Neon Neon - Stainless Style (Lex, 2008)
A concept album based on the rise and fall of playboy engineer John DeLorean relying heavily on recycled 80s production values doesn’t necessarily sound like one of 2008’s most appetising prospects. Yet any album combining the talents of Super Furry Animal Gruff Rhys and Anticon production maestro Bryan ‘Boom Bip’ Hollon has to be worthy of some attention. The two first collaborated on the track ‘Dos and Don’ts’ from Boom Bip’s 2005 album ‘Blue Eyed in the Red Room’. So pleasing were the results that a long form project became a certainty. This makes Rhys one of the most prolific artists currently at work, having released this, his excellent solo album ‘Candylion’ and a Super Furry Animals album all in the space of the last twelve months.
Whilst the album sounds deliberately dated, it inadvertently captures much of the current zeitgeist. The opening instrumental theme and percussion heavy ‘Racquel’ (yes, it really is an ode to Racquel Welch) closely resemble Hot Chip, whilst there are also further hints of robotic funk and even tinges of the same soft rock influences that have informed the likes of Yeasayer. Yet Rhys and Hollon are careful enough to steer the project away from either vanity or mere parody. This collection works superbly because of its extended exploration of the contrast between mechanical coldness and human warmth. It transpires that there is something peculiarly affecting in the narrative arc from hedonistic celebration to unexpected defeat and alienation.
The theme is introduced right from the very outset. ‘Dream Cars’ is set to a devilishly dirty groove, but with its edges smoothed by Rhys’ saccharine vocal line. He sings of ‘dream girls in cold cars’ and ‘cold girls in dream cars’, neatly summarising the parallels between triumph of engineering and sexual adventure. The juxtaposition is established even more explicitly on the hilarious ‘Trick For Treat’, a deliriously entertaining mix of games console sounds, rapping from Spank Rock and falsetto vocals (‘she looks cold, but warm enough to dip my pinkie in!’). The brilliantly titled ‘Steel Your Girl’ develops the theme further, in more wistful and reflective style, all delicate backing vocals and pretty guitar arpeggios.
Beneath its reconstituted sheen, ‘Stainless Style’ is a perceptive reflection on the excesses of 1980s capitalism. Everything is subordinated to personal ambition, the slinky but ultimately mechanical ‘I Lust U’ claiming ‘I love you if the price is right’. The factory closure lament that is ‘Belfast’ (‘I took you for granted like so many in my day/I built my empire and threw it all away’) and the cautionary tale that is ‘Luxury Pool’ capture the damaged and isolated flipside of the album’s initial excesses. Perhaps the most impressive aspect of all this is the way different elements of the era’s pop music are deployed to craft particular moods. The OMD-esque pop of ‘Belfast’ is tinged with regret, whilst the outrageous funk of ‘Sweat Shop’ creates a steamy swamp for the track’s musings on sex. Elsewhere, there’s a reasonable helping of infectious processed pop, complete with intrusive drums and irresistible melodies that help to encapsulate the era’s temptations and vices.
‘Stainless Style’ is a brilliantly crafted record that ultimately transcends its core purpose. It could easily be reduced to the three words with which Paddy McAloon of Prefab Sprout famously dismissed Bruce Springsteen – ‘cars and girls’ – but, in the event, it’s amazing what can be made from these core ingredients.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Here Comes The Flood
Chris T-T – Capital (Xtra Mile, 2008)
I came to this new album from Chris T-T, his first with a full band since 2003’s ‘London is Sinking’, with real enthusiasm, and the conviction that it would be my favourite of Chris’ albums thus far. The reality of my reaction has proved a little more complicated. This is a fine album – but considerably more unremitting and volatile than its predecessors, and mostly without levity.
Billed as the concluding part of a trilogy about London (following predecessors ‘The 253’ and ‘London is Sinking’), ‘Capital’ is a big, blustery rock and roll record in a very British rock tradition. Compared with previous T-T records, it’s also somewhat dour and relatively humourless. Whilst Chris’ records have been heavily politicised for some time, fuelled by vitriol and rage, his records have also come with a healthy dose of self-deprecating fun (from ‘You Can Be Flirty’ to ‘Preaching to the Converted’, the latter comically undermining the whole purpose of his ‘9 Red Songs’ protest album). ‘Capital’ is sometimes compassionate and deeply moving (‘A Box to Hide In’, ‘Let’s Do Some Damage’), sometimes wry (‘Old Men’, ‘Black Music’), but rarely outwardly funny.
Whereas ‘9 Red Songs’ expressed some hope for the future, ‘Capital’ seems doused in pessimism. The opening ‘(We Are) The King of England’ slyly references his back catalogue by portentously proclaiming ‘if you thought London was sinking last year/Get ready for a whole lot worse’. The sludgy, tuneless and unpleasant ‘Where Were You?’ (comfortably my least favourite T-T track to date) ends with the words ‘everyone is dead/and everyone who’s not dead might as well be dead/they play dead…’ The closing ‘4AM’ claims that ‘the heart is gone, the soul is gone, the only thing left is the money’, a chorus seemingly applicable to both a failing relationship and the state of government in the UK and US in the aftermath of 9/11 (‘they’ve got any excuse now’). The urgency and sense of paralysing fear is spot on, but is more effective when tempered by Chris’ humane concerns and sympathies.
This is perhaps best achieved on ‘A Box To Hide In’, a song already familiar from live performances. With its flourishes of trumpet and harmonica, it reminds me more than a little of underrated indie heroes Animals That Swim, even if the acoustic live performances I’ve heard may actually have more unsparing power than this fuller arrangement. Either way, it’s a remarkably touching and unsentimental take on the July 7th bombings, and one that wisely warns against allowing such events to control us. In fact, Chris’ targets throughout ‘Capital’ seem to be the negative and damaging responses of those in power when faced with difficult situations. This is most neatly encapsulated in the scathing ‘None Of Them Give a Fuck About The Future’, one of the best and most ambitious tracks here, incorporating as it does threadbare funk, deceptively sweet-sounding female backing vocals and grizzly rock.
Some of the best moments on ‘Capital’ are where it ventures more into more personal territory. ‘Old Men’ is a wonderful denunciation of human beings settling into comfortable boredom, whilst accepting the grim inevitability that this is what happens to us all eventually. Even better is the extraordinary ‘Ankles’, a disturbing and powerfully articulate depiction of a dysfunctional relationship characterised by violence (‘I held her down to stop her leaving and coming back to you’).
‘Ankles’ also works well musically, refreshing Chris’ sound through foregrounding the piano. Indeed, keyboards are far more prevalent throughout ‘Capital’, from occasional sensitive piano chords to the pitch bending antics on ‘We Are The King of England’. The music is consistently crisp and vigorous. I’m not so keen on the ugly choppiness of ‘Where Were You?’ or the rather superfluous parody of ‘Black Music’, but ‘The Day The Earth Stood Still’ and ‘A To Z’ sound fearlessly angry, whilst ‘This Gun Is Not A Gun’ seems to sound more like 80s REM than anything on ‘Accelerate’ – no bad thing.
‘Capital’ presents a merciless deconstruction of commonly held assumptions, and a concentrated assault on limited altruism, insulting triumphalism and negative assertions of power for its own sake. As a result, it’s arguably the least comfortable of Chris’ albums to date. The greater attention to detail in production and arrangement could broaden his audience considerably, but few would dare accuse him of compromising. The most disconcerting thing about ‘Capital’ is that its apocalyptic tone and sense of fiery urgency is so absolutely necessary.
I came to this new album from Chris T-T, his first with a full band since 2003’s ‘London is Sinking’, with real enthusiasm, and the conviction that it would be my favourite of Chris’ albums thus far. The reality of my reaction has proved a little more complicated. This is a fine album – but considerably more unremitting and volatile than its predecessors, and mostly without levity.
Billed as the concluding part of a trilogy about London (following predecessors ‘The 253’ and ‘London is Sinking’), ‘Capital’ is a big, blustery rock and roll record in a very British rock tradition. Compared with previous T-T records, it’s also somewhat dour and relatively humourless. Whilst Chris’ records have been heavily politicised for some time, fuelled by vitriol and rage, his records have also come with a healthy dose of self-deprecating fun (from ‘You Can Be Flirty’ to ‘Preaching to the Converted’, the latter comically undermining the whole purpose of his ‘9 Red Songs’ protest album). ‘Capital’ is sometimes compassionate and deeply moving (‘A Box to Hide In’, ‘Let’s Do Some Damage’), sometimes wry (‘Old Men’, ‘Black Music’), but rarely outwardly funny.
Whereas ‘9 Red Songs’ expressed some hope for the future, ‘Capital’ seems doused in pessimism. The opening ‘(We Are) The King of England’ slyly references his back catalogue by portentously proclaiming ‘if you thought London was sinking last year/Get ready for a whole lot worse’. The sludgy, tuneless and unpleasant ‘Where Were You?’ (comfortably my least favourite T-T track to date) ends with the words ‘everyone is dead/and everyone who’s not dead might as well be dead/they play dead…’ The closing ‘4AM’ claims that ‘the heart is gone, the soul is gone, the only thing left is the money’, a chorus seemingly applicable to both a failing relationship and the state of government in the UK and US in the aftermath of 9/11 (‘they’ve got any excuse now’). The urgency and sense of paralysing fear is spot on, but is more effective when tempered by Chris’ humane concerns and sympathies.
This is perhaps best achieved on ‘A Box To Hide In’, a song already familiar from live performances. With its flourishes of trumpet and harmonica, it reminds me more than a little of underrated indie heroes Animals That Swim, even if the acoustic live performances I’ve heard may actually have more unsparing power than this fuller arrangement. Either way, it’s a remarkably touching and unsentimental take on the July 7th bombings, and one that wisely warns against allowing such events to control us. In fact, Chris’ targets throughout ‘Capital’ seem to be the negative and damaging responses of those in power when faced with difficult situations. This is most neatly encapsulated in the scathing ‘None Of Them Give a Fuck About The Future’, one of the best and most ambitious tracks here, incorporating as it does threadbare funk, deceptively sweet-sounding female backing vocals and grizzly rock.
Some of the best moments on ‘Capital’ are where it ventures more into more personal territory. ‘Old Men’ is a wonderful denunciation of human beings settling into comfortable boredom, whilst accepting the grim inevitability that this is what happens to us all eventually. Even better is the extraordinary ‘Ankles’, a disturbing and powerfully articulate depiction of a dysfunctional relationship characterised by violence (‘I held her down to stop her leaving and coming back to you’).
‘Ankles’ also works well musically, refreshing Chris’ sound through foregrounding the piano. Indeed, keyboards are far more prevalent throughout ‘Capital’, from occasional sensitive piano chords to the pitch bending antics on ‘We Are The King of England’. The music is consistently crisp and vigorous. I’m not so keen on the ugly choppiness of ‘Where Were You?’ or the rather superfluous parody of ‘Black Music’, but ‘The Day The Earth Stood Still’ and ‘A To Z’ sound fearlessly angry, whilst ‘This Gun Is Not A Gun’ seems to sound more like 80s REM than anything on ‘Accelerate’ – no bad thing.
‘Capital’ presents a merciless deconstruction of commonly held assumptions, and a concentrated assault on limited altruism, insulting triumphalism and negative assertions of power for its own sake. As a result, it’s arguably the least comfortable of Chris’ albums to date. The greater attention to detail in production and arrangement could broaden his audience considerably, but few would dare accuse him of compromising. The most disconcerting thing about ‘Capital’ is that its apocalyptic tone and sense of fiery urgency is so absolutely necessary.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Things Wot I Must Write About...
This is really one of my public 'notes to self', as I have quite a lot of catching up to do here...The list includes:
Chris T-T - Capital
Neon Neon - Stainless Style
Destroyer - Trouble In Dreams
Diskjokke - Staying In
Marilyn Mazur and Jan Garbarek - Elixir
Nik Bartsch's Ronin - Holon
Marcin Wasilewski Trio - January
Gnarls Barkley - The Odd Couple
Fleet Foxes - Sun Giant EP
Neil Cowley Trio - Loud...Louder...Stop!
Retribution Gospel Choir - Retribution Gospel Choir
Various Artists - Bob Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour
Chris T-T - Capital
Neon Neon - Stainless Style
Destroyer - Trouble In Dreams
Diskjokke - Staying In
Marilyn Mazur and Jan Garbarek - Elixir
Nik Bartsch's Ronin - Holon
Marcin Wasilewski Trio - January
Gnarls Barkley - The Odd Couple
Fleet Foxes - Sun Giant EP
Neil Cowley Trio - Loud...Louder...Stop!
Retribution Gospel Choir - Retribution Gospel Choir
Various Artists - Bob Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour
Louder and Faster...In Reverse Gear
R.E.M. - Accelerate (Warner Bros, 2008)
Here we go, then, the argument goes something like this….
We’ve all lost faith in R.E.M. They lost their way when Bill Berry tendered his resignation, meandered in a tentative wilderness and lost all purpose and direction. ‘Accelerate’ is the long-awaited ‘return to form’, a PR line on which everyone is clearly in agreement. This even seems to include the band themselves, who now always seem to retreat and accept the party line once their albums are deemed disappointing.
Well, not quite everyone follows this line. Regular readers of this blog will already be aware of my enthusiasm for both ‘New Adventures in Hi Fi’ and ‘Up’ (both of which are more significant and better albums for me than ‘Out of Time’ or ‘Automatic for the People’). I even liked the bulk of ‘Reveal’, although I was troubled by its preference for bland atmospherics and synthetic sheen. I concede that the plodding lethargy of ‘Around The Sun’ dismayed me (although even that album had intriguing moments – ‘The Outsiders’ and ‘High Speed Train’ particularly). Yet this small concession to the critical consensus only helps reveal the limitations of a rather inaccurate line of argument.
As pre-release reports have suggested, ‘Accelerate’ returns rock dynamics (or lack thereof) and vigorous energy to the group. Yet it seems like such a contrived and reactionary record, from its functional, unimaginative title onwards – one made to suit the demands of record company executives, fickle critics and disappointed fans. It lacks the juxtaposition of spontaneity, insight and intelligence that characterised ‘New Adventures in Hi Fi’ or even the playful, self-mocking quirks of ‘Monster’. It is brash and pugnacious, but almost entirely without mystery or intrigue. With a distinct lack of light and shade on offer, the 35 minute run time seems like an essential requirement to avoid monotony, rather than a bold statement in its own right. It transpires that relentless thrashing and driving can sometimes be just as frustrating as interminable plodding. The record actually has its closest parallel in a much longer work – ‘Know Your Enemy’ by the Manic Street Preachers, a similarly uneven and unconvincing attempt to revive former glories, and I’m surprised that other critics have not ventured to make the comparison. Both records sound laboured and strangely self conscious, as if they have some kind of innate obligation to lay claim to the rock music terrain.
REM have never been a heavy rock band in quite this way before. ‘Horse To Water’ for example is so furious it sounds like Nirvana circa ‘In Utero’. It’s one of the most successful tracks on ‘Accelerate’ by virtue of abandoning subtlety altogether. Even the group’s loudest albums (‘Life’s Rich Pageant’, ‘Document’, ‘Monster’) have usually been tempered by quixotic angles, mischievous antics or gothic jangle (the latter of these characteristics admittedly breaks through on two tracks here), but much of ‘Accelerate’ simply sounds horrific. Producer Jacknife Lee, already responsible for two of my least favourite contemporary rock records in U2’s ‘How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb’ and Snow Patrol’s ‘Eyes Open’, compresses everything until there’s precious little definition or clarity remaining. It’s very loud, necessarily so given Bill Rieflin’s thunderous drumming, but pitch and tone are often completely unintelligible amidst the general wall of noise. Many have mentioned REM’s 1980s material as the template for this, but that music never sounded so harsh and unforgiving. It was big and cinematic, but never ugly. Here, distorted guitars clamour and squall, but only Mike Mills’ bass, confident and elegant as ever, really creates the intended tension.
The process for writing and recording did at least bode well, with the rehearsal shows in Dublin suggesting a similar outcome to the ‘on tour’ document that was ‘New Adventures…’. First single ‘Supernatural Superserious’, with its touching lyric about the overwhelming impact of humiliating teenage experiences and the first, nerve-wracking discoveries of intimacy, augured especially well. Crunchy and packing a commercial punch, it also came with an individuality and appeal worthy of the band’s great legacy. Even in context, it still sounds like a considered but effective repackaging of the REM trademark sound. Buck’s arpeggios, Mills’ counter melodies and Stipe’s charisma are all present, but in a way that seems fresh and engaging.
Much of the rest of the album seems more forced, perhaps even insincere. ‘I’m Gonna DJ’, already a staple of the band’s sets on the last world tour, although goofy and entertaining in a live context, seems like a slightly embarrassing attempt to be hip in its studio form (‘heaven does exist with a kickin’ playlist!’). The title track has a decent, memorable chorus, but Stipe is left floundering beneath a storm of unclear guitar noise. ‘Until The Day Is Done’ revisits the group’s familiar gothic balladry, with more direct political anger than Stipe mustered on ‘Around The Sun’ (‘forgive us our trespasses, father and son’ is transparently directed at George Bush Sr. and Jr.), but it adds little to a rich seam they’ve already mined dry. It feels like a song they’ve already written several times before. ‘Sing For The Submarine’, complete with cloying references to songs from the group’s back catalogue, simply has no melody to speak of at all, although it does sound effectively menacing and threatening. Far too many of the eleven tracks are predicated on Stipe’s more limited, monotonous brand of melody. Only the excellent ‘Hollow Man’, building from an oddly plaintive introduction into something more sprightly, offers any kind of breathing space.
The best material comes at the outset, with the barnstorming ‘Living Well’s The Best Revenge’ and caustic ‘Man Sized Wreath’. Neither song is particularly subtle, but then the group clearly aren’t aiming for that here. There is certainly a visceral thrill at hearing this group kicking back and rocking out once more. Both provide fertile ground for Mills’ nimble bass figures, and the contrast between Stipe’s impassioned ranting and Mills’ vocal counterpoint is exploited particularly well. I like the vocal harmonies on the political parable ‘Mr. Richards’, but whilst it has been described musically as ‘raga-rock’, I’m not sure it’s anywhere near that interesting. There’s a lot of overbearing strumming, and most of the intriguing sounds are buried in the murky mix.
Stipe has abandoned the more personal and intimate approach to lyric writing he adopted for ‘Up’, returning to the verbose, stream-of-consciousness style with which most listeners will be more familiar. Sometimes he is simply trying to squeeze too many words in and any sense of meaning, or even the intended thrill is obfuscated by the lack of real phrasing. It’s been a long time since his lyrics were rendered this unintelligible on record. His voice is hardly treated at all, and is hence closer to the more ragged growls of live performances than the clear, smooth sound of recent REM studio work. He remains a compelling performer throughout, but I frequently find myself frustrated at the relative lack of emotional directness on ‘Accelerate’. Again, only ‘Hollow Man’ seems daring enough to present a personal theme. Mind you, if Stipe’s own propaganda is to be believed, he’s never written about himself at all.
I tend to prefer REM at their most esoteric. Unfortunately, there’s nothing here to compare with the heady clamour of ‘Walk Unafraid’, the unrestrained desperation of ‘Country Feedback’, the warped sea shanty of ‘The Apologist’ or the murky undertow of ‘Let Me In’. There’s little of the enigma or peculiarity of their early IRS material either. Only ‘Houston’, with its ragged, nasty distorted organ really comes close to something fascinating and unexpected, but it ends abruptly without really having evolved or journeyed anywhere.
Whilst these songs are not actively bad, and the concise running time makes it all zip past swiftly, it feels somehow unsatisfactory and one-dimensional. It doesn’t help that it sounds like it was recorded in a nuclear bunker. REM are massively wealthy men now, with popularity surely no longer a major concern. They could follow the example of Bruce Springsteen in pursuing some less predictable artistic avenues. I’d even like to see them extricate themselves from their Warner Bros contract and pursue some of the more exciting strategic opportunities exploited by the likes of Radiohead (and, more recently, The Raconteurs and Gnarls Barkley). Most significantly, I’d like to see them stop reacting to the demands of others (‘Around the Sun’ was seemingly a response to demands for them to make a modernised ‘Automatic…’, whilst ‘Accelerate’ is the response to that creative and commercial failure) and make an album that accurately captures their current artistic place and mindset. I still suspect that ‘Up’ was that record – and that some of its explorations should have been further developed.
Ironically, whilst this album seems designed to help REM fill stadium sized venues again, I imagine most of these songs would work best live, at smaller venue shows taken at a frantic and breathtaking pace. But don’t believe the hype – I’m unlikely to listen to this one over most of its predecessors.
Here we go, then, the argument goes something like this….
We’ve all lost faith in R.E.M. They lost their way when Bill Berry tendered his resignation, meandered in a tentative wilderness and lost all purpose and direction. ‘Accelerate’ is the long-awaited ‘return to form’, a PR line on which everyone is clearly in agreement. This even seems to include the band themselves, who now always seem to retreat and accept the party line once their albums are deemed disappointing.
Well, not quite everyone follows this line. Regular readers of this blog will already be aware of my enthusiasm for both ‘New Adventures in Hi Fi’ and ‘Up’ (both of which are more significant and better albums for me than ‘Out of Time’ or ‘Automatic for the People’). I even liked the bulk of ‘Reveal’, although I was troubled by its preference for bland atmospherics and synthetic sheen. I concede that the plodding lethargy of ‘Around The Sun’ dismayed me (although even that album had intriguing moments – ‘The Outsiders’ and ‘High Speed Train’ particularly). Yet this small concession to the critical consensus only helps reveal the limitations of a rather inaccurate line of argument.
As pre-release reports have suggested, ‘Accelerate’ returns rock dynamics (or lack thereof) and vigorous energy to the group. Yet it seems like such a contrived and reactionary record, from its functional, unimaginative title onwards – one made to suit the demands of record company executives, fickle critics and disappointed fans. It lacks the juxtaposition of spontaneity, insight and intelligence that characterised ‘New Adventures in Hi Fi’ or even the playful, self-mocking quirks of ‘Monster’. It is brash and pugnacious, but almost entirely without mystery or intrigue. With a distinct lack of light and shade on offer, the 35 minute run time seems like an essential requirement to avoid monotony, rather than a bold statement in its own right. It transpires that relentless thrashing and driving can sometimes be just as frustrating as interminable plodding. The record actually has its closest parallel in a much longer work – ‘Know Your Enemy’ by the Manic Street Preachers, a similarly uneven and unconvincing attempt to revive former glories, and I’m surprised that other critics have not ventured to make the comparison. Both records sound laboured and strangely self conscious, as if they have some kind of innate obligation to lay claim to the rock music terrain.
REM have never been a heavy rock band in quite this way before. ‘Horse To Water’ for example is so furious it sounds like Nirvana circa ‘In Utero’. It’s one of the most successful tracks on ‘Accelerate’ by virtue of abandoning subtlety altogether. Even the group’s loudest albums (‘Life’s Rich Pageant’, ‘Document’, ‘Monster’) have usually been tempered by quixotic angles, mischievous antics or gothic jangle (the latter of these characteristics admittedly breaks through on two tracks here), but much of ‘Accelerate’ simply sounds horrific. Producer Jacknife Lee, already responsible for two of my least favourite contemporary rock records in U2’s ‘How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb’ and Snow Patrol’s ‘Eyes Open’, compresses everything until there’s precious little definition or clarity remaining. It’s very loud, necessarily so given Bill Rieflin’s thunderous drumming, but pitch and tone are often completely unintelligible amidst the general wall of noise. Many have mentioned REM’s 1980s material as the template for this, but that music never sounded so harsh and unforgiving. It was big and cinematic, but never ugly. Here, distorted guitars clamour and squall, but only Mike Mills’ bass, confident and elegant as ever, really creates the intended tension.
The process for writing and recording did at least bode well, with the rehearsal shows in Dublin suggesting a similar outcome to the ‘on tour’ document that was ‘New Adventures…’. First single ‘Supernatural Superserious’, with its touching lyric about the overwhelming impact of humiliating teenage experiences and the first, nerve-wracking discoveries of intimacy, augured especially well. Crunchy and packing a commercial punch, it also came with an individuality and appeal worthy of the band’s great legacy. Even in context, it still sounds like a considered but effective repackaging of the REM trademark sound. Buck’s arpeggios, Mills’ counter melodies and Stipe’s charisma are all present, but in a way that seems fresh and engaging.
Much of the rest of the album seems more forced, perhaps even insincere. ‘I’m Gonna DJ’, already a staple of the band’s sets on the last world tour, although goofy and entertaining in a live context, seems like a slightly embarrassing attempt to be hip in its studio form (‘heaven does exist with a kickin’ playlist!’). The title track has a decent, memorable chorus, but Stipe is left floundering beneath a storm of unclear guitar noise. ‘Until The Day Is Done’ revisits the group’s familiar gothic balladry, with more direct political anger than Stipe mustered on ‘Around The Sun’ (‘forgive us our trespasses, father and son’ is transparently directed at George Bush Sr. and Jr.), but it adds little to a rich seam they’ve already mined dry. It feels like a song they’ve already written several times before. ‘Sing For The Submarine’, complete with cloying references to songs from the group’s back catalogue, simply has no melody to speak of at all, although it does sound effectively menacing and threatening. Far too many of the eleven tracks are predicated on Stipe’s more limited, monotonous brand of melody. Only the excellent ‘Hollow Man’, building from an oddly plaintive introduction into something more sprightly, offers any kind of breathing space.
The best material comes at the outset, with the barnstorming ‘Living Well’s The Best Revenge’ and caustic ‘Man Sized Wreath’. Neither song is particularly subtle, but then the group clearly aren’t aiming for that here. There is certainly a visceral thrill at hearing this group kicking back and rocking out once more. Both provide fertile ground for Mills’ nimble bass figures, and the contrast between Stipe’s impassioned ranting and Mills’ vocal counterpoint is exploited particularly well. I like the vocal harmonies on the political parable ‘Mr. Richards’, but whilst it has been described musically as ‘raga-rock’, I’m not sure it’s anywhere near that interesting. There’s a lot of overbearing strumming, and most of the intriguing sounds are buried in the murky mix.
Stipe has abandoned the more personal and intimate approach to lyric writing he adopted for ‘Up’, returning to the verbose, stream-of-consciousness style with which most listeners will be more familiar. Sometimes he is simply trying to squeeze too many words in and any sense of meaning, or even the intended thrill is obfuscated by the lack of real phrasing. It’s been a long time since his lyrics were rendered this unintelligible on record. His voice is hardly treated at all, and is hence closer to the more ragged growls of live performances than the clear, smooth sound of recent REM studio work. He remains a compelling performer throughout, but I frequently find myself frustrated at the relative lack of emotional directness on ‘Accelerate’. Again, only ‘Hollow Man’ seems daring enough to present a personal theme. Mind you, if Stipe’s own propaganda is to be believed, he’s never written about himself at all.
I tend to prefer REM at their most esoteric. Unfortunately, there’s nothing here to compare with the heady clamour of ‘Walk Unafraid’, the unrestrained desperation of ‘Country Feedback’, the warped sea shanty of ‘The Apologist’ or the murky undertow of ‘Let Me In’. There’s little of the enigma or peculiarity of their early IRS material either. Only ‘Houston’, with its ragged, nasty distorted organ really comes close to something fascinating and unexpected, but it ends abruptly without really having evolved or journeyed anywhere.
Whilst these songs are not actively bad, and the concise running time makes it all zip past swiftly, it feels somehow unsatisfactory and one-dimensional. It doesn’t help that it sounds like it was recorded in a nuclear bunker. REM are massively wealthy men now, with popularity surely no longer a major concern. They could follow the example of Bruce Springsteen in pursuing some less predictable artistic avenues. I’d even like to see them extricate themselves from their Warner Bros contract and pursue some of the more exciting strategic opportunities exploited by the likes of Radiohead (and, more recently, The Raconteurs and Gnarls Barkley). Most significantly, I’d like to see them stop reacting to the demands of others (‘Around the Sun’ was seemingly a response to demands for them to make a modernised ‘Automatic…’, whilst ‘Accelerate’ is the response to that creative and commercial failure) and make an album that accurately captures their current artistic place and mindset. I still suspect that ‘Up’ was that record – and that some of its explorations should have been further developed.
Ironically, whilst this album seems designed to help REM fill stadium sized venues again, I imagine most of these songs would work best live, at smaller venue shows taken at a frantic and breathtaking pace. But don’t believe the hype – I’m unlikely to listen to this one over most of its predecessors.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Rarely Heard Anthems
Elbow – The Seldom Seen Kid
I have a strange relationship with Elbow. Initially, I dismissed them far too rashly as a blandly anthemic band in the manner of Coldplay, a description that misses the structural ambition and intricate complexities of their best songs. As I’ve warmed to the group, I now realise that they are probably the type of band the likes of Coldplay, Keane and Snow Patrol so desperately want to be – a band with anthemic qualities, but also with genuine subtlety, musical intelligence and humane warmth. There is the nagging sense that they’ve essentially been remaking the same record since ‘Cast of Thousands’, but it is at least a consistently excellent record and one with sufficient depth to be worth revisiting.
This, their fourth full length, works best when it veers furthest from their established template. It opens with a startling track that somehow manages to combine a serene and mesmerising meditation with aggressive punctuations of violent brass. There’s a film-score quality to the most mysterious songs here, from the John Barry-esque ‘Audience with the Pope’ to the fairground carousel-meets-Ennio Morricone atmosphere of ‘The Fix’, which sees a characteristically wry Guy Garvey duet with guest vocalist Richard Hawley.
The focus of the album comes with two ballads – both of which are plaintive and melancholy rather than grandstanding or portentous. ‘Weather to Fly’ is a mix of quietly compelling sounds – from some manipulated high pitched backing vocals to the distant parping of a New Orleans-style brass band at the song’s conclusion. ‘The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver’ is more self-consciously widescreen in its crystalline sound, but as clear and gripping a depiction of isolation as Garvey has yet mustered.
Indeed, Garvey is on strong form throughout, his voice somehow retaining that personable, conversational quality whilst also sounding clear and bold in its delivery. Sometimes he sounds like he’s engaging us in late night pub chatter, just before closing, and having sank enough beers to reveal some personal secrets. His revelations are both intimate and amiable. The opening ‘Starlings’ seems to be a list of uncertain, philosophical responses to love (‘I’m asking you to back a horse that’s good for glue and nothing else…but find a man that needs you more than I…’). Continuing the theme, there’s a whole world of imaginative, dexterous wordplay in ‘The Fix’, a song at least partially inspired by corrupt gambling practises in the world of horseracing, by no means a common subject for a pop song.
‘The Seldom Seen Kid’ is their most restrained statement since ‘Asleep In The Back’. Even the ballads are mostly elusive (there’s nothing as immediately heartstring tugging as ‘Switching On’ or ‘Fugitive Motel’), and there’s no grandiose chugging in the style of ‘Fallen Angel’ or ‘Leaders of the Free World’. Some tracks (particularly the piano and vocal ‘Some Riot’) burrow into the mind gradually and insidiously, ignoring pop music’s predilection for the immediate and infectious. ‘Grounds for Divorce’ veers into that familiar ramshackle groove they have already furrowed on numerous occasions, although it does so with such élan that its inclusion is entirely forgivable. Given the group’s tendency to hold back, the bigger statements are all the more impressive and unexpected when they come – from the nefarious brass on ‘Starlings’, savagely punctuating an otherwise serene mood, to the thunderous drums on ‘The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver’. Where string arrangements are involved, they are carefully interwoven into already intricate textures.
Unfortunately, two moments do stick out as somewhat underwhelming. The terrace chanting of ‘One Day Like This’ risks lapsing into benign platitudes, and seems like a transparent attempt to rewrite the group’s Glastonbury singalong ‘Grace Under Pressure’. It’s far less interesting rhythmically and melodically than that excellent track though. Similarly, ‘The Bones of You’, whilst sounding undeniably lovely, seems like an amalgam of the chords, rhythm track and melody from a variety of other Elbow songs.
‘The Seldom Seen Kid’ is an album which requires a good deal of patience as it reveals its hidden depths. It comes with plenty of fascinating twists and turns that demonstrate precisely why Elbow have not captured the collective spirit in quite the same way as the aforementioned lesser bands. Like previous Elbow albums, the meticulous attention to detail and overall sonic architecture are breathtaking.
I have a strange relationship with Elbow. Initially, I dismissed them far too rashly as a blandly anthemic band in the manner of Coldplay, a description that misses the structural ambition and intricate complexities of their best songs. As I’ve warmed to the group, I now realise that they are probably the type of band the likes of Coldplay, Keane and Snow Patrol so desperately want to be – a band with anthemic qualities, but also with genuine subtlety, musical intelligence and humane warmth. There is the nagging sense that they’ve essentially been remaking the same record since ‘Cast of Thousands’, but it is at least a consistently excellent record and one with sufficient depth to be worth revisiting.
This, their fourth full length, works best when it veers furthest from their established template. It opens with a startling track that somehow manages to combine a serene and mesmerising meditation with aggressive punctuations of violent brass. There’s a film-score quality to the most mysterious songs here, from the John Barry-esque ‘Audience with the Pope’ to the fairground carousel-meets-Ennio Morricone atmosphere of ‘The Fix’, which sees a characteristically wry Guy Garvey duet with guest vocalist Richard Hawley.
The focus of the album comes with two ballads – both of which are plaintive and melancholy rather than grandstanding or portentous. ‘Weather to Fly’ is a mix of quietly compelling sounds – from some manipulated high pitched backing vocals to the distant parping of a New Orleans-style brass band at the song’s conclusion. ‘The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver’ is more self-consciously widescreen in its crystalline sound, but as clear and gripping a depiction of isolation as Garvey has yet mustered.
Indeed, Garvey is on strong form throughout, his voice somehow retaining that personable, conversational quality whilst also sounding clear and bold in its delivery. Sometimes he sounds like he’s engaging us in late night pub chatter, just before closing, and having sank enough beers to reveal some personal secrets. His revelations are both intimate and amiable. The opening ‘Starlings’ seems to be a list of uncertain, philosophical responses to love (‘I’m asking you to back a horse that’s good for glue and nothing else…but find a man that needs you more than I…’). Continuing the theme, there’s a whole world of imaginative, dexterous wordplay in ‘The Fix’, a song at least partially inspired by corrupt gambling practises in the world of horseracing, by no means a common subject for a pop song.
‘The Seldom Seen Kid’ is their most restrained statement since ‘Asleep In The Back’. Even the ballads are mostly elusive (there’s nothing as immediately heartstring tugging as ‘Switching On’ or ‘Fugitive Motel’), and there’s no grandiose chugging in the style of ‘Fallen Angel’ or ‘Leaders of the Free World’. Some tracks (particularly the piano and vocal ‘Some Riot’) burrow into the mind gradually and insidiously, ignoring pop music’s predilection for the immediate and infectious. ‘Grounds for Divorce’ veers into that familiar ramshackle groove they have already furrowed on numerous occasions, although it does so with such élan that its inclusion is entirely forgivable. Given the group’s tendency to hold back, the bigger statements are all the more impressive and unexpected when they come – from the nefarious brass on ‘Starlings’, savagely punctuating an otherwise serene mood, to the thunderous drums on ‘The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver’. Where string arrangements are involved, they are carefully interwoven into already intricate textures.
Unfortunately, two moments do stick out as somewhat underwhelming. The terrace chanting of ‘One Day Like This’ risks lapsing into benign platitudes, and seems like a transparent attempt to rewrite the group’s Glastonbury singalong ‘Grace Under Pressure’. It’s far less interesting rhythmically and melodically than that excellent track though. Similarly, ‘The Bones of You’, whilst sounding undeniably lovely, seems like an amalgam of the chords, rhythm track and melody from a variety of other Elbow songs.
‘The Seldom Seen Kid’ is an album which requires a good deal of patience as it reveals its hidden depths. It comes with plenty of fascinating twists and turns that demonstrate precisely why Elbow have not captured the collective spirit in quite the same way as the aforementioned lesser bands. Like previous Elbow albums, the meticulous attention to detail and overall sonic architecture are breathtaking.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Ticketwatch Part 366
Clearly it takes the exploitation of the lucrative Tweenie market to mobilise people power in the US, but this report from New York makes for interesting reading:
http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/03/11/hannah-montana-vs-the-ticket-scalping-bots/index.html?hp
It's clear from this that the distinction there between official reselling agencies and touting organisations is even more blurred that it has been in the UK. It also doesn't seem like the legislation is promising anything that isn't already standard practice here - most major concerts already have a 4 per buyer ticket restriction, although that cannot stop touting groups buying out vast numbers with high speed dialler software. The intriguing difference here is the number of venues in NYC with public funding, and the new obligation on these venues to sell 40% of their tickets directly to individual consumers.
http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/03/11/hannah-montana-vs-the-ticket-scalping-bots/index.html?hp
It's clear from this that the distinction there between official reselling agencies and touting organisations is even more blurred that it has been in the UK. It also doesn't seem like the legislation is promising anything that isn't already standard practice here - most major concerts already have a 4 per buyer ticket restriction, although that cannot stop touting groups buying out vast numbers with high speed dialler software. The intriguing difference here is the number of venues in NYC with public funding, and the new obligation on these venues to sell 40% of their tickets directly to individual consumers.
The Thin Line Between Life and Death
The Edge of Heaven (Fatih Akin, 2007)
The Diving Bell and The Butterfly (Julian Schnabel, 2007)
The Turkish German director Fatih Akin’s third feature, The Edge of Heaven has been given a badly mistranslated title for its UK release. The original German title ‘On The Other Side’ is more open to interpretation and therefore more effective. Yet the more emotive English title does emphasise the film’s interest in peril, danger and death. The film has a tripartite structure, reminiscent of the unjustly lauded Mexican director Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu (whose films have so far merely served to repeat themselves with diminishing returns). Also like Inarritu, Akin contrives to connect seemingly disparate lives, and in doing so portrays tensions, both political and personal, between Germany and Turkey. The film’s coincidences and contrivances might well seem implausible to less generous viewers, and appreciation of the film certainly requires a small suspension of disbelief.
This would be a significant problem if the film were only a meditation on the consequences of coincidences, but Akin has also crafted a picture which speaks volumes about human relationships, and the impact of globalisation and immigration on the lives of individuals. In spite of its rather forced plot strands, it is therefore a powerful and touching drama, and the required leap of faith is only a minor flaw in an otherwise successful work.
A major part of the film’s achievement is the naturalistic and convincing performances Akin draws from his excellent cast, many of whom are unknowns here in the UK. Only Hanna Schygulla is a recognisable veteran, and her presence here no doubt represents a homage to Rainer Werner Fassbinder, an acknowledged influence on Akin. Her performance here, which evolves as the film progresses, is one of quiet majesty and real humanity.
The palpable tragedies at the core of the film are foretold by some intertitles at the start of the film’s first two sections – the first of which is called Yeter’s Death, the second Lotte’s Death. The first section centres on the unconventional relationship between the elderly Ali and prostitute Yeter, who discover a kinship through their shared experience as Turkish immigrants. Ali pays Yeter to live and sleep exclusively with him, an offer Yeter accepts at least in part through fear of a pair of threatening Islamic stalkers. Yet, after suffering a major heart attack, Ali quickly becomes self-centred, dominating and controlling, a side hitherto hidden by his endearingly frisky exterior. Accidentally killing Yeter in a rash moment of violence, he finds himself incarcerated as Yeter’s body is flown back to Turkey.
Ali’s bemused son Nejat occupies a unique position among the characters in this film in that he is a Turkish immigrant in Germany who has achieved a laudable position – a professor of German literature. He might be expected therefore to have some sort of superiority over the oppressed characters of Yeter and Ayten, voluntarily embracing prostitution and activism respectively. Yet his stately compassion represents the picture’s moral yardstick, and he is to assume a more significant role in the film’s closing stages.
The second section of the film focuses on Yeter’s estranged daughter, Ayten (played with convincing audacity and gusto by the unfathomably beautiful Nurgel Yesilcay), a political activist in Turkey in danger of incarceration for terrorist activity. Fearing persecution, she enters Germany illegally, and quickly strikes a bond with disillusioned student Lotte, who clearly yearns for some form of escape from the mundanities of her comfortable life. Unthinkingly, she offers Ayten board and lodging in her mother’s house, and the two begin an intense love affair whilst searching in vain for Yeter, who mislead Ayten into believing she could be found working in a shoe shop. Lotte’s mother Susanne (played by the aforementioned Schygulla), initially dismayed and struggling to understand the subservience of all personal concerns to political protest, generously and compassionately funds Ayten’s legal defence.
Although the political argument between Ayten and Susanne seems somewhat staged, this section of the film has significant points to make about Turkey and its contradictory politics. Ayten’s application for asylum is refused not because of her commitment to political violence, but rather because as a country poised to join the European Union, Turkey could not possibly be guilty of persecuting or repressing political opposition. Similarly, Susanne tries reasoning with Ayten that membership of the EU will suddenly bring the universal human rights that Ayten hungers after. Akin highlights the fundamental naivety of these positions.
On deportation back to Turkey, Ayten is held in prison, and threatened with a lengthy jail term. Overwhelmed by her emotions and burgeoning beliefs, Lotte abandons her studies in Germany (and her suffering mother), and heads to Istanbul to find and rescue Ayten, finally believing she has meaning in her life. Ironically, she finds a room for rent with Nejat, who has purchased a German bookshop in Istanbul and hopes to find Ayten and fund her education as some form of recompense for the actions of his father, although Lotte remains unaware of this, with grim irony. Lotte proves surprisingly resourceful in spite of her naivety and inexperience and the result is a painful and inevitable tragedy that encapsulates the essential vulnerability of the lives depicted in this film.
The final section of the film might reasonably be expected to tie the remaining loose plot strands together in a neat conclusion, and initially this seems to be the objective, with Nejat now entrenched in his German bookshop in Turkey, perhaps resigned to never finding Ayten. Lotte’s mother heads to Turkey after hearing the news of her daughter’s death, and locates Nejat in order to stay in the room her daughter had rented. They form a touching bond of friendship, perhaps even Platonic love, and their conversation about sacrifice is particularly moving, prompting Nejat to seek out his father, now also deported back to Turkey having been released from prison. The film concludes on a satisfyingly ambiguous note, with Nejat waiting for Ali’s fishing boat to come back to shore as the tide gets choppier. We are left wondering whether he will in fact return. Rather than join up all the dots, Nejat has not, even by the film’s final image, discovered that Lotte’s mother is supporting Ayten.
The film reflects on the poignancy and irony of near misses and devastating tragedies, but also highlights the vulnerability and mixed feelings of displaced people with an insight, humanity and compassion that never veers into sentiment. These are big ideas for a director with still burgeoning talent, and ‘The Edge of Heaven’ is an assured film that lacks the relentless severity of ‘Head On’. For a film touched with tragedy and doom, it’s also surprisingly light and life affirming.
Julian Schnabel’s ‘The Diving Bell and The Butterfly’ also touches on the fragility and vulnerability of human life, albeit in a surprisingly tender and ultimately positive way. So far, Schnabel’s directorial career has been somewhat self-aggrandising, empathising with tortured artists (effective to a degree in his cinematic reworking of Reinaldo Arenas’ memoir ‘Before Night Falls’, but somewhat superficial in the tedious ‘Basquiat’ biopic). ‘The Diving Bell and The Butterfly’, however, is a different picture altogether, intelligently crafted and deeply affecting.
Jean-Dominique Bauby was at the tender age of 44 and at the height of success as editor of fashion magazine Elle, when cruelly struck down by a major stroke. On awakening from a coma, he found himself the victim of ‘locked-in syndrome’, fully conscious with little damage to his brain, yet unable to move or even communicate.
This remarkable film charts the gradual process of his self-discovery. Helped by a speech therapist who rearranges the alphabet in order of frequency of use, he learns to communicate only by blinking his left eye – once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’. In an almost unfathomable triumph of resilience, he manages to dictate an entire account of his experience in this way, to a publicist who becomes almost a lover, albeit with little physical contact.
The most impressive aspect of this film is the way it so effortlessly combines the fluency and insight of Bauby’s articulate and lucid prose with a cinematic language that is both original and effective. The audience frequently sees scenes from within Bauby’s ‘locked-in’ mind, behind the curtain of his one functioning eyelid. It’s a masterful device that allows us a vivid and sensory vicarious experience of Bauby’s frustration and an understanding of his journey from powerlessness to empowerment.
Whilst the film is occasionally distressing, it is tempered by a streak of black humour (one of Bauby’s most effective mechanisms for coping with his lack of mobility) and ultimately serves as a celebration of the ultimate triumph of human consciousness. Bauby finds more than solace in the wild flights of fancy of his imagination, and his dreams and fantasies are significant factors in the film’s emotional clarity. On his hospital balcony overlooking the coast and an imposing lighthouse, Bauby can indulge his imagination to its fullest potential.
As well as emphasising the brilliance of human consciousness and intellect, the film also seems to be a paen to the beauty and generosity of women. In spite of his apparent rejection of his family life, Bauby’s spirit is partially sustained by the continued support of his wife Celine, played with sympathy and compassion by Emmanuel Seigner. She even enables him to have a telephone ‘conversation’ with another lover, a painful and magnanimous gesture.
As a man worshipped for his handsomeness and success, Bauby was clearly something of a womaniser, and its striking that he had planned to write a book about female revenge. In a sense, this could have been the theme of ‘The Diving Bell…’, given that the beautiful women that surround him all have their mobility and speech, of which he has been cruelly deprived. Yet it is not so schematic, instead celebrating the kindness and companionship of these women (his physiotherapist, speech therapist and publicist are all female), all of whom help him to realise that he is still a strong and complete person. It achieves this in a way that is entirely positive and without misogyny, testament to the sensitivity and insight of both Bauby’s source material and Schnabel’s direction. Schnabel and screenwriter Ronald Harwood are particularly careful to capture Bauby’s regrets and moral failings as well as his positive memories.
Carefully paced and structured, the film ends before it begins, with the fateful accident itself. The relative banality of Bauby’s final memory before entering the coma is striking: ‘I had time for one final thought – we’ll have to cancel the theatre, although we’re probably too late already – and then I slipped into sleep.’ It’s just one of many painful ironies within the film – Bauby’s gifting of an aeroplane seat to someone who then ended up hijacked and taken hostage in Beirut and Bauby’s sudden realisation of common ground with his infirm father being two other obvious examples.
Watching this film immediately after ‘The Edge of Heaven’, I was struck by some intriguing parallels between the two pictures. There are two remarkable scenes in ‘The Diving Bell…’ involving Bauby and his 92 year old father. The first comes in a memory from immediately before the accident, in which a begrudging Papinou (played marvellously by the legendary Max Von Sydow) submits to being shaved by his son. The second comes with a conversation over the telephone, Papinou too infirm to visit Bauby in hospital, in which they attempt to communicate, Bauby’s blinking interpreted by a ‘translator’. Papinou’s transparent grief echoed the similar breakdown of Lotte’s mother in the Istanbul hotel in ‘The Edge of Heaven’, whilst the realisation that father and son are similarly encased also shared a powerful resonance with the acceptance of common ground between Lotte’s mother and Nejat. Both pictures are compassionate and humanist in tone and capture a combination of fragility and resilience that is somehow uplifting in the face of tragedy.
The Diving Bell and The Butterfly (Julian Schnabel, 2007)
The Turkish German director Fatih Akin’s third feature, The Edge of Heaven has been given a badly mistranslated title for its UK release. The original German title ‘On The Other Side’ is more open to interpretation and therefore more effective. Yet the more emotive English title does emphasise the film’s interest in peril, danger and death. The film has a tripartite structure, reminiscent of the unjustly lauded Mexican director Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu (whose films have so far merely served to repeat themselves with diminishing returns). Also like Inarritu, Akin contrives to connect seemingly disparate lives, and in doing so portrays tensions, both political and personal, between Germany and Turkey. The film’s coincidences and contrivances might well seem implausible to less generous viewers, and appreciation of the film certainly requires a small suspension of disbelief.
This would be a significant problem if the film were only a meditation on the consequences of coincidences, but Akin has also crafted a picture which speaks volumes about human relationships, and the impact of globalisation and immigration on the lives of individuals. In spite of its rather forced plot strands, it is therefore a powerful and touching drama, and the required leap of faith is only a minor flaw in an otherwise successful work.
A major part of the film’s achievement is the naturalistic and convincing performances Akin draws from his excellent cast, many of whom are unknowns here in the UK. Only Hanna Schygulla is a recognisable veteran, and her presence here no doubt represents a homage to Rainer Werner Fassbinder, an acknowledged influence on Akin. Her performance here, which evolves as the film progresses, is one of quiet majesty and real humanity.
The palpable tragedies at the core of the film are foretold by some intertitles at the start of the film’s first two sections – the first of which is called Yeter’s Death, the second Lotte’s Death. The first section centres on the unconventional relationship between the elderly Ali and prostitute Yeter, who discover a kinship through their shared experience as Turkish immigrants. Ali pays Yeter to live and sleep exclusively with him, an offer Yeter accepts at least in part through fear of a pair of threatening Islamic stalkers. Yet, after suffering a major heart attack, Ali quickly becomes self-centred, dominating and controlling, a side hitherto hidden by his endearingly frisky exterior. Accidentally killing Yeter in a rash moment of violence, he finds himself incarcerated as Yeter’s body is flown back to Turkey.
Ali’s bemused son Nejat occupies a unique position among the characters in this film in that he is a Turkish immigrant in Germany who has achieved a laudable position – a professor of German literature. He might be expected therefore to have some sort of superiority over the oppressed characters of Yeter and Ayten, voluntarily embracing prostitution and activism respectively. Yet his stately compassion represents the picture’s moral yardstick, and he is to assume a more significant role in the film’s closing stages.
The second section of the film focuses on Yeter’s estranged daughter, Ayten (played with convincing audacity and gusto by the unfathomably beautiful Nurgel Yesilcay), a political activist in Turkey in danger of incarceration for terrorist activity. Fearing persecution, she enters Germany illegally, and quickly strikes a bond with disillusioned student Lotte, who clearly yearns for some form of escape from the mundanities of her comfortable life. Unthinkingly, she offers Ayten board and lodging in her mother’s house, and the two begin an intense love affair whilst searching in vain for Yeter, who mislead Ayten into believing she could be found working in a shoe shop. Lotte’s mother Susanne (played by the aforementioned Schygulla), initially dismayed and struggling to understand the subservience of all personal concerns to political protest, generously and compassionately funds Ayten’s legal defence.
Although the political argument between Ayten and Susanne seems somewhat staged, this section of the film has significant points to make about Turkey and its contradictory politics. Ayten’s application for asylum is refused not because of her commitment to political violence, but rather because as a country poised to join the European Union, Turkey could not possibly be guilty of persecuting or repressing political opposition. Similarly, Susanne tries reasoning with Ayten that membership of the EU will suddenly bring the universal human rights that Ayten hungers after. Akin highlights the fundamental naivety of these positions.
On deportation back to Turkey, Ayten is held in prison, and threatened with a lengthy jail term. Overwhelmed by her emotions and burgeoning beliefs, Lotte abandons her studies in Germany (and her suffering mother), and heads to Istanbul to find and rescue Ayten, finally believing she has meaning in her life. Ironically, she finds a room for rent with Nejat, who has purchased a German bookshop in Istanbul and hopes to find Ayten and fund her education as some form of recompense for the actions of his father, although Lotte remains unaware of this, with grim irony. Lotte proves surprisingly resourceful in spite of her naivety and inexperience and the result is a painful and inevitable tragedy that encapsulates the essential vulnerability of the lives depicted in this film.
The final section of the film might reasonably be expected to tie the remaining loose plot strands together in a neat conclusion, and initially this seems to be the objective, with Nejat now entrenched in his German bookshop in Turkey, perhaps resigned to never finding Ayten. Lotte’s mother heads to Turkey after hearing the news of her daughter’s death, and locates Nejat in order to stay in the room her daughter had rented. They form a touching bond of friendship, perhaps even Platonic love, and their conversation about sacrifice is particularly moving, prompting Nejat to seek out his father, now also deported back to Turkey having been released from prison. The film concludes on a satisfyingly ambiguous note, with Nejat waiting for Ali’s fishing boat to come back to shore as the tide gets choppier. We are left wondering whether he will in fact return. Rather than join up all the dots, Nejat has not, even by the film’s final image, discovered that Lotte’s mother is supporting Ayten.
The film reflects on the poignancy and irony of near misses and devastating tragedies, but also highlights the vulnerability and mixed feelings of displaced people with an insight, humanity and compassion that never veers into sentiment. These are big ideas for a director with still burgeoning talent, and ‘The Edge of Heaven’ is an assured film that lacks the relentless severity of ‘Head On’. For a film touched with tragedy and doom, it’s also surprisingly light and life affirming.
Julian Schnabel’s ‘The Diving Bell and The Butterfly’ also touches on the fragility and vulnerability of human life, albeit in a surprisingly tender and ultimately positive way. So far, Schnabel’s directorial career has been somewhat self-aggrandising, empathising with tortured artists (effective to a degree in his cinematic reworking of Reinaldo Arenas’ memoir ‘Before Night Falls’, but somewhat superficial in the tedious ‘Basquiat’ biopic). ‘The Diving Bell and The Butterfly’, however, is a different picture altogether, intelligently crafted and deeply affecting.
Jean-Dominique Bauby was at the tender age of 44 and at the height of success as editor of fashion magazine Elle, when cruelly struck down by a major stroke. On awakening from a coma, he found himself the victim of ‘locked-in syndrome’, fully conscious with little damage to his brain, yet unable to move or even communicate.
This remarkable film charts the gradual process of his self-discovery. Helped by a speech therapist who rearranges the alphabet in order of frequency of use, he learns to communicate only by blinking his left eye – once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’. In an almost unfathomable triumph of resilience, he manages to dictate an entire account of his experience in this way, to a publicist who becomes almost a lover, albeit with little physical contact.
The most impressive aspect of this film is the way it so effortlessly combines the fluency and insight of Bauby’s articulate and lucid prose with a cinematic language that is both original and effective. The audience frequently sees scenes from within Bauby’s ‘locked-in’ mind, behind the curtain of his one functioning eyelid. It’s a masterful device that allows us a vivid and sensory vicarious experience of Bauby’s frustration and an understanding of his journey from powerlessness to empowerment.
Whilst the film is occasionally distressing, it is tempered by a streak of black humour (one of Bauby’s most effective mechanisms for coping with his lack of mobility) and ultimately serves as a celebration of the ultimate triumph of human consciousness. Bauby finds more than solace in the wild flights of fancy of his imagination, and his dreams and fantasies are significant factors in the film’s emotional clarity. On his hospital balcony overlooking the coast and an imposing lighthouse, Bauby can indulge his imagination to its fullest potential.
As well as emphasising the brilliance of human consciousness and intellect, the film also seems to be a paen to the beauty and generosity of women. In spite of his apparent rejection of his family life, Bauby’s spirit is partially sustained by the continued support of his wife Celine, played with sympathy and compassion by Emmanuel Seigner. She even enables him to have a telephone ‘conversation’ with another lover, a painful and magnanimous gesture.
As a man worshipped for his handsomeness and success, Bauby was clearly something of a womaniser, and its striking that he had planned to write a book about female revenge. In a sense, this could have been the theme of ‘The Diving Bell…’, given that the beautiful women that surround him all have their mobility and speech, of which he has been cruelly deprived. Yet it is not so schematic, instead celebrating the kindness and companionship of these women (his physiotherapist, speech therapist and publicist are all female), all of whom help him to realise that he is still a strong and complete person. It achieves this in a way that is entirely positive and without misogyny, testament to the sensitivity and insight of both Bauby’s source material and Schnabel’s direction. Schnabel and screenwriter Ronald Harwood are particularly careful to capture Bauby’s regrets and moral failings as well as his positive memories.
Carefully paced and structured, the film ends before it begins, with the fateful accident itself. The relative banality of Bauby’s final memory before entering the coma is striking: ‘I had time for one final thought – we’ll have to cancel the theatre, although we’re probably too late already – and then I slipped into sleep.’ It’s just one of many painful ironies within the film – Bauby’s gifting of an aeroplane seat to someone who then ended up hijacked and taken hostage in Beirut and Bauby’s sudden realisation of common ground with his infirm father being two other obvious examples.
Watching this film immediately after ‘The Edge of Heaven’, I was struck by some intriguing parallels between the two pictures. There are two remarkable scenes in ‘The Diving Bell…’ involving Bauby and his 92 year old father. The first comes in a memory from immediately before the accident, in which a begrudging Papinou (played marvellously by the legendary Max Von Sydow) submits to being shaved by his son. The second comes with a conversation over the telephone, Papinou too infirm to visit Bauby in hospital, in which they attempt to communicate, Bauby’s blinking interpreted by a ‘translator’. Papinou’s transparent grief echoed the similar breakdown of Lotte’s mother in the Istanbul hotel in ‘The Edge of Heaven’, whilst the realisation that father and son are similarly encased also shared a powerful resonance with the acceptance of common ground between Lotte’s mother and Nejat. Both pictures are compassionate and humanist in tone and capture a combination of fragility and resilience that is somehow uplifting in the face of tragedy.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Winter Warmer
Bon Iver – For Emma, Forever Ago (Jagjagwar/4AD, 2007/2008)
Reclusively isolated in a North Wisconsin hunting cabin, Justin Vernon has, with ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’, crafted a genuinely beautiful, spare and simple work that is at once vulnerable, mythical and overwhelming. ‘For Emma…’ is an album that has been capturing the hearts and minds of bloggers for some time, having already been released twice in the United States. It’s not officially out in the UK until May, which is a shame given that it was recorded in the heart of winter, and seems far more appropriate for that season than for burgeoning sunshine. Luckily, it’s easily found on import CD, or streaming on various mp3 blogs, for which the Hype Machine website remains an invaluable resource. Vernon is also visiting the UK in the week of the album’s release to play some dates with Iron and Wine – a thoroughly mouth-watering prospect.
Vernon is a master of arrangement and textural variation. Whilst lesser artists would have settled for an elementary rhythmic template of strummed acoustic guitar, Vernon carefully adds layered vocals, murmuring electronics, both natural and processed reverb, and brilliantly orchestrated crescendos to create tension and drama. This helps him avoid many of the pitfalls associated with conventional singer-songwriters. ‘For Emma…’ is a collection of songs that not only restates the core values of song-writing as an art, but also expands them. So, whilst the natural acoustic of the hunting cabin room is frequently audible, imbuing this material with a hushed majesty, there’s also a profound grandeur too. The songs are both devastatingly intimate and appealingly outward-looking.
Accompanying himself with choral-style backing vocals, Vernon creates shifting textures of spectral voices and interjecting motifs. The use of electronic ambience is also remarkably subtle – Vernon somehow manages to integrate it completely with the natural timbre of the songs as they were recorded. Similarly, with the occasional use of percussion or even brass instruments, Vernon carefully constructs slow-burning crescendos that have a resounding impact, enhancing rather than undermining the languid elegance of his craft. The title track, for example, has elements of a marching band, but somehow seems far less earthy and predictable than such a description might suggest. Throughout, the instrumentation is always appreciably controlled – with the sparing rather than predominant involvement of distant drums or electric guitars which murmur rather than cackle.
Whilst there are transparent parallels between Bon Iver and Iron and Wine (the album’s title has notable kinship with Sam Beam’s strange manipulation of syntax), ‘For Emma…’ cannot so easily be connected with an American folk tradition. Sam Beam’s language captures much of the vastness of the American landscape and its literary tradition (indeed, Beam’s more epic moments are closer to Cormac McCarthy than any of his contemporaries). Although he often uses similar devices and vivid imagery, Vernon, frequently singing of love (whether it’s based on experience or not of course doesn’t really matter, but one gets the strong impression that there might well be a real Emma to whom these songs might be dedicated), seems more personal. There’s also a more kinship with drama than with traditional poetry or prose. He often delivers either in a fragile falsetto or an aggravated holler (reminiscent of TV On The Radio) that conjure a distinctly soulful quality. It makes the most straightforward song here, the concluding ‘Re: Stacks’ quietly heartbreaking. In fact, this song in particular reminds me of Alexis Taylor from Hot Chip’s solo material, sadly so far unheard by many.
From its opening line onwards, there’s a real mystery to ‘For Emma…’ that is completely captivating. ‘I am my mother’s only one’, sings Vernon, leaving a pregnant pause before claiming ‘but that’s enough’. It’s a striking way to begin a song, and the enigmatic poignancy is continued throughout, in a way that seems wistful and homespun on one hand, but also odd, otherworldly and spiritual on the other. ‘Re: Stacks’ again is particularly moving in this regard: ‘There’s a black crow sitting across from me, his wiry legs are crossed/He’s dangling my keys, he even fakes a toss/Whatever could it be that has brought me to this loss?’. Yet, somehow, it all ends on a sublime and positive note: ‘This is not the sound of a new man or a crispy realisation/It’s the sound of the unlocking and the lift away/Your love will be/Safe with me’. Either love has been lost, but the memory lingers securely, or love has been found anew – the precise meaning is unclear.
Vernon has shown deft skill and talent in creating a work that sounds so open and intense, but also leaves questions hanging with intriguing ambiguity. It’s a set of songs to live with and live inside, a record to experience as well as hear.
Reclusively isolated in a North Wisconsin hunting cabin, Justin Vernon has, with ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’, crafted a genuinely beautiful, spare and simple work that is at once vulnerable, mythical and overwhelming. ‘For Emma…’ is an album that has been capturing the hearts and minds of bloggers for some time, having already been released twice in the United States. It’s not officially out in the UK until May, which is a shame given that it was recorded in the heart of winter, and seems far more appropriate for that season than for burgeoning sunshine. Luckily, it’s easily found on import CD, or streaming on various mp3 blogs, for which the Hype Machine website remains an invaluable resource. Vernon is also visiting the UK in the week of the album’s release to play some dates with Iron and Wine – a thoroughly mouth-watering prospect.
Vernon is a master of arrangement and textural variation. Whilst lesser artists would have settled for an elementary rhythmic template of strummed acoustic guitar, Vernon carefully adds layered vocals, murmuring electronics, both natural and processed reverb, and brilliantly orchestrated crescendos to create tension and drama. This helps him avoid many of the pitfalls associated with conventional singer-songwriters. ‘For Emma…’ is a collection of songs that not only restates the core values of song-writing as an art, but also expands them. So, whilst the natural acoustic of the hunting cabin room is frequently audible, imbuing this material with a hushed majesty, there’s also a profound grandeur too. The songs are both devastatingly intimate and appealingly outward-looking.
Accompanying himself with choral-style backing vocals, Vernon creates shifting textures of spectral voices and interjecting motifs. The use of electronic ambience is also remarkably subtle – Vernon somehow manages to integrate it completely with the natural timbre of the songs as they were recorded. Similarly, with the occasional use of percussion or even brass instruments, Vernon carefully constructs slow-burning crescendos that have a resounding impact, enhancing rather than undermining the languid elegance of his craft. The title track, for example, has elements of a marching band, but somehow seems far less earthy and predictable than such a description might suggest. Throughout, the instrumentation is always appreciably controlled – with the sparing rather than predominant involvement of distant drums or electric guitars which murmur rather than cackle.
Whilst there are transparent parallels between Bon Iver and Iron and Wine (the album’s title has notable kinship with Sam Beam’s strange manipulation of syntax), ‘For Emma…’ cannot so easily be connected with an American folk tradition. Sam Beam’s language captures much of the vastness of the American landscape and its literary tradition (indeed, Beam’s more epic moments are closer to Cormac McCarthy than any of his contemporaries). Although he often uses similar devices and vivid imagery, Vernon, frequently singing of love (whether it’s based on experience or not of course doesn’t really matter, but one gets the strong impression that there might well be a real Emma to whom these songs might be dedicated), seems more personal. There’s also a more kinship with drama than with traditional poetry or prose. He often delivers either in a fragile falsetto or an aggravated holler (reminiscent of TV On The Radio) that conjure a distinctly soulful quality. It makes the most straightforward song here, the concluding ‘Re: Stacks’ quietly heartbreaking. In fact, this song in particular reminds me of Alexis Taylor from Hot Chip’s solo material, sadly so far unheard by many.
From its opening line onwards, there’s a real mystery to ‘For Emma…’ that is completely captivating. ‘I am my mother’s only one’, sings Vernon, leaving a pregnant pause before claiming ‘but that’s enough’. It’s a striking way to begin a song, and the enigmatic poignancy is continued throughout, in a way that seems wistful and homespun on one hand, but also odd, otherworldly and spiritual on the other. ‘Re: Stacks’ again is particularly moving in this regard: ‘There’s a black crow sitting across from me, his wiry legs are crossed/He’s dangling my keys, he even fakes a toss/Whatever could it be that has brought me to this loss?’. Yet, somehow, it all ends on a sublime and positive note: ‘This is not the sound of a new man or a crispy realisation/It’s the sound of the unlocking and the lift away/Your love will be/Safe with me’. Either love has been lost, but the memory lingers securely, or love has been found anew – the precise meaning is unclear.
Vernon has shown deft skill and talent in creating a work that sounds so open and intense, but also leaves questions hanging with intriguing ambiguity. It’s a set of songs to live with and live inside, a record to experience as well as hear.
Pseudo-Intellectual Posturing?
Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks - Real Emotional Trash (Domino, 2008)
I’ve struggled a little with Stephen Malkmus’ solo material. This may say more about me than him, in that he has gradually abandoned many of the qualities I admired most about Pavement – their ramshackle, twitchy, scatty sound, the emphasis on verbose, quirky lyrics and their unusual but strangely infectious melodies. His first album had some delightful moments, but mostly sounded like a diluted version of an established formula, following which he took a couple of peculiar left-turns with classic rock on ‘Pig Lib’ and quirky folk on ‘Face The Truth’. With a new version of The Jicks in tow (featuring a dependably thunderous Janet Weiss on drums), Malkmus now returns to the characteristics that dominated ‘Pig Lib’. There are long meandering solos, syncopated rhythms, numerous time signature changes, and some squalling classic rock jamming.
Musical extrapolation is not something I generally have a problem with – indeed, as a jazz enthuasiast, I often find extemporising thrilling and inspiring. The problem here though, is that it often serves to obfuscate Malkmus’ talents as a writer. I come away from most of the tracks here unable to recall vocal lines or lyrics (many of which could be memorable in more concise contexts). More often than not, the long guitar solos seem to have very little to say – and offer little emotional expression. I feel much the same way about the improvising here as I do about Neil Young’s playing in live performance. Many love his technically limited attacks on two or three notes of his guitar, but I find they get tiresome and repetitive very quickly, and undermine the quality of his melodies. Unfortunately, in the case of ‘Real Emotional Trash’, I wonder whether the quality of the compositions can even withstand the kind of treatment metered out here.
The presence of Weiss is crucial – she turns this into Malkmus’ most aggressive and assertive solo album to date. The drumming is driving and exploratory, even on songs taken at relatively sedate tempos. It’s far more interesting than the guitar noodling that all too frequently threatens to smother it. She also provides striking dynamic contrasts, particularly on the bizarre ‘Hopscotch Willie’ and the lengthy title track, which most other rock drummers would not have the awareness or skill to execute. ‘Hopscotch Willie’ is typical of the ponderous demeanour of the album as a whole though – it veers between coruscating and tepid passages, without really ever fulfilling its undoubted potential.
‘Cold Son’ has one of Malkmus’ deceptively simple choruses that wouldn’t sound out of place on ‘Wowee Zowee’, but it’s in search of a decent melody for the rest of the song. Also, whilst ‘Wowee Zowee’-era Pavement always sounded perilously on the verge of internal combustion – the Jicks sound like a band merely content to flex their musical muscles in lieu of any real intensity. Pavement had a unique sound that made them brilliantly contemporary, but ‘Real Emotional Trash’ frequently sounds tied to rather tired 1970s influences (hear the plodding piano on the first section of the title track for example). Ultimately, this sounds like music that was really fun to make, but has resulted in something that’s rather frustrating for the listener. The title track has a really rather beautiful coda that follows several minutes of directionless posturing. So much more could have been made from it!
On the closing ‘Wicked Wanda’, Malmus advises of the need to ‘break out of your core category’, and this appears to be what he is attempting to achieve for himself. I admire Malkmus for veering away from his established template and experimenting with different ideas, but I just can’t see ‘Real Emotional Trash’ becoming an album to which I might ever have an ardent desire to return. I’d rather nostalgically delve back to ‘Stereo’, ‘Shady Lane’, ‘We Dance’, ‘Silent Kid’, ‘Here’ or even ‘Carrot Rope’, and that poses something of a problem.
I’ve struggled a little with Stephen Malkmus’ solo material. This may say more about me than him, in that he has gradually abandoned many of the qualities I admired most about Pavement – their ramshackle, twitchy, scatty sound, the emphasis on verbose, quirky lyrics and their unusual but strangely infectious melodies. His first album had some delightful moments, but mostly sounded like a diluted version of an established formula, following which he took a couple of peculiar left-turns with classic rock on ‘Pig Lib’ and quirky folk on ‘Face The Truth’. With a new version of The Jicks in tow (featuring a dependably thunderous Janet Weiss on drums), Malkmus now returns to the characteristics that dominated ‘Pig Lib’. There are long meandering solos, syncopated rhythms, numerous time signature changes, and some squalling classic rock jamming.
Musical extrapolation is not something I generally have a problem with – indeed, as a jazz enthuasiast, I often find extemporising thrilling and inspiring. The problem here though, is that it often serves to obfuscate Malkmus’ talents as a writer. I come away from most of the tracks here unable to recall vocal lines or lyrics (many of which could be memorable in more concise contexts). More often than not, the long guitar solos seem to have very little to say – and offer little emotional expression. I feel much the same way about the improvising here as I do about Neil Young’s playing in live performance. Many love his technically limited attacks on two or three notes of his guitar, but I find they get tiresome and repetitive very quickly, and undermine the quality of his melodies. Unfortunately, in the case of ‘Real Emotional Trash’, I wonder whether the quality of the compositions can even withstand the kind of treatment metered out here.
The presence of Weiss is crucial – she turns this into Malkmus’ most aggressive and assertive solo album to date. The drumming is driving and exploratory, even on songs taken at relatively sedate tempos. It’s far more interesting than the guitar noodling that all too frequently threatens to smother it. She also provides striking dynamic contrasts, particularly on the bizarre ‘Hopscotch Willie’ and the lengthy title track, which most other rock drummers would not have the awareness or skill to execute. ‘Hopscotch Willie’ is typical of the ponderous demeanour of the album as a whole though – it veers between coruscating and tepid passages, without really ever fulfilling its undoubted potential.
‘Cold Son’ has one of Malkmus’ deceptively simple choruses that wouldn’t sound out of place on ‘Wowee Zowee’, but it’s in search of a decent melody for the rest of the song. Also, whilst ‘Wowee Zowee’-era Pavement always sounded perilously on the verge of internal combustion – the Jicks sound like a band merely content to flex their musical muscles in lieu of any real intensity. Pavement had a unique sound that made them brilliantly contemporary, but ‘Real Emotional Trash’ frequently sounds tied to rather tired 1970s influences (hear the plodding piano on the first section of the title track for example). Ultimately, this sounds like music that was really fun to make, but has resulted in something that’s rather frustrating for the listener. The title track has a really rather beautiful coda that follows several minutes of directionless posturing. So much more could have been made from it!
On the closing ‘Wicked Wanda’, Malmus advises of the need to ‘break out of your core category’, and this appears to be what he is attempting to achieve for himself. I admire Malkmus for veering away from his established template and experimenting with different ideas, but I just can’t see ‘Real Emotional Trash’ becoming an album to which I might ever have an ardent desire to return. I’d rather nostalgically delve back to ‘Stereo’, ‘Shady Lane’, ‘We Dance’, ‘Silent Kid’, ‘Here’ or even ‘Carrot Rope’, and that poses something of a problem.
Monday, March 10, 2008
The Mirrorball in My Mind
Hercules and Love Affair – Hercules and Love Affair (DFA, 2008)
This Hercules and Love Affair album seems to have divided opinion somewhat, but I have to confess at the outset that I’m all in favour. Plainly and simply, I’m too young to have experienced disco first hand. I’d like to think that in a previous life, I was in those NYC clubs brave enough to get Arthur Russell when he was actually alive and making music. Unfortunately, I’d no doubt have lacked the confidence to embrace the hedonistic, polysexual aesthetic recaptured by Andrew Butler and his clan here, but so brilliantly does this album encapsulate a particular time and place that I come away from it feeling that vicarious experience might actually be enough. ‘Hercules and Love Affair’ is a record to fuel imagination and fantasy as much as dancing feet.
This all begs the question of why I appreciate a meticulous reconstruction of disco more than, say, Stereophonics and their lumbering recreation of 1970s meat-and-two-veg rock? Perhaps it’s because 70s rock has been slavishly revived far too frequently, whilst very few have actually been brave enough to return to disco. It’s a form of music too often dismissed as novelty (and captured accordingly on various nostalgia compilations) rather than appreciated as a revolutionary, liberating force. There have been disco influences on modern pop tracks for sure – but these have often been inappropriately diluted or even anodyne. Similarly, the disco elements incorporated by the new wave of punk-funk acts are often merely traces, much of the original groove surgically removed and replaced with something more awkward and unconfident.
With ‘Hercules and Love Affair’, Andrew Butler successfully recaptures the spirit of disco but he is not striving to sound like Chic or Rose Royce, and certainly not like The Bee Gees circa Saturday Night Fever. The signposts here are early Grace Jones, Arthur Russell and Dinosaur L, Francois Kervorkian, and the Ze Records output. All the key elements are here – including the relentless and deceptively simple backbeats, the octave bass figures, punctuating horns and keyboard lines that serve more to add texture and atmosphere than to state harmony. The most irresistible track here is ‘Hercules Theme’, a heady mix of sensual horns, rhythmic clavinet playing and intriguing intertwined vocals.
There’s no point in denying that Butler’s construct is as much about image and aesthetics as it is about music. On paper, Hercules and Love Affair seem like a collective assembled by a liberal hipster committee – there’s a hip producer musically trained by associates of composer Philip Glass, and there’s also the vocal duo of Kim Ann and Nomi, lesbian and transsexual respectively. The very line-up of the group seems designed to sum up the inclusive and celebratory vision of disco, a movement that genuinely refused to recognise boundaries.
The main selling point for many, but no doubt also a big turn-off for numerous others, will be the presence here of the increasingly ubiquitous Antony Hegarty. Is his tremulous torch-song vibrato starting to wear thin? It’s certainly possible to make the case, but Hercules and Love Affair presents such a radically different context for his singing style that, to my ears at least, he begins to assume a new soulfulness. He proves surprisingly malleable as a backing vocalist, melding effortlessly into the mesmerising vocal textures on ‘Hercules Theme’ and supporting the other vocalists on ‘You Belong’. When he does take the lead, he does so spectacularly, his dynamic variety providing a fascinating counterpoint to the repetitive insistence of the music on ‘Raise Me Up’ and ‘Blind’.
The former seems to restate traditional themes of disco – empowerment, elevation and transcendence. The latter is something entirely different though, and is already looking like one of the finest singles of 2008. It’s that rarest of beasts – an introverted, almost solipsistic dance track. Musically, it has that inspired collective energy that fuels all four-to-the-floor club tracks, but lyrically and vocally, it seems to occupy a space entirely divorced from the dancefloor. Rather than exhibiting glamour or frivolous pleasure, ‘Blind’ seems to be a song about the loss of innocence that accompanies ageing, and the sense that experience can be limiting as well as liberating. Butler’s form of freedom clearly does not require an escape from internalisation and philosophising.
It’s also worth recognising that ‘Hercules and Love Affair’ isn’t all dancefloor pacing. The slinkier grooves of more mysterious opener ‘Time Will’ hint at some of the quirkier, less familiar-sounding electro to be found in the album’s more adventurous second half. Similarly, ‘You Belong’ seems closer to more reflective late 80s Chicago club music (particularly Inner City) than anything from the late 70s disco explosion. The consistent thread across the album is a keening, very human expression of emotion and sentiment sometimes absent from mechanistic dance music, even from funk, which tends to focus purely on sexual impulses. Butler claims to have been inspired more by ‘Miss Piggy, my friends, LSD, classic dance music and feminine power’. Authenticity, it appears, really is overrated.
This Hercules and Love Affair album seems to have divided opinion somewhat, but I have to confess at the outset that I’m all in favour. Plainly and simply, I’m too young to have experienced disco first hand. I’d like to think that in a previous life, I was in those NYC clubs brave enough to get Arthur Russell when he was actually alive and making music. Unfortunately, I’d no doubt have lacked the confidence to embrace the hedonistic, polysexual aesthetic recaptured by Andrew Butler and his clan here, but so brilliantly does this album encapsulate a particular time and place that I come away from it feeling that vicarious experience might actually be enough. ‘Hercules and Love Affair’ is a record to fuel imagination and fantasy as much as dancing feet.
This all begs the question of why I appreciate a meticulous reconstruction of disco more than, say, Stereophonics and their lumbering recreation of 1970s meat-and-two-veg rock? Perhaps it’s because 70s rock has been slavishly revived far too frequently, whilst very few have actually been brave enough to return to disco. It’s a form of music too often dismissed as novelty (and captured accordingly on various nostalgia compilations) rather than appreciated as a revolutionary, liberating force. There have been disco influences on modern pop tracks for sure – but these have often been inappropriately diluted or even anodyne. Similarly, the disco elements incorporated by the new wave of punk-funk acts are often merely traces, much of the original groove surgically removed and replaced with something more awkward and unconfident.
With ‘Hercules and Love Affair’, Andrew Butler successfully recaptures the spirit of disco but he is not striving to sound like Chic or Rose Royce, and certainly not like The Bee Gees circa Saturday Night Fever. The signposts here are early Grace Jones, Arthur Russell and Dinosaur L, Francois Kervorkian, and the Ze Records output. All the key elements are here – including the relentless and deceptively simple backbeats, the octave bass figures, punctuating horns and keyboard lines that serve more to add texture and atmosphere than to state harmony. The most irresistible track here is ‘Hercules Theme’, a heady mix of sensual horns, rhythmic clavinet playing and intriguing intertwined vocals.
There’s no point in denying that Butler’s construct is as much about image and aesthetics as it is about music. On paper, Hercules and Love Affair seem like a collective assembled by a liberal hipster committee – there’s a hip producer musically trained by associates of composer Philip Glass, and there’s also the vocal duo of Kim Ann and Nomi, lesbian and transsexual respectively. The very line-up of the group seems designed to sum up the inclusive and celebratory vision of disco, a movement that genuinely refused to recognise boundaries.
The main selling point for many, but no doubt also a big turn-off for numerous others, will be the presence here of the increasingly ubiquitous Antony Hegarty. Is his tremulous torch-song vibrato starting to wear thin? It’s certainly possible to make the case, but Hercules and Love Affair presents such a radically different context for his singing style that, to my ears at least, he begins to assume a new soulfulness. He proves surprisingly malleable as a backing vocalist, melding effortlessly into the mesmerising vocal textures on ‘Hercules Theme’ and supporting the other vocalists on ‘You Belong’. When he does take the lead, he does so spectacularly, his dynamic variety providing a fascinating counterpoint to the repetitive insistence of the music on ‘Raise Me Up’ and ‘Blind’.
The former seems to restate traditional themes of disco – empowerment, elevation and transcendence. The latter is something entirely different though, and is already looking like one of the finest singles of 2008. It’s that rarest of beasts – an introverted, almost solipsistic dance track. Musically, it has that inspired collective energy that fuels all four-to-the-floor club tracks, but lyrically and vocally, it seems to occupy a space entirely divorced from the dancefloor. Rather than exhibiting glamour or frivolous pleasure, ‘Blind’ seems to be a song about the loss of innocence that accompanies ageing, and the sense that experience can be limiting as well as liberating. Butler’s form of freedom clearly does not require an escape from internalisation and philosophising.
It’s also worth recognising that ‘Hercules and Love Affair’ isn’t all dancefloor pacing. The slinkier grooves of more mysterious opener ‘Time Will’ hint at some of the quirkier, less familiar-sounding electro to be found in the album’s more adventurous second half. Similarly, ‘You Belong’ seems closer to more reflective late 80s Chicago club music (particularly Inner City) than anything from the late 70s disco explosion. The consistent thread across the album is a keening, very human expression of emotion and sentiment sometimes absent from mechanistic dance music, even from funk, which tends to focus purely on sexual impulses. Butler claims to have been inspired more by ‘Miss Piggy, my friends, LSD, classic dance music and feminine power’. Authenticity, it appears, really is overrated.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Brooklyn Heights
Dirty Projectors @ The Forum 29/2/08
Yeasayer @ The ICA 6/3/08
I hate writing pretentiously about ‘scenes’ or ‘risings’ (and it is pretentious because it assumes a right on behalf of the writer to define what scenes are and where they come from), but there’s little point in denying that there is a particularly exciting pocket of musical activity in Brooklyn, New York right now. There’s Vampire Weekend’s brainy, zany and hugely enjoyable quirky pop, and even MGMT’s relatively straightforward woozy psychedelia has its merits, although I can’t help feeling they are by some distance the least interesting of these bands.
Dave Longstreth’s Dirty Projectors are a longstanding project with a constantly shifting line-up only just beginning to gain more widespread attention in the UK (and no doubt Longstreth would be delighted with his Album of the Year award from this very blog!). In the current set-up, Longstreth is flanked by two beautiful and talented young women and bolstered by a terrifyingly precise drummer making a vast range of noise from a skeletal kit. Longstreth himself strides around the stage like a lurching colossus, with his guitar maintained well above traditional height. It’s an ungainly but dominant demeanour that neatly encapsulates the simultaneously madcap but rigorously controlled nature of this music.
There are so many ideas crashing against each other – unconventional vocal harmonies (definitely not from the Brian Wilson or Crosby, Stills and Nash schools but from another place entirely), African guitar picking, dissonant noise grafted from hardcore punk and heavy metal somehow all find a home in the same song. Yet every idea is situated in a specific space, and after a while it becomes clear that every stab from the drums, every unexpected flight of fancy in Longsreth’s voice, every burst of savage chaos, has been meticulously organised. Not only does it sound riotous, dazzling and impressive, it also sounds like tremendous fun.
Performing as part of the Owen Pallett’s Maximum Black Festival – Longstreth’s sheer artistry simply makes a mockery of the other artists on the bill, who all disappoint in some way. Frog Eyes are pompous and tedious, self-importantly trying to make very basic and plodding rock music sound wildly ambitious, and failing transparently. I admire Ben Chasney’s Six Organs of Admittance on record, but there’s a massive problem with this meandering, noise-based music live. Chasney hardly engages with the audience at all, and his female guitarist is content simply to interrupt the otherwise rather pleasing minimal folk explorations with shards of eardrum-perforating noise.
This could potentially have been interesting – but it didn’t have to be this loud. I don’t think music has to sound pleasant or beautiful – indeed, all art should aim to capture some of the conflict and turbulence at the heart of life as well as the happiness – but the overall effect of this was extreme physical discomfort. In another time and place, I would have appreciated the collaboration between Alexander Tucker and Stephen O’Malley of Sunn O))), but I just wasn’t in the mood for lengthy hypnotic drones by this point. Plus coming immediately after Dave Longstreth’s dense flurry of creativity, it just sounded rather empty and hollow. Unfortunately, this lead to a rather soporific mood and atmosphere, so I left without hearing Owen Pallett’s own headline set as Final Fantasy.
Last night at the ICA provided me with my first opportunity to see the excellent Yeasayer (another Brooklyn band) in a live setting. What an extraordinary spectacle it was too. John Kell came away feeling much of the band’s set had been ‘too hippy’, and to some degree I take his point (the lyrics certainly have a tendency towards spiritualist and communitarian sentiment). However, I felt strangely satisfied that such a fashionable buzz band could incorporate quite so many totally unfashionable elements, from the use of fretless bass (possibly the first time I’ve ever seen this instrument deployed by an American underground rock group) and synth drums to the ridiculous dress sense of their long-haired, moustached bassist.
It certainly wouldn’t be going too far to describe Yeasayer’s music as ‘progressive’. It is rhythmically imaginative, structurally unconventional and harmonically intricate, juxtaposing a wide variety of influences from across the globe. On the bright, muscular single ‘2080’ they come across as Tears for Fears crossed with Arcade Fire, and this turns out to be no bad thing. Elsewhere, they meld west coast honey-dripping vocal harmonies with unpredictable, thrilling musical left-turns.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the recreation of the album’s complex layers of sound requires frequent resort to samples and backing tapes, although the group gamely compensate for this with a very physical performance. Watching singer Chris Keating jerk and spasm uncontrollably around the stage (and, towards the end, within the audience) is an oddly compelling experience. A heavy rock element, rather constrained by the album’s sophisticated production, is brought to the fore here, and everything seems louder and more bombastic than on record. Some of the intricacies are arguably lost as a result, but there’s so much energy and tension in this performance that it doesn’t really matter. ‘No Need To Worry’ becomes more emphatic and trudgy, whilst the closing ‘Sunrise’ is a celebratory outpouring of chaotic joy, the band joined by their support act to hammer out rhythms on a variety of percussion instruments with appropriately wild abandon. The combination of bristling confidence and fearless invention suggests there may be longevity in this fascinating group.
Yeasayer @ The ICA 6/3/08
I hate writing pretentiously about ‘scenes’ or ‘risings’ (and it is pretentious because it assumes a right on behalf of the writer to define what scenes are and where they come from), but there’s little point in denying that there is a particularly exciting pocket of musical activity in Brooklyn, New York right now. There’s Vampire Weekend’s brainy, zany and hugely enjoyable quirky pop, and even MGMT’s relatively straightforward woozy psychedelia has its merits, although I can’t help feeling they are by some distance the least interesting of these bands.
Dave Longstreth’s Dirty Projectors are a longstanding project with a constantly shifting line-up only just beginning to gain more widespread attention in the UK (and no doubt Longstreth would be delighted with his Album of the Year award from this very blog!). In the current set-up, Longstreth is flanked by two beautiful and talented young women and bolstered by a terrifyingly precise drummer making a vast range of noise from a skeletal kit. Longstreth himself strides around the stage like a lurching colossus, with his guitar maintained well above traditional height. It’s an ungainly but dominant demeanour that neatly encapsulates the simultaneously madcap but rigorously controlled nature of this music.
There are so many ideas crashing against each other – unconventional vocal harmonies (definitely not from the Brian Wilson or Crosby, Stills and Nash schools but from another place entirely), African guitar picking, dissonant noise grafted from hardcore punk and heavy metal somehow all find a home in the same song. Yet every idea is situated in a specific space, and after a while it becomes clear that every stab from the drums, every unexpected flight of fancy in Longsreth’s voice, every burst of savage chaos, has been meticulously organised. Not only does it sound riotous, dazzling and impressive, it also sounds like tremendous fun.
Performing as part of the Owen Pallett’s Maximum Black Festival – Longstreth’s sheer artistry simply makes a mockery of the other artists on the bill, who all disappoint in some way. Frog Eyes are pompous and tedious, self-importantly trying to make very basic and plodding rock music sound wildly ambitious, and failing transparently. I admire Ben Chasney’s Six Organs of Admittance on record, but there’s a massive problem with this meandering, noise-based music live. Chasney hardly engages with the audience at all, and his female guitarist is content simply to interrupt the otherwise rather pleasing minimal folk explorations with shards of eardrum-perforating noise.
This could potentially have been interesting – but it didn’t have to be this loud. I don’t think music has to sound pleasant or beautiful – indeed, all art should aim to capture some of the conflict and turbulence at the heart of life as well as the happiness – but the overall effect of this was extreme physical discomfort. In another time and place, I would have appreciated the collaboration between Alexander Tucker and Stephen O’Malley of Sunn O))), but I just wasn’t in the mood for lengthy hypnotic drones by this point. Plus coming immediately after Dave Longstreth’s dense flurry of creativity, it just sounded rather empty and hollow. Unfortunately, this lead to a rather soporific mood and atmosphere, so I left without hearing Owen Pallett’s own headline set as Final Fantasy.
Last night at the ICA provided me with my first opportunity to see the excellent Yeasayer (another Brooklyn band) in a live setting. What an extraordinary spectacle it was too. John Kell came away feeling much of the band’s set had been ‘too hippy’, and to some degree I take his point (the lyrics certainly have a tendency towards spiritualist and communitarian sentiment). However, I felt strangely satisfied that such a fashionable buzz band could incorporate quite so many totally unfashionable elements, from the use of fretless bass (possibly the first time I’ve ever seen this instrument deployed by an American underground rock group) and synth drums to the ridiculous dress sense of their long-haired, moustached bassist.
It certainly wouldn’t be going too far to describe Yeasayer’s music as ‘progressive’. It is rhythmically imaginative, structurally unconventional and harmonically intricate, juxtaposing a wide variety of influences from across the globe. On the bright, muscular single ‘2080’ they come across as Tears for Fears crossed with Arcade Fire, and this turns out to be no bad thing. Elsewhere, they meld west coast honey-dripping vocal harmonies with unpredictable, thrilling musical left-turns.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the recreation of the album’s complex layers of sound requires frequent resort to samples and backing tapes, although the group gamely compensate for this with a very physical performance. Watching singer Chris Keating jerk and spasm uncontrollably around the stage (and, towards the end, within the audience) is an oddly compelling experience. A heavy rock element, rather constrained by the album’s sophisticated production, is brought to the fore here, and everything seems louder and more bombastic than on record. Some of the intricacies are arguably lost as a result, but there’s so much energy and tension in this performance that it doesn’t really matter. ‘No Need To Worry’ becomes more emphatic and trudgy, whilst the closing ‘Sunrise’ is a celebratory outpouring of chaotic joy, the band joined by their support act to hammer out rhythms on a variety of percussion instruments with appropriately wild abandon. The combination of bristling confidence and fearless invention suggests there may be longevity in this fascinating group.
Monday, March 03, 2008
It Gets Stranger Every Year...
Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds – Dig! Lazarus! Dig! (Mute, 2008)
This latest instalment in the increasingly prolific saga of Nick Cave, so far every bit as well received as the triumphant ‘Abattoir Blues/Lyre of Orpheus’, is something of an intriguing oddity. Even for a man who so often takes the art of songwriting well beyond its logical conclusion, luxuriating in his own language, Cave is at his most unrestrained and verbose here. So much so in fact that the album requires a 50+ page booklet in order to exhibit all his lyrical flights of fancy. Cave is perilously perched on the edge of self parody throughout (only he could get away with a line like ‘Henry got lost down south in the weeping forests of le vulva’), but somehow mostly sustains the wild and untamed humour. This is therefore an album much less concerned with melody, and more with the sheer unbridled joy of trying to squeeze in as many words as possible.
There are some brilliantly inventive couplets which counter any possible accusations of self-indulgence (if anything, Cave’s most pretentious album was ‘No More Shall We Part’, which showed him taking himself far more seriously than he does here). The brilliant ‘We Call upon the Author’, perhaps a wiry, even quirkier restating of the ideas that informed ‘There She Goes My Beautiful World’, not only dismisses cult writer Charles Bukowski as a ‘jerk’, but also proudly boasts the refrain ‘PROLIX! PROLIX! Nothin’ a pair of scissors can’t fix!’. There’s also the compelling assault of ‘Albert Goes West’, in which Cave celebrates misdemeanours with malevolent glee (‘the world is full of endless abstractions/and I won’t be held responsible for my actions’). The closing ‘More News from Nowhere’ seems to be a litany of liaisons with various femme fatales, in which Cave even allows himself to get a little self-referential. The lines ‘I bumped bang crash into Deanna/hanging pretty in the door frame/all the horrors that befell me/well Deanna was to blame’ inevitably remind us of Cave’s earlier classic ‘Deanna’ (from the ‘Tender Prey’ album).
Musically, the residual influence of last year’s Grinderman side project undoubtedly permeates. There’s plenty of that album’s swampy groove, stark minimalism and insistent feedback. Correspondingly, there’s very little of the melancholy balladry that characterised ‘The Boatman’s Call’ (a masterpiece for many but now dismissed as a romantic indulgence by Cave) and that has remained a mainstay of Cave albums up to and including the patchy ‘Nocturama’. There’s a significant difference here though, which undoubtedly identifies this as a Bad Seeds album rather than merely an extension of the Grinderman ethos. In the absence of Blixa Bargeld, it’s fascinating to hear how the Bad Seeds have reconfigured themselves around new dominant instrumental characteristics – particularly agile, minimal bass figures and James Johnston’s pulsating organ. Whilst his parts are mostly rudimentary, Johnston’s presence has significantly transformed the Bad Seeds’ sound, something that might perhaps have otherwise been in danger of becoming stale and familiar.
There are times when The Bad Seeds sound positively alien here. The extraordinary ‘Night of the Lotus Eaters’ insistently repeats a three note motif, gradually adding and subtracting a variety of disorientating elements, including caustic guitar and undisciplined drums that pull against the driving rhythm. It’s a fascinatingly controlled and anchored form of chaos. There are also the strange high-pitched anti-sounds that linger suspiciously in the background of ‘Hold On To Yourself’ or the compelling and surprisingly soulful textures of ‘Midnight Man’. There are frequent savage guitar interjections that cut through the more conventional arrangements.
Whilst much of ‘Abattoir Blues’ was savage and furious, there’s something peculiarly light and airy about ‘Dig! Lazarus! Dig!’. The bountiful call-and-response chanting adds a sense of fun to the proceedings which lightens the atmosphere and directs the mood away from furious intensity towards something more playful.
This lighter approach works well on the tracks which are anchored by spidery bass lines, particularly the wiry funk of ‘Moonland’, or the satisfyingly relentless ‘We Call upon the Author’. When the songs are restricted by conventionally strummed acoustic guitar, the results are perhaps less successful. Whilst it often seems to be there only to hover in the background, the acoustic guitar strumming sometimes prevents the songs from taking full flight rather than adding creeping menace, which might possibly have been the intention. This is particularly true of the comparably uninteresting ‘Lie Down Here and Be My Girl’, and even ‘Albert Goes West’ suffers a little from this arrangement quirk. Similarly, the rather straightforward chug of ‘More News From Nowhere’ (which, to my ears, harks back at Tom Waits’ ‘Downtown Train’) arguably detracts a little from the unparalleled wit and invention of its lyric. Perhaps Cave intended it to be a subtler take on the fiery epic than ‘Babe I’m On Fire’, the blistering but overlong assault that terminated ‘Nocturama’.
Maybe it’s ironic that the most successful track here might best be described as a ballad, but ‘Jesus of the Moon’ is one of the very best songs of Cave’s career. The opening line (‘I Stepped Out of the St. James Hotel’) instantly reminds me of Bob Dylan’s ‘Blind Willie McTell’, and this song has a comparable grasp of legacy and cultural history (the opening verse proceeds to proclaim ‘a change is gonna come’). It also has one stark confessional moment with Cave, himself now something of a family man, boldly stating ‘people often talk about being scared of change/ but for me I’m more afraid of things staying the same/for the game is never won/by staying in the same place for too long’. These lines inevitably suggest a fear of commitment, but they also have a deeper resonance that present Cave as a restless, fearless artist, striving to capture an unstoppable torrent of ideas. I don’t accept the success of ‘Dig! Lazarus! Dig!’ quite as uncritically as some other writers have done, but I recognise that it’s emphatically not an immediate or straightforward record. These complex songs, with their fragmented imagery and floods of language, will repay close attention. Getting more acquainted with them will also no doubt be great fun, which is preferable to the self-important proselytising that undermines Cave’s least successful work.
This latest instalment in the increasingly prolific saga of Nick Cave, so far every bit as well received as the triumphant ‘Abattoir Blues/Lyre of Orpheus’, is something of an intriguing oddity. Even for a man who so often takes the art of songwriting well beyond its logical conclusion, luxuriating in his own language, Cave is at his most unrestrained and verbose here. So much so in fact that the album requires a 50+ page booklet in order to exhibit all his lyrical flights of fancy. Cave is perilously perched on the edge of self parody throughout (only he could get away with a line like ‘Henry got lost down south in the weeping forests of le vulva’), but somehow mostly sustains the wild and untamed humour. This is therefore an album much less concerned with melody, and more with the sheer unbridled joy of trying to squeeze in as many words as possible.
There are some brilliantly inventive couplets which counter any possible accusations of self-indulgence (if anything, Cave’s most pretentious album was ‘No More Shall We Part’, which showed him taking himself far more seriously than he does here). The brilliant ‘We Call upon the Author’, perhaps a wiry, even quirkier restating of the ideas that informed ‘There She Goes My Beautiful World’, not only dismisses cult writer Charles Bukowski as a ‘jerk’, but also proudly boasts the refrain ‘PROLIX! PROLIX! Nothin’ a pair of scissors can’t fix!’. There’s also the compelling assault of ‘Albert Goes West’, in which Cave celebrates misdemeanours with malevolent glee (‘the world is full of endless abstractions/and I won’t be held responsible for my actions’). The closing ‘More News from Nowhere’ seems to be a litany of liaisons with various femme fatales, in which Cave even allows himself to get a little self-referential. The lines ‘I bumped bang crash into Deanna/hanging pretty in the door frame/all the horrors that befell me/well Deanna was to blame’ inevitably remind us of Cave’s earlier classic ‘Deanna’ (from the ‘Tender Prey’ album).
Musically, the residual influence of last year’s Grinderman side project undoubtedly permeates. There’s plenty of that album’s swampy groove, stark minimalism and insistent feedback. Correspondingly, there’s very little of the melancholy balladry that characterised ‘The Boatman’s Call’ (a masterpiece for many but now dismissed as a romantic indulgence by Cave) and that has remained a mainstay of Cave albums up to and including the patchy ‘Nocturama’. There’s a significant difference here though, which undoubtedly identifies this as a Bad Seeds album rather than merely an extension of the Grinderman ethos. In the absence of Blixa Bargeld, it’s fascinating to hear how the Bad Seeds have reconfigured themselves around new dominant instrumental characteristics – particularly agile, minimal bass figures and James Johnston’s pulsating organ. Whilst his parts are mostly rudimentary, Johnston’s presence has significantly transformed the Bad Seeds’ sound, something that might perhaps have otherwise been in danger of becoming stale and familiar.
There are times when The Bad Seeds sound positively alien here. The extraordinary ‘Night of the Lotus Eaters’ insistently repeats a three note motif, gradually adding and subtracting a variety of disorientating elements, including caustic guitar and undisciplined drums that pull against the driving rhythm. It’s a fascinatingly controlled and anchored form of chaos. There are also the strange high-pitched anti-sounds that linger suspiciously in the background of ‘Hold On To Yourself’ or the compelling and surprisingly soulful textures of ‘Midnight Man’. There are frequent savage guitar interjections that cut through the more conventional arrangements.
Whilst much of ‘Abattoir Blues’ was savage and furious, there’s something peculiarly light and airy about ‘Dig! Lazarus! Dig!’. The bountiful call-and-response chanting adds a sense of fun to the proceedings which lightens the atmosphere and directs the mood away from furious intensity towards something more playful.
This lighter approach works well on the tracks which are anchored by spidery bass lines, particularly the wiry funk of ‘Moonland’, or the satisfyingly relentless ‘We Call upon the Author’. When the songs are restricted by conventionally strummed acoustic guitar, the results are perhaps less successful. Whilst it often seems to be there only to hover in the background, the acoustic guitar strumming sometimes prevents the songs from taking full flight rather than adding creeping menace, which might possibly have been the intention. This is particularly true of the comparably uninteresting ‘Lie Down Here and Be My Girl’, and even ‘Albert Goes West’ suffers a little from this arrangement quirk. Similarly, the rather straightforward chug of ‘More News From Nowhere’ (which, to my ears, harks back at Tom Waits’ ‘Downtown Train’) arguably detracts a little from the unparalleled wit and invention of its lyric. Perhaps Cave intended it to be a subtler take on the fiery epic than ‘Babe I’m On Fire’, the blistering but overlong assault that terminated ‘Nocturama’.
Maybe it’s ironic that the most successful track here might best be described as a ballad, but ‘Jesus of the Moon’ is one of the very best songs of Cave’s career. The opening line (‘I Stepped Out of the St. James Hotel’) instantly reminds me of Bob Dylan’s ‘Blind Willie McTell’, and this song has a comparable grasp of legacy and cultural history (the opening verse proceeds to proclaim ‘a change is gonna come’). It also has one stark confessional moment with Cave, himself now something of a family man, boldly stating ‘people often talk about being scared of change/ but for me I’m more afraid of things staying the same/for the game is never won/by staying in the same place for too long’. These lines inevitably suggest a fear of commitment, but they also have a deeper resonance that present Cave as a restless, fearless artist, striving to capture an unstoppable torrent of ideas. I don’t accept the success of ‘Dig! Lazarus! Dig!’ quite as uncritically as some other writers have done, but I recognise that it’s emphatically not an immediate or straightforward record. These complex songs, with their fragmented imagery and floods of language, will repay close attention. Getting more acquainted with them will also no doubt be great fun, which is preferable to the self-important proselytising that undermines Cave’s least successful work.
A Solitary Splendour
Toumani Diabate – The Mande Variations (World Circuit, 2008)
A true master of his craft, Toumani Diabate is capable of adapting the Kora to a wide variety of contexts, sounding every bit as comfortable on this exquisite solo recording as with his thrilling Symmetric Orchestra. The uniquely challenging instrument (a 21 stringed harp with 11 strings for one hand and ten for the other) has been in Diabate’s family for generations – his father Sidiki was reputedly also a virtuoso. Toumani recorded ‘Kaira’, his first solo Kora album at the tender age of 21, now returning to the strictures of solo recording (mostly single takes with no overdubs) more than twenty years later. In many ways, it represents a withdrawal or introversion – a musical examination of personal experience and founding influences.
‘The Mande Variations’ contains some of the most beautiful music of this year or any other. A lot of this undoubtedly rests heavily on Toumani’s technical brilliance and personal approach to composition but a good deal of credit should also go to World Circuit’s Nick Gold for creating such an extraordinary sound. Whilst little or no treatment has been applied to Toumani’s playing here, the natural acoustic is so reverberant and spacious as to capture Toumani’s dazzling virtuosity without sounding cluttered or busy. There is a calm, meditative quality to much of this music.
Toumani appears particularly open-minded in his approach to music. Whilst there is, as might be expected, a close personal engagement with the griot folk tradition from which he comes, there are also references and even quotes that present ‘The Mande Variations’ as an attempt to juxtapose heritage with some wider, more immediate influences, drawn both from music and experience. The wistful, haunting ‘Elyne Road’ incorporates the melody from reggae classic ‘Kingston Town’, with Toumani affected by the ubiquity of UB40’s version during his first trip to England. The remarkable closing track ‘Cantelowes’ quotes directly from Morricone’s soundtrack to ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’, as well as being dedicated to a friend who lived on Cantelowes Road in London, where Toumani apparently stayed for several months when first in the UK.
The near-perfect synchronicity between Diabate’s left and right hand figures is astonishing, particularly on the peculiarly relentless ‘Kaounding Cissoko’. ‘Ali Farka Toure’, of course dedicated to the recently departed desert blues sensation, demonstrates both Diabate’s manual dexterity and his musical intuition, with lengthy flurries of notes that defy the imagination. The latter was purely improvised in the studio, a further testament to Diabate’s open-mindedness towards a variety of compositional techniques.
Elsewhere, he draws directly on the folk tradition, always refashioning melodic ideas for his own purposes. For example, the opening ‘Si Naani’ features two themes taken from Griot folk songs, but which Diabate has made his very own through his considered and expressive extrapolations. The album’s title perhaps hints at his extraordinary talent for developing and expanding melodic ideas. There’s little of the twitching and flitting between numerous ideas that sometimes undermines improvisational playing – Diabate is more interested in establishing and sustaining particular emotions. Whilst there’s a sense of wistful nostalgia to much of this music, there’s also a sense of looking forward at the same time as retreating inward – a powerful combination that lends Diabate’s refashioning of his influences a genuinely timeless aura.
What is most powerfully striking about ‘The Mande Variations’ is that, in the midst of all this dazzling technique and exceptional skill, there is very little sense of ego or aggression. Somehow, Diabate manages to make all this sound peaceful and reflective, and he never resorts to vacuous showmanship. He may have the ability to dazzle, but he also has the judgement and instinct to know when to hold back. Technique is always firmly subordinated to the abiding mood or feeling, and the album is richly rewarding and emotional as a result of this.
A true master of his craft, Toumani Diabate is capable of adapting the Kora to a wide variety of contexts, sounding every bit as comfortable on this exquisite solo recording as with his thrilling Symmetric Orchestra. The uniquely challenging instrument (a 21 stringed harp with 11 strings for one hand and ten for the other) has been in Diabate’s family for generations – his father Sidiki was reputedly also a virtuoso. Toumani recorded ‘Kaira’, his first solo Kora album at the tender age of 21, now returning to the strictures of solo recording (mostly single takes with no overdubs) more than twenty years later. In many ways, it represents a withdrawal or introversion – a musical examination of personal experience and founding influences.
‘The Mande Variations’ contains some of the most beautiful music of this year or any other. A lot of this undoubtedly rests heavily on Toumani’s technical brilliance and personal approach to composition but a good deal of credit should also go to World Circuit’s Nick Gold for creating such an extraordinary sound. Whilst little or no treatment has been applied to Toumani’s playing here, the natural acoustic is so reverberant and spacious as to capture Toumani’s dazzling virtuosity without sounding cluttered or busy. There is a calm, meditative quality to much of this music.
Toumani appears particularly open-minded in his approach to music. Whilst there is, as might be expected, a close personal engagement with the griot folk tradition from which he comes, there are also references and even quotes that present ‘The Mande Variations’ as an attempt to juxtapose heritage with some wider, more immediate influences, drawn both from music and experience. The wistful, haunting ‘Elyne Road’ incorporates the melody from reggae classic ‘Kingston Town’, with Toumani affected by the ubiquity of UB40’s version during his first trip to England. The remarkable closing track ‘Cantelowes’ quotes directly from Morricone’s soundtrack to ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’, as well as being dedicated to a friend who lived on Cantelowes Road in London, where Toumani apparently stayed for several months when first in the UK.
The near-perfect synchronicity between Diabate’s left and right hand figures is astonishing, particularly on the peculiarly relentless ‘Kaounding Cissoko’. ‘Ali Farka Toure’, of course dedicated to the recently departed desert blues sensation, demonstrates both Diabate’s manual dexterity and his musical intuition, with lengthy flurries of notes that defy the imagination. The latter was purely improvised in the studio, a further testament to Diabate’s open-mindedness towards a variety of compositional techniques.
Elsewhere, he draws directly on the folk tradition, always refashioning melodic ideas for his own purposes. For example, the opening ‘Si Naani’ features two themes taken from Griot folk songs, but which Diabate has made his very own through his considered and expressive extrapolations. The album’s title perhaps hints at his extraordinary talent for developing and expanding melodic ideas. There’s little of the twitching and flitting between numerous ideas that sometimes undermines improvisational playing – Diabate is more interested in establishing and sustaining particular emotions. Whilst there’s a sense of wistful nostalgia to much of this music, there’s also a sense of looking forward at the same time as retreating inward – a powerful combination that lends Diabate’s refashioning of his influences a genuinely timeless aura.
What is most powerfully striking about ‘The Mande Variations’ is that, in the midst of all this dazzling technique and exceptional skill, there is very little sense of ego or aggression. Somehow, Diabate manages to make all this sound peaceful and reflective, and he never resorts to vacuous showmanship. He may have the ability to dazzle, but he also has the judgement and instinct to know when to hold back. Technique is always firmly subordinated to the abiding mood or feeling, and the album is richly rewarding and emotional as a result of this.
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