely ditched the preoccupation with guitar loops that used to dominate his solo sets. I always found this to be only superficially interesting, and something that occasionally detracted from the quality of his songs. Now songs like 'Dirty Blue Jeans' and 'Modern Children' benefit from some intricate guitar playing (it's rarely ever just a case of strum and sing here) and a stronger focus on the contrast between agression and sensitivity in the vocal performance. The piano playing is equally adventurous, and tonight's intense but warm rendition of 'I Knew That Her Face Was A Lie' is a real highlight.
That Jeremy gets such a warm reception is testament not just to the genuine buzz building around him, but also to his newfound ability to engage with his audience. This augurs tremendously well for the future - he will surely get better and better. Whilst lazy comparisons suggesting he is 'the new Leonard Cohen' might be a little wide of the mark, it looks likely that Jeremy will now cement his reputation and perhaps even achieve longevity. There may only be one Leonard Cohen, but it's more than plausible that a few years down the line from now, people will be calling someone else 'the new Jeremy Warmsley'.
Jeremy plays again in London with a full band at an all ages show at Conway Hall on 30th September.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Climbing A Mountain Pt 1
There's suddenly really rather a lot to get through, especially as we're now entering the peak period for album releases before it all starts to quieten down for end of year round-ups (really only about twelve weeks away now, unbelievably).
New Jersey's finest Yo La Tengo have returned with what is at the very least the greatest title of 2006 - 'I Am Not Afraid Of You and I Will Beat Your Ass'. The general consensus on this seems to be that it's a welcome return to a more wilfully scattershot approach after the rigidly coherent lush atmospherics of 'Summer Sun'. This is only partially true. Yes, it's bookended by two lengthy and somewhat frustrating wig-outs that might seem like a retrenchment to the more manic jamming of their earlier days, but the bulk of the music in between constitutes the band's most carefully constructed and cohesive work to date, with plenty of the eerie melancholy of 'Summer Sun' and 'And The Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out', but also an unrestrained love of perfect pop music. Much of this music is characterised by a skeletal approach to harmony, which actually serves to liberate the band in terms of developing sound, mood and feeling. Many of the tracks opt to highlight instruments rarely heard in this context (the euphonium on 'Black Flowers', the lone violin on 'I Feel Like Going Home' or the unexpected burst of summery Stax horns on the splendid 'Mr. Tough'). There's certainly gleeful diversity in terms of the sound of each individual track, but the whole album is shot through with a distinctive sensibility.
At least we get the burden out of the way first. The success of the opening 'Pass The Hatchet, I Think I'm Goodkind' really depends on your tolerance for the strictures of motorik Krautrock rhythms and Neil Young-esque one string banditry on the guitar. It's initially a delirously minimal and effective opener, but there's very little melodic interest and, as it casually goes on and on, it turns out very little depth too. For all its avant-garde ambitions, there's also nothing terribly original here either. I'm tempted to move for the skip button.
After this inauspicious beginning, we get something completely magical - and, something that modern experimental music very rarely is, genuinely touching. 'Beanbag Chair' is an endearingly bouncy stomp, and the first of many tracks to place the piano firmly in the foreground. There's a slight hint of Paul McCartney's pop confections here, but the weird vocal interplay between Georgia Hubley and Ira Kaplan places it in its own unique space. Even better is Georgia's swoonsome vocal on 'I Feel Like Going Home', a track that shocks through its sheer breathtaking simplicity. The harmony is rooted in familiar chords, and there is no sound here that isn't absolutely necessary, from the tender violin to the echo and ambience in the background which resembles the production of Daniel Lanois. Later on, the equally beautiful 'Black Flowers' repeats a similar trick, adding the unusually crisp Euphonium, which serves as a neat counterpoint to the mellifluous cadences in the background. When the drums enter with a subtle, off-kilter rhythm, the song has achieved a peculiarly quiet magnitude.
There's plenty of ransacking from classic pop records of the past too. 'The Race Is On Again' sounds like the depressive flipside to The Byrds' 'Eight Miles High' with its McGuinn-esque chime and jangle. 'I Should Have Known Better' seems to have some of the energy of The Who and the melodic bite of The Beatles, whilst the superb Mr. Tough has punchy Stax horns and a shamelessly comic falsetto vocal. It's tempting to view the latter as a light-hearted attack on the machismo currently directing Western politics ('Hey Mr. Tough/Don't you think we've suffered enough'), and the idea of Yo La Tengo inviting Dubya to join them on the dancefloor is peachy.
There are of course more obtuse moments - but even these make a certain kind of sense. 'Daphnia' is another lenghty track, lodged obtrusively in the centre of the album, but one which succeeds in establishing a compelling and hypnotic mood. When things get a little more aggressive, notably on 'The Room Got Heavy' with its percussive drive and riotous explosion of vintage keyboards, or on the distorted, punky 'Watch Out For Me Ronnie', there's still an abiding love of melody at the core of the songs. The latter utilises similarly effective horn punctuations as those deployed on 'Mr. Tough'.
'I Am Not Afraid Of You...' is both strident and reflective, humorous and sensitive, with a knowledge of pop history to match its questing ambitions. Yo La Tengo are a band consistently succeeding in transcending their limitations, crafting music that is beautifully poised and thoroughly compelling.
2006 is turning out to be quite a year for female artistry. I've already waxed lyrical about the enthralling Cortney Tidwell album and now comes another sublime treat, this time from Natasha Khan's Bat For Lashes. This is a record that has already been showered with somewhat uncritical praise from all corners, and some of the hype is richly deserved. Khan certainly occupies her own weird world. Sometimes this leads to the kind of fantastical witches and wizards nonsense that I've found rather tiresome on the last couple of Mercury Rev albums. At her best though, Khan constructs spacious and lusciously romantic landscapes, sometimes tainted with a hint of underlying menace (check out the wonderful 'Trophy', which sounds not unlike a feminised Nick Cave). 'Fur For Gold' is similar to the Tidwell record in that Khan seems to assimilate a number of obvious reference points, including Bjork, PJ Harvey and Kate Bush, but has subsumed her transparent influences into her own bizarre and impressive terrain.
The instrumentation is always intelligent and fascinating - there are no strumming guitars when an autoharp or an expressive piano line creates so much more feeling. Many of these songs come across like baroque anthems or chamber pop mini-epics. There's an eerie and haunting quality to songs like 'Tahiti' and 'Sad Eyes' and the album's preoccupation faintly resembles the menacing encroachment of the erotic, adult world on childlike experience in Angela Carter's classic book 'The Company Of Wolves'. The spoken word intro to 'What's A Girl To Do?' and the rather grandiose finale 'I Saw A Light' arguably reveal some of Khan's affectations, but the cumulative effect this album leaves is lineringly mysterious and suspenseful. A very promising debut indeed.
'Post-War' is the second album in two years from the brilliant songwriter M Ward, who with his last album 'Transistor Radio' managed to craft a songbook both fresh and bathed in the warm glow of nostalgia. 'Post-War' is his first album with a full band (and it also features illustrious guest spots from Neko Case, due to perform with Ward in London in November, and My Morning Jacket frontman Jim James). The abiding musical presence is the ubiquitous Mike Mogis (Bright Eyes, Rilo Kiley) who adds colour and texture to many of these lugubrious songs. Perhaps as a direct result of the ensemble focus, there's less of Ward's charmingly dexterous guitar playing here, and a greater emphasis on the exuberant strum of acoustic guitars and plonk of honky tonk pianos. The new approach works particularly brilliantly on a thrilling reinterpretation of Daniel Johnston's 'To Go Home'. I'm not all that familiar with Johnston's output, although it's easy to see why so many are touched by the wistful and childlike simplicity of these lyrics ('God it's great to be alive/Takes the skin right off my eyes/To think I'll have to give it all up someday'). Combined with a meaty sound and clattering drums, the overall effect is unhinged and joyful.
Elsewhere, there's the dark country shuffle of 'Right In The Head', with its superb central lyric ('I hope he's right in the head, even if he has to wrong someone') and a sound that seems to just keep growing and growing from start to finish. A similarly expansive approach characterises the powerful 'Requiem' and 'Chinese Translation'. Yet there's also the fragile and delicate aura of the title track, mostly stripped back to just vocal, Wurlitzer and drums, although some subtle guitar work is eventually added. It has a wonderful sense of space, with the ensemble rigorously refusing to fill in the gaps, leaving Ward's subtle, fractured vocal room to breathe.
The more langorous 'Eyes On The Prize' provides a neat link between this album and the restrained textures of 'Transistor Radio'. It has a warm, familiar sound, although that's perhaps because I think it was among the new songs performed at Ward's Bush Hall show last month. 'Rollercoaster' and 'Magic Trick' (the latter very short and emboldened by canned applause and a chorus of vocals from Jim James) are both more playful, and ensure the album never becomes too weighty or serious minded.
'Post War' is a mercilessly concise record that I suspect has a lot of listens in it. Ward never allows the ensemble approach to become too conventional, or to overpower the beating heart at the centre of these songs. He has simply succeeded in bringing a more elaborate, expansive approach to his reconfiguring of traditional forms.
New Jersey's finest Yo La Tengo have returned with what is at the very least the greatest title of 2006 - 'I Am Not Afraid Of You and I Will Beat Your Ass'. The general consensus on this seems to be that it's a welcome return to a more wilfully scattershot approach after the rigidly coherent lush atmospherics of 'Summer Sun'. This is only partially true. Yes, it's bookended by two lengthy and somewhat frustrating wig-outs that might seem like a retrenchment to the more manic jamming of their earlier days, but the bulk of the music in between constitutes the band's most carefully constructed and cohesive work to date, with plenty of the eerie melancholy of 'Summer Sun' and 'And The Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out', but also an unrestrained love of perfect pop music. Much of this music is characterised by a skeletal approach to harmony, which actually serves to liberate the band in terms of developing sound, mood and feeling. Many of the tracks opt to highlight instruments rarely heard in this context (the euphonium on 'Black Flowers', the lone violin on 'I Feel Like Going Home' or the unexpected burst of summery Stax horns on the splendid 'Mr. Tough'). There's certainly gleeful diversity in terms of the sound of each individual track, but the whole album is shot through with a distinctive sensibility.
At least we get the burden out of the way first. The success of the opening 'Pass The Hatchet, I Think I'm Goodkind' really depends on your tolerance for the strictures of motorik Krautrock rhythms and Neil Young-esque one string banditry on the guitar. It's initially a delirously minimal and effective opener, but there's very little melodic interest and, as it casually goes on and on, it turns out very little depth too. For all its avant-garde ambitions, there's also nothing terribly original here either. I'm tempted to move for the skip button.
After this inauspicious beginning, we get something completely magical - and, something that modern experimental music very rarely is, genuinely touching. 'Beanbag Chair' is an endearingly bouncy stomp, and the first of many tracks to place the piano firmly in the foreground. There's a slight hint of Paul McCartney's pop confections here, but the weird vocal interplay between Georgia Hubley and Ira Kaplan places it in its own unique space. Even better is Georgia's swoonsome vocal on 'I Feel Like Going Home', a track that shocks through its sheer breathtaking simplicity. The harmony is rooted in familiar chords, and there is no sound here that isn't absolutely necessary, from the tender violin to the echo and ambience in the background which resembles the production of Daniel Lanois. Later on, the equally beautiful 'Black Flowers' repeats a similar trick, adding the unusually crisp Euphonium, which serves as a neat counterpoint to the mellifluous cadences in the background. When the drums enter with a subtle, off-kilter rhythm, the song has achieved a peculiarly quiet magnitude.
There's plenty of ransacking from classic pop records of the past too. 'The Race Is On Again' sounds like the depressive flipside to The Byrds' 'Eight Miles High' with its McGuinn-esque chime and jangle. 'I Should Have Known Better' seems to have some of the energy of The Who and the melodic bite of The Beatles, whilst the superb Mr. Tough has punchy Stax horns and a shamelessly comic falsetto vocal. It's tempting to view the latter as a light-hearted attack on the machismo currently directing Western politics ('Hey Mr. Tough/Don't you think we've suffered enough'), and the idea of Yo La Tengo inviting Dubya to join them on the dancefloor is peachy.
There are of course more obtuse moments - but even these make a certain kind of sense. 'Daphnia' is another lenghty track, lodged obtrusively in the centre of the album, but one which succeeds in establishing a compelling and hypnotic mood. When things get a little more aggressive, notably on 'The Room Got Heavy' with its percussive drive and riotous explosion of vintage keyboards, or on the distorted, punky 'Watch Out For Me Ronnie', there's still an abiding love of melody at the core of the songs. The latter utilises similarly effective horn punctuations as those deployed on 'Mr. Tough'.
'I Am Not Afraid Of You...' is both strident and reflective, humorous and sensitive, with a knowledge of pop history to match its questing ambitions. Yo La Tengo are a band consistently succeeding in transcending their limitations, crafting music that is beautifully poised and thoroughly compelling.
2006 is turning out to be quite a year for female artistry. I've already waxed lyrical about the enthralling Cortney Tidwell album and now comes another sublime treat, this time from Natasha Khan's Bat For Lashes. This is a record that has already been showered with somewhat uncritical praise from all corners, and some of the hype is richly deserved. Khan certainly occupies her own weird world. Sometimes this leads to the kind of fantastical witches and wizards nonsense that I've found rather tiresome on the last couple of Mercury Rev albums. At her best though, Khan constructs spacious and lusciously romantic landscapes, sometimes tainted with a hint of underlying menace (check out the wonderful 'Trophy', which sounds not unlike a feminised Nick Cave). 'Fur For Gold' is similar to the Tidwell record in that Khan seems to assimilate a number of obvious reference points, including Bjork, PJ Harvey and Kate Bush, but has subsumed her transparent influences into her own bizarre and impressive terrain.
The instrumentation is always intelligent and fascinating - there are no strumming guitars when an autoharp or an expressive piano line creates so much more feeling. Many of these songs come across like baroque anthems or chamber pop mini-epics. There's an eerie and haunting quality to songs like 'Tahiti' and 'Sad Eyes' and the album's preoccupation faintly resembles the menacing encroachment of the erotic, adult world on childlike experience in Angela Carter's classic book 'The Company Of Wolves'. The spoken word intro to 'What's A Girl To Do?' and the rather grandiose finale 'I Saw A Light' arguably reveal some of Khan's affectations, but the cumulative effect this album leaves is lineringly mysterious and suspenseful. A very promising debut indeed.
'Post-War' is the second album in two years from the brilliant songwriter M Ward, who with his last album 'Transistor Radio' managed to craft a songbook both fresh and bathed in the warm glow of nostalgia. 'Post-War' is his first album with a full band (and it also features illustrious guest spots from Neko Case, due to perform with Ward in London in November, and My Morning Jacket frontman Jim James). The abiding musical presence is the ubiquitous Mike Mogis (Bright Eyes, Rilo Kiley) who adds colour and texture to many of these lugubrious songs. Perhaps as a direct result of the ensemble focus, there's less of Ward's charmingly dexterous guitar playing here, and a greater emphasis on the exuberant strum of acoustic guitars and plonk of honky tonk pianos. The new approach works particularly brilliantly on a thrilling reinterpretation of Daniel Johnston's 'To Go Home'. I'm not all that familiar with Johnston's output, although it's easy to see why so many are touched by the wistful and childlike simplicity of these lyrics ('God it's great to be alive/Takes the skin right off my eyes/To think I'll have to give it all up someday'). Combined with a meaty sound and clattering drums, the overall effect is unhinged and joyful.
Elsewhere, there's the dark country shuffle of 'Right In The Head', with its superb central lyric ('I hope he's right in the head, even if he has to wrong someone') and a sound that seems to just keep growing and growing from start to finish. A similarly expansive approach characterises the powerful 'Requiem' and 'Chinese Translation'. Yet there's also the fragile and delicate aura of the title track, mostly stripped back to just vocal, Wurlitzer and drums, although some subtle guitar work is eventually added. It has a wonderful sense of space, with the ensemble rigorously refusing to fill in the gaps, leaving Ward's subtle, fractured vocal room to breathe.
The more langorous 'Eyes On The Prize' provides a neat link between this album and the restrained textures of 'Transistor Radio'. It has a warm, familiar sound, although that's perhaps because I think it was among the new songs performed at Ward's Bush Hall show last month. 'Rollercoaster' and 'Magic Trick' (the latter very short and emboldened by canned applause and a chorus of vocals from Jim James) are both more playful, and ensure the album never becomes too weighty or serious minded.
'Post War' is a mercilessly concise record that I suspect has a lot of listens in it. Ward never allows the ensemble approach to become too conventional, or to overpower the beating heart at the centre of these songs. He has simply succeeded in bringing a more elaborate, expansive approach to his reconfiguring of traditional forms.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
The Benefits Of Brevity
Back in 1997, when I was 16 and maybe a little too in awe of Spiritualized's magnum opus 'Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space', I wanted every album in existence to clock in at CD busting length. In the modern age, we're now being told that none of us have enough time to listen to an entire album or read a book cover to cover (personally, I've never had any trouble with listening to an entire album, reading a good book at the same time and even writing about the album here afterwards!). So, more digestible albums may be back in fashion, and sometimes this is no bad thing, not least in the case of the three records I've acquired this week, all of which clock in at around 44-45 minutes.
When I interviewed Joel Gibb of Toronto's maverick 'gay folk Church group' The Hidden Cameras, he was both entertaining and uncompromising. When I played devil's advocate in suggesting that the band's aggressively gay agenda might limit their audience, he simply replied that they didn't need anyone offended or discomforted by their lyrics as a fan. An admirably defensive stance for sure and all the more interesting then that their third album 'Awoo' sees the gayness very much toned down. It's still there of course, but now between the lines of some occasionally bittersweet, highly romantic lyrics full of wonder and longing. There's even one song ('She's Gone') that could be given a heterosexual interpretation! Essentially, 'Awoo' is The Hidden Cameras album you can play on a family car trip without worrying if your folks are paying attention to the words.
Musically, it fairly predictably sticks to much the same formula. Here are twelve more songs that, mostly deftly, straddle that fine line between insanely infectious and absurdly irritating. Occasionally, they arguably cross the line. 'Lollipop' is so relentless and insistent that it grates, especially when it has the audacity to get EVEN FASTER towards the end. Some other songs, particularly 'Learning The Lie' and 'The Waning Moon' are a little repetitive, and the instrumental 'Heji' will no doubt be a lot of fun live, but seems slightly directionless in the context of the album, merely breaking the flow of an otherwise perfectly sequenced record.
On the plus side, it's worth acknowledging some of the subtle improvements in the band's sound here. There's an eerie reverb pervading the whole album, and an element of 60s beat pop or even at times rockabilly that makes some of the best moments sound like the songs Eddie Cochrane and Phil Spector never made together. Opener 'Death Of A Tune' kickstarts the album with a sheer burst of melodic joy, and a lyric that nimbly mingles melancholic and jubilant elements. Best of all is the compelling drive of the interlinked guitars and tribal drumming. It's one of the band's best songs so far. Similarly, the superbly titled 'Hump From Bending' moves from effective stop-start verses to a chorus so infectious it's impossbile to dislodge from the memory.
The string arrangements are mostly less saccharine, and more carefully entwined with the basic core of each song. This is particularly true in the album's more sensitive moments, some of which point to ways in which the band's sound might be further developed and progressed. The best of these is 'Wandering', a beautifully reflective half-time lilt, with lyrics that aspire to a dreamlike reverie. It's an entirely charming song, with a simple but powerful melody. 'Fee Fie' is also remarkably pretty, a close relation of 'A Miracle' or 'Builds The Bone'. Perhaps more interesting is 'Follow These Eyes', which benefits from the album's best arrangement, with carefully engineered crescendos and pizzicato strings creating a real sense of drama. It has something of the stately grandeur of Ben E King's 'Stand By Me', a sense underlined by the 'No I won't be afraid' lyric it lifts from that song. 'Heaven Turns To' is less surprising in its delicious sweetness, but it's no less effective for that. It actually reminds me of 'Bright Eyes' by Art Garfunkel, a guilty pleasure if ever there was one!
There are also some moments of greater ambition. 'She's Gone' begins as an amiable strum, but ends in a blur of jew's harp and driving rhythms which is about as close as this band will ever get to being funky. With its pebble percussion backing and toy acoustic guitars, closer 'The Waning Moon' incorporates some of Stephin Merritt's sonic methods, although the song isn't as substantial a closing number as 'The Man That I Am With My Man' or the excellent 'Mississauga Goddam'. 'For Fun', the only song here that comes close to outstaying its welcome at 5 minutes, dissolves into a wonderfully endearing strings and glockenspiel section before bursting back again completely unexpectedly to end in complete euphoria.
'Awoo' is another irresistible indie-pop confection, and one where it's arguable that Joel Gibb has most effectively combined his penchant for religious imagery with an underlying gay sensibility. 'Hump From Bending' is particularly effective in its deployment of the double-entendre of the title to imply frustration with conservative politics, restrictive societies and sympathetic support for those growing up as outsiders. Along with most of the rest of the album, it also captures the massively positive energy this band brings to their best material. This is actually superbly inclusive music - full of positivity and joy, but also capturing the lingering longing of love both fulifilled and unrequited. It will only be rivalled by the equally superb Camera Obscura and MJ Hibbett records for indie pop album of the year. I love this band.
Formerly a member of the sprawling collective that is Lambchop, Paul Burch now seems to be concentrating exclusively on his solo work. He has now given us another concise set of extremely rich pickings in 'East To West' on the Bloodshot label. I must confess I was somewhat wary when I read of Mark Knopfler's involvement. Although I certainly have a soft spot for early Dire Straits, Knopfler didn't exactly get the best out of Bob Dylan on either Slow Train Coming or Infidels, his work with his own band became increasingly flatly produced and cheesy, and his recent album with Emmylou Harris suffered from an occasionally stultifying blandness, although it had its moments. His contribution here is actually very low-key, providing subtle lead guitar flourishes on 'Before The Bells' and apparently offering sage advice and inspiration. Knopfler certainly has a genuine love of Nashville country music, so he's not out of place on this wonderfully authentic set. Perhaps the more easily recognisable guest is Dr. Ralph Stanley, who provides a great vocal turn on the old-time 'Little Glass Of Wine', and also gets namechecked in 'Daddy Rhythm Guitar', a charming tribute to Burch's father and the instrumental backbone of all country bands.
The album is impressively diverse, without ever sounding incoherent. There's straight-ahead bar-room honky tonk in 'When I'm In Love', eerily evocative atmospheres on 'Before The Bells' and 'Last Dream Of Will Keene', and a delightfully spirited strum in 'I Will Wait For You'. The consistent thread holding it all together is Burch's relaxed authority as a vocalist. Like his friend and fellow singer Laura Cantrell, he is never a showy vocalist, but his feel for the genre is completely instinctive and he has total command of his spidery melodies. His unassuming talent comes across right from the opening lines of exceptional opener 'Montreal', a tender and affecting song underpinned by a powerful rolling rhythm. Some of the songs feature duet vocals from Kelly Hogan, and their harmonising is delicate and controlled.
There are two major songs here. One is 'The Last Dream Of Will Keene', where Burch ponders the question of whether one can be found guilty of crimes committed only in dreams. It's an intriguing slant on the traditional murder ballad, and musically a close cousin of fan favourite 'Carter Cain'. The other is Burch's honest and sincere tribute to John Peel, simply called 'John Peel'. It's possible that this was recorded quite quickly, as it's the only track here not to feature any contributions from Burch's backing band the WPA Ballclub. Much has been written about Peel since his death, much of it by people overtly keen to claim control of his legacy but largely uninterested in his work during the final years of his life. It's unlikely that anyone will write anything as direct and affecting as this little gem of a song, which recalls both a visit Burch paid to Peel Acres and various aspects of the DJ's own life. In a few short lines it captures the essence of the man's approach to life and work: 'Had every record ever sent him/even the ones he never played/He said "there's a life there living in the grooves and I can feel it when I'm walking in the room"'. It's also lovely to hear Burch refer to Peel as 'the king of rock 'n' roll', a title usually reserved for Elvis ('it's time to fold the tent, the empire's no more/Tell your majesty it's over, John Peel sail on'). There won't be a dry eye in the house when this gets played at UK shows.
The only song that ends up being merely 'December Sparklers', which is pretty enough, but with its conventional 4/4 backbeat could really have been written by anyone from Ryan Adams to Josh Rouse. Pretty much everything else steers clear of such polite conventions, and demonstrates Burch's mastery of the tradition in which he operates. Mark Nevers again engineers superbly, helping to craft an evocative atmosphere and mood. The overall sound is probably Burch's smoothest to date, but this never detracts from the basic quality of the songwriting. From the slightly ragged ('I'm A Takin' It Home') to the beautifully serene ('Wander'), the WPA Ballclub provide sensitive and appropriate support, and they remain the unsung heroes of Burch's recorded catalogue. As good as his solo show at London's Borderline a couple of years ago was, I'm hoping he brings the band this time around. Either way, with such a strong set of new material in tow, the shows should be utterly unmissable.
In a completely different ballpark altogether is 'Slappers', the second album from the talented singer Dani Siciliano. Once again, she has worked closely with musical and life partner Matthew Herbert to craft a wildly unpredictable and thrilling collection which never settles for the ordinary when the extraordinary works so well. At 44 minutes, it's more concise than Herbert's own releases, and I think I actually prefer it to the smoother, more sophisticated 'Scale' album that Herbert himself released earlier this year, although both utilise the multi-faceted qualities of Siciliano's multitracked vocals.
On the surface, 'Slappers' is defiantly minimal, with most tracks characeterised by stark, basic drum programming and skeletal synth lines. Appreciating it's full glory requires close listening and unpicking of its unusual range of sounds, which in true Herbert fashion include samples sourced from the South London Slappers Collective (whoever and whatever they may be!) and percussion tracks built from beat boxes and samples of 'True Love Waits' rings. Throughout, it is rhythmically fascinating and sonically adventurous.
Siciliano's vocals are certainly smooth, but deceptively so - when her multitracked harmonies are set in juxtaposition with single voiced melodies, the contrast is striking. This works particularly brilliantly on the opening title track, which stutters and lurches with an endearing wooziness, and the maverick, brilliantly executed 'Think Twice', which takes its cue from contemporary R&B production, but Siciliano's strong vocal performance takes it into radically different territory. In essence, it doesn't sound even remotely comparable with any other contemporary pop music. The music here is slinky, seductive, constantly surprising, sassy, stylish and experimental. Sometimes it's just plain bonkers, particularly on the kitsch vaudeville of 'Why Can't I Make You High?' which comes complete with playful guitar and ukelele from Kitty and Ingrid. It's one of the few albums in recent years to come close to the restless invention of Prince at his best.
The overarching theme seems to be an ironic commentary on female empowerment and power relations between the sexes, neatly capped by a splendidly sexy pair of tracks at the end of the album. 'Wifey' throws Destiny's Child's vacous ballad 'Cater 2 U' violently upside down, a chorus of Siciliano's chanting 'catering to you, catering to me, wifey'. It has an effortless brilliance. 'Be My Producer' plays on the element of exploitation inherent in the creative relationship between singer and producer in the modern pop landscape, Siciliano denouncing the use of singers as mere advertising objects for the producer's creative agenda ('Make me money from your heat/This is how we comprimise/Taking honies from the streets/This is how we fund the lies'), whilst gleefully pilfering many of the production techniques. It's the same trick Siciliano and Herbert pulled off with 'Celebrity', the sole vocal track on Herbert's defiant 'Plat Du Jour' album from a couple of years ago, elucidated even more succinctly and intelligently here.
'Slappers' is a massive step forward from Siciliano's impressive but understated debut. It's joyously entertaining - simultaneously groovy and cerebral. Some have criticised Siciliano's records for simply being extentions of Matthew Herbert's own work released under another name. Well there's enough of Siciliano's own personality here to quash such accusations but, even accounting for Herbert's sonic input and substantial influence, to quote two fellow music writers I admire, I'm perfectly happy with yet more of the Unpredictable Same.
By way of contrast, Atlanta's hip hop superstars OutKast are not generally known for their brevity. Unable to work together on their last effort (the dense double solo set 'Speakerboxx/The Love Below'), they instead packed out two CDs to full capacity with their arch inventiveness and contrasting writing styles. Apparently working together again on 'Idlewild', in part a soundtrack to their forthcoming movie of the same name, they have taken their first substantial misstep.
In spite of all the critical plaudits currently being directed at this confounding, ragbag collection of half-baked ideas, I just can't get into this album. At 78 minutes, it is so long and so dense, its flow constantly interrupted by pointless skits and numerous guest slots, it's next to impossible to endure from start to finish and has the unmistakeable mark of a vanity project.
Still, that's not to say that there aren't great moments here, particularly when it's at its most vibrant and playful. Current single 'Morris Brown' is an infectious riot of vocal harmonies, Big Boi's brilliantly laconic rapping and insistent percussion. 'Idlewild Blue' manages to merge the urban and delta blues traditions into an outrageously entertaining post-modern concoction. It's surely a prime choice for a single, and the best chance of them replicating the success of 'Hey Ya' from this set. There's also a great moment where the presence of Dre and Boi themselves is decidedly backseat - new protege Janelle Monae takes sole vocal duties on the poptastic 'Call The Law'.
Yet, there's a nagging sense that the group are coasting. Musically, the album too often settles for the merely generic, relying more on sampled sounds that the more organic template set by the classic 'Stankonia'. Whilst the influence of swing band music pervades the set (in keeping with the film's prohibition era theme), they rarely integrate the jazzy stylings as well as on Speakerboxx's fabulous 'Bowtie'. The beats are rarely all that inventive either and many could have come from any of the major R&B hitmaking staples, from Jermaine Dupre to Timbaland or Lil Jon. By the time we get to the seriously underwhelming 'Greatest Show On Earth', further marred by the irritating warblings of the hideous Macy Gray, frustration has long set in.
Some more judicious editing and a less self-conscious approach to the production might have made an excellent record from 'Idlewild', but as it stands, it's wilfully incoherent and slightly underwhelming, despite containing some of the duo's most inventive rhyming. I'm still looking forward to the more concise 10 track project the duo promised before they veered out at a tangent on this forgiveable but frustrating flight of fancy.
When I interviewed Joel Gibb of Toronto's maverick 'gay folk Church group' The Hidden Cameras, he was both entertaining and uncompromising. When I played devil's advocate in suggesting that the band's aggressively gay agenda might limit their audience, he simply replied that they didn't need anyone offended or discomforted by their lyrics as a fan. An admirably defensive stance for sure and all the more interesting then that their third album 'Awoo' sees the gayness very much toned down. It's still there of course, but now between the lines of some occasionally bittersweet, highly romantic lyrics full of wonder and longing. There's even one song ('She's Gone') that could be given a heterosexual interpretation! Essentially, 'Awoo' is The Hidden Cameras album you can play on a family car trip without worrying if your folks are paying attention to the words.
Musically, it fairly predictably sticks to much the same formula. Here are twelve more songs that, mostly deftly, straddle that fine line between insanely infectious and absurdly irritating. Occasionally, they arguably cross the line. 'Lollipop' is so relentless and insistent that it grates, especially when it has the audacity to get EVEN FASTER towards the end. Some other songs, particularly 'Learning The Lie' and 'The Waning Moon' are a little repetitive, and the instrumental 'Heji' will no doubt be a lot of fun live, but seems slightly directionless in the context of the album, merely breaking the flow of an otherwise perfectly sequenced record.
On the plus side, it's worth acknowledging some of the subtle improvements in the band's sound here. There's an eerie reverb pervading the whole album, and an element of 60s beat pop or even at times rockabilly that makes some of the best moments sound like the songs Eddie Cochrane and Phil Spector never made together. Opener 'Death Of A Tune' kickstarts the album with a sheer burst of melodic joy, and a lyric that nimbly mingles melancholic and jubilant elements. Best of all is the compelling drive of the interlinked guitars and tribal drumming. It's one of the band's best songs so far. Similarly, the superbly titled 'Hump From Bending' moves from effective stop-start verses to a chorus so infectious it's impossbile to dislodge from the memory.
The string arrangements are mostly less saccharine, and more carefully entwined with the basic core of each song. This is particularly true in the album's more sensitive moments, some of which point to ways in which the band's sound might be further developed and progressed. The best of these is 'Wandering', a beautifully reflective half-time lilt, with lyrics that aspire to a dreamlike reverie. It's an entirely charming song, with a simple but powerful melody. 'Fee Fie' is also remarkably pretty, a close relation of 'A Miracle' or 'Builds The Bone'. Perhaps more interesting is 'Follow These Eyes', which benefits from the album's best arrangement, with carefully engineered crescendos and pizzicato strings creating a real sense of drama. It has something of the stately grandeur of Ben E King's 'Stand By Me', a sense underlined by the 'No I won't be afraid' lyric it lifts from that song. 'Heaven Turns To' is less surprising in its delicious sweetness, but it's no less effective for that. It actually reminds me of 'Bright Eyes' by Art Garfunkel, a guilty pleasure if ever there was one!
There are also some moments of greater ambition. 'She's Gone' begins as an amiable strum, but ends in a blur of jew's harp and driving rhythms which is about as close as this band will ever get to being funky. With its pebble percussion backing and toy acoustic guitars, closer 'The Waning Moon' incorporates some of Stephin Merritt's sonic methods, although the song isn't as substantial a closing number as 'The Man That I Am With My Man' or the excellent 'Mississauga Goddam'. 'For Fun', the only song here that comes close to outstaying its welcome at 5 minutes, dissolves into a wonderfully endearing strings and glockenspiel section before bursting back again completely unexpectedly to end in complete euphoria.
'Awoo' is another irresistible indie-pop confection, and one where it's arguable that Joel Gibb has most effectively combined his penchant for religious imagery with an underlying gay sensibility. 'Hump From Bending' is particularly effective in its deployment of the double-entendre of the title to imply frustration with conservative politics, restrictive societies and sympathetic support for those growing up as outsiders. Along with most of the rest of the album, it also captures the massively positive energy this band brings to their best material. This is actually superbly inclusive music - full of positivity and joy, but also capturing the lingering longing of love both fulifilled and unrequited. It will only be rivalled by the equally superb Camera Obscura and MJ Hibbett records for indie pop album of the year. I love this band.
Formerly a member of the sprawling collective that is Lambchop, Paul Burch now seems to be concentrating exclusively on his solo work. He has now given us another concise set of extremely rich pickings in 'East To West' on the Bloodshot label. I must confess I was somewhat wary when I read of Mark Knopfler's involvement. Although I certainly have a soft spot for early Dire Straits, Knopfler didn't exactly get the best out of Bob Dylan on either Slow Train Coming or Infidels, his work with his own band became increasingly flatly produced and cheesy, and his recent album with Emmylou Harris suffered from an occasionally stultifying blandness, although it had its moments. His contribution here is actually very low-key, providing subtle lead guitar flourishes on 'Before The Bells' and apparently offering sage advice and inspiration. Knopfler certainly has a genuine love of Nashville country music, so he's not out of place on this wonderfully authentic set. Perhaps the more easily recognisable guest is Dr. Ralph Stanley, who provides a great vocal turn on the old-time 'Little Glass Of Wine', and also gets namechecked in 'Daddy Rhythm Guitar', a charming tribute to Burch's father and the instrumental backbone of all country bands.
The album is impressively diverse, without ever sounding incoherent. There's straight-ahead bar-room honky tonk in 'When I'm In Love', eerily evocative atmospheres on 'Before The Bells' and 'Last Dream Of Will Keene', and a delightfully spirited strum in 'I Will Wait For You'. The consistent thread holding it all together is Burch's relaxed authority as a vocalist. Like his friend and fellow singer Laura Cantrell, he is never a showy vocalist, but his feel for the genre is completely instinctive and he has total command of his spidery melodies. His unassuming talent comes across right from the opening lines of exceptional opener 'Montreal', a tender and affecting song underpinned by a powerful rolling rhythm. Some of the songs feature duet vocals from Kelly Hogan, and their harmonising is delicate and controlled.
There are two major songs here. One is 'The Last Dream Of Will Keene', where Burch ponders the question of whether one can be found guilty of crimes committed only in dreams. It's an intriguing slant on the traditional murder ballad, and musically a close cousin of fan favourite 'Carter Cain'. The other is Burch's honest and sincere tribute to John Peel, simply called 'John Peel'. It's possible that this was recorded quite quickly, as it's the only track here not to feature any contributions from Burch's backing band the WPA Ballclub. Much has been written about Peel since his death, much of it by people overtly keen to claim control of his legacy but largely uninterested in his work during the final years of his life. It's unlikely that anyone will write anything as direct and affecting as this little gem of a song, which recalls both a visit Burch paid to Peel Acres and various aspects of the DJ's own life. In a few short lines it captures the essence of the man's approach to life and work: 'Had every record ever sent him/even the ones he never played/He said "there's a life there living in the grooves and I can feel it when I'm walking in the room"'. It's also lovely to hear Burch refer to Peel as 'the king of rock 'n' roll', a title usually reserved for Elvis ('it's time to fold the tent, the empire's no more/Tell your majesty it's over, John Peel sail on'). There won't be a dry eye in the house when this gets played at UK shows.
The only song that ends up being merely 'December Sparklers', which is pretty enough, but with its conventional 4/4 backbeat could really have been written by anyone from Ryan Adams to Josh Rouse. Pretty much everything else steers clear of such polite conventions, and demonstrates Burch's mastery of the tradition in which he operates. Mark Nevers again engineers superbly, helping to craft an evocative atmosphere and mood. The overall sound is probably Burch's smoothest to date, but this never detracts from the basic quality of the songwriting. From the slightly ragged ('I'm A Takin' It Home') to the beautifully serene ('Wander'), the WPA Ballclub provide sensitive and appropriate support, and they remain the unsung heroes of Burch's recorded catalogue. As good as his solo show at London's Borderline a couple of years ago was, I'm hoping he brings the band this time around. Either way, with such a strong set of new material in tow, the shows should be utterly unmissable.
In a completely different ballpark altogether is 'Slappers', the second album from the talented singer Dani Siciliano. Once again, she has worked closely with musical and life partner Matthew Herbert to craft a wildly unpredictable and thrilling collection which never settles for the ordinary when the extraordinary works so well. At 44 minutes, it's more concise than Herbert's own releases, and I think I actually prefer it to the smoother, more sophisticated 'Scale' album that Herbert himself released earlier this year, although both utilise the multi-faceted qualities of Siciliano's multitracked vocals.
On the surface, 'Slappers' is defiantly minimal, with most tracks characeterised by stark, basic drum programming and skeletal synth lines. Appreciating it's full glory requires close listening and unpicking of its unusual range of sounds, which in true Herbert fashion include samples sourced from the South London Slappers Collective (whoever and whatever they may be!) and percussion tracks built from beat boxes and samples of 'True Love Waits' rings. Throughout, it is rhythmically fascinating and sonically adventurous.
Siciliano's vocals are certainly smooth, but deceptively so - when her multitracked harmonies are set in juxtaposition with single voiced melodies, the contrast is striking. This works particularly brilliantly on the opening title track, which stutters and lurches with an endearing wooziness, and the maverick, brilliantly executed 'Think Twice', which takes its cue from contemporary R&B production, but Siciliano's strong vocal performance takes it into radically different territory. In essence, it doesn't sound even remotely comparable with any other contemporary pop music. The music here is slinky, seductive, constantly surprising, sassy, stylish and experimental. Sometimes it's just plain bonkers, particularly on the kitsch vaudeville of 'Why Can't I Make You High?' which comes complete with playful guitar and ukelele from Kitty and Ingrid. It's one of the few albums in recent years to come close to the restless invention of Prince at his best.
The overarching theme seems to be an ironic commentary on female empowerment and power relations between the sexes, neatly capped by a splendidly sexy pair of tracks at the end of the album. 'Wifey' throws Destiny's Child's vacous ballad 'Cater 2 U' violently upside down, a chorus of Siciliano's chanting 'catering to you, catering to me, wifey'. It has an effortless brilliance. 'Be My Producer' plays on the element of exploitation inherent in the creative relationship between singer and producer in the modern pop landscape, Siciliano denouncing the use of singers as mere advertising objects for the producer's creative agenda ('Make me money from your heat/This is how we comprimise/Taking honies from the streets/This is how we fund the lies'), whilst gleefully pilfering many of the production techniques. It's the same trick Siciliano and Herbert pulled off with 'Celebrity', the sole vocal track on Herbert's defiant 'Plat Du Jour' album from a couple of years ago, elucidated even more succinctly and intelligently here.
'Slappers' is a massive step forward from Siciliano's impressive but understated debut. It's joyously entertaining - simultaneously groovy and cerebral. Some have criticised Siciliano's records for simply being extentions of Matthew Herbert's own work released under another name. Well there's enough of Siciliano's own personality here to quash such accusations but, even accounting for Herbert's sonic input and substantial influence, to quote two fellow music writers I admire, I'm perfectly happy with yet more of the Unpredictable Same.
By way of contrast, Atlanta's hip hop superstars OutKast are not generally known for their brevity. Unable to work together on their last effort (the dense double solo set 'Speakerboxx/The Love Below'), they instead packed out two CDs to full capacity with their arch inventiveness and contrasting writing styles. Apparently working together again on 'Idlewild', in part a soundtrack to their forthcoming movie of the same name, they have taken their first substantial misstep.
In spite of all the critical plaudits currently being directed at this confounding, ragbag collection of half-baked ideas, I just can't get into this album. At 78 minutes, it is so long and so dense, its flow constantly interrupted by pointless skits and numerous guest slots, it's next to impossible to endure from start to finish and has the unmistakeable mark of a vanity project.
Still, that's not to say that there aren't great moments here, particularly when it's at its most vibrant and playful. Current single 'Morris Brown' is an infectious riot of vocal harmonies, Big Boi's brilliantly laconic rapping and insistent percussion. 'Idlewild Blue' manages to merge the urban and delta blues traditions into an outrageously entertaining post-modern concoction. It's surely a prime choice for a single, and the best chance of them replicating the success of 'Hey Ya' from this set. There's also a great moment where the presence of Dre and Boi themselves is decidedly backseat - new protege Janelle Monae takes sole vocal duties on the poptastic 'Call The Law'.
Yet, there's a nagging sense that the group are coasting. Musically, the album too often settles for the merely generic, relying more on sampled sounds that the more organic template set by the classic 'Stankonia'. Whilst the influence of swing band music pervades the set (in keeping with the film's prohibition era theme), they rarely integrate the jazzy stylings as well as on Speakerboxx's fabulous 'Bowtie'. The beats are rarely all that inventive either and many could have come from any of the major R&B hitmaking staples, from Jermaine Dupre to Timbaland or Lil Jon. By the time we get to the seriously underwhelming 'Greatest Show On Earth', further marred by the irritating warblings of the hideous Macy Gray, frustration has long set in.
Some more judicious editing and a less self-conscious approach to the production might have made an excellent record from 'Idlewild', but as it stands, it's wilfully incoherent and slightly underwhelming, despite containing some of the duo's most inventive rhyming. I'm still looking forward to the more concise 10 track project the duo promised before they veered out at a tangent on this forgiveable but frustrating flight of fancy.
Monkey Business
Oh well. Just when you think you have the Mercury Judges sussed, they return to blatant populism, and The Arctic Monkeys are confirmed as 2006's Franz Ferdinand. Prolific they may be, but their latest single reveals the limitations of their taut rock sound more than it does their strengths. It's also hard to see how they can possibly sustain the wave of popular appreciation generated by their debut, a problem now already hampering Franz Ferdinand. I completely respect anyone's right to enjoy the record, and to be one of the masses singing along to every wittily observed word at this year's summer festivals. Yet, the nagging question remains - how much longer do we have to settle for this as if it's the highest, most jaw-droppingly original art to which our musicians can aspire?