The Backlash Blues

James Blake - James Blake

In some quarters of the media, the blogosphere and on twitter, James Blake has become a victim of cynicism. It's all very tempting of course - and I've no doubt been guilty of it myself. Given some of the selections that have graced the annual BBC tastemaking polls, it would be easy to dismiss Blake as a novelty or a pastiche merchant. The Quietus have been tweeting seemingly dismissive jokes about his use of autotune, whilst others have candidly decided that this debut album is either dull or indulgent. I had my own suspicions on hearing Blake's cover of Feist's 'Limit To Your Love', but that turns out to be something of a red herring. It's fine enough, but easily the most conventional track here.

What Blake appears to be doing with the rest of the album is something a good deal more ambitious than the Feist cover's take on Massive Attack esque modern soul. There are hints at R&B throughout the rest of the album, but as Blake himself admits, he has also been strongly influenced by the likes of Bon Iver and Laura Marling. Much of this courageous and well defined debut seems to be an attempt to combine the emotional punch of modern folk songwriting with some of the stylistic traits and minimalism of electronic production. In doing this, Blake will wrongfoot some of the admirers of his early EPs which, perhaps misleadingly, had been assumed by many to fall under the dubstep or post-dubstep banner. It's perhaps worth noting at this point that the outstanding Klawierwerke already gave some hint of what was to come on this full length. 'James Blake' the album demonstrates that Blake still has much in common with producers such as Jamie xx or Mount Kimbie, but he is also acutely aware of the power of the human voice and the purity of a simple melody.

Two tracks, both operating largely on the power of repetition and manipulation of a simple phrase, neatly sum up Blake's approach. 'The Wilhelm Scream' is a miniature masterpiece of minimal arrangement - spacious but cumulatively intense. 'I Never Learnt To Share' is similarly electrifying. It's built almost entirely around what seems like a candid confession ('my brother and my sister don't speak to me...but I don't blame them') but which assumes a stranger sentiment in the knowledge that Blake is in fact an only child. Much like 'The Wilhelm Scream', the song has a sense of a gathering storm. Blake generally eschews conventional song structures - these are arranged pieces rather than sets of verses and choruses.

Blake has a strong sense of harmony and rhythm. The gospel and blues undertones to the tantilisingly brief 'Give Me My Month' or the beautiful closer 'Measurements' suggests he has absorbed a far wider range of music than many commetators have given him credit for. He also has a keen sense of sound and a hugely impressive attention to detail that make even his most subtle pieces (such as the two parts of 'Lindisfarne', where his voice is electronically altered) have a depth of feeling and a real strength in commmunication. Anyone who closes their minds and ears to this excellent debut is missing the work of a talented and adventurous musician - one that could have career longevity simply through an ability to move in completely unpredictable directions.

Caught In The Waves

Corinne Bailey Rae - The Sea

The fact that I'm sitting down to write a review of a Corinne Bailey Rae album comes as something of a surprise to me. I should state for the record that I don't have any particular axe to grind with Ms. Rae, it's simply that her debut was far too light and frothy a concoction to really have registered with me, although her Jools Holland performances certainly showed she had vocal talents. Her follow up album 'The Sea' is a totally different story.

It would be very tempting to write about the sad and untimely death of Bailey Rae's partner Jason Rae and how it has informed this album. Whilst it is a record touched by grief and loss, much of the writing had been done before the event, and certain songs have probably been made more poignant by the tragedy. There can be no doubt that this must have affected Bailey Rae tremendously - perhaps some of the pain was poured into completing this surprisingly powerful, dramatic and engaging album. But this is speculation - what seems more important from the context of Bailey Rae's developing career is that she seems to have been left free to make precisely the album she wanted to make. So many different styles inform this liberated, free flowing music. There are hints at Bailey Rae's love of jazz (particularly Billie Holliday records), but also material drawn from the folk world, and even from indie rock. The seductive opener 'Are You Here?' begins with an electric guitar riff that could have been drawn from a PJ Harvey record. Indeed, it comes as something of a surprise to hear Bailey Rae's soft, playful vocal delivery over it.

This sophisticated, superbly executed music is quite some way from the coffee table blandness with which Bailey Rae has been, perhaps unfairly, associated. It's a record that suggests that of all the recent heavily hyped, BBC sound-of-the-year approved female solo artists, Bailey Rae may well turn out to be the one with long term artistic potential. Artists that spring to mind when listening to 'The Sea' include Joni Mitchell, John Martyn and Terry Callier - the kind of solo artists that blurred genre boundaries with effortless, intoxicating ease.

Even the single 'I'd Do It All Again', itself a powerfully linear, deeply expressed and passionate song, gives little indication of the quality of the writing and the ensemble performances on 'The Sea'. The music is sensitively delivered and thoughtfully textured. A song like 'Feels Like The First Time', which initially threatens to be generic summery funk-lite unfolds to reveal a slightly exotic, menacing chorus with vaguely threatening string lines.

More surprising are the upbeat, sultry and insistent pieces such as 'The Blackest Lily'. With Hammond organ and spiky electric guitar, the song has a slightly retro vibe, but everything about the delivery is so righteous and confident that it ends up being thoroughly irresistible. Perhaps the breezy pop of 'Paris Nights/New York Mornings' is slightly out of place on an otherwise intense and rapturous set of songs, but the sheer panache of the band performances make it seem necessary.

Perhaps the album's greatest strengths lie in its lush, rhapsodic ballads, which are emotional without becoming histrionic. Bailey Rae has a control and delicacy that suggests turmoil in the most unforced and convincing of ways. 'I Would Like To Call It Beauty' is particularly beautiful - sensual and gentle but compelling from start to finish, whilst 'Love's On Its Way' gradually builds into something somehow both overwhelming and underplayed. The closing title track is aptly named - the sensation of listening to it is akin to being washed with waves of water. It feels like writing it may have been a cathartic, purgatorial experience.

There will always be some people for whom Bailey Rae is just not edgy enough a personality. Yet these people will miss out by unfairly ignoring this excellent album. Whilst her soft, sometimes childlike vocals could sit very comfortably in lightweight presentation, the contexts Bailey Rae has chosen here are a good deal more mature and adventurous. A great deal of attention has been paid to the detail of the arrangements and the sounds of particular instruments and to the overall mood. 'The Sea' is an elemental triumph.

Bruised but Unbeaten

Gil Scott Heron - I'm New Here (XL Recordings)

This intriguing comeback from Gil Scott Heron is actually an incredibly difficult album to review. Scott Heron has arguably never made a bad record – even his last release, 1994’s ‘Spirits’, had its moments. Whilst ‘I’m New Here’ belatedly continues the quality streak, it stands alone in Scott Heron’s catalogue in terms of its sound and instrumentation. Yet it’s faintly ludicrous to applaud it for ‘incorporating hip-hop’ when, along with the Last Poets, Scott Heron is one of the founding fathers of rap. XL boss Richard Russell’s production therefore represents a sensitive and logical modernisation, rather than a forced or unnecessary one.

The sonic environment Russell has crafted for Scott Heron may not actually be all that radical. His claustrophobic, sinister but minimalist combination of strings and beats could easily have come from a Massive Attack album. He at least seems to be a good deal more creative with such backing tracks than Massive Attack themselves are these days. His accompaniments take Scott Heron away from his natural comfort zone without making him sound distant or uncomfortable. There’s no Fender Rhodes piano or live percussion and no attempt to smooth over the rough, nervy reality of Scott Heron’s words. The jazz lineage (the world of ‘lady Day and John Coltrane’) may have been sacrificed – but the results are suitably dank and fearsome.

What is most interesting about this record though is Scott Heron’s voice, which now sounds deeper and more resonant, but somehow simultaneously more weathered and dry. He now sounds like a man who has been through a tough prison sentence and various drug rehabilitation programmes. In this sense, the musical backings work remarkably well, given that they are atmospheric but unobtrusive – allowing that peculiar but powerful voice space to communicate.

This set supremely reaffirms Scott Heron’s talents as a performance poet. It is full of interludes and brief skits which complement the flow of the overall album rather than interrupt it. It is bookended by two parts of an autobiographical tale entitled ‘On Coming From A Broken Home’ in which Scott Heron’s elaborate language is as rich and evocative as the sound of his voice. Even more intense is the stark, pounding ‘Running’, which seems confessional in light of Scott Heron’s recent life experience.

The album is rather dominated by the choice of covers, which leads to obvious comparisons with Rick Rubin’s rehabilitation of Johnny Cash’s career. Yet, to hear Johnny Cash singing with acoustic instrumentation was not surprising. To hear Scott Heron doing it on the surprisingly effective version of Smog’s ‘I’m New Here’ is rather radical and unexpected. The song’s combination of irony and honesty is the perfect vehicle for Scott Heron’s resurrection, with its brilliant chat up lines (‘I met a woman in a bar and told her I was hard to get to know, but damn near impossible to forget’) and self-reflection (‘I had an ego the size of Texas. I forget –does that mean big or small?’).

Perhaps less unexpected are versions of Robert Johnson’s ‘Me and The Devil’, relocated from the Mississippi Delta to a paranoid urban environment, and an ostensibly soft take on Bobby Bland’s ‘I’ll Take Care Of You’. Here, Scott Heron’s harsh voice suggests not compassion or commitment – but rather defiance and conviction.

The only original ‘song’ here – ‘New York Is Killing Me’ – is excellent, and suggests that there may be much more to come from this resurrected artist. Set to a handclap backing reminiscent of the Dixie Cups’ ‘Iko Iko’, the accompanying vocal is anything but lightweight, actually weighed down by its burdensome natural gravitas.

I’ve long had reservations with the image of Scott Heron as a prophet of equality and human rights, given his early song ‘The Subject Was Faggots’, a rather unpleasant piece of observational writing. Perhaps now that he has singlehandedly failed to take his own advice (having fallen victim to the very drink and drugs he warned so gravely about) we can now see him in a different, more nuanced light. On ‘I’m New Here’ he seems defiant, but also wiser and slightly vulnerable too. This is an unexpected, powerful return to the real world.

Soul Sides

Candi Staton - Who's Hurting Now? (Honest Jon's, 2009)
Raphael Saadiq - The Way I See It (RCA, 2008/Sony UK, 2009)

Here are two albums both indebted to the vibrant soul tradition, but with a very different approach to production and execution. The return of Candi Staton to the secular mainstream has been one of the major soul revival stories and it’s slightly disappointing that a quick Google search reveals very little internet writing on this new album. Longstanding legacy artists like Staton of course don’t need the short term buzz and hype that the web provides (the likes of Grizzly Bear and Animal Collective, however, positively thrive on it). Yet I often find it slightly irritating that bloggers so often opt to concentrate exclusively on the shock of the new. Unsurprisingly, then, Raphael Saadiq’s second solo album, also excellent, generates more results for its sleek modernisation of the classic Motown sound.

Staton, perhaps wisely, has opted to stay with the same team that helmed her outstanding ‘His Hands’ album from a couple of years ago. Former Lambchop member Mark Nevers stays in the producer’s chair and Will Oldham contributes another superb song (the title track from ‘His Hands’ is among the best things he’s written, but perhaps there’s too much love for Will here at the moment). The album has a relaxed feel, with plenty of reserved but gritty grooving. It sounds convincingly recorded live, with the sort of house band feel that characterised the best Memphis recordings from the Stax era. Whilst there are no explicitly religious songs here, there’s plenty of gospel fervour, and Staton’s gospel heritage adds real depth and conviction to her take on Mary Gauthier’s ‘Mercy Now’.

Although Staton apparently had her reservations with Will Oldham’s contribution here, the selection of this and the Mary Gauthier track neatly demonstrate the links between deep southern soul and country music. The album also opens superbly with a relatively recent Dan Penn composition, one of the slow-burning, gutsy tracks that best suit Staton’s wonderful voice. It’s about a slow seduction, with the woman initially reserved and resistant. Staton assumed it was a song about weakness, and initially didn’t want to sing it, but later re-interpreted it to be about overcoming doubt and fear in relationships.

As is so often the case, soul singers and their chosen songs offer huge insight into human emotions and relationships. Will Oldham’s ‘Get Your Hands Dirty’ continues his preoccupation with concepts of work that can also be heard on his own ‘Beware’ album. Again, Candi brings a rawness and emotional clarity to his work – Oldham would have rendered it more elusive and translucent. Just as I was bemoaning the lack of intelligent songs about remaining single, a flurry of them seem to be emerging. ‘Lonely Don’t’ is a song that imagines ‘Lonely’ as a partner that won’t mistreat and neglect you in the way that real life partners often do. It’s a powerful, thought-provoking sentiment. Even more daring is Staton’s sole original contribution to this set, ‘Dust On My Pillow’, another smouldering deep soul ballad, but a novel one which genuinely seems to be about Viagra. Staton is interested in its negative effects on long term marriages as newly restored men seek younger girls.

At its best, be it with dirty grooves like the title track or gritty ballads, ‘Who’s Hurting Now?’ plays to Staton’s considerable strengths as a communicator and vocalist. If there’s a limitation to this album, it’s in the occasional over-familiarity of the material, which occasionally risks veering into soul cliché. There’s a nagging sense that a couple of the tracks (‘The Light In Your Eyes’, ‘I Don’t Know’) are slightly icky. Still, it’s a small quibble with an otherwise appetising set that provides a powerful reminder of how timeless and durable deep soul music can be.

Raphael Saadiq is a high profile writer, singer and producer in the States but is only just receiving his dues here in the UK. He was a member of the underrated group Tony! Toni! Tone! (I willingly admit I’m relying on Wikipedia to get the various Tonies in what is hopefully the right sequence). He then went on to produce the femal R&B supergroup Lucy Pearl and work with D’Angelo and Joss Stone, who guests on a track here. His debut album ‘Instant Vintage’ earned five grammy nominations, but didn’t seem to kick up too much of a storm here. It’s taken a while for ‘The Way I See It’ to get a full UK release (it’s been available in the US since late last year) but it has now at last arrived.

Suddenly, everyone seems to have latched on to Saadiq’s almost slavishly faithful facsimile of Motown gold (particularly the Holland-Dozier-Holland sound) and I see no reason not to join the chorus of approval. Unlike the Candi Staton album though, this is definitely not a live-in-the-studio recording though. Saadiq is much more open to modern studio techniques. As such, ‘The Way I See It’ reproduces a classic template, but filters this through the influence of contemporary R&B and hip hop, mostly without diluting its effect. This is somewhere where guest artists Stevie Wonder, Joss Stone and Jay-Z can all feel at home (although Jay-Z admittedly murders the second version of ‘Oh Girl’ with his awful half-rapping, half-singing).

As a singer, Saadiq doesn’t quite have the force and range of the great Motown voices, although there is a real insistent quality to his delivery that is difficult to resist. His vocal phrasing is as crisp and driving as his precise rhythm tracks. As a producer, he understands the crucial role played by the bass and the rhythm guitar in the construction of those irresistible grooves. The playing on the opening double whammy of ‘Sure Hope You Mean It’ and ‘100 Yard Dash’ is impeccable.

Saadiq also has a knack for combining musical and sexual impulses. ‘Let’s Take A Walk’ is a good deal less innocent than its naïve title suggests. In fact, it’s about as unsubtle a seduction song as has ever been penned, set to a suitably filthy groove. In fact, many of these tracks seem to be primarily physical, with both ‘100 Yard Dash’ and ‘Keep Marchin’ emphasising movement. Perhaps the Motown track this most reminds me of is Edwin Starr’s imperious ’25 Miles’, one of my very favourites.

Then there’s the more complex trick of setting life’s more difficult lessons to remarkably breezy, upbeat accompaniment (‘Staying in Love’) – this was one of Motown’s greatest stylistic tricks and is a general hallmark of successful pop music. Saadiq also proves himself capable of a sensitive touch, with a handful of equally well crafted ballads. Mercifully, these aren’t the token slow warblers that so often hamper contemporary R&B albums, but essential constituents of a successful whole.

‘The Way I See It’ is a spirited and enjoyable album, steeped in history but with an effective contemporary sheen. Given the buzz surrounding it at the moment, it will surely raise Saadiq’s stature in the UK. Clearly this has been long overdue.

You Don't Miss Your Water Until Your Well Runs Dry

Bob Dylan – The Bootleg Series Vol 8: Tell Tale Signs (Columbia, 2008)
Various Artists – Take Me to the River: A Southern Soul Story (Kent, 2008)

For those of us who have been waiting patiently for The Bootleg Series to catch up with the contemporary Dylan, ‘Tell Tale Signs’ ought to be an essential purchase. Sadly, Columbia’s ludicrous multi-format strategy has perversely made it unaffordable – with an unnecessarily lavish 3CD set on sale for prices varying between £80 and £110. Not even the most obsessive of Dylan devotees would consider spending quite that much money on one product, especially when the box is so large that it won’t even fit on your average shelf. Thanks but no thanks Columbia.

The standard £15 2CD edition is, if we exercise critical acumen rather than slavish icon worship, a bit of a mixed bag. Its highlights are superb, and demonstrate that Dylan’s now ravaged voice has a caustic power all of its own, communicating wisdom and experience more than the defiant rage of the young Dylan. Perhaps the best example of this is the solo piano and vocal version of ‘Dignity’, one of those half-finished Dylan recordings that suggest he shouldn’t have bothered experimenting with more full blooded arrangements. His vocal is attacking and aggressive, but also full of compassion. The band version that eventually appeared on ‘Greatest Hits Vol. 3’ is nowhere near as assertive or compelling. The two additional versions of ‘Mississippi’ included here also give a clear impression of how Dylan never sees songs as malleable objects. The bare version which opens the first CD is remarkable – a lightly shuffled blues that seems more hopeful than resigned - much more striking than the slightly MOR plod of the ‘Love and Theft’ version.

There are, however, a number of superfluous alternate takes that were clearly consigned to the cutting room floor for good reason. There’s a radically different version of ‘Someday Baby’, a reverb-drenched U2-esque trudge that sounds like a totally different song from the slight but appealing barroom boogie of the ‘Modern Times’ version. Dylan sounds bored – and one can hardly blame him given the uninspired musical context. Only the delicate brush drums seem to complement the lyric. The punchier version of ‘Ain’t Talkin’ included here somehow sounds darker but less mysterious. The alternate versions of ‘Series of Dreams’ and ‘Everything is Broken’ are only superficially different from the previously released versions and don’t add quite so much to our understanding of Dylan’s songwriting process.

The collection continues to give credence to the argument that Dylan can frequently be a poor editor of his own work. There’s plenty of evidence here to suggest that both ‘Oh Mercy’ and ‘Time Out of Mind’ could have been even better albums. Not only this, but the versions of ‘God Knows’ and ‘Born In Time’ included here from the ‘Oh Mercy’ sessions are significantly superior to the less imaginative takes that eventually made it on to ‘Under The Red Sky’. Similarly, it’s hard to believe that the epic, rambling and haunting narrative of ‘Red River Shore’ was left off ‘Time Out of Mind’ in favour of some of the more lightweight blues numbers that peppered that album. Laced with accordion, the song is a meandering, languid delight.

There’s actually a relative paucity of completely unheard material here, although the small number of selections are certainly intriguing. ‘Can’t Escape From You’ seems inspired by vocal group music – perhaps The Platters or the early Drifters material. It sounds, pleasingly, like it could easily feature on one of Dylan’s Theme Time Radio Hour programmes. ‘Dreamin’ Of You’ is perhaps a little too characteristic of Daniel Lanois’ murky swamp and perhaps therefore suffers from over-familiarity. It’s an effective enough lyric, but not as melodic or as stirring as the best songs included on ‘Time Out of Mind’ and it covers similar thematic ground to some of the best tracks on that album. There’s a surprisingly mellifluous duet with Ralph Stanley on ‘The Lonesome River’, and Stanley deserves great credit for coping with the unenviable task of harmonising with Dylan.

There are a handful of soundtrack selections and live recordings padding out the set. Given the sheer volume of Dylan live recordings in recent years (what a shame the regular offerings streamed on the official website stopped with no warning), ‘Tell Tale Signs’ doesn’t seem to delve deep enough into this area. There’s a sterling, dramatic, tempestuous reading of ‘High Water’ but the version of ‘Lonesome Day Blues’ is a little perfunctory, Dylan hastily barking out the lyrics and obscuring his enunciation, as he does all too often in concert these days. Given the quality of his fresh readings of songs like ‘Hattie Carroll’, ‘John Brown’ and ‘Shelter From The Storm’ in recent London shows, I wonder whether some recent live performances of older songs might have been more valuable in this context, particularly in emphasising the changeable nature of Dylan’s songs, however sacred their original versions might seem.

For all the riches on ‘Tell Tale Signs’, I still suspect that a complete Dylan live album covering 2000 onwards would be a more rewarding addition to the catalogue, albeit with the reservation that the selections would need to be judicious. Some of ‘Tell Tale Signs’ feels a little too much like the scraping of a very deep barrel.

Putting the excessive asking price for the Dylan box set into very clear perspective is ‘Take Me to the River: A Southern Soul Story’, another new soul compilation from Kent Records. Frankly, the market is saturated with soul compilations, from the Motown Chartbusters series through to Dave Godin’s peerless Deep Soul collections. With this package though, Kent have taken the art of compiling to a whole new level. Lavishly packaged with a hard book filled with photographs and informative liner notes, the compilation is unique in spanning several labels and veering from predictable essentials to more obscure collectors’ gems. Priced at a very reasonable £28, it exposes Columbia’s greed and idiocy all too starkly.

If this is your first introduction to the heady, fervent world of southern soul music, it’s an ideal primer. It includes, amongst others, Al Green’s gospel-informed track that gives the set its title, two solid gold classics from William Bell (‘You Don’t Miss Your Water’ and ‘I Forgot To Be Your Lover’), Percy Sledge’s ‘When A Man Loves A Woman’, James Carr’s awesome ‘Dark End of the Street’ and Otis Redding’s staggering ‘Try A Little Tenderness’, possibly the best directive ever addressed to men in song form. These selections, familiar to anyone already immersed in this glorious music, are just the tip of the iceberg here though.

I can’t add much to David Hepworth’s perceptive and authoritative review in The Word magazine, other than to reiterate his point about the radicalism and sheer provocation of this music. Nothing that has come since – be it punk, acid house, hip hop or grime, has been quite as revolutionary as this remarkable combination of the sacred and profane. Clearly emerging from a gospel tradition, but shot through with desperation, lust and immoral urges, southern soul is as intense and passionate as popular music gets, dominated by compelling narratives and assertive personalities.

These statements of love, desire and heartbreak veer from the highly principled to the baldly insensitive. Arthur Alexander’s ‘Go Home Girl’ finds its protagonist weighing up the value of his love for a friend and his desire for said friend’s girlfriend and opting to sustain the friendship. By way of contrast, there’s Denise LaSalle’s promise to break up your home. Believe me, it’s no idle threat. In between, there’s plenty of good old fashioned adultery and musings on the bittersweet pain of unrequited love. All the emotions and longings fundamental to great pop music are here in droves.

It’s also great to hear some less predictable selections from great singers. We all know Eddie Floyd for ‘Knock on Wood’ but his ‘Got to Make a Comeback’ (actually the flipside to that stellar hit) is a languid hymn to steely determination that demonstrates his versatility and deserves a wider hearing. Similarly, Wilson Pickett is familiar for ‘Mustang Sally’ and ‘In the Midnight Hour’, but ‘Ninety Nine and a Half (Won’t Do)’ is an equally stirring piece of dirty blues still based on that unflappable backbeat.

I normally reject arguments that dismiss all modern R&B in relation to its earlier counterparts, not least because some of that contemporary music is so rhythmically exciting. Yet, listening to this wonderful compilation, one has to wonder if any of today’s divas or young males full of tedious bravado have had the kind of life experience that informs the great stories being told here. If there’s a comparable determination in the modern variations of soul music, it often seems to focus on money and material wealth. And whilst the music is still so often preoccupied with sex, very rarely does it now seem sensual or intimate. Many modern singers could do with listening to some of these confessions - be it Barbara and the Browns’ exquisite ‘If I Can’t Run To You I’ll Crawl’ or Doris Duke’s wonderfully uninhibited ‘To The Other Woman (I’m The Other Woman)’.

In fact, one of the strongest features of this collection is the volume of authoritative, artful performances from women. There’s the low down groove of Laura Lee’s ‘Dirty Man’, and gleefully accusatory performances from June Edwards (‘You Ain’t Woman Enough to Take My Man’) and Candi Staton (‘Another Man’s Woman, Another Woman’s Man’). Add to this two of the essential masterpieces of the form with Aretha Franklin’s ‘Do Right Woman, Do Right Man’ (one of Dan Penn’s best compositions) and Etta James’ ‘I’d Rather Go Blind’.

Perhaps what makes soul music one of the most accessible and enduring of all contemporary musical forms is its ability to absorb the best elements from a variety of traditions. Present within every song here is the sheer force and conviction of gospel music, the melancholy and pain of the blues and the unashamed vulnerability of country music. It is some of the greatest music ever recorded, plus the continual unearthing of more rare treasures suggests that soul music’s deep well may turn out to be bottomless.

Norman Whitfield RIP

Yet another legend has passed away this week - Motown producer and songwriter Norman Whitfield. Although Whitfield is less well known than Stax counterpart Isaac Hayes (he didn't enjoy such a fruitful solo career), his influence and style are pretty similar. His songwriting partnership with Barrett Strong mirrored the collaboration between Hayes and David Porter at Stax. His production style, creating what has since been dubbed 'psychedelic soul' must surely have informed Hayes' work on the Shaft soundtrack.

Whitfield was responsible for writing one of the most enduring songs of the Motown era - 'I Heard It Through The Grapevine'. The song was immortalised by Marvin Gaye's extraordinary delivery (and the exquisite orchestration on that version), but was also recorded by many other groups Whitfield was involved with, including The Temptations and The Undisputed Truth.

His production work for The Temptations still sounds imaginative today and has been hugely influential. Tracks like 'Psychedelic Shack', 'Ball of Confusion' and 'Papa Was A Rolling Stone' took them well beyond the conventional limitations of the soul vocal group.

The Undisputed Truth, very much a Whitfield project, have been less fondly remembered and remain criminally underrated. 'Smiling Faces (Sometimes)' and 'You Make Your Own Heaven and Hell (Right Here On Earth)' remain two of the most potent examples of Whitfield's skill with prodution and arranging - the mood of both is palpably threatening.

It's Not Even Summer, Is It?

Stevie Wonder, London O2 Arena, 11th September 2008

On one level, it seems completely churlish to complain about Stevie Wonder’s performance at the O2 last night. Mercifully, we *are* treated to many of the highpoints of his back catalogue (‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’, ‘My Cherie Amour’, a huge chunk of the ‘Innervisions’ album, ‘Superstition’, ‘Sir Duke’, ‘Knocks Me Off My Feet’, ‘I Wish’ amongst others). He has a huge band supporting him onstage and from the back of the hellish O2 it’s frequently difficult to determine precisely who is doing what. Does he really need two other keyboardists in addition to himself? Two percussionists and a drummer?!

Unfortunately, though, I could only leave ‘A Wonder Summer’s Night’ (a bit of a crass and unimaginative name for a tour) with a heavy heart and a feeling that this once great artist no longer has any interest in being original or challenging. The show is so poorly sequenced as to be interminably disengaging for substantial chunks of its epic duration. His opening rendition of Miles Davis’ ‘All Blues’ is unexpected and pleasing – but a little odd for an audience who will not associate the piece with the performer on stage. In fact, Wonder’s still dazzling piano playing demonstrates a consistent jazz influence throughout the show, although it is often refracted through a prism that magnifies the schmaltz at the expense of the substance. The rest of the show suffers from disorientating lurches in pace and style – he’ll play an upbeat funk gem from his golden period and then immediately follow it with a sentimental ballad or an aimless jam.

Even at its best, the music is arranged and performed in a manner that is unsuitably slick. These hard-hitting, technically proficient gospel rhythm sections appear to be de rigeur these days – but as impressive as they are, they are musically one-dimensional (the whole show lacks dynamic or textural variety) and often boring as a result. The appeal of Wonder’s fantastic run of albums from Music of My Mind to Songs In The Key of Life during the 1970s was that there was a certain sloppiness to the sound as well as precision to the rhythm – it’s this tension that provided the invigorating groove and the palpable sense of soul. Both are sadly absent in this concert. There’s a fairly uninspired Latin groove over which Wonder introduces his entire band and lets every musician take a solo – but even this seems to have had any sense of spontaneity surgically removed.

Lamentable inconsistency has been Wonder’s Achilles Heel since 1975 (‘Songs in the Key of Life’ favoured his sentimental side, although he got away with it then through the sheer verve and spirit of that music). As he has become less prolific, his lapses of taste and decency have become all the more startling. Personally, I could have done without the excruciating extended version of ‘Ribbon In The Sky’ (one of many moments when he gets a bit ambitious with his demands in terms of audience participation) and the mid-section of the set that favours ballads with Wonder at the piano could have happily been curtailed. I suspect everyone could have done without the spiel about his mother dying and inspiring him to return to music too, but he has always been a painfully sincere and earnest artist. His request for a minute's silence on the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks was handled with more sensitivity and restraint, and I found myself rather angry with the morons who broke it with shouts of 'we love you Stevie!'

Whilst it’s great to see Wonder visibly enjoying his time on stage and treating fans to a generous set, the moments of audience participation and playfulness seem rambling and unfocused. There’s a moment when he sings ‘Hello London’ through a vocoder and you hope it’s going to meld into one of this 70s classics, but it never arrives anywhere at all. Sometimes he just stops completely and tries to engage the audience in call-and-response sessions but at the back of the venue, we’re just too detached from any kind of atmosphere to engage. There are so many moments when people drift to the bar and for once I find myself understanding the motivation to get a drink – I just wish he’d get on with it!

Vocally, Wonder is now a little vulnerable. The upper end of his register is still very strong, but at the lower end he seems to have lost power and volume. Sometimes his voice cracks or he doesn’t quite hit the right note, odd for a musician with such a capable ear. There are some songs (‘Knocks Me Off My Feet’ and ‘Visions’ particularly) where he seems to be struggling with the control of his voice and some of the lines are noticeably wayward as a result.

In spite of all this, the show certainly has its moments. ‘Higher Ground’ is as passionate and invigorating as ever, perhaps given fresh political resonance by Wonder’s passionate support for Barack Obama. Some lesser material from ‘Hotter Than July’ (including an enjoyable ‘Masterblaster’) stands up surprisingly well. ‘Don’t You Worry About A Thing’ and ‘Living For The City’ are also welcome treats, although, in his unwillingness to play the full seven minutes of the latter, the tempo is subjected to a bizarre and inappropriate acceleration. Similarly, whilst it’s good to hear the gorgeous ‘Visions’ amongst the ballads, its new soft rock coda is ill-judged, particularly when one of the guitarists begins shredding gratuitously to no discernible emotional impact.

Like Prince at his shows at the same venue last year, Wonder treats some of his greatest songs with far less respect than they deserve. An invigorating ‘Uptight’ is cut short and merged into a grotesque mass singalong of ‘I Just Called To Say I Love You’. I have never met anyone who has admitted liking the latter song, yet it remains Wonder’s biggest UK hit and gets the biggest ovation of the night. Frankly, who can blame Wonder for all his cheesy indulgences tonight when his paying audience are so undiscerning? It’s great to hear ‘I Wish’ and ‘Isn’t She Lovely?’, but frustrating that they are edited and merged together in a hurried medley. We needed more of this material earlier in the show!

Even tonight, there’s still plenty of evidence that Wonder is a master musician – the better of his ballads are intricate and intelligent, with harmonic complexity rarely found in pop music. His groove based music remains peerless, and even the treatment handed out to it by this mercilessly rehearsed band of session musos can’t really diminish that power. So, the final half hour of the show is at the very least entertaining. Better still, that pure and clear sound he gets from the harmonica remains one of the most beautiful sounds on earth. I would have liked to hear more of it.

Restlessness Vs. Constancy

Gnarls Barkley – The Odd Couple (Warner, 2008)

A couple of years ago, I had a chat with Joe Goddard from Hot Chip in which he expressed his fears that the then (and still) ubiquitous ‘Over and Over’ might prove to be an albatross around his group’s neck. Happily, he was proved completely wrong, but the stellar success of ‘Crazy’ could well be a poisoned chalice for Gnarls Barkley. Even though that claustrophobic, paranoid song was hardly positive, its bright sound no doubt aided its rise to the top of the charts, and many listeners struggled with the darker elements of the duo’s superb debut album.

Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo have ratcheted up the tension a few more notches on this hastily prepared successor. In doing so, they may well have bravely savaged their reputation as hitmakers extraordinaire. In the process though, they have made a provocative, challenging and adventurous album far removed from the world of contemporary R&B or hip hop. There are elements of psychedelia and garage rock as much as classic soul, all refracted through the distinctively modern prism of Danger Mouse’s inventive production. This is a record that requires a good deal of patience, but those who invest time in it may well find it to be a major statement.

In spite of its flippant title, ‘The Odd Couple’ is a concentrated examination of the darker recesses of human psychology. Cee-Lo’s lyrics are extraordinarily bleak, and the only respite seems to come with the jaunty pop of ‘Blind Mary’. Everywhere else, he’s adopting the persona of someone damaged, depressed, questioning or even psychotic. If the pressures of 21st Century Living are fuelling a stark rise in stress, anger and clinical depression, then Cee-Lo documents all these problems in blackly comic fashion here.

Thematically, ‘The Odd Couple’ represents a brilliant exploration of extreme feeling (regrets, secrets, bestial urges, self loathing), deploying the force of rhetorical exaggeration. On the opening ‘Charity Case’, Cee-Lo masterfully presents the confession of a character who helps others with their problems in order to avoid his own. ‘Oh can’t you see’, he implores ‘if I help somebody it’s mercy for me’. But the reality is not so simple – ‘even my shadow leaves me alone at night’, he confesses, ‘because I need to take my own advice’. He explores a similar theme on the palpably desperate ‘Who’s Gonna Save My Soul Now?’ (‘how could this be – all this time I’ve lived vicariously?’). On ‘Would Be Killer’, he goes much further, inhabiting the persona of a merciless man with a desire to hurt – a man who could (would?) murder. The superb ‘Neighbours’ is an audacious exploration of envy and greed.

Musically, this is disorientating, imaginative and fervent. The skittering, stuttering backing track Danger Mouse crafts for ‘Open Book’ creates high end drama and suggests confusion and frustration. More simply, the reconstructed psychedelic soul vibe of first single ‘Run’ imbues it with sinister urgency. ‘Surprise’, with its propulsive rhythm, is also highly theatrical. ‘Who’s Gonna Save My Soul?’ initially seems to resemble the trademark Portishead sound, but closer inspection reveals the main source of inspiration might be an earlier landmark of musical history, Syl Johnson’s sublime civil rights track ‘Is it Because I’m Black?’, the rolling rhythms and exposed vocal of which this track seems to echo.

The only moment that doesn’t quite ring true here is the self-mocking parody ‘Whatever’, for which Cee-Lo adopts a pinched nasal whine for comic effect. The lyrics rely too heavily on an obvious rhyme scheme, and the music is an uncharacteristic basic stomp. Pretty much everywhere else though, the combination of Cee-Lo’s increasingly forceful bellow and Danger Mouse’s elaborate arrangements make for a winning, if not necessarily immediate combination. The integration of the excesses of Cee-Lo’s lead vocals with layers of backing vocals is particularly successful, and much of ‘The Odd Couple’ sounds more confrontational than resigned as a result.

With each listen, ‘The Odd Couple’ sounds closer and closer to a masterpiece. Those yearning for the immediacy of ‘Crazy’ might be disappointed, but they will find bolder and more resilient material here – and a dark mood that is far more disturbing and troubling than that found on most mainstream pop records. The songs all bear testament to the value of brevity in pop music. In this concise form, they never outstay their welcome, yet their restless energy and imaginative verve reveal the group’s considerable ambition.

Sun Kil Moon – April (Calde Verde, 2008)

If Gnarls Barkley attempt to cram as many ideas as possible into one concise album on ‘The Odd Couple’, Mark Kozelek remains a rock of unchanging constancy. ‘April’ contains just 11 tracks, but is over 74 minutes long. It sustains a consistently languid and melancholy mood, perhaps even a dour one, and is dominated by a lingering sadness that is both haunting and beautiful. It would be easy to criticise Kozelek for his spare voice with its limited range, but within those understated limitations, there is a world of complex emotion and feeling.

‘April’ isn’t as ragged and untamed as the outstanding first Sun Kil Moon album ‘Ghosts of the Great Highway’. Instead, its focus on acoustic guitar pluckings and stubborn repetition echoes Kozelek’s earlier work with Red House Painters. If he’s made some esoteric career choices (albums consisting entirely of cover versions of AC/DC and Modest Mouse songs), it’s merely because his own artistic voice is now so fully developed as to be able to lay claim to any material. However, these projects often seem like distractions from his original writing, which is always excellent, and seems particularly strong here, rich in dense imagery and enthralling language.

It’s difficult to highlight individual tracks given the album’s overall mood, but I particularly admire the Neil Young slow growl of ‘Tonight The Sky’, which also serves up one of Kozelek’s most memorable choruses. The opening ‘Lost Verses’ unravels very slowly and mysteriously indeed, before ending with an unexpected and almost spirited rock coda. By way of contrast, ‘Heron Blue’ steadfastly refuses to add any layers to its extremely minimal arrangement. In doing so, it creates a powerful and alluring mystique.

If there’s a development here it’s in the greater and very effective use of backing vocals, many of which come from the ubiquitous Will Oldham. He adds colour and texture to the brooding ‘Like A River’, which rolls with characteristic effortlessness. Indeed, the whole album sounds superbly natural – as if it has simply flowed from Kozelek without any exertion of force.

Given Kozelek’s relentless slow pace and melancholy, it’s easy to let these songs simply drift by. Such an approach does the material scant justice – given due attention, these songs are absorbing and fascinating. Just listen to the way Kozelek’s voice melts into the delicate guitar arpeggios of ‘Tonight in Bilbao’ (which drifts on elegantly for over nine minutes), or the way he completely embraces the dust of ‘Moorestown’. He’s a kindred spirit with Jason Molina, particularly in his Songs:Ohia guise, or Will Johnson from South San Gabriel and Centr-O-Matic. He remains one of rock music’s most painterly writers and performers – impressionistic, but completely free from pretension or fanfare – it’s all there in the music and its mysteries.

The Resurrected

Steve Earle - Washington Square Serenade
Bettye LaVette - Scene Of The Crime

It's not really necessary to add to the voluminous amount of writing about Steve Earle's career trajectory, including time spent as a convicted criminal and drug addict, other than to say that his more recent output has been some of the boldest and most exciting of his career. 'The Mountain', a bluegrass album made in collaboration with the Del McCoury band is one of the best contemporary examples of the genre, whilst 'Jerusalem' and 'The Revolution Starts Now', both politically confrontational albums unrepentant in their stark polemic, both bristle with raw tension and excitement.

'Washington Square Serenade' represents yet another sidestep, consisting of rhythmically driven acoustic guitars and some rather intrusive beats from Dust Brother John King. The basic musical template isn't really anything new for Earle, so the addition of drum machine backings seems like rather a forced way of reinventing the same wheel. Ultimately, when you're as literate and compelling a songwriter as Steve Earle, there isn't a great obligation to embrace modernity, especially when the result risks removing the timeless quality from the music.

The presence of a song like 'Satellite Radio' (Earle himself now presents a radio show Stateside) is intriguing given that much of 'Washington Square Serenade' sounds tailor-made for daytime radio airtime. 'Down Here Below' is the kind of talky narrative song that Earle does brilliantly, but it disintegrates into a rather bland singalong chorus that detracts from its overall force. Similarly, the first introduction of those 'beats' on 'Tennessee Blues' immediate push the song away from the margins and into the middle of the road. The album concludes with a rather ill-advised neutering of Tom Waits' excoriating 'Way Down In The Hole'.

Yet, in its more organic moments, 'Washington Square Serenade' is a pure delight. There are a clutch of simple, affecting love songs with less cluttered arrangements which give Earle's wisened voice greater room to communicate. 'City of Immigrants' is as broad and encompassing as its subject matter necessitates, with a provocative rhythm track that sounds more natural than its more overtly 'produced' counterparts.

Perhaps the production would work better if it was all more carefully integrated, instead of the beats so often sounding more like a casual afterthought. Earle's songwriting voice is still a confident and compelling one, but too often 'Washington Square Serenade' sounds dangerously bland. There are some lovely songs here, but an unadorned acoustic performance of them (like those Rick Rubin-produced Johnny Cash albums) might well have been more daring and more artistically successful.

Until a couple of years ago, when the wonderful 'I've Got My Own Hell To Raise' appeared on the Anti label, soul singer Bettye Lavette had rather disappeared from the radar. Seemingly a victim to the music industry's more fickle and unpredictable machinations, Lavette was making money as a jobbing singer, but firmly without the reputation and critical acumen she so clearly deserved. That album, produced by Joe Henry and comprising a collection of songs from empathetic female songwriters (Dolly Parton, Lucinda Williams etc), changed all that, and also served as a timely reminder of her gritty and gutsy performances on classic soul sides like 'Let Me Down Easy' and the swampy 'He Made A Woman Out Of Me'.

Her next step was to return to the legendary Muscle Shoals studios where she cut her now infamous 'lost' album 'Child of the Seventies', one of the great albums by a female soul vocalist and almost left for good on the cutting room floor. Appearing on the record is David Hood, the bass player on the original sessions. Hood is father of Patterson Hood, from outstanding southern rockers Drive By Truckers who, taking time out from his main project, organised all the musicians and songs for this recording.

The emphasis here is very much on Lavette as soul survivor. Over time, this could easily get a little tiresome but one can hardly begrudge her the chance to vent her spleen here. It's all the more exciting because she mostly does this through the vehicle of other people's songs. By contrast with its predecessor, all the songs here, with the exception of the sole original, are the work of men. It's a timely reminder of how the great art of interpretative singing is rather rapidly dying out. Lavette is one of the few singers left who could proudly proclaim 'I don't write songs, I sing them.'

And boy does she sing! There's a whole world of life experience in that husky but commanding voice and right from the album's opening lines ('I've been this way too long to change now/You're gonna have to take me as I am!') there's a sense that her conviction and commitment have not been diminished by the passing of time. There's a righteousness and self belief on 'Choices', and her take on Frankie Miller's 'Jealousy' is appropriately smouldering and sensual.

'The Scene of the Crime' again emphasises the close connections between soul and country music, not just through the presence of Memphis legend Spooner Oldham on Wurlitzer (how resonant that old electric keyboard sounds here), but also through interpretations of songs from gifted songwriters firmly entrenched in the American tradition - Willie Nelson, John Hiatt and, perhaps less illustriously, Don Henley. The album's finest moment, as highlighted by Patterson Hood in his sincere and eloquent sleevenotes, is a version of 'Talking Old Soldiers', an obscure Elton John song. Lavette completely transforms it, turning it into a grand old statement of defiance and survival.

Unlike the Steve Earle record, there's little conscious attempt to push Lavette into the modern world. Instead, we get a brilliantly solid old soul sound, expertly crafted by the Drive By Truckers, providing the firm foundations for Lavette's merciless extemporising. The upbeat tracks feature some of the clearest, firmest backbeat grooves of this year or any other, whilst the ballads are deftly and sensitively handled, particularly the amount of space left in the rendition of Willie Nelson's 'Somebody Pick Up My Pieces'.

You know you've achieved legendary status when you can get away with referring to yourself in the third person. On that basis, the one original song here, 'Before The Money Came (The Battle of Bettye Lavette)', should ensure Lavette's place in the pantheon of soul legends is at last secure. The brazenly autobiographical lyrics were apparently captured by Patterson Hood from snippets of recalled studio conversation, and they neatly sum up the themes of this project and the unrelenting spirit of this determined woman.

The One U Wanna C?

Prince at the 02 Arena

Reports on Prince’s 21 night stand in London have so far been mostly ecstatic. The few murmurings of dissent seem to have been judged as tantamount to some unforgivable act of treason. Those lucky enough to attend the opening night (and I suspect the same will be true of the closing night too) were treated to a lengthy set concluding with a generous three encores. Elsewhere in the run, he seems to have been onstage for barely 70 minutes. The ticket price, set at his magic number of £31.21 may be reasonable – but all are paying the same amount, even for the ghastly seats at the top level of the 02, set back at a severe distance from the stage, and where the sound quality was horrific.

My own experience of two of the shows suggests that the minority of dissenters have been right to express their reservations. Although the show on Friday 17th August was considerably better than the earlier show on the 7th, there was little in either performance to imply that Prince was doing anything other than hitting the button marked ‘cruise control’. The second show was never anything less than entertaining – but surely this is the very least we expect from someone with Prince’s star quality? He is not, after all, a Janet Jackson or a Madonna – being as much an immensely versatile musician and outrageously gifted songwriter as great performer.

Prince’s great contribution to popular music has been to break down stereotyped boundaries – there is no ‘white’ and ‘black’ in his music and he remains as likely to be as influenced by new wave and soft rock balladry as George Clinton’s P-Funk. Similarly, even when his albums have been completely lacklustre (sadly the new ‘Planet Earth’ album falls squarely into this category – giving it away free with the Mail generated hype the content alone could never have mustered), none has sounded remotely like its immediate predecessor.

The centrepiece of the set on the 7th was a lengthy and somewhat lumbering funk jam session giving legendary JBs saxophonist Maceo Parker a little too much space to blow. Parker has impressive power and muscularity, but little in the way of subtlety and this is hardly what most punters paid to see. ‘Musicology’ was supremely groovy, but segueing it into a covers of ‘Pass The Peas’ and ‘Play That Funky Music’ (complete with unwitting members of the audience dancing onstage – presumably only those with the VIP tickets near enough to get picked out) seemed pointless and indulgent. Similarly, the ghastly cabaret jazz take on ‘What A Wonderful World’ that enabled Prince to make the first of two costume changes (mercifully there were no ‘wardrobe malfunctions’ in this show) was a step too far into the realms of mouldy cheese.

Whilst the set list for the 7th available at fansite housequake.com lists 29 songs, I only counted 12 original songs played in full, which for an artist now on his 26th album is simply not enough. There was a strange and surreal aura to this show which mostly served to emphasise Prince’s diva tendencies rather than his manifest talents. Prince opened the show alone with his guitar, playing a rather tantalising medley of some of his greatest songs (‘Little Red Corvette’, ‘Alphabet Street’, ‘Sometimes It Snows In April’). This would have been a masterful way to open an intimate club show, but in the cavernous environment of the hellish former millennium dome, it hardly constituted playing to the gallery. Also, if anyone rashly assumed that this would presage a barrage of hits played in full with the band, they would have been left mightily disappointed. Prince somehow managed to make this worse by breaking up the set with a second medley performed alone at the piano. Both medleys demonstrated his technical ability, but left me with a curiously dissatisfied feeling – a little inappropriate given that much of Prince’s lyrical output focuses on his ability to satiate!

This show seemed to demonstrate Attention Defecit Disorder more than stamina. The closing run of ‘Kiss’ and ‘Purple Rain’ and the delightfully energetic encore of ‘Let’s Go Crazy’ provided crowd pleasing moments, particularly the mass singalong that ended ‘Purple Rain’, but it all seemed too little too late really. He obviously remains convinced of his own genius, breaking off from the lyric of Purple Rain to exclaim ‘I just love this song!’ Well, quite right, so do we – but we love plenty of other Prince songs too, and he could do so much more than treat his catalogue with brash and arrogant contempt.

The set on the 17th was structured much more sensibly for the nature of the venue, with the full band starting the show immediately with ‘1999’. How much better that the whole audience was brought to its feet from the very outset! Similarly, moving the segue of ‘I Feel For You’ into ‘Controversy’ to the end of the show gave it greater prominence, and emphasised the quality of Prince’s early material as much as his mid-period hits.

The funk jam was tauter and more spirited this time and we were ‘treated’ to an endearingly shambolic vocal and dance from Bourne Ultimatum actress Julia Stiles, who conveniently happened to have a front row seat. It was a shame she didn’t brush up on her lyrics! The inclusion of ‘7’ (one of his better New Power Generation-era moments) provided a welcome surprise in the main set and mercifully he restricted himself to just one medley this time, this one delivered with more humour and less bravado. Sadly, it contained mere snippets of some of his greatest songs – there’s simply no justification for only delivering ten seconds apiece of ‘Raspberry Beret’ and ‘When Doves Cry’ in order to favour much less interesting songs such as ‘Cream’, ‘Guitar’ and ‘Musicology’ in the main set!

The ‘in the round’ stage design was a clever gimmick but not, in the event, particularly well utilised. Prince spent most of his time facing one way, so a sizeable part of the audience paid to look directly at the back of his head. He proved better at engaging the side stands, moving to either side of the stage (predictably designed to replicate his androgynous symbol) and giving the lively crowd plenty of encouragement.

The quality of sound at both shows was hopeless – even close to the stage there was little definition. There seems little point in having two keyboardists in the band if there’s precious little possibility of distinguishing the individual parts above a nasty low-end rumble. Sometimes even Prince’s vocals became inaudible. This is clearly something this enormous venue needs to work on, although as arenas go, it’s clearly preferable to Wembley simply by virtue of serving good beer (Murphy’s ?!?!) and relatively adventurous fast food.

Prince is justified in bragging (‘too many hits – too little time!’), and maybe it would have been better had he graced London with his presence more than once in the last ten years. The tremendous weight of expectation has rendered it difficult to judge these concerts with any real degree of objectivity. As an entertainer, Prince may have lived up to those expectations but he has surely failed to seize a golden opportunity by not surpassing them.

It's A Family Farce

Sly and The Family Stone?! In Boscombe?!

Well what on earth was that about? Without doubt, Sly Stone's 'appearance' at the Bournemouth Opera House last weekend was the weirdest gig I have ever seen. Brought to life admirably by some tight but generic funk-lite from local heroes The Baker Brothers, and then some spectacularly outmoded but highly enjoyable electro soul from the very promising Unklejam, we were then treated to a spectacularly long wait. There may well have been more crew members tinkering onstage (or just frequently just crashing into each other) than there were people in the audience.

The rumour is (I'm not prepared to confirm or deny this in public in case it proves incorrect) that band and crew only arrived two hours after the doors opened, with no soundcheck prior to the gig. I certainly witnessed the late arrival of the tour manager, who was briskly ushered backstage, later appearing onstage, and then bizarrely attempted to engineer the group's sound, with seemingly no knowledge whatsoever of the venue's equipment.

Arriving onstage some 45-50 minutes later than scheduled, the group then essentially attempted to soundcheck whilst performing, frequently stopping to test some horrendously malfunctioning radio mics. Their attempts to enliven the audience were not greatly appreciated ('Sly says he ain't getting on this stage until his mic is right! Fix Sly's mic! Fix Sly's mic!' etc).

This new incarnation of Sly and The Family Stone is essentially a very slick tribute band led by Sly's sister Vet and niece Lisa, and featuring two members of the original Family Stone horn section. We knew from reviews of the Lovebox Weekender and the European shows that Sly himself would only appear with the group for a maximum of four tunes, so nobody could have been expecting very much.

Truthfully, though, nobody could have expected this utter shambles either, and rarely have I seen a supposedly professional touring act hold their paying audience with such complete contempt. Beginning with about 8 bars of 'In Time', ironically played very much out of time, it was clear that this was going to be a bit of a mess. For a few minutes 'Dance To The Music' felt like it captured the collective spirit of the original Family Stone unit, but the group lost the structure and ended up repeating the lyrics several times before finally agreeing to curtail it.

'Hot Fun In The Summertime' was a blast of breezy pop joy, but the band looked visibly distressed, with no audio in their monitors onstage. The ensuing chaos made for grim and uncomfortable watching and the group then somehow managed to make the awesome 'Don't Call Me Nigger, Whitey' sound bland, in spite of Lisa Stone's powerful vocal. 'Somebody's Watching You' made for an improvement, but again it all just sounded too polished - without the gritty rough edges that defined the original group.

When Sly finally emerged, looking peculiarly hunched, listless and zombified (rather like a decrepit Flavor Flav from Public Enemy), his mic was most certainly not fixed. He was virtually inaudible throughout 'If You Want Me To Stay', although very close listening revealed that the pinched, nasal quality of his voice was still very much intact, despite his 20 years in the wilderness. During 'Sing A Simple Song' though, the man came alive in the most bizarre way possible - leaping away from his keyboards, dancing awkwardly across the stage and vocalising incomprehensibly. He then decided he was 'off to take a piss' and promptly left the stage, leaving the band to gamely carry on for a few more numbers.

He returned halfway through a spirited version of 'Thank You Faletinme Be Mice Elf Again' for more of the bizarre dancing, spinning on his chair behind his keyboards, and generally prancing around with a demented, perpetual grin across his face. He returned to the keyboards for a closing medley of 'Stand!' and 'I Want To Take You Higher' in which he veered from the initially vulnerable and delicate to concluding on a note of manic glee, jumping off the stage in the most rigid posture imaginable and then having to be lifted back on again.

There have been many theories posited as to why Sly Stone refuses to perform a complete set himself. It might well be stage fright after 20 years as a reclusive figure, although his onstage antics suggest otherwise. It may have something to do with his recent freak accident, falling off a cliff near his LA home. More plausibly though, it may have much more to do with his character, which seems to be somewhat unhinged and bizarre. There was evidence here to suggest that, despite all the ravages of the intervening years, there was still some of the genius captured on those early albums left intact.

There is simply no denying that this man was once one of the great masters of contemporary pop music. Sly and The Family Stone were a multi-racial collective that recognised no boundaries, whether cultural or musical. Easily the most influential and significant of the acts that performed at Woodstock (and controversially I include Hendrix here), they epitomised better than any other group the idealism of the 60s decaying into the murk and pessimism of the 1970s - although notably Sly and his new family completely eschewed his confused and jaded masterpiece 'There's A Riot Goin' On' for these shows.

This 'comeback' tour has undoubtedly been an expensive farce, for the punters at least, and many will be unforgiving in their criticism of this once strident and iconic figure. Yet there was something so utterly odd, so grimly compelling about this whole event that maybe some will take memories of a deeply unusual value away from it.

Would Al Green Please Explain It All?

Oh dear. Some concerts exist largely so that the word ‘disappointing’ can be deployed by anoraks like me. Al Green’s ‘performance’ at the Royal Albert Hall last night was sadly one of them. He certainly set out to entertain – distributing roses to the ladies, embracing the ladies, sinking to his knees in front of the ladies, imploring us to believe in the power of the lawwwd, namechecking great black artists from John Coltrane to Sam Cooke – in fact doing just about anything to avoid getting down to the business of singing his songs.

Opening with a finessed version of ‘I Can’t Stop’ (the title track from his comeback Willie Mitchell-helmed album of a few years ago), it initially looked like all would be well, in spite of his voice seemingly needing a good warm-up. Unfortunately, the title of that song proved thoroughly misleading, as stopping seemed to be Green’s main concern. He was off to Manchester, Birmingham, Paris and Madrid, he kindly informed us, and we were all welcome to follow him. The ladies, of course, deserved to fly. Those in the audience who had paid around £40 for a ticket might well have been more concerned with the performance he should have been delivering in London. For that kind of money, a 60 minute set, with five minutes of build-up from the band at the outset, a further ten minutes of aimless jamming at the end and no encore, is simply expecting too much grace from your audience. Tonight, Al Green took our money and ran.

He performed just one new song from his forthcoming album (featuring collaborations with ?uestlove from The Roots, Alicia Keys and Anthony Hamilton amongst others), seeming to only sing half of it before giving up. He sounded enthused but tetchy during a medley of frustratingly brief snippets of soul classics. He introduced ‘Let’s Stay Together’ as a miracle from God, but then brought out some unforgiveably lame dancers while the band blitzed through the song at twice the appropriate speed. Green’s jacket came off, went back on, came off again and went back on again – and he implored us all to sing with him, the audience and backing singers doing much of the work for the majority of the show. When he actually set his mind to singing, as on a superb ‘Here I Am (Come and Take Me)’, there was still evidence of his sublime genius in phrasing and control. Yet whilst he managed the great leaps into falsetto, he really struggled with the rest of the top end of his range, sometimes failing to complete lines altogether.

All this was made much worse by a band of tediously proficient session players with little sensitivity or spirit. The brilliance of the Hi Records band from Memphis that originally played on these songs (and indeed toured again with Green in the last few years) was that they could sit just behind the beat, and never played anything extraneous or unsubtle. This band featured solos from an unfathomably bland keyboardist, a wild guitarist who decided 80s hair metal noodling was somehow appropriate, and some remarkably unadventurous horn players. Everything was performed at upbeat disco tempos, replacing the original slinky grooves with perfunctory attempts to get people dancing. We were introduced to the Musical Director at the end of the show – a man I would sack as a matter of priority. The Hi band wouldn’t have needed one – they would just have got on with the business of making soulful, emotive sound.

Luckily, the concert was improved immeasurably by the presence of special guest Candi Staton, who in her short set managed to achieve both entertainment value and quality vocal delivery. She still sounded remarkably powerful, pleasing the crowd with extended renditions of ‘Young Hearts Run Free’ and ‘You Got The Love’. There was an uncomfortable juxtaposition between the themes of her soulful, lightly groovy version of ‘Stand By Your Man’ and ‘His Hands’, an exquisite song about her journey from abuse to the Church written for her by Will Oldham. She demonstrated herself in command of a wide range of material in what was really only a very brief slot. I regret not catching her at the Jazz Café earlier this year.

Unfortunately, the quality of her performance only threw the ultimate failure of Green’s into sharper relief. Onstage for a mere 50 minutes, tonight it was less of the Reverend and more of the Redundant Al Green.

Uneasy Listening: Cat Power at the Forum

I’ve been wondering what to write about this show, given that my entire experience of the night was soured by a particularly thoughtless couple. Having reserved our tickets somewhat late in the day, John Kell (http://www.kingofquiet.co.uk/) and I settled for unreserved seating upstairs. Neither of us had quite accounted for the number of early arrivals (in fact, I expected most of the seated crowd to spend the support slots in the bar), so getting a seat proved more of a mission than expected. Having secured a severely uncomfortable pew (not kind on the lower spine), I felt unduly sympathetic to a couple audacious enough to ask us to save seats for them. Having done this, I did not expect in a million years that they would proceed to talk and giggle (not even quietly, but quite obtrusively) CONSTANTLY THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE PERFORMANCE. They barely even stopped to breathe. Now I can accept that there are different schools of thought on talking at gigs, but my own position on this is clear: no reasonable person would contemplate talking like that through a classical concert, an intimate jazz gig, a movie or a play. What exactly is the difference about a rock concert? Why pay £20 plus to hold a conversation when you could just as easily hold it for the price of a couple of drinks in a bar, café or pub? Having paid from my own hard earned cash, I was not best pleased about their conduct. In the unlikely event that you’re reading this – next time pay more courtesy to people kind enough to secure you a seat (it was so busy they would have been standing at the very top of the balcony otherwise).

Unfortunately, I can’t remember the name of the rockabilly duo support act, who were highly entertaining – basically Revered Horton Heat meeting the White Stripes in a dark alley. No bad thing.

Cat Power has something of a reputation as a difficult performer, an image intimately connected with her battles with alcoholism and depression. Her solo shows have seen her so crippled with fear that she’s been unable to perform, or has simply forgotten her own songs. She’s now performing with a stable band (still in support of her outstanding album ‘The Greatest’, released early last year), Dirty Delta Blues, and has seemingly defeated most of her demons. So why then was this show still so difficult?

She may no longer be such a loose canon, but Chan Marshall still seems a profoundly uncomfortable performer, relentlessly pacing up and down the stage and preferring not to face the audience directly. Her voice, a vulnerable and sensitive instrument on record, is rather more uncompromising live, and she frequently renders her own material incomprehensible tonight, intentionally slurring the words. Whilst she projects confidently, she ignores most of the nuances in the recorded versions. It’s frequently fascinating, but rarely pretty. On record, she sounds positively seductive – live, she appears awkward and unpredictable.

The band, although much acclaimed, are not equals to the legendary Hi label session band that played on ‘The Greatest’. They all seem impressive musicians, but in a relatively straightforward and unadventurous way. They don’t give the songs enough room to breathe, and are frequently just too loud for the rapturous textures Marshall originally concocted.

True to her reputation, Marshall handles a number of covers, most of them major works in the soul and pop canon – James Brown’s ‘Lost Someone’, ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’, Smokey Robinson’s ‘The Tracks of My Tears’, Willie Nelson’s ‘Crazy’ and Dan Penn’s ‘Dark End Of The Street’ among them. Identifying the material proves a challenge, given Marshall’s reluctance to enunciate and the unnecessary reverb added to her voice. She veers so far from the established melodies, not in itself a crime, but she seems somehow uncertain in her extemporising, and her interpretations have little shape or direction. ‘The Tracks of My Tears’ arguably works best, simply because she transforms it radically from elaborately arranged ballad into full-force Northern Soul stomp.

The show gets more comfortable and meaningful as it progresses (if anything it seems to be about pushing the songs to their utmost extremes), but there’s a lingering sense of missed opportunity at the end in spite of this. I think Marshall has plenty of talent and originality – but, in spite of the successful 'Dusty in Memphis' vibe of ‘The Greatest’, she may not entirely be at home with ‘the greatest soul singer in the world’ tag that her band bestows on her.

Female Artistry vs. The Marketing Buzz: A bit more on Feist, Mavis Staples and a crass aside on The Arctic Monkeys

It’s immensely pleasing to report that Feist’s ‘The Reminder’ is every bit as wonderful as the sampler I received two weeks ago suggested. Although it is stylistically scattershot, veering from luxurious pop to a languid jazzy folk not a million miles from Jolie Holland or Erin McKeown, it achieves coherence through the carefully crafted nuances of the arrangements and the compassionate emotional insight of its lyrics. Feist’s vocals are exquisite throughout – technically impressive but beautifully controlled, distinctive but naturalistic and unmannered, frequently as interesting for what they reserve as for what they express. The nearest comparison that springs to my mind is the late great Dusty Springfield, a singer consistently underrated in her lifetime, capable of handling a great variety of material, genuinely soulful and emotionally convincing. Gonzales’ piano is also a crucial ingredient, proving that he is as capable of sophisticated musicality as the outstanding novelty rap pop he produced under his own name.

It’s possible that the sequencing may be an obstacle for some listeners, with the album concluding with its most stately and atmospheric tracks. It’s precisely because of this that the album has a satisfying emotional arc though, and repeated listens draw out its subtleties and textures. If there’s an over-arching theme, it’s love and the machinations of the female heart – well-worn subjects perhaps, but Feist effortlessly invests them with new depth and feeling. In addition to the tracks I’ve already discussed, highlights include the gloriously soulful ballad ‘The Limit To Your Love’, and the vulnerable ‘Intuition’, which ponders the difficulty of knowing which relationships might be the ones that last (‘did I, did I miss out on you?’ she asks at the end, with a hint of genuine sadness and regret). ‘The Water’ and ‘Honey Honey’ are both mysterious and minimal, with Feist’s voice given plenty of space to cast its spell. These songs carry the memories of former love affairs, both unrequited and realised, and the album frequently contrasts the heady rush of young love with the changing feelings that come with age and experience. It’s a beautiful album – at once touching and mesmerising.

Showcasing these songs at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire last week, Leslie Feist also proved herself a compelling stage presence, challenging and entertaining the audience in equal measure. Gigs that consist almost entirely of unreleased material can be problematic (the Kings of Leon performance at Glastonbury 2004 seems a case in point), but this worked brilliantly, due at least in part to the quality of the material, but also ably assisted by the subtle and unusual qualities of her malleable musical ensemble.

Equally brilliant, albeit for very different reasons, is Mavis Staples’ collection of ‘freedom’ songs ‘We’ll Never Turn Back’. This is yet another career resurrection from the outstanding Anti label (also responsible for Solomon Burke’s ‘Don’t Give Up On Me’ and Bettye Lavette’s ‘I’ve Got My Own Hell To Raise’). Where the Feist album is reflective, melancholy and restrained, ‘We’ll Never Turn Back’ is fierce, steadfast, gutsy and committed in restating the relevance of these songs beyond the original civil rights movement (in which The Staple Singers of course played a crucial role).

Not content with having produced his own passionate but whimsical vision of a vanished America on ‘My Name is Buddy’, Ry Cooder also lends his considerable talents to this project both as a musician and producer. This record simply sounds wonderful – keeping the gospel spirit of these songs by sticking to traditional instrumentation, but with inventive playing and dynamics that give this powerful material a fresh questing imperative. Cooder’s own contributions on guitar and mandolin are dependably crisp and powerful, but Jim Keltner’s drumming is equally significant. Nobody plays a backbeat with the degree of accuracy that Keltner commands, and he invests each of these songs with a relentless force that, as one of the songs suggests, they will not be moved. ‘Ninety Nine and a Half’ even sounds like it could be a dance track – fusing the spirit of folk, gospel and disco. Cooder’s musical backdrops are a consistent reminder of the close links between the American folk tradition, gospel, blues and soul.

Mavis’ sleevenotes show that she is keenly aware of the social injustices and divisions that still characterise modern America, and there are thinly veiled attacks on the Bush administration throughout this record. Cooder and Staples add lyrics to the traditional songs (‘This Little Light of Mine’ now states ‘ain’t gonna fight in no rich man’s war’) and Staples frequently veers out into long half-spoken, half-sung extemporised sermons. The more sceptical among us might prefer to question Staples’ reliance on the Church in this context (particularly given the evangelical commitment to Bush’s administration), but Staples states her form of Christianity boldly and explicitly (‘My God is a loving God…a merciful God’), and this music has the uplifiting and inspirational qualities of the best gospel music. There’s also real insistence to both form and rhythm here, with repetition playing a strong part in ‘We Shall Not Be Moved’ and ‘Turn Me Around’.

Staples has lost some of her power and range in recent years, but in this context, her gritty, emphatic voice, with clear phrasing, sounds just right. The deeper end of her range still has a unique character too, as demonstrated clearly on the title track. This is clearly not just material with which she is familiar, but a collection of songs which can best channel her determination and spiritual commitment. Anyone with even the remotest interest in American cultural and social history should snap this up straight away, but that it also serves as a living, breathing document of America’s current predicament makes it all the more remarkable.

Of course, everyone else is rushing out for the second Arctic Monkeys album. Whilst I have no particular axe to grind against this band, the shape the reviews for this album are taking fascinates me as an example of the more cynical machinations of the music industry. The consensus seems to be that it represents a musical development from the much-lauded debut (not having heard it yet, I can't really judge this), yet it seems to have received a more measured four-star treatment than the hyperbolic five star, best British debut album nonsense heaped upon its predecessor. Paul Morley stated on Newsnight Review that 'Favourite Worst Nightmare' was 'the perfect soundtrack to the self-consciousness of the moment'. What the hell does that mean, Paul? And, yes, of course they were aware that it was their second album when they were making it. If Alex Turner is such a poetic genius, one would also expect him to be able to count. To my ears, 'Brianstorm' is a neat fusion of the limber white-boy funk of Franz Ferdinand with the taut guitar pop of The Libertines. Lyrically, it's characterised by joky rhymes and bad puns. In its observational style, it's hardly all that far removed from something like Blur's 'Charmless Man'. Nothing particularly wrong with any of that, but it's hardly an original vision.

The Great 2004 Catch-Up Attempt Part One

The recent paucity of posting on this blog is by no means indicative of a lack of quality music. In fact, the situation is quite the contrary as I am currently collapsing under the weight of recently acquired CDs and vinyl. There is so much to review that I will inevitably have to spread it across two, possibly even three posts. In a no doubt futile attempt to pick up all the key albums of the year before I have to complete an albums of the year list, I’ve been feverishly spending in the last couple of weeks!

Neko Case – The Tigers Have Spoken (Anti)

Whilst this quite charming live album has on the whole been blessed with good reviews, I’ve also been dismayed by some slightly snobbish comments as well. Apparently, as it’s a live album, it’s merely an adequate stop-gap before Neko Case returns next year with her next ‘proper’ album (i.e. a studio recording). Some have also been critical of backing band The Sadies, claiming that they fail to recreate the mysterious and ethereal atmosphere of the excellent ‘Blacklisted’ album. I say both arguments are nonsense. Perhaps it’s simply because live albums are becoming increasingly de rigueur these days that critics have become slightly jaded about them - witness entirely unnecessary cash-in DVD tie-in products from Busted, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Robbie Williams et al and Pearl Jam releasing virtually every concert they play. Naturally, ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ is not one of those albums. The Sadies may not be as boisterous as The New Pornographers or The Boyfriends, nor do they pile on too much reverb to attempt to recreate the ‘Blacklisted’ sound. Instead, they adopt a different approach, providing a rich and textured backdrop for Case’s stunning vocals – a sound appropriately steeped in country music history, but also with plenty of elegance and glamour.

One very simple reason why this live album feels special is that it contains a plethora of previously unreleased material, including new compositions as well as carefully selected cover versions. It demonstrates conclusively that Neko Case is both a gifted singer-songwriter and an interpretative performer of real quality, a rare commodity in the industry at the moment. It’s gratifying that such a spirited version of Loretta Lynn’s ‘Rated X’ can sit comfortably alongside a nuanced and balanced piece of songwriting such as the title track. Whereas sometimes records with a ‘classic’ sound can come across as self-conscious or antiquated, ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ shows that Case and her musicians have a real passion for the music they deliver. One of the best examples is opening track ‘If You Knew’, which has energy and emotional depth. It has an appealing twang to it, and Case’s vocal is filled with the soulful resonances of Patsy Cline or Tammy Wynette. Equally brilliant is the rendition of Buffy Sainte-Marie’s ‘Soulful Shade Of Blue’, which features some brilliant pedal steel guitar playing courtesy of John Rauhaus. Here, Case sounds perfectly in tune with her source material, committed and full of character.

Every track here charms because they all capture, with considerable success, the intimacy of small club live performance. This is particularly true of the ballads and traditional material, which Case handles as well as more uptempo contemporary styles. The closing ‘Wayfaring Stranger’ is compelling, and makes for an intriguing feminine counterpoint to Johnny Cash’s much darker, masculine recent version. Sometimes the sound quality is slightly muddy, as on the lilting ‘Hex’, but rather than being a limitation, this actually adds warmth and immediacy to the music. An album of considerable merit in its own right, ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ by no means feels like a stopgap release. Listening to this album, I find myself again enchanted by Neko Case’s haunting, hypnotic and graceful music.

The Arcade Fire – Funeral (Merge)

Here is a quite superb album, and a serious late contender for album of the year. And, behold, they are Canadians! This is one of those albums that, whilst ostensibly an ‘indie-rock’ record, also manages to veer beyond classification. There are elements of other critically favoured bands – the relentless chug of Grandaddy, the arty sensibilities of Franz Ferdinand and the cinematic scope of Mercury Rev spring most immediately to mind. Yet there is also much more than these somewhat superficial comparisons. The Arcade Fire have that brilliant ability to produce the best results from their material through intelligent arrangement and deft employment of studio technique. ‘Funeral’ rivals recent landmarks from Doves and Broken Social Scene for inventive use of the resources of the recording studio. It is also positively brimming with original ideas and carefully orchestrated myth-making, not least through the packaging, which looks more like a mediaeval manuscript than a CD inlay. Clearly a band after my heart!

Nearly half of this album is devoted to four songs under the banner title of ‘Neighbourhood’ – a song cycle with the motorik drive of Can and the angular qualities of Talking Heads or Gang of Four. These songs also have something more refreshing and possibly more unfashionable than these undeniably modish influences as there is an unashamed and keening romanticism. Neighbourhood #1, subtitled ‘Tunnels’ is located in a post-apocalyptic space where the neighbourhood has been buried in snow, and two lovers meet in tunnels connecting their homes. It has grand ascending keyboard chords and dense layers of guitars and it sounds rousing and engaging. Neighbourhood #2 begins with a comfortingly familiar groove with rumbling tom drums and lightly plucked high guitar chords. After just a few seconds though, it reaches a new level with the highly unpredictable entry of an accordion. Neighbourhood #3, subtitled ‘Power Out’ is about as close to dance music as rock gets, with its wiry, tightly controlled groove. The fourth and final song in the cycle is ‘Kettles’, which is softer and more reflective, demonstrating that this extraordinary band are as adept at constructing slow-burning, less lavish orchestrations.

Elsewhere, there is also a palpable melodic sense, particularly on ‘Une annee sans lumiere’ and ‘Crown of Love’. The vocals are have that slightly cracked vulnerability that inevitably evokes memories of Mercury Rev or The Flaming Lips. The Arcade Fire can also extrapolate ideas that initially seem merely intriguing into colossal statements. ‘Crown of Love’ and ‘Wake Up’ almost have too many ideas, but somehow all the disparate elements are brought together to make a weird kind of logical sense. The songs are enhanced by the different tones and timbres the band manage to eek out from their instruments. ‘Rebellion (Lies)’ builds on a remarkably simple harmonic foundation with lush strings (in part courtesy of Owen Pallett and Mike Olsen from The Hidden Cameras), handclaps, infectious backing vocals and chiming guitars. It’s repetitious, for sure, but also completely irresistible.

‘Funeral’ is consistently inventive, defiantly romantic and also shamelessly memorable. It is one of those rare albums that manages to be simultaneously mournful and uplifting. Whilst intended as a collection of songs for the departed, it also sounds fresh and energised. It ties together all of the qualities needed for great pop music in a way that seems distinctive and, most importantly, genuinely thrilling. Unfortunately, it’s only available on US import here at the moment (although at an unusually reasonable price). A UK bidding war for next year seems more than likely and some live dates simply cannot come soon enough.

Califone – Heron King Blues (Thrill Jockey)

I’m only about ten months behind the times with this one – but in a way it’s gratifying to know that there are still some good records from earlier in the year that I have somehow managed to neglect. ‘Heron King Blues’ is a somewhat abstruse document from a highly unusual band that, given time, reveals itself as a quietly compelling juxtaposition of old and new. In essence, this is a refashioning and modernisation of traditional blues forms but whereas The White Stripes frequently opt for piling on the distortion and thrashing drums, Califone opt for a more subtle, if no less minimalist approach. Much of this music is built upon drone and repetition, and with its dependence on lightly plucked guitars, Waitsian percussion foundations and twanging banjos, it comes across like a countrified Steve Reich or Gavin Bryars.

The seven tracks here, most of them lengthy, display simple harmonic ideas which are extended to their logical conclusions. It frequently works very well, such as on the percussive ‘Trick Bird’ and ‘Sawtooth Sung A Cheater’s Song’ although the approach to melody is abstract and occasionally frustratingly elusive. There are times when the tracks require a more concrete, identifiable melodic feature. Nevertheless, the sound is fascinating, combining swampy blues textures with electronics and modern rhythmic interventions. The fourteen minute epic ‘2 Sisters Drunk On Each Other’ is clearly intended as the major track here. It’s certainly full of ideas, and it veers from a funky improvised groove to a repeating banjo loop. It’s a track that would have been ripe for analysis in the excellent (if characteristically dry) feature on the riff as a compositional tool that dominates the current issue of The Wire magazine. ‘Heron King Blues’ demonstrates considerable potential and is definitely worth investigating.

Khonnor – Handwriting (Type)

This is an intriguing debut from seventeen year-old Connor Kirby-Long, and in some quarters he is already being hailed as some kind of prodigy. I’m not sure that excessive hyperbole will help him much, as ‘Handwriting’ is more a set of skeletal ideas that could benefit from bolder realisation next time. It is the coherent and distinctive sound of the album as a whole that most impresses – a combination of acoustic strum and laptop textures that loosely resembles the current breed of electronic improvisers such as Christian Fennesz, although these ideas are filtered through more conventional song structures.

It’s relaxed and hazy almost to the point of being soporific but many of the songs here do repay close attention. With its mix of cascasding guitar, fuzzy drum loop and layered backing vocals, ‘Crapstone’ sounds hypnotic and otherworldy. The stark piano chords of ‘Kill2’ are haunting and mysterious. Best of all is ‘Phone Calls From You’, which is remarkably direct and moving in its own fuzzy way. On most of these tracks, Khonnor has left his muted voice hushed and low in the mix, giving it a feeling of impassive distance and detachment that seems appropriate for the calm melancholy of the music. Occasionally, it feels a little tentative, but with the benefit of experience, such quibbles will no doubt be ironed out.

Slightly more problematic are the lyrics which are sparse and unpoetic, almost like Haikus. Sometimes this approach works well, conveying emotions in the simplest and most direct of terms. The lyrics are certainly best when they do not rhyme, when Khonnor does reach for a more conventional approach, the results are somewhat forced, notably on ‘An Ape Is Loose’ which has the unfortunate opening image: ‘The night I called you on the phone/Your eyes were sealed with styrofoam’. Much better is ‘A Little Secret’ which sets an elusive tale of an unnamed person reading the contents of a letter and crying to a New Order-esque strum and electronic backbeat. It is all the more successful because we do not even the name of the central character in the song and we are not allowed to discover the contents of the letter. We are left only able to imaging the devastating contents of the letter.

There’s certainly a somewhat maudlin quality to the album as a whole, and Khonnor would appear to have learnt a great deal from his heroes Morrissey, My Bloody Valentine and Radiohead. Personally, I hope that the follow-up to this record employs some humour or irony to balance the wistful regret and slight tinge of self-pity, but for now this distinctive debut will certainly suffice.

Various Artists – Dave Godin’s Deep Soul Treasures Volume 4 (Kent)

It was with tremendous sadness that I opened this month’s Mojo magazine to discover the sad news of Dave Godin’s death. I was saddened first of all for the loss of one of the most passionate and genuine voices in music promotion, but also because the news of his death had not been more widely reported. It is such a shame that Godin remained a largely unknown figure. Godin ran a record label dedicated to publishing great rare soul music which otherwise would have remained unheard, and also owned his own record store. Most importantly, in his influential column for Blues and Soul magazine, Godin coined the terms ‘northern soul’ and ‘deep soul’. Whilst the first term refers to a genuine movement centred on the mod rare soul clubs of Manchester, the latter term arguably refers to something more spurious. It is this sub-genre that has provided the focus for his more recent tireless work as a compiler. The Deep Soul Treasures CDs are essential purchases for anyone with even a passing interest in classic soul music. By setting some rare gems alongside more familiar artists, they have enabled me to collect some of the very greatest soul singles whilst also introducing me to a plethora of soul vocalists of which I was entirely ignorant. Godin’s own liner notes reveal the tragedy of the vast number of hugely talented vocalists left languishing without funding or label backing. Many of the greatest records on these collections ended up being one-offs.

It’s arguable that Volume 4 of this collection is blunted slightly by familiarity, and by the fact that Godin had already spread so many great sides across the previous three sets. Still, there’s still a wealth of great stuff here, from neglected versions of established classics (Roy Hamilton’s take on ‘Dark End Of The Street’) to complete unknowns (Jaibi’s ‘It Was Like A Nightmare’, Matilda Jones’ awesome ‘Wrong Too Long) to the almost over-familiar (Clarence Carter’s ‘Slip Away’, Irma Thomas’ classic original version of ‘Time Is On My Side’ and The Miracles’ utterly peerless ‘Tracks Of My Tears’). The latter selections seem a little perverse as they are already on countless other soul compilations, but ‘Tracks of My Tears’ is one of my all time favourite singles (if not the very greatest), with its mercilessly concise but overwhelmingly brilliant lyric and an arrangement that is as close to perfection as pop music can get. Any compilation can only be enriched by its presence.

Volume 4 does benefit from containing a more diverse range of selections. The pace is still largely slow and mournful – with Godin favouring the emotional sweep and grand expression which characterises the deep soul movement., but this is also a collection filled with resonant, deeply powerful music delivered with character and gusto. Some of the very best singers are here, from the towering but vastly underrated voice of Garnet Mimms (‘My Baby’ is just one of the many tracks that demonstrate him to have been the true heir to Sam Cooke’s gospel soul crown). Bobby Bland delivers the gutsy, bluesy ‘I Pity The Fool’ and from Gladys Knight and the Pips there is the colossal ‘Giving Up’.

or the most part, these recordings sound pure, free from the interventions and impositions of developing technology. There is a rawness and spontaneity to the best tracks, despite their frequently lavish orchestrations. The rhythm sections of these soul house bands contain dynamic and tightly controlled playing that also helps to highlight the emotional gravity of the material. Most significant though are the brilliant vocalists, who frequently exert mastery over their instrument, expressing anguish whilst also reigning in the more tempting excesses. These are kitchen sink epics of love and loss that build to staggering heights, proving that pop music can capture universal themes with profoundly devastating impact. Godin’s final liner notes again demonstrate the range and depth of his passion for the music, as well as his vast knowledge of the field. This collection stands as a final great addition to a classic series of compilations. As an introduction to the most nakedly emotional styles of soul singing, they are indispensable.

Re:Invention

£150?!?! Think about it, pop fans. Someone is having a laugh at your expense. This is the cost of the best seats for Madonna's one night only show at Earls Court as part of her Re:Invention tour. If you can only afford a mere £50 you'll have to be content to sit at the very back, content to watch a mere speck dancing around the stage. Still, at least the speck will probably change costume quite a lot. Are 101 costume changes really worth that kind of money though - and is it really worth £100 more to be at the very front of Earls Court - that place is a cavernous hell hole regardless of where you're seated. I won't be attending - but I'm hoping the title of the tour isn't a misnomer. For much of her career, Madonna has made self-reinvention a habit, cultivating a perpetually shifting image and persona. In recent years, however, she seems to have settled into a more predictable maturity. She had become consistent and dependable. Occasionally, this has produced fantastic pop music (most of 'Ray of Light' and the less self-conscious moments on 'Music'). The 'American Life' album seems a little staid and graceless - it's no real step forward from 'Music' and doesn't seem to add much to her iconic legend. She's never been the greatest of singers either - she can hold a tune, but has little expression or control. She is therefore better described as an intelligent entertainer. At that price, she had better be entertaining - she had better re-invent herself again.

Another artist seemingly obsessed with re-invention is Prince. And he's back on a major record label. Sony have agreed to distribute his new album 'Musicology' worldwide. It's not as if Prince ever went away - initially his irrational madness and impulsive behaviour made for entertaining speculation, even whilst the quality of his output was deteriorating markedly. More recently, however, he seems to have become an elusive, even marginal figure. Reportedly an active Jehovah's Witness - and making preposterous concept albums such as N.E.W.S. available from his website, he has remained prolific, without connecting with the millions of people that admire his best work. I heard the title track from the new album on radio 2 last night - which was bizarre in itself - it's been ages since I last heard a brand new Prince track on a national radio network. It's instantly recognisable as Prince - and is characterised by his full and adventurous vocal arrangements. Musically, it doesn't sound all that audacious, despite its lack of formal structure, but that's maybe just because Prince pushed the envelope as far as he could during the 80s with his string of classic albums. Nobody else has produced a body of work as consistently astonishing as his albums from Dirty Mind through to Sign O' The Times, certainly not his legions of imitators. It seems that now he's re-embraced the name everyone knows so well, and returned to the commercial world, we'll be hearing a lot more of him.

Reinvention is certainly the name of the game on the new album from Bonnie 'Prince' Billy. Will Oldham has obviously enjoyed confounding expectations here, taking a fan-voted selection of his greatest songs under the Palace moniker, and re-recording them with a selection of extremely proficient Nashville session musicians. Much of this album is remarkably cheesy - there are full vocal choirs, glockenspiels, unashamed lead guitar frills and even sax solos. None of these things are what we have come to expect from the usually stark, darkly humorous songs of the last three Bonnie 'Prince' Billy albums. Some of the songs actually benefit from unrestrained and expansive arrangements. 'Ohio River Boat Song' - essentially a folk song in its original form anyway - works perfectly as a slice of honky tonk Americana, with plenty of rapturous pedal steel. The new version of 'Riding' is as dark as anything he's produced, with a sinister string arrangement from the extremely talented Andrew Bird (check out his album 'Weather Systems' on Fargo records - it's well worth a listen). Elsewhere, Oldham just seems to revel in pushing things to almost comic extremes - the cooing choir on 'The Brute Choir' being the most obvious example. 'New Partner', one of his very best songs, is smothered in brass and guitar for an almost gospel re-take. I find it undeniably stirring, but some people seem to resent Oldham for burying the tune at the heart of the song. Whatever your take on these new recordings - they certainly make for a striking contrast with the sparce, occasionally aimless atmospherics of his last album ('Master and Everyone'). At the very least, they make a convincing case for Oldham as a significant artist, striving not to repeat himself. He is still a genuine original, sometimes deeply moving, often wilfully unpredictable.

So - what am I doing to re-invent myself? At the very least, I'm going to enjoy my trip to Scotland this weekend, which is a well-earned break and a chance to catch up with some close friends. I'm in a state of limbo, not writing or recording music, barely even performing it, certainly not working with it. I need to kick some doors down, create something interesting, vent my frustrations, be more pro-active.