5x2 (Dir: Francois Ozon)
This new film from Francois Ozon, the enfant terrible of French cinema, appears to have divided critics somewhat and I must admit that I was surprised by my own somewhat ambivalent feelings towards it. Ozon strikes me as one of the most promising among younger directors, and I would happily deploy him as armour to bolster my argument against those tedious ‘golden age theorists’ who think cinema is in a state of terminal decline. He has made films that veer from the wilfully perverse (‘Criminal Lovers’, ‘Sitcom’) to the lightweight and farcical (‘8 Women’, ‘Swimming Pool’ ‘Sitcom’) via a brilliantly intense examination of grief and loss (‘Under The Sand’) that remains his finest work to date. He has demonstrated both his prolificacy (a new film seems to emerge every year) and his deftness of touch arguably more successfully than the similarly lauded Michael Winterbottom, who may yet prove to be a jack of all trades but master of none.
‘5x2’ is without doubt his most mature and technically accomplished film yet. It is closest to ‘Under The Sand’ in atmosphere and impact. Like Mike Leigh’s recent ‘Vera Drake’, this film effectively utilises close-ups and claustrophobic theatrical situations to deconstruct its portrait of a disintegrating marriage. Like Gaspar Noe’s recent shocker ‘Irreversible’, it tells its story backwards, but with a much greater degree of subtlety. In fact, it may be the case that this film is too subtle – by leaving far more unstated than it includes, it proves somewhat elusive.
It begins superbly, with the divorce of its two protagonists – an uncomfortable office scene demonstrating cannily how a once emotional intimacy has been reduced to legalistic terminology, the rubble of a collapsed love. Ozon’s greatest success in this movie is to have the couple go to a hotel for one final act of love, rather than merely going their separate ways. What follows is the most torrid and uncomfortable sex scene I have ever witnessed in the cinema, and one that merits far more column inches than any of the ‘real sex’ in Winterbottom’s apparently simplistic ‘9 Songs’. It begins uneasily enough, but when she appears to change her mind, it appears to become rape. By virtue of the backward arc of the narrative, these moral complications are left unexamined, and we are left with a somewhat complicated view of Gilles, the husband, as the film progresses, and one, which I must admit left me viewing him in a somewhat unsympathetic light for the entire duration of the film.
The middle sections of the film are equally complex and problematic. Ozon depicts a party where Gilles’ homosexual brother and his new boyfriend, a blandly handsome and unashamedly promiscuous Mediterranean type come round for dinner, alcohol and soft drugs, and a rather stilted examination of conventional and unconventional relationships ensues. The results are appropriately uneasy – but I do wonder if this is the kind of conversation real people have at dinner parties. It’s essential for Ozon’s narrative structure that it appears – but does it really shed any light on the mystery of human relationships beyond the merely prosaic? Although this is the least camp of Ozon’s films, he seems unable to resist the introduction of a gay element here, and it just feels a little incongruous given the closed, introverted nature of its central couple. Also, using homosexuality as a means of elucidating differences between ‘conventional’ and ‘unconventional’ relationships strikes me as an entirely unnecessary and unhelpful dichotomy (this film will only reinforce the opinion held by evangelicals and right-wingers that homosexuality threatens to destroy the institution of marriage) – but that’s for an entirely different discussion.
Ozon then moves to depict the birth of their child, in complicated medical circumstances, with real technical mastery. This is the one section of the film where I felt an emotional connection with the characters, and it was a careful, controlled examination of how one central event can undermine intimacy and trust between two people. When Gilles fails to appear at the birth to support his wife, there is a sense of palpable inevitability (especially given the reverse structure of the film) – a line has been crossed and the consequences will not be reversed. The earlier scenes, where we see Gilles bonding intimately with his son far more than with his wife, are now thrown into much sharper focus by this section of the film, and his unsympathetic character more carefully illuminated.
The marriage sequence shows us the untainted abandon and excitement of romance effectively, but it is also where Ozon makes his most significant misstep. By introducing a nameless hunk to tempt Marion into adultery on their wedding night, Ozon indulges his taste for the palpably absurd. It’s almost as if, to provide some balance for his resolutely unsympathetic portrait of Gilles, he has to give Marion a flaw of her own. Unfortunately, this scene is just so clunky and mishandled that the tactic misfires spectacularly, leaving the audience confused and frustrated. It also seems to imply that the marriage was doomed from the very outset – which gives the film an even greater sense of overbearing inevitability.
The final holiday resort scenes, which finally show us where Marion and Gilles first meet, are quietly charming, but the character of Gilles’ former girlfriend of four years seems tokenistic and underwritten, and her outpourings of jealousy and frustration seem like stereotyped and conventional female responses to the encroaching threat of ‘the other woman’, whether real or imagined. Again, Ozon’s direction is more subtle than his writing, and we are left with the sense that these early flourishings of intimacy are left underplayed and are something of a missed opportunity.
Some people may feel moved by this film’s conclusion, and may feel that the reverse narrative adds dramatic and emotional weight. Others may feel that it adds only cynicism and inevitability to an already slight portrayal of a disintegrating marriage. I felt sandwiched uncomfortably between these opposing viewpoints. I desparately wanted to react without cynicism to this accomplished piece of film-making – but it would be giving Ozon too much dramatic license to ignore this film’s significant flaws. Given his love of theatre, and his comfortable handling of comedy and farce in earlier pictures, it is a surprise that its Ozon’s writing here that lets him down somewhat. I felt we needed to know more about this film’s central characters – not even the most intense of marriages can possibly exist in complete isolation. The film is excellent and effective in portraying honestly the profoundly irrational actions of human beings (Gilles does not seem to know why he cannot bring himself to support Marion during childbirth). A lesser director would have made a film where the characters’ actions were more calculated and less convincing (and this makes the film’s two major slips – the dinner party conversation and Marion’s wedding-night temptation) seem even more superfluous. ‘5x2’ is as engrossing a film as one might expect from Ozon – but it doesn’t achieve the poignancy and profundity of Bergman, arguably the best director of these claustrophobic pieces (‘5x2’ will inevitably be compared unfavourably with ‘Scenes From A Marriage’, or perhaps more appropriately with its imminent sequel ‘Saraband’). Still, perhaps at this stage that kind of creative brilliance is an unrealistic expectation – and Ozon is a less weighty and more playful director than Bergman anyway. It may be satisfying enough that he is continuing to develop his control and technique, expanding his range along the way.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Good Things Come To Those Who Wait
Rilo Kiley at the Marquee 16/3/05
I normally hate all seated gigs, but a chair would have been a great relief at this one. I haven’t been kept waiting for a band this long since the days of the Cambridge Boat Race, where, lovely venue thought it was, they frequently spent three times as much time setting up as the band spent on stage. It was 10pm by the time they finally appeared, and thoughts of missing the last train home did begin to enter my mind around this time.
This was all made much worse by the cloyingly earnest performance from support act Marc Carroll. He is the kind of ‘artist’ that makes the term ‘singer-songwriter’ sound horribly offensive. Every line was hammed-up and overwrought, every chord strummed with an unpleasant and grating faux intensity. This quite literally heavy-handed strumming style was so relentless and uniform that it made the numerous guitar changes seem like mere window dressing. Unfortunately, you can't polish a turd. That being said, ‘Crash Pad Number’ was at least a pleasant slice of Byrdsian jangle pop, even if it did bear more than a passing resemblance to ‘Manic Monday’ (Prince wrote that y’know, a piece of pop trivia considerably more interesting than anything Carroll’s career will ever result in).
Rilo Kiley’s performance has drawn some harsh criticism from some quarters, not least from John Kell, who has declared Rilo Kiley to be MOR. I sort of see where he is coming from – they are more glossy and less lyrically substantial than many of the glowing reviews of their albums have accounted for, and there was an unexpected emphasis on fuzzy dual guitar solos in a vaguely 70s FM radio rock style. Yet, ‘MOR’ has always struck me as an overused and somewhat unhelpful term and, to these ears at least, there was little that was Middle of the Road about this performance. It was technically impressive, with some striking slide guitar flourishes, and surprising levels of rhythmic inventiveness where so many alt. Country combos are merely functional. At times, the dazzling musicianship was thrilling and the intricate arrangements always fascinating. I'm slightly wary of simply dismissing quality musicianship as MOR, and Rilo Kiley are most certainly not Keane. If we’re going to use one of those annoying critical terms (and be frustratingly pedantic at the same time), we might better dub Rilo Kiley AOR. They are perfectly pitched at the Word Magazine readership (Word promoted tonight’s show) and are most likely to appeal to mature, middle-aged, reasonably conservative listeners, rather than some of the surprising number of indie kids in the audience. Not only this, but they also bolster their sound a little for live performance, frequently emphasising the rock element to their sound as much as the country. Occasionally this spills into self-indulgence, as the biting ‘Does He Love You?’ disintegrates into a rather aimless jam session.
Jenny Lewis and Blake Sennett make for a slightly unusual pairing at the front – he looks like your typical indie fop, and she could easily be the queen of a beauty pageant. Her voice lacks rough edges, but is engaging, and her phrasing is crisp. She is let down tonight by a slightly problematic sound mix, which swamps her understated delivery beneath the wall of guitars. Still, ‘Portions For Foxes’ is more energetic than on record, and ‘I Never’ sounds suitably sultry. Best of all was a brand new song, which had a slightly unconventional melody, and demonstrated that this band are still expanding their reach.
The Arcade Fire gig earlier this month ended with a spectacular set-piece bringing band and audience closer together, and Rilo Kiley conclude proceedings with a similarly good natured flourish. They invite Word’s Andrew Harrison and members of the audience to invade the stage for a singalong finale of ‘With Arms Outstretched’ (from ‘The Execution of All Things’), one of their sweetest songs and, as it turns out, clearly a fan favourite. It left me feeling somewhat warm and sentimental.
Whilst this music will certainly not change the world, I very much enjoyed this set, and it marked Rilo Kiley out as genuinely worthy songwriters, rather than the mere pretentions at worthiness that characterise the likes of Damien Dempsey or indeed Marc Carroll. I concede that they will need to be braver with future releases (I suspect that, despite the assumptions of its title, 'More Adventurous' is probably neither more nor less adventurous than its immediate predecessor). The one new song here hinted that this might be a realistic possibility - let's hope so.
I normally hate all seated gigs, but a chair would have been a great relief at this one. I haven’t been kept waiting for a band this long since the days of the Cambridge Boat Race, where, lovely venue thought it was, they frequently spent three times as much time setting up as the band spent on stage. It was 10pm by the time they finally appeared, and thoughts of missing the last train home did begin to enter my mind around this time.
This was all made much worse by the cloyingly earnest performance from support act Marc Carroll. He is the kind of ‘artist’ that makes the term ‘singer-songwriter’ sound horribly offensive. Every line was hammed-up and overwrought, every chord strummed with an unpleasant and grating faux intensity. This quite literally heavy-handed strumming style was so relentless and uniform that it made the numerous guitar changes seem like mere window dressing. Unfortunately, you can't polish a turd. That being said, ‘Crash Pad Number’ was at least a pleasant slice of Byrdsian jangle pop, even if it did bear more than a passing resemblance to ‘Manic Monday’ (Prince wrote that y’know, a piece of pop trivia considerably more interesting than anything Carroll’s career will ever result in).
Rilo Kiley’s performance has drawn some harsh criticism from some quarters, not least from John Kell, who has declared Rilo Kiley to be MOR. I sort of see where he is coming from – they are more glossy and less lyrically substantial than many of the glowing reviews of their albums have accounted for, and there was an unexpected emphasis on fuzzy dual guitar solos in a vaguely 70s FM radio rock style. Yet, ‘MOR’ has always struck me as an overused and somewhat unhelpful term and, to these ears at least, there was little that was Middle of the Road about this performance. It was technically impressive, with some striking slide guitar flourishes, and surprising levels of rhythmic inventiveness where so many alt. Country combos are merely functional. At times, the dazzling musicianship was thrilling and the intricate arrangements always fascinating. I'm slightly wary of simply dismissing quality musicianship as MOR, and Rilo Kiley are most certainly not Keane. If we’re going to use one of those annoying critical terms (and be frustratingly pedantic at the same time), we might better dub Rilo Kiley AOR. They are perfectly pitched at the Word Magazine readership (Word promoted tonight’s show) and are most likely to appeal to mature, middle-aged, reasonably conservative listeners, rather than some of the surprising number of indie kids in the audience. Not only this, but they also bolster their sound a little for live performance, frequently emphasising the rock element to their sound as much as the country. Occasionally this spills into self-indulgence, as the biting ‘Does He Love You?’ disintegrates into a rather aimless jam session.
Jenny Lewis and Blake Sennett make for a slightly unusual pairing at the front – he looks like your typical indie fop, and she could easily be the queen of a beauty pageant. Her voice lacks rough edges, but is engaging, and her phrasing is crisp. She is let down tonight by a slightly problematic sound mix, which swamps her understated delivery beneath the wall of guitars. Still, ‘Portions For Foxes’ is more energetic than on record, and ‘I Never’ sounds suitably sultry. Best of all was a brand new song, which had a slightly unconventional melody, and demonstrated that this band are still expanding their reach.
The Arcade Fire gig earlier this month ended with a spectacular set-piece bringing band and audience closer together, and Rilo Kiley conclude proceedings with a similarly good natured flourish. They invite Word’s Andrew Harrison and members of the audience to invade the stage for a singalong finale of ‘With Arms Outstretched’ (from ‘The Execution of All Things’), one of their sweetest songs and, as it turns out, clearly a fan favourite. It left me feeling somewhat warm and sentimental.
Whilst this music will certainly not change the world, I very much enjoyed this set, and it marked Rilo Kiley out as genuinely worthy songwriters, rather than the mere pretentions at worthiness that characterise the likes of Damien Dempsey or indeed Marc Carroll. I concede that they will need to be braver with future releases (I suspect that, despite the assumptions of its title, 'More Adventurous' is probably neither more nor less adventurous than its immediate predecessor). The one new song here hinted that this might be a realistic possibility - let's hope so.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Death Becomes Them
The Arcade Fire, King's College Student Union, 8th March 2005
I don’t normally go in for hyperbole, but this really was something quite special. Besides, I got there before the NME anyway. The anticipation for The Arcade Fire’s first gig outside North America had reached feverish levels seemingly entirely by word of mouth (and the web), the gig having comfortably sold out before the NME fell into rapture over the wonderful ‘Funeral’ album. There were several important people in the audience, including Steve Lamacq and XFM’s John Kennedy and also, so I’m reliably informed, Bjork. These people are not the nation’s tastemakers for nothing – and in this case, they should be lauded for lending their support to this remarkable band.
If anything, The Arcade Fire are a more invigorating and distinctive prospect live than on record. From the word go, they are a band that manage to appear intensely serious (or maybe seriously intense?) about their work, but also thrillingly entertaining. Whilst much of this is down to how they look on stage (they all look slightly odd and are dressed in dark suits), the music and the performance are even more captivating. They open with ‘Wake Up’, one of the more immediate songs on ‘Funeral’, its insistent one chord attack giving way to an entirely unpredictable change of pace and feel. With all six members of the band singing loudly in unison, it delivers a palpable sense of drama and occasion that immediately marks this band out for larger territories than student union bars.
From the outset, this is a set that, while necessarily mostly drawing on the immediately familiar material from ‘Funeral’, remains engaging and unpredictable, full of unexpected twists and turns. These twists take various guises, from the carefully plotted merging of two of their most rhythmically insistent tracks (‘The Power Out’ and ‘Rebellion (Lies)’), to the fearless instrument swapping, sometimes mid-song. There is a vast plethora of instruments on stage, from the conventional guitars-bass-keyboards-drums set up to the more unusual varieties of percussion (glockenspiel and steel drum) and accordion. They utilise these instruments ingeniously, so that the gig is as much a visual spectacle as an astonishing display of musical invention (witness one member wearing a motorcycle helmet and then proceeding to hit it repeatedly, before moving to the side of the stage to give the PA stack a good beating). The sound has remarkable clarity for a basic bar venue, and every detail is clearly audible. Whilst ‘Funeral’ may have resulted from the deaths of several family members during writing and recording, its songs are also unfashionably romantic, and are essentially thrilling escapist dreams that translate brilliantly to live performance.
The band seem genuinely overwhelmed by the warm reception – and the banter does not extend much beyond slightly uncomfortable thank yous. No big problem, however, as they save the best for last. After their elegant, mysterious rendition of Talking Heads’ ‘This Must Be The Place’ (David Byrne joined them onstage in New York earlier this year) and a final, elaborate and highly theatrical delivery of album closer ‘In The Backseat’ (where the lead vocals are delivered with dramatic precision by Regine Chassagne), the band appear to disappear from the stage, but beating drums and ghostly voices are still clearly audible. The realisation suddenly dawns that the band themselves are snaking through the crowd – a quite brilliant ending to a wonderful performance. No matter how seriously they may take themselves, or indeed how intensely worshipped they may be by the music press, this is clearly not a band that intends to neglect its audience. Whether they will be able to repeat this trick when they play the larger Astoria Theatre in June remains to be seen – but either way, that is a gig which those not lucky enough to grab a ticket for this show simply must attend.
A whole batch of album reviews to follow soon....
I don’t normally go in for hyperbole, but this really was something quite special. Besides, I got there before the NME anyway. The anticipation for The Arcade Fire’s first gig outside North America had reached feverish levels seemingly entirely by word of mouth (and the web), the gig having comfortably sold out before the NME fell into rapture over the wonderful ‘Funeral’ album. There were several important people in the audience, including Steve Lamacq and XFM’s John Kennedy and also, so I’m reliably informed, Bjork. These people are not the nation’s tastemakers for nothing – and in this case, they should be lauded for lending their support to this remarkable band.
If anything, The Arcade Fire are a more invigorating and distinctive prospect live than on record. From the word go, they are a band that manage to appear intensely serious (or maybe seriously intense?) about their work, but also thrillingly entertaining. Whilst much of this is down to how they look on stage (they all look slightly odd and are dressed in dark suits), the music and the performance are even more captivating. They open with ‘Wake Up’, one of the more immediate songs on ‘Funeral’, its insistent one chord attack giving way to an entirely unpredictable change of pace and feel. With all six members of the band singing loudly in unison, it delivers a palpable sense of drama and occasion that immediately marks this band out for larger territories than student union bars.
From the outset, this is a set that, while necessarily mostly drawing on the immediately familiar material from ‘Funeral’, remains engaging and unpredictable, full of unexpected twists and turns. These twists take various guises, from the carefully plotted merging of two of their most rhythmically insistent tracks (‘The Power Out’ and ‘Rebellion (Lies)’), to the fearless instrument swapping, sometimes mid-song. There is a vast plethora of instruments on stage, from the conventional guitars-bass-keyboards-drums set up to the more unusual varieties of percussion (glockenspiel and steel drum) and accordion. They utilise these instruments ingeniously, so that the gig is as much a visual spectacle as an astonishing display of musical invention (witness one member wearing a motorcycle helmet and then proceeding to hit it repeatedly, before moving to the side of the stage to give the PA stack a good beating). The sound has remarkable clarity for a basic bar venue, and every detail is clearly audible. Whilst ‘Funeral’ may have resulted from the deaths of several family members during writing and recording, its songs are also unfashionably romantic, and are essentially thrilling escapist dreams that translate brilliantly to live performance.
The band seem genuinely overwhelmed by the warm reception – and the banter does not extend much beyond slightly uncomfortable thank yous. No big problem, however, as they save the best for last. After their elegant, mysterious rendition of Talking Heads’ ‘This Must Be The Place’ (David Byrne joined them onstage in New York earlier this year) and a final, elaborate and highly theatrical delivery of album closer ‘In The Backseat’ (where the lead vocals are delivered with dramatic precision by Regine Chassagne), the band appear to disappear from the stage, but beating drums and ghostly voices are still clearly audible. The realisation suddenly dawns that the band themselves are snaking through the crowd – a quite brilliant ending to a wonderful performance. No matter how seriously they may take themselves, or indeed how intensely worshipped they may be by the music press, this is clearly not a band that intends to neglect its audience. Whether they will be able to repeat this trick when they play the larger Astoria Theatre in June remains to be seen – but either way, that is a gig which those not lucky enough to grab a ticket for this show simply must attend.
A whole batch of album reviews to follow soon....
Monday, February 21, 2005
Slow and Steady Wins The Race
Well I promised posts over the weekend, and have failed in my duty largely due to vegetating in front of Snooker on the TV (if there is a true genius in sport right now, it’s surely Ronnie O’Sullivan, anything but slow and steady this weekend – more frantic and unstoppable). Nevertheless, whilst only really half awake, I did make it to the Royal Festival Hall to catch Low, a band I’ve been meaning to see live for years, and have never quite got round to it. Perhaps sleepiness is not the best state to be in for this band, even with the slightly weightier material from their new album, they are still as stately and understated as ever.
Still – sleep was not an option during the mercifully brief set from the London Dirthole Collective. What a cacophony! Four percussionists beat out exactly the same perfunctory rhythms on their skeletal drum kits, guitarists stab at spiky two chord riffs, and the singer babbles incomprehensible gibberish tunelessly over the top. It was either riotous genius or mindless crap. I err towards the latter.
Second support act Kid Dakota made for a welcome contrast. Yet another two-piece band (although they were joined by Low’s Zak Sally on bass for the final few songs), they had some powerful moments, thanks largely to the singer’s distinctive, slightly abrasive voice, and an unusually aggressive take on the usual Americana influences. Low have been touring the States with Pedro the Lion (and particularly aware readers will recognise that the title of this post is a reference to that band) – what a treat that would have been. Despite the manifest qualities of Kid Dakota, probably a prospect I would have relished a good deal more than this uneasy, confrontational line-up.
Low themselves were reliably sublime – and, perhaps more surprisingly, a rare lesson in how to craft a world of intriguing sounds from a bank of guitar effects pedals. Laden with reverb, Alan Sparhawk’s guitar sounded impressively full-bodied, and otherworldly. It had real engaging presence during some of the newer numbers, particularly a thrusting and engaging ‘Monkey’, the crisp and unusually infectious ‘California’ and it also added texture and poise to the more subtle, beautifully distant ‘Silver Rider’. Underpinning all was the rumbling, menacing presence of Zak Sally, whose bass playing was both more audible and more expressive than it is on record, and the skeletal, rudimentary beatings of Mimi Parker.
Like Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker are a husband and wife team who harmonise with unbelievable clarity and beauty. Minimal, delicate songs are rendered powerfully moving due to both the poetic intimacy of the lyrics and the smooth intertwining of the voices. The sound is something akin to a spider’s web, elegantly crafted, but with a brittle vulnerability that makes it even more enticing. It all comes together perfectly in the encore, where they play a brilliantly balanced combination of ‘Sunflower’ and the early song ‘Fear’ (on the request of their sound engineer).
There is also much warmth from the band during the obligatory banter – they thank us all for funding their families for so long. Whilst tuning his guitar, Sparhawk asks the audience if there is anything they want to get off their chests. When one shouts out ‘I don’t like Brussels Sprouts’, he replies with scorn: ‘Is that the best you can do – I was hoping for something more profound.’
My only gripe was the brevity of the set. With the two encores taken into account, they played up to the 11pm curfew, but it still felt there was a relative paucity of material. They got through the bulk of the new album, but didn’t manage all of it (I would have liked to hear the uncharacteristically breezy ‘Just Stand Back’ in live performance), and there were only a handful of old tracks. Still, when these include the masterful ‘Laser Beam’, in which Mimi Parker’s voice gets to work its magic free from Sparkawk’s earthier tones and the mysterious, elusive ‘(That’s How You Sing) Amazing Grace’, it’s probably churlish to complain. Still, why no ‘Dinosaur Act’?!?
Still – sleep was not an option during the mercifully brief set from the London Dirthole Collective. What a cacophony! Four percussionists beat out exactly the same perfunctory rhythms on their skeletal drum kits, guitarists stab at spiky two chord riffs, and the singer babbles incomprehensible gibberish tunelessly over the top. It was either riotous genius or mindless crap. I err towards the latter.
Second support act Kid Dakota made for a welcome contrast. Yet another two-piece band (although they were joined by Low’s Zak Sally on bass for the final few songs), they had some powerful moments, thanks largely to the singer’s distinctive, slightly abrasive voice, and an unusually aggressive take on the usual Americana influences. Low have been touring the States with Pedro the Lion (and particularly aware readers will recognise that the title of this post is a reference to that band) – what a treat that would have been. Despite the manifest qualities of Kid Dakota, probably a prospect I would have relished a good deal more than this uneasy, confrontational line-up.
Low themselves were reliably sublime – and, perhaps more surprisingly, a rare lesson in how to craft a world of intriguing sounds from a bank of guitar effects pedals. Laden with reverb, Alan Sparhawk’s guitar sounded impressively full-bodied, and otherworldly. It had real engaging presence during some of the newer numbers, particularly a thrusting and engaging ‘Monkey’, the crisp and unusually infectious ‘California’ and it also added texture and poise to the more subtle, beautifully distant ‘Silver Rider’. Underpinning all was the rumbling, menacing presence of Zak Sally, whose bass playing was both more audible and more expressive than it is on record, and the skeletal, rudimentary beatings of Mimi Parker.
Like Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker are a husband and wife team who harmonise with unbelievable clarity and beauty. Minimal, delicate songs are rendered powerfully moving due to both the poetic intimacy of the lyrics and the smooth intertwining of the voices. The sound is something akin to a spider’s web, elegantly crafted, but with a brittle vulnerability that makes it even more enticing. It all comes together perfectly in the encore, where they play a brilliantly balanced combination of ‘Sunflower’ and the early song ‘Fear’ (on the request of their sound engineer).
There is also much warmth from the band during the obligatory banter – they thank us all for funding their families for so long. Whilst tuning his guitar, Sparhawk asks the audience if there is anything they want to get off their chests. When one shouts out ‘I don’t like Brussels Sprouts’, he replies with scorn: ‘Is that the best you can do – I was hoping for something more profound.’
My only gripe was the brevity of the set. With the two encores taken into account, they played up to the 11pm curfew, but it still felt there was a relative paucity of material. They got through the bulk of the new album, but didn’t manage all of it (I would have liked to hear the uncharacteristically breezy ‘Just Stand Back’ in live performance), and there were only a handful of old tracks. Still, when these include the masterful ‘Laser Beam’, in which Mimi Parker’s voice gets to work its magic free from Sparkawk’s earthier tones and the mysterious, elusive ‘(That’s How You Sing) Amazing Grace’, it’s probably churlish to complain. Still, why no ‘Dinosaur Act’?!?
Friday, February 18, 2005
Ain't That Good News, Man Ain't That News
Two pieces of news to report which have raised my spirits in the last couple of days.
First off - Columbia Records are to release a new Bruce Springsteen album, Devils and Dust on the 26th April (presumably that would mean a 25th April release date in the UK). This album is appearing much earlier than expected, with all the recent chatter being just rumours based on some sessions Sprinsteen made last year at Brendan O'Brien's studio. Anyway, the news is now 100% official, and it would appear that the album marks a return to the more acoustic, folk-tinged territory of 'Nebraska' and 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad', which is absolutely fine with me, and will make a very interesting contrast to the gospel-inspired uplift of The Rising. Springsteen has apparently revisited some of the songs performed on his last acoustic tour ten years ago, but which didn't make the final cut for 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad' . What is even more exciting is that Sprinsteen is planning to tour again for the album, either with a small band, or solo and acoustic, playing shows in Europe as well as the US, and targeting theatres and small venues. Getting a ticket may well involve bribery or murder - but it will be absolutely essential.
Secondly, on a smaller scale - but no less exciting, some more news has finally emerged regarding the new Teenage Fanclub album. It's still not entirely clear which label will be putting it out, but it has a title ('Man Made') and is now planned for a spring release, which makes for a twelve month delay between the completion of recording in Chicago and the appearance of a finished product, which must have been frustrating for the band as well as the fans. Let's hope it gets some publicity (some newspaper reports in Scotland regarding their appearance at the Glasgow SECC Tsunami benefit gig and Norman Blake's recent chat on 6Music are some small but encouraging signs) and that the band play a few shows in support of it.
Some more reviews will appear over the weekend....
First off - Columbia Records are to release a new Bruce Springsteen album, Devils and Dust on the 26th April (presumably that would mean a 25th April release date in the UK). This album is appearing much earlier than expected, with all the recent chatter being just rumours based on some sessions Sprinsteen made last year at Brendan O'Brien's studio. Anyway, the news is now 100% official, and it would appear that the album marks a return to the more acoustic, folk-tinged territory of 'Nebraska' and 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad', which is absolutely fine with me, and will make a very interesting contrast to the gospel-inspired uplift of The Rising. Springsteen has apparently revisited some of the songs performed on his last acoustic tour ten years ago, but which didn't make the final cut for 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad' . What is even more exciting is that Sprinsteen is planning to tour again for the album, either with a small band, or solo and acoustic, playing shows in Europe as well as the US, and targeting theatres and small venues. Getting a ticket may well involve bribery or murder - but it will be absolutely essential.
Secondly, on a smaller scale - but no less exciting, some more news has finally emerged regarding the new Teenage Fanclub album. It's still not entirely clear which label will be putting it out, but it has a title ('Man Made') and is now planned for a spring release, which makes for a twelve month delay between the completion of recording in Chicago and the appearance of a finished product, which must have been frustrating for the band as well as the fans. Let's hope it gets some publicity (some newspaper reports in Scotland regarding their appearance at the Glasgow SECC Tsunami benefit gig and Norman Blake's recent chat on 6Music are some small but encouraging signs) and that the band play a few shows in support of it.
Some more reviews will appear over the weekend....
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
It's Valentine's Day, and I'm Catatonic
Patrick Wolf – The Borderline, 14/02/05
In search of something productive to do to avoid the tedium of Valentine’s day, I picked up a last minute ticket for this launch gig for Patrick Wolf’s ‘Wind in the Wires’ album at London’s charming Borderline venue – an intimate bar/log cabin which Mr. Wolf appeared to have sold out comfortably, albeit with rumours of an unusually substantial guest list. It seems that everybody I know (including myself, vaguely) has some kind of connection with Patrick – he once (already precocious at the age of just 15) played gigs at the Friday Dynamite club, where my first serious band (Hyperfuzz) also gigged regularly, he DJd at the Kashpoint club with Brendan from Unit, and Jeremy Warmsley apparently attended the same school for a while (yep, the one Patrick was supposedly bullied out of). I remember being completely baffled by his apparently random pluckings of a viola back in the Friday Dynamite days – but then I was in an energetic, if fairly unoriginal punk-pop band – perhaps it was just that he was already forging a more distinctive path.
If my earlier review of ‘Wind In The Wires’ seemed a little agnostic, then perhaps it just needed a few more listens. With this performance at least, the songs suddenly seemed to click for me. Playing with only rudimentary drums for accompaniment, Patrick still manages to create a remarkable sound on stage, and his voice is impressively expressive. He also sounds more powerful and less mannered live, which allows his songs a little more room to breathe. Dressed in a bizarre all-black costume, unfathomably tall, and with a peculiar floppy hairstyle, he cuts an imposing, handsome presence on stage – yet remains somehow unassuming and free from ego. He is as comfortable explaining the origins of his evocative narratives as he is with the performance.
The songs actually sound more unusual when played entirely on acoustic instruments. Free from the occasionally cluttered baggage of the programmed beats Patrick liberally employs on both his albums so far, these songs sound like a radical refashioning of folk music, with a bewildering array of neo-classical and contemporary influences thrown into the mix, from Bjork, Diamanda Galas and Kate Bush, to Stockhausen and Steve Reich. The tone and feel of the performance is kept varied by the constant switching of instruments – Patrick plays two different ukeleles, a viola and some wonderfully brooding heavy piano.
He gets through pretty much all of ‘Wind In The Wires’, and his tales of escape to the wilderness all have a strong sense of geography and place. He is as much aware of environment as he is of feeling and mood, and these may be the best songs about the West Country ever written. Particular highlights for me were the carefully constructed drama of ‘This Weather’, the quietly moving ballad ‘Teignmouth’ and the appropriately folky ‘Gypsy Song’.
Mercifully, he doesn’t attempt to play the entire album in order, and finds some room for other material as well, including ‘London’ and ‘Paris’, two of the highlights from his debut. He also performs ‘Souvenirs’, a song that didn’t quite make the cut for ‘Wind In The Wires’, and ‘Penzance’, one of the B-sides of ‘The Libertine’ single that surely should have been included. The latter sounds particularly inspired.
For the obligatory encore, he is joined by string group The Mulettes, who play frantic, endearingly under-rehearsed versions of ‘The Libertine’ and ‘Wolf Song’ to round off proceedings. ‘The Libertine’, with its dismissal of false idols who speak ‘with cliché and addiction’ sounds as if it might be aimed at one specific piece of current tabloid fodder, but whether it is or not, it certainly seems like a bold and original statement of intent – a refusal to tow the line that indicates just how far removed Patrick is from his contemporaries. This is all much more interesting than the over-rated likes of Devendra Banhart, and this could well be an exciting year for this exceptional musician.
In search of something productive to do to avoid the tedium of Valentine’s day, I picked up a last minute ticket for this launch gig for Patrick Wolf’s ‘Wind in the Wires’ album at London’s charming Borderline venue – an intimate bar/log cabin which Mr. Wolf appeared to have sold out comfortably, albeit with rumours of an unusually substantial guest list. It seems that everybody I know (including myself, vaguely) has some kind of connection with Patrick – he once (already precocious at the age of just 15) played gigs at the Friday Dynamite club, where my first serious band (Hyperfuzz) also gigged regularly, he DJd at the Kashpoint club with Brendan from Unit, and Jeremy Warmsley apparently attended the same school for a while (yep, the one Patrick was supposedly bullied out of). I remember being completely baffled by his apparently random pluckings of a viola back in the Friday Dynamite days – but then I was in an energetic, if fairly unoriginal punk-pop band – perhaps it was just that he was already forging a more distinctive path.
If my earlier review of ‘Wind In The Wires’ seemed a little agnostic, then perhaps it just needed a few more listens. With this performance at least, the songs suddenly seemed to click for me. Playing with only rudimentary drums for accompaniment, Patrick still manages to create a remarkable sound on stage, and his voice is impressively expressive. He also sounds more powerful and less mannered live, which allows his songs a little more room to breathe. Dressed in a bizarre all-black costume, unfathomably tall, and with a peculiar floppy hairstyle, he cuts an imposing, handsome presence on stage – yet remains somehow unassuming and free from ego. He is as comfortable explaining the origins of his evocative narratives as he is with the performance.
The songs actually sound more unusual when played entirely on acoustic instruments. Free from the occasionally cluttered baggage of the programmed beats Patrick liberally employs on both his albums so far, these songs sound like a radical refashioning of folk music, with a bewildering array of neo-classical and contemporary influences thrown into the mix, from Bjork, Diamanda Galas and Kate Bush, to Stockhausen and Steve Reich. The tone and feel of the performance is kept varied by the constant switching of instruments – Patrick plays two different ukeleles, a viola and some wonderfully brooding heavy piano.
He gets through pretty much all of ‘Wind In The Wires’, and his tales of escape to the wilderness all have a strong sense of geography and place. He is as much aware of environment as he is of feeling and mood, and these may be the best songs about the West Country ever written. Particular highlights for me were the carefully constructed drama of ‘This Weather’, the quietly moving ballad ‘Teignmouth’ and the appropriately folky ‘Gypsy Song’.
Mercifully, he doesn’t attempt to play the entire album in order, and finds some room for other material as well, including ‘London’ and ‘Paris’, two of the highlights from his debut. He also performs ‘Souvenirs’, a song that didn’t quite make the cut for ‘Wind In The Wires’, and ‘Penzance’, one of the B-sides of ‘The Libertine’ single that surely should have been included. The latter sounds particularly inspired.
For the obligatory encore, he is joined by string group The Mulettes, who play frantic, endearingly under-rehearsed versions of ‘The Libertine’ and ‘Wolf Song’ to round off proceedings. ‘The Libertine’, with its dismissal of false idols who speak ‘with cliché and addiction’ sounds as if it might be aimed at one specific piece of current tabloid fodder, but whether it is or not, it certainly seems like a bold and original statement of intent – a refusal to tow the line that indicates just how far removed Patrick is from his contemporaries. This is all much more interesting than the over-rated likes of Devendra Banhart, and this could well be an exciting year for this exceptional musician.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Indie Heaven
The Broken Family Band – Welcome Home, Loser (Track and Field)
Strawberry Fair, Midsummer Common, Cambridge, 2003 – The Broken Family Band have just completed a rollicking, spirited headline set and the elated crowd are refusing to let them leave the stage. ‘Love you…’ says lead singer Steven Adams. Then the moment of distinctive inspiration – ‘no you hang up, no you hang up!’ There could not have been a more apposite introduction to this very special band (how did I live in Cambridge for so long before I finally found out about them?). Adams’ performance and songwriting blend lacerating humour and devastating pathos more successfully than virtually any other tunesmith currently at work in British music. Their fanbase have remained loyal and passionate for a number of years now – it is hoped that ‘Welcome Home, Loser’ (their second full album, but fourth release including the two mini albums) is the record that will justly bring them to wider attention. You would have therefore thought that, between them, Track and Field and the distribution company would have got their act together in getting this record into the major stores by the morning of release, instead of sending me on a wild goose chase around London, but that’s another story (I eventually found it in Rough Trade Covent Garden, where I had the satisfaction of being congratulated on my choice of purchase by their ever-knowledgeable and friendly staff – I love that shop).
‘Welcome Home, Loser’ doesn’t disappoint, although it doesn’t quite branch out as much as I had expected it might. It’s certainly their best and most consistent collection of songs so far, and most rework the established formula to increasingly powerful effect. Two of these songs (‘Happy Days Are Here Again’ and ‘Where The Hell Is My Baby?’) have been live favourites for a couple of years now, and many more have been performed regularly more recently, so it’s very difficult to talk about first impressions when writing about this album. It already feels homely and familiar, and it’s satisfying to finally have a recorded document of these excellent songs. What certainly stands out is the production, which is noticeably more polished and considered than the fairly organic ‘live’ sound of previous efforts. I initially felt it might have blunted some of the bite of the songs – but there’s still some very aggressive playing on display here, which more than justifies Steve Adams’ contention that BFB are as much a punk band as a country band.
The BFB certainly know how to play a good hoedown – and there are a couple of fantastic examples on ‘Welcome Home, Loser.’ ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’ makes for a wonderfully energetic opener, with Adams revelling in the dark irony of its title and lyrical theme. Later on, we get the hilarious ‘Honest Man’s Blues’, liberally laced with Timothy Victor’s breakneck banjo playing, and blessed with the best opening line of recent memory (‘If you work in a whorehouse – you’re gonna get fucked!’). There’s also the swung majesty of ‘Living In Sin’, an uproariously funny narrative of the sexual allure of the dark side (‘You’re a devil woman/Your heart is black but your body drives me craaaazy!/ You’re a sick, satanic lady/You’re full of hate and you know I love that’).
Elsewhere, there are perhaps the two greatest examples of Adams’ juxtaposition of poignancy and wit on the genuinely touching ‘John Belushi’ and ‘We Already Said Goodbye’. There are also the aching and affecting hangover laments ‘Cocktail Lounge’ and ‘O Princess’. In ‘The Last Song’, there is also a touching and perceptive exposition of the songwriting process itself.
The band break free from the formula on a few tracks – notably the almost funky (and thrilling) ‘Yer Little Bedroom’, which seems like the heavier flipside of ‘Gone Dark’ from ‘Cold Water Songs’. They also indulge themselves with the negligibly brief ‘Roman Johnson One’, which comes across as an indie equivalent of the infuriating skits that tend to pepper hip hop albums. We’ll forgive them that, though, particularly as the wonderful aforementioned ‘The Last Song’ follows it. There’s also an epic closer in the form of ‘Coping With Fear’, perhaps unsurprisingly built around the thinnest harmonic and melodic ideas on the album, but not entirely without merit thanks to Adams’ relentless overstatement of its theme. Yet, despite the slight need for this band to veer away from their signature sound, there is the nagging sense that extended instrumental breaks are not necessarily the best way forward.
These are small niggles though and ‘Welcome Home, Loser’ is predictably a treat, comfortably the most fully realised BFB album yet. It’s an essential purchase for fans and as good a starting point as any for the uninitiated.
M Ward – Transistor Radio (Matador)
I should really begin by offering the caveat that this album is so clearly after my own heart that this review cannot possibly be considered objective. Not only am I a sucker for albums that sound as old as the hills – and this one is imbued with a resonant, beautifully timeless quality, but I am also enticed by the dedication to ‘the last of the independent and open format ones of your kind’. It is an album inspired not just by radio, but by the classic form of open minded, intelligent music radio that, with the death of John Peel, we may sadly have lost (a small aside – witness Radio 1’s crass decision to replace the Peel programme with three narrowly focussed ‘specialist’ programmes. Surely the whole point of the Peel show was that we could hear all this stuff within the same two hours??).
M Ward seems to be channelling his energies against two prevailing trends here – the first is the submission of the music-loving radio presenter to formats and directives from business executives. The second is drive that artists have to be original, and the corresponding fear of anything that might sound old or traditional. In addressing these concerns, Matt Ward has produced what promises to be one of the most intriguing albums of 2005.
It’s an audacious album indeed that is book-ended by an acoustic, instrumental take on Brian Wilson’s ‘You Still Believe In Me’ (from ‘Pet Sounds’) and ends with a picked guitar interpretation of JS Bach. Yet these two tracks work brilliantly in their respective positions because they give a clear idea of the breadth of Ward’s vision. He is completely unafraid to delve deep into musical history, and to refashion established texts in fascinating new contexts. His reading of ‘You Still Believe In Me’, in forsaking the original’s lyrics, forsakes some of its innocence and naivety, and instead achieves a kind of wistful melancholy akin to Bert Jansch or Nick Drake.
In between these interpretations of familiar pieces are a clutch of songs that are subtle, sensitively executed and arranged with considerable care. They demonstrate Ward’s versatile manipulation of sound – in the diverse ways he plucks his guitar, in the way he varies the tone and sound of his voice to suit the mood of the song, in the considered instrumentation and production. ‘One Life Away’, shrouded in mysterious static, actually sounds like the early 1930s blues tracks to which it clearly aspires. It achieves the strange of effect of sounding strange and fresh simply by sounding distinctly old fashioned. ‘Fuel For Fire’ is sweet and sad, whilst ‘Four Hours In Washington’ realises the primal restlessness of insomnia and frustration with its clattering drums, pointedly basic strum and exaggerated vocal phrasing. ‘Big Boat’ has a rudimentary quirky charm. ‘Paul’s Song’ successfully employs reverb to create a haunting mood.
Mostly these are short songs that don’t outstay their welcome – all are memorable, some are peculiarly affecting. Whilst this is clearly an album inspired by the musical past – it inhabits its chosen territory so brilliantly that it cannot be considered backward or conservative (although it may be reactionary in the strictest sense – a reaction against current musical and cultural trends, for sure). It sounds nothing like the rather bland conservatism of, say, Josh Rouse. It radiates warmth, wisdom and experience. This is one radio station you won’t want to tune away from.
King Creosote – Rock D.I.Y. (Fence)
Oh me oh my, this is great - a modern day folk album that manages to effortlessly combine plaintive, sincere emoting and the odd wry, humorous treatise. It comes from an entirely different perspective from the M Ward album, seeking not to hark back to the distant musical past, but to create something resonant with all the resources of modern technology, whilst retaining a homespun simplicity. This is one of those lo-fi, home-recorded classics. Its arrangements recall Badly Drawn Boy’s ‘Hour Of Bewilderbeast’ in their delicate intricacy, whilst the overall effect is something akin to Arab Strap crossing paths with Hot Chip. Each song sounds complete and entirely satisfying in itself. Taken as a whole, ‘Rock D.I.Y.’ is a touching collection of compacted kitchen sink epics that lingers in the memory long after it has been prized away from the stereo. At just over 30 minutes, it’s a brief album – but is says so much more in that time than numerous bloated indulgences that push the limit of the CD’s capacity.
King Creosote has actually been at work for years, releasing as many as 23 albums on self-released CDRs distributed at gigs. His last officially sanctioned album (‘Kenny and Beth’s Musical Boat Rides’) made it into Rough Trade Shops’ Best of 2003 list, a high accolade indeed, and his tracks can also be found on the various compilations released by the wonderful Fence Collective, also home to James Yorkston, Lonepidgeon, Pip Dylan and many other fascinating associates. On the evidence of this set, Creosote cares not a jot for recording quality, or for virtuosity, instead favouring the one-take capturing of songs once favoured by Bob Dylan. His songs are left at their bare bones – some rustlings of piano keys, a rudimentary strum and occasionally a drum machine, but yet they sound as rich and full as if they were densely orchestrated.
Much of this is down to Creosote’s highly distinctive style of songwriting – setting his endearingly frail voice in a variety of settings that neatly complement his unusual anti-poetry. His more languid moments, often characterised by an accordion or sustained piano chords, are particularly moving. ‘Crow’s Feet’. ‘Circle My Demise’ and ‘The Someone Else’ are among the sweetest, saddest songs I’ve heard in a long time, their deliberately skeletal melodies imbuing them with wisdom and melancholy. This is by no means an album for the adolescent miserabilist however, as Creosote also produces upbeat, pulsating pop songs with admirable gusto. Throughout, he sustains an understated mastery of the couplet – and the ingenuity of these songs often rests on their bizarre almost-but-not-quite-non-sequitors (two of my favourites are ‘You’re growing old and growing tense/I was past the age of 35 before my face made much sense’ and ‘Let’s leave the lemmings to do their thing/let’s you and I avoid Burger King’. The songs all have narratives that emphasise the ordinary and transform everyday experience into something magical and transcendent. This is exactly what the best songwriting can do.
‘Rock D.I.Y.’ is a brilliantly understated, unassuming collection of uniquely oddball pop songs, which maintain their own kind of peculiar dignity. For those more than a little tired of Elvis’ current stranglehold on the mainstream pop charts, bow down to a different King.
Strawberry Fair, Midsummer Common, Cambridge, 2003 – The Broken Family Band have just completed a rollicking, spirited headline set and the elated crowd are refusing to let them leave the stage. ‘Love you…’ says lead singer Steven Adams. Then the moment of distinctive inspiration – ‘no you hang up, no you hang up!’ There could not have been a more apposite introduction to this very special band (how did I live in Cambridge for so long before I finally found out about them?). Adams’ performance and songwriting blend lacerating humour and devastating pathos more successfully than virtually any other tunesmith currently at work in British music. Their fanbase have remained loyal and passionate for a number of years now – it is hoped that ‘Welcome Home, Loser’ (their second full album, but fourth release including the two mini albums) is the record that will justly bring them to wider attention. You would have therefore thought that, between them, Track and Field and the distribution company would have got their act together in getting this record into the major stores by the morning of release, instead of sending me on a wild goose chase around London, but that’s another story (I eventually found it in Rough Trade Covent Garden, where I had the satisfaction of being congratulated on my choice of purchase by their ever-knowledgeable and friendly staff – I love that shop).
‘Welcome Home, Loser’ doesn’t disappoint, although it doesn’t quite branch out as much as I had expected it might. It’s certainly their best and most consistent collection of songs so far, and most rework the established formula to increasingly powerful effect. Two of these songs (‘Happy Days Are Here Again’ and ‘Where The Hell Is My Baby?’) have been live favourites for a couple of years now, and many more have been performed regularly more recently, so it’s very difficult to talk about first impressions when writing about this album. It already feels homely and familiar, and it’s satisfying to finally have a recorded document of these excellent songs. What certainly stands out is the production, which is noticeably more polished and considered than the fairly organic ‘live’ sound of previous efforts. I initially felt it might have blunted some of the bite of the songs – but there’s still some very aggressive playing on display here, which more than justifies Steve Adams’ contention that BFB are as much a punk band as a country band.
The BFB certainly know how to play a good hoedown – and there are a couple of fantastic examples on ‘Welcome Home, Loser.’ ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’ makes for a wonderfully energetic opener, with Adams revelling in the dark irony of its title and lyrical theme. Later on, we get the hilarious ‘Honest Man’s Blues’, liberally laced with Timothy Victor’s breakneck banjo playing, and blessed with the best opening line of recent memory (‘If you work in a whorehouse – you’re gonna get fucked!’). There’s also the swung majesty of ‘Living In Sin’, an uproariously funny narrative of the sexual allure of the dark side (‘You’re a devil woman/Your heart is black but your body drives me craaaazy!/ You’re a sick, satanic lady/You’re full of hate and you know I love that’).
Elsewhere, there are perhaps the two greatest examples of Adams’ juxtaposition of poignancy and wit on the genuinely touching ‘John Belushi’ and ‘We Already Said Goodbye’. There are also the aching and affecting hangover laments ‘Cocktail Lounge’ and ‘O Princess’. In ‘The Last Song’, there is also a touching and perceptive exposition of the songwriting process itself.
The band break free from the formula on a few tracks – notably the almost funky (and thrilling) ‘Yer Little Bedroom’, which seems like the heavier flipside of ‘Gone Dark’ from ‘Cold Water Songs’. They also indulge themselves with the negligibly brief ‘Roman Johnson One’, which comes across as an indie equivalent of the infuriating skits that tend to pepper hip hop albums. We’ll forgive them that, though, particularly as the wonderful aforementioned ‘The Last Song’ follows it. There’s also an epic closer in the form of ‘Coping With Fear’, perhaps unsurprisingly built around the thinnest harmonic and melodic ideas on the album, but not entirely without merit thanks to Adams’ relentless overstatement of its theme. Yet, despite the slight need for this band to veer away from their signature sound, there is the nagging sense that extended instrumental breaks are not necessarily the best way forward.
These are small niggles though and ‘Welcome Home, Loser’ is predictably a treat, comfortably the most fully realised BFB album yet. It’s an essential purchase for fans and as good a starting point as any for the uninitiated.
M Ward – Transistor Radio (Matador)
I should really begin by offering the caveat that this album is so clearly after my own heart that this review cannot possibly be considered objective. Not only am I a sucker for albums that sound as old as the hills – and this one is imbued with a resonant, beautifully timeless quality, but I am also enticed by the dedication to ‘the last of the independent and open format ones of your kind’. It is an album inspired not just by radio, but by the classic form of open minded, intelligent music radio that, with the death of John Peel, we may sadly have lost (a small aside – witness Radio 1’s crass decision to replace the Peel programme with three narrowly focussed ‘specialist’ programmes. Surely the whole point of the Peel show was that we could hear all this stuff within the same two hours??).
M Ward seems to be channelling his energies against two prevailing trends here – the first is the submission of the music-loving radio presenter to formats and directives from business executives. The second is drive that artists have to be original, and the corresponding fear of anything that might sound old or traditional. In addressing these concerns, Matt Ward has produced what promises to be one of the most intriguing albums of 2005.
It’s an audacious album indeed that is book-ended by an acoustic, instrumental take on Brian Wilson’s ‘You Still Believe In Me’ (from ‘Pet Sounds’) and ends with a picked guitar interpretation of JS Bach. Yet these two tracks work brilliantly in their respective positions because they give a clear idea of the breadth of Ward’s vision. He is completely unafraid to delve deep into musical history, and to refashion established texts in fascinating new contexts. His reading of ‘You Still Believe In Me’, in forsaking the original’s lyrics, forsakes some of its innocence and naivety, and instead achieves a kind of wistful melancholy akin to Bert Jansch or Nick Drake.
In between these interpretations of familiar pieces are a clutch of songs that are subtle, sensitively executed and arranged with considerable care. They demonstrate Ward’s versatile manipulation of sound – in the diverse ways he plucks his guitar, in the way he varies the tone and sound of his voice to suit the mood of the song, in the considered instrumentation and production. ‘One Life Away’, shrouded in mysterious static, actually sounds like the early 1930s blues tracks to which it clearly aspires. It achieves the strange of effect of sounding strange and fresh simply by sounding distinctly old fashioned. ‘Fuel For Fire’ is sweet and sad, whilst ‘Four Hours In Washington’ realises the primal restlessness of insomnia and frustration with its clattering drums, pointedly basic strum and exaggerated vocal phrasing. ‘Big Boat’ has a rudimentary quirky charm. ‘Paul’s Song’ successfully employs reverb to create a haunting mood.
Mostly these are short songs that don’t outstay their welcome – all are memorable, some are peculiarly affecting. Whilst this is clearly an album inspired by the musical past – it inhabits its chosen territory so brilliantly that it cannot be considered backward or conservative (although it may be reactionary in the strictest sense – a reaction against current musical and cultural trends, for sure). It sounds nothing like the rather bland conservatism of, say, Josh Rouse. It radiates warmth, wisdom and experience. This is one radio station you won’t want to tune away from.
King Creosote – Rock D.I.Y. (Fence)
Oh me oh my, this is great - a modern day folk album that manages to effortlessly combine plaintive, sincere emoting and the odd wry, humorous treatise. It comes from an entirely different perspective from the M Ward album, seeking not to hark back to the distant musical past, but to create something resonant with all the resources of modern technology, whilst retaining a homespun simplicity. This is one of those lo-fi, home-recorded classics. Its arrangements recall Badly Drawn Boy’s ‘Hour Of Bewilderbeast’ in their delicate intricacy, whilst the overall effect is something akin to Arab Strap crossing paths with Hot Chip. Each song sounds complete and entirely satisfying in itself. Taken as a whole, ‘Rock D.I.Y.’ is a touching collection of compacted kitchen sink epics that lingers in the memory long after it has been prized away from the stereo. At just over 30 minutes, it’s a brief album – but is says so much more in that time than numerous bloated indulgences that push the limit of the CD’s capacity.
King Creosote has actually been at work for years, releasing as many as 23 albums on self-released CDRs distributed at gigs. His last officially sanctioned album (‘Kenny and Beth’s Musical Boat Rides’) made it into Rough Trade Shops’ Best of 2003 list, a high accolade indeed, and his tracks can also be found on the various compilations released by the wonderful Fence Collective, also home to James Yorkston, Lonepidgeon, Pip Dylan and many other fascinating associates. On the evidence of this set, Creosote cares not a jot for recording quality, or for virtuosity, instead favouring the one-take capturing of songs once favoured by Bob Dylan. His songs are left at their bare bones – some rustlings of piano keys, a rudimentary strum and occasionally a drum machine, but yet they sound as rich and full as if they were densely orchestrated.
Much of this is down to Creosote’s highly distinctive style of songwriting – setting his endearingly frail voice in a variety of settings that neatly complement his unusual anti-poetry. His more languid moments, often characterised by an accordion or sustained piano chords, are particularly moving. ‘Crow’s Feet’. ‘Circle My Demise’ and ‘The Someone Else’ are among the sweetest, saddest songs I’ve heard in a long time, their deliberately skeletal melodies imbuing them with wisdom and melancholy. This is by no means an album for the adolescent miserabilist however, as Creosote also produces upbeat, pulsating pop songs with admirable gusto. Throughout, he sustains an understated mastery of the couplet – and the ingenuity of these songs often rests on their bizarre almost-but-not-quite-non-sequitors (two of my favourites are ‘You’re growing old and growing tense/I was past the age of 35 before my face made much sense’ and ‘Let’s leave the lemmings to do their thing/let’s you and I avoid Burger King’. The songs all have narratives that emphasise the ordinary and transform everyday experience into something magical and transcendent. This is exactly what the best songwriting can do.
‘Rock D.I.Y.’ is a brilliantly understated, unassuming collection of uniquely oddball pop songs, which maintain their own kind of peculiar dignity. For those more than a little tired of Elvis’ current stranglehold on the mainstream pop charts, bow down to a different King.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
First of all, I must issue an apology of sorts for the recent paucity of posting on this blog. But in staying away for a while, I have left plenty of catching up to do, both from the tail end of 2004, and from the start of 2005. I’m going to concentrate on the latter in this post, if only because this must be the most exciting start to a musical year that I can remember. It’s extremely rare for so many of the key releases of the year to have emerged before the end of January, and it’s been both time consuming and expensive trying to keep up with them all.
Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy and Matt Sweeney – Superwolf
There is the nagging sense that as Will Oldham has become increasingly prolific, his work has become less engaging. The peculiar and uncharacteristic self-consciousness behind his last couple of albums has blunted their impact. ‘Master and Everyone’ seemed like too deliberate an attempt to strip back the arrangements to their bare bones, and last year’s ‘Greatest Palace Music’, a collection of reinterpretations of some of his best songs with all manner of Nashville chintz superimposed, seemed confrontational, a slight swipe at those portions of his audience who would have him pigeonholed as some dark magus of Alt.Country. Both albums had their moments, but ‘Superwolf’, collaboration with ex-Chavez frontman and former Zwan contributor Matt Sweeney feels a good deal more organic and unforced.
This does seem to have been a collaboration in the purest sense, with Oldham ‘challenging’ Sweeney to compose some music to accompany his latest set of lyrics. The result is an album of spare elegance and brooding majesty. Other writers have pointed out that there’s nothing particularly novel here, and indeed Sweeney’s compositions provide a familiar and apposite context for Oldham’s characteristically unusual musings. Yet the differences, subtle though they are, are significant. Sweeney’s more elaborate, textured guitar playing makes the music more technically daring, and the fact that his intelligently picked figures and phrasings seem to make perfect sense makes this even more impressive. The thrill of the challenge seems to have produced the best results from both musicians, with Oldham’s bleak, mordant worldview seeming more elliptical and provocative than on recent releases.
Many of the songs are still characterised by Oldham’s distinctive use of bestial, primitive imagery, which somehow manages to be strangely affecting. Particularly successful is ‘Beast For Thee’, where Oldham’s haunting vocal line makes for an intriguing contrast with the counter melody of the guitar line. The symbolic pledge of the title is both disconcertingly bizarre and refreshingly direct. On ‘What Are You’, Oldham even offers a merciless bout of spanking, a classic example of where his black humour is delivered with what seems like a resolutely serious tone. The key track is the evocative ‘Blood Embrace’ with its memorable picked guitar line and what sound like samples from film dialogue, although I’m unable to identify them. It’s a lengthy, mysterious and brooding highlight.
Much of ‘Superwolf’ might seem a little homogenous to some ears, with its skeletal arrangements and hushed vocalising. Its few uncharacteristically explosive moments therefore come as blessings, even though it is slightly misleading to make one of them the opening track. ‘My Home Is The Sea’ is utterly brilliant, a compelling epic seemingly comprised of segments from two entirely different songs. Somehow they merge together if not quite seamlessly, then at least tastefully, and the full-blooded and expressive guitar work both creates and resolves an enticing tension. ‘Goat and Ram’ moves entirely unpredictably from a muted and whispered beginning to a massive barrage of distorted guitars and spectral harmonies bellowing the words ‘all hail!’. In another context, it might feel portentous or heavy handed, but it works well here for its sheer audacity.
Despite its consistency of pace and mood, ‘Superwolf’ sounds naturalistic, controlled and is richly poetic. Collaborating with Sweeney has broken Oldham’s creative deadlock, allowed him to find his own distinctive voice again and has resulted in his best album since ‘I See A Darkness’.
Athlete – Tourist
It seems churlish and cynical to include a review of this record purely as an excuse to have a rant, but I really can’t resist it. Amidst all the quality releases of the past couple of weeks, ‘Tourist’ stands out for its calculated, manipulative brand (and brand is definitely the right word) of earnest balladry, as well as simply for being utterly execrable. I appreciate that the sincere, overcooked ballad template is extremely popular at the moment (more power to the piano!), but what with this and the new Feeder album pushing the same blandly trite emoting, it seems we’re going to be force-fed this populist tripe for some time to come, especially as Parlophone are intent on releasing a mind-numbing five singles from this relentlessly dull collection.
I must confess I hadn’t realised that Athlete’s debut album had sold in excess of 300,000 copies in the UK, so perhaps their sudden leap into the super league isn’t quite as unexpected as I feel it should be. I hated that album, particularly for its irritating jauntiness and dependency on silly keyboard and synth effects that added nothing to the generally unremarkable songwriting. Compared to this, though, that album was brimming with innovation. ‘Tourist’ is a uniformly plodding, leaden affair that repeatedly strives for transcendence, but ends up crippled by its own lack of ideas or direction. It refuses to veer away from the limited palette established by Coldplay and Keane, and generally fails to throw up any rhythmic, harmonic or melodic invention. Songs like ‘Chances’, ‘Tourist’ and ‘Yesterday Threw Everything At Me’ begin with half-hearted attempts at creating a subtle mood, but eventually collapse under the weight of benign lyrical platitudes (of the ‘I don’t want anyone else but you’ variety) and aimless synth strings that are plastered over them. Most tracks suffer from exactly the same shortcomings as the interminable single ‘Wires’ in failing to ever really take flight. By way of contrast, ‘Half Light’ places more emphasis on the guitars, but they still strum and drong at the same dragging, insipid tempo.
I don’t want to be too callous – but this really does seem like a marketing exercise whereby the record company have thrown money at this band so that they record an album cynically aimed at the current mass market. It has so little individuality or quality of expression that, whilst it may sell bucket loads in the short term, in the long term, it will most likely prove valueless. I’ve already had the misfortune of seeing this band live twice in supporting slots. Mercifully, they seem to be well on their way to headlining enormodomes of their own now so I may well avoid them this year, although the chilling prospect of them headlining the summer festivals cannot be all that distant a prospect. First the return of the appalling Embrace, now this. Make it stop.
Shivaree – Who’s Got Trouble
Ah, much better. There’s more subtlety and invention in any thirty second sample of this album you could select than Athlete can muster across an entire 50 minutes. No doubt it is destined to suffer a similar fate in this country as Shivaree’s previous two albums, despite their debut having sold substantial amounts in other territories. This is beguiling, shimmering, haunting pop music at its very best. Those only familiar with the neutered faux-jazz of Norah Jones and Katie Melua could do worse than approach Ambrosia Parsley (or even her equally excellent contemporaries Erin McKeown and Jolie Holland) for a sultry lesson in how to incorporate jazz phrasing into a pop idiom. Really, I should be speaking in the plural here, as ‘Who’s Got Trouble’ covers so much ground across its eleven tracks that it’s simply impossible to categorise it. This is perhaps unsurprising, as their previous album ‘Rough Dreams’ adopted a similar tactic, but the sheer breadth of ideas and inspirations here is still breathtaking.
Parsley and her exquisite musicians are so confident in their handling of the material that they attempt styles that might come across as either po-faced or cheesy in less capable hands. On ‘Little Black Mess’ and the delightful ‘I Close My Eyes’, they revisit the classy bossa nova tinged feel of ‘Goodnight Moon’ (now easily recognisable as the closing music for the dreadful Kill Bill vol 2). ‘Someday’ has resonances of traditional New Orleans stomps. On ‘Lost In A Dream’, and the startling opener ‘New Casablanca’, they even craft a subtle form of low-key, smoky barroom jazz balladry. If this sounds dull, fear not, because Shivaree are masters of subtlety, texture and mood. The arrangements are intricate and fascinating, and the melodies both infectious and unpredictable. Where strings and horns are deployed, they add colour, texture and contrast to the sound, rather than aiming for the ‘soaring’ blandness that so many others currently seem to prefer. Whilst the individual parts are never overly complicated, the music seems perfectly pieced together so that nothing is superfluous or insignificant.
Whilst Parsley’s vocals were certainly seductive on the previous two Shivaree albums, she has made further improvements here. She sounds consummately elegant, mysterious and sublime, and her phrasing teases out the devastating impact from her deceptively simple words. When she sings: ‘The first cigarette, my first pill/The first cup of coffee and my first chill/You’ll never know my first kiss, somebody else will’, her precise phrasing and delivery imbue these lines with a palpable charge. On ‘Baby Girls’, she sounds like a less abrasive Lucinda Williams, actively contributing to the spooky mood of the song.
This is as considered and nuanced a record as I have heard in a long time, yet it is not academic. It is also a powerfully moving statement, and one that more than consolidates the achievements of their previous releases. It’s criminal that the British music press have given this band so little attention. It’s not being granted an official UK release until April – so at least they have some time to wake up.
Low – The Great Destroyer
Laurent Garnier – The Cloud Making Machine
I’ve banded these two albums together as both have been presented, perhaps a little simplistically, as major changes of direction for the artists concerned. Much has been made of how Low, who usually take their songs at a funeral pace and never really raise the volume above a whisper, have ‘gone heavy’ with this new album, their second for Rough Trade and recorded with uber-producer Dave Fridmann (who has been hard at work over the past few months with Mercury Rev, Flaming Lips and, more intriguingly, Sleater Kinney). Equally, reviews of Laurent Garnier’s first proper album for over five years have centred on his apparent abandonment of club-focused techno in favour of a more downtempo approach.
The Low album is not really that significant a change in direction at all. Some sources have suggested that songs here resemble early nineties goth rockers Curve. I really don’t see how anyone could have arrived at this impression. Actually, all the traditional elements that have made Low’s music so distinctive remain in place. Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker’s voices still intertwine in the most glorious and inseparable harmony. When Alan Sparhawk sings alone on ‘Death of A Salesman’, the result is an oddly empty affair, lacking force or emphasis. The approach to rhythm and melody is still avowedly minimal – notes and chords are allowed to linger for what often seems like ages, and Mimi Parker’s percussion retains its appropriately skeletal form.
What is different here is the context. The overall sound is more aggressive, and there is ample opportunity for Fridmann to work his magic with chiming guitar chords and his trademark reverb-assisted drum sound. The opening track (‘Monkey’), with its distorted chords and the elliptical couplet ‘Tonight you will be mine/Tonight the monkey dies’, suggests that the current political climate may have inspired Low to produce a record where anger and bile are frequently favoured over stately reflection. The result is an imposing and intense album that seethes with righteousness and engages more with the outside world. ‘On The Edge Of’ sounds huge, and effectively incorporates some Neil Young inspired fretwork into the wall of sound. There are even attempts at a more conventional pop sound – ‘Just Stand Back’ even recalls Big Star or Teenage Fanclub (another band steadfast in sticking to their trademark sound) and forthcoming single ‘California’ is probably their most immediate and accessible track to date.
That does not mean that poignancy or mystery have been completely excised. ‘Cue The Strings’ begins by doing exactly what it says on the tin, effectively a slightly inferior rewrite of the wonderful ‘Will The Night’ from the ‘Secret Name’ album (still, to these ears, one of the most beautiful songs of recent years). It unexpectedly evolves into something considerably more challenging. ‘When I Go Deaf’ is particularly haunting, and ‘Silver Rider’ retreads some of the more mysterious, elusive and eerie ground that they have covered before, albeit with sublime results in this case.
Dave Fridmann is the Phil Spector of contemporary alternative rock. Sometimes his distinctive production really lifts a record – as with The Flaming Lips’ ‘Soft Bulletin’, and sometimes it smothers material in swathes of unnecessary effects, particularly with recent albums from Mercury Rev. Here he has managed to integrate new elements into Low’s oeuvre without compromising their unique aesthetic. ‘The Great Destroyer’ is a convincing and well-executed meeting of minds that bodes considerably well for the forthcoming Sleater Kinney record.
Garnier’s new release is much less of a synthesis and by far the more radical volte-face of these two albums. ‘The Cloud Making Machine’ is by no means a failure, but I’m not yet convinced that it is worthy of some of the plaudits currently being heaped on it. It is a drifting, ethereal collection of mood pieces that frequently sounds impressive but, at least with the first few listens, doesn’t quite manage to sustain attention. One pointer as to where Garnier’s intentions may lie with this release can be spotted in the presence of electronic jazz keyboardist Bugge Wesseltoft, whose self-styled ‘new conception of jazz’ seems to inform a large portion of the material here. There is a lot of meandering, semi-improvised material here, much of it never quite creating the thrill of improvised jazz, or the hypnotic calm of the best electronica.
Having said that, the best bits of ‘The Cloud Making Machine’ work brilliantly. ‘9:01-9:06’ is stuttering and unpredictable, and sounds doubly surprising sequenced after the somewhat noodling introduction. ‘Babiturik Blues’ incorporates the blues and jazz influences into Garnier’s vision with some degree of clarity. ‘Jeux D’Enfants’ is intelligently textured, and benefits from some unusual sounds.
Elsewhere, however, Garnier falls flat on his face. The one moment where he attempts to craft something energetic and inspiring (‘I Wanna Be Waiting For My Plane’) turned out to be a horrible electronic Stooges parody with particularly dire lyrics. In fact, the lyrical and thematic concerns of this album seem a little impressionistic and under-developed. Given that Garnier’s real strength lies in the field of instrumental music, I can’t help feeling he should have stuck to this domain. There are, after all, still plenty of possibilities for him to explore, as the finest moments here attest.
Whilst it is an interesting departure for Garnier (and how easy it would have been to simply repeat the formula of ‘Unreasonable Behaviour’), there is nothing here as thrilling as ‘The Man With The Red Face’, with its genuine improvised rush, or ‘The Sound Of The Big Baboo’, with its relentless energy. It just seems to melt too comfortably into the background, too often failing to engage. It may well simply be something of a grower – if it worms it’s way into the higher echelons of my albums of the year list come December – you’ll know that I’ve changed my mind!
Bright Eyes – I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning/Digital Ash In A Digital Urn
So far, I’ve been somewhat agnostic about the talents of Nebraskan wunderkind Conor Oberst – not least because whenever someone is heralded as the ‘new Bob Dylan’, I’m always a little suspicious. My suspicions of Oberst’s earlier work proved to be well grounded, given his tendency to over-emote and, unsurprisingly, pen lyrics of a slightly earnest adolescent tone. ‘Lifted’, his previous record, although bloated and inconsistent, displayed definite signs of improvement, and these two simultaneous releases go some way towards fulfilling that promise. Oberst is beginning to explore different settings for his expressive, occasionally cloyingly nasal vocals, and is beginning to exercise admirable restraint over his less appealing mannerisms.
He has not opted for the double album – or the two separate albums packaged as one – no, these are two entirely separate releases for which you will have to pay full price twice. The former has been billed, accurately, as a melancholy, countrified collection that betrays some hint of Oberst’s recent role as a political campaigner (he joined Bruce Springsteen and REM on the Vote for Change tour, a line-up to die for, although clearly not good enough to oust a President). The latter has been described in some quarters, wildly inaccurately, as a flirtation with avant-garde electronica. Electronic, in part, it may be – but it’s not particularly avant-garde at all. It strikes me as a pop album, heavily influenced by the experiments with electronics in the eighties, and sometimes benefits greatly from adopting a more melodic approach.
The use of backing vocalists on ‘I’m Wide Awake…’ has proved to be an inspired move. Emmylou Harris might seem an obvious choice of guest singer – especially as she appears to be something of a backing singer for hire at the moment – but let’s not take her enormous talent for granted. It would not be overstating the case to proclaim her as the best harmony singer in the world – she is the only person to have successfully harmonised with Bob Dylan, and her recordings with Gram Parsons are rightly hailed as the finest examples of close harmony singing in the country genre. The impact of her presence here is enormous – her controlled and passionate reading of Oberst’s melodies blunts some of the harshness in his approach, and the choruses frequently sound sublime, particularly on ‘We Are Nowhere (And It’s Now)’ and the expansive rush of ‘Landlocked Blues’, which neatly combines Oberst’s personal and political fears. The guest appearance of My Morning Jacket’s Jim James on the opening ‘At The Bottom Of Everything’ also adds feeling and colour to the endearingly jaunty hoedown sound.
The musicianship here is superb – and whilst Oberst himself is a compelling presence – much of the credit must go to producer and multi-instrumentalist Mike Mogis, who has also contributed his alchemic talents to the wonderful new album from Rilo Kiley. The instrumentation is particularly dazzling on ‘Old Soul Song (For The New World Order’, which is eager to remind of the strong links between country and soul music.
It sounds brilliant, but much of this material suffers from the kind of banal grandstanding statements that occasionally make Oberst seem pretentious. He still displays a tendency towards oversinging, although he has started to tone down his mannerisms. The best moment here is the hit single ‘Lua’, which is as spare as a recording can be, and where Oberst starts to assume a genuine vulnerability rather than a cloying earnestness. Its simple tale of the fading of hedonism into reality in the morning light is honest and touching. ‘I’m Wide Awake..’ is not quite the new American masterpiece some have suggested it is – but it’s certainly an invigorating listen, and a major step on Conor Oberst’s long road to realising his considerable potential.
Whilst ‘I’m Wide Awake..’ is easily the more immediate and accessible of the two albums, I wonder if I might come to like ‘Digital Ash in a Digital Urn’ more. It suffers from a similar set of problems – the obsession with binary, digits, data and primitive technology is surely a bit obvious and calculated for a move towards embracing electronica. It works despite its faults, however, because rather than having made a ‘dance’ album, Oberst has achieved something trickier. There is a very successful integration of acoustic and electronic instrumentation here that allows harps and flutes to sit comfortably with drum machines and analogue synthesizers. Oberst also makes full use of live drums, occasionally manipulated, which adds strength and energy to the sound. He has also saved some of his best songs for this album. ‘Arc Of Time’ and ‘Take It Easy (Love Nothing)’ are almost infectious, and are two of the more instantly appealing songs here. Others take more time, and present more of a challenge, but ‘I Believe In Symmetry’ and ‘Down A Rabbit Hole’ are crafted with elegant precision, and sound full of confusion and chaos. It’s by no means as ‘out there’ as some would suggest – it’s a good pop album, impressively orchestrated and cleverly executed.
Magnolia Electric Co – Trials and Errors
This is a crushing disappointment. Over the last few albums recorded by Jason Molina under a variety of different monikers, I have become enticed by his slow-paced and hypnotic dirges, and particularly by the raw majesty of some of his full-band studio recordings. Confused though I am by his current name changes – a Songs:Ohia album called ‘The Magnolia Electric Co’ is followed by a new line-up of Songs:Ohia claiming the album title as their new band name, whilst Molina produces a remarkable solo album under the name of ‘The Pyramid Electric Co’. Are you still with me?
‘Trials and Errors’ is a live album that bears some similarity with Neko Case’s recent gem ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ in that it features previously unreleased material. Two of the tracks here are destined to appear on Magnolia Electric Co’s forthcoming Steve Albini-produced studio set, while many of the others are available exclusively on this limited release. Unfortunately, whilst it offers long-term fans plenty of incentive to dish out the cash, it compares much less favourably with the Case album in terms of quality. Whereas ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ was a charming and nuanced collection that documented Case’s current outlook, both in terms of traditional influences and her own original writing, ‘Trials and Errors’ merely details Molina’s Neil Young fixation at quite considerable length.
The pace and tone of this set is not just consistent, it is entirely homogenous. The drum sound is a horrible plodding rock thud that is rarely ever allowed to stray from the basic backbeat formula. Country rock drummers are often rudimentary, but most at least have some awareness of the need for dynamic variation and a sense of progression within each song. The guitars strum and duel relentlessly, and there are numerous solos, many of them gratuitous or unnecessary, failing to add any depth or resonance to the songs. This is a considerable shame, particularly considering that the new writing is crisp and powerfully emotive. The first couple of songs reveal the recurring theme of darkness, and ‘The Dark Don’t Hide It’ and ‘Don’t It Feel Like The Dark’ are classic Molina songs, characterised by a poetic ambiguity and haunting core, with some typically vulnerable Molina vocals adding extra depth. Musically, however, they seem heavy-handed and stilted, and it is this rather leaden sound that persists throughout the entire album.
Unsurprisingly, the problems are particularly acute on the renditions of more familiar material. On the ‘Magnolia Electric Co’ album, ‘Almost Was Good Enough’ was slow burning, but also brilliantly intense – here it just sounds tepid and flat. ‘Cross The Road’, from the outstanding ‘Didn’t It Rain’ album, was an elusive, fragile beauty, but now sounds lumbering and directionless. Virtually every song is taken at the same level and each utilise the same limited palette of ideas. I can’t decide whether it is the production values or the playing that is at fault – but I don’t come away from this album with a sense of Magnolia Electric Co as an exciting live act, and my sense of Jason Molina as an increasingly original and unusual songwriter can only be mildly dissipated by the realisation that he has failed to translate his vision to live performance.
There’s still a lot to get through, so expect more reviews to be posted in the next few days…
Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy and Matt Sweeney – Superwolf
There is the nagging sense that as Will Oldham has become increasingly prolific, his work has become less engaging. The peculiar and uncharacteristic self-consciousness behind his last couple of albums has blunted their impact. ‘Master and Everyone’ seemed like too deliberate an attempt to strip back the arrangements to their bare bones, and last year’s ‘Greatest Palace Music’, a collection of reinterpretations of some of his best songs with all manner of Nashville chintz superimposed, seemed confrontational, a slight swipe at those portions of his audience who would have him pigeonholed as some dark magus of Alt.Country. Both albums had their moments, but ‘Superwolf’, collaboration with ex-Chavez frontman and former Zwan contributor Matt Sweeney feels a good deal more organic and unforced.
This does seem to have been a collaboration in the purest sense, with Oldham ‘challenging’ Sweeney to compose some music to accompany his latest set of lyrics. The result is an album of spare elegance and brooding majesty. Other writers have pointed out that there’s nothing particularly novel here, and indeed Sweeney’s compositions provide a familiar and apposite context for Oldham’s characteristically unusual musings. Yet the differences, subtle though they are, are significant. Sweeney’s more elaborate, textured guitar playing makes the music more technically daring, and the fact that his intelligently picked figures and phrasings seem to make perfect sense makes this even more impressive. The thrill of the challenge seems to have produced the best results from both musicians, with Oldham’s bleak, mordant worldview seeming more elliptical and provocative than on recent releases.
Many of the songs are still characterised by Oldham’s distinctive use of bestial, primitive imagery, which somehow manages to be strangely affecting. Particularly successful is ‘Beast For Thee’, where Oldham’s haunting vocal line makes for an intriguing contrast with the counter melody of the guitar line. The symbolic pledge of the title is both disconcertingly bizarre and refreshingly direct. On ‘What Are You’, Oldham even offers a merciless bout of spanking, a classic example of where his black humour is delivered with what seems like a resolutely serious tone. The key track is the evocative ‘Blood Embrace’ with its memorable picked guitar line and what sound like samples from film dialogue, although I’m unable to identify them. It’s a lengthy, mysterious and brooding highlight.
Much of ‘Superwolf’ might seem a little homogenous to some ears, with its skeletal arrangements and hushed vocalising. Its few uncharacteristically explosive moments therefore come as blessings, even though it is slightly misleading to make one of them the opening track. ‘My Home Is The Sea’ is utterly brilliant, a compelling epic seemingly comprised of segments from two entirely different songs. Somehow they merge together if not quite seamlessly, then at least tastefully, and the full-blooded and expressive guitar work both creates and resolves an enticing tension. ‘Goat and Ram’ moves entirely unpredictably from a muted and whispered beginning to a massive barrage of distorted guitars and spectral harmonies bellowing the words ‘all hail!’. In another context, it might feel portentous or heavy handed, but it works well here for its sheer audacity.
Despite its consistency of pace and mood, ‘Superwolf’ sounds naturalistic, controlled and is richly poetic. Collaborating with Sweeney has broken Oldham’s creative deadlock, allowed him to find his own distinctive voice again and has resulted in his best album since ‘I See A Darkness’.
Athlete – Tourist
It seems churlish and cynical to include a review of this record purely as an excuse to have a rant, but I really can’t resist it. Amidst all the quality releases of the past couple of weeks, ‘Tourist’ stands out for its calculated, manipulative brand (and brand is definitely the right word) of earnest balladry, as well as simply for being utterly execrable. I appreciate that the sincere, overcooked ballad template is extremely popular at the moment (more power to the piano!), but what with this and the new Feeder album pushing the same blandly trite emoting, it seems we’re going to be force-fed this populist tripe for some time to come, especially as Parlophone are intent on releasing a mind-numbing five singles from this relentlessly dull collection.
I must confess I hadn’t realised that Athlete’s debut album had sold in excess of 300,000 copies in the UK, so perhaps their sudden leap into the super league isn’t quite as unexpected as I feel it should be. I hated that album, particularly for its irritating jauntiness and dependency on silly keyboard and synth effects that added nothing to the generally unremarkable songwriting. Compared to this, though, that album was brimming with innovation. ‘Tourist’ is a uniformly plodding, leaden affair that repeatedly strives for transcendence, but ends up crippled by its own lack of ideas or direction. It refuses to veer away from the limited palette established by Coldplay and Keane, and generally fails to throw up any rhythmic, harmonic or melodic invention. Songs like ‘Chances’, ‘Tourist’ and ‘Yesterday Threw Everything At Me’ begin with half-hearted attempts at creating a subtle mood, but eventually collapse under the weight of benign lyrical platitudes (of the ‘I don’t want anyone else but you’ variety) and aimless synth strings that are plastered over them. Most tracks suffer from exactly the same shortcomings as the interminable single ‘Wires’ in failing to ever really take flight. By way of contrast, ‘Half Light’ places more emphasis on the guitars, but they still strum and drong at the same dragging, insipid tempo.
I don’t want to be too callous – but this really does seem like a marketing exercise whereby the record company have thrown money at this band so that they record an album cynically aimed at the current mass market. It has so little individuality or quality of expression that, whilst it may sell bucket loads in the short term, in the long term, it will most likely prove valueless. I’ve already had the misfortune of seeing this band live twice in supporting slots. Mercifully, they seem to be well on their way to headlining enormodomes of their own now so I may well avoid them this year, although the chilling prospect of them headlining the summer festivals cannot be all that distant a prospect. First the return of the appalling Embrace, now this. Make it stop.
Shivaree – Who’s Got Trouble
Ah, much better. There’s more subtlety and invention in any thirty second sample of this album you could select than Athlete can muster across an entire 50 minutes. No doubt it is destined to suffer a similar fate in this country as Shivaree’s previous two albums, despite their debut having sold substantial amounts in other territories. This is beguiling, shimmering, haunting pop music at its very best. Those only familiar with the neutered faux-jazz of Norah Jones and Katie Melua could do worse than approach Ambrosia Parsley (or even her equally excellent contemporaries Erin McKeown and Jolie Holland) for a sultry lesson in how to incorporate jazz phrasing into a pop idiom. Really, I should be speaking in the plural here, as ‘Who’s Got Trouble’ covers so much ground across its eleven tracks that it’s simply impossible to categorise it. This is perhaps unsurprising, as their previous album ‘Rough Dreams’ adopted a similar tactic, but the sheer breadth of ideas and inspirations here is still breathtaking.
Parsley and her exquisite musicians are so confident in their handling of the material that they attempt styles that might come across as either po-faced or cheesy in less capable hands. On ‘Little Black Mess’ and the delightful ‘I Close My Eyes’, they revisit the classy bossa nova tinged feel of ‘Goodnight Moon’ (now easily recognisable as the closing music for the dreadful Kill Bill vol 2). ‘Someday’ has resonances of traditional New Orleans stomps. On ‘Lost In A Dream’, and the startling opener ‘New Casablanca’, they even craft a subtle form of low-key, smoky barroom jazz balladry. If this sounds dull, fear not, because Shivaree are masters of subtlety, texture and mood. The arrangements are intricate and fascinating, and the melodies both infectious and unpredictable. Where strings and horns are deployed, they add colour, texture and contrast to the sound, rather than aiming for the ‘soaring’ blandness that so many others currently seem to prefer. Whilst the individual parts are never overly complicated, the music seems perfectly pieced together so that nothing is superfluous or insignificant.
Whilst Parsley’s vocals were certainly seductive on the previous two Shivaree albums, she has made further improvements here. She sounds consummately elegant, mysterious and sublime, and her phrasing teases out the devastating impact from her deceptively simple words. When she sings: ‘The first cigarette, my first pill/The first cup of coffee and my first chill/You’ll never know my first kiss, somebody else will’, her precise phrasing and delivery imbue these lines with a palpable charge. On ‘Baby Girls’, she sounds like a less abrasive Lucinda Williams, actively contributing to the spooky mood of the song.
This is as considered and nuanced a record as I have heard in a long time, yet it is not academic. It is also a powerfully moving statement, and one that more than consolidates the achievements of their previous releases. It’s criminal that the British music press have given this band so little attention. It’s not being granted an official UK release until April – so at least they have some time to wake up.
Low – The Great Destroyer
Laurent Garnier – The Cloud Making Machine
I’ve banded these two albums together as both have been presented, perhaps a little simplistically, as major changes of direction for the artists concerned. Much has been made of how Low, who usually take their songs at a funeral pace and never really raise the volume above a whisper, have ‘gone heavy’ with this new album, their second for Rough Trade and recorded with uber-producer Dave Fridmann (who has been hard at work over the past few months with Mercury Rev, Flaming Lips and, more intriguingly, Sleater Kinney). Equally, reviews of Laurent Garnier’s first proper album for over five years have centred on his apparent abandonment of club-focused techno in favour of a more downtempo approach.
The Low album is not really that significant a change in direction at all. Some sources have suggested that songs here resemble early nineties goth rockers Curve. I really don’t see how anyone could have arrived at this impression. Actually, all the traditional elements that have made Low’s music so distinctive remain in place. Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker’s voices still intertwine in the most glorious and inseparable harmony. When Alan Sparhawk sings alone on ‘Death of A Salesman’, the result is an oddly empty affair, lacking force or emphasis. The approach to rhythm and melody is still avowedly minimal – notes and chords are allowed to linger for what often seems like ages, and Mimi Parker’s percussion retains its appropriately skeletal form.
What is different here is the context. The overall sound is more aggressive, and there is ample opportunity for Fridmann to work his magic with chiming guitar chords and his trademark reverb-assisted drum sound. The opening track (‘Monkey’), with its distorted chords and the elliptical couplet ‘Tonight you will be mine/Tonight the monkey dies’, suggests that the current political climate may have inspired Low to produce a record where anger and bile are frequently favoured over stately reflection. The result is an imposing and intense album that seethes with righteousness and engages more with the outside world. ‘On The Edge Of’ sounds huge, and effectively incorporates some Neil Young inspired fretwork into the wall of sound. There are even attempts at a more conventional pop sound – ‘Just Stand Back’ even recalls Big Star or Teenage Fanclub (another band steadfast in sticking to their trademark sound) and forthcoming single ‘California’ is probably their most immediate and accessible track to date.
That does not mean that poignancy or mystery have been completely excised. ‘Cue The Strings’ begins by doing exactly what it says on the tin, effectively a slightly inferior rewrite of the wonderful ‘Will The Night’ from the ‘Secret Name’ album (still, to these ears, one of the most beautiful songs of recent years). It unexpectedly evolves into something considerably more challenging. ‘When I Go Deaf’ is particularly haunting, and ‘Silver Rider’ retreads some of the more mysterious, elusive and eerie ground that they have covered before, albeit with sublime results in this case.
Dave Fridmann is the Phil Spector of contemporary alternative rock. Sometimes his distinctive production really lifts a record – as with The Flaming Lips’ ‘Soft Bulletin’, and sometimes it smothers material in swathes of unnecessary effects, particularly with recent albums from Mercury Rev. Here he has managed to integrate new elements into Low’s oeuvre without compromising their unique aesthetic. ‘The Great Destroyer’ is a convincing and well-executed meeting of minds that bodes considerably well for the forthcoming Sleater Kinney record.
Garnier’s new release is much less of a synthesis and by far the more radical volte-face of these two albums. ‘The Cloud Making Machine’ is by no means a failure, but I’m not yet convinced that it is worthy of some of the plaudits currently being heaped on it. It is a drifting, ethereal collection of mood pieces that frequently sounds impressive but, at least with the first few listens, doesn’t quite manage to sustain attention. One pointer as to where Garnier’s intentions may lie with this release can be spotted in the presence of electronic jazz keyboardist Bugge Wesseltoft, whose self-styled ‘new conception of jazz’ seems to inform a large portion of the material here. There is a lot of meandering, semi-improvised material here, much of it never quite creating the thrill of improvised jazz, or the hypnotic calm of the best electronica.
Having said that, the best bits of ‘The Cloud Making Machine’ work brilliantly. ‘9:01-9:06’ is stuttering and unpredictable, and sounds doubly surprising sequenced after the somewhat noodling introduction. ‘Babiturik Blues’ incorporates the blues and jazz influences into Garnier’s vision with some degree of clarity. ‘Jeux D’Enfants’ is intelligently textured, and benefits from some unusual sounds.
Elsewhere, however, Garnier falls flat on his face. The one moment where he attempts to craft something energetic and inspiring (‘I Wanna Be Waiting For My Plane’) turned out to be a horrible electronic Stooges parody with particularly dire lyrics. In fact, the lyrical and thematic concerns of this album seem a little impressionistic and under-developed. Given that Garnier’s real strength lies in the field of instrumental music, I can’t help feeling he should have stuck to this domain. There are, after all, still plenty of possibilities for him to explore, as the finest moments here attest.
Whilst it is an interesting departure for Garnier (and how easy it would have been to simply repeat the formula of ‘Unreasonable Behaviour’), there is nothing here as thrilling as ‘The Man With The Red Face’, with its genuine improvised rush, or ‘The Sound Of The Big Baboo’, with its relentless energy. It just seems to melt too comfortably into the background, too often failing to engage. It may well simply be something of a grower – if it worms it’s way into the higher echelons of my albums of the year list come December – you’ll know that I’ve changed my mind!
Bright Eyes – I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning/Digital Ash In A Digital Urn
So far, I’ve been somewhat agnostic about the talents of Nebraskan wunderkind Conor Oberst – not least because whenever someone is heralded as the ‘new Bob Dylan’, I’m always a little suspicious. My suspicions of Oberst’s earlier work proved to be well grounded, given his tendency to over-emote and, unsurprisingly, pen lyrics of a slightly earnest adolescent tone. ‘Lifted’, his previous record, although bloated and inconsistent, displayed definite signs of improvement, and these two simultaneous releases go some way towards fulfilling that promise. Oberst is beginning to explore different settings for his expressive, occasionally cloyingly nasal vocals, and is beginning to exercise admirable restraint over his less appealing mannerisms.
He has not opted for the double album – or the two separate albums packaged as one – no, these are two entirely separate releases for which you will have to pay full price twice. The former has been billed, accurately, as a melancholy, countrified collection that betrays some hint of Oberst’s recent role as a political campaigner (he joined Bruce Springsteen and REM on the Vote for Change tour, a line-up to die for, although clearly not good enough to oust a President). The latter has been described in some quarters, wildly inaccurately, as a flirtation with avant-garde electronica. Electronic, in part, it may be – but it’s not particularly avant-garde at all. It strikes me as a pop album, heavily influenced by the experiments with electronics in the eighties, and sometimes benefits greatly from adopting a more melodic approach.
The use of backing vocalists on ‘I’m Wide Awake…’ has proved to be an inspired move. Emmylou Harris might seem an obvious choice of guest singer – especially as she appears to be something of a backing singer for hire at the moment – but let’s not take her enormous talent for granted. It would not be overstating the case to proclaim her as the best harmony singer in the world – she is the only person to have successfully harmonised with Bob Dylan, and her recordings with Gram Parsons are rightly hailed as the finest examples of close harmony singing in the country genre. The impact of her presence here is enormous – her controlled and passionate reading of Oberst’s melodies blunts some of the harshness in his approach, and the choruses frequently sound sublime, particularly on ‘We Are Nowhere (And It’s Now)’ and the expansive rush of ‘Landlocked Blues’, which neatly combines Oberst’s personal and political fears. The guest appearance of My Morning Jacket’s Jim James on the opening ‘At The Bottom Of Everything’ also adds feeling and colour to the endearingly jaunty hoedown sound.
The musicianship here is superb – and whilst Oberst himself is a compelling presence – much of the credit must go to producer and multi-instrumentalist Mike Mogis, who has also contributed his alchemic talents to the wonderful new album from Rilo Kiley. The instrumentation is particularly dazzling on ‘Old Soul Song (For The New World Order’, which is eager to remind of the strong links between country and soul music.
It sounds brilliant, but much of this material suffers from the kind of banal grandstanding statements that occasionally make Oberst seem pretentious. He still displays a tendency towards oversinging, although he has started to tone down his mannerisms. The best moment here is the hit single ‘Lua’, which is as spare as a recording can be, and where Oberst starts to assume a genuine vulnerability rather than a cloying earnestness. Its simple tale of the fading of hedonism into reality in the morning light is honest and touching. ‘I’m Wide Awake..’ is not quite the new American masterpiece some have suggested it is – but it’s certainly an invigorating listen, and a major step on Conor Oberst’s long road to realising his considerable potential.
Whilst ‘I’m Wide Awake..’ is easily the more immediate and accessible of the two albums, I wonder if I might come to like ‘Digital Ash in a Digital Urn’ more. It suffers from a similar set of problems – the obsession with binary, digits, data and primitive technology is surely a bit obvious and calculated for a move towards embracing electronica. It works despite its faults, however, because rather than having made a ‘dance’ album, Oberst has achieved something trickier. There is a very successful integration of acoustic and electronic instrumentation here that allows harps and flutes to sit comfortably with drum machines and analogue synthesizers. Oberst also makes full use of live drums, occasionally manipulated, which adds strength and energy to the sound. He has also saved some of his best songs for this album. ‘Arc Of Time’ and ‘Take It Easy (Love Nothing)’ are almost infectious, and are two of the more instantly appealing songs here. Others take more time, and present more of a challenge, but ‘I Believe In Symmetry’ and ‘Down A Rabbit Hole’ are crafted with elegant precision, and sound full of confusion and chaos. It’s by no means as ‘out there’ as some would suggest – it’s a good pop album, impressively orchestrated and cleverly executed.
Magnolia Electric Co – Trials and Errors
This is a crushing disappointment. Over the last few albums recorded by Jason Molina under a variety of different monikers, I have become enticed by his slow-paced and hypnotic dirges, and particularly by the raw majesty of some of his full-band studio recordings. Confused though I am by his current name changes – a Songs:Ohia album called ‘The Magnolia Electric Co’ is followed by a new line-up of Songs:Ohia claiming the album title as their new band name, whilst Molina produces a remarkable solo album under the name of ‘The Pyramid Electric Co’. Are you still with me?
‘Trials and Errors’ is a live album that bears some similarity with Neko Case’s recent gem ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ in that it features previously unreleased material. Two of the tracks here are destined to appear on Magnolia Electric Co’s forthcoming Steve Albini-produced studio set, while many of the others are available exclusively on this limited release. Unfortunately, whilst it offers long-term fans plenty of incentive to dish out the cash, it compares much less favourably with the Case album in terms of quality. Whereas ‘The Tigers Have Spoken’ was a charming and nuanced collection that documented Case’s current outlook, both in terms of traditional influences and her own original writing, ‘Trials and Errors’ merely details Molina’s Neil Young fixation at quite considerable length.
The pace and tone of this set is not just consistent, it is entirely homogenous. The drum sound is a horrible plodding rock thud that is rarely ever allowed to stray from the basic backbeat formula. Country rock drummers are often rudimentary, but most at least have some awareness of the need for dynamic variation and a sense of progression within each song. The guitars strum and duel relentlessly, and there are numerous solos, many of them gratuitous or unnecessary, failing to add any depth or resonance to the songs. This is a considerable shame, particularly considering that the new writing is crisp and powerfully emotive. The first couple of songs reveal the recurring theme of darkness, and ‘The Dark Don’t Hide It’ and ‘Don’t It Feel Like The Dark’ are classic Molina songs, characterised by a poetic ambiguity and haunting core, with some typically vulnerable Molina vocals adding extra depth. Musically, however, they seem heavy-handed and stilted, and it is this rather leaden sound that persists throughout the entire album.
Unsurprisingly, the problems are particularly acute on the renditions of more familiar material. On the ‘Magnolia Electric Co’ album, ‘Almost Was Good Enough’ was slow burning, but also brilliantly intense – here it just sounds tepid and flat. ‘Cross The Road’, from the outstanding ‘Didn’t It Rain’ album, was an elusive, fragile beauty, but now sounds lumbering and directionless. Virtually every song is taken at the same level and each utilise the same limited palette of ideas. I can’t decide whether it is the production values or the playing that is at fault – but I don’t come away from this album with a sense of Magnolia Electric Co as an exciting live act, and my sense of Jason Molina as an increasingly original and unusual songwriter can only be mildly dissipated by the realisation that he has failed to translate his vision to live performance.
There’s still a lot to get through, so expect more reviews to be posted in the next few days…
Friday, February 11, 2005
Elvis Costello and the Imposters – Hammersmith Apollo, London 10/2/05
I’ve already spent a great deal of space on this blog bemoaning lazy critical presumptions about Elvis Costello – that each album is either heralded as a ‘return to form’, or ‘further evidence of his decline and failure to recapture the spirit of This Year’s Model’ blah, blah, blah. On the Newsnight Review, Bonnie Greer and Germaine Greer, two critics admittedly not particularly well qualified to discuss songwriting, dismissed Costello’s latest album with the assertion that he had not developed as a writer and performer since the 1970s, and remained in the shadow of Bob Dylan. We all know that Dylan is the foremost inspiration for Costello’s writing, but this argument demonstrates such ignorance of Costello’s recent work that it can only be described as wrong. He has proved himself to be a master at assimilating a wide variety of influences, including classic soul, piano jazz, chamber pop, aggressive punkish rock and roll, country, folk music and classical composition, whilst retaining his own distinctive lyrical bent. Since the release of ‘When I Was Cruel’, it now appears that Costello has entered another prolific period, not just releasing three albums in quick fire succession, but also touring relentlessly across Europe and America in support of each. If anyone still considers Costello a spent force, or an ‘antique’ as he rather self-deprecatingly describes himself this evening, they could do worse than to attend one of his shows.
If you don’t feel you can rely on Costello for consistent musical quality, then you would at least have to concede that he is steadfastly dependable in terms of value for money. Tonight he gifted us with some 32 songs in 2 and a quarter hours, barely pausing for breath, yet hardly breaking into a sweat. He seemed at turns edgy, aggressive, tetchy, sympathetic, humorous and warm. It was tremendous fun for the audience, but I would not want to swap jobs with his guitar technician under any circumstances. For the numerous guitar changes, Costello remained at centre-stage, demanding that the poor man run to him as fast as humanly possible to switch his guitars. Frequently, Costello had launched the start of the next tune before he’d managed it. There were a couple of times when he was greeted only with a swift caution to hurry up. It was this impulsive energy that helped make tonight’s show so thrilling, with most of the material (even that dating from the seventies) sounding fresh and invigorated, save perhaps for the obligatory and slightly perfunctory blast through ‘Pump It Up’.
This show was precisely paced and balanced, veering from popular choices that would please the more casual of his admirers, to vastly more esoteric selections from his back catalogue. That he managed to do this whilst playing most of new LP ‘The Delivery Man’ was particularly impressive. This was not a promotional blast through the new material with a sprinkling of old favourites to keep the fans happy – instead, it demonstrated the consideration, commitment and energy of a seasoned performer. Tonight was not just a showcase for one of the giants of songwriting, it was also time to witness Costello as an impassioned and inspired bandleader, and a performer of wit and invention.
The Imposters make for a superb backing band, cooking up a storm of a groove on ‘Button My Lip’ and ‘Bedlam’, and sounding genuinely soulful on ‘Temptation’ and ‘Country Darkness’. They provide subtle ambience for ‘Almost Blue’ and an inspired reinvention of ‘When I Was Cruel’, stripped of the loops and electronic interventions that characterised the studio recording. They also demonstrate an instinctive awareness, similar to that of the E Street Band, that can only come with relentless performing as the same unit. Costello only has to raise his arm, and they immediately conclude the song. He gives a subtle signal, and the volume is dropped to a barely audible whisper. This tempestuous, unpredictable quality, bolstered by Pete Thomas’ inventive drumming and Steve Nieve’s extraordinary keyboard wizardry, makes the band as thrilling to watch as their leader.
The track selection touched on almost every facet of Costello’s chameleonic career. Particular highlights included the opening ‘Blue Chair’ and ‘Uncomplicated’ from 1986’s angry classic ‘Blood and Chocolate’, a rare airing for ‘Sulky Girl’ and the superb ‘Kinder Murder’ from Brutal Youth, faithful to the recorded templates, but still snarly and twisting. Contrast is provided by some intriguing band versions of tracks from his side-projects. ‘In The Darkest Place’ (from the Burt Bacharach collaboration ‘Painted From Memory’) and ‘You Turned To Me’ (from last year’s syrupy ‘North’, a collection of jazz piano ballads) sound elegant and emotive, and are heightened in power simply by virtue of being taken out of their respective contexts. It is on these tracks that his voice sounds most distinctive, his unusual vibrato rich in character and power. Occasionally elsewhere tonight there is evidence of some vocal frailty (just the occasional slip, crack or quashed note) that might betray the heavy demands of his touring schedule. Still, given that the likes of Liam Gallagher and Johnny Borrell have lost their voices and cancelled shows under stress from considerably lighter workloads, it would appear that Costello has preserved and developed his voice remarkably well over the years. Just compare him with the worn and frequently incomprehensible babblings of contemporary Bob Dylan. He has retained a mastery over diction and phrasing that Dylan has sadly lost.
He has also expanded his ability to engage with the audience in more recent years. The chanting on recent single ‘Monkey To Man’ provides the perfect opportunity for some call-and-response shenanigans. Rather less obviously, he collapses to his knees and inserts a strange rendition of ‘Suspicious Minds’ into ‘Alison’, and sits on the edge of the stage for a subtle and engaging reading of ‘Almost Blue’. His best trick is something he now seems to do at every gig, but to which he adds an exciting new dimension this evening. This is his tendency to sing at full projection, standing well away from the microphone. Impressively, his voice carries to the back of the venue. What might appear as a tiresome display of virtuosity works brilliantly because of the context. The effect heightens the torrid intensity of ‘I Want You’, and the palpable drama of ‘The Delivery Man’. It also adds a more playful dimension to ‘Hidden Charms’, for which he steps away from the microphone to vocalise into the well-aged pick-ups of his most recent guitar purchase, apparently for a mere $150.
As well as these inspired selections, he also provides plenty of instantly recognisable classics. ‘(I Don’t Want To Go To) Chelsea’ still sounds driving and energised, whilst ‘A Good Year For The Roses’ is splendidly elegiac. ‘Radio Radio’ and ‘Blame It On Cain’ sound spirited, and ‘Pump It Up’, whilst easily sounding the most dated choice in this set, pleases the crowd and finally tempts them into standing up. The new material was warmly received, and stood up well against this torrent of standards. Placed among a broad range of material, many of the tracks on ‘The Delivery Man’ felt like expertly crafted summaries of Costello’s thematic and musical concerns so far, particularly with the spirit of Dan Penn being invoked on the masterful ‘Country Darkness’ and the dramatic ‘Either Side Of The Same Town’. He manages to get away with performing the duets without the presence of Emmylou Harris (instead we get ‘Daveylou’ Farragher on harmony vocals, immensely able, but lacking the counterpoint of a female perspective). ‘Nothing Clings Like Ivy’ and ‘Heart Shaped Bruise’ are elegant dissections of relationships, powerfully communicated in live performance as well as on record.
There was no time wasting with the tiresome business of encores, although the band clearly could have milked the considerable applause for much longer had they felt the need. After introducing the band over the pounding backbeat of ‘Pump It Up’, he continued to rapidly plough through some more popular favourites, including the requested ‘Shipbuilding’ and Nick Lowe’s ‘(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love and Understanding’. At last, this unusually reticent crowd began to acknowledge the depth and quality of the performance, and Costello brilliantly, if somewhat perversely, declined to sustain an enervated mood during what might have passed for encores. He followed upbeat numbers with ballads, leaving the audience perplexed as to whether they should remain standing or simply sit back down again. In recent years, his concerts have usually been brought to a brilliantly uncomfortable conclusion with ‘ I Want You’. This time he bravely follows it with ‘The Scarlet Tide’, originally composed for the Cold Mountain soundtrack (easily the best thing about that turgid and unconvincing movie), now also the closing track on ‘The Delivery Man’. I found it strangely moving this evening, an emotional conclusion to an outstanding performance of great range and depth.
I can’t resist a brief rant to conclude – the atmosphere was fairly stilted anyway as an all-seated theatre performance, but the empty seats around us didn’t help. John Kell (see www.kingofquiet.tk in the next few days – I have no doubt he’ll be able to deliver a more concise and informed review than this one) was left unable to get a seat in the stalls from any of the official outlets. This implies to me that these seats were bought out by touts or the regular ebay dwellers that then proved unable to sell them at inflated prices. This infuriates me greatly as Costello is an artist easily capable of selling out this size of venue, who, despite being promoted by the fundamentalists at Clear Channel, has managed to keep his ticket prices at an almost affordable level over the last few years.
Erin McKeown – Bar Academy, Islington 9/2/05
Whilst the Costello gig had been impressive particularly because of the compelling interaction between bandleader and band, this intimate show from the quite wonderful Erin McKeown was a peerless lesson in how to engage an audience as a solo performer. Having been struck by her rendition of ‘Strung-Lo’ on a Jools Holland show a couple of years ago, I was aware that she was a talented guitar player and distinctive singer, but I was still unprepared for just how charming and convincing a show this would be.
McKeown is touring the UK with her friend, neighbour and fellow songwriter Kris Delmhorst, so it is worth spending a few brief words discussing her complementary and appealing support set. Her songs are arguably a little more generic than the jazz/country/musical melanges of Ms. McKeown, but no less touching or affecting. Her voice seemed mostly mellifluous and elegant, although she sometimes overdid the Emmylou Harris trick of slipping between vocal registers at the end of phrases. She clearly had some Bostonian followers in the audience this evening, and they enabled her to gain confidence, appearing playful and endearing on stage. It was particularly pleasing to see McKeown and Delmhorst sing and play together, in both headline and support slots, and this was a performance refreshingly free from ego. In fact, their voices intertwined with consummate ease.
McKeown’s headline set was something of a revelation for me. Stripped of the ornate arrangements that characterised the criminally overlooked ‘Grand’ album, the songs still sounded elaborate and lyrical (in all senses of the word). It’s a lazy and easy comment to make when reviewing solo gigs – but it really is one of the hardest challenges a performer can face to communicate with an audience when armed with just a microphone and guitar. McKeown clearly had such a mastery over her own spindly and twisty material that she made this look easy. She handled the difficult phrasing and unusual cadences with admirable clarity, and even premiered new material as if it were a well worn-in old pair of boots, particularly the marvellous ‘To The Stars’.
She is a literate, wordy songwriter, but also adept at handling everyday emotions and is highly sensitive to environment and surroundings. Most of her songs have a narrative quality to them, and her voice is one of wisdom and experience that belies her youth and verve. She managed to captivate my attention throughout the duration of this performance, engaging the audience in call-and-response chanting, even getting us to sing along on ‘Born To Hum’ whilst admirably maintaining her own concentration. In fact, concentration may be entirely the wrong word here, because throughout she seemed so relaxed and at ease as to be able to pick out intricate guitar lines whilst simultaneously controlling complex melodies.
Her guitar playing is her killer asset. She has mastered a wide variety of styles, from the bluesy twang of ‘Blackbirds’, to the elaborate pop chord progressions of ‘Slung Lo’ and ‘Cinematic’. She has the great skill of displaying dazzling musicianship without ever appearing blandly virtuosic or overly complex. She still has a commanding understanding of the value of an infectious melody or an identifiable theme.
Many of her songs have both – ‘A Better Wife’ is touching, and the wry gender subversion of ‘La Petite Mort’ made for the night’s most straightforwardly entertaining moment. ‘James!’, a song in which she dispenses relationship advice to a friend (although she confessed to initially encouraging him in his futile quest after the army boy next door), is particularly brilliant. Even without the horns, it is a distinctive song of considerable charm – and if anything, it’s delicate humour and honesty cut through more clearly in its acoustic rendition here.
Whilst she is an endearingly down-to-earth and modest performer, her considerable talent convinces throughout. Her new album promises to be every bit as distinctive and impressive as the previous two – hopefully she will return to the UK in support of it.
I’ve already spent a great deal of space on this blog bemoaning lazy critical presumptions about Elvis Costello – that each album is either heralded as a ‘return to form’, or ‘further evidence of his decline and failure to recapture the spirit of This Year’s Model’ blah, blah, blah. On the Newsnight Review, Bonnie Greer and Germaine Greer, two critics admittedly not particularly well qualified to discuss songwriting, dismissed Costello’s latest album with the assertion that he had not developed as a writer and performer since the 1970s, and remained in the shadow of Bob Dylan. We all know that Dylan is the foremost inspiration for Costello’s writing, but this argument demonstrates such ignorance of Costello’s recent work that it can only be described as wrong. He has proved himself to be a master at assimilating a wide variety of influences, including classic soul, piano jazz, chamber pop, aggressive punkish rock and roll, country, folk music and classical composition, whilst retaining his own distinctive lyrical bent. Since the release of ‘When I Was Cruel’, it now appears that Costello has entered another prolific period, not just releasing three albums in quick fire succession, but also touring relentlessly across Europe and America in support of each. If anyone still considers Costello a spent force, or an ‘antique’ as he rather self-deprecatingly describes himself this evening, they could do worse than to attend one of his shows.
If you don’t feel you can rely on Costello for consistent musical quality, then you would at least have to concede that he is steadfastly dependable in terms of value for money. Tonight he gifted us with some 32 songs in 2 and a quarter hours, barely pausing for breath, yet hardly breaking into a sweat. He seemed at turns edgy, aggressive, tetchy, sympathetic, humorous and warm. It was tremendous fun for the audience, but I would not want to swap jobs with his guitar technician under any circumstances. For the numerous guitar changes, Costello remained at centre-stage, demanding that the poor man run to him as fast as humanly possible to switch his guitars. Frequently, Costello had launched the start of the next tune before he’d managed it. There were a couple of times when he was greeted only with a swift caution to hurry up. It was this impulsive energy that helped make tonight’s show so thrilling, with most of the material (even that dating from the seventies) sounding fresh and invigorated, save perhaps for the obligatory and slightly perfunctory blast through ‘Pump It Up’.
This show was precisely paced and balanced, veering from popular choices that would please the more casual of his admirers, to vastly more esoteric selections from his back catalogue. That he managed to do this whilst playing most of new LP ‘The Delivery Man’ was particularly impressive. This was not a promotional blast through the new material with a sprinkling of old favourites to keep the fans happy – instead, it demonstrated the consideration, commitment and energy of a seasoned performer. Tonight was not just a showcase for one of the giants of songwriting, it was also time to witness Costello as an impassioned and inspired bandleader, and a performer of wit and invention.
The Imposters make for a superb backing band, cooking up a storm of a groove on ‘Button My Lip’ and ‘Bedlam’, and sounding genuinely soulful on ‘Temptation’ and ‘Country Darkness’. They provide subtle ambience for ‘Almost Blue’ and an inspired reinvention of ‘When I Was Cruel’, stripped of the loops and electronic interventions that characterised the studio recording. They also demonstrate an instinctive awareness, similar to that of the E Street Band, that can only come with relentless performing as the same unit. Costello only has to raise his arm, and they immediately conclude the song. He gives a subtle signal, and the volume is dropped to a barely audible whisper. This tempestuous, unpredictable quality, bolstered by Pete Thomas’ inventive drumming and Steve Nieve’s extraordinary keyboard wizardry, makes the band as thrilling to watch as their leader.
The track selection touched on almost every facet of Costello’s chameleonic career. Particular highlights included the opening ‘Blue Chair’ and ‘Uncomplicated’ from 1986’s angry classic ‘Blood and Chocolate’, a rare airing for ‘Sulky Girl’ and the superb ‘Kinder Murder’ from Brutal Youth, faithful to the recorded templates, but still snarly and twisting. Contrast is provided by some intriguing band versions of tracks from his side-projects. ‘In The Darkest Place’ (from the Burt Bacharach collaboration ‘Painted From Memory’) and ‘You Turned To Me’ (from last year’s syrupy ‘North’, a collection of jazz piano ballads) sound elegant and emotive, and are heightened in power simply by virtue of being taken out of their respective contexts. It is on these tracks that his voice sounds most distinctive, his unusual vibrato rich in character and power. Occasionally elsewhere tonight there is evidence of some vocal frailty (just the occasional slip, crack or quashed note) that might betray the heavy demands of his touring schedule. Still, given that the likes of Liam Gallagher and Johnny Borrell have lost their voices and cancelled shows under stress from considerably lighter workloads, it would appear that Costello has preserved and developed his voice remarkably well over the years. Just compare him with the worn and frequently incomprehensible babblings of contemporary Bob Dylan. He has retained a mastery over diction and phrasing that Dylan has sadly lost.
He has also expanded his ability to engage with the audience in more recent years. The chanting on recent single ‘Monkey To Man’ provides the perfect opportunity for some call-and-response shenanigans. Rather less obviously, he collapses to his knees and inserts a strange rendition of ‘Suspicious Minds’ into ‘Alison’, and sits on the edge of the stage for a subtle and engaging reading of ‘Almost Blue’. His best trick is something he now seems to do at every gig, but to which he adds an exciting new dimension this evening. This is his tendency to sing at full projection, standing well away from the microphone. Impressively, his voice carries to the back of the venue. What might appear as a tiresome display of virtuosity works brilliantly because of the context. The effect heightens the torrid intensity of ‘I Want You’, and the palpable drama of ‘The Delivery Man’. It also adds a more playful dimension to ‘Hidden Charms’, for which he steps away from the microphone to vocalise into the well-aged pick-ups of his most recent guitar purchase, apparently for a mere $150.
As well as these inspired selections, he also provides plenty of instantly recognisable classics. ‘(I Don’t Want To Go To) Chelsea’ still sounds driving and energised, whilst ‘A Good Year For The Roses’ is splendidly elegiac. ‘Radio Radio’ and ‘Blame It On Cain’ sound spirited, and ‘Pump It Up’, whilst easily sounding the most dated choice in this set, pleases the crowd and finally tempts them into standing up. The new material was warmly received, and stood up well against this torrent of standards. Placed among a broad range of material, many of the tracks on ‘The Delivery Man’ felt like expertly crafted summaries of Costello’s thematic and musical concerns so far, particularly with the spirit of Dan Penn being invoked on the masterful ‘Country Darkness’ and the dramatic ‘Either Side Of The Same Town’. He manages to get away with performing the duets without the presence of Emmylou Harris (instead we get ‘Daveylou’ Farragher on harmony vocals, immensely able, but lacking the counterpoint of a female perspective). ‘Nothing Clings Like Ivy’ and ‘Heart Shaped Bruise’ are elegant dissections of relationships, powerfully communicated in live performance as well as on record.
There was no time wasting with the tiresome business of encores, although the band clearly could have milked the considerable applause for much longer had they felt the need. After introducing the band over the pounding backbeat of ‘Pump It Up’, he continued to rapidly plough through some more popular favourites, including the requested ‘Shipbuilding’ and Nick Lowe’s ‘(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love and Understanding’. At last, this unusually reticent crowd began to acknowledge the depth and quality of the performance, and Costello brilliantly, if somewhat perversely, declined to sustain an enervated mood during what might have passed for encores. He followed upbeat numbers with ballads, leaving the audience perplexed as to whether they should remain standing or simply sit back down again. In recent years, his concerts have usually been brought to a brilliantly uncomfortable conclusion with ‘ I Want You’. This time he bravely follows it with ‘The Scarlet Tide’, originally composed for the Cold Mountain soundtrack (easily the best thing about that turgid and unconvincing movie), now also the closing track on ‘The Delivery Man’. I found it strangely moving this evening, an emotional conclusion to an outstanding performance of great range and depth.
I can’t resist a brief rant to conclude – the atmosphere was fairly stilted anyway as an all-seated theatre performance, but the empty seats around us didn’t help. John Kell (see www.kingofquiet.tk in the next few days – I have no doubt he’ll be able to deliver a more concise and informed review than this one) was left unable to get a seat in the stalls from any of the official outlets. This implies to me that these seats were bought out by touts or the regular ebay dwellers that then proved unable to sell them at inflated prices. This infuriates me greatly as Costello is an artist easily capable of selling out this size of venue, who, despite being promoted by the fundamentalists at Clear Channel, has managed to keep his ticket prices at an almost affordable level over the last few years.
Erin McKeown – Bar Academy, Islington 9/2/05
Whilst the Costello gig had been impressive particularly because of the compelling interaction between bandleader and band, this intimate show from the quite wonderful Erin McKeown was a peerless lesson in how to engage an audience as a solo performer. Having been struck by her rendition of ‘Strung-Lo’ on a Jools Holland show a couple of years ago, I was aware that she was a talented guitar player and distinctive singer, but I was still unprepared for just how charming and convincing a show this would be.
McKeown is touring the UK with her friend, neighbour and fellow songwriter Kris Delmhorst, so it is worth spending a few brief words discussing her complementary and appealing support set. Her songs are arguably a little more generic than the jazz/country/musical melanges of Ms. McKeown, but no less touching or affecting. Her voice seemed mostly mellifluous and elegant, although she sometimes overdid the Emmylou Harris trick of slipping between vocal registers at the end of phrases. She clearly had some Bostonian followers in the audience this evening, and they enabled her to gain confidence, appearing playful and endearing on stage. It was particularly pleasing to see McKeown and Delmhorst sing and play together, in both headline and support slots, and this was a performance refreshingly free from ego. In fact, their voices intertwined with consummate ease.
McKeown’s headline set was something of a revelation for me. Stripped of the ornate arrangements that characterised the criminally overlooked ‘Grand’ album, the songs still sounded elaborate and lyrical (in all senses of the word). It’s a lazy and easy comment to make when reviewing solo gigs – but it really is one of the hardest challenges a performer can face to communicate with an audience when armed with just a microphone and guitar. McKeown clearly had such a mastery over her own spindly and twisty material that she made this look easy. She handled the difficult phrasing and unusual cadences with admirable clarity, and even premiered new material as if it were a well worn-in old pair of boots, particularly the marvellous ‘To The Stars’.
She is a literate, wordy songwriter, but also adept at handling everyday emotions and is highly sensitive to environment and surroundings. Most of her songs have a narrative quality to them, and her voice is one of wisdom and experience that belies her youth and verve. She managed to captivate my attention throughout the duration of this performance, engaging the audience in call-and-response chanting, even getting us to sing along on ‘Born To Hum’ whilst admirably maintaining her own concentration. In fact, concentration may be entirely the wrong word here, because throughout she seemed so relaxed and at ease as to be able to pick out intricate guitar lines whilst simultaneously controlling complex melodies.
Her guitar playing is her killer asset. She has mastered a wide variety of styles, from the bluesy twang of ‘Blackbirds’, to the elaborate pop chord progressions of ‘Slung Lo’ and ‘Cinematic’. She has the great skill of displaying dazzling musicianship without ever appearing blandly virtuosic or overly complex. She still has a commanding understanding of the value of an infectious melody or an identifiable theme.
Many of her songs have both – ‘A Better Wife’ is touching, and the wry gender subversion of ‘La Petite Mort’ made for the night’s most straightforwardly entertaining moment. ‘James!’, a song in which she dispenses relationship advice to a friend (although she confessed to initially encouraging him in his futile quest after the army boy next door), is particularly brilliant. Even without the horns, it is a distinctive song of considerable charm – and if anything, it’s delicate humour and honesty cut through more clearly in its acoustic rendition here.
Whilst she is an endearingly down-to-earth and modest performer, her considerable talent convinces throughout. Her new album promises to be every bit as distinctive and impressive as the previous two – hopefully she will return to the UK in support of it.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
The First Reviews of 2005!
The new year is certainly beginning with a bang. Indeed, so many of the key releases of the year for me seem to be being released on January 24th that I may well be bankrupted before the year's even got into swing. Anyway, here are the first handful of albums that I've managed to hear...
Mercury Rev - The Secret Migration
The ethereal beauty of 'Deserter's Songs' allowed Mercury Rev belated but hard-earned critical garlands, but also ushered many writers into swathes of hyperbole that have yet to wear off. 'All Is Dream' was branded a continuation of the good work of 'Deserter's Songs', whereas actually it was stodgy, portentous and mostly quite dull. Arguably the best element of 'Deserter's Songs' (and indeed its equally excellent predecessor 'See You On The Other Side' was its consummate engagement with great American musical traditions, from Appalachian folk through to improvised jazz. For 'All Is Dream', the band seemed to have forgotten that this was their great strength, instead opting to create an alternative fairytale reality, with music overburdened with distorted guitars and big drums, the results being depressingly ordinary. There is, unsurprisingly, both good news and bad news with the highly anticipated 'The Secret Migration'.
The good news is that it is another sidestep in a slightly different direction. It is much more 'pop' than its predecessor, and doesn't neglect memorable melodies to quite the same extent (although they are arguably still in much shorter supply than I had hoped). It also has a luscious, richly cinematic quality that may endow it with some appeal. At its best, it is simple and effective, particularly on the loose-limbed and rhythmic 'Across Yer Ocean', a song which benefits from being uncharacteristically understated, and is bolstered by some irresistible twangy guitar lines in the tradition of Jimmy Webb songs. Equally endearing is the undeniably pretty 'My Love', which has a lovely Roger McGuinn-esque guitar solo and remains quietly mournful throughout. 'Secret for a Song' is the big opening statement, and the one moment where the great drive to achieve a 'big sound' actually results in something engaging. The short and sweet 'Moving On', with its Beach Boys-inspired harmonies is also an unexpected twist in proceedings.
The bad news is that much of 'The Secret Migration' is again incredibly mundane. The elaborate and dense arrangements of 'Deserter's Songs' remained sidelined in favour of great swathes of synth and keyboard orchestrations that fail to add very much beyond the merely impressionistic. They certainly don't have the verve or imagination of the synth stylings of the recent Destroyer album. That these bland sustained chords and studio effects are piled on to pretty much every song also makes for a irritatingly homogenous collection. Very few of the songs actually have either the energy or the emotional appeal to linger much in the mind. Lyrically, Jonathan Donohue remains committed to all things mythical and mystical, clearly striving to transcend ordinary reality, but frequently ending up sounding crass and unconvincing. When we get totally awful song titles like 'Black Forest (Lorelei)' and 'First Time Mother's Joy (Flying)', it's very hard to banish thoughts of 'Tales From Topographic Oceans' from the mind. There is a sense with recent Mercury Rev material that they have started to take themselves far too seriously, convinced that they are making hugely significant musical statements when they are in fact merely drifting without many useful ideas.
Unsurprisingly, 'The Secret Migration' has already been highly acclaimed by a British Music Press afraid to criticise a pantheon it helped to create. Mercury Rev seen to have inadvertently become one of the untouchable giants of modern rock music. Some seem enthralled by the band's romantic quality, but a much better example of shameless romanticism would be the outstanding debut from Canada's Arcade Fire (see my albums of 2004 list and previous review). 'The Secret Migration' has a handful of charming moments, which is better than a kick in the teeth, but mostly it fails to ignite.
Lou Barlow - Emoh
Well you either know Lou Barlow's songwriting intimately and love it with all your heart, or you don't. It seems unlikely that this first 'official' solo album from Barlow (at least it's the first released under his own name) will bring Barlow any wider recognition. For those that know, however, this may be what we've been waiting for for years. It's still faithfully lo-fi, mostly built over unfussy acoustic guitar strums, and occasionally bolstered by silly toy keyboards. What makes it stand out from other Barlow projects is its consistency of purpose and quality, as well as it's relative lack of arsing about. With Sebadoh, Barlow wrote some of the most elegantly moving, lovesick indie songs ever penned ('Soul and Fire', 'Rebound', 'Together Or Alone', 'Willing to Wait' and 'The Beauty Of the Ride' would easily all make it into my favourite songs of the nineties list), and with the Folk Implosion he crafted a number of excellent albums, most notably 'One Part Lullaby', a putative attempt to engage more with modern technology. 'Emoh' strips Barlow's songwriting back to its bare essentials, sometimes with melodies so simplistic, they sound like nursery rhymes.
There's an innocence and naivety here that manages to be touching rather than twee. It treads a fine line for sure, but it stays exactly on the right side of it because, as ever, Barlow's perenially adolescent takes on human relationships end up being surprisingly perceptive. There are plenty of platitudes, but Barlow sings them with such underplayed sincerity that it's hard not to feel a tug on the heartstrings. The two highlights are a pair of beautiful songs, as good as any he has ever written. 'Legendary' and 'Puzzle' are among his most perfectly concise, and deeply affecting compositions. On the latter, he seems genuinely bewildered, confessing, 'in between my shadow and your light, I did lose you', whilst on the former, he is simply devastated. Elsewhere, the arrangements are slightly more playful, such as on 'Caterpillar Girl', an obvious choice of single should Domino want to release one, or on 'Monkey Begun', which is almost upbeat. On 'Home', the rudimentary drum machine is reminiscent of Barlow/Davis incarnation of Folk Implosion. There's very little of the angsty, grumpy Lou that has blighted his chances of success in the past, and 'Emoh' does seem like a concerted attempt to produce a consistently powerful collection of deceptively simple songs. With me, Barlow is certainly preaching to the converted, but if you want a way in to understanding the Barlow mindset, this may be the best place to come.
Patrick Wolf - Wind In The Wires (Tomlab)
Patrick Wolf's elaborate vocalising is a million miles from Lou Barlow's soft and delicate delivery. In fact, I often wish Patrick would stop sounding so serious and earnest and give his often excellent songs a little more room to breathe. Advance reports have suggested that he has done exactly that with 'Wind In The Wires'. It sounded like he was going to take the best elements of 'Lycanthropy', an album which demonstrated tremendous potential, and build them into something spectacular, with wildly abstruse arrangements combining with more restrained, folk-tinged melodies.
Given that the bulk of 'Lycanthropy' was written when Patrick was very young (and clearly also quite impressionable), it's not surprising that some of it betrayed a rather adolescent world-view. It seemed to focus closely on Patrick's pubescent experiences and confusions. 'Wind In The Wires' is based on more of Patrick's youthful experiences, this time in the form of train journeys across the West country and glimpses of the Devon coastline. It is thematically much more coherent and mature than its predecessor, and its preoccupation with Hardy-esque stories, landscape and weather lend it a lingeringly evocative quality. It is bookended by two remarkable songs which are easily the best he has recorded so far. 'The Libertine' lives up to its name by sounding reckless, carefree and wild, melding folky violin with a relentless disco beat. The concluding 'Land's End' is a carefully constructed epic that veers from the wistful to the exhuberant, and it perfectly summarises this album's many moods and feelings. Much of this album concentrates on the idea of escape and the chorus of this song states 'I'm leaving London for Land's End/ With a green tent and a violin'. It perfectly captures the thrill of leaving the crowded city for a more personal, mysterious space. It is a great journey into the unknown.
In between the two, there is also much to be encouraged by. 'Teignmouth' is spectacularly beautiful, and one of Patrick's most complex and deftly handled arrangements. That it dates back to his teenage years clearly demonstrates his precocious talent and self-confidence. 'Ghost Song' sounds distant and shimmering, whilst 'This Weather' drifts mysteriously in and out of the ether. Elsewhere, however, it's arguable that Patrick concentrates on mood, sound and theme at the expense of melody. I love the way this album sounds - it's conflagration of quaint instrumentation and modern electronics, its careful engagement with both folk music and the torch song - it's just that I struggle to recall specifics. I can remember the spirit and feel of this album - I just couldn't really hum any tunes from it. Patrick's tendency to oversing also obscures melodic gifts that are undoubtedly present, but perhaps still need to be given room to develop. Plenty of people have been seriously comparing Patrick with the young Kate Bush, whose melodies were often complex, and could also prove strangely elusive. What feels frustrating now may well make perfect sense given several more listens. I certainly want it to - because 'Wind In The Wires' is an intelligent and touching paen to the naivety and thrill of escape.
Roots Manuva - Awfully Deep (Big Dada)
What a superb record this is - not just an early contender for the best British hip hop album of the year, but simply for the best hip hop album of 2005 full stop. Much of 'Awfully Deep' builds on the enticing, hypnotic groove of his classic 'Witness' single from a few years back, and the wordplay again demonstrates a fearsome intelligence. 'Awfully Deep' is one of the few hip hop albums I've heard that demonstrate a capacity for capturing melancholy feeling. From the lyrics here, it would appear that Roots Manuva has spent much of the last couple of years in a period of depressive self-analysis, and all the scrutinising has produced spectacular results. That it is as intriguing sonically as it is lyrically helps its cause considerably - with Roots clearly aiming at resisting pigeonholing and incorporating a massive range of influences, from dub producers such as Keith Hudson through roots reggae, electro, funk and soul. On 'Colossal Insight' he claims that he doesn't give a damn about UK rap - he's a UK rapper, but he doesn't want to be categorised. 'I got love for all them scenes but the pigeonholes weren't enough to hold me!' he states. On this evidence, this would prove to be an accurate self-assessment.
Roots Manuva clearly understands the classic strategy of coupling dense, dazzling wordplay with strikingly simple and infectious choruses. Where lesser talents would have relied on straightforward sampling for these choruses, often from classic soul records, Manuva sings them himself, with a shameless energy that lightens the psychological gravity considerably. The chorus of opener 'Mind 2 Motion' is hilarious, possibly the only rap track to betray the influence of children's comedy legends Trevor and Simon, with its exhortation to 'swing your pants!'. The title track also has a similarly irresistible chorus line. When set to pared down backing tracks with their squelchy electro lines and deep, bowel rumbling basslines, the raps prove to be completely compelling. The music often sounds influenced by the uncompromising firebrand spirit and energy of Jamaican dancehall music.
Whereas I often avoid rap music because I find it difficult to engage with or remember its lyrics, 'Awfully Deep' proves to be expressive and memorable. Roots himself describes his own 'venomous eloquence', his almost savage ability to nail a lyric in simple and concise verse. 'Colossal Insight' is a brilliant song about drinking, with Roots claiming 'I walk with disaster/prefer to be plastered' and confessing 'I should cut down this drinking/Too many late nights and wayward thinking'. On 'Thinking' he gets even more bogged down in existential angst, professing to be a 'lonely soldier' fighting his own battles unaided.
'Awfully Deep' manages to pull off the very impressive trick of juggling a diverse array of sounds and influences whilst maintaing an admirable clarity and coherence of purpose. It never sounds boring, just thrilling and exciting stuff from start to finish.
The new year is certainly beginning with a bang. Indeed, so many of the key releases of the year for me seem to be being released on January 24th that I may well be bankrupted before the year's even got into swing. Anyway, here are the first handful of albums that I've managed to hear...
Mercury Rev - The Secret Migration
The ethereal beauty of 'Deserter's Songs' allowed Mercury Rev belated but hard-earned critical garlands, but also ushered many writers into swathes of hyperbole that have yet to wear off. 'All Is Dream' was branded a continuation of the good work of 'Deserter's Songs', whereas actually it was stodgy, portentous and mostly quite dull. Arguably the best element of 'Deserter's Songs' (and indeed its equally excellent predecessor 'See You On The Other Side' was its consummate engagement with great American musical traditions, from Appalachian folk through to improvised jazz. For 'All Is Dream', the band seemed to have forgotten that this was their great strength, instead opting to create an alternative fairytale reality, with music overburdened with distorted guitars and big drums, the results being depressingly ordinary. There is, unsurprisingly, both good news and bad news with the highly anticipated 'The Secret Migration'.
The good news is that it is another sidestep in a slightly different direction. It is much more 'pop' than its predecessor, and doesn't neglect memorable melodies to quite the same extent (although they are arguably still in much shorter supply than I had hoped). It also has a luscious, richly cinematic quality that may endow it with some appeal. At its best, it is simple and effective, particularly on the loose-limbed and rhythmic 'Across Yer Ocean', a song which benefits from being uncharacteristically understated, and is bolstered by some irresistible twangy guitar lines in the tradition of Jimmy Webb songs. Equally endearing is the undeniably pretty 'My Love', which has a lovely Roger McGuinn-esque guitar solo and remains quietly mournful throughout. 'Secret for a Song' is the big opening statement, and the one moment where the great drive to achieve a 'big sound' actually results in something engaging. The short and sweet 'Moving On', with its Beach Boys-inspired harmonies is also an unexpected twist in proceedings.
The bad news is that much of 'The Secret Migration' is again incredibly mundane. The elaborate and dense arrangements of 'Deserter's Songs' remained sidelined in favour of great swathes of synth and keyboard orchestrations that fail to add very much beyond the merely impressionistic. They certainly don't have the verve or imagination of the synth stylings of the recent Destroyer album. That these bland sustained chords and studio effects are piled on to pretty much every song also makes for a irritatingly homogenous collection. Very few of the songs actually have either the energy or the emotional appeal to linger much in the mind. Lyrically, Jonathan Donohue remains committed to all things mythical and mystical, clearly striving to transcend ordinary reality, but frequently ending up sounding crass and unconvincing. When we get totally awful song titles like 'Black Forest (Lorelei)' and 'First Time Mother's Joy (Flying)', it's very hard to banish thoughts of 'Tales From Topographic Oceans' from the mind. There is a sense with recent Mercury Rev material that they have started to take themselves far too seriously, convinced that they are making hugely significant musical statements when they are in fact merely drifting without many useful ideas.
Unsurprisingly, 'The Secret Migration' has already been highly acclaimed by a British Music Press afraid to criticise a pantheon it helped to create. Mercury Rev seen to have inadvertently become one of the untouchable giants of modern rock music. Some seem enthralled by the band's romantic quality, but a much better example of shameless romanticism would be the outstanding debut from Canada's Arcade Fire (see my albums of 2004 list and previous review). 'The Secret Migration' has a handful of charming moments, which is better than a kick in the teeth, but mostly it fails to ignite.
Lou Barlow - Emoh
Well you either know Lou Barlow's songwriting intimately and love it with all your heart, or you don't. It seems unlikely that this first 'official' solo album from Barlow (at least it's the first released under his own name) will bring Barlow any wider recognition. For those that know, however, this may be what we've been waiting for for years. It's still faithfully lo-fi, mostly built over unfussy acoustic guitar strums, and occasionally bolstered by silly toy keyboards. What makes it stand out from other Barlow projects is its consistency of purpose and quality, as well as it's relative lack of arsing about. With Sebadoh, Barlow wrote some of the most elegantly moving, lovesick indie songs ever penned ('Soul and Fire', 'Rebound', 'Together Or Alone', 'Willing to Wait' and 'The Beauty Of the Ride' would easily all make it into my favourite songs of the nineties list), and with the Folk Implosion he crafted a number of excellent albums, most notably 'One Part Lullaby', a putative attempt to engage more with modern technology. 'Emoh' strips Barlow's songwriting back to its bare essentials, sometimes with melodies so simplistic, they sound like nursery rhymes.
There's an innocence and naivety here that manages to be touching rather than twee. It treads a fine line for sure, but it stays exactly on the right side of it because, as ever, Barlow's perenially adolescent takes on human relationships end up being surprisingly perceptive. There are plenty of platitudes, but Barlow sings them with such underplayed sincerity that it's hard not to feel a tug on the heartstrings. The two highlights are a pair of beautiful songs, as good as any he has ever written. 'Legendary' and 'Puzzle' are among his most perfectly concise, and deeply affecting compositions. On the latter, he seems genuinely bewildered, confessing, 'in between my shadow and your light, I did lose you', whilst on the former, he is simply devastated. Elsewhere, the arrangements are slightly more playful, such as on 'Caterpillar Girl', an obvious choice of single should Domino want to release one, or on 'Monkey Begun', which is almost upbeat. On 'Home', the rudimentary drum machine is reminiscent of Barlow/Davis incarnation of Folk Implosion. There's very little of the angsty, grumpy Lou that has blighted his chances of success in the past, and 'Emoh' does seem like a concerted attempt to produce a consistently powerful collection of deceptively simple songs. With me, Barlow is certainly preaching to the converted, but if you want a way in to understanding the Barlow mindset, this may be the best place to come.
Patrick Wolf - Wind In The Wires (Tomlab)
Patrick Wolf's elaborate vocalising is a million miles from Lou Barlow's soft and delicate delivery. In fact, I often wish Patrick would stop sounding so serious and earnest and give his often excellent songs a little more room to breathe. Advance reports have suggested that he has done exactly that with 'Wind In The Wires'. It sounded like he was going to take the best elements of 'Lycanthropy', an album which demonstrated tremendous potential, and build them into something spectacular, with wildly abstruse arrangements combining with more restrained, folk-tinged melodies.
Given that the bulk of 'Lycanthropy' was written when Patrick was very young (and clearly also quite impressionable), it's not surprising that some of it betrayed a rather adolescent world-view. It seemed to focus closely on Patrick's pubescent experiences and confusions. 'Wind In The Wires' is based on more of Patrick's youthful experiences, this time in the form of train journeys across the West country and glimpses of the Devon coastline. It is thematically much more coherent and mature than its predecessor, and its preoccupation with Hardy-esque stories, landscape and weather lend it a lingeringly evocative quality. It is bookended by two remarkable songs which are easily the best he has recorded so far. 'The Libertine' lives up to its name by sounding reckless, carefree and wild, melding folky violin with a relentless disco beat. The concluding 'Land's End' is a carefully constructed epic that veers from the wistful to the exhuberant, and it perfectly summarises this album's many moods and feelings. Much of this album concentrates on the idea of escape and the chorus of this song states 'I'm leaving London for Land's End/ With a green tent and a violin'. It perfectly captures the thrill of leaving the crowded city for a more personal, mysterious space. It is a great journey into the unknown.
In between the two, there is also much to be encouraged by. 'Teignmouth' is spectacularly beautiful, and one of Patrick's most complex and deftly handled arrangements. That it dates back to his teenage years clearly demonstrates his precocious talent and self-confidence. 'Ghost Song' sounds distant and shimmering, whilst 'This Weather' drifts mysteriously in and out of the ether. Elsewhere, however, it's arguable that Patrick concentrates on mood, sound and theme at the expense of melody. I love the way this album sounds - it's conflagration of quaint instrumentation and modern electronics, its careful engagement with both folk music and the torch song - it's just that I struggle to recall specifics. I can remember the spirit and feel of this album - I just couldn't really hum any tunes from it. Patrick's tendency to oversing also obscures melodic gifts that are undoubtedly present, but perhaps still need to be given room to develop. Plenty of people have been seriously comparing Patrick with the young Kate Bush, whose melodies were often complex, and could also prove strangely elusive. What feels frustrating now may well make perfect sense given several more listens. I certainly want it to - because 'Wind In The Wires' is an intelligent and touching paen to the naivety and thrill of escape.
Roots Manuva - Awfully Deep (Big Dada)
What a superb record this is - not just an early contender for the best British hip hop album of the year, but simply for the best hip hop album of 2005 full stop. Much of 'Awfully Deep' builds on the enticing, hypnotic groove of his classic 'Witness' single from a few years back, and the wordplay again demonstrates a fearsome intelligence. 'Awfully Deep' is one of the few hip hop albums I've heard that demonstrate a capacity for capturing melancholy feeling. From the lyrics here, it would appear that Roots Manuva has spent much of the last couple of years in a period of depressive self-analysis, and all the scrutinising has produced spectacular results. That it is as intriguing sonically as it is lyrically helps its cause considerably - with Roots clearly aiming at resisting pigeonholing and incorporating a massive range of influences, from dub producers such as Keith Hudson through roots reggae, electro, funk and soul. On 'Colossal Insight' he claims that he doesn't give a damn about UK rap - he's a UK rapper, but he doesn't want to be categorised. 'I got love for all them scenes but the pigeonholes weren't enough to hold me!' he states. On this evidence, this would prove to be an accurate self-assessment.
Roots Manuva clearly understands the classic strategy of coupling dense, dazzling wordplay with strikingly simple and infectious choruses. Where lesser talents would have relied on straightforward sampling for these choruses, often from classic soul records, Manuva sings them himself, with a shameless energy that lightens the psychological gravity considerably. The chorus of opener 'Mind 2 Motion' is hilarious, possibly the only rap track to betray the influence of children's comedy legends Trevor and Simon, with its exhortation to 'swing your pants!'. The title track also has a similarly irresistible chorus line. When set to pared down backing tracks with their squelchy electro lines and deep, bowel rumbling basslines, the raps prove to be completely compelling. The music often sounds influenced by the uncompromising firebrand spirit and energy of Jamaican dancehall music.
Whereas I often avoid rap music because I find it difficult to engage with or remember its lyrics, 'Awfully Deep' proves to be expressive and memorable. Roots himself describes his own 'venomous eloquence', his almost savage ability to nail a lyric in simple and concise verse. 'Colossal Insight' is a brilliant song about drinking, with Roots claiming 'I walk with disaster/prefer to be plastered' and confessing 'I should cut down this drinking/Too many late nights and wayward thinking'. On 'Thinking' he gets even more bogged down in existential angst, professing to be a 'lonely soldier' fighting his own battles unaided.
'Awfully Deep' manages to pull off the very impressive trick of juggling a diverse array of sounds and influences whilst maintaing an admirable clarity and coherence of purpose. It never sounds boring, just thrilling and exciting stuff from start to finish.
Vera Drake (Dir: Mike Leigh, 2003)
It’s only the first week of the new year and here already is the year’s first must-see movie (with the exception of Scorsese’s opulent, Oscar-baiting The Aviator, which slipped out at the end of last year, and which, despite being a Scorsese picture, may not actually be ‘must-see’ at all). Mike Leigh’s picture comes fresh from the festival circuit, where it has won a number of awards, including the Golden Lion for best picture and the Best Actress award for Imelda Staunton at last year’s Venice Film Festival. It also provided the gala opening for the London film festival last November. It will no doubt win many more accolades in the coming months.
Leigh’s eponymous central character is a compulsive ‘do-gooder’, a woman with a heart of gold who helps infirm neighbours, invites people round to feed them ‘a proper meal’ and makes endless cups of tea for those in need of comfort. In secret, she is also a backstreet abortionist, a grisly role for which she accepts no remuneration and sincerely believes she is acting out of the goodness of her heart, performing a social duty for the needy and underprivileged who have found themselves in trouble.
The first half of the film is captivating largely because of Leigh’s extraordinary recreation of early 1950s London life. Despite a meagre budget, and a lack of feasible locations, Leigh has crafted a convincing world – where the colours are appropriately drab and muted, but where there is also considerable warmth and human sympathy. Leigh is often dismissed for working largely with ‘caricatures’, or extreme types, which he creates at first through highly unique improvisatory techniques before presenting his actors with a script. Whilst Vera may well be seen as a class stereotype, working officially as a cleaner in wealthy homes whilst sympathising with the needy and happy with her own somewhat limited stock, there is also an element of truth and compassion in Imelda Staunton’s outstanding performance. She is highly supportive and encouraging towards her family, and carries herself with a quiet dignity.
Leigh also develops a believable euphemistic language when constructing dramatic situations. Vera does not perform abortions, she ‘helps girls out’. The amiable, slightly simple Reg proposes to Vera’s daughter Ethel in an endearingly clumsy manner, at first asking her if she has ‘thought about moving out’. In fact, there is a surprising abundance of charm and humour in the first half of the film, which neatly counterbalances the inevitable grimness elsewhere, without really ever becoming uncomfortable. The scenes of the operations themselves, which Vera performs with a Higinson syringe, soapy water and disinfectant, whilst not graphically depicting the procedure, are edgy and unpleasant, and a couple of these procedures are savagely juxtaposed with Drake family members enjoying a picture show. It’s a neat trick, which Leigh pulls off with an admirable deftness of touch and control.
It is only when one of Vera’s patients becomes seriously ill and nearly dies that her crimes are brought to light and she becomes exposed. At the ‘operation’, the young girl’s mother recognises Vera from a launderette where they both used to work before the war. In a subtly devastating few seconds, her anonymity is lost and she becomes perilously vulnerable. Never one to miss the opportunity for a dramatic coup, Leigh times her arrest to coincide with a family party, where the engagement of Ethel and Reg, and the pregnancy (oh, the irony) of Stan’s sister-in-law are being celebrated.
It is here that Imelda Staunton crafts her extraordinary transformation from pillar of the community to humiliated, devastated wreck. Much has already been made of her brilliant performance, but what seems most significant to me is that she is allowed to further flourish through intelligent, sensitive direction. Much like Ken Loach, Leigh is often criticised for being too concerned with drama and script, and less concerned with the actual technicalities of film-making. Here, with considerable aplomb, he demonstrates these critical barbs to be entirely inaccurate. When the police first arrive for Vera, the camera moves from a short distance into extreme close-up, capturing Staunton’s face as it first quivers and then collapses, losing its essence and vitality in what seems like an agonisingly long take. Another staggering moment, which I feel certain will linger in my memory for some time, is when, after completing her statement for the police, Vera finally confesses to her husband Stan. Here, Dick Pope’s camera frames the two characters in exquisite close-up, as Vera whispers the terrible news into his ear, unable to repeat her confession aloud. Leigh also skilfully resists the temptation to turn the final reel of the film into a perfunctory courtroom drama, through elaborate editing that transmits the magnitude of Vera’s trial and sentence without dwelling too long on technicalities.
Given that Leigh obviously intends our sympathies to lie with Vera, some have criticised this film for taking a morally ambivalent stance on abortion. I would certainly agree that the film maintains an admirable detachment on issues of personal morality (and, perhaps strangely, religion is hardly even touched upon), but it does not seem to me to be a defence of backstreet abortions. The abortion scenes themselves are fraught with tension, and, frequently, with despair, as Vera is often confronted with the fact that her actions have not magically washed away her clients’ problems as she clearly would like. What Leigh seems to be arguing (although this film is by no means intended as polemic) is that there was an underlying hypocrisy in 1950s Britain, whereby the wealthy could afford to pay for quietly sanctioned abortions in comfortable environments, whereas the working classes were left to fend for themselves, at the mercy of others and, indeed, of perilously dangerous practices. Leigh provides class contrast by following a sub-story involving the daughter of one of the wealthy women for whom Vera provides a cleaning service (her official, gainful employment), who is raped by a potential boyfriend and forced to recourse to a private termination. Leigh also portrays Stan’s brother Frank’s quiet frustration with his socially ambitious wife Joyce, who appears to hanker for a washing machine more than she wants her unborn child. Perhaps unusually for Leigh, these points are left implied rather than imposed, which perhaps leads to these various plot strands remaining unsatisfactorily unresolved.
Someone emerging from the cinema in front of me also clearly felt the film to be an unfair treatment of the 1950s, claiming ‘it was only the fifties, but from that you’d have thought it was the dark ages!’. This viewer clearly missed some of the more challenging and intriguing ambiguities within the film. Not all are immediately condemnatory of Vera – her son Sid claims that her actions are wrong, and that he may be unable to forgive her, but when he claims she has let the family down, Stan immediately and firmly disputes this. The reaction of the Drake family is as significant as Vera’s private devastation. In the earlier part of the film, Leigh constructs a convincing and richly detailed portrait of family life, for it to be profoundly challenged by the shocking revelations. Not only this, but the police investigation is conducted with a surprising sensitivity, They seem aware both of Vera’s humiliation and her kindness, yet they are bound by law to perform their duty. These are complex and sympathetic performances in roles that a lesser director may have made thankless.
Vera Drake is an intense, deeply moving and carefully crafted film of immense power, but it is perhaps not my favourite of Mike Leigh’s pictures. It shares some of the shocking revelations as his earlier masterpiece ‘Secrets and Lies’, but that film arguably adopted a less scholarly approach. It also lacks the mysterious allure of a film such as ‘Naked’. It is also slightly undermined by its persistent use of choral music, which, to me at least, felt slightly crass. What is Leigh trying to say with the use of this soundtrack? Is Vera supposed to be a saint or martyr, or is Leigh trying to confront fundamental positions on abortion and the sanctity of life? I suspect that Leigh has little interest in either of these notions, and that the music is simply inappropriate. Other than these small reservations though, ‘Vera Drake’ shows Leigh to be as uncompromising and confrontational as ever, and still eliciting sublime performances, both from the overwhelmingly compelling Staunton, and her talented supporting cast.
It’s only the first week of the new year and here already is the year’s first must-see movie (with the exception of Scorsese’s opulent, Oscar-baiting The Aviator, which slipped out at the end of last year, and which, despite being a Scorsese picture, may not actually be ‘must-see’ at all). Mike Leigh’s picture comes fresh from the festival circuit, where it has won a number of awards, including the Golden Lion for best picture and the Best Actress award for Imelda Staunton at last year’s Venice Film Festival. It also provided the gala opening for the London film festival last November. It will no doubt win many more accolades in the coming months.
Leigh’s eponymous central character is a compulsive ‘do-gooder’, a woman with a heart of gold who helps infirm neighbours, invites people round to feed them ‘a proper meal’ and makes endless cups of tea for those in need of comfort. In secret, she is also a backstreet abortionist, a grisly role for which she accepts no remuneration and sincerely believes she is acting out of the goodness of her heart, performing a social duty for the needy and underprivileged who have found themselves in trouble.
The first half of the film is captivating largely because of Leigh’s extraordinary recreation of early 1950s London life. Despite a meagre budget, and a lack of feasible locations, Leigh has crafted a convincing world – where the colours are appropriately drab and muted, but where there is also considerable warmth and human sympathy. Leigh is often dismissed for working largely with ‘caricatures’, or extreme types, which he creates at first through highly unique improvisatory techniques before presenting his actors with a script. Whilst Vera may well be seen as a class stereotype, working officially as a cleaner in wealthy homes whilst sympathising with the needy and happy with her own somewhat limited stock, there is also an element of truth and compassion in Imelda Staunton’s outstanding performance. She is highly supportive and encouraging towards her family, and carries herself with a quiet dignity.
Leigh also develops a believable euphemistic language when constructing dramatic situations. Vera does not perform abortions, she ‘helps girls out’. The amiable, slightly simple Reg proposes to Vera’s daughter Ethel in an endearingly clumsy manner, at first asking her if she has ‘thought about moving out’. In fact, there is a surprising abundance of charm and humour in the first half of the film, which neatly counterbalances the inevitable grimness elsewhere, without really ever becoming uncomfortable. The scenes of the operations themselves, which Vera performs with a Higinson syringe, soapy water and disinfectant, whilst not graphically depicting the procedure, are edgy and unpleasant, and a couple of these procedures are savagely juxtaposed with Drake family members enjoying a picture show. It’s a neat trick, which Leigh pulls off with an admirable deftness of touch and control.
It is only when one of Vera’s patients becomes seriously ill and nearly dies that her crimes are brought to light and she becomes exposed. At the ‘operation’, the young girl’s mother recognises Vera from a launderette where they both used to work before the war. In a subtly devastating few seconds, her anonymity is lost and she becomes perilously vulnerable. Never one to miss the opportunity for a dramatic coup, Leigh times her arrest to coincide with a family party, where the engagement of Ethel and Reg, and the pregnancy (oh, the irony) of Stan’s sister-in-law are being celebrated.
It is here that Imelda Staunton crafts her extraordinary transformation from pillar of the community to humiliated, devastated wreck. Much has already been made of her brilliant performance, but what seems most significant to me is that she is allowed to further flourish through intelligent, sensitive direction. Much like Ken Loach, Leigh is often criticised for being too concerned with drama and script, and less concerned with the actual technicalities of film-making. Here, with considerable aplomb, he demonstrates these critical barbs to be entirely inaccurate. When the police first arrive for Vera, the camera moves from a short distance into extreme close-up, capturing Staunton’s face as it first quivers and then collapses, losing its essence and vitality in what seems like an agonisingly long take. Another staggering moment, which I feel certain will linger in my memory for some time, is when, after completing her statement for the police, Vera finally confesses to her husband Stan. Here, Dick Pope’s camera frames the two characters in exquisite close-up, as Vera whispers the terrible news into his ear, unable to repeat her confession aloud. Leigh also skilfully resists the temptation to turn the final reel of the film into a perfunctory courtroom drama, through elaborate editing that transmits the magnitude of Vera’s trial and sentence without dwelling too long on technicalities.
Given that Leigh obviously intends our sympathies to lie with Vera, some have criticised this film for taking a morally ambivalent stance on abortion. I would certainly agree that the film maintains an admirable detachment on issues of personal morality (and, perhaps strangely, religion is hardly even touched upon), but it does not seem to me to be a defence of backstreet abortions. The abortion scenes themselves are fraught with tension, and, frequently, with despair, as Vera is often confronted with the fact that her actions have not magically washed away her clients’ problems as she clearly would like. What Leigh seems to be arguing (although this film is by no means intended as polemic) is that there was an underlying hypocrisy in 1950s Britain, whereby the wealthy could afford to pay for quietly sanctioned abortions in comfortable environments, whereas the working classes were left to fend for themselves, at the mercy of others and, indeed, of perilously dangerous practices. Leigh provides class contrast by following a sub-story involving the daughter of one of the wealthy women for whom Vera provides a cleaning service (her official, gainful employment), who is raped by a potential boyfriend and forced to recourse to a private termination. Leigh also portrays Stan’s brother Frank’s quiet frustration with his socially ambitious wife Joyce, who appears to hanker for a washing machine more than she wants her unborn child. Perhaps unusually for Leigh, these points are left implied rather than imposed, which perhaps leads to these various plot strands remaining unsatisfactorily unresolved.
Someone emerging from the cinema in front of me also clearly felt the film to be an unfair treatment of the 1950s, claiming ‘it was only the fifties, but from that you’d have thought it was the dark ages!’. This viewer clearly missed some of the more challenging and intriguing ambiguities within the film. Not all are immediately condemnatory of Vera – her son Sid claims that her actions are wrong, and that he may be unable to forgive her, but when he claims she has let the family down, Stan immediately and firmly disputes this. The reaction of the Drake family is as significant as Vera’s private devastation. In the earlier part of the film, Leigh constructs a convincing and richly detailed portrait of family life, for it to be profoundly challenged by the shocking revelations. Not only this, but the police investigation is conducted with a surprising sensitivity, They seem aware both of Vera’s humiliation and her kindness, yet they are bound by law to perform their duty. These are complex and sympathetic performances in roles that a lesser director may have made thankless.
Vera Drake is an intense, deeply moving and carefully crafted film of immense power, but it is perhaps not my favourite of Mike Leigh’s pictures. It shares some of the shocking revelations as his earlier masterpiece ‘Secrets and Lies’, but that film arguably adopted a less scholarly approach. It also lacks the mysterious allure of a film such as ‘Naked’. It is also slightly undermined by its persistent use of choral music, which, to me at least, felt slightly crass. What is Leigh trying to say with the use of this soundtrack? Is Vera supposed to be a saint or martyr, or is Leigh trying to confront fundamental positions on abortion and the sanctity of life? I suspect that Leigh has little interest in either of these notions, and that the music is simply inappropriate. Other than these small reservations though, ‘Vera Drake’ shows Leigh to be as uncompromising and confrontational as ever, and still eliciting sublime performances, both from the overwhelmingly compelling Staunton, and her talented supporting cast.
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