Django Bates and Stormchaser – Spring is Here (Shall We Dance?) (Lost Marble, 2008)
With a characteristic tinge of self-importance, Keith Jarrett once declared that his music was ‘the end result of a process that has nothing to do with music’. Whilst he hasn’t abandoned composition completely like Jarrett, one senses that Britain’s great Pianist and Composer Django Bates shares a similar outlook. Most of the pieces on this outstanding album are inspired by concepts and ideas – from the ‘pointlessness’ of borders and boundaries, to the ‘incendiary nature of love’.
From these springboards come arrangements of quite extraordinary dexterity and audacity, full of rhythmic complexity and imaginative harmony. Yet Bates’ great skill as a composer is to make the fiendishly intricate sound effortless, light and entertaining. There are few jazz musicians with such a dry and elaborate sense of humour and fewer still who dare to make that sense of comedy an intrinsic part of their creations.
Common critiques of jazz music from those who find it a closed world open only to scholars and academics suggest that it sometimes seems like a music with a limited emotional and textural range, and that it is often too serious to be considered approachable. Appreciators of the music would of course dismiss this as nonsense – but Bates of course responds with superior intelligence, actually taking the trouble to craft a music that is both intellectually demanding and physically exciting.
If there’s any kind of precedent for this thrilling music, it might be found in George Russell’s superb extended compositions for jazz orchestras or the grand majesty of Keith Tippett’s Centipede but Bates’ irreverence places him squarely in a category of his own. Particularly impressive is his innovative use of voices, which are carefully woven into the detailed tapestry of his music, and treated as instruments in their own right. On ‘The Right to Smile’ (brilliantly dedicated to the Russian man who won the legal right to smile in his passport photo), Bates declares his loathing of nationalism by gleefully deconstructing a string of recognisable national anthems, including our own. The short interlude ‘Early Bloomer’ is essentially a choral work, but with harmonic progressions that play havoc with the conventions of sacred music.
As ever Bates is manically hyperactive, packing as many ideas and layers as possible into dense sound collages. On ‘May Day’, he throws in some short hints at African music. Many find Bates’ constant joviality and mirth irritating, but he has the musicality to make it all compelling. It’s a bold assertion in itself that this form of intensely composed music is mutually exclusive from any sense of immediacy or fun. On ‘Something Less Soothing’, the speech is apparently delivered over something referred to as ‘Django’s Secret Pop Song’, which is in fact performed by some of Britain’s most accomplished jazz musicians (including Martin France and Michael Modesir). Bates even plays with the contested nature of what constitutes musical immediacy with the asymmetric contortions of ‘Subjective Hooks’.
It’s baffling then that British jazz critics, showing a misguided blanket distrust of all whimsy or humour, have reacted so negatively to Bates’ wisecracking. Perhaps this explains why he now bases himself in Copenhagen, at that city’s wonderfully named Conservatory of Rhythmic Music. It now seems customary in this country to attempt to undermine the national success of some of our greatest talents through sheer bloody-minded stubbornness of opinion. One star reviews in The Times and The Independent for this record seem churlish and childish in the extreme. Could these writers compose at this level? This is music that is rich in joy and euphoria – a critique of the ills of the world that also has the imagination and spirit to celebrate what is magical about humanity.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
How to Reappear Uniquely
Radiohead, Victoria Park, London 24th June 2008
These shows in Victoria Park may have been Radiohead’s biggest UK concert performances outside the festival circuit, but that certainly didn’t direct the group to offer any concessions to mainstream popularity. From the choice of support act (the self-conscious and quirky Bat For Lashes had clearly read too much Angela Carter) to the unpredictable focus of their own setlist, the group continue to do everything on their own terms.
They are now a stadium rock group without ‘hits’. Whilst Thom Yorke’s alienation-by-numbers lyrics (he dismisses some of them as ‘nonsense’ himself during the show) frequently make the group an easy target for criticism, the harmonic and rhythmic innovation of their music more than compensates for this. Perhaps their universal acclaim merely shows the paucity of original rock music in this country, or hints at an overly-conservative music industry in decline, but I prefer to accentuate the positive.
The set helps cement my view that ‘In Rainbows’ is their most consistent album – all but one of its songs are included in the show. Some of them work superbly, whilst others sound a little too meticulous. The latter point seems particularly true of the show’s opening stint, which seems a little highly crafted and lacking in chemistry, Ed O’ Brien frequently relegated to shaking percussion and little communication with the audience. ’15 Step’ is an ingenious recording, but on stage it sounds like too close a replication – a more ragged and spirited reading might have been preferable. Similarly, ‘Bodysnatchers’, which sounds so gnarly and nasty on disc, seems to drag a bit in this highly disciplined performance.
It does get going eventually though, and turns into a pretty inspired and intense performance. Although there’s a suitably eerie ‘Pyramid Song’ before it, the turning point for me came with a determinedly linear and transcendent ‘Arpeggi/Weird Fishes’, the volume at last audible over the hoards of angry teenagers singing along. This track proves that the group work best when they exploit the chemistry between Jonny Greenwood and Ed O’ Brien. Too often, O’Brien is left doing very little.
From this point on, there’s very little messing about between sets, the various keyboards and synths being wheeled on and off-stage with ruthless efficiency and Thom Yorke rarely addressing the crowd other than with the occasional thank you. There’s a meaty, forceful version of ‘There There’ on which O’Brien and Greenwood join in with the drum-thumping, and Yorke’s voice rings out beautifully. It reminds me what a great song it is, and how I simply can’t understand those who found it underwhelming on release. ‘Everything in Its Right Place’ is presaged by Yorke leading a ‘Free Tibet’ chant, and it’s surprising how well this restrained mood piece works in live performance.
In fact, the selections from the ‘Kid A’ through to ‘Hail To The Thief’ period are particularly inspired. ‘The Gloaming’ was never my favourite track on record – a little too mechanistic and soulless, perhaps. In this performance though, it is both demented and terrifying, Thom Yorke dancing manically, arms flailing everywhere. It benefits from a more organic, percussive treatment. ‘Dollars and Cents’ is spindly, slow burning but also hypnotic. ‘The National Anthem’ actually sounds far more appealing without its tacked on bit of free-jazz skronking, a style of performance the band seem to have absorbed but not really digested.
The choices from further back are less predictable. ‘OK Computer’ is represented only by the dignified and elegant reading of ‘The Tourist’ and the claustrophobic ‘Climbing Up The Walls’, one of many tracks ushered in tonight by radio static and sampled voices. It bathes the park in an atmosphere of creeping menace. There’s no ‘Paranoid Android’, ‘Karma Police’, ‘Exit Music’ or ‘Let Down’. From ‘The Bends’, we get ‘Just’ and ‘Planet Telex’ alone (no ‘High and Dry’ or ‘Fake Plastic Trees’, but neither of these songs were great losses for me). The former sends the crowd totally wild, but it sounds limited and dated when placed next to there far more adventurous later material.
The superb encores feature some curveball selections. Yorke performs a solo version of ‘Cymbal Rush’ at the piano, there’s a deeply sinister ‘You and Whose Army’ and a furious, highly intense charge through ‘Bangers and Mash’ which features Yorke attacking a mini drum kit at the front of the stage, with admirable gusto. Closing the set with ‘Idioteque’ was a moment of total inspiration.
Wednesday’s set was apparently considerably more predictable, with the likes of ‘Karma Police’, ‘My Iron Lung’ and ‘Paranoid Android’ all included, at the expense of anything from ‘Amnesiac’. I think we got the better set, but I guess many would disagree. It certainly wasn’t the kind of set tailored for the vastness of the crowd, and there was a notable degree of restlessness in parts of the audience. The visuals were effective though, with some maverick camera work, day-glo tubular lights (apparently carbon saving?!?) and plenty of bold primary colour on screen. It was a pretty singular return to the big stage – they seem to respect their audience’s ability to progress with them.
These shows in Victoria Park may have been Radiohead’s biggest UK concert performances outside the festival circuit, but that certainly didn’t direct the group to offer any concessions to mainstream popularity. From the choice of support act (the self-conscious and quirky Bat For Lashes had clearly read too much Angela Carter) to the unpredictable focus of their own setlist, the group continue to do everything on their own terms.
They are now a stadium rock group without ‘hits’. Whilst Thom Yorke’s alienation-by-numbers lyrics (he dismisses some of them as ‘nonsense’ himself during the show) frequently make the group an easy target for criticism, the harmonic and rhythmic innovation of their music more than compensates for this. Perhaps their universal acclaim merely shows the paucity of original rock music in this country, or hints at an overly-conservative music industry in decline, but I prefer to accentuate the positive.
The set helps cement my view that ‘In Rainbows’ is their most consistent album – all but one of its songs are included in the show. Some of them work superbly, whilst others sound a little too meticulous. The latter point seems particularly true of the show’s opening stint, which seems a little highly crafted and lacking in chemistry, Ed O’ Brien frequently relegated to shaking percussion and little communication with the audience. ’15 Step’ is an ingenious recording, but on stage it sounds like too close a replication – a more ragged and spirited reading might have been preferable. Similarly, ‘Bodysnatchers’, which sounds so gnarly and nasty on disc, seems to drag a bit in this highly disciplined performance.
It does get going eventually though, and turns into a pretty inspired and intense performance. Although there’s a suitably eerie ‘Pyramid Song’ before it, the turning point for me came with a determinedly linear and transcendent ‘Arpeggi/Weird Fishes’, the volume at last audible over the hoards of angry teenagers singing along. This track proves that the group work best when they exploit the chemistry between Jonny Greenwood and Ed O’ Brien. Too often, O’Brien is left doing very little.
From this point on, there’s very little messing about between sets, the various keyboards and synths being wheeled on and off-stage with ruthless efficiency and Thom Yorke rarely addressing the crowd other than with the occasional thank you. There’s a meaty, forceful version of ‘There There’ on which O’Brien and Greenwood join in with the drum-thumping, and Yorke’s voice rings out beautifully. It reminds me what a great song it is, and how I simply can’t understand those who found it underwhelming on release. ‘Everything in Its Right Place’ is presaged by Yorke leading a ‘Free Tibet’ chant, and it’s surprising how well this restrained mood piece works in live performance.
In fact, the selections from the ‘Kid A’ through to ‘Hail To The Thief’ period are particularly inspired. ‘The Gloaming’ was never my favourite track on record – a little too mechanistic and soulless, perhaps. In this performance though, it is both demented and terrifying, Thom Yorke dancing manically, arms flailing everywhere. It benefits from a more organic, percussive treatment. ‘Dollars and Cents’ is spindly, slow burning but also hypnotic. ‘The National Anthem’ actually sounds far more appealing without its tacked on bit of free-jazz skronking, a style of performance the band seem to have absorbed but not really digested.
The choices from further back are less predictable. ‘OK Computer’ is represented only by the dignified and elegant reading of ‘The Tourist’ and the claustrophobic ‘Climbing Up The Walls’, one of many tracks ushered in tonight by radio static and sampled voices. It bathes the park in an atmosphere of creeping menace. There’s no ‘Paranoid Android’, ‘Karma Police’, ‘Exit Music’ or ‘Let Down’. From ‘The Bends’, we get ‘Just’ and ‘Planet Telex’ alone (no ‘High and Dry’ or ‘Fake Plastic Trees’, but neither of these songs were great losses for me). The former sends the crowd totally wild, but it sounds limited and dated when placed next to there far more adventurous later material.
The superb encores feature some curveball selections. Yorke performs a solo version of ‘Cymbal Rush’ at the piano, there’s a deeply sinister ‘You and Whose Army’ and a furious, highly intense charge through ‘Bangers and Mash’ which features Yorke attacking a mini drum kit at the front of the stage, with admirable gusto. Closing the set with ‘Idioteque’ was a moment of total inspiration.
Wednesday’s set was apparently considerably more predictable, with the likes of ‘Karma Police’, ‘My Iron Lung’ and ‘Paranoid Android’ all included, at the expense of anything from ‘Amnesiac’. I think we got the better set, but I guess many would disagree. It certainly wasn’t the kind of set tailored for the vastness of the crowd, and there was a notable degree of restlessness in parts of the audience. The visuals were effective though, with some maverick camera work, day-glo tubular lights (apparently carbon saving?!?) and plenty of bold primary colour on screen. It was a pretty singular return to the big stage – they seem to respect their audience’s ability to progress with them.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Female Intuition
Lykke Li - Youth Novels (LL Recordings, 2008)
Joan as Police Woman - To Survive (Pias/Reveal, 2008)
Swedish pop singer Lykke Li’s debut album does not begin very auspiciously. ‘Melodies and Desires’ is a spoken word piece set to a predictably dreamy soundscape and dominated by clichés such as ‘you be the rhythm and I’ll be the beat’. Mercifully, things get considerably better once the rather earnest preliminaries are dispatched. Indeed, much of the rest of the album is charming and idiosyncratic. Li’s voice seems a little twinkly and cutesy on first listen but, given time, it reveals itself to be more versatile and malleable than on surface appearance.
Occasionally, her high pitched tones are capable of disarming tenderness, particularly on the more vulnerable tracks that define the album’s finishing straight (‘Everybody But Me’, ‘Time Flies’). More transparently, her voice communicates uncertainty, tension and hesitation, as well as those little moments of simple joy that pop music frequently captures so well.
On ‘Dance Dance Dance’, she establishes herself as the anti-Shakira, confessing ‘my hips they lie, ‘cos in reality I’m shy, shy, shy’. The song is also an effective curtain-raiser musically, introducing as it does Li’s peculiar phrasing and articulation, as well as her predilection for delicate percussion and ornate vocal arrangements. Stylistically, she veers in several directions on this album, with scant respect for genre, but these instrumental quirks remain a consistent thread.
‘Youth Novels’ is unusual among pop albums in that it is somehow both immediate and slow building, gradually revealing additional layers of complexity with each play. It’s appealingly familiar and infectious, yet quirky enough to sound quite unlike most other pop music of the moment.
Where Li is frequently playful and zesty, Joan Wasser’s second album is a satisfying serving of female sensuality. Given her connections with Antony Hegarty and Rufus Wainwright, I’d rather inaccurately had Joan as Policewoman pegged as a torch act. The bulk of ‘To Survive’, with her voice as elegant as it is dominant, reveals this impression to be false.
Apparently composed in the aftermath of her mother’s death, the album has a mournful tone and a languid, unhurried pace – but it also serves as a celebration and a statement of emotional ambition and hope. Her great skill as a singer is that, amidst the highly refined dinner club atmosphere (which reminds me of a more single-minded Feist), she manages to impose herself in a manner that is often arresting or enchanting.
Much of ‘To Survive’ is deceptive in its stark simplicity, from the skeletal chords and almost childlike left hand piano line that opens ‘Honor Wishes’, to the direct and unadorned nature of the lyrics. Within this alarmingly straightforward template, Wasser manages to tease out insightful statements of feeling, both through words and music.
David Sylvian’s ghostly backing vocals add a sense of mystery and introspection to ‘Honor Wishes’, on which Wasser perceptively asks this troubling question: ‘will you love me and not just my need to be loved?’ Even the relatively jaunty ‘Holiday’ is made more intriguing and questing by its arrangement, fluid guitar interjections and silky backing vocals adding to the luxurious texture. In its final third, it builds into something more dissonant and confusing, with an underlying unease that bursts the bubble of its dreams of escape.
Much of the rest of the album captures something modern pop music too often ignores – human intimacy. There’s a consistent sense of the unique sense of ownership that comes with private moments (‘this night’s fantastic and it’s ours my dear!’) and a wise acceptance that mistakes can lead to erotic and romantic fulfilment. In that sense, the controlled nature of the music, together with the subtle nature of the performances themselves, seems absolutely appropriate.
‘To Be Lonely’ neatly encapsulates the paradox at the heart of relationships – with Joan asserting that she has found the one ‘to be lonely with’. A relationship can be just as isolated as a solitary existence in its own way, and that isolation often requires some compromise or sacrifice (‘this is the one…I will try…’). It’s a disarming and lucid statement, on which Wasser sounds naked in her honesty.
‘To Survive’ doesn’t leave too lingering an impression on first listen. It seems too calm, too dignified and too controlled. Further listens reveal the triumph that comes through desperation, both in the purity and clarity of her singing and the meticulous execution of the arrangements. There’s the calling of the strings as they enter halfway through ‘To Be Lonely’ or the gradually emerging horns of ‘Magpies’, capturing the sense of rebirth Wasser hints at in the lyrics.
She escapes her intimate cocoon only on ‘Furious’ and the startling closing track ‘To America’ which features a surprisingly unobtrusive guest appearance from Rufus. On the former, she is astounded by her rage, and quizzical as to why there seem to be so few others who share it. The latter embarks on an unusual and unpredictable journey from minimal ballad to startling oom-pah assault.
‘To Survive’ is at once fragile and stalwart, a shimmering and beautiful beacon of a record. It also comes with a quite enchanting cover image, a nude Joan visible only from the shoulders, in profile and looking majestic and radiant in spite of the sepia palette. It’s a neat artistic summation of her achievement with this album – she stands bold and imperious against a deceptively smooth, muted background.
Joan as Police Woman - To Survive (Pias/Reveal, 2008)
Swedish pop singer Lykke Li’s debut album does not begin very auspiciously. ‘Melodies and Desires’ is a spoken word piece set to a predictably dreamy soundscape and dominated by clichés such as ‘you be the rhythm and I’ll be the beat’. Mercifully, things get considerably better once the rather earnest preliminaries are dispatched. Indeed, much of the rest of the album is charming and idiosyncratic. Li’s voice seems a little twinkly and cutesy on first listen but, given time, it reveals itself to be more versatile and malleable than on surface appearance.
Occasionally, her high pitched tones are capable of disarming tenderness, particularly on the more vulnerable tracks that define the album’s finishing straight (‘Everybody But Me’, ‘Time Flies’). More transparently, her voice communicates uncertainty, tension and hesitation, as well as those little moments of simple joy that pop music frequently captures so well.
On ‘Dance Dance Dance’, she establishes herself as the anti-Shakira, confessing ‘my hips they lie, ‘cos in reality I’m shy, shy, shy’. The song is also an effective curtain-raiser musically, introducing as it does Li’s peculiar phrasing and articulation, as well as her predilection for delicate percussion and ornate vocal arrangements. Stylistically, she veers in several directions on this album, with scant respect for genre, but these instrumental quirks remain a consistent thread.
‘Youth Novels’ is unusual among pop albums in that it is somehow both immediate and slow building, gradually revealing additional layers of complexity with each play. It’s appealingly familiar and infectious, yet quirky enough to sound quite unlike most other pop music of the moment.
Where Li is frequently playful and zesty, Joan Wasser’s second album is a satisfying serving of female sensuality. Given her connections with Antony Hegarty and Rufus Wainwright, I’d rather inaccurately had Joan as Policewoman pegged as a torch act. The bulk of ‘To Survive’, with her voice as elegant as it is dominant, reveals this impression to be false.
Apparently composed in the aftermath of her mother’s death, the album has a mournful tone and a languid, unhurried pace – but it also serves as a celebration and a statement of emotional ambition and hope. Her great skill as a singer is that, amidst the highly refined dinner club atmosphere (which reminds me of a more single-minded Feist), she manages to impose herself in a manner that is often arresting or enchanting.
Much of ‘To Survive’ is deceptive in its stark simplicity, from the skeletal chords and almost childlike left hand piano line that opens ‘Honor Wishes’, to the direct and unadorned nature of the lyrics. Within this alarmingly straightforward template, Wasser manages to tease out insightful statements of feeling, both through words and music.
David Sylvian’s ghostly backing vocals add a sense of mystery and introspection to ‘Honor Wishes’, on which Wasser perceptively asks this troubling question: ‘will you love me and not just my need to be loved?’ Even the relatively jaunty ‘Holiday’ is made more intriguing and questing by its arrangement, fluid guitar interjections and silky backing vocals adding to the luxurious texture. In its final third, it builds into something more dissonant and confusing, with an underlying unease that bursts the bubble of its dreams of escape.
Much of the rest of the album captures something modern pop music too often ignores – human intimacy. There’s a consistent sense of the unique sense of ownership that comes with private moments (‘this night’s fantastic and it’s ours my dear!’) and a wise acceptance that mistakes can lead to erotic and romantic fulfilment. In that sense, the controlled nature of the music, together with the subtle nature of the performances themselves, seems absolutely appropriate.
‘To Be Lonely’ neatly encapsulates the paradox at the heart of relationships – with Joan asserting that she has found the one ‘to be lonely with’. A relationship can be just as isolated as a solitary existence in its own way, and that isolation often requires some compromise or sacrifice (‘this is the one…I will try…’). It’s a disarming and lucid statement, on which Wasser sounds naked in her honesty.
‘To Survive’ doesn’t leave too lingering an impression on first listen. It seems too calm, too dignified and too controlled. Further listens reveal the triumph that comes through desperation, both in the purity and clarity of her singing and the meticulous execution of the arrangements. There’s the calling of the strings as they enter halfway through ‘To Be Lonely’ or the gradually emerging horns of ‘Magpies’, capturing the sense of rebirth Wasser hints at in the lyrics.
She escapes her intimate cocoon only on ‘Furious’ and the startling closing track ‘To America’ which features a surprisingly unobtrusive guest appearance from Rufus. On the former, she is astounded by her rage, and quizzical as to why there seem to be so few others who share it. The latter embarks on an unusual and unpredictable journey from minimal ballad to startling oom-pah assault.
‘To Survive’ is at once fragile and stalwart, a shimmering and beautiful beacon of a record. It also comes with a quite enchanting cover image, a nude Joan visible only from the shoulders, in profile and looking majestic and radiant in spite of the sepia palette. It’s a neat artistic summation of her achievement with this album – she stands bold and imperious against a deceptively smooth, muted background.
Friday, June 20, 2008
My Massive Attack Meltdown
'I wouldn't wish a Massive Attack Meltdown on anyone', quips the drummer from Fleet Foxes, a charming and endearing band with a tendency to hide behind their considerable volume of hair. 'It sounds like a terrible psychiatric disorder'. Judging by the evidence so far, I'd have a Massive Attack Meltdown every summer if I could. The group have picked such a fascinating and balanced selection of live acts for this year's festival that they've risked making themselves seem like the least audacious proposition in their own line-up, particularly given their paucity of output over the last ten years (er, just the one new record and still waiting for the much-delayed 'Weather Underground').
Fleet Foxes seem completely overwhelmed that they've been invited to play a venue of the size and significance of the Festival Hall and no doubt its rather staid and serious atmosphere baffles them too. There's a lot of joking around between songs, and a general bewilderment at just how quickly Britain has embraced them. It's easy to see why this has happened - Robin Peckold has a voice that is at once sharp and warm, closely resembling Jim James from My Morning Jacket, although they lack that band's classic rawk predilections, instead crafting something more rustic and traditional. Their harmonies are precisely and intricately arranged, but the resulting collective timbre is also deeply compelling. The songs, particularly 'Oliver James' and 'Your Protector' seem more like stories than poems. Sometimes the lyrics are frustratingly forced - like the group are trying to capture some kind of folk ideal, preoccupied by nature and ritual. But the music has a soulful edge too, and the playing is consistently inspired, primal and beautiful.
Elbow therefore have a task on their hands, but they step up to the plate with admirable wit and charm. The first part of their set is dominated by material from new album 'The Seldom Seen Kid' and its predecessor 'Leaders of the Free World' and the songs sound both more precise and more beefy in their live incarnations. The group display their musicality eagerly, but also unpretentiously and Garvey's voice, both towering and believable, continues to mature. Many of these songs have real emotional power, and the title track from 'Leaders of the Free World' is much more potent and righteous in concert than on record.
About an hour into the show, they surprise us all by bringing on a substantial male voice choir, who creep on to the stage singing the chorus from 'Any Day Now'. It's a wonderful touch that immediately imbues this show with a special, one-off significance, as well as a real sense of fun. Garvey apologises for not being able to introduce the choir members individually, instead promising to refer to them collectively as 'Jeff', a commitment he dutifully upholds throughout the show. The whole project coalesces brilliantly on a simmering version of 'Starlings', the opening track from the new album, with the alarming horn bursts played not just from the stage, but from a number of the audience boxes. It's followed by an outrageously stirring 'New Born', with a protracted coda where the group make a feature of the venue's giant pipe organ. It could comfortably have gone on even longer.
The home straight of the show favours the band's terrace anthem singalong moments a bit too much for my taste, although 'Grace Under Pressure' sustains my interest chiefly through its rhythmic intricacy. 'One Day Like This', however, which closes an otherwise excellent performance, crosses the line into inspid cliche for me ('it's gonna be a beautiful day' etc - we can leave that to U2, can't we?).
I went to Thursday night's performance from Grace Jones with very modest expectations. So volatile and prone to diva-ish behaviour is this statuesque superstar that I'd half expected something of a Sly Stone experience. Would she mime or sing only to backing tracks? Would she be characteristically late on stage, and deliver a performance of larcenous brevity? What she in fact treated us to couldn't have been further from my fears. Her performance was at times bizarre, wickedly funny, outrageous, kitschy and flamboyant - all to be expected. But it was also a brilliantly executed statement rejuvenating her, at the grand age of 60 (but looking barely half that age), as one of pop music's most iconic figures.
She is introduced by a promo clip for a new song 'Corporate Cannibal' that offers a timely reminder of her terrifying magnetism. 'I consume my consumers', she intones creepily, 'without any sense of humour...I'm a man-eating machine'. Underneath her, the music seems to have taken something of an industrial turn, but the song's churning monotony offers an apposite sense of dread. Then, finally, a screen rises, her precision perfect band launch into the menacing dub of 'Nightclubbing' and she is revealed holding on to the rails of a platform for dear life. At the song's conclusion, she slithers provocatively down the stairs, and it starts to become clear that Grace Jones means to reclaim her lost status tonight.
Always realising the significance of image for a pop singer, she makes an exit from the stage after each and every song to make some alteration to her costume. There's all manner of elaborate headgear, masks and a worryingly thin g-string. Jones' most shrewd and perceptive attribute was to make her striking and androgynous image part of a more complete package - where music, appearance and vocal character artistically intertwine. Each new costume seems to bring with it a slightly different personality (she threatens to 'come out naked' at one stage). Her performance is highly physical and confrontational but also strangely self-deprecating and genuinely appreciating of the audience (at the end, she screams 'F*ck You! I love you all!' repeatedly - her peculiar method of showing her affection).
She keeps her promise to perform new material tonight - from an upcoming album to be released in September on the Wall of Sound label. She forgets the words, and ends up improvising - but the material sounds aggressive and life-affirming in equal measure, and stands up remarkably well when pitted against a raft of classic material. In this two-hour plus show, she hardly misses anything out - we get an hilarious patois introduction to 'My Jamaican Guy', a sensual 'Private Life', a theatrical 'La Vie En Rose', a relentless 'Demolition Man' and a thrilling 'Love Is The Drug'.
During a near perfect recreation of the intoxicating funk of 'Pull Up To The Bumper', she invites a stage invation. Fifty in the audience are reckless enough to accept her request - one tries to touch her and is quickly put back in their place: 'Nobody touches me, but me!' she commands and, quite frankly, no-one would ever dare to argue. She returns to clash a set of giant cymbals through a potent, slithering 'Warm Leatherette' and concludes the show with perhaps her most well known song 'Slave To The Rhythm'.
Her band are simply fantastic - with total mastery of reggae and funk groove playing. What is perhaps even more impressive is the sheer force and imagination of her voice. Those who thought that she couldn't sing when recording in the disco years should now regret their assessment of her abilities. Her camp, unbridled belting of 'La Vie En Rose' was hugely effective.
With no shame whatsoever and with considerable style, Jones has brought her wilderness years to a defiant and spectacular close. The new material bodes well for the completion of a quite tremendous comeback.
On Friday, the double bill of Terry Callier and Aloe Blacc at the Queen Elizabeth Hall asserted the relaxed mastery of the headline act and exposed the limitations of his support. Aloe Blacc was ably supported by a dexterous and innovative drummer - but he appeared to be in the wrong band. Blacc's lyrics, whilst no doubt sincere, proved stiflingly earnest and reliant on cliche. It's all very well understanding the great history of black popular music but it's incumbent on a new artist to add their own contribution to it. Blacc's set seemed to me to be nothing more than a smash and grab raid on his noble influences.
Callier, meanwhile, was in another league. Callier is a singer of imperious and magesterial quality, but with a charming and friendly demeanour that made his entire performance seem effortless. Even now, his straddling of the intersections between folk, soul and jazz still sounds invigorating and original. There are a lot of passions in this music, both personal and political, and a refreshing openness characterises his writing. The timbre of his voice is naturally mellifluous, but he can sometimes cut through with real attack and vigour. His superb band are virtuoso musicians - legendary guitarist Jim Mullen, the expressive percussionist Bosco d'Oliviera and the quietly inventive drummer Nick France all among them. Callier wisely allows them plenty of space, but the group reward him by placing their expressive talents firmly in the service of his remarkable songs. His performance had far more force, power and authority than any of those mock-virtuosos from the Brit School or X-Factor crowds could muster.
The full line-up of this year's Meltdown Festival is an embarrassment of riches that shames most of the major summer festival line-ups for their lack of courage and conviction. Some wonderful acts I sadly have already missed or won't be able to catch - Flying Lotus, Dalek, Tom Tom Club, Leila and George Clinton.
Fleet Foxes seem completely overwhelmed that they've been invited to play a venue of the size and significance of the Festival Hall and no doubt its rather staid and serious atmosphere baffles them too. There's a lot of joking around between songs, and a general bewilderment at just how quickly Britain has embraced them. It's easy to see why this has happened - Robin Peckold has a voice that is at once sharp and warm, closely resembling Jim James from My Morning Jacket, although they lack that band's classic rawk predilections, instead crafting something more rustic and traditional. Their harmonies are precisely and intricately arranged, but the resulting collective timbre is also deeply compelling. The songs, particularly 'Oliver James' and 'Your Protector' seem more like stories than poems. Sometimes the lyrics are frustratingly forced - like the group are trying to capture some kind of folk ideal, preoccupied by nature and ritual. But the music has a soulful edge too, and the playing is consistently inspired, primal and beautiful.
Elbow therefore have a task on their hands, but they step up to the plate with admirable wit and charm. The first part of their set is dominated by material from new album 'The Seldom Seen Kid' and its predecessor 'Leaders of the Free World' and the songs sound both more precise and more beefy in their live incarnations. The group display their musicality eagerly, but also unpretentiously and Garvey's voice, both towering and believable, continues to mature. Many of these songs have real emotional power, and the title track from 'Leaders of the Free World' is much more potent and righteous in concert than on record.
About an hour into the show, they surprise us all by bringing on a substantial male voice choir, who creep on to the stage singing the chorus from 'Any Day Now'. It's a wonderful touch that immediately imbues this show with a special, one-off significance, as well as a real sense of fun. Garvey apologises for not being able to introduce the choir members individually, instead promising to refer to them collectively as 'Jeff', a commitment he dutifully upholds throughout the show. The whole project coalesces brilliantly on a simmering version of 'Starlings', the opening track from the new album, with the alarming horn bursts played not just from the stage, but from a number of the audience boxes. It's followed by an outrageously stirring 'New Born', with a protracted coda where the group make a feature of the venue's giant pipe organ. It could comfortably have gone on even longer.
The home straight of the show favours the band's terrace anthem singalong moments a bit too much for my taste, although 'Grace Under Pressure' sustains my interest chiefly through its rhythmic intricacy. 'One Day Like This', however, which closes an otherwise excellent performance, crosses the line into inspid cliche for me ('it's gonna be a beautiful day' etc - we can leave that to U2, can't we?).
I went to Thursday night's performance from Grace Jones with very modest expectations. So volatile and prone to diva-ish behaviour is this statuesque superstar that I'd half expected something of a Sly Stone experience. Would she mime or sing only to backing tracks? Would she be characteristically late on stage, and deliver a performance of larcenous brevity? What she in fact treated us to couldn't have been further from my fears. Her performance was at times bizarre, wickedly funny, outrageous, kitschy and flamboyant - all to be expected. But it was also a brilliantly executed statement rejuvenating her, at the grand age of 60 (but looking barely half that age), as one of pop music's most iconic figures.
She is introduced by a promo clip for a new song 'Corporate Cannibal' that offers a timely reminder of her terrifying magnetism. 'I consume my consumers', she intones creepily, 'without any sense of humour...I'm a man-eating machine'. Underneath her, the music seems to have taken something of an industrial turn, but the song's churning monotony offers an apposite sense of dread. Then, finally, a screen rises, her precision perfect band launch into the menacing dub of 'Nightclubbing' and she is revealed holding on to the rails of a platform for dear life. At the song's conclusion, she slithers provocatively down the stairs, and it starts to become clear that Grace Jones means to reclaim her lost status tonight.
Always realising the significance of image for a pop singer, she makes an exit from the stage after each and every song to make some alteration to her costume. There's all manner of elaborate headgear, masks and a worryingly thin g-string. Jones' most shrewd and perceptive attribute was to make her striking and androgynous image part of a more complete package - where music, appearance and vocal character artistically intertwine. Each new costume seems to bring with it a slightly different personality (she threatens to 'come out naked' at one stage). Her performance is highly physical and confrontational but also strangely self-deprecating and genuinely appreciating of the audience (at the end, she screams 'F*ck You! I love you all!' repeatedly - her peculiar method of showing her affection).
She keeps her promise to perform new material tonight - from an upcoming album to be released in September on the Wall of Sound label. She forgets the words, and ends up improvising - but the material sounds aggressive and life-affirming in equal measure, and stands up remarkably well when pitted against a raft of classic material. In this two-hour plus show, she hardly misses anything out - we get an hilarious patois introduction to 'My Jamaican Guy', a sensual 'Private Life', a theatrical 'La Vie En Rose', a relentless 'Demolition Man' and a thrilling 'Love Is The Drug'.
During a near perfect recreation of the intoxicating funk of 'Pull Up To The Bumper', she invites a stage invation. Fifty in the audience are reckless enough to accept her request - one tries to touch her and is quickly put back in their place: 'Nobody touches me, but me!' she commands and, quite frankly, no-one would ever dare to argue. She returns to clash a set of giant cymbals through a potent, slithering 'Warm Leatherette' and concludes the show with perhaps her most well known song 'Slave To The Rhythm'.
Her band are simply fantastic - with total mastery of reggae and funk groove playing. What is perhaps even more impressive is the sheer force and imagination of her voice. Those who thought that she couldn't sing when recording in the disco years should now regret their assessment of her abilities. Her camp, unbridled belting of 'La Vie En Rose' was hugely effective.
With no shame whatsoever and with considerable style, Jones has brought her wilderness years to a defiant and spectacular close. The new material bodes well for the completion of a quite tremendous comeback.
On Friday, the double bill of Terry Callier and Aloe Blacc at the Queen Elizabeth Hall asserted the relaxed mastery of the headline act and exposed the limitations of his support. Aloe Blacc was ably supported by a dexterous and innovative drummer - but he appeared to be in the wrong band. Blacc's lyrics, whilst no doubt sincere, proved stiflingly earnest and reliant on cliche. It's all very well understanding the great history of black popular music but it's incumbent on a new artist to add their own contribution to it. Blacc's set seemed to me to be nothing more than a smash and grab raid on his noble influences.
Callier, meanwhile, was in another league. Callier is a singer of imperious and magesterial quality, but with a charming and friendly demeanour that made his entire performance seem effortless. Even now, his straddling of the intersections between folk, soul and jazz still sounds invigorating and original. There are a lot of passions in this music, both personal and political, and a refreshing openness characterises his writing. The timbre of his voice is naturally mellifluous, but he can sometimes cut through with real attack and vigour. His superb band are virtuoso musicians - legendary guitarist Jim Mullen, the expressive percussionist Bosco d'Oliviera and the quietly inventive drummer Nick France all among them. Callier wisely allows them plenty of space, but the group reward him by placing their expressive talents firmly in the service of his remarkable songs. His performance had far more force, power and authority than any of those mock-virtuosos from the Brit School or X-Factor crowds could muster.
The full line-up of this year's Meltdown Festival is an embarrassment of riches that shames most of the major summer festival line-ups for their lack of courage and conviction. Some wonderful acts I sadly have already missed or won't be able to catch - Flying Lotus, Dalek, Tom Tom Club, Leila and George Clinton.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Esbjorn Svensson Dead at 44
There have been a number of shocking deaths in the world of the arts over the last twelve months, but Swedish pianist and composer Esbjorn Svensson's death in a Scuba Diving Accident seems particularly tragic. His trio, est, divided opinion, with purists critical of Svensson's limited improvising chops and what they saw as their devaluation of jazz by combining it with performance techniques more familiar from stadium rock (light shows, smoke effects etc). Why such people seemed appalled that jazz could reach a seriously big audience has generally mystified me. What est were doing was massively positive - and Svensson was a sensitive musician and frequently inspired composer. EST could really groove, but they did this with a dignified restraint and remarkable calmness. Svensson contributed a great deal to the raised profile for European Jazz in the 1990s and beyond, and the group never recorded a bad album. I never got to see them live (and I now sincerely regret missing their concert with Polar Bear at the London Jazz Festival two years ago). I had been relishing the prospect of them touring again later in the year, as a new album had been scheduled for release. If that still emerges, it will very sadly be Svensson's last musical statement.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Slender Threads of Critical Favour
Coldplay - Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends (EMI, 2008)
I’ve been meaning to compose a calm, rational piece about Coldplay’s new album for the past few days but John Mulvey seems to have beaten me to it over at Wild Mercury Sound on the Uncut website. Regular readers of this blog will be aware that I’m hardly a big fan of the group but my early animosity towards them has gradually tempered into something approaching indifference or even agnosticism. What completely baffles me about the response to ‘Viva La Vida’ is the sudden venomous assault on the group at a time when they have made what must be their most stimulating album.
This gives a false impression of the group as a critical punchbag – their previous three albums all received generous reviews which, in some cases (particularly with ‘Parachutes’ and ‘X and Y’) overstated both their quality and significance. So, ‘Viva La Vida’ appears to have become the ‘Be Here Now’ of the group’s catalogue – the record upon which the fickle opinion of critics suddenly turns (although even that record was rapturously received in the first instance). Incidentally, also like ‘Be Here Now’, ‘Viva La Vida’ is being released on a Thursday, but not this time coinciding with any public examination results. Those magazine critics at the plush music monthlies and even the broadsheet newspapers built them up, so - now that they’re a massively popular group with a singer married to a successful actress – they’ll have no qualms with knocking them down again. Or is it more that the fate of Guy Hands at least in part rests on the success of this album?
It clearly won’t work though, so ultimately there can be little point. ‘Viva La Vida’ has already racked up record iTunes pre-sales. So Andy Gill’s lengthy piece in the Independent, as much of a character assassination on Chris Martin as a fatuous dismissal of the band, seems like an indulgent waste of effort. His statement that he has never met anyone who liked Coldplay is just plain silly – many people I know like them, and not all of them are unadventurous automatons. Much of the ill feeling seems to be based on the fact that the group aren’t radical enough – even with that avant-garde master Brian Eno at the studio controls (although his own music recently has been far from innovative, and he hasn’t produced a truly original album in quite some time). Yet, by Chris Martin’s own admission, radicalism is hardly what the group is aiming at.
Instead, he has claimed the rather more modest goal of finding different and more interesting contexts for the group’s melodic sensibilities. Listening to Viva La Vida, which is, at least in part, a confident, atmospheric and stirring record, I think they may have come close to achieving this. In the past, Coldplay records tended to be focussed on either a set of plodding piano triads, or, much worse, multi-tracked guitars all chugging in exactly the same way, with unsubtle, strictly regimented drums joining in for the ride. It was a frequently tedious and resoundingly conventional formula. The recent single ‘Violet Hill’ backed up Martin’s statement. Whilst the insistent, pounding rhythm and appealing melody sounded familiar – the snarling, menacing guitar and bluesy inflections seemed imported from somewhere else - somewhere considerably more exciting.
On the rest of ‘Viva La Vida’, there are further notable changes. Keyboards are even more prominent than they were on ‘X and Y’, and the piano isn’t always merely laying down basic rhythm. The percussion tracks are more intricate and integral to the arrangements – and Jonny Buckland’s guitar often seeps in more for effect and texture than for foundation. The combination of bombastic organ and ritualistic percussion on ‘Lost’ is particularly striking, and a number of other tracks march along with military impetus. The album even begins with an instrumental that rather resembles The Cure at their most blissful and least dark. The epic medley of ‘Lovers in Japan’ and ‘Reign of Love’ is certainly bombastic – but it also has a rousing power absent from the group’s more turgid moments, borrowing liberally from the restless urgency of Arcade Fire. One of my favourite tracks here is ‘Strawberry Swing’, with its offbeat rhythms and circuitous looped guitars. It has an enticing mood, even if it is topped by some innocuous and banal lyrics.
It’s unclear whether or not it has been at the behest of Eno, but Martin has made some sort of conscious effort to restrain some of his vocal quirks here. His irritating tendency to flip suddenly into falsetto is mostly absent, and his voice is more understated and controlled throughout. On ‘Yes’ this leads to a rather nondescript and meandering song that makes the Eastern strings used in the arrangement sound rather like a desperate attempt to add interest. Similarly, its sudden lurch into a U2-apeing coda seems rather forced. On the excellent title track though, characterised by synth string chords, a pulsing heartbeat and mock-baroque flourishes, he sounds both purposeful and reflective and unusually unaffected. It’s rather unlike anything else the group has yet recorded and comfortably the highlight of their catalogue.
Of course, Martin won’t entirely abandon his preference for slothful balladry or suffocating blandness. ‘42’ will be more familiar to those fans who eagerly embraced ‘Trouble’ or ‘The Scientist’, although it admittedly has an interesting shape to its Beatles-esque melody. ‘Cemeteries of London’ merely adds a hint of folklore to an otherwise over-familiar form. They are not keen to challenge their audience too much.
Similarly, his lyrics remain a substantial handicap. The aforementioned ‘Strawberry Swing’ looks like poetry when compared with Martin’s series of monumental clangers as opening lines. ‘Just because I’m losing doesn’t mean I’m lost’ is merely characteristic of Martin’s frustrating emotional vagueness, but ‘All the people who are dead are not dead, they’re just living in my head’ is plain ugly. I can just about cope with the title track’s mock-historical reflections on fallen power though. That at least makes for a change.
Whilst ‘Viva La Vida’ is no gargantuan masterpiece, there is merit in its approach, and it means the band have at last made an artistic statement that goes some way towards justifying their personal fortunes. Coldplay are not radicals – indeed, they continue to operate in a safe zone where they can refine their formula without causing too much offence – but how much of the British music industry is radical? Are the Arctic Monkeys really revolutionaries? The likes of The Wombats, The Kooks, Pigeon Detectives and The Fratellis look like stone-age luddites by comparison with Coldplay circa 2008. I’d rather campaign against the British music industry’s current tendency to elevate lumpen, boorish rock music to high art than have a good old moan about Chris Martin’s meaninglessness. I’d be surprised if I grew to like ‘Viva la Vida’ enough to include it in my albums of the year list – but, staggered as I am to admit this, I find it more interesting than some of 2008’s bigger disappointments (Spiritualized and My Morning Jacket particularly).
I’ve been meaning to compose a calm, rational piece about Coldplay’s new album for the past few days but John Mulvey seems to have beaten me to it over at Wild Mercury Sound on the Uncut website. Regular readers of this blog will be aware that I’m hardly a big fan of the group but my early animosity towards them has gradually tempered into something approaching indifference or even agnosticism. What completely baffles me about the response to ‘Viva La Vida’ is the sudden venomous assault on the group at a time when they have made what must be their most stimulating album.
This gives a false impression of the group as a critical punchbag – their previous three albums all received generous reviews which, in some cases (particularly with ‘Parachutes’ and ‘X and Y’) overstated both their quality and significance. So, ‘Viva La Vida’ appears to have become the ‘Be Here Now’ of the group’s catalogue – the record upon which the fickle opinion of critics suddenly turns (although even that record was rapturously received in the first instance). Incidentally, also like ‘Be Here Now’, ‘Viva La Vida’ is being released on a Thursday, but not this time coinciding with any public examination results. Those magazine critics at the plush music monthlies and even the broadsheet newspapers built them up, so - now that they’re a massively popular group with a singer married to a successful actress – they’ll have no qualms with knocking them down again. Or is it more that the fate of Guy Hands at least in part rests on the success of this album?
It clearly won’t work though, so ultimately there can be little point. ‘Viva La Vida’ has already racked up record iTunes pre-sales. So Andy Gill’s lengthy piece in the Independent, as much of a character assassination on Chris Martin as a fatuous dismissal of the band, seems like an indulgent waste of effort. His statement that he has never met anyone who liked Coldplay is just plain silly – many people I know like them, and not all of them are unadventurous automatons. Much of the ill feeling seems to be based on the fact that the group aren’t radical enough – even with that avant-garde master Brian Eno at the studio controls (although his own music recently has been far from innovative, and he hasn’t produced a truly original album in quite some time). Yet, by Chris Martin’s own admission, radicalism is hardly what the group is aiming at.
Instead, he has claimed the rather more modest goal of finding different and more interesting contexts for the group’s melodic sensibilities. Listening to Viva La Vida, which is, at least in part, a confident, atmospheric and stirring record, I think they may have come close to achieving this. In the past, Coldplay records tended to be focussed on either a set of plodding piano triads, or, much worse, multi-tracked guitars all chugging in exactly the same way, with unsubtle, strictly regimented drums joining in for the ride. It was a frequently tedious and resoundingly conventional formula. The recent single ‘Violet Hill’ backed up Martin’s statement. Whilst the insistent, pounding rhythm and appealing melody sounded familiar – the snarling, menacing guitar and bluesy inflections seemed imported from somewhere else - somewhere considerably more exciting.
On the rest of ‘Viva La Vida’, there are further notable changes. Keyboards are even more prominent than they were on ‘X and Y’, and the piano isn’t always merely laying down basic rhythm. The percussion tracks are more intricate and integral to the arrangements – and Jonny Buckland’s guitar often seeps in more for effect and texture than for foundation. The combination of bombastic organ and ritualistic percussion on ‘Lost’ is particularly striking, and a number of other tracks march along with military impetus. The album even begins with an instrumental that rather resembles The Cure at their most blissful and least dark. The epic medley of ‘Lovers in Japan’ and ‘Reign of Love’ is certainly bombastic – but it also has a rousing power absent from the group’s more turgid moments, borrowing liberally from the restless urgency of Arcade Fire. One of my favourite tracks here is ‘Strawberry Swing’, with its offbeat rhythms and circuitous looped guitars. It has an enticing mood, even if it is topped by some innocuous and banal lyrics.
It’s unclear whether or not it has been at the behest of Eno, but Martin has made some sort of conscious effort to restrain some of his vocal quirks here. His irritating tendency to flip suddenly into falsetto is mostly absent, and his voice is more understated and controlled throughout. On ‘Yes’ this leads to a rather nondescript and meandering song that makes the Eastern strings used in the arrangement sound rather like a desperate attempt to add interest. Similarly, its sudden lurch into a U2-apeing coda seems rather forced. On the excellent title track though, characterised by synth string chords, a pulsing heartbeat and mock-baroque flourishes, he sounds both purposeful and reflective and unusually unaffected. It’s rather unlike anything else the group has yet recorded and comfortably the highlight of their catalogue.
Of course, Martin won’t entirely abandon his preference for slothful balladry or suffocating blandness. ‘42’ will be more familiar to those fans who eagerly embraced ‘Trouble’ or ‘The Scientist’, although it admittedly has an interesting shape to its Beatles-esque melody. ‘Cemeteries of London’ merely adds a hint of folklore to an otherwise over-familiar form. They are not keen to challenge their audience too much.
Similarly, his lyrics remain a substantial handicap. The aforementioned ‘Strawberry Swing’ looks like poetry when compared with Martin’s series of monumental clangers as opening lines. ‘Just because I’m losing doesn’t mean I’m lost’ is merely characteristic of Martin’s frustrating emotional vagueness, but ‘All the people who are dead are not dead, they’re just living in my head’ is plain ugly. I can just about cope with the title track’s mock-historical reflections on fallen power though. That at least makes for a change.
Whilst ‘Viva La Vida’ is no gargantuan masterpiece, there is merit in its approach, and it means the band have at last made an artistic statement that goes some way towards justifying their personal fortunes. Coldplay are not radicals – indeed, they continue to operate in a safe zone where they can refine their formula without causing too much offence – but how much of the British music industry is radical? Are the Arctic Monkeys really revolutionaries? The likes of The Wombats, The Kooks, Pigeon Detectives and The Fratellis look like stone-age luddites by comparison with Coldplay circa 2008. I’d rather campaign against the British music industry’s current tendency to elevate lumpen, boorish rock music to high art than have a good old moan about Chris Martin’s meaninglessness. I’d be surprised if I grew to like ‘Viva la Vida’ enough to include it in my albums of the year list – but, staggered as I am to admit this, I find it more interesting than some of 2008’s bigger disappointments (Spiritualized and My Morning Jacket particularly).
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
A Mountain of Sound
Some records I'm digesting (some of which I've been mulling over for some time), but haven't got around to blogging about yet:
Outhouse - Outhouse
Ellen Allien - SOOL
Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes
Coldplay - Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends
Matana Roberts - The Chicago Project
Flying Lotus - Los Angeles
Benga - Diary of an Afro Warrior
Atlas Sound - Let The Blind Lead Those Who Can See But Cannot Feel
Erykah Badu - New Amerykah Part 1: 4th World War
Boris - Smile
Fieldwork - Door (Steve Lehman continues to astound)
Joan as Policewoman - To Survive
Lykke Li - Youth Novels
Matmos - Supreme Balloon
M83 - Saturdays=Youth
Marilyn Mazur and Jan Garbarek - Elixir (I really like this...)
Neon - From Here To There
No Age - Nouns
Steve Reich - Daniel Variations
Beatundercontrol - Cosmic Repackage
Misha Alperin - Her First Dance
Nik Bartsch's Ronin - Holon
Bill Dixon with Exploding Star Orchestra
Subtle - Exiting Arm
plus a handful of things I'm really looking forward to hearing...
Blink - Blink
Leila - Blood, Looms and Blooms (have been waiting for this one for a while)
James Blackshaw - Litany of Echoes
Finn Peters - Butterflies
Max Richter - 24 Postcards in Full Colour
Outhouse - Outhouse
Ellen Allien - SOOL
Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes
Coldplay - Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends
Matana Roberts - The Chicago Project
Flying Lotus - Los Angeles
Benga - Diary of an Afro Warrior
Atlas Sound - Let The Blind Lead Those Who Can See But Cannot Feel
Erykah Badu - New Amerykah Part 1: 4th World War
Boris - Smile
Fieldwork - Door (Steve Lehman continues to astound)
Joan as Policewoman - To Survive
Lykke Li - Youth Novels
Matmos - Supreme Balloon
M83 - Saturdays=Youth
Marilyn Mazur and Jan Garbarek - Elixir (I really like this...)
Neon - From Here To There
No Age - Nouns
Steve Reich - Daniel Variations
Beatundercontrol - Cosmic Repackage
Misha Alperin - Her First Dance
Nik Bartsch's Ronin - Holon
Bill Dixon with Exploding Star Orchestra
Subtle - Exiting Arm
plus a handful of things I'm really looking forward to hearing...
Blink - Blink
Leila - Blood, Looms and Blooms (have been waiting for this one for a while)
James Blackshaw - Litany of Echoes
Finn Peters - Butterflies
Max Richter - 24 Postcards in Full Colour
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
The Complete Picture
Emmylou Harris - All I Intended To Be (Nonesuch, 2008)
When musicians reach a certain age it becomes tempting to speculate on what might be their creative last will and testament. Much speculation is made that the newest works by Bob Dylan or Bruce Springsteen might possibly be their last, in spite of the fact that such artists are still in relative youth when compared with the likes of BB King or Pops Staples, who continued to make music right up to their deaths. That this new album from Emmylou Harris seems to bring her remarkable artistry full circle might generate similar conjectures.
‘All I Intended To Be’ demonstrates that Harris has, in her maturity, finally achieved her goals. She is, in her own words ‘a singer of songs, a writer of songs, a strummer of a few chords, as Harlan Howard once said, in search of the truth’. Whereas Harris’ previous two albums masterfully refocused attention on her writing talents, this one presents her as something of an all-rounded. It’s a timely reminder of her abilities as an interpreter, but also restates her continually developing talents as a writer.
Howard’s memorable description of country music as ‘three chords and the truth’ seemed to apply perfectly to Harris’ previous two albums, despite many critics remarking that the sound crafted by engineer Malcolm Burn and her band Spyboy sounded a far cry from traditional conceptions of the country idiom. That enchanting, mysterious sound has been abandoned for this project, which reunites Harris with her former husband Brian Ahern, producer of her first eight solo albums. This news initially pleased me as I’d felt that another album in the same atmospheric style might seem like overkill, but there’s no doubt that the percussive, multi-faceted sound of her work between ‘Wrecking Ball’ and ‘Stumble Into Grace’ is missed here.
This certainly doesn’t mean that ‘All That I Intended To Be’ is a bad album – it’s just that it can occasionally sound conventional and straightforward when compared with its immediate predecessors. It even occasionally sounds clunky – that nasty thudding 80s drum sound and Knopfler-esque guitar frills on the opening ‘Shores of White Sound’ initially suggest the new arrangement might have been a mis-step, but luckily greater subtlety abounds elsewhere. Delicately picked acoustic guitar, slide guitar and brushed drums – those dusty old conventions of Nashville – are given greater prominence here.
This is also largely an understated and sombre collection. Indeed, the muted tone has directed some writers to criticise the album for its preoccupation with loss and mortality. This seems unreasonable to me – are these not suitable subjects for a female writer, in her 60s and burdened by the weight of experience, to address? Is it simply that they are subjects that most younger writers would prefer not to hear about? Given Harris’ insight, clarity and eloquence, she seems ideally placed to transform her own life experience into something universal.
Perhaps a more valid criticism is that her writing is starting to become a little repetitive. ‘How She Could Sing The Wildwood Flower’, a collaboration with Kate and Anna McGarrigle, is another song for June Carter Cash, although a little more traditional than the haunting ‘Strong Hand’ that appeared on ‘Stumble Into Grace’. It’s tempting to view the achingly sad ‘Not Enough’, which confronts lost unrequited love, as another song about her relationship with Gram Parsons, but it has broader appeal than this of course. She’s certainly inviting yet more intrusive interview questions on the subject though.
More adventurous writing comes with ‘Broken Man’s Lament’, in which Harris sings comfortably from a male perspective. This was of course once commonplace in the folk tradition but among contemporary writers, only the largely unheralded Sylvie Lewis is making it a major feature of her artistic character. ‘Sailing Around The Room’, a second collaboration with the McGarrigles, is elegant in the carefully delineated shape of its melody and ‘Take That Ride’ touching in its resignation to fate.
Most of the cover songs are shrewdly selected. The unique timbre of Harris’ voice makes it a perfect vehicle for Merle Haggard’s ‘Kern River’ and her rendition proves that she continues to improve as a singer, her voice acquiring fresh nuances with every release. ‘Moon Song’ is certainly one of Patty Griffin’s better efforts and gives weight to Harris’ persistent respect for her work. Harris brings quiet reflection and fresh poignancy to Tracy Chapman’s ‘All That You Have Is Your Soul’.
In her sleeve notes, Harris thanks Ahern for providing her with the ‘comfort zone’ in which to work. I wonder whether that comment might be unwittingly insightful. Most of the musicianship and production on ‘All I Intended to Be’ is more than competent, but it’s hardly imaginative or bold. The arrangements work best when additional instrumentation is introduced – the spectral accordion on ‘Moon Song’ for example, or the steel guitar on ‘Beyond The Great Divide’. Yet none of these contexts really push Harris into any new adventures, as the concoctions of Lanois, Burn and Spyboy certainly succeeded in doing. Some of the supporting players, Dolly Parton, The McGarrigles and Buddy Miller aside, are inadequate foils for Harris’ emotional clarity. John Starling’s duet vocal on ‘Old Five and Dimers Like Me’ is somewhat nondescript and unchallenging.
There’s a great deal to admire here – and Harris’ poignant reflection is once again enchanting - but it doesn’t quite feel like a towering highlight of her catalogue. As its title suggests, it’s a remarkably neat summation of all of her talents (and it’s also a very pleasant listen), but I suspect I’ll find myself returning to ‘Wrecking Ball’, ‘Red Dirt Girl’ and ‘Stumble Into Grace’ more frequently.
When musicians reach a certain age it becomes tempting to speculate on what might be their creative last will and testament. Much speculation is made that the newest works by Bob Dylan or Bruce Springsteen might possibly be their last, in spite of the fact that such artists are still in relative youth when compared with the likes of BB King or Pops Staples, who continued to make music right up to their deaths. That this new album from Emmylou Harris seems to bring her remarkable artistry full circle might generate similar conjectures.
‘All I Intended To Be’ demonstrates that Harris has, in her maturity, finally achieved her goals. She is, in her own words ‘a singer of songs, a writer of songs, a strummer of a few chords, as Harlan Howard once said, in search of the truth’. Whereas Harris’ previous two albums masterfully refocused attention on her writing talents, this one presents her as something of an all-rounded. It’s a timely reminder of her abilities as an interpreter, but also restates her continually developing talents as a writer.
Howard’s memorable description of country music as ‘three chords and the truth’ seemed to apply perfectly to Harris’ previous two albums, despite many critics remarking that the sound crafted by engineer Malcolm Burn and her band Spyboy sounded a far cry from traditional conceptions of the country idiom. That enchanting, mysterious sound has been abandoned for this project, which reunites Harris with her former husband Brian Ahern, producer of her first eight solo albums. This news initially pleased me as I’d felt that another album in the same atmospheric style might seem like overkill, but there’s no doubt that the percussive, multi-faceted sound of her work between ‘Wrecking Ball’ and ‘Stumble Into Grace’ is missed here.
This certainly doesn’t mean that ‘All That I Intended To Be’ is a bad album – it’s just that it can occasionally sound conventional and straightforward when compared with its immediate predecessors. It even occasionally sounds clunky – that nasty thudding 80s drum sound and Knopfler-esque guitar frills on the opening ‘Shores of White Sound’ initially suggest the new arrangement might have been a mis-step, but luckily greater subtlety abounds elsewhere. Delicately picked acoustic guitar, slide guitar and brushed drums – those dusty old conventions of Nashville – are given greater prominence here.
This is also largely an understated and sombre collection. Indeed, the muted tone has directed some writers to criticise the album for its preoccupation with loss and mortality. This seems unreasonable to me – are these not suitable subjects for a female writer, in her 60s and burdened by the weight of experience, to address? Is it simply that they are subjects that most younger writers would prefer not to hear about? Given Harris’ insight, clarity and eloquence, she seems ideally placed to transform her own life experience into something universal.
Perhaps a more valid criticism is that her writing is starting to become a little repetitive. ‘How She Could Sing The Wildwood Flower’, a collaboration with Kate and Anna McGarrigle, is another song for June Carter Cash, although a little more traditional than the haunting ‘Strong Hand’ that appeared on ‘Stumble Into Grace’. It’s tempting to view the achingly sad ‘Not Enough’, which confronts lost unrequited love, as another song about her relationship with Gram Parsons, but it has broader appeal than this of course. She’s certainly inviting yet more intrusive interview questions on the subject though.
More adventurous writing comes with ‘Broken Man’s Lament’, in which Harris sings comfortably from a male perspective. This was of course once commonplace in the folk tradition but among contemporary writers, only the largely unheralded Sylvie Lewis is making it a major feature of her artistic character. ‘Sailing Around The Room’, a second collaboration with the McGarrigles, is elegant in the carefully delineated shape of its melody and ‘Take That Ride’ touching in its resignation to fate.
Most of the cover songs are shrewdly selected. The unique timbre of Harris’ voice makes it a perfect vehicle for Merle Haggard’s ‘Kern River’ and her rendition proves that she continues to improve as a singer, her voice acquiring fresh nuances with every release. ‘Moon Song’ is certainly one of Patty Griffin’s better efforts and gives weight to Harris’ persistent respect for her work. Harris brings quiet reflection and fresh poignancy to Tracy Chapman’s ‘All That You Have Is Your Soul’.
In her sleeve notes, Harris thanks Ahern for providing her with the ‘comfort zone’ in which to work. I wonder whether that comment might be unwittingly insightful. Most of the musicianship and production on ‘All I Intended to Be’ is more than competent, but it’s hardly imaginative or bold. The arrangements work best when additional instrumentation is introduced – the spectral accordion on ‘Moon Song’ for example, or the steel guitar on ‘Beyond The Great Divide’. Yet none of these contexts really push Harris into any new adventures, as the concoctions of Lanois, Burn and Spyboy certainly succeeded in doing. Some of the supporting players, Dolly Parton, The McGarrigles and Buddy Miller aside, are inadequate foils for Harris’ emotional clarity. John Starling’s duet vocal on ‘Old Five and Dimers Like Me’ is somewhat nondescript and unchallenging.
There’s a great deal to admire here – and Harris’ poignant reflection is once again enchanting - but it doesn’t quite feel like a towering highlight of her catalogue. As its title suggests, it’s a remarkably neat summation of all of her talents (and it’s also a very pleasant listen), but I suspect I’ll find myself returning to ‘Wrecking Ball’, ‘Red Dirt Girl’ and ‘Stumble Into Grace’ more frequently.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Split Personality
My Morning Jacket - Evil Urges (Atco/Rough Trade, 2008)
The last we heard from My Morning Jacket’s Jim James came in the form of a cameo appearance in Todd Haynes’ idiosyncratic Bob Dylan biopic ‘I’m Not There’. His beautiful rendition of ‘Goin’ To Acapalco’, full of aching and longing, hardly prepares us for this, the next instalment in his band’s increasingly unpredictable journey.
‘Evil Urges’ has divided opinion on a band where a strong consensus used to prevail. It is a much cleaner sounding record – much of the dirtiness of their southern rock template has been abandoned in favour of something raunchier and, well, funkier. The main concern here seems to be the pleasures of the flesh (elucidated quite brilliantly by the title track), and the album reminds me of Beck’s Prince-inspired escapades on ‘Midnight Vultures’.
Whilst Beck’s album was irreverent and full of pastiche, there’s a much greater sense that James wants this My Morning Jacket album to be taken as a serious artistic statement (albeit one with a real sense of humour). Their last album ‘Z’ leaned heavier on keyboards and grooves, but a good portion of ‘Evil Urges’ sounds even further removed from their patented sound.
Whilst the band has never been without a sensitive side, there has usually been a dominant tendency to crank up the volume and exhibit an abiding faith in the power of rock. What is most striking about ‘Evil Urges’ is its relative calm, even in its lurches into funk. Perhaps the best example of this is ‘Thank You Too!’, a honey-drenched golden pop moment, but the change is also stark on ‘Sec Walkin’, a song which could easily have appeared on ‘At Dawn’ were it not for the radically altered production values. The synth pads, although kept in the background, completely change the texture of the group’s sound, and the muffled drum sound is some distance from the powerhouse performances to which we’ve become accustomed.
Fans hankering after that gloriously excessive reverb-drenched vocal will be particularly disappointed. James seems to have tried very self-consciously to disguise his voice throughout much of ‘Evil Urges’, frequently adopting a strained falsetto or deliberately controlling his more emotive tendencies. It’s easy to see why he has chosen this tactic given the success of his legion of imitators. With the likes of Band of Horses and Fleet Foxes muscling in on the My Morning Jacket sound, it was probably time to try something new, or at least to try and prove MMJ to be more versatile than their followers.
Sometimes it works brilliantly. The title track is slinky and seductive, whilst retaining some of the more muscular flourishes that characterised earlier albums. ‘Touch Me I’m Going To Scream Part 1’ is more slippery – almost whispery or tentative in its restraint. It’s resolutely not what people will expect from this band but it works in its own peculiar and surprising way.
Elsewhere, there are some embarrassing errors. The lumbering, harmonically limited funk of ‘Highly Suspicious’ is risible. Some pretty clumsy lyrics help make ‘I’m Amazed’ a somewhat average halfway house between the band as they sound now and as they sounded circa ‘It Still Moves’.
Sometimes James’ attempts to inject some soul or pop shimmer into these songs results in some spectacularly cheesy melodies. I can’t quite resist the hints at 60s pop that creep into ‘Two Halves’, but others will probably find it clichéd and insincere. A few more tracks with the subtlety and control of ‘Touch Me…’ would have been greatly appreciated.
I also have the sense that the lyrics often don’t help matters much here. On ‘Librarian’, James finds attraction in that most curiously sexless of stereotypes but even a cursory look at Cascada’s ghastly videos will suggest that the notion that libraries might be hotbeds of sexual adventure is hardly a new idea. His tentative steps into spiritual and political concerns on ‘Remnants’ also seem a little clumsy.
It’s strange that My Morning Jacket sound more like a band in transition here than they did on ‘Z’. That record was far more successful (and more concise) in integrating unexpected influences (soul, funk, ska) into their trademark sound. Here they sound halfway between a mainstream refinement of their template and a complete repudiation of it.
The last we heard from My Morning Jacket’s Jim James came in the form of a cameo appearance in Todd Haynes’ idiosyncratic Bob Dylan biopic ‘I’m Not There’. His beautiful rendition of ‘Goin’ To Acapalco’, full of aching and longing, hardly prepares us for this, the next instalment in his band’s increasingly unpredictable journey.
‘Evil Urges’ has divided opinion on a band where a strong consensus used to prevail. It is a much cleaner sounding record – much of the dirtiness of their southern rock template has been abandoned in favour of something raunchier and, well, funkier. The main concern here seems to be the pleasures of the flesh (elucidated quite brilliantly by the title track), and the album reminds me of Beck’s Prince-inspired escapades on ‘Midnight Vultures’.
Whilst Beck’s album was irreverent and full of pastiche, there’s a much greater sense that James wants this My Morning Jacket album to be taken as a serious artistic statement (albeit one with a real sense of humour). Their last album ‘Z’ leaned heavier on keyboards and grooves, but a good portion of ‘Evil Urges’ sounds even further removed from their patented sound.
Whilst the band has never been without a sensitive side, there has usually been a dominant tendency to crank up the volume and exhibit an abiding faith in the power of rock. What is most striking about ‘Evil Urges’ is its relative calm, even in its lurches into funk. Perhaps the best example of this is ‘Thank You Too!’, a honey-drenched golden pop moment, but the change is also stark on ‘Sec Walkin’, a song which could easily have appeared on ‘At Dawn’ were it not for the radically altered production values. The synth pads, although kept in the background, completely change the texture of the group’s sound, and the muffled drum sound is some distance from the powerhouse performances to which we’ve become accustomed.
Fans hankering after that gloriously excessive reverb-drenched vocal will be particularly disappointed. James seems to have tried very self-consciously to disguise his voice throughout much of ‘Evil Urges’, frequently adopting a strained falsetto or deliberately controlling his more emotive tendencies. It’s easy to see why he has chosen this tactic given the success of his legion of imitators. With the likes of Band of Horses and Fleet Foxes muscling in on the My Morning Jacket sound, it was probably time to try something new, or at least to try and prove MMJ to be more versatile than their followers.
Sometimes it works brilliantly. The title track is slinky and seductive, whilst retaining some of the more muscular flourishes that characterised earlier albums. ‘Touch Me I’m Going To Scream Part 1’ is more slippery – almost whispery or tentative in its restraint. It’s resolutely not what people will expect from this band but it works in its own peculiar and surprising way.
Elsewhere, there are some embarrassing errors. The lumbering, harmonically limited funk of ‘Highly Suspicious’ is risible. Some pretty clumsy lyrics help make ‘I’m Amazed’ a somewhat average halfway house between the band as they sound now and as they sounded circa ‘It Still Moves’.
Sometimes James’ attempts to inject some soul or pop shimmer into these songs results in some spectacularly cheesy melodies. I can’t quite resist the hints at 60s pop that creep into ‘Two Halves’, but others will probably find it clichéd and insincere. A few more tracks with the subtlety and control of ‘Touch Me…’ would have been greatly appreciated.
I also have the sense that the lyrics often don’t help matters much here. On ‘Librarian’, James finds attraction in that most curiously sexless of stereotypes but even a cursory look at Cascada’s ghastly videos will suggest that the notion that libraries might be hotbeds of sexual adventure is hardly a new idea. His tentative steps into spiritual and political concerns on ‘Remnants’ also seem a little clumsy.
It’s strange that My Morning Jacket sound more like a band in transition here than they did on ‘Z’. That record was far more successful (and more concise) in integrating unexpected influences (soul, funk, ska) into their trademark sound. Here they sound halfway between a mainstream refinement of their template and a complete repudiation of it.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Here Come The Drums, Here Come The Drums!
Two exciting gigs this week have been very much focused on the musical possibilities of drums and percussion. First up, The Dodos had little trouble in charming the uber-trendy Hoxton Bar and Kitchen with their endearingly childlike rhythmic pop. It’s a shame that Sound Engineers these days only have the ability to turn things up – rectifying the constantly inaudible vocals would have been best achieved by turning everything else *down*. Turning the vocals up merely resulted in unpleasant feedback. It would be unfair to argue that this had too great an impact on the quality of the gig though – particularly given the group’s energised and intense performance.
Listening to their latest album ‘Visiter’ (sic) had already given me a good sense of the group’s melodic prowess and sense of fun, but I had not quite expected them to be quite this versatile and technically adept. The percussion is arranged superbly – with ramshackle rattles on the rims of the drums, unpredictable and syncopated rhythms, and a very noisy giant metal dustbin positioned at the back of the stage.
There’s also a surprising amount of guttural blues in this music. This plus the minimal set-up suggests what The White Stripes might achieve should they ever opt to employ a really good drummer. Occasionally it sounds like they are trying to bludgeon us with a relentless energy, but then they veer off into a piece of saccharine bubblegum pop that reminds us that they can also be straightforwardly enjoyable. The crowd seem to love every minute of it – and prove more than happy to indulge the group’s substantial encore. This group are one of the discoveries of the year.
Over at the Luminaire last night, Joe Gideon and The Shark and the outstanding Wildbirds and Peacedrums proved a delightfully complementary double act. Joe Gideon and The Shark are a brother/sister guitar/drums duo formed from the ashes of Bikini Atoll. They are playful and theatrical in their onstage demeanour but unrepentantly intense and blackly comic in their accompanying poetry. It’s an occasionally difficult listen – especially the opening and closing tracks which are grounded too firmly by repetitive basic keyboard loops. The rest of the set is engaging and enjoyable though, with a mordant lyrical bent that proves inventive and stimulating. There’s more than a hint of Nick Cave both in the aggressive, noisy nature of the music and in the humour that dominates the words.
If Joe Gideon and The Shark are primal and brash, Wildbirds and Peacedrums are something else entirely. This is seriously exciting and original music. Mariam Wallentin’s vocals are even more expressive and versatile in live performance than they are on their impressive debut album ‘Heartcore’. Both in style and execution, she very much reminds me of Leslie Feist, but without the one eye on commercial concerns. Wallentin is far less refined and restrained, instead extemporising freely and passionately throughout the set.
Perhaps even more impressive is drummer Andreas Werliin, who single-handedly proves that the drum kit can be an expressive and emotive instrument. The range of sounds he can draw from a small kit is frankly breathtaking. At the risk of sounding clichéd, something this band certainly are not, he is playing music and not just drums. The technique borders on virtuosic, and the duo slip between passages of abstraction and fearlessly driving rhythm with consummate ease. I begin to see far closer connections with improvisation and jazz in their live set than is recognisable from their album – their victory in a recent Swedish Jazz Prize now makes a lot more sense.
Most of the time there is nothing else going on save for the drums and the vocals. The intelligence of this unsparing economy lies in the fact that the songs require nothing else. Wallentin’s voice has so much dexterity and soul that there is scant need for conventional harmony – and the songs have are living and breathing artefacts, demonstrating the duo’s incredible intuition and musical sensitivity. When Wallentin does deploy some of her acoustic string instruments, they are always made to merge silkily with Werliin's percussive gestures.
I keep coming back to ‘Heartcore’ – it’s an outstanding and original record, but it’s clear that it can’t compensate for seeing the band live. It’s rare to hear such skeletal music being delivered so powerfully and fearlessly. Even within its obvious self-imposed limitations, it is audacious, unpredictable, fiery and frequently moving music. There is real freedom here.
Listening to their latest album ‘Visiter’ (sic) had already given me a good sense of the group’s melodic prowess and sense of fun, but I had not quite expected them to be quite this versatile and technically adept. The percussion is arranged superbly – with ramshackle rattles on the rims of the drums, unpredictable and syncopated rhythms, and a very noisy giant metal dustbin positioned at the back of the stage.
There’s also a surprising amount of guttural blues in this music. This plus the minimal set-up suggests what The White Stripes might achieve should they ever opt to employ a really good drummer. Occasionally it sounds like they are trying to bludgeon us with a relentless energy, but then they veer off into a piece of saccharine bubblegum pop that reminds us that they can also be straightforwardly enjoyable. The crowd seem to love every minute of it – and prove more than happy to indulge the group’s substantial encore. This group are one of the discoveries of the year.
Over at the Luminaire last night, Joe Gideon and The Shark and the outstanding Wildbirds and Peacedrums proved a delightfully complementary double act. Joe Gideon and The Shark are a brother/sister guitar/drums duo formed from the ashes of Bikini Atoll. They are playful and theatrical in their onstage demeanour but unrepentantly intense and blackly comic in their accompanying poetry. It’s an occasionally difficult listen – especially the opening and closing tracks which are grounded too firmly by repetitive basic keyboard loops. The rest of the set is engaging and enjoyable though, with a mordant lyrical bent that proves inventive and stimulating. There’s more than a hint of Nick Cave both in the aggressive, noisy nature of the music and in the humour that dominates the words.
If Joe Gideon and The Shark are primal and brash, Wildbirds and Peacedrums are something else entirely. This is seriously exciting and original music. Mariam Wallentin’s vocals are even more expressive and versatile in live performance than they are on their impressive debut album ‘Heartcore’. Both in style and execution, she very much reminds me of Leslie Feist, but without the one eye on commercial concerns. Wallentin is far less refined and restrained, instead extemporising freely and passionately throughout the set.
Perhaps even more impressive is drummer Andreas Werliin, who single-handedly proves that the drum kit can be an expressive and emotive instrument. The range of sounds he can draw from a small kit is frankly breathtaking. At the risk of sounding clichéd, something this band certainly are not, he is playing music and not just drums. The technique borders on virtuosic, and the duo slip between passages of abstraction and fearlessly driving rhythm with consummate ease. I begin to see far closer connections with improvisation and jazz in their live set than is recognisable from their album – their victory in a recent Swedish Jazz Prize now makes a lot more sense.
Most of the time there is nothing else going on save for the drums and the vocals. The intelligence of this unsparing economy lies in the fact that the songs require nothing else. Wallentin’s voice has so much dexterity and soul that there is scant need for conventional harmony – and the songs have are living and breathing artefacts, demonstrating the duo’s incredible intuition and musical sensitivity. When Wallentin does deploy some of her acoustic string instruments, they are always made to merge silkily with Werliin's percussive gestures.
I keep coming back to ‘Heartcore’ – it’s an outstanding and original record, but it’s clear that it can’t compensate for seeing the band live. It’s rare to hear such skeletal music being delivered so powerfully and fearlessly. Even within its obvious self-imposed limitations, it is audacious, unpredictable, fiery and frequently moving music. There is real freedom here.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Coming of Age
Mystery Jets - Twentyone (679, 2008)
I can’t exactly claim to be ahead of the game here and I’m not really sure why it’s taken me a full three months to notice that the Mystery Jets have a new album out. Of all the eagerly hyped British indie bands of recent years, Mystery Jets have struck me as one of the more credible and genuinely exciting. It was something of a shame that by the time their debut album ‘Making Dens’ finally emerged, most people seemed to have forgotten about them, and they ended up somewhat underrated. The riotous drum and chant riot of ‘Zoo Time’ seemed like a somewhat distant memory.
That album’s stylistic diversity, particularly its tendency towards meandering psychedelic folk has been shrewdly abandoned here in favour of a set of crisp, articulate pop songs set in the full flourish of youth. That title is no cheap joke – these are the songs of more successful youthful exploration and abandon – the kind that comes with the benefit of added experience and confidence. There’s even a hint of cynicism on the biting ‘Half in Love with Elisabeth’. It’s all a little bit whimsical, but also touching and endearing.
This album is helmed by hipster Trash DJ and remixer-du-jour Erol Elkan, but his presence is felt much more strongly here than on the new Long Blondes album. What sets the Mystery Jets apart from many of their less ambitious contemporaries is that their conventional instruments are always being used in engaging ways. The guitar lines are spiky and sprightly, the basslines provide counterpoint as well as foundation, the drums are taut and driving and the occasional interjection of synths adds both colour and warmth.
There’s a notable influence of 80s alternative pop here – felt much more keenly than on their debut. I actually attempt to use the word ‘alternative’ advisedly here, as other reviews have unfairly accused the band of declaring a love for Wet, Wet, Wet and Roxette. I don’t quite here that. It’s always a little bit reductive to search for reference points, but the way in which the vocals manage to both yelp and carry idiosyncratic melodies reminds me greatly of Andy Partridge’s songs for XTC. The rhythmic invention of the guitar lines reminds me of Orange Juice circa ‘Rip it Up’.The Police also seem to have been mentioned a lot in reviews of this record, and their influence is audible not just in Blaine’s vocals, but also in the frequent use of muted guitar strings. Perhaps unsurprisingly, then, the contemporary group I’m most reminded of when listening to ‘Twentyone’ is the similarly underrated Hot Hot Heat. There’s a straightforward immediacy and exuberance in most of these songs.
Much of the appeal of ‘Twentyone’ lies in its ability to take individual experiences and render them universal and believable. There are songs about one night stands, secret girlfriends (the ambiguous ‘MJ’, with its plea to ‘don’t tell anyone what we’ve got going on’), relationships heading nowhere fast, emotional confusion, lust and love. There are lyrics that capture relationship experience with pithy wisdom (‘I don’t want to be a ball and chain, it’s just that I’m afraid of change’, ‘he’s half in love with Elisabeth and half in love with you’, ‘the penny dropped even before I clocked just where your hands had been/It’s like you’d done your hair for somebody else, scared that you might have been seen’). All are delivered in a matter-of-fact, pleasingly non-judgmental way. For those of us on the wrong side of 25, it’s a sweetly nostalgic experience – for the band’s peers, it will no doubt capture their lives as they are living them, with lucidity and compassion.
There’s no doubt that the album benefits from two absolutely knockout pop songs. First, there’s ‘Young Love’, detailing the desperate consequences of a one-night stand with insight, candour and affection. It’s every bit as infectious and irresistible as pop music should be. It also features a guest appearance from Laura Marling. As a singer-songwriter, I wonder whether Marling really has the longevity of the great writers with whom she is all too frequently compared, and I actually sympathise with her for the weight of all the pressure on her at such a young age. I fear she won’t be talked about so much five years from now – but it’s great to hear her in an entirely different context, her understated delivery sounding far more of a strength than a limitation here. Then there’s ‘Two Doors Down’, a love song that is admittedly somewhat twee, but also remarkably good natured and affectionate. It tells a story of falling in love with a neighbour – ‘I hear her playing the drums late at night/The neighbours complain but that’s the kinda girl I like’. Most of the band’s legion of enthuasists would probably relate to the attraction!
Luckily, they are not the only gems here and most of the record is anything but filler. There’s the rampant, searching opener ‘Hideaway’, where the role of Alkan is perhaps most clearly audible in its synth bass lines and manipulated drums. ‘MJ’ is terrific, although the repetition of the refrain ‘Don’t tell anyone’ can’t help but remind me of Queens of the Stone Age’s ‘Lost Art of Keeping a Secret’, even if the two songs are hardly that close musically. ‘Flakes’ is a swooning ballad touched with genuine drama. Only the grating carousel waltz of ‘Umbrellahand’ really jars – it’s an unsuccessful experiment and distraction from the main flavour of the album that would have been better left in the studio vaults.
‘Twentyone’ seems remarkably natural, assured, unpretentious and confident. It also has a real sense of fun and humour to match its smart, hipster production values. It should elevate them to a much bigger audience – much to its credit, it’s a Pop album with a Capital P.
I can’t exactly claim to be ahead of the game here and I’m not really sure why it’s taken me a full three months to notice that the Mystery Jets have a new album out. Of all the eagerly hyped British indie bands of recent years, Mystery Jets have struck me as one of the more credible and genuinely exciting. It was something of a shame that by the time their debut album ‘Making Dens’ finally emerged, most people seemed to have forgotten about them, and they ended up somewhat underrated. The riotous drum and chant riot of ‘Zoo Time’ seemed like a somewhat distant memory.
That album’s stylistic diversity, particularly its tendency towards meandering psychedelic folk has been shrewdly abandoned here in favour of a set of crisp, articulate pop songs set in the full flourish of youth. That title is no cheap joke – these are the songs of more successful youthful exploration and abandon – the kind that comes with the benefit of added experience and confidence. There’s even a hint of cynicism on the biting ‘Half in Love with Elisabeth’. It’s all a little bit whimsical, but also touching and endearing.
This album is helmed by hipster Trash DJ and remixer-du-jour Erol Elkan, but his presence is felt much more strongly here than on the new Long Blondes album. What sets the Mystery Jets apart from many of their less ambitious contemporaries is that their conventional instruments are always being used in engaging ways. The guitar lines are spiky and sprightly, the basslines provide counterpoint as well as foundation, the drums are taut and driving and the occasional interjection of synths adds both colour and warmth.
There’s a notable influence of 80s alternative pop here – felt much more keenly than on their debut. I actually attempt to use the word ‘alternative’ advisedly here, as other reviews have unfairly accused the band of declaring a love for Wet, Wet, Wet and Roxette. I don’t quite here that. It’s always a little bit reductive to search for reference points, but the way in which the vocals manage to both yelp and carry idiosyncratic melodies reminds me greatly of Andy Partridge’s songs for XTC. The rhythmic invention of the guitar lines reminds me of Orange Juice circa ‘Rip it Up’.The Police also seem to have been mentioned a lot in reviews of this record, and their influence is audible not just in Blaine’s vocals, but also in the frequent use of muted guitar strings. Perhaps unsurprisingly, then, the contemporary group I’m most reminded of when listening to ‘Twentyone’ is the similarly underrated Hot Hot Heat. There’s a straightforward immediacy and exuberance in most of these songs.
Much of the appeal of ‘Twentyone’ lies in its ability to take individual experiences and render them universal and believable. There are songs about one night stands, secret girlfriends (the ambiguous ‘MJ’, with its plea to ‘don’t tell anyone what we’ve got going on’), relationships heading nowhere fast, emotional confusion, lust and love. There are lyrics that capture relationship experience with pithy wisdom (‘I don’t want to be a ball and chain, it’s just that I’m afraid of change’, ‘he’s half in love with Elisabeth and half in love with you’, ‘the penny dropped even before I clocked just where your hands had been/It’s like you’d done your hair for somebody else, scared that you might have been seen’). All are delivered in a matter-of-fact, pleasingly non-judgmental way. For those of us on the wrong side of 25, it’s a sweetly nostalgic experience – for the band’s peers, it will no doubt capture their lives as they are living them, with lucidity and compassion.
There’s no doubt that the album benefits from two absolutely knockout pop songs. First, there’s ‘Young Love’, detailing the desperate consequences of a one-night stand with insight, candour and affection. It’s every bit as infectious and irresistible as pop music should be. It also features a guest appearance from Laura Marling. As a singer-songwriter, I wonder whether Marling really has the longevity of the great writers with whom she is all too frequently compared, and I actually sympathise with her for the weight of all the pressure on her at such a young age. I fear she won’t be talked about so much five years from now – but it’s great to hear her in an entirely different context, her understated delivery sounding far more of a strength than a limitation here. Then there’s ‘Two Doors Down’, a love song that is admittedly somewhat twee, but also remarkably good natured and affectionate. It tells a story of falling in love with a neighbour – ‘I hear her playing the drums late at night/The neighbours complain but that’s the kinda girl I like’. Most of the band’s legion of enthuasists would probably relate to the attraction!
Luckily, they are not the only gems here and most of the record is anything but filler. There’s the rampant, searching opener ‘Hideaway’, where the role of Alkan is perhaps most clearly audible in its synth bass lines and manipulated drums. ‘MJ’ is terrific, although the repetition of the refrain ‘Don’t tell anyone’ can’t help but remind me of Queens of the Stone Age’s ‘Lost Art of Keeping a Secret’, even if the two songs are hardly that close musically. ‘Flakes’ is a swooning ballad touched with genuine drama. Only the grating carousel waltz of ‘Umbrellahand’ really jars – it’s an unsuccessful experiment and distraction from the main flavour of the album that would have been better left in the studio vaults.
‘Twentyone’ seems remarkably natural, assured, unpretentious and confident. It also has a real sense of fun and humour to match its smart, hipster production values. It should elevate them to a much bigger audience – much to its credit, it’s a Pop album with a Capital P.
Monday, June 02, 2008
New Harmony
Bonnie 'Prince' Billy - Lie Down In The Light (Domino, 2008)
There’s a satisfying irony in the observation that Will Oldham is at once a great contrarian and also one of the most consistent and dependable songwriters currently at work. A lot of adjectives one might not usually associate with Oldham have been deployed in the service of ‘Lie Down In The Light’ – various reviewers have described it as enjoyable, delicate, delightful – even charming for heaven’s sake! If Oldham frequently seems keen on antagonising his admirers, what better way to do it than for the old misanthrope to turn on the charm!
There’s an element of truth in this, even if it only paints an incomplete picture. ‘Lie Down In The Light’ is a soft and ruminative record, perhaps appearing slight on first listen. It’s also Oldham’s most richly arranged record, and perhaps his most musically conventional, certainly closest in spirit to ‘Greatest Palace Music’, where he reworked some of the highlights of his back catalogue in deceptively jaunty styles.
‘Lie Down In The Light’ is also a good deal less ragged than anything else in the Oldham back catalogue. It is frequently very pretty, characterised by the keyboard textures of Lambchop’s Tony Crow, some subtly effective percussion, and the occasional but wonderfully unexpected flourishes of string and woodwind instruments. Dennis Solee’s Clarinet adds a wistful finish to the marvellous ‘For Every Field There’s A Mole’, and the opening ‘Easy Does It’ has an Appalachian lightness of touch aided by pedal steel and fiddle. Oldham’s voice is, for the most part, much smoother and less unhinged than it was on his earliest records.
Thematically, it might be possible to argue that ‘Lie Down In The Light’ is more compassionate, sensitive and humane than the stereotyped view of Oldham as a dark, possibly brutal wilderness poet. The lovely, engaging ‘Where Is The Puzzle’ seems like a straightforward love song, with Oldham claiming that ‘bliss comes with a conclusion’ and that ‘I want only to sing you’. His counselling to ‘keep your loved ones near’ also seems to suggest a kinder spirit at work. However, look beyond that line and, even in the same song (the sepia-tinted ‘Other’s Gain’ – is the apostrophe positioned on the wrong side of the s there?), there’s a more arcane and detached wisdom at play (‘if you want to keep ahead, keep eye on other’s gain’).
A big part in the process of the softening of Oldham’s rougher edges has been his recent tendency to employ female vocalists to provide some sort of harmonic and thematic counterpoint. This is particularly interesting given that his songs have traditionally been defiantly masculine in tone and approach. It’s almost as if he’s self-consciously heralding this approach when he confidently pronounces ‘New harmony on an awesome scale’ on ‘Missing One’. Ashley Webber, part of the extended family of musicians associated with Black Mountain, may be the most effective of these guest vocalists to date. Her voice is more versatile than that of Dawn McCarthy, Oldham’s foil on his previous full-length ‘The Letting Go’. ‘Lie Down In The Light’ is both more approachable and more multi-faceted than that album.
Webber’s vocal on ‘So Everyone’ helps elevate it into one of the best songs Oldham has penned since ‘I See A Darkness’. The song is characteristically mysterious, with a chorus that seems to call for a most explicit public declaration of love. Once again, it demonstrates Oldham’s capacity to make the unsubtle strikingly beautiful, rather than unthinkingly provocative.
If there is a unifying concept behind ‘Lie Down In The Light’, it seems that Oldham is probing at the psychology of physical intimacy, with a particular emphasis on dependency. The concluding ‘I’ll Be Glad’, with its gospel-tinged vocal chorus, is perhaps the most striking example of this, with Oldham pledging to follow wherever his lover leads him.
I’m not sure whether it’s apposite or misleading that ‘Lie Down In The Light’ is bookended by its two lightest, jauntiest tracks. Perhaps this conceals a greater level of mystery beneath the surface, or perhaps it rightly underlines the playfulness at the core of Oldham’s recent work. Either way, ‘Lie Down In The Light’ is a beautiful record that gradually unfolds with every listen, revealing further layers of intricacy and intrigue.
There’s a satisfying irony in the observation that Will Oldham is at once a great contrarian and also one of the most consistent and dependable songwriters currently at work. A lot of adjectives one might not usually associate with Oldham have been deployed in the service of ‘Lie Down In The Light’ – various reviewers have described it as enjoyable, delicate, delightful – even charming for heaven’s sake! If Oldham frequently seems keen on antagonising his admirers, what better way to do it than for the old misanthrope to turn on the charm!
There’s an element of truth in this, even if it only paints an incomplete picture. ‘Lie Down In The Light’ is a soft and ruminative record, perhaps appearing slight on first listen. It’s also Oldham’s most richly arranged record, and perhaps his most musically conventional, certainly closest in spirit to ‘Greatest Palace Music’, where he reworked some of the highlights of his back catalogue in deceptively jaunty styles.
‘Lie Down In The Light’ is also a good deal less ragged than anything else in the Oldham back catalogue. It is frequently very pretty, characterised by the keyboard textures of Lambchop’s Tony Crow, some subtly effective percussion, and the occasional but wonderfully unexpected flourishes of string and woodwind instruments. Dennis Solee’s Clarinet adds a wistful finish to the marvellous ‘For Every Field There’s A Mole’, and the opening ‘Easy Does It’ has an Appalachian lightness of touch aided by pedal steel and fiddle. Oldham’s voice is, for the most part, much smoother and less unhinged than it was on his earliest records.
Thematically, it might be possible to argue that ‘Lie Down In The Light’ is more compassionate, sensitive and humane than the stereotyped view of Oldham as a dark, possibly brutal wilderness poet. The lovely, engaging ‘Where Is The Puzzle’ seems like a straightforward love song, with Oldham claiming that ‘bliss comes with a conclusion’ and that ‘I want only to sing you’. His counselling to ‘keep your loved ones near’ also seems to suggest a kinder spirit at work. However, look beyond that line and, even in the same song (the sepia-tinted ‘Other’s Gain’ – is the apostrophe positioned on the wrong side of the s there?), there’s a more arcane and detached wisdom at play (‘if you want to keep ahead, keep eye on other’s gain’).
A big part in the process of the softening of Oldham’s rougher edges has been his recent tendency to employ female vocalists to provide some sort of harmonic and thematic counterpoint. This is particularly interesting given that his songs have traditionally been defiantly masculine in tone and approach. It’s almost as if he’s self-consciously heralding this approach when he confidently pronounces ‘New harmony on an awesome scale’ on ‘Missing One’. Ashley Webber, part of the extended family of musicians associated with Black Mountain, may be the most effective of these guest vocalists to date. Her voice is more versatile than that of Dawn McCarthy, Oldham’s foil on his previous full-length ‘The Letting Go’. ‘Lie Down In The Light’ is both more approachable and more multi-faceted than that album.
Webber’s vocal on ‘So Everyone’ helps elevate it into one of the best songs Oldham has penned since ‘I See A Darkness’. The song is characteristically mysterious, with a chorus that seems to call for a most explicit public declaration of love. Once again, it demonstrates Oldham’s capacity to make the unsubtle strikingly beautiful, rather than unthinkingly provocative.
If there is a unifying concept behind ‘Lie Down In The Light’, it seems that Oldham is probing at the psychology of physical intimacy, with a particular emphasis on dependency. The concluding ‘I’ll Be Glad’, with its gospel-tinged vocal chorus, is perhaps the most striking example of this, with Oldham pledging to follow wherever his lover leads him.
I’m not sure whether it’s apposite or misleading that ‘Lie Down In The Light’ is bookended by its two lightest, jauntiest tracks. Perhaps this conceals a greater level of mystery beneath the surface, or perhaps it rightly underlines the playfulness at the core of Oldham’s recent work. Either way, ‘Lie Down In The Light’ is a beautiful record that gradually unfolds with every listen, revealing further layers of intricacy and intrigue.
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