Vandermark 5 - Beat Reader (Atavistic, 2008)
The Chicago jazz scene is frighteningly alive right now. From the inter-connected post-rock artists veering into more improvised territory on the Thrill Jockey roster (centred around trumpeter/composer Rob Mazurek and guitarist Jeff Parker) to the fiery explosion of expression at the heart of Ken Vandermark’s constantly evolving quintet, there’s a plethora of original and intelligent ideas on display.
For ‘Beat Reader’, Vandermark has assembled his strongest and least conventional line-up so far. With no piano or guitar, the harmonic accompaniment is provided solely by Fred Lonberg-Holm’s attacking ‘cello. With more electronic manipulation here than on his excellent trio recordings in his own name, Lonberg-Holm crafts fascinating textures and patterns, often sounding savage and unhinged. With Vandermark himself mostly favouring baritone saxophone or a range of clarinets, there’s an interesting tonal contrast between his playing and the alto or tenor of Dave Rempis.
Vandermark proves himself a master of constructing a careful balance between composed and improvised elements. Sometimes the music is as free and furious as an Ornette Coleman session, but it is definitely not free jazz in a technical sense. Much of it swings or grooves with the swagger and passion of a 1960s ensemble, and there’s as strong a connection with blues and roots as with European-influenced abstraction. For example, the slow walk that dominates the first half of ‘Further From The Truth’ is remarkably slinky, whilst the looser second half is eerie and contemplative.
All the pieces all seem to be dedicated to particular composers, and if there’s an abiding theme to this excellent record, it’s the way in which techniques of composition and arrangement can be used as effective springboards to free flights of fierce improvisation. Fascinatingly, the swirling, hypnotic ‘Friction’ is dedicated to Hungarian innovator Gyorgy Ligeti. Given Ligeti’s preference for sheets of sound, rhythmic complexity and dissonance over conventional melody and harmony, it’s surprising how accessible the central theme of ‘Friction’ is. Similarly, the slow tempo of ‘Any Given Number’ allows notes to linger in the mind, and also provides ample space and freedom.
The group’s arrangements, whether planned or spontaneous, are generally inspired. Lonberg-Holm is frequently left to his own devices, and the range of sound he can draw from his instrument immediately becomes violently clear, much of it perhaps drawn more from the techniques of contemporary classical music or folk music than the jazz tradition. Better still are the displaced stabs that accompany Vandermark’s wild and fast-flowing solo on the extraordinary ‘Signposts’. It’s a particularly harmonious juxtaposition of individual expression with collective alchemy. There’s also a tendency to veer unpredictably from passages of free experimentation, with a mischievous manipulation of time and space, to passages which swing simply but thrillingly. ‘Speedplay’, particularly, seems to cover all bases with surprising success, a powerful testament to the abilities of drummer Tim Daisy and bassist Kent Kessler.
After an unfathomably slow start to 2008, there suddenly seems to be so much to write about, particularly from artists really pushing at the boundaries of expression and classification. There’s Toumani Diabate’s Mande Variations, which effortlessly combines breathtaking instrumental virtuosity with an open, spacious beauty; some serene meditations from Polish pianist Marcin Wasilewski’s Trio; the compelling integration of percussionist Marilyn Mazur and saxophonist Jan Garbarek; the melding of stark minimalism and righteous grooving from Nik Bartsch’s Ronin and a good deal more besides.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
RIP Teo Macero and Joe Gibbs
All those with an interest in the creation and manipulation of sound may well feel saddened by the recent deaths of Teo Macero and Joe Gibbs, two of the most influential producers in popular music.
Macero’s work with Miles Davis was genuinely pioneering, introducing techniques of cut-and-paste editing to a form of music that had formerly assumed the primacy of the live recording. It would have been enough for Macero to have produced Kind of Blue or Sketches of Spain but his later work on the likes of In A Silent Way, Bitches Brew, Tribute To Jack Johnson and On The Corner helped revolutionise the music for a second time. For ‘In A Silent Way’, still my personal favourite Miles Davis album, Teo collaborated with Miles to edit together two meticulously crafted tracks from hours of recordings. The recent box sets with their various out-takes give a fascinating insight into this highly creative process. Macero also worked with a fascinating variety of other Columbia Recording artists, including Dave Brubeck, Duke Ellington and Charles Mingus, helping craft some of the most significant and influential albums in contemporary music history. Macero is generally believed to be one of the few figures prepared to stand up to Miles Davis over creative decisions, and a man capable of eliciting compromise and conciliation from a notoriously intense control-freak. Brian Eno claims that Macero did something that was ‘extremely modern’, a statement supported by the fact that those extraordinary, spatial, haunting records with Miles still sound remarkably fresh even now.
Joe Gibbs was one of the legends of rocksteady and reggae, but has generally garnered less attention than those wild pioneers of dub such as Lee Perry or Keith Hudson. Perhaps this is merely because their creative use of the studio was frequently more obvious and pivotal. Yet Gibbs was responsible for some of the very finest reggae albums – particularly Culture’s astounding ‘Two Sevens Clash’ and its righteous fury. He also worked his magic with The Heptones, The Mighty Diamonds, The Ethiopians, Johnny Clarke and many others, and scored a massive hit with Nicky Thomas’ ‘Love of the Common People’. I’ve always admired the great sound of the drums on his recordings.
Macero’s work with Miles Davis was genuinely pioneering, introducing techniques of cut-and-paste editing to a form of music that had formerly assumed the primacy of the live recording. It would have been enough for Macero to have produced Kind of Blue or Sketches of Spain but his later work on the likes of In A Silent Way, Bitches Brew, Tribute To Jack Johnson and On The Corner helped revolutionise the music for a second time. For ‘In A Silent Way’, still my personal favourite Miles Davis album, Teo collaborated with Miles to edit together two meticulously crafted tracks from hours of recordings. The recent box sets with their various out-takes give a fascinating insight into this highly creative process. Macero also worked with a fascinating variety of other Columbia Recording artists, including Dave Brubeck, Duke Ellington and Charles Mingus, helping craft some of the most significant and influential albums in contemporary music history. Macero is generally believed to be one of the few figures prepared to stand up to Miles Davis over creative decisions, and a man capable of eliciting compromise and conciliation from a notoriously intense control-freak. Brian Eno claims that Macero did something that was ‘extremely modern’, a statement supported by the fact that those extraordinary, spatial, haunting records with Miles still sound remarkably fresh even now.
Joe Gibbs was one of the legends of rocksteady and reggae, but has generally garnered less attention than those wild pioneers of dub such as Lee Perry or Keith Hudson. Perhaps this is merely because their creative use of the studio was frequently more obvious and pivotal. Yet Gibbs was responsible for some of the very finest reggae albums – particularly Culture’s astounding ‘Two Sevens Clash’ and its righteous fury. He also worked his magic with The Heptones, The Mighty Diamonds, The Ethiopians, Johnny Clarke and many others, and scored a massive hit with Nicky Thomas’ ‘Love of the Common People’. I’ve always admired the great sound of the drums on his recordings.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Arbiter of Taste
Nick Lowe - Jesus of Cool (1978, Reissued by Proper 2008)
I’ve felt for a while that Nick Lowe is one of the most underrated and unfairly marginalised of the great British songwriters. Even now, most people know him only through the Brinsley Schwartz hit ‘Cruel To Be Kind’ or through Elvis Costello’s version of ‘(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding’. Recently, with a suave and sophisticated grey demeanour, he has reinvented himself superbly as a light country soul singer in the mould of Dan Penn. His early solo material was far from this though – and indeed, with his estuary vowels a little more pronounced – even his voice sounds somewhat unrecognisable from his recent works.
Now lavishly repackaged by Proper, ‘Jesus of Cool’ looks set to gain a thoroughly deserved reappraisal. The title now seems loaded with irony – in the intervening period since the album’s original release, Lowe has been many things, but never really hip or cool, and the cover images now look purely goofy. Yet the title came from a genuine piece of writing in Sounds from Tim Lott that described Lowe as ‘a bona fide Jesus of Cool!’ The US title, presumably aimed at avoiding offending sensitive Christians, was ‘Pure Pop For Now People’, a cloying piece of industry-speak which sounds exactly like the target of songs such as ‘Music for Money’ or ‘Shake and Pop’.
Indeed, the album’s presiding theme is the dispensability and disposability of pop music culture, a state of affairs that arguably hasn’t changed much since 1978. Lowe’s snide and cynical verbal assaults have probably diminished in impact a little over time, but there’s still a lot of fun to be had in the savage barroom boogie of ‘Shake and Pop’ or the deceptively smooth ‘Little Hitler’.
Wheareas Lowe’s recent excursions into country soul have explored a consistent and sedate sound model, much of ‘Jesus of Cool’ feels like irony-laden genre experimentation. It suggests that Lowe has as much in common with irreverent contemporary songwriters such as Stephin Merritt as with the classicists with whom he is more frequently compared. Where the enthralling ‘Tonight’ sounds like a youthful precursor to his brilliant ‘Let’s Stay In And Make Love’, a laid-back and beautifully private love song (‘tonight we’re just a boy and girl/the only ones in the world’), ‘So It Goes’ has jaunty phrasing that resembles Thin Lizzy’s ‘The Boys are Back in Town’. On the minor hit ‘I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass’, Lowe sounds like a quirky Bowie enthusiast, the jerky rhythm of the song bolstering its insistence. On ‘No Reason’, he even veers into Ska territory.
This gameful flitting about from style to style works chiefly because Lowe is a master of simple, infectious melody, and because he is a biting, intelligent lyricist. It also works because a handful of the songs (the wiry funk of ‘Nutted By Reality’, ‘…Breaking Glass’ and ’36 Inches High’ particularly) are genuine oddities, with unconventional arrangements and a producer’s attention to detail. The album seems to present Lowe as an avid collector and digester of a range of music, which he then re-assembles to suit his own purposes.
This handsome reissue comes in superbly designed packaging, with informative sleevenotes and a whole host of excellent bonus tracks (solo recordings from the ‘widerness’ period between the demise of Brinsley Schwartz and the arrival of this album). Most apposite is the wonderful ‘I Love My Label’, another compelling dissection of music industry culture. There’s also a highly enjoyable, high speed take on ‘Cruel To Be Kind’ and a furiously energetic ‘Heart of the City’. It’s all value for money, I’d say.
I’ve felt for a while that Nick Lowe is one of the most underrated and unfairly marginalised of the great British songwriters. Even now, most people know him only through the Brinsley Schwartz hit ‘Cruel To Be Kind’ or through Elvis Costello’s version of ‘(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding’. Recently, with a suave and sophisticated grey demeanour, he has reinvented himself superbly as a light country soul singer in the mould of Dan Penn. His early solo material was far from this though – and indeed, with his estuary vowels a little more pronounced – even his voice sounds somewhat unrecognisable from his recent works.
Now lavishly repackaged by Proper, ‘Jesus of Cool’ looks set to gain a thoroughly deserved reappraisal. The title now seems loaded with irony – in the intervening period since the album’s original release, Lowe has been many things, but never really hip or cool, and the cover images now look purely goofy. Yet the title came from a genuine piece of writing in Sounds from Tim Lott that described Lowe as ‘a bona fide Jesus of Cool!’ The US title, presumably aimed at avoiding offending sensitive Christians, was ‘Pure Pop For Now People’, a cloying piece of industry-speak which sounds exactly like the target of songs such as ‘Music for Money’ or ‘Shake and Pop’.
Indeed, the album’s presiding theme is the dispensability and disposability of pop music culture, a state of affairs that arguably hasn’t changed much since 1978. Lowe’s snide and cynical verbal assaults have probably diminished in impact a little over time, but there’s still a lot of fun to be had in the savage barroom boogie of ‘Shake and Pop’ or the deceptively smooth ‘Little Hitler’.
Wheareas Lowe’s recent excursions into country soul have explored a consistent and sedate sound model, much of ‘Jesus of Cool’ feels like irony-laden genre experimentation. It suggests that Lowe has as much in common with irreverent contemporary songwriters such as Stephin Merritt as with the classicists with whom he is more frequently compared. Where the enthralling ‘Tonight’ sounds like a youthful precursor to his brilliant ‘Let’s Stay In And Make Love’, a laid-back and beautifully private love song (‘tonight we’re just a boy and girl/the only ones in the world’), ‘So It Goes’ has jaunty phrasing that resembles Thin Lizzy’s ‘The Boys are Back in Town’. On the minor hit ‘I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass’, Lowe sounds like a quirky Bowie enthusiast, the jerky rhythm of the song bolstering its insistence. On ‘No Reason’, he even veers into Ska territory.
This gameful flitting about from style to style works chiefly because Lowe is a master of simple, infectious melody, and because he is a biting, intelligent lyricist. It also works because a handful of the songs (the wiry funk of ‘Nutted By Reality’, ‘…Breaking Glass’ and ’36 Inches High’ particularly) are genuine oddities, with unconventional arrangements and a producer’s attention to detail. The album seems to present Lowe as an avid collector and digester of a range of music, which he then re-assembles to suit his own purposes.
This handsome reissue comes in superbly designed packaging, with informative sleevenotes and a whole host of excellent bonus tracks (solo recordings from the ‘widerness’ period between the demise of Brinsley Schwartz and the arrival of this album). Most apposite is the wonderful ‘I Love My Label’, another compelling dissection of music industry culture. There’s also a highly enjoyable, high speed take on ‘Cruel To Be Kind’ and a furiously energetic ‘Heart of the City’. It’s all value for money, I’d say.
Heart and Soul
Wildbirds and Peacedrums - Heartcore (Leaf, 2007)
The title is such a straightforward and obvious play on words that it seems staggering that it hasn’t been used somewhere before. I’m not sure whether ‘Heartcore’ qualifies as a 2007 or a 2008 release. It initially surfaced last year, but the generally wonderful Leaf label appears to be affording it a second release with wider distribution in April. Enabling more people to hear this quite remarkable duo from Sweden can only be a positive thing. The combination of Mariam Wallentin’s resonant, soulful vocals and the carefully crafted instrumentation of drummer Andreas Werliin inspires awe with consummate ease.
It’s difficult to know how to categorise this group’s fascinating sound. The two have just been named as benefactors of a substantial Swedish jazz award, although few would associate this song-based music with jazz or improvisation, although there are occasional elements of the latter. The group have been described elsewhere as ‘freak folk’ or ‘folktronica’ but those rather restrictive constructions barely even hint at the raw clarity of much of this music.
Some of these tracks are based purely on clattering percussion and Wallentin’s vocals alone. Her voice is so rich in charisma, intensity, personality and power that she simply does not require supporting harmony or instrumental arrangements. For example, the palpable anxiety and tension in ‘Doubt/Hope’ (the lyrics reference nail-biting) comes mainly from the way in which Wallentin’s phrasing and dynamic range interacts with the crisp, attacking percussion. The rhythm here is audacious and intricate, but sometimes it’s left as simple and uncluttered as humanly possible. ‘Nakina’ is remarkable in this respect – just a slow backbeat and Wallentin’s aching and vulnerable singing. It sounds close to Portishead, but completely free from their reliance on sampled sounds. It’s a refreshing and unconventional approach, perhaps indeed drawing inspiration from the most primal and elemental of folk music. It’s certainly not ‘freak folk’ in the cloying hippy-ish manner of Devendra Banhart, or the pretentious faux-medievalism of Circulus. There’s something brutally immediate and overwhelming about this very basic merger of melody and rhythm.
Elsewhere, the vibe is looser and less rigorous, with an emphasis on melodic innovation and extension. On ‘Bird’, Andreas Werliin provides a chattering patter on toms but emphasises expression rather than strict time. This allows Wallentin, appropriately enough, to take flight, frequently resembling a young Patti Smith. The lyrics begin with the line ‘I am a bird now’ and it’s a tempting diversion to ponder whether this is a nod in the direction of Anthony and the Johnsons. Wallentin has a good deal more vocal armoury than Anthony Hegarty, whose tremulous reverb is beginning to suffer from its increasing omnipresence through guest appearances. So different does Wallentin’s voice sound across the tracks on this record that it’s sometimes hard to believe we are listening to the same singer – she is phenomenally expressive and has masterful tonal control.
It would have been interesting enough had the group followed the percussion and vocals template across an entire album, but ‘Heartcore’ reveals that Werliin and Wallentin have plenty more tricks up their sleeve. The clanging sounds on ‘Lost Love’ hint at Gamelan textures, and the lyric conjures up powerful feelings of loneliness and regret (‘on the mountain, I see lots of faces but I only long for yours’). Even better is the sublime ‘I Can’t Tell In His Eyes’ which works largely through leaving plenty of space within its enveloping, serene and hypnotic sound. Werliin’s subtle brush drums perfectly complement the sweet but unpredictable nature of Wallentin’s vocals, and the use of conventional harmonic backing is all the more successful because it is rarely deployed elsewhere.
The duo are also not averse to creating strangely accessible moments. ‘The Way Things Go’ reminds me a little of Matthew Herbert’s work with Dani Sicilliano or Roisin Murphy, although he would be unlikely to rely so heavily on a simple light shuffle beat. There’s plenty here for admirers of The Gossip or other such raw modern takes on soulful, blues-infused rock (particularly for those who admire the stripped down impact of ‘Listen Up’), but there’s a sensitivity and subtlety mostly lacking from more conventional garage rock. In spite of its frequent sparseness, there’s a real dynamic and textural range to the material here. What a superb album this is – one of the most captivating and original records I’ve heard in quite a while.
The title is such a straightforward and obvious play on words that it seems staggering that it hasn’t been used somewhere before. I’m not sure whether ‘Heartcore’ qualifies as a 2007 or a 2008 release. It initially surfaced last year, but the generally wonderful Leaf label appears to be affording it a second release with wider distribution in April. Enabling more people to hear this quite remarkable duo from Sweden can only be a positive thing. The combination of Mariam Wallentin’s resonant, soulful vocals and the carefully crafted instrumentation of drummer Andreas Werliin inspires awe with consummate ease.
It’s difficult to know how to categorise this group’s fascinating sound. The two have just been named as benefactors of a substantial Swedish jazz award, although few would associate this song-based music with jazz or improvisation, although there are occasional elements of the latter. The group have been described elsewhere as ‘freak folk’ or ‘folktronica’ but those rather restrictive constructions barely even hint at the raw clarity of much of this music.
Some of these tracks are based purely on clattering percussion and Wallentin’s vocals alone. Her voice is so rich in charisma, intensity, personality and power that she simply does not require supporting harmony or instrumental arrangements. For example, the palpable anxiety and tension in ‘Doubt/Hope’ (the lyrics reference nail-biting) comes mainly from the way in which Wallentin’s phrasing and dynamic range interacts with the crisp, attacking percussion. The rhythm here is audacious and intricate, but sometimes it’s left as simple and uncluttered as humanly possible. ‘Nakina’ is remarkable in this respect – just a slow backbeat and Wallentin’s aching and vulnerable singing. It sounds close to Portishead, but completely free from their reliance on sampled sounds. It’s a refreshing and unconventional approach, perhaps indeed drawing inspiration from the most primal and elemental of folk music. It’s certainly not ‘freak folk’ in the cloying hippy-ish manner of Devendra Banhart, or the pretentious faux-medievalism of Circulus. There’s something brutally immediate and overwhelming about this very basic merger of melody and rhythm.
Elsewhere, the vibe is looser and less rigorous, with an emphasis on melodic innovation and extension. On ‘Bird’, Andreas Werliin provides a chattering patter on toms but emphasises expression rather than strict time. This allows Wallentin, appropriately enough, to take flight, frequently resembling a young Patti Smith. The lyrics begin with the line ‘I am a bird now’ and it’s a tempting diversion to ponder whether this is a nod in the direction of Anthony and the Johnsons. Wallentin has a good deal more vocal armoury than Anthony Hegarty, whose tremulous reverb is beginning to suffer from its increasing omnipresence through guest appearances. So different does Wallentin’s voice sound across the tracks on this record that it’s sometimes hard to believe we are listening to the same singer – she is phenomenally expressive and has masterful tonal control.
It would have been interesting enough had the group followed the percussion and vocals template across an entire album, but ‘Heartcore’ reveals that Werliin and Wallentin have plenty more tricks up their sleeve. The clanging sounds on ‘Lost Love’ hint at Gamelan textures, and the lyric conjures up powerful feelings of loneliness and regret (‘on the mountain, I see lots of faces but I only long for yours’). Even better is the sublime ‘I Can’t Tell In His Eyes’ which works largely through leaving plenty of space within its enveloping, serene and hypnotic sound. Werliin’s subtle brush drums perfectly complement the sweet but unpredictable nature of Wallentin’s vocals, and the use of conventional harmonic backing is all the more successful because it is rarely deployed elsewhere.
The duo are also not averse to creating strangely accessible moments. ‘The Way Things Go’ reminds me a little of Matthew Herbert’s work with Dani Sicilliano or Roisin Murphy, although he would be unlikely to rely so heavily on a simple light shuffle beat. There’s plenty here for admirers of The Gossip or other such raw modern takes on soulful, blues-infused rock (particularly for those who admire the stripped down impact of ‘Listen Up’), but there’s a sensitivity and subtlety mostly lacking from more conventional garage rock. In spite of its frequent sparseness, there’s a real dynamic and textural range to the material here. What a superb album this is – one of the most captivating and original records I’ve heard in quite a while.
Monday, February 25, 2008
'Oh no, I almost stepped in me cake!'
Gwilym Simcock @ The Vortex, London 24/2/08
The sedate, candlelit, table-and-chairs set up at London’s Vortex Jazz Club provides an appropriate ambience for Gwilym Simcock’s performance, which veers between the playful and the richly emotive. Simcock has had an intriguing career so far, establishing himself as a pianist of international standing through his contributions to collaborative projects (Acoustic Triangle, Neon) and as a band member for other composers. It’s taken him a good five years to produce an album under his own name, but ‘Perception’ is as audacious and inspired a record as anyone could hope for.
It’s Gwilym’s birthday tonight, which lightens the mood somewhat and makes for an entertaining evening. It’s conceivable that he’s a musician who could come across as too intense, perhaps even po-faced – a prodigious talent who appears to have devoted every waking hour to practising. Yet tonight’s gig is genuinely a lot of fun, with Vortex manager Ollie Weindling presenting Gwilym with a rather meagre-looking birthday cake.
Simcock adheres to the two set jazz club formula tonight, but keeps matters interesting by playing the first set in a trio set-up and the second set with his full sextet (featuring legends Stan Sulzman and John Parricelli). The first set reveals Simcock’s formidable technique and improvisational flair (he threatens that his birthday allows him to take extra long solos). There’s also plenty of evidence of his extraordinary polyrhythmic invention, from ‘Spring Step’ and its tetchy shifting between half time, double time, swung and straight rhythms to his arrangement of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ which is truly fearsome in its audacity. Luckily Phil Donkin and Martin France are equals in this regard, France particularly revelling in the opportunity to display his dexterous daring behind the kit. Sometimes he plays a little too frantically, and certainly too loudly, but his constant risk-taking is admirable.
The first set also displays a side of Simcock’s writing and playing that might be too easily ignored. First of all, there’s a strong celebratory streak, much of it seemingly drawn from African harmony and rhythm. There’s also a clear playful quality too, and even in the midst of his most questing solos, Simcock is unafraid to strip things back down to their bare essentials, concentrating on developing simple ideas and motifs to their logical conclusions. There are plenty of teasing suggestions and subtle understatements too. He’s also keen to exploit the full range of sounds from the piano, frequently muting notes or plucking the strings directly.
Such predilections and themes are extended in the sextet set, which benefits greatly from the addition of the excellent young percussionist Ben Bryant, who, surreptitiously hidden behind a pillar at the back of the stage, creates constantly fascinating sheets of sound from an entire plethora of instruments. For much of this set, Simcock weaves tunes together, to make the most of the contrast between languid poignancy and joyful exuberance. The latter is most clearly evidenced on the intricate ‘Snakey’, but the two moods combine to intoxicating effect on a splendid ‘Time and Tide’. It takes Stan Sulzman a disconcertingly long time to realise he’s painfully out of tune, but once this is corrected, the music becomes thrillingly alive. With gleeful irreverence, Simcock promises to end the set with a ‘little country number’. He’s not too far from the truth, as the piece which follows hinted so strongly towards Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ that I wondered whether it might be a bold re-arrangement of that very tune. It certainly grooved as righteously as anything I’ve heard in some time.
The sedate, candlelit, table-and-chairs set up at London’s Vortex Jazz Club provides an appropriate ambience for Gwilym Simcock’s performance, which veers between the playful and the richly emotive. Simcock has had an intriguing career so far, establishing himself as a pianist of international standing through his contributions to collaborative projects (Acoustic Triangle, Neon) and as a band member for other composers. It’s taken him a good five years to produce an album under his own name, but ‘Perception’ is as audacious and inspired a record as anyone could hope for.
It’s Gwilym’s birthday tonight, which lightens the mood somewhat and makes for an entertaining evening. It’s conceivable that he’s a musician who could come across as too intense, perhaps even po-faced – a prodigious talent who appears to have devoted every waking hour to practising. Yet tonight’s gig is genuinely a lot of fun, with Vortex manager Ollie Weindling presenting Gwilym with a rather meagre-looking birthday cake.
Simcock adheres to the two set jazz club formula tonight, but keeps matters interesting by playing the first set in a trio set-up and the second set with his full sextet (featuring legends Stan Sulzman and John Parricelli). The first set reveals Simcock’s formidable technique and improvisational flair (he threatens that his birthday allows him to take extra long solos). There’s also plenty of evidence of his extraordinary polyrhythmic invention, from ‘Spring Step’ and its tetchy shifting between half time, double time, swung and straight rhythms to his arrangement of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ which is truly fearsome in its audacity. Luckily Phil Donkin and Martin France are equals in this regard, France particularly revelling in the opportunity to display his dexterous daring behind the kit. Sometimes he plays a little too frantically, and certainly too loudly, but his constant risk-taking is admirable.
The first set also displays a side of Simcock’s writing and playing that might be too easily ignored. First of all, there’s a strong celebratory streak, much of it seemingly drawn from African harmony and rhythm. There’s also a clear playful quality too, and even in the midst of his most questing solos, Simcock is unafraid to strip things back down to their bare essentials, concentrating on developing simple ideas and motifs to their logical conclusions. There are plenty of teasing suggestions and subtle understatements too. He’s also keen to exploit the full range of sounds from the piano, frequently muting notes or plucking the strings directly.
Such predilections and themes are extended in the sextet set, which benefits greatly from the addition of the excellent young percussionist Ben Bryant, who, surreptitiously hidden behind a pillar at the back of the stage, creates constantly fascinating sheets of sound from an entire plethora of instruments. For much of this set, Simcock weaves tunes together, to make the most of the contrast between languid poignancy and joyful exuberance. The latter is most clearly evidenced on the intricate ‘Snakey’, but the two moods combine to intoxicating effect on a splendid ‘Time and Tide’. It takes Stan Sulzman a disconcertingly long time to realise he’s painfully out of tune, but once this is corrected, the music becomes thrillingly alive. With gleeful irreverence, Simcock promises to end the set with a ‘little country number’. He’s not too far from the truth, as the piece which follows hinted so strongly towards Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ that I wondered whether it might be a bold re-arrangement of that very tune. It certainly grooved as righteously as anything I’ve heard in some time.
In Praise of Robyn
I know I’m a few years behind the times with this piece, but one of the joys of blogging is that you can openly admit when you’ve been a little slow to latch on to something hyped or hip. I enjoyed Robyn’s album when it finally emerged in the UK last year as a clever pop record, but somehow neglected it when it came to compiling my albums of the year list. This was a huge mistake – a nakedly commercial pop record it may be, but it just might be the best pure pop album of the whole decade. It has certainly set a standard that the likes of Kylie, Girls Aloud, even Britney, will surely struggle to match. ‘Robyn’ is proof that just because something is market driven, infectious and broadly accessible does not mean it has to be vacuous or dispensable.
Bloggers everywhere have been sent into mind-blowing ecstasies over Britney’s ‘Blackout’. It’s an extraordinary record from an extraordinary person – an unforgiving and candid document of a young woman’s descent into psychological meltdown and an accompanying obsession with anonymous sex. It’s unpleasant and voyeuristic to admit it – but this makes for compelling listening. What ‘Blackout’ lacks though, is the genuine broad emotional depth of this album from Robyn, the entrepreneurial and self-motivating ambition behind it, and the intelligence, wit and insight of her lyrics. Whilst there’s something ironically conventional and predictable about Britney’s public torment, there’s something palpably unconventional and exciting about Robyn. She looks and sounds unusual, free-spirited and confident within herself, but all this cleverly conceals the inherent vulnerability of this album’s greatest songs.
The unapologetic, brash and refreshingly hilarious intro sequence might be poking fun at the self-aggrandising tendencies of pop stars, or it might be entirely serious. Either way, it’s completely masterful. Introducing Robyn as the ‘undefeated, undisputed featherweight champion on all five continents’, the sequence then audaciously claims that she split the atom, discovered a cure for AIDS and, perhaps most worryingly, even ‘outsuperfreaked Rick James’! Apparently she also has the world’s highest Tetris score. Clearly, she’s not a woman to be messed with.
The crisp electro of ‘Konichiwa Bitches’ continues the theme, playfully emphasising Robyn’s frustrations with the music industry and independent determination to succeed on her own terms. Rather brilliantly, it also features a quite superb boast about her breasts: ‘One left, one right, that’s how I organise ‘em/You know I fill my cups, no need to supersize em’. Somehow, it’s all far more interesting than, say, R Kelly tediously bragging about his sexual prowess. The following two or three tracks continue in this style, mixing defiant individuality with enticing production values. How refreshing it is to hear a female pop star delivering the style of lyrics more usually associated with the male dominated world of hip hop.
Having said this, the album’s success chiefly rests on its more sensitive moments. ‘Be Mine!’ and ‘With Every Heartbeat’, both successful singles, provide the emotional core of the set. The former is one of the strongest pop songs of recent years – a devastating and overwhelming lyric of unrequited affection set to a party beat and a deceptively jaunty melody. The impact is staggering – it’s an outrageously enjoyable and infectious listen that only reveals its underlying pain on closer inspection. ‘With Every Heartbeat’ makes virtues of repetition and relentlessness, creating a touching atmosphere through its cumulative impact.
There’s also the album’s sole ballad, a delicate flower of a song called ‘Eclipse’. A lesser artist would have used this as an opportunity to demonstrate technical prowess, range or virtuosity. Whether Robyn has any of these qualities is rather unimportant given the convincing nature of her vulnerability here. This is the most conventional song here – in essence a somewhat corny piano ballad – but she turns into something believable and touching.
‘Robyn’ is everything a pop record should be – unconventional, entertaining and inspiring, whilst simultaneously playful and lightweight. The production, some of which comes from Swedish electro legends The Knife, is as biting and intelligent as the lyrics. Resistance is futile.
Bloggers everywhere have been sent into mind-blowing ecstasies over Britney’s ‘Blackout’. It’s an extraordinary record from an extraordinary person – an unforgiving and candid document of a young woman’s descent into psychological meltdown and an accompanying obsession with anonymous sex. It’s unpleasant and voyeuristic to admit it – but this makes for compelling listening. What ‘Blackout’ lacks though, is the genuine broad emotional depth of this album from Robyn, the entrepreneurial and self-motivating ambition behind it, and the intelligence, wit and insight of her lyrics. Whilst there’s something ironically conventional and predictable about Britney’s public torment, there’s something palpably unconventional and exciting about Robyn. She looks and sounds unusual, free-spirited and confident within herself, but all this cleverly conceals the inherent vulnerability of this album’s greatest songs.
The unapologetic, brash and refreshingly hilarious intro sequence might be poking fun at the self-aggrandising tendencies of pop stars, or it might be entirely serious. Either way, it’s completely masterful. Introducing Robyn as the ‘undefeated, undisputed featherweight champion on all five continents’, the sequence then audaciously claims that she split the atom, discovered a cure for AIDS and, perhaps most worryingly, even ‘outsuperfreaked Rick James’! Apparently she also has the world’s highest Tetris score. Clearly, she’s not a woman to be messed with.
The crisp electro of ‘Konichiwa Bitches’ continues the theme, playfully emphasising Robyn’s frustrations with the music industry and independent determination to succeed on her own terms. Rather brilliantly, it also features a quite superb boast about her breasts: ‘One left, one right, that’s how I organise ‘em/You know I fill my cups, no need to supersize em’. Somehow, it’s all far more interesting than, say, R Kelly tediously bragging about his sexual prowess. The following two or three tracks continue in this style, mixing defiant individuality with enticing production values. How refreshing it is to hear a female pop star delivering the style of lyrics more usually associated with the male dominated world of hip hop.
Having said this, the album’s success chiefly rests on its more sensitive moments. ‘Be Mine!’ and ‘With Every Heartbeat’, both successful singles, provide the emotional core of the set. The former is one of the strongest pop songs of recent years – a devastating and overwhelming lyric of unrequited affection set to a party beat and a deceptively jaunty melody. The impact is staggering – it’s an outrageously enjoyable and infectious listen that only reveals its underlying pain on closer inspection. ‘With Every Heartbeat’ makes virtues of repetition and relentlessness, creating a touching atmosphere through its cumulative impact.
There’s also the album’s sole ballad, a delicate flower of a song called ‘Eclipse’. A lesser artist would have used this as an opportunity to demonstrate technical prowess, range or virtuosity. Whether Robyn has any of these qualities is rather unimportant given the convincing nature of her vulnerability here. This is the most conventional song here – in essence a somewhat corny piano ballad – but she turns into something believable and touching.
‘Robyn’ is everything a pop record should be – unconventional, entertaining and inspiring, whilst simultaneously playful and lightweight. The production, some of which comes from Swedish electro legends The Knife, is as biting and intelligent as the lyrics. Resistance is futile.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Natural Wonder
Mariee Sioux - Faces in the Rocks (Grass Roots, 2007)
Now here’s a classic example of how the blogosphere can be a force for good (eat that Grauniad!). Search for Mariee Sioux on Google and all the top ranking articles are from blogs. If anybody can find me a UK press review of this rather fine album, I’d be grateful for the pointer. It’s baffling in light of the predilection of this country’s music writers towards mystical hippy nonsense in the Devendra Banhart mould that Sioux has not been more widely recognised. Her delightful merging of Joni Mitchell-tinged acoustic reveries with Native American folk traditions makes for an appealing and engaging listen.
The persistent recourses to the marvels of nature, along with plenty of references to wizards and magic suggested I had good reason to be a little sceptical about this album. Yet strong recommendations from a number of bloggers I respect persuaded me to download it, and that proved to be a good decision. I rather wish I’d heard it in time to include it in my albums of 2007 list. If 2008 appears to have got off to a somewhat sluggish start, there are still plenty of riches hanging over from last year to digest (I also still need to blog about Food’s ‘Molecular Gastronomy’ at some point).
Yet Mariee Sioux’s voice, soft, delicate and full of mystery, compensates for some of the lyrical flights of fancy. There’s also a sensitivity and intuitiveness here in addition to the wide eyed wonderment. The layering of her vocals is peculiarly effective, giving a sense of eeriness as well as a natural beauty. It’s almost as if she is whispering responses to her own melodies. There’s also an assured marriage of fluency and understatement in her delivery. Similarly, the combination of intricate acoustic guitar lines and Gentle Thunder’s Native American Flute make for a less familiar slant on the bucolic folk template.
The songs are often lengthy and frequently mesmerising – beguiling in their power to haunt and captivate. There always seems justification for the length of the songs in that they travel on a clear journey and are much more than merely linear narratives. There’s something slightly ominous beneath the surface prettiness, yet the abiding mood is one of hope and joy. It’s a carefully constructed mood that captures the complexities and ambiguities of life itself.
Now here’s a classic example of how the blogosphere can be a force for good (eat that Grauniad!). Search for Mariee Sioux on Google and all the top ranking articles are from blogs. If anybody can find me a UK press review of this rather fine album, I’d be grateful for the pointer. It’s baffling in light of the predilection of this country’s music writers towards mystical hippy nonsense in the Devendra Banhart mould that Sioux has not been more widely recognised. Her delightful merging of Joni Mitchell-tinged acoustic reveries with Native American folk traditions makes for an appealing and engaging listen.
The persistent recourses to the marvels of nature, along with plenty of references to wizards and magic suggested I had good reason to be a little sceptical about this album. Yet strong recommendations from a number of bloggers I respect persuaded me to download it, and that proved to be a good decision. I rather wish I’d heard it in time to include it in my albums of 2007 list. If 2008 appears to have got off to a somewhat sluggish start, there are still plenty of riches hanging over from last year to digest (I also still need to blog about Food’s ‘Molecular Gastronomy’ at some point).
Yet Mariee Sioux’s voice, soft, delicate and full of mystery, compensates for some of the lyrical flights of fancy. There’s also a sensitivity and intuitiveness here in addition to the wide eyed wonderment. The layering of her vocals is peculiarly effective, giving a sense of eeriness as well as a natural beauty. It’s almost as if she is whispering responses to her own melodies. There’s also an assured marriage of fluency and understatement in her delivery. Similarly, the combination of intricate acoustic guitar lines and Gentle Thunder’s Native American Flute make for a less familiar slant on the bucolic folk template.
The songs are often lengthy and frequently mesmerising – beguiling in their power to haunt and captivate. There always seems justification for the length of the songs in that they travel on a clear journey and are much more than merely linear narratives. There’s something slightly ominous beneath the surface prettiness, yet the abiding mood is one of hope and joy. It’s a carefully constructed mood that captures the complexities and ambiguities of life itself.
A Two Tier Service
I've ranted on here about ticket sales for event concerts before, but I'm going to raise the issue again. Logging on to my ticketmaster account this morning, I discovered that at 08:59, there were no tickets whatsoever for REM's show in aid of the ICA at the Royal Albert Hall in March. All information online had stated clearly that tickets were due to go on sale at 9am today. Yet, there had been a presale, which began last Tuesday, for those with a VIP Entertainment Card (whatever the hell that is) and a corresponding password.
This begs the question of who these people are? Are they regular users of Ticketmaster's service such as myself? Probably not, as my email alert stated today as the onsale date. Are they members of REM's fan club? One would at least hope for that much given the costs of membership, something I've always studiously avoided (I don't consider myself an uncritical 'fan' of any band or artist, although Michael Stipe is certainly among my most respected performers). Why was this option not listed on REM's website with the rest of the ticket details?
If I try to book tickets with the public rush and miss out, I don't mind - it's ultimately always going to be a matter of chance. It's also much better now that tickets can be booked online than when one had to battle with constantly engaged phone lines or even camp overnight outside venue box offices (as I remember people doing when Bruce Springsteen played his Ghost of Tom Joad acoustic shows at the Royal Albert Hall). But there were no problems connecting or submitting the booking form this morning - it was simply that there were not any tickets available at any price level from the word go! What I dislike about this is the notion that there is a specific group of people, usually because of one particular corporate sponsor's vested interest, that is deemed more entitled to gain entry to a concert than everyone else. It's also worth pointing out that these presales are confusing, and massively disrespectful to paying audiences. Bjork, Radiohead and Bruce Springsteen concerts have all been recent examples where the pre-sale has been deployed, and audiences are constantly being given conflicting information about where tickets can be purchased from and precisely when they go on sale. This is a frustrating, unnecessarily complicated and unfair process.
Inevitably, there are already numerous tickets for sale on ebay, for vastly inflated prices (into the hundreds of pounds). No doubt moronic Gordon Brown still considers that these people are providing me with a 'service'.
This begs the question of who these people are? Are they regular users of Ticketmaster's service such as myself? Probably not, as my email alert stated today as the onsale date. Are they members of REM's fan club? One would at least hope for that much given the costs of membership, something I've always studiously avoided (I don't consider myself an uncritical 'fan' of any band or artist, although Michael Stipe is certainly among my most respected performers). Why was this option not listed on REM's website with the rest of the ticket details?
If I try to book tickets with the public rush and miss out, I don't mind - it's ultimately always going to be a matter of chance. It's also much better now that tickets can be booked online than when one had to battle with constantly engaged phone lines or even camp overnight outside venue box offices (as I remember people doing when Bruce Springsteen played his Ghost of Tom Joad acoustic shows at the Royal Albert Hall). But there were no problems connecting or submitting the booking form this morning - it was simply that there were not any tickets available at any price level from the word go! What I dislike about this is the notion that there is a specific group of people, usually because of one particular corporate sponsor's vested interest, that is deemed more entitled to gain entry to a concert than everyone else. It's also worth pointing out that these presales are confusing, and massively disrespectful to paying audiences. Bjork, Radiohead and Bruce Springsteen concerts have all been recent examples where the pre-sale has been deployed, and audiences are constantly being given conflicting information about where tickets can be purchased from and precisely when they go on sale. This is a frustrating, unnecessarily complicated and unfair process.
Inevitably, there are already numerous tickets for sale on ebay, for vastly inflated prices (into the hundreds of pounds). No doubt moronic Gordon Brown still considers that these people are providing me with a 'service'.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Meaning Of Life
Steve Lehman - On Meaning (Pi, 2007)
Ach! This eccentric, technically accomplished and highly individual album actually slipped out at the tail end of 2007, but surely must have been a serious album of the year contender. Alto saxophonist Steve Lehman is a major figure in a burgeoning wave of US jazz that is woefully ignored in this country (see also Scott Colley and Drew Gress, the latter of whom also appears here). He has some of the fearsome cutting edge fury of Steve Coleman, albeit without Coleman’s tiresome mystical pretensions and philosophical grandstanding.
These compositions are terrifyingly audacious, introducing intricate harmonic and rhythmic themes, with the players all having the conviction and courage to develop them fully. ‘Open Music’ and ‘Curse Fraction’ pull off the neat trick of being simultaneously mathematical and pretty, whilst the oh-so-cleverly titled ‘Haiku d’Etat Transcription’ is an appealing melting pot of ideas, somehow holding together in spite of the constant rhythmic meddling. At just 45 minutes, this is as mercilessly concise a jazz album as has appeared in recent years. It simply zips by, albeit so jam packed full of thrilling ideas that adding any more might have risked over-egging the pudding.
The group’s impact rests on two crucial elements – the consummate merging of sound between Lehman’s aggressive saxophone and Jonathan Finlayson’s pure-sounding trumpet, and the extraordinary precision of the rhythm section. Even at their most dexterous and adventurous, Drew Gress’ bass, Chris Dingman’s languid Vibraphone chords and Tyshawn Sorey’s remarkable drumming bond together with a powerful sealant. Sorey is particularly outrageous, risk-taking whilst holding a groove as tight as anything even Zigaboo Modeliste could muster.
Lehman’s doctrine is apparently ‘grooving without repetition’, and ‘On Meaning’ serves this central philosophy well. Even when the underpinning bassline is relentless, the soloists weave compelling and challenging ideas in and out of the mix, and Sorey’s troublemaking drumming rarely treads the same ground for too long. Lehman also seems as preoccupied with sound and texture as he is with rhythmic invention, so much of ‘On Meaning’ works as a hypnotic and immersing mood piece as well as a staggering display of musical virtuosity. Even at its most dynamic and asymmetrical, the music here still radiates energy and enjoyment, and sounds both intensely physical and palpably human.
Ach! This eccentric, technically accomplished and highly individual album actually slipped out at the tail end of 2007, but surely must have been a serious album of the year contender. Alto saxophonist Steve Lehman is a major figure in a burgeoning wave of US jazz that is woefully ignored in this country (see also Scott Colley and Drew Gress, the latter of whom also appears here). He has some of the fearsome cutting edge fury of Steve Coleman, albeit without Coleman’s tiresome mystical pretensions and philosophical grandstanding.
These compositions are terrifyingly audacious, introducing intricate harmonic and rhythmic themes, with the players all having the conviction and courage to develop them fully. ‘Open Music’ and ‘Curse Fraction’ pull off the neat trick of being simultaneously mathematical and pretty, whilst the oh-so-cleverly titled ‘Haiku d’Etat Transcription’ is an appealing melting pot of ideas, somehow holding together in spite of the constant rhythmic meddling. At just 45 minutes, this is as mercilessly concise a jazz album as has appeared in recent years. It simply zips by, albeit so jam packed full of thrilling ideas that adding any more might have risked over-egging the pudding.
The group’s impact rests on two crucial elements – the consummate merging of sound between Lehman’s aggressive saxophone and Jonathan Finlayson’s pure-sounding trumpet, and the extraordinary precision of the rhythm section. Even at their most dexterous and adventurous, Drew Gress’ bass, Chris Dingman’s languid Vibraphone chords and Tyshawn Sorey’s remarkable drumming bond together with a powerful sealant. Sorey is particularly outrageous, risk-taking whilst holding a groove as tight as anything even Zigaboo Modeliste could muster.
Lehman’s doctrine is apparently ‘grooving without repetition’, and ‘On Meaning’ serves this central philosophy well. Even when the underpinning bassline is relentless, the soloists weave compelling and challenging ideas in and out of the mix, and Sorey’s troublemaking drumming rarely treads the same ground for too long. Lehman also seems as preoccupied with sound and texture as he is with rhythmic invention, so much of ‘On Meaning’ works as a hypnotic and immersing mood piece as well as a staggering display of musical virtuosity. Even at its most dynamic and asymmetrical, the music here still radiates energy and enjoyment, and sounds both intensely physical and palpably human.
A Day In The Life...
Pat Metheny with Christian McBride and Antonio Sanchez - Day Trip (Nonesuch, 2008)
Some critics in America appear to be hailing ‘Day Trip’ as among the best records of Pat Metheny’s illustrious career, and perhaps his best trio album since ‘Bright Size Life’. Both are audacious claims, especially given that ‘Day Trip’ sounds accessible and conventional, perhaps even lightweight, in light of Metheny’s more ambitious achievements. It lacks the fire and fury of ‘Song X’ (his infamous collaboration with Ornette Coleman), the rigour and grace of his recent partnership with Brad Mehldau or the sheer compositional muscle and attention to detail of ‘The Way Up’.
Accessibility can often be a positive characteristic though, and Metheny certainly makes a virtue of it with this charming and enjoyable set. Joined by bassist Christian McBride and exuberant drummer Antonio Sanchez, the eleven mostly bristling tracks were cut in a single day of recording. It’s bustling with energy and tremendous momentum, and the sprightly, spontaneous group interplay is a refreshing tonic after the audacious rigours of Metheny’s recent work. There’s also an impressive, rapid fire flow of ideas, particularly from Metheny himself, who solos superbly throughout.
There’s fast and furious, rhythmically inventive playing on the opener ‘Son of Thirteen’ and ‘Let’s Move’, whilst ‘Calvin’s Keys’ is one of Metheny’s most straightforwardly enjoyable compositions in years. It even bears a passing resemblance to Nat Adderley’s ‘Work Song’. The nimble, light playing on this piece also recalls the great Wes Montgomery. McBride and Sanchez make for superb sparring partners throughout, Sanchez’s drumming bursting with dazzling technique, yet also retaining a subtle mystery and intrigue. Metheny’s guitar sings as much as ever, but McBride’s solos are also lingeringly melodic and lyrical.
Metheny brings out his nylon stringed acoustic for the haunting and mournful ‘Is This America? (Katrina 2005)’, a near-perfect elegy for the people of New Orleans and their suffering, with a clear and pure American melody that recalls Bill Frisell at his best. ‘When We Were Free’, actually revisited from 1996’s ‘Quartet’ album, adds further political implications but not at the expense of a superbly swinging groove.
It’s worth noting that a fair chunk of this material is revised from other projects. ‘The Red One’, which sounds a little out of place in this context, originally appeared on ‘I Can See The House From Here’, Metheny’s outstanding meeting with John Scofield. ‘Snova’ and ‘Son of Thirteen’ both originally appeared on Alex Spiagi’s ‘Returning’. Still, one of the delights of jazz as an idiom is the ability to constantly breathe new life into old material, and these stripped back trio versions create space and exciting new tensions.
‘Day Trip’ is not Metheny’s most original or dazzling work, but its performances are vivid and engaging, and it’s great to hear him back in a trio set-up after experiments with larger ensembles. It perhaps works most effectively as a document of spontaneous and immediate craftsmanship. It also works as a series of inspired and memorable signposts, both back to impressive moments from Metheny’s own career and the influences of other musicians. There are unlikely to be many albums this year displaying more verve, spirit and musical instinct.
Some critics in America appear to be hailing ‘Day Trip’ as among the best records of Pat Metheny’s illustrious career, and perhaps his best trio album since ‘Bright Size Life’. Both are audacious claims, especially given that ‘Day Trip’ sounds accessible and conventional, perhaps even lightweight, in light of Metheny’s more ambitious achievements. It lacks the fire and fury of ‘Song X’ (his infamous collaboration with Ornette Coleman), the rigour and grace of his recent partnership with Brad Mehldau or the sheer compositional muscle and attention to detail of ‘The Way Up’.
Accessibility can often be a positive characteristic though, and Metheny certainly makes a virtue of it with this charming and enjoyable set. Joined by bassist Christian McBride and exuberant drummer Antonio Sanchez, the eleven mostly bristling tracks were cut in a single day of recording. It’s bustling with energy and tremendous momentum, and the sprightly, spontaneous group interplay is a refreshing tonic after the audacious rigours of Metheny’s recent work. There’s also an impressive, rapid fire flow of ideas, particularly from Metheny himself, who solos superbly throughout.
There’s fast and furious, rhythmically inventive playing on the opener ‘Son of Thirteen’ and ‘Let’s Move’, whilst ‘Calvin’s Keys’ is one of Metheny’s most straightforwardly enjoyable compositions in years. It even bears a passing resemblance to Nat Adderley’s ‘Work Song’. The nimble, light playing on this piece also recalls the great Wes Montgomery. McBride and Sanchez make for superb sparring partners throughout, Sanchez’s drumming bursting with dazzling technique, yet also retaining a subtle mystery and intrigue. Metheny’s guitar sings as much as ever, but McBride’s solos are also lingeringly melodic and lyrical.
Metheny brings out his nylon stringed acoustic for the haunting and mournful ‘Is This America? (Katrina 2005)’, a near-perfect elegy for the people of New Orleans and their suffering, with a clear and pure American melody that recalls Bill Frisell at his best. ‘When We Were Free’, actually revisited from 1996’s ‘Quartet’ album, adds further political implications but not at the expense of a superbly swinging groove.
It’s worth noting that a fair chunk of this material is revised from other projects. ‘The Red One’, which sounds a little out of place in this context, originally appeared on ‘I Can See The House From Here’, Metheny’s outstanding meeting with John Scofield. ‘Snova’ and ‘Son of Thirteen’ both originally appeared on Alex Spiagi’s ‘Returning’. Still, one of the delights of jazz as an idiom is the ability to constantly breathe new life into old material, and these stripped back trio versions create space and exciting new tensions.
‘Day Trip’ is not Metheny’s most original or dazzling work, but its performances are vivid and engaging, and it’s great to hear him back in a trio set-up after experiments with larger ensembles. It perhaps works most effectively as a document of spontaneous and immediate craftsmanship. It also works as a series of inspired and memorable signposts, both back to impressive moments from Metheny’s own career and the influences of other musicians. There are unlikely to be many albums this year displaying more verve, spirit and musical instinct.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Buried Treasure # 6
REM - Up (Warner Bros, 1998)
Conventional wisdom dictates that REM are a great band who have lost their purpose, and that new album ‘Accelerate’ represents some sort of ‘return to form’. From the two tracks I’ve heard so far, it certainly returns them to sounding like a conventional rock group (albeit one with real energy, a quixotic temperament and artful musicianship). This simplistic assessment is inadequate. It only provides an incomplete, one-sided picture of the group’s period of reconfiguration following the departure of drummer Bill Berry. During this time, they revitalised themselves as a major touring group par excellence but produced a trilogy of albums that disappointed even their most ardent supporters.
‘Up’ was by some distance the bravest of these albums, born out of frustration and fractious relationships within the group, and completely revising the band’s working methods. The problem with the albums that followed it (the impressionistic ‘Reveal’ and the tepid ‘Around The Sun’) was not that they had too much in common with ‘Up’, but rather too little. They sounded over-produced, sentimental, hazy and vague, whilst ‘Up’ sounded skeletal and vulnerable, subtle and mysterious. Indeed it’s hard to believe that the same producer (Pat McCarthy) helmed the controls for all three albums.
‘Up’ is a long album that takes numerous listens to appreciate, and many listeners (fans and critics alike) did not seem to have the necessary patience. Musically, it is a mature work rich in complex feeling and sensations, and lacking immediacy. Whilst there’s no shortage of writing describing ‘Up’ as an incoherent folly, it is now my favourite REM album by a country mile. This is at least in part for personal, subjective reasons, but it’s also because it is an audacious and compelling album that retains the core virtues of REM’s songwriting style, whilst filtering them through very different arrangements and processes. It stands completely apart from the rest of their catalogue and is an album I can return to at any time and still discover new riches and previously concealed brilliance. Playing it last night at home, my flatmate came in and said ‘hang on, that sounds like Michael Stipe’. Having not heard it before, he clearly thought it was a Stipe solo project, so little like REM does it sometimes sound. Actually, it’s anything but that, and in spite of the apparent terse atmosphere during its recordings, successfully combines the distinctive musical personalities of all three of its creators.
When it was released, Michael Stipe came out fighting (in more than one sense), giving a number of his most candid and direct interviews, and expressing his sincere satisfaction with the finished product. Now, the band seem to have almost rejected it – playing few of the songs in live performances and, at least until ‘Accelerate’, self-consciously striving to satisfy Warner Bros. with a modernised ‘Automatic For The People’. There were a handful of moments on ‘Reveal’ that attempted to develop the intricate web of ideas and attention to detail found on ‘Up’, but ‘Around the Sun’ abandoned such concerns, preferring blandly strummed guitars, plodding tempos and woolly atmospherics. Although writers concentrated on the increased prevalence of keyboards, synthesisers and drum programming on ‘Up’, Peter Buck’s guitar remained a crucial presence, his peculiar distortion and simple figures adding much in the way of texture and mood. That he absented himself almost entirely from the worst moments of ‘Around the Sun’ was greatly to that album’s detriment.
Having attempted to demonstrate why it’s unfair to bracket ‘Up’ with ‘Reveal’ and ‘Around the Sun’ in a trilogy of disappointment, it’s now worth considering its own inspired and unique merits further. The group stated their intentions from the outset with the enigmatic ‘Airportman’, Stipe’s voice reduced to a hushed monotone amidst bossa nova drum programming (an insistent rhythm, completely uncharacteristic to the group, that is repeated all over the album) and floating keyboard textures. It’s the most alien, peculiar track that REM have crafted to date and immediately betrays the more European influence that predominates the album (‘Hope’ and ‘Walk Unafraid’ also hint at ‘Krautrock’ acts like Neu! or Harmonia) and provides a coherence that most critics seemed unable to uncover.
Everywhere there is a vivid attention to detail and meticulous concentration on how the songs sound. ‘Suspicion’ rests on a melody so subtle it is almost backgrounded, and many found the rudimentary drum machine uncomfortable (as if it was something REM shouldn’t be doing in the sudden absence of a drummer!). Yet, there’s the lingering melancholy of Barrett Martin’s Vibraphone (also playing a pivotal role on the sublime ‘Diminished’), and the way the song suddenly lifts towards the end, Stipe’s voice shedding some of its restraint and reaching a new level. The group pitted the sea-shanty melody of ‘The Apologist’ against an intriguing concoction of brushed drums, heavily distorted, swelling guitars and more familiar arpeggios. It sounded like a stark, industrial refashioning of their tendency towards gothic balladry.
Beneath all this fascinating weirdness, there were also plenty of more familiar elements. The irresistibly saccharine Brian Wilson stylings Mike Mills brought to ‘At My Most Beautiful’ and ‘Parakeet’ made the former cute and charming, the latter hypnotic and immersing. The use of pedal steel guitar had previously made the likes of ‘Country Feedback’ overwhelming and haunting, and, for these ears at least, imbued the emotional trial of ‘Diminished’ with a similarly devastating impact. Initially, I found ‘Daysleeper’ the most typical and characteristic song on the album (and the only obvious choice of first single), but what interests me about it now is the way the group merge their familiar acoustic tropes with sampled sounds and noises that really capture both the otherness and frustrations of nocturnal living.
Lyrically, ‘Up’ found Michael Stipe grappling, in frequently fascinating ways, for new techniques and means of self-expression. Sometimes he even seemed to be battling against himself. For a lyricist who frequently prefers stream-of-consciousness, surrealism and absurdity, he can often be disarmingly direct. ‘Losing My Religion’ may have become an anthemic powerhouse, but if one actually focuses on the lyric (one of the clearest encapsulations of unrequited infatuation I’ve ever heard), it becomes almost unbearably intense. A number of the songs on ‘Up’ (‘At My Most Beautiful’, ‘Diminished’, ‘Walk Unafraid’, ‘Falls To Climb’, ‘The Apologist’ and ‘You’re In The Air’) really flesh out this confessional approach. The setting of these very human and candid words (‘I want you naked, I want you wild’, ‘Hold my love me or leave me high’, ‘someone has to take the fall, why not me?’, ‘I will give my best today’ etc) to music that often feels stark and cold (in a positive way) gives ‘Up’ a disorientating and unsettling air of menace with its emotional clarity. Yet on ‘Why Not Smile’, the sentiment is so direct as to sound trite, Stipe enhancing the sense of irony by delivering the song in a flat monotone. It seems to be poking fun out of conventional love songs, yet the accompanying harmony is so straightforward and pretty that it could be one of those love songs – it’s very similar to the technique used so masterfully by Stephin Merritt in his various guises. Then there’s the unexpected interjection of the unlisted ‘I’m Not Over You’, just Stipe alone with an acoustic guitar, as pure and exposed as he’s ever sounded. The desperate loneliness of ‘Sad Professor’, brilliantly enhanced by Peter Buck’s unexpected bursts of guitar noise and the delicate underpinning percussion, even saw Stipe writing in character, something he doesn’t seem to have done much before or since.
I was only 17 when ‘Up’ was released, and only a handful of the tracks struck an emotional chord at the time (perhaps the most obvious examples). Yet as I’ve grown older, I’ve found the songs acquire a new and more direct personal resonance. ‘Daysleeper’ suddenly assumed a very obvious importance during the year I spent working night shifts for a television company, whilst ‘Walk Unafraid’ strikes me more as I become more accustomed to addressing some of the more personal aspects of my life publicly. It’s always gratifying to find an album that can follow and track you through the various stages of your life (as can Teenage Fanclub’s ‘Grand Prix’ for me), and I strongly suspect I will be drawing new insight and resonance from ‘Up’ for many years to come. Beyond that though, it’s such an unusual and mesmerising creation, in many ways as unforgiving as Radiohead’s ‘Kid A’ (I actually much prefer it to that album, but we’re on controversial ground here). Yet whilst Radiohead followed ‘Kid A’ with very successful juxtapositions of preoccupations old and new (best realised on the alchemical ‘In Rainbows’), REM failed to live up to that challenge. It's possible that this was because 'Up' sold respectably, but nowhere near enough to recoup Warners' 80 million dollar investment! Ironically, in addressing more commercial concerns, the group only served to diminish their audience further. I hope ‘Accelerate’ restores some faith in the group, but it also saddens me that they couldn’t take some of the very promising new adventures from ‘Up’ to their logical conclusion.
Conventional wisdom dictates that REM are a great band who have lost their purpose, and that new album ‘Accelerate’ represents some sort of ‘return to form’. From the two tracks I’ve heard so far, it certainly returns them to sounding like a conventional rock group (albeit one with real energy, a quixotic temperament and artful musicianship). This simplistic assessment is inadequate. It only provides an incomplete, one-sided picture of the group’s period of reconfiguration following the departure of drummer Bill Berry. During this time, they revitalised themselves as a major touring group par excellence but produced a trilogy of albums that disappointed even their most ardent supporters.
‘Up’ was by some distance the bravest of these albums, born out of frustration and fractious relationships within the group, and completely revising the band’s working methods. The problem with the albums that followed it (the impressionistic ‘Reveal’ and the tepid ‘Around The Sun’) was not that they had too much in common with ‘Up’, but rather too little. They sounded over-produced, sentimental, hazy and vague, whilst ‘Up’ sounded skeletal and vulnerable, subtle and mysterious. Indeed it’s hard to believe that the same producer (Pat McCarthy) helmed the controls for all three albums.
‘Up’ is a long album that takes numerous listens to appreciate, and many listeners (fans and critics alike) did not seem to have the necessary patience. Musically, it is a mature work rich in complex feeling and sensations, and lacking immediacy. Whilst there’s no shortage of writing describing ‘Up’ as an incoherent folly, it is now my favourite REM album by a country mile. This is at least in part for personal, subjective reasons, but it’s also because it is an audacious and compelling album that retains the core virtues of REM’s songwriting style, whilst filtering them through very different arrangements and processes. It stands completely apart from the rest of their catalogue and is an album I can return to at any time and still discover new riches and previously concealed brilliance. Playing it last night at home, my flatmate came in and said ‘hang on, that sounds like Michael Stipe’. Having not heard it before, he clearly thought it was a Stipe solo project, so little like REM does it sometimes sound. Actually, it’s anything but that, and in spite of the apparent terse atmosphere during its recordings, successfully combines the distinctive musical personalities of all three of its creators.
When it was released, Michael Stipe came out fighting (in more than one sense), giving a number of his most candid and direct interviews, and expressing his sincere satisfaction with the finished product. Now, the band seem to have almost rejected it – playing few of the songs in live performances and, at least until ‘Accelerate’, self-consciously striving to satisfy Warner Bros. with a modernised ‘Automatic For The People’. There were a handful of moments on ‘Reveal’ that attempted to develop the intricate web of ideas and attention to detail found on ‘Up’, but ‘Around the Sun’ abandoned such concerns, preferring blandly strummed guitars, plodding tempos and woolly atmospherics. Although writers concentrated on the increased prevalence of keyboards, synthesisers and drum programming on ‘Up’, Peter Buck’s guitar remained a crucial presence, his peculiar distortion and simple figures adding much in the way of texture and mood. That he absented himself almost entirely from the worst moments of ‘Around the Sun’ was greatly to that album’s detriment.
Having attempted to demonstrate why it’s unfair to bracket ‘Up’ with ‘Reveal’ and ‘Around the Sun’ in a trilogy of disappointment, it’s now worth considering its own inspired and unique merits further. The group stated their intentions from the outset with the enigmatic ‘Airportman’, Stipe’s voice reduced to a hushed monotone amidst bossa nova drum programming (an insistent rhythm, completely uncharacteristic to the group, that is repeated all over the album) and floating keyboard textures. It’s the most alien, peculiar track that REM have crafted to date and immediately betrays the more European influence that predominates the album (‘Hope’ and ‘Walk Unafraid’ also hint at ‘Krautrock’ acts like Neu! or Harmonia) and provides a coherence that most critics seemed unable to uncover.
Everywhere there is a vivid attention to detail and meticulous concentration on how the songs sound. ‘Suspicion’ rests on a melody so subtle it is almost backgrounded, and many found the rudimentary drum machine uncomfortable (as if it was something REM shouldn’t be doing in the sudden absence of a drummer!). Yet, there’s the lingering melancholy of Barrett Martin’s Vibraphone (also playing a pivotal role on the sublime ‘Diminished’), and the way the song suddenly lifts towards the end, Stipe’s voice shedding some of its restraint and reaching a new level. The group pitted the sea-shanty melody of ‘The Apologist’ against an intriguing concoction of brushed drums, heavily distorted, swelling guitars and more familiar arpeggios. It sounded like a stark, industrial refashioning of their tendency towards gothic balladry.
Beneath all this fascinating weirdness, there were also plenty of more familiar elements. The irresistibly saccharine Brian Wilson stylings Mike Mills brought to ‘At My Most Beautiful’ and ‘Parakeet’ made the former cute and charming, the latter hypnotic and immersing. The use of pedal steel guitar had previously made the likes of ‘Country Feedback’ overwhelming and haunting, and, for these ears at least, imbued the emotional trial of ‘Diminished’ with a similarly devastating impact. Initially, I found ‘Daysleeper’ the most typical and characteristic song on the album (and the only obvious choice of first single), but what interests me about it now is the way the group merge their familiar acoustic tropes with sampled sounds and noises that really capture both the otherness and frustrations of nocturnal living.
Lyrically, ‘Up’ found Michael Stipe grappling, in frequently fascinating ways, for new techniques and means of self-expression. Sometimes he even seemed to be battling against himself. For a lyricist who frequently prefers stream-of-consciousness, surrealism and absurdity, he can often be disarmingly direct. ‘Losing My Religion’ may have become an anthemic powerhouse, but if one actually focuses on the lyric (one of the clearest encapsulations of unrequited infatuation I’ve ever heard), it becomes almost unbearably intense. A number of the songs on ‘Up’ (‘At My Most Beautiful’, ‘Diminished’, ‘Walk Unafraid’, ‘Falls To Climb’, ‘The Apologist’ and ‘You’re In The Air’) really flesh out this confessional approach. The setting of these very human and candid words (‘I want you naked, I want you wild’, ‘Hold my love me or leave me high’, ‘someone has to take the fall, why not me?’, ‘I will give my best today’ etc) to music that often feels stark and cold (in a positive way) gives ‘Up’ a disorientating and unsettling air of menace with its emotional clarity. Yet on ‘Why Not Smile’, the sentiment is so direct as to sound trite, Stipe enhancing the sense of irony by delivering the song in a flat monotone. It seems to be poking fun out of conventional love songs, yet the accompanying harmony is so straightforward and pretty that it could be one of those love songs – it’s very similar to the technique used so masterfully by Stephin Merritt in his various guises. Then there’s the unexpected interjection of the unlisted ‘I’m Not Over You’, just Stipe alone with an acoustic guitar, as pure and exposed as he’s ever sounded. The desperate loneliness of ‘Sad Professor’, brilliantly enhanced by Peter Buck’s unexpected bursts of guitar noise and the delicate underpinning percussion, even saw Stipe writing in character, something he doesn’t seem to have done much before or since.
I was only 17 when ‘Up’ was released, and only a handful of the tracks struck an emotional chord at the time (perhaps the most obvious examples). Yet as I’ve grown older, I’ve found the songs acquire a new and more direct personal resonance. ‘Daysleeper’ suddenly assumed a very obvious importance during the year I spent working night shifts for a television company, whilst ‘Walk Unafraid’ strikes me more as I become more accustomed to addressing some of the more personal aspects of my life publicly. It’s always gratifying to find an album that can follow and track you through the various stages of your life (as can Teenage Fanclub’s ‘Grand Prix’ for me), and I strongly suspect I will be drawing new insight and resonance from ‘Up’ for many years to come. Beyond that though, it’s such an unusual and mesmerising creation, in many ways as unforgiving as Radiohead’s ‘Kid A’ (I actually much prefer it to that album, but we’re on controversial ground here). Yet whilst Radiohead followed ‘Kid A’ with very successful juxtapositions of preoccupations old and new (best realised on the alchemical ‘In Rainbows’), REM failed to live up to that challenge. It's possible that this was because 'Up' sold respectably, but nowhere near enough to recoup Warners' 80 million dollar investment! Ironically, in addressing more commercial concerns, the group only served to diminish their audience further. I hope ‘Accelerate’ restores some faith in the group, but it also saddens me that they couldn’t take some of the very promising new adventures from ‘Up’ to their logical conclusion.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Turning The Tide
kd lang - Watershed (Nonesuch, 2008)
Fascinatingly, it took an album of covers to get kd lang (I still find the insistence on lower case letters infuriating) to reveal her original voice. 2004’s ‘Hymns of the 49th Parallel’, an overwhelmingly spare and desolate collection of songs by fellow Canadian songwriters, at last made it abundantly clear just what a superb singer she can be. Rich in emotion and experience, her powerful but languid delivery imbued new life into songs many would consider beyond improvement (her unhurried phrasing and graceful purpose gave Joni Mitchell’s sublime ‘A Case of You’ its definitive reading). At last, she seemed to have stopped trying to emulate the great country singers, or the legendary crooners, and found a powerful space of her own.
‘Watershed’ is Lang’s first album of self-penned material in eight years, and also the first album she has self-produced. The latter fact may be just as significant as her return to composing, as this is as lush and seductive an album as I’ve heard in some time. Whilst much of it was apparently recorded at home, sometimes in single takes, it sounds as meticulously crafted as an expensive studio recording. Its arrangements are exquisite and its elaborate moods sophisticated and compelling. With fascinating instrumentation (occasional flourishes of vibraphone, delicate brush drums or subtle programming, pedal steel guitar and strings), ‘Watershed’ at last draws together all the seemingly contradictory elements of Lang’s musical personality into a fulfilling and intoxicating mix of heady balladry. The combination of sensual jazz stylings and the candour and emotion of country music merge with refreshing ease – particularly on the tender ‘Coming Home’. The pace is consistently slow and protracted, but this suits Lang’s voice perfectly – particularly in the way her vocal purity eschews virtuosity or florid complexity in favour of drawing as much resonance and emotion as possible from long notes. There’s a profound intimacy to this material.
‘Watershed’ also serves as a timely reminder of Lang’s expressive qualities as a lyricist. She has a precise and powerful economy with language (‘on the cusp of compromise/to living hell, I tripped and fell’) and a detailed insight into matters of the heart. The supreme longing of ‘I Dream of Spring’, with its contrast of perfunctory love with the thrill of real discovery, makes for a broadly erotic curtain-raiser (‘The world is filled with frozen lovers/The sheets of their beds are so very cold/And I have slept there in the snow with others/Yet loved no others before’). The gospel-tinged ‘Sunday’ is more candid, speaking of ‘Sunday afternoon, naked in your room’, fusing the spiritual and the sexual in the time honoured manner of the best pop songs. ‘Thread’ incisively captures the way fear can be a limiting and destructive factor in relationships. Best of all might be ‘Shadow and The Frame’, an impressionistic and sensual arrangement accompanied by a vulnerable and honest lyrical self-reflection.
‘Watershed’ is certainly Lang’s most open album, in a number of senses, its sensual and assured sound matching its introspective but affecting subject matter. There’s also a real sense of space in the music, which even the silky string arrangements never puncture. Lang has not really ever matched the commercial success of ‘Ingenue’, but perhaps the smooth tapestry of genres distilled here might render her an accessible performer again. This bears comparison with Feist’s ‘The Reminder’, one of my favourite records of last year - another enthralling and sophisticated pop record with real emotional depth.
Fascinatingly, it took an album of covers to get kd lang (I still find the insistence on lower case letters infuriating) to reveal her original voice. 2004’s ‘Hymns of the 49th Parallel’, an overwhelmingly spare and desolate collection of songs by fellow Canadian songwriters, at last made it abundantly clear just what a superb singer she can be. Rich in emotion and experience, her powerful but languid delivery imbued new life into songs many would consider beyond improvement (her unhurried phrasing and graceful purpose gave Joni Mitchell’s sublime ‘A Case of You’ its definitive reading). At last, she seemed to have stopped trying to emulate the great country singers, or the legendary crooners, and found a powerful space of her own.
‘Watershed’ is Lang’s first album of self-penned material in eight years, and also the first album she has self-produced. The latter fact may be just as significant as her return to composing, as this is as lush and seductive an album as I’ve heard in some time. Whilst much of it was apparently recorded at home, sometimes in single takes, it sounds as meticulously crafted as an expensive studio recording. Its arrangements are exquisite and its elaborate moods sophisticated and compelling. With fascinating instrumentation (occasional flourishes of vibraphone, delicate brush drums or subtle programming, pedal steel guitar and strings), ‘Watershed’ at last draws together all the seemingly contradictory elements of Lang’s musical personality into a fulfilling and intoxicating mix of heady balladry. The combination of sensual jazz stylings and the candour and emotion of country music merge with refreshing ease – particularly on the tender ‘Coming Home’. The pace is consistently slow and protracted, but this suits Lang’s voice perfectly – particularly in the way her vocal purity eschews virtuosity or florid complexity in favour of drawing as much resonance and emotion as possible from long notes. There’s a profound intimacy to this material.
‘Watershed’ also serves as a timely reminder of Lang’s expressive qualities as a lyricist. She has a precise and powerful economy with language (‘on the cusp of compromise/to living hell, I tripped and fell’) and a detailed insight into matters of the heart. The supreme longing of ‘I Dream of Spring’, with its contrast of perfunctory love with the thrill of real discovery, makes for a broadly erotic curtain-raiser (‘The world is filled with frozen lovers/The sheets of their beds are so very cold/And I have slept there in the snow with others/Yet loved no others before’). The gospel-tinged ‘Sunday’ is more candid, speaking of ‘Sunday afternoon, naked in your room’, fusing the spiritual and the sexual in the time honoured manner of the best pop songs. ‘Thread’ incisively captures the way fear can be a limiting and destructive factor in relationships. Best of all might be ‘Shadow and The Frame’, an impressionistic and sensual arrangement accompanied by a vulnerable and honest lyrical self-reflection.
‘Watershed’ is certainly Lang’s most open album, in a number of senses, its sensual and assured sound matching its introspective but affecting subject matter. There’s also a real sense of space in the music, which even the silky string arrangements never puncture. Lang has not really ever matched the commercial success of ‘Ingenue’, but perhaps the smooth tapestry of genres distilled here might render her an accessible performer again. This bears comparison with Feist’s ‘The Reminder’, one of my favourite records of last year - another enthralling and sophisticated pop record with real emotional depth.
Friday, February 01, 2008
A Note For Morrissey
It's diva-ish behaviour enough to walk off stage mid-show and cancel two further performances because of a common cold (compare it with Steven Adams of the Broken Family Band gamely sniffling and coughing through an excellent set at Koko late last year), but it's another thing entirely to refuse to reschedule the cancelled performances. Are we really expected to believe that Morrissey cannot find a MERE THREE DAYS in his calendar to honour his commitments at any point during the entire year? Will Morrissey and his promoters also be refunding or compensating those ticket-holders who bought the exceedingly expensive 'gold passes', supposedly entitling them to attend all six of his Roundhouse shows? Of course, ticket agencies are unlikely to refund their outrageous booking fees and transaction charges (now pocketed for no benefit whatsoever to the consumer), and those foolish enough to purchase tickets from touts at 'market rates' are unlikely to get any money back at all (no doubt the government still thinks these people are offering music fans a good service).
Yes, Morrissey is a contrary bastard at times and that's part of why he's an iconic figure - but this comes on top of a poorly selected Greatest Hits set nobody wants, consistently short sets that don't offer fans value for money and a moody and confrontational performance at the Palladium a couple of years ago. If you're going to get indignant at the NME for merely highlighting some of your more contentious opinions, it might be best to uphold some standards of professionalism in your own career. This might well be the last time I bother.
Many of the posts left on the Morrissey solo.com message board argue the same position. Yes, artists and performers should not follow the every will of their audience, and should challenge them where necessary - but there is still a duty of respect to any paying audience. Morrissey is billed to appear on tonight's Jonathan Ross show, which would be something of an insult if it goes ahead in the same week that he has cancelled supposedly 'historic' performances.
Yes, Morrissey is a contrary bastard at times and that's part of why he's an iconic figure - but this comes on top of a poorly selected Greatest Hits set nobody wants, consistently short sets that don't offer fans value for money and a moody and confrontational performance at the Palladium a couple of years ago. If you're going to get indignant at the NME for merely highlighting some of your more contentious opinions, it might be best to uphold some standards of professionalism in your own career. This might well be the last time I bother.
Many of the posts left on the Morrissey solo.com message board argue the same position. Yes, artists and performers should not follow the every will of their audience, and should challenge them where necessary - but there is still a duty of respect to any paying audience. Morrissey is billed to appear on tonight's Jonathan Ross show, which would be something of an insult if it goes ahead in the same week that he has cancelled supposedly 'historic' performances.
Subversion In The Night
Hot Chip - Made In The Dark (DFA/EMI, 2008)
Hot Chip’s third album, and their first to be released to a palpable sense of anticipation, is paradoxically both their most accessible and most confounding. It’s accessible in its sheer energy and playful zest, and also in its preponderance for deceptively sugary melodies. For all their reliance on the traits of R&B and dance music, first single ‘Ready For The Floor’ actually most closely resembles the infectious pop of Erasure or early Depeche Mode. On the other hand, the album is confounding in the sheer glee it takes in subverting expectations, deconstructing conventional song structures and restlessly flitting between genres and styles. It’s an album that, appropriately as it turns out, requires a bit of wrestling and confrontation.
Whilst Alexis Taylor and Joe Goddard’s bedroom recording ethos has mercifully been sustained here, there’s also a greater sense of ambition, a number of tracks having been recorded in a studio with the whole group. It’s therefore the first Hot Chip record to capture the thrill and insistence of their live shows. If there’s a downside to this, it’s that the beats sometimes rely far more heavily on the basic four-to-the-floor house template, with any intricacy left to additional percussion parts.
Yet there’s much more to this slippery record than simply a relentless party spirit. It’s intriguing that whilst comparisons often rest on the group’s enthusiasm for American R&B, Robert Wyatt has recently recognised them as kindred spirits and a collection of ‘English eccentrics’. This is perhaps best elucidated in Alexis Taylor’s thoughtful, elusive lyrics, which often capture a mood but leave precise meaning somewhat ambiguous. Alongside this is an increased tendency to veer away from the tired conventions of pop songwriting. Sometimes this results in songs that sound like several different pieces only loosely strung together – I’ve yet to get to grips with the mechanistic ‘Don’t Dance’. At other times, it has results that are both unpredictable and striking, particularly on ‘Hold On’, ‘Touch Too Much’ and ‘One Pure Thought’.
I’m baffled that some critics have suggested that ‘Made In The Dark’ is too rigorous – overly tight and ‘sexless’ (any album that features a song called ‘In The Privacy of Our Love’ cannot be entirely sexless!). Much of it has the intentionally ragged edges that have always characterised the group’s sound. It’s machine music with a human heart and a restless mind. I also detect a more aggressive, muscular approach here, particularly evident in the strident, unpredictable ‘Out At The Pictures’ or the irresistible ‘Hold On’ (which features Alexis, it’s safe to say not the stockiest man in the world, singing ‘I’ve a good mind to take you outside!’). Best of all is the amazing ‘One Pure Thought’ which neatly juxtaposes the spirit of New Order with the melodic African excursions of Paul Simon.
All of these bold, uncompromising and insistent tracks benefit from the increased vocal presence of Joe Goddard, who had seemed a little diminutive on much of ‘The Warning’. Here the group are again making brilliant use of the marked contrast between his inspired quasi-rapping and Alexis’ sweeter tones and bright melodies. This is particularly effective on the quirky, invigorating ‘Bendable Poseable’. ‘Shake A Fist’ is a trickier beast though, it’s enjoyably wide-ranging melody suddenly disintegrating into a wilfully irritating Todd Rundgren sample and mess of pitch-bending synths. It reminds me of the infuriating ending to ‘Baby Said’, otherwise one of the most direct and affecting moments on ‘Coming On Strong’.
Amidst all this riotous energy, the album comes to life in its quieter places. I know he won’t thank me for this comparison, but Alexis shares something with Damon Albarn in his comfortable mastery of the ballad form, something evidenced here by the exquisite and beautiful title track and the haunting and candid ‘In The Privacy Of Our Love’. There’s also the gospel tinged ‘We Are Looking For A Lot Of Love’, which sounds like a great R Kelly single with vulnerability replacing the bravado. It sounds a little like a superior update of an early Hot Chip track, ‘Making Tracks’, which appeared on the group’s San Frandisco EP. Whereas ‘The Warning’ really only had one song like this in the form of ‘Look After Me’, ‘Made In The Dark’ stands apart through increasing the quota.
It will take a while of living with this album before I can really decide if it coheres well, or is more a ragbag collection of audacious creative ideas. Either way, they are mostly brilliant ideas. There’s so much originality and personality here – but none of it outweighs Alexis and Joe’s supreme understanding of musical history and the songwriting tradition, which is more clearly elucidated here than on either of its predecessors. From the dark, the light creeps out.
Hot Chip’s third album, and their first to be released to a palpable sense of anticipation, is paradoxically both their most accessible and most confounding. It’s accessible in its sheer energy and playful zest, and also in its preponderance for deceptively sugary melodies. For all their reliance on the traits of R&B and dance music, first single ‘Ready For The Floor’ actually most closely resembles the infectious pop of Erasure or early Depeche Mode. On the other hand, the album is confounding in the sheer glee it takes in subverting expectations, deconstructing conventional song structures and restlessly flitting between genres and styles. It’s an album that, appropriately as it turns out, requires a bit of wrestling and confrontation.
Whilst Alexis Taylor and Joe Goddard’s bedroom recording ethos has mercifully been sustained here, there’s also a greater sense of ambition, a number of tracks having been recorded in a studio with the whole group. It’s therefore the first Hot Chip record to capture the thrill and insistence of their live shows. If there’s a downside to this, it’s that the beats sometimes rely far more heavily on the basic four-to-the-floor house template, with any intricacy left to additional percussion parts.
Yet there’s much more to this slippery record than simply a relentless party spirit. It’s intriguing that whilst comparisons often rest on the group’s enthusiasm for American R&B, Robert Wyatt has recently recognised them as kindred spirits and a collection of ‘English eccentrics’. This is perhaps best elucidated in Alexis Taylor’s thoughtful, elusive lyrics, which often capture a mood but leave precise meaning somewhat ambiguous. Alongside this is an increased tendency to veer away from the tired conventions of pop songwriting. Sometimes this results in songs that sound like several different pieces only loosely strung together – I’ve yet to get to grips with the mechanistic ‘Don’t Dance’. At other times, it has results that are both unpredictable and striking, particularly on ‘Hold On’, ‘Touch Too Much’ and ‘One Pure Thought’.
I’m baffled that some critics have suggested that ‘Made In The Dark’ is too rigorous – overly tight and ‘sexless’ (any album that features a song called ‘In The Privacy of Our Love’ cannot be entirely sexless!). Much of it has the intentionally ragged edges that have always characterised the group’s sound. It’s machine music with a human heart and a restless mind. I also detect a more aggressive, muscular approach here, particularly evident in the strident, unpredictable ‘Out At The Pictures’ or the irresistible ‘Hold On’ (which features Alexis, it’s safe to say not the stockiest man in the world, singing ‘I’ve a good mind to take you outside!’). Best of all is the amazing ‘One Pure Thought’ which neatly juxtaposes the spirit of New Order with the melodic African excursions of Paul Simon.
All of these bold, uncompromising and insistent tracks benefit from the increased vocal presence of Joe Goddard, who had seemed a little diminutive on much of ‘The Warning’. Here the group are again making brilliant use of the marked contrast between his inspired quasi-rapping and Alexis’ sweeter tones and bright melodies. This is particularly effective on the quirky, invigorating ‘Bendable Poseable’. ‘Shake A Fist’ is a trickier beast though, it’s enjoyably wide-ranging melody suddenly disintegrating into a wilfully irritating Todd Rundgren sample and mess of pitch-bending synths. It reminds me of the infuriating ending to ‘Baby Said’, otherwise one of the most direct and affecting moments on ‘Coming On Strong’.
Amidst all this riotous energy, the album comes to life in its quieter places. I know he won’t thank me for this comparison, but Alexis shares something with Damon Albarn in his comfortable mastery of the ballad form, something evidenced here by the exquisite and beautiful title track and the haunting and candid ‘In The Privacy Of Our Love’. There’s also the gospel tinged ‘We Are Looking For A Lot Of Love’, which sounds like a great R Kelly single with vulnerability replacing the bravado. It sounds a little like a superior update of an early Hot Chip track, ‘Making Tracks’, which appeared on the group’s San Frandisco EP. Whereas ‘The Warning’ really only had one song like this in the form of ‘Look After Me’, ‘Made In The Dark’ stands apart through increasing the quota.
It will take a while of living with this album before I can really decide if it coheres well, or is more a ragbag collection of audacious creative ideas. Either way, they are mostly brilliant ideas. There’s so much originality and personality here – but none of it outweighs Alexis and Joe’s supreme understanding of musical history and the songwriting tradition, which is more clearly elucidated here than on either of its predecessors. From the dark, the light creeps out.