It’s been absolutely ages since I’ve written anything about cinema – but don’t think that’s because I’ve stopped attending films. So far in 2005, there have been some impressive movies but few, if any, stand out classics.
That situation may now finally have changed with Kim Ki-Duk’s imaginative, evocative and distinctive 3-Iron. I would recommend that any tedious golden ageist still insisting that world cinema is in terminal decline should run rather than walk to see this fine film. It is deeply mysterious, opaque and occasionally confounding, but its languid pace and meticulous control of tone and atmosphere mark it out as a notable and original cinematic achievement.
Kim has been labelled the ‘bad guy’ of New Korean Cinema, largely because of uncomfortably brutal films such as ‘The Isle’. Critics began to hail a change of style with his serene and ponderous take on monastic Buddhism in ‘Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring’ (remarkable chiefly because of its extraordinary location and staging). That film still contained brief moments of unhinged violence, and the glacial pace of 3-Iron is similarly punctuated with moments of savagery, some systematic acts of vengeance, others seemingly more random and unpredictable. All are rendered compelling and grimly amusing by the novel use of the sport of golf – hence the film’s title.
The film tells the story of Tae-Suk, a young deliverer of fliers for a Pizza takeaway business who breaks into unoccupied houses while the owners are away. Somewhat unconventionally, he doesn’t steal anything. Instead, he merely house-sits, dutifully hand-washing the laundry and even repairing faulty electrical appliances.
During one of his spontaneous invasions, he is shocked to find the house occupied, as he meets the mysterious, long suffering Sun-hwa, victim of a cruelly loveless marriage to an insensitive, controlling and violent husband. In languorous, entirely wordless scenes, they gradually fall in love. After the husband is casually dispatched with some carefully aimed golf drives, the two head off together in search of more houses to occupy.
Kim evokes the love between Tae-Suk and Sun-Hwa with considerably skill and control. 3-Iron assumes a somewhat elegiac quality during its middle section, and the use of some spectacularly cheesy recurrent pop music creates a surprisingly convincing sense of intimacy and discovery. The film seems to exist entirely within its own moral universe – some actions seem to occur with no recrimination whatsoever, whilst others are swiftly punished.
Some critics have criticised the more otherworldly and fantastic elements of the film’s final third. After breaking into a house and finding its occupant dead, Tae-Suk and Sun-Hwa perform a ritual burial which lands Tae-Suk in jail. In some brilliantly staged and highly comic scenes, Tae-Suk trains himself to disappear in jail, eventually mastering even his own shadow. The film’s conclusion allows Sun-Hwa to continue the illusion of her marriage, whilst Tae-Suk returns to be a constant presence in an extraordinary ménage-a-trois, always unseen and unnoticed.
It’s a brilliant conceit, but one that perhaps doesn’t make much sense when approached from a purely realist perspective. However, 3-Iron is decidedly not a realist film. It is primarily a ghost story, whereby Sun-Hwa is initially rescued from her life as a living ghost in a cruel marriage to embark on different haunts elsewhere. Tae-Suk’s self-disciplining enables him to become a ghost – the presence that is always there, but only visible to Sun-Hwa. The result is a curious and occasionally unsettling film, but also a film of considerable beauty and boldness.
Prior to 3-Iron, the only other really outstanding film of 2005 so far has been Ousmane Sembene’s Moolade. Sembene is often cited as the father of African cinema and his latest film has won plaudits across the world. A film about the unpleasant problem of ritual female genital mutilation in Africa might not exactly be considered a ‘date movie’, but rest assured that Sembene has crafted as entertaining a film as could possibly be made about such an uncompromising and provocative subject. Sembene’s film is critical of the barbaric tradition, but without being judgemental or unsubtle. It is an even-handed treatment, careful to recognise the considerable hold of tradition over African village society. It is this emphasis that clears this remarkable film of any charges of didacticism. Indeed, the film’s resisting protagonist, Colle, characterised with powerful sympathy by Sembene, herself resorts to another form of tradition, the protection or moolade that provides the film with its title.
Sembene realises that omnipotent dichotomy between tradition and impending modernity with elegance and understatement. All the women of the village are empowered by their transistor radios, which bring them news of the wider world. Particularly relevant is the fact that even their own government has condemned the practice of excision, yet the all-male village council, insists on its continuation, as no man will accept an uncut woman for a bride. When the village council burns these radios in an attempt to force the rebellious women into submission Elsewhere, there are intriguing characters, including the wonderful Mercenaire, who brings goods back to the village from his travels, and succeeds in profiting from them considerably. His scenes are mostly characterised by light humour, although he eventually becomes a key player in the village dispute, meeting an unpleasant end in the process.
The dispute begins when Colle, who has already refused to have her own daughter cut, provides a place of protection and refuge for four young girls who have run away from an excision ceremony. Interestingly, the confrontation appears to take place entirely between women – the mothers of the daughters who want their children returned and to complete the ceremony (along with the terrifyingly witch-like exciseurs themselves) and Colle and her family. It is only later that men become involved, not least when the dispute reaches the level of the village council. Colle’s husband is shocked by her actions, but only forced to intervene when he is convinced that her intransigence has publicly humiliated him. Despite a barrage of physical abuse, Colle stands firm, and the intercutting of her violent and public punishment with It is at this point that the film broadens its scope – the women are no longer simply protesting about the brutality and danger of excision but are rebelling against the Patriarchal structures of their society and the right for control over their own bodies.
The film is brilliantly executed and staged with precise economy. The location is limited purely to the small village, but its layout is convincingly engineered with real attention to detail. There is a palpable sense of community here, built on self-reliance and subsistence, but with a brace of unresolved tensions. Unlike 3-Iron, Moolade is determinedly realistic, but without the relentless dourness of British equivalents such as Ken Loach or Mike Leigh. Despite the grimness of its subject matter, Moolade manages to sustain an upbeat, frequently comic tone right up to its avowedly uplifting conclusion.
This might be considered a step too far with the wishful thinking of the film’s conclusion. Yet, how could it have ended with anything other than victory for the women? It might provide a note of feel good sentiment that might be somewhat divorced from reality, but the alternative is simply far too grim. It ought also to be noted that the victory does not come without a tinge of sadness, although to reveal any more detail here would be to greatly diminish the harrowing impact of one of the film’s key later scenes. In addition to this, Sembene’s assertion that tradition can be remoulded for positive, progressive action renders the other side of the debate redundant. It becomes a matter of independence against slavery. The victory of the former leaves a lingering impression of dignity and triumph, long after the credits have rolled. Brilliant.
I am still unconvinced by the new hero of American independent cinema David Gordon Green, whose unmistakeable debt to Terrence Malick takes on a new twist with Undertow, to which Malick lends his name (and presumably also his wallet – he’ll need some return on his investment as he is not to be rushed on making movies of his own) as Executive Producer. Green’s acclaimed debut George Washington was massively overpraised, simplistic and slightly dull as it was. Its follow-up, All The Real Girls, in spite of its hideously awful title, was by contrast underrated. Here Green and cinematographer Tim Orr combined their evocative sense for environment and natural beauty with a convincing depiction of a complex emotional relationship. The film captured the relationship’s intimacy, claustrophobia and subsequent confusion powerfully, without resorting to conventional narrative or finding reductive explanations for the actions of its protagonists.
Undertow is a much more conventional film, dependent on a somewhat contrived plot arc and clearly indebted to Night Of The Hunter, Charles Laughton’s sole film as director. Britain’s Jamie Bell, still most famous for stepping into a pair of ballet shoes as Billy Elliot, does a noble job in gritty southern mode as the young lead – it’s a real shame that he wasn’t given more ambitious material to work with.
To its credit, Undertow starts promisingly, with Bell’s Chris chased from his girlfriend’s house by her father who, suspecting him as a tearaway and troublemaker, fires shots at him. Chris impales his foot on a rusty nail in a wooden board, and the audience has to laugh and wince simultaneously as he continues to run with the board attached to his foot. It’s a bravura opening sequence, and one that at least hints that Green and Orr can do kinetic thrills as well as understated moods.
There is then a lengthy period of scene-setting, in which we become familiar with the family’s isolated farm home, whereby the days consist of hard physical work and little social engagement. Chris has a sickly younger brother Tim, played with charm by Devon Allan, who induces unpleasant bouts of vomiting through eating mud, paint and all manner of other inedible substances. Their father favours the younger child, preferring a ‘tough love’ approach with Chris. This isolated, rather backwards atmosphere is established carefully by Green, although it is never clear exactly when this film is set. Is this meant to be modern America? If so, I was constantly reminded of the key line of Warren Zevon’s song ‘Play It All Night Long’ - ‘There ain’t much to country living- sweat, piss, jizz and blood!’
The atmosphere is pierced brutally by the arrival of Deel, the boys’ Uncle, freshly released from prison and harbouring some lingering grudges. Rather predictably, he is a spurned lover, having staked his claim to their mother first, before their father fell in love with her too. Haven’t we seen this kind of slow building confrontation before? When the inevitable violence ensues, it is appropriately savage, but the descent of the rest of the film into mundance chase movie seems thoroughly disappointing and uninspired.
Deel wants the set of valuable coins the boys and their father have stored, and which Chris hurriedly retrieves as he escapes the scene. In between chase sequences, there are moments of breezy charm and insight – such as the black couple who allow the two boys to work, stay for food and earn some money (a neat reversal of the usual southern black/white relationship which is handled sensitively). Yet, every time Green and Orr allow their talent for developing dreamy moods to predominate, Deel turns up again and off they run through the woods.
Had Undertow simply been about Chris and Tim’s escape from a restrictive lifestyle and quick assumption of independence, it might well have been convincing and compelling. The relationship between the two brothers, with Chris emerging as guardian and protector, is touching and believable. The erosion of Chris’ trust in humanity, combined with his natural tendency towards forgiveness, also makes for the construction of some intriguing scenes later in the film. Sadly, the imposition of a rather unimaginative and derivative storyline proves frustrating, and the film feels like an unsuccessful conflation of two separate identities. For an evocative and distinctive mood piece, you’d be better off with Gus Van Sant’s remarkable Elephant. For a simple, plot-driven film, then there are many more substantial options than this.
These might well include Carlos Sorin’s charming Bombon El Perro, a straightforward and endearing film that it is very difficult to dislike. Set amidst the dusty flat landscape of Patagonia (its long, straight roads are marvellously captured here), this tells the story of how one man’s life is suddenly transformed after he is given a giant dog, a prime example of a rare breed.
After losing his job at a gas filling station, mechanic Juan Villegas (played by a non-professional also called Juan Villegas) is reduced to travelling the isolated, thinly populated area and trying to sell hand-crafted knives. He attempts to retain a cheerful, positive demeanour in the face of adversity, as he struggles (at a relatively advanced age) to find gainful employment. Villegas has an extraordinary face – and whilst he only really delivers one expression during the entire picture, that expression can be deadpan, good natured, confused and nonplussed all at the same time.
The acquisition of Bombon (frequently called Lechien during the film – simply The Dog) delivers some overnight results. Juan can now get work in the field of security (although not even the dog can stop him from being something of a generous pushover) and can jump the queue at the bank because the manager is friends with a dog trainer and is immediately taken with this particular specimen.
The scenes in which Bombon rides across the plains in the front seat of Juan’s car are exceedingly funny, both man and dog sharing the same steadfast facial expression. If there’s an In League With Paton award for performance of the year – it might have to go to this dog! The dog show scenes also have a sweetly humourous feel – it’s easy to feel bemused at how seriously the owners take these competitions. Even more inspired is Bombon’s utter failure as a stud for hire – he seems completely uninterested in providing these kind of services, much to his trainer’s frustration.
The film is light, breezy and sedate – but it may just be deceptively simple. It does not gloss over the social and economic problems of the new Argentina, particularly in its early scenes, and the key theme appears to be the newfound status granted to Juan by his new companion. It quietly reveals some significant truths about how we treat each other in the world of ‘human resources’ and whilst it’s by no means as serious (or as overwhelmingly sad), it reminded me a little of Laurent Cantet’s masterpiece L’emploi du Temps.
The more I ruminate on Paulo Sorrentino’s The Consequences Of Love, the closer I get to the conclusion that it is really quite a remarkable film. I imagine it’s a film that will benefit greatly from repeated viewings as its droll humour, underlying sadness and incredibly slow pace have to be yielded to in order to appreciate the full impact.
It is a stylish and mysterious film about an enigmatic and opaque character, the chain-smoking ‘business consultant’ Titta di Girolamo (played with deadpan irony and seemingly emotionless sophistication by the wonderful Toni Servillo). It is emphatically not, as many have bafflingly suggested, a thriller. Perhaps these critics have been blinded by what transpires to be a mafia theme (this would be a considerable plot spoiler were it not already given away in virtually every review the film has received). Girolamo has spent the last eight years living in an anonymous hotel room, entirely isolated and foregoing all social interaction (even with the hotel staff). The glacial pacing of the film reflects the extraordinary regularity and monotony of his routine. Each Wednesday morning he injects himself with heroin, an action he performs to emphasise the enforced routine of his existence, without ever becoming physically dependant on the drug. Once a week, he is given a suitcase of cash to deliver to a possibly criminal bank account.
Sorrentino’s film is one of the most technically masterful films of recent years, with memorably accomplished camera work, and a disorientating synaesthesia of hallucinatory auditory and visual effects, achieved through rigorous and intelligent editing. The sound is particularly impressive, strongly reminiscent of the amplified ambient effects used to considerable effect in Gus Van Sant’s ‘Elephant’. If this display of virtuosic technique might risk emphasising style over substance, it’s worth noting how these effects serve to emphasise the gradual unravelling of Girolamo’s carefully constructed exterior. We observe how his defences are gradually undermined by his burgeoning feelings for the beautiful, flirtatious hotel barmaid, and the film ends with a series of devastating revelations.
The lingering sense at the end of this film is one of profound sadness – of a life controlled and ultimately wasted, of a life denied real friendship or love. Estranged from his family and basically held captive, Girolomo is a genuinely tragic figure. The film’s conclusion is both shocking and devastating. It raises complicated moral questions and more than rewards the necessary patience that the rest of the film demands.
If only to avoid being branded a high-minded film snob (come off it, Ghostbusters is still one of my top five favourite films!), I occasionally give in to the temptation to watch a high grossing blockbuster. I’ve thankfully avoided the third (please let it be the last) film in the bloated Star Wars prequel trilogy, so it may as well be yet another film in the never-ending Batman franchise, with Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins taking us right back to the origins of the story. Nolan is a director of considerable talent (‘Following’ and ‘Memento’ are two of the most impressive and structurally audacious films of recent times) and given that superhero movies are one of my guilty pleasures, I anticipated this film with considerable relish, even if I might ponder whether it is really what Nolan wants to do, or simply where the hard cash is.
After the lightweight and insubstantial diversions of the Joel Schumacher films, Nolan’s film promises a return to the dark, serious vision of the Tim Burton era Batman. On this count, it certainly delivers, providing a backstory for the character which reveals his motivations for selecting the Bat character (Bruce Wayne is confronting his fears) and his research into the nature of evil following the cruel slaying of both his parents. All of this was hinted at in the earlier films, but Nolan has made it the centrepiece of his version of events.
I’m surprised that more critics haven’t picked up on the numerous post-9/11 ‘war on terror’ references that pepper the film. Rescued from torture in prison by Liam Neeson’s League Of Shadows, a group with motivations and methods seemingly very similar to those of Al Qa’eda, Bruce Wayne ends up at an isolated mountain training camp where he learns swordfighting and close combat skills. When challenged to kill another man in cold blood, he cannot do it, thus revealing the crucial difference between the crime fighting vigilante and his terrorising enemies – he (Batman) has respect for human lives. The final confrontation is also brought into sharper relief in light of the recent London bombings as it essentially involves a terrorist act involving chemical weapons that threatens the very infrastructure of Gotham City.
I’ve always admired Batman most among the superheroes because he appears to be a superhero without any specific superpowers. Instead, he has to rely on science, technology, determination and sheer practical ingenuity. Nolan’s film demonstrates these elements of the Batman character with vivid detail, as we see the preparation of the costume and the development of secret weapons through the assistance of Morgan Freeman’s scientist, rebelling against the nakedly corporate mindset that dominates the once philanthropic Wayne Corp, controlled as it now is by a callous megalomaniac played with righteous glee by Rutger Hauer (might there also be deliberate parallels between the charitable gestures of Bruce Wayne and those of Bill Gates? Both the fictional character and the real entrepreneur show a similar mix of ruthlessness and generosity).
The success of Batman Begins lies in its absorption of many of the elements of fear and trembling that dominate the current international climate, and the extension of them into the realms of fantasy and the absurd. A superhero film hardly needs to be constrained by the concerns of plausibility after all – and Batman Begins, whilst serious in its devotion to superhero fandom, doesn’t forget to provide some thrills along the way.
Central to this is the inspired casting of Cillian Murphy as The Scarecrow. With his extraordinary features, he is enticingly handsome, but also very sinister looking. He represents the seductive face of evil, and he relishes the potential for revelling in over-acting. He makes the entire film his stage. Christian Bale does a creditable job as Batman/Bruce Wayne but doesn’t really bring any new elements to the table, despite being gifted with Nolan’s elaborate backstory. Katie Holmes is simply too good to be true as the liberal lawyer potential love interest.
Batman Begins has all the elements of a great blockbusting superhero movie – the evocation of Gotham City is particularly spectacular, as well it should be as much of the film was apparently shot on location in Chicago rather than bound to a studio set. Nolan demonstrates his talent for capturing harsh futuristic landscapes as well as his knack for developing a range of ideas. The question now is where he goes next. Has he gone too far down the road to Hollywood blockbusterdom to produce anything as original and distinctive as ‘Memento’ again?
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
No Show For Old Crows
...But a plethora of excellent releases from solo artists make up for it.
I had been hoping to post a review of the Old Crow Medicine Show gig at Lock 17 today, but a bunch of callous terrorists have dashed that. I gather that the gig went ahead as planned (as most small venue events have despite recent events) but there was little way of us getting there. Moaning about public transport has always been a favourite pastime of Londoners, but it has reached new heights as we come to realise that the transport network is not merely unpredictable, but also easily exploited by those seeking to maim and kill. It’s not a fun time at the moment, made worse by the attempted attacks this week and the intimation that these have not been isolated one-off events. The thought that London may now be facing a sustained assault is not something anyone particularly wants to have to face.
Still, in a spirit of stoicism, life must go on – and as ever there’s a backlog of new CDs I haven’t got round to reviewing yet, not least three lovely promos I’ve picked up in the last couple of weeks.
First up is ‘Humming By The Flowered Vine’, the rather convolutedly-titled third full length from Laura Cantrell. It comes dedicated to the memory of John Peel, which endears it to me before I’ve even heard the music it contains. Cantrell’s voice is a treacly confection, lending this album a deceptively straightforward quality. Much of it is soft, delicate and understated, and it occasionally veers into whimsical terrain. Like her previous releases, there are only a handful of self-penned songs, the rest of the album being given over to interpretations of traditional material and cover versions of country standards. The covers, however, cannot be considered mere filler as they are absolutely fundamental to the shape and pacing of her collections. They also demonstrate just how comfortable Cantrell is with her material – she has a vast knowledge of country music as any listener to her radio thrift shop show will surely attest.
‘Humming…’ certainly has its moments of, ahem, hummable sweetness, most notably the lovely opener ‘14th Street’ (which somehow manages to make stalking an entirely innocent activity) and Cantrell’s own ‘California Rose’ (a wonderfully restrained country shuffle). Elsewhere, however, there are signs of burgeoning ambitions, not least on guitarist Dave Schramm’s ‘And Still’, which alternates between passages of elusive calm and more striking punctuations, characterised by some expressive fretwork. Best of all may be the traditional murder ballad ‘Poor Ellen Smith’ which Cantrell inhabits with genuine sympathy and understanding.
Throughout, Cantrell’s voice rarely veers away from the melody line – she is a rare breed of singer these days, almost entirely eschewing virtuosity. This makes her all the more adept at handling the constrained emotions of country songs. It’s particularly illuminating to hear her tackle something like Lucinda Williams’ ‘Letters’, the song sounds more vulnerable when stripped of Williams’ gutsy, guttural character.
‘Humming…’ so comfortably fits into a rich seam of tradition that it almost feels like an enticing invitation to another era. From it cover art to the photograph of Cantrell next to a piano inside the sleeve, much like The White Stripes, there seems to be a particular aesthetic at work. Whereas The White Stripes often leave a lingering, knowing smirk, there can be little doubt that Cantrell is entirely sincere. I’ve been meaning to investigate her earlier albums for some time. On hearing this, my resolve is much stronger.
However, Cantrell’s carefully constructed homage to the likes of Kitty Wells and Patsy Cline rather pales into insignificance next to ‘We Will Become Like Birds’, the third official album from the wonderful Erin McKeown. I’ve been hotly anticipating this album since seeing McKeown play an awesome solo show at the Islington Academy and I’m pleased that it does not disappoint. It also doesn’t sound anything like I was expecting it to, perhaps because the Judy Garland tinges and slightly jazzy guitar flourishes of ‘Grand’ are largely absent. In their place is a polished, focussed and immediately accessible collection of breezy pop songs, brilliantly executed and intelligently enhanced through subtle production trickery. Whereas ‘Distillation’ and parts of ‘Grand’ required several listens to reveal their full charms, ‘We Will Become Like Birds’ is immediately memorable and frequently touching. It is a ‘pop’ album in the purest sense and it deserves to achieve sales to reflect this.
It opens with ‘Aspera’, an almost Neil Young-esque slow trudge (which McKeown pulls off surprisingly well) and ends with ‘You Were Right About Everything’, a tender, subtle and affecting ballad. In between is a whole plethora of melodic invention, from the unusual intervals of ‘Air’ to the genuinely anthemic choruses of ‘To The Stars’ and ‘White City’. The latter, particularly, is unlike anything else McKeown has written – its quick tempo and rousing chants providing both immediate pleasures and a lingering impact.
There is a thematic coherence to ‘…Birds’ that reflects the overall confidence of the music and the performances. Many of the songs are songs of courage and defiance, which seem strangely appropriate to the current mood in London. What could have appeared brash and ugly in the hands of, say, Toby Keith, is delivered with grace and elegance by McKeown. Her vocals are consistently light and breezy, but she also demonstrates an inventive talent for lithe and unpredictable melodies. This is songwriting of the highest quality, unafraid of genuine sophistication. Class.
More solo artist action comes from the playful, gleefully chameleonic Jamie Liddell, whose second album ‘Multiply’ entirely forsakes the confusing glitch and stutter of his debut and instead adopts a more funky approach. My friend Alex from Club Treehouse has denounced this as ‘absolutely awful…like a digital Jamiroquai’, whilst my former co-presenter on student radio think it’s one of the best albums of the last five years. I’d probably disagree with both of these views, as they seem to be somewhat extreme. There is far more fun and panache on display here than you might reasonably expect from the twat in the hat, but there are some significant problems, particularly with track sequencing, which rather dilute its overall impact.
It starts brilliantly. ‘You Got Me Up’ is short and decidedly sweet, a lush refashioning of the spirit of Sly Stone. ‘Multiply’ sees Liddell inherit the mantle of more gritty soul singers such as Otis Redding or Joe Tex, and he does this with such natural and unforced enthusiasm that it is hard to resist, even if the song is essentially a genre pastiche. Even better is ‘When I Come Back Around’, which signifies that a more questing and original spirit is at work. There’s certainly a detectable Prince influence, but the falsetto vocals and wurlizer keyboards are filtered through a rather more modernist prism, with a more twisting and unpredictable production style. It’s also an incredibly infectious song, with an incredible energy and confidence.
Things continue to move away from the conventional as the album progresses. ‘A Little Bit More’ makes elaborate use of layered backing vocals (one of the few hints at Liddell’s more uncompromising vocal loops live show), whilst ‘The City’ is stripped right back to just a beat, skeletal bass line and expressive vocal performance. It all makes for incredibly exciting stuff.
The problems arrive because, perversely, Liddell decides to conclude the album with a series of slower, less exhuberant songs, which quickly deaden the pace. Whilst not exactly ballads as such, Liddell clearly aimed to use these as vessels through which to channel the more sultry and seductive spirit of classic soul. Of themselves, they are not entirely unsuccessful, although perhaps a little derivative for comfort. Placed together, they bring an otherwise irresistibly invigorating album to an unexpected and uncomfortably muted conclusion.
It would be easy for the success of The Pixies reunion (although I had my own reservations) to blind us into deifying Frank Black as a solo artist. Nevertheless, 'Honeycomb', his umpteenth album, does bring some surprising pleasures. For this one, Black has indulged himself by going off to Nashville and recording with the musicians largely agreed to have the best chops in the business - Dan Penn, Spooner Oldham and Steve Cropper among them. Reportedly, none of them had heard of The Pixies or even had any idea who Frank Black was. This doesn't seem to matter one jot because the record has such a gentle, easy charm that the combination of a more restrained Black with these session and songwriting legends seems entirely comfortable.
Whereas Black's last few albums with The Catholics have tended towards the conventional and uninspired, this collection offers more considered arrangements and more ingratiating tunes than Black has mustered recently. There are also some audacious covers, among them a slow, drawling and surprisingly effective rendition of Penn's legendary 'Dark End Of The Street'. OK, so this is a standard, and a song so undeniably brilliant it would seem impossible to ruin. Nevertheless we should credit Black with resisting the temptation to transform it into an angsty, primal grunge howl, and instead playing it mostly straight, whilst exaggerating its tempo and phrasing to accommodate for his vocal limitations.
Of Black's own songs, 'I Burn Today' is an effective break-up song, commendable mostly for its restrained and controlled style. Where previously, Black would have articulated his rage in rather more predictably aggressive tones, here he barely rises above a whisper. 'Lone Child' is more rhythmically dynamic than one might reasonably expect, and makes excellent use of the skills of the musicians to create an evocative atmosphere. 'Another Velvet Nightmare' is rather more sinister and despairing.
Its true that it all becomes rather homogenous towards the end, and much the same countrified soul mood is preserved throughout. Perhaps in the hands of a better vocalist this wouldn't have mattered so much (indeed, the combination of Penn and Oldham on the outstanding live reuninion 'Moments From This Theatre' largely avoided this pitfall), but it's a minor criticism of what really represents an interesting diversion for Black and proof that he isn't only now concerned with the big money promised by new Pixies material. I absolutely despise the journalistic cliche of the 'return to form' but, seriously, when was the last time Frank Black produced an album this assured? You'd have to go back to the rather more scattershot, but equally endearing 'Teenager Of The Year'. It's not really a 'return to form' as such, as this is an idiom that Black has given little hint of exploring before (and will probably abandon just as quickly for his next release). It's more of a curious aside.
I had been hoping to post a review of the Old Crow Medicine Show gig at Lock 17 today, but a bunch of callous terrorists have dashed that. I gather that the gig went ahead as planned (as most small venue events have despite recent events) but there was little way of us getting there. Moaning about public transport has always been a favourite pastime of Londoners, but it has reached new heights as we come to realise that the transport network is not merely unpredictable, but also easily exploited by those seeking to maim and kill. It’s not a fun time at the moment, made worse by the attempted attacks this week and the intimation that these have not been isolated one-off events. The thought that London may now be facing a sustained assault is not something anyone particularly wants to have to face.
Still, in a spirit of stoicism, life must go on – and as ever there’s a backlog of new CDs I haven’t got round to reviewing yet, not least three lovely promos I’ve picked up in the last couple of weeks.
First up is ‘Humming By The Flowered Vine’, the rather convolutedly-titled third full length from Laura Cantrell. It comes dedicated to the memory of John Peel, which endears it to me before I’ve even heard the music it contains. Cantrell’s voice is a treacly confection, lending this album a deceptively straightforward quality. Much of it is soft, delicate and understated, and it occasionally veers into whimsical terrain. Like her previous releases, there are only a handful of self-penned songs, the rest of the album being given over to interpretations of traditional material and cover versions of country standards. The covers, however, cannot be considered mere filler as they are absolutely fundamental to the shape and pacing of her collections. They also demonstrate just how comfortable Cantrell is with her material – she has a vast knowledge of country music as any listener to her radio thrift shop show will surely attest.
‘Humming…’ certainly has its moments of, ahem, hummable sweetness, most notably the lovely opener ‘14th Street’ (which somehow manages to make stalking an entirely innocent activity) and Cantrell’s own ‘California Rose’ (a wonderfully restrained country shuffle). Elsewhere, however, there are signs of burgeoning ambitions, not least on guitarist Dave Schramm’s ‘And Still’, which alternates between passages of elusive calm and more striking punctuations, characterised by some expressive fretwork. Best of all may be the traditional murder ballad ‘Poor Ellen Smith’ which Cantrell inhabits with genuine sympathy and understanding.
Throughout, Cantrell’s voice rarely veers away from the melody line – she is a rare breed of singer these days, almost entirely eschewing virtuosity. This makes her all the more adept at handling the constrained emotions of country songs. It’s particularly illuminating to hear her tackle something like Lucinda Williams’ ‘Letters’, the song sounds more vulnerable when stripped of Williams’ gutsy, guttural character.
‘Humming…’ so comfortably fits into a rich seam of tradition that it almost feels like an enticing invitation to another era. From it cover art to the photograph of Cantrell next to a piano inside the sleeve, much like The White Stripes, there seems to be a particular aesthetic at work. Whereas The White Stripes often leave a lingering, knowing smirk, there can be little doubt that Cantrell is entirely sincere. I’ve been meaning to investigate her earlier albums for some time. On hearing this, my resolve is much stronger.
However, Cantrell’s carefully constructed homage to the likes of Kitty Wells and Patsy Cline rather pales into insignificance next to ‘We Will Become Like Birds’, the third official album from the wonderful Erin McKeown. I’ve been hotly anticipating this album since seeing McKeown play an awesome solo show at the Islington Academy and I’m pleased that it does not disappoint. It also doesn’t sound anything like I was expecting it to, perhaps because the Judy Garland tinges and slightly jazzy guitar flourishes of ‘Grand’ are largely absent. In their place is a polished, focussed and immediately accessible collection of breezy pop songs, brilliantly executed and intelligently enhanced through subtle production trickery. Whereas ‘Distillation’ and parts of ‘Grand’ required several listens to reveal their full charms, ‘We Will Become Like Birds’ is immediately memorable and frequently touching. It is a ‘pop’ album in the purest sense and it deserves to achieve sales to reflect this.
It opens with ‘Aspera’, an almost Neil Young-esque slow trudge (which McKeown pulls off surprisingly well) and ends with ‘You Were Right About Everything’, a tender, subtle and affecting ballad. In between is a whole plethora of melodic invention, from the unusual intervals of ‘Air’ to the genuinely anthemic choruses of ‘To The Stars’ and ‘White City’. The latter, particularly, is unlike anything else McKeown has written – its quick tempo and rousing chants providing both immediate pleasures and a lingering impact.
There is a thematic coherence to ‘…Birds’ that reflects the overall confidence of the music and the performances. Many of the songs are songs of courage and defiance, which seem strangely appropriate to the current mood in London. What could have appeared brash and ugly in the hands of, say, Toby Keith, is delivered with grace and elegance by McKeown. Her vocals are consistently light and breezy, but she also demonstrates an inventive talent for lithe and unpredictable melodies. This is songwriting of the highest quality, unafraid of genuine sophistication. Class.
More solo artist action comes from the playful, gleefully chameleonic Jamie Liddell, whose second album ‘Multiply’ entirely forsakes the confusing glitch and stutter of his debut and instead adopts a more funky approach. My friend Alex from Club Treehouse has denounced this as ‘absolutely awful…like a digital Jamiroquai’, whilst my former co-presenter on student radio think it’s one of the best albums of the last five years. I’d probably disagree with both of these views, as they seem to be somewhat extreme. There is far more fun and panache on display here than you might reasonably expect from the twat in the hat, but there are some significant problems, particularly with track sequencing, which rather dilute its overall impact.
It starts brilliantly. ‘You Got Me Up’ is short and decidedly sweet, a lush refashioning of the spirit of Sly Stone. ‘Multiply’ sees Liddell inherit the mantle of more gritty soul singers such as Otis Redding or Joe Tex, and he does this with such natural and unforced enthusiasm that it is hard to resist, even if the song is essentially a genre pastiche. Even better is ‘When I Come Back Around’, which signifies that a more questing and original spirit is at work. There’s certainly a detectable Prince influence, but the falsetto vocals and wurlizer keyboards are filtered through a rather more modernist prism, with a more twisting and unpredictable production style. It’s also an incredibly infectious song, with an incredible energy and confidence.
Things continue to move away from the conventional as the album progresses. ‘A Little Bit More’ makes elaborate use of layered backing vocals (one of the few hints at Liddell’s more uncompromising vocal loops live show), whilst ‘The City’ is stripped right back to just a beat, skeletal bass line and expressive vocal performance. It all makes for incredibly exciting stuff.
The problems arrive because, perversely, Liddell decides to conclude the album with a series of slower, less exhuberant songs, which quickly deaden the pace. Whilst not exactly ballads as such, Liddell clearly aimed to use these as vessels through which to channel the more sultry and seductive spirit of classic soul. Of themselves, they are not entirely unsuccessful, although perhaps a little derivative for comfort. Placed together, they bring an otherwise irresistibly invigorating album to an unexpected and uncomfortably muted conclusion.
It would be easy for the success of The Pixies reunion (although I had my own reservations) to blind us into deifying Frank Black as a solo artist. Nevertheless, 'Honeycomb', his umpteenth album, does bring some surprising pleasures. For this one, Black has indulged himself by going off to Nashville and recording with the musicians largely agreed to have the best chops in the business - Dan Penn, Spooner Oldham and Steve Cropper among them. Reportedly, none of them had heard of The Pixies or even had any idea who Frank Black was. This doesn't seem to matter one jot because the record has such a gentle, easy charm that the combination of a more restrained Black with these session and songwriting legends seems entirely comfortable.
Whereas Black's last few albums with The Catholics have tended towards the conventional and uninspired, this collection offers more considered arrangements and more ingratiating tunes than Black has mustered recently. There are also some audacious covers, among them a slow, drawling and surprisingly effective rendition of Penn's legendary 'Dark End Of The Street'. OK, so this is a standard, and a song so undeniably brilliant it would seem impossible to ruin. Nevertheless we should credit Black with resisting the temptation to transform it into an angsty, primal grunge howl, and instead playing it mostly straight, whilst exaggerating its tempo and phrasing to accommodate for his vocal limitations.
Of Black's own songs, 'I Burn Today' is an effective break-up song, commendable mostly for its restrained and controlled style. Where previously, Black would have articulated his rage in rather more predictably aggressive tones, here he barely rises above a whisper. 'Lone Child' is more rhythmically dynamic than one might reasonably expect, and makes excellent use of the skills of the musicians to create an evocative atmosphere. 'Another Velvet Nightmare' is rather more sinister and despairing.
Its true that it all becomes rather homogenous towards the end, and much the same countrified soul mood is preserved throughout. Perhaps in the hands of a better vocalist this wouldn't have mattered so much (indeed, the combination of Penn and Oldham on the outstanding live reuninion 'Moments From This Theatre' largely avoided this pitfall), but it's a minor criticism of what really represents an interesting diversion for Black and proof that he isn't only now concerned with the big money promised by new Pixies material. I absolutely despise the journalistic cliche of the 'return to form' but, seriously, when was the last time Frank Black produced an album this assured? You'd have to go back to the rather more scattershot, but equally endearing 'Teenager Of The Year'. It's not really a 'return to form' as such, as this is an idiom that Black has given little hint of exploring before (and will probably abandon just as quickly for his next release). It's more of a curious aside.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Nationwide Mercury Music Prize
The nominations were announced this morning:
Bloc Party – 'Silent Alarm'
Hard-Fi –'Stars Of CCTV'
Kaiser Chiefs – 'Employment'
MIA – 'Arular'
The Magic Numbers – 'The Magic Numbers'
Coldplay – 'X&Y'
The Go! Team – 'Thunder, Lightning Strike'
Antony And The Johnsons – 'I Am A Bird Now'
KT Tunstall – 'Eye To The Telescope'
Maximo Park – 'A Certain Trigger'
Seth Lakeman – 'Kitty Jay'
Polar Bear – 'Held On The Tips Of Fingers'
As ever, many of these options seem safe and predictable (the bland Coldplay, the twee Magic Numbers and the Blur-lite Kaiser Chiefs particularly spring to mind). The Kaiser Chiefs have immediately been elevated to the status of favourites - but surely MIA is exactly the kind of here-today-gone-tomorrow hip production tosh the Mercury judges tend to admire (Roni Size, Talvin Singh etc).
Its interesting that Antony and the Johsons were eligible - born in Chichester but now firmly based in New York. This is by some considerable distance the best album in the list.
It's also pleasing to see Seb Rochford's Polar Bear receive a nomination, although very surprising that it did so over Acoustic Ladyland's more heavily publicised 'Last Chance Disco'. I'd have been tempted to nominate both!
This looks like a very media/corporate list - more so than usual. The rise of Hard-Fi is somewhat baffling to me, and whilst I enjoyed the Magic Numbers live - on record they seem to be insufferably twee and prissy. Bloc Party's nomination is less objectionable but they are hardly musical pioneers. At least they haven't nominated the truly ghastly James Blunt (currently topping both the UK singles and albums charts) and the absence of the overrated Tom Vek is also somewhat surprising. I must confess that I know absolutely nothing about Seth Lakeman.
As ever, most of the key British albums of the last twelve months are notable by their absence.
Where are:
Patrick Wolf - Wind In The Wires
British Sea Power - Open Season
Jamie Lidell - Multiply
Roots Manuva - Awfully Deep
Four Tet - Everything Ecstatic
Brooks - Red Tape
Teenage Fanclub - Man-made (I don't think this was eligible)
Doves - Some Cities
King Creosote - Rocket DIY
Sadly Matthew Herbert's essential Plat du Jour and the Clor album seem to have been released too late (25th July) to be eligible this year. That means they will no doubt miss out on next year's award as well.
Polar Bear and Antony and the Johnsons are the only nominated albums of sufficient quality to merit receiving an award. Will the judges show that they have sense and taste this year?
Bloc Party – 'Silent Alarm'
Hard-Fi –'Stars Of CCTV'
Kaiser Chiefs – 'Employment'
MIA – 'Arular'
The Magic Numbers – 'The Magic Numbers'
Coldplay – 'X&Y'
The Go! Team – 'Thunder, Lightning Strike'
Antony And The Johnsons – 'I Am A Bird Now'
KT Tunstall – 'Eye To The Telescope'
Maximo Park – 'A Certain Trigger'
Seth Lakeman – 'Kitty Jay'
Polar Bear – 'Held On The Tips Of Fingers'
As ever, many of these options seem safe and predictable (the bland Coldplay, the twee Magic Numbers and the Blur-lite Kaiser Chiefs particularly spring to mind). The Kaiser Chiefs have immediately been elevated to the status of favourites - but surely MIA is exactly the kind of here-today-gone-tomorrow hip production tosh the Mercury judges tend to admire (Roni Size, Talvin Singh etc).
Its interesting that Antony and the Johsons were eligible - born in Chichester but now firmly based in New York. This is by some considerable distance the best album in the list.
It's also pleasing to see Seb Rochford's Polar Bear receive a nomination, although very surprising that it did so over Acoustic Ladyland's more heavily publicised 'Last Chance Disco'. I'd have been tempted to nominate both!
This looks like a very media/corporate list - more so than usual. The rise of Hard-Fi is somewhat baffling to me, and whilst I enjoyed the Magic Numbers live - on record they seem to be insufferably twee and prissy. Bloc Party's nomination is less objectionable but they are hardly musical pioneers. At least they haven't nominated the truly ghastly James Blunt (currently topping both the UK singles and albums charts) and the absence of the overrated Tom Vek is also somewhat surprising. I must confess that I know absolutely nothing about Seth Lakeman.
As ever, most of the key British albums of the last twelve months are notable by their absence.
Where are:
Patrick Wolf - Wind In The Wires
British Sea Power - Open Season
Jamie Lidell - Multiply
Roots Manuva - Awfully Deep
Four Tet - Everything Ecstatic
Brooks - Red Tape
Teenage Fanclub - Man-made (I don't think this was eligible)
Doves - Some Cities
King Creosote - Rocket DIY
Sadly Matthew Herbert's essential Plat du Jour and the Clor album seem to have been released too late (25th July) to be eligible this year. That means they will no doubt miss out on next year's award as well.
Polar Bear and Antony and the Johnsons are the only nominated albums of sufficient quality to merit receiving an award. Will the judges show that they have sense and taste this year?
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Music Will Provide The Light You Cannot Resist
R.E.M. wow Hyde Park 16/7/05
R.E.M.'s massive Hyde Park gig may have been postponed due to the tragic events of last week, but the impact of the band's performance was certainly not diminished. In fact, despite Michael Stipe not making any specific references to the events as he had at the band's other UK concerts last week, some moments here resonated with increased poignancy, particularly a hypnotic version of 'The Outsiders' (which ends with the words 'I am not afraid') and the strident 'Walk Unafraid'. As it was now the final date of the band's gargantuan world tour, it was a night of many surprises.
First, a few words about the support acts. We arrived a little later than planned, so only heard Jonathan Rice whining from outside the park. It sounded more than a little earnest and worthy from a distance.
Idlewild were up next, and gave us a generous ten-song set. Here is a band that continues to mature and develop with every album, and with material from excellent new set 'Warnings/Promises' sitting comfortably alongside older gems, this was a remarkably confident performance, especially given that they were using a dep drummer. Highlights were 'El Capitan' and 'I Understand It', which are their most structurally ambitious songs to date, as well as improved versions of 'Little Discourage' and 'A Modern Way Of Letting Go'. This band seem to have polarised their fanbase by moving in a more melodic direction, abandoning some of their uncontrolled aggression along the way. The comments that they now sound rather like R.E.M. are not too wide of the mark, although they've yet to incorporate anything resembling Peter Buck's Byrdsian twang. Roddy Woomble certainly makes for an intriguing frontman, and he remains one of the most intelligent and literate lyricists around in British music at the moment. He is showing no signs of being short of ideas.
Sadly, we had to do without Scouse revivalists The Zutons, so we leapt straight to the crushingly uninteresting Feeder who blustered their way through several hit singles. They appear to be one of those bands who remain completely off my radar, yet I seem to recognise a baffling number of their songs. Their older material is punky, but uninspired (see the horrendously simplistic 'Buck Rogers'), whilst the material from the last couple of hours drifts towards plodding tempos and clunky arrangements. All the lyrics and titles seem worthy and dull, lacking any engaging imagery ('feeling a moment', 'just the way I'm feeling', 'we tumble and fall' etc), whilst the melodies never rise beyond the merely conventional.
Bursting on to the stage with little fanfare, R.E.M. break straight into 'Bad Day', a thrilling and effective opener (although they had recently been opening with less predictable 'I Took Your Name'), then moved swiftly on through 'What's The Frequency, Kenneth' and 'The One I Love'. This made for a robust and exciting trio with which to begin proceedings, and it effectively allowed them some freedom for more unusual choices later in the set.
Those choices began relatively early on with a faithful rendition of 'Sitting Still' from their debut album from 1983, with new drummer Bill Rieflin doing an excellent job of imitating Bill Berry's direct and propulsive backbeat. It was a genuine surprise and one of the highlights of the set.
Even more surprising was how well material from 'Around The Sun' sat with their established classics. Even though the album has sold far less respectably than even 'Reveal' or 'Up', it was refreshing to hear so many in the crowd singing along with 'Leaving New York' and 'Electron Blue'. 'Final Straw' sounded fleshed out and less tentative than it had sounded when first performed back on the 2003 tour - it actually worked more convincingly as a protest song this time around. Best of all was a stunning rendition of 'The Outsiders', with Michael Stipe surprisingly convincing when taking on Q-Tip's rap. Peter Buck seemed to be a much more significant presence in these live versions, producing a whole gamut of strange and wonderful sounds from his electric guitar, occasionally even hitting and shaking it for unusual effect. Sadly, not even the extra energy afforded by live performance could rescue the unspeakable 'Wanderlust' - currently my least favourite R.E.M. song by some distance. Why was this chosen as a single for heaven's sake?
The band have worked hard on expanding their arrangements. Whilst the Monster tour was characterised by deliberately straightforward, heavier interpretations of songs, and the Up tour was striking for the integration of keyboards and electronics, recent tours have tried to reconcile these two trends with the countrified sound which might be more familiar to fans of 'Out Of Time' or the southern gothic of 'Automatic For The People'. The presence of multi-instrumentalists Ken Stringfellow and Scott McCaughey remains fundamental to this approach, and the careful orchestration of vocal parts at the close of 'Leaving New York' proved particularly striking. Their keyboards, organ and extra guitar also help to flesh out the sound.
Recent REM gigs have tended to focus on a particular album or period. The 2003 Brixton Academy show focussed heavily on 'Fables Of The Reconstruction' as it had been recorded nearby, and tonight's show had a little subsection devoted to 'New Adventures In Hi Fi', one of the band's most impressive and underrated recordings. 'Electrolite' clearly remains a band favourite, and it seemed wonderfully aposite for such a beautiful, summery day. More unpredictable was a fiery, vitriolic take on 'So Fast So Numb', during which Stipe seemed particularly energised, adopting ever more unusual postures. Then, amazingly, the band were joined on stage by Patti Smith for a devastating 'E-bow The Letter'. Smith's failing microphone undoubtedly muted the initial impact and, clearly unable to hear herself, she looked increasingly tentative and uncomfortable. Having been comforted by Stipe, she shared his microphone. Finally audible, her voice sounded rich and mesmeric. The two together on stage provided a quite extraordinary spectacle, and their relationship is clearly one of genuine intimacy.
All the usual suspects were here of course, with a dependably touching 'Everybody Hurts', a haunting version of 'Drive' and a closing mass singalong of 'Losing My Religion', still one of the most emotionally complex lyrics ever to have struck such a unified chord. It was great to hear 'Me In Honey', one of the less frequently performed songs from 'Out Of Time' and another surprising selection. It's easy to quibble about setlists, and I'm still slightly frustrated that 'Up' and 'Reveal' now seem to be rather neglected (only one song from each), but this was still a well-judged set, carefully constructed to appeal to all setions of the band's remarkably wide audience.
The encore was generous, including 'Imitation Of Life' and an endearing 'Nightswimming' with Michael Stipe sitting on Mike Mills' piano before collapsing on to the keys and planting an unexpected kiss on Mills' cheek. It was a little marred by some unnecessary synth strings - it would surely have been better to leave it as just piano and voice rather than attempt to mimic the John Paul Jones arrangement from the album version. The final run of a truncated 'It's The End Of The World...' running straight into the charmingly silly 'I'm Gonna DJ' ('Death is pretty final/I'm collecting vinyl/I'm gonna DJ at the end of the wooooooorld!') and then the now established finale of 'Man On The Moon' worked particularly well. The band then seemed reluctant to leave the stage, lining up at the front to milk the applause and sing a quick burst of 'it's the end of the tour as we know it'. Mills and Buck then proceeded to carry Stipe off stage.
R.E.M. have clearly put aside the differences that emerged during the protracted process of recording 'Up' and have re-established themselves as a touring act par excellence. Even if their albums have (at least partially unfairly) been viewed as delivering diminishing returns, they still seem able to sell vast numbers of concert tickets on every tour they do. Perhaps this is because of their real quality as entertainers - Stipe remains a charismatic and imposing presence, dancing in a uniquely strange fashion and completely unafraid of the performance aspect of his role as singer. The band also play close attention to the wider dynamics necessary to make huge concerts of this nature successful - they use a mind-boggling array of flashy cinematic techniques to make the big screen footage interesting (perhaps even diverting), including colour filters, grainy textures and quick edits to pre-recorded video footage (particularly effective during 'Leaving New York'). They also make good use of house lights shining on to the audience, a similar trick used by Bruce Springsteen during his marathon shows. Another outstanding performance - until next time then....
R.E.M.'s massive Hyde Park gig may have been postponed due to the tragic events of last week, but the impact of the band's performance was certainly not diminished. In fact, despite Michael Stipe not making any specific references to the events as he had at the band's other UK concerts last week, some moments here resonated with increased poignancy, particularly a hypnotic version of 'The Outsiders' (which ends with the words 'I am not afraid') and the strident 'Walk Unafraid'. As it was now the final date of the band's gargantuan world tour, it was a night of many surprises.
First, a few words about the support acts. We arrived a little later than planned, so only heard Jonathan Rice whining from outside the park. It sounded more than a little earnest and worthy from a distance.
Idlewild were up next, and gave us a generous ten-song set. Here is a band that continues to mature and develop with every album, and with material from excellent new set 'Warnings/Promises' sitting comfortably alongside older gems, this was a remarkably confident performance, especially given that they were using a dep drummer. Highlights were 'El Capitan' and 'I Understand It', which are their most structurally ambitious songs to date, as well as improved versions of 'Little Discourage' and 'A Modern Way Of Letting Go'. This band seem to have polarised their fanbase by moving in a more melodic direction, abandoning some of their uncontrolled aggression along the way. The comments that they now sound rather like R.E.M. are not too wide of the mark, although they've yet to incorporate anything resembling Peter Buck's Byrdsian twang. Roddy Woomble certainly makes for an intriguing frontman, and he remains one of the most intelligent and literate lyricists around in British music at the moment. He is showing no signs of being short of ideas.
Sadly, we had to do without Scouse revivalists The Zutons, so we leapt straight to the crushingly uninteresting Feeder who blustered their way through several hit singles. They appear to be one of those bands who remain completely off my radar, yet I seem to recognise a baffling number of their songs. Their older material is punky, but uninspired (see the horrendously simplistic 'Buck Rogers'), whilst the material from the last couple of hours drifts towards plodding tempos and clunky arrangements. All the lyrics and titles seem worthy and dull, lacking any engaging imagery ('feeling a moment', 'just the way I'm feeling', 'we tumble and fall' etc), whilst the melodies never rise beyond the merely conventional.
Bursting on to the stage with little fanfare, R.E.M. break straight into 'Bad Day', a thrilling and effective opener (although they had recently been opening with less predictable 'I Took Your Name'), then moved swiftly on through 'What's The Frequency, Kenneth' and 'The One I Love'. This made for a robust and exciting trio with which to begin proceedings, and it effectively allowed them some freedom for more unusual choices later in the set.
Those choices began relatively early on with a faithful rendition of 'Sitting Still' from their debut album from 1983, with new drummer Bill Rieflin doing an excellent job of imitating Bill Berry's direct and propulsive backbeat. It was a genuine surprise and one of the highlights of the set.
Even more surprising was how well material from 'Around The Sun' sat with their established classics. Even though the album has sold far less respectably than even 'Reveal' or 'Up', it was refreshing to hear so many in the crowd singing along with 'Leaving New York' and 'Electron Blue'. 'Final Straw' sounded fleshed out and less tentative than it had sounded when first performed back on the 2003 tour - it actually worked more convincingly as a protest song this time around. Best of all was a stunning rendition of 'The Outsiders', with Michael Stipe surprisingly convincing when taking on Q-Tip's rap. Peter Buck seemed to be a much more significant presence in these live versions, producing a whole gamut of strange and wonderful sounds from his electric guitar, occasionally even hitting and shaking it for unusual effect. Sadly, not even the extra energy afforded by live performance could rescue the unspeakable 'Wanderlust' - currently my least favourite R.E.M. song by some distance. Why was this chosen as a single for heaven's sake?
The band have worked hard on expanding their arrangements. Whilst the Monster tour was characterised by deliberately straightforward, heavier interpretations of songs, and the Up tour was striking for the integration of keyboards and electronics, recent tours have tried to reconcile these two trends with the countrified sound which might be more familiar to fans of 'Out Of Time' or the southern gothic of 'Automatic For The People'. The presence of multi-instrumentalists Ken Stringfellow and Scott McCaughey remains fundamental to this approach, and the careful orchestration of vocal parts at the close of 'Leaving New York' proved particularly striking. Their keyboards, organ and extra guitar also help to flesh out the sound.
Recent REM gigs have tended to focus on a particular album or period. The 2003 Brixton Academy show focussed heavily on 'Fables Of The Reconstruction' as it had been recorded nearby, and tonight's show had a little subsection devoted to 'New Adventures In Hi Fi', one of the band's most impressive and underrated recordings. 'Electrolite' clearly remains a band favourite, and it seemed wonderfully aposite for such a beautiful, summery day. More unpredictable was a fiery, vitriolic take on 'So Fast So Numb', during which Stipe seemed particularly energised, adopting ever more unusual postures. Then, amazingly, the band were joined on stage by Patti Smith for a devastating 'E-bow The Letter'. Smith's failing microphone undoubtedly muted the initial impact and, clearly unable to hear herself, she looked increasingly tentative and uncomfortable. Having been comforted by Stipe, she shared his microphone. Finally audible, her voice sounded rich and mesmeric. The two together on stage provided a quite extraordinary spectacle, and their relationship is clearly one of genuine intimacy.
All the usual suspects were here of course, with a dependably touching 'Everybody Hurts', a haunting version of 'Drive' and a closing mass singalong of 'Losing My Religion', still one of the most emotionally complex lyrics ever to have struck such a unified chord. It was great to hear 'Me In Honey', one of the less frequently performed songs from 'Out Of Time' and another surprising selection. It's easy to quibble about setlists, and I'm still slightly frustrated that 'Up' and 'Reveal' now seem to be rather neglected (only one song from each), but this was still a well-judged set, carefully constructed to appeal to all setions of the band's remarkably wide audience.
The encore was generous, including 'Imitation Of Life' and an endearing 'Nightswimming' with Michael Stipe sitting on Mike Mills' piano before collapsing on to the keys and planting an unexpected kiss on Mills' cheek. It was a little marred by some unnecessary synth strings - it would surely have been better to leave it as just piano and voice rather than attempt to mimic the John Paul Jones arrangement from the album version. The final run of a truncated 'It's The End Of The World...' running straight into the charmingly silly 'I'm Gonna DJ' ('Death is pretty final/I'm collecting vinyl/I'm gonna DJ at the end of the wooooooorld!') and then the now established finale of 'Man On The Moon' worked particularly well. The band then seemed reluctant to leave the stage, lining up at the front to milk the applause and sing a quick burst of 'it's the end of the tour as we know it'. Mills and Buck then proceeded to carry Stipe off stage.
R.E.M. have clearly put aside the differences that emerged during the protracted process of recording 'Up' and have re-established themselves as a touring act par excellence. Even if their albums have (at least partially unfairly) been viewed as delivering diminishing returns, they still seem able to sell vast numbers of concert tickets on every tour they do. Perhaps this is because of their real quality as entertainers - Stipe remains a charismatic and imposing presence, dancing in a uniquely strange fashion and completely unafraid of the performance aspect of his role as singer. The band also play close attention to the wider dynamics necessary to make huge concerts of this nature successful - they use a mind-boggling array of flashy cinematic techniques to make the big screen footage interesting (perhaps even diverting), including colour filters, grainy textures and quick edits to pre-recorded video footage (particularly effective during 'Leaving New York'). They also make good use of house lights shining on to the audience, a similar trick used by Bruce Springsteen during his marathon shows. Another outstanding performance - until next time then....
Thursday, July 07, 2005
London
After several days of immense positivity now this. A horrific, scary day during which my thoughts are with friends and families of those affected.
It feels inappropriate to attempt any kind of analysis of this right now. On a personal level, I would simply add that, whilst stranded in Kings Cross unable to get any form of transport, I was horrified and disgusted to be kicked out of The Pakenham Arms pub for not spending enough money on drinks, even after I had offered to buy not just more drink but also food. This was so far from the kind of attitude that would have been appropriate on such an unpleasant day. Given the advice of the Metropolitan Police at that stage, it was irresponsible. All I wanted to do was watch the news until further advice was available. It was certainly not necessary for the landlord to be verbally abusive when I'd caused no trouble whatsoever.
Outside, there was an eerily calm atmosphere by this stage, and plenty of people helped out to point me in the right direction home. This openness and friendliness made me feel more comfortable and secure.
It would only have taken some minor differences in timings for me to be caught up at the scene in Kings Cross, which is a deeply terrifying thought. This evening, whilst by no means surprised, I am stunned, numb and concerned for the future.
It feels inappropriate to attempt any kind of analysis of this right now. On a personal level, I would simply add that, whilst stranded in Kings Cross unable to get any form of transport, I was horrified and disgusted to be kicked out of The Pakenham Arms pub for not spending enough money on drinks, even after I had offered to buy not just more drink but also food. This was so far from the kind of attitude that would have been appropriate on such an unpleasant day. Given the advice of the Metropolitan Police at that stage, it was irresponsible. All I wanted to do was watch the news until further advice was available. It was certainly not necessary for the landlord to be verbally abusive when I'd caused no trouble whatsoever.
Outside, there was an eerily calm atmosphere by this stage, and plenty of people helped out to point me in the right direction home. This openness and friendliness made me feel more comfortable and secure.
It would only have taken some minor differences in timings for me to be caught up at the scene in Kings Cross, which is a deeply terrifying thought. This evening, whilst by no means surprised, I am stunned, numb and concerned for the future.
Monday, July 04, 2005
A Gr8 Event?
DISCLAIMER: The views expressed here are entirely my own and are written with my work hat firmly off.
For better or for worse, I felt a part of something at the Live 8 concert in Hyde Park last weekend. I've never seen such a huge crowd of people - it stretched as long and wide as the eye could see. The event seemed to be a protest against cynicism and apathy as much as anything, and as such it may have just convinced me that it was greatly positive. The message was loud and clear - gathering people together can and must effect change. The unsurprising warning from George Bush that Tony Blair can expect little in return for his commitment in Iraq may suggest otherwise, but it will be interesting to see what impact, if any, these international concerts have at the G8 summit.
I have no problem whatsoever with the notion that musicians can have a political voice. There are many who think that musicians should stick to writing songs and entertaining people. This is a profoundly dangerous and anti-democratic sentiment. As Michael Stipe said recently - in campaigning on issues such as the US election and global poverty, he is exercising his right as a private citizen to voice opinions. He also happens to be a public figure and, as such, can disseminate his message to greater effect. All well and good.
Still, I have some reservations I need to get out of the way at the outset. There were times, when performances were juxtaposed with emotive images of starving children, that it felt as if a giant pop concert may not have been the most appropriate way of focussing the world's attention on these significant issues, especially as the event appears to have generated little attention in Africa itself. This was not its aim of course. The focus has been on the G8 summit and what it could achieve, rather than the countries that are themselves in need of debt relief and much more. This is why the criticism over the lack of African artists on the bill rather missed the point.*
My second reservation is that this campaign may sweep broader, more complicated issues under the carpet. Whilst the view that African poverty can only be solved by Africa itself is grossly offensive, even complete debt cancellation is unlikely to resolve the problem. Only a handful of artists involved made any reference to the real problem - the need for a system of fair trade that does not systematically exploit African producers. Even more ignored were the troublesome conditions which will be imposed on countries before they can receive any kind of debt relief: the elimination of corruption (fair enough, but difficult to achieve), but worse, enforced privatisation and free market liberalisation. There is no evidence that this will actually be of benefit. It has certainly created problems in South America. I fear that, should any postive developments come from this, the result may be the creation of elites in Africa, and a massive gulf between the extremely rich and the extremely poor. We must guard against this if real progress is to be made. It's worth remembering that many African countries have repaid most if not all of what they borrowed, but thanks to the wonders of compound interest, now find themselves in debt to the tune of billions.
Thirdly, why has the focus solely been on Africa? Extreme poverty exists elsewhere in the world, and there are vast areas of real suffering that never receive any media attention. Are we simply to ignore humanitarian disasters elsewhere?
Nevertheless, to raise awareness has to be a good thing. I can't help but feel that there is a whole generation (post-the original Live Aid) who know very little about these issues. We can be cynical about the motives of the artists involved (and the likes of Robbie Williams and Pink Floyd have unsurprisingly experienced a massive surge in their album sales over the weekend), but their presence can only help rather than hinder any action. Some artists may have become involved with the Make Poverty History campaign as a result of record company manoevres, but acts like McFly appear to have genuinely had their eyes opened to problems they simply were not aware of beforehand. We should not dismiss their voices. As blandly emotive and cliched as they may sometimes appear, Bob Geldof and Bono do have genuine concerns. It's easy to forget that the former has worked tirelessly for the Commission for Africa, and has at least done some research. Their weaknesses come with their unwillingness to challenge some of the least attractive elements of power politics - will they achieve more by being photographed in friendly poses with Blair and Bush? The message of hope certainly rang loudly through Hyde Park - will it transcend its gates?
Did it work as an event and as a concert? There were certainly problems. The stewarding at the start was hopeless - as huge crowds of people were herded like sheep into one giant mass across three lanes of entrances, rather than into any kind of fair and organised queue. Whilst the concert overran by hours, the onstage and backstage organisation must have been superb - it's almost unfathomable to think how they managed to engineer so many performances by so many acts at one single event. The sound did not carry well across the park, however. As a result, the effect was rather like watching a dodgy, slipping VHS tape on giant screens (the stage being barely visible). The cordoning off of the 'gold circle' seemed completely against the spirit of the event, creating a privileged elite at the front of the crowd.
It was also frustrating that it was so flagrantly hijacked by rampant commercialism (look- there are thousands of free copies of the Daily Mirror strewn all over Hyde Park!). The presence of other, completely inappropriate campaigns also proved frustrating - some I support (No 2 ID has their giant balloons - but this was hardly the time or the place), and the usual suspects who attempt to take over every protest going (hello Socialist Worker). Luckily, many audience members I observed in the queue seemed engaged with the issues (some were openly discussing them), and only a small number of morons laughing through the films of starving children spoiled the mood during the concert itself.
I therefore couldn't help by submitting to the feeling that this was a brilliant, major event. There is always something thrilling about being part of a large, united crowd, and even when I disliked the music, the whole experience still felt uniquely positive. Standing for several hours was something of an endurance test - but a number of remarkable performances made it all worth it on a musical level alone.
The show kicked off on time with a bizarrely inaudible fanfare before U2 took to the stage with Paul McCartney to perform what was apparently the first live performance of Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (McCartney had performed the reprise on his recent tours, but not the full version). It felt a little flat, but U2 were clearly awed to be sharing the stage with the former Beatle. Before ushering in their own 'Beautiful Day', Bono asked the crowd 'did that really just happen?' At any other event, U2's three song set (with Bono's overt preaching and the release of a flock of white doves into the air) may well have felt uncomfortably mawkish. Here, something resolutely cheesy and sentimental felt like the perfect opening to the event. 'Beautiful Day' was appropriately anthemic, 'Vertigo' confident and strident, despite its obvious limitations as a song, and 'One' was particularly touching. Bono still has a commanding presence on stage that is impossible to ignore.
Next up were Coldplay - a decidedly mixed blessing. 'In My Place' remains one of their best songs, but Chris Martin's flat intoning of Status Quo's 'Rocking All Over The World' was criminally unfunny. Richard Ashcroft took to the stage for a faithful run through of 'Bittersweet Symphony'. Whilst hardly earth shattering as a performance in its own right, it reminded me what a good song it is, and how Richard Ashcroft appears to have left his talents somewhere in Wigan ever since. Still, even the most ardent of Verve fans must have choked at Martin's ardent flattery - 'this is probably the best song in the world sung by the greatest singer in the world'. Ashcorft could not even be considered the greatest living singer singer in the world, let alone the best ever. Such overstatement may go some way in explaining Martin's own considerable limitations. Someone should introduce him to Roy Orbison and Sam Cooke. They closed with 'Fix You', an earnest ballad that shamelessly references Elbow and, perhaps precisely because of this, may well come to be their best song. Its carefully controlled crescendos linger in the mind.
After a brilliant introduction from Little Britain's Lou and Andy, Elton John provided the day's first genuine surprise. He was superb - a top notch showman wisely opting to perform two of his very best and most rousing songs ('The Bitch Is Back' and 'Saturday Night's All Right For Fighting'). It was a timely reminder that he can be a great songwriter when he puts his mind to it - it's such a pity he's been churning out middle of the road pap for the last 25 years. It was also a shame that his set was soured by an embarassingly, ahem, shambolic Pete Doherty, who teamed up with Elton to perform 'Children Of The Revolution' with committed swagger, but sadly he hadn't bothered to learn the tune. The bizarre pairing was certainly unexpected but in the event, not all that satisfying.
The less said about Dido the better. She is profoundly dull in every conceivable way, from the bland synth pad stylings of her tepid band to her weak and irresolute singing voice. She was completely upstaged by the arrival of guest Yossou N'Dour who demonstrated his talent even whilst duetting on the awful 'Thank You' and his sole UK megahit 'Seven Seconds'. How does Dido manage to communicate to so many people with no stage presence and no charisma? You're in front of 200,000 people woman! Do something!
The Stereophonics strangely started to engage the crowd a little more, despite turning in a perfunctory set with little subtlety. Still, at least they played 'Local Boy In the Photograph', the lyrics of which I still find moving. It's the one indication that Kelly Jones may possess some talent somewhere, even though with bluster like 'The Bartender and The Thief', and plodding tosh like 'Maybe Tomorrow', he keeps it well hidden.
Ricky Gervais bowed to pressure from the crowd and dutifully performed the infamous David Brent dance from The Office for 'one last time', before REM provided a welcome burst of quality. Hard to believe that The Stereophonics were gifted with four songs, whilst one of the world's most significant bands were restricted to just three, but their performance came with their usual verve and vigour as well as an unusual and endearing timing slip during 'Everybody Hurts'. Shame they played three big hits rather than testing the crowd with some of their more overtly political material. Even one of the better, more engaged selections from 'Around The Sun' might have seemed more appropriate to the event. At least 'Everybody Hurts' provided an obligatory lighters aloft moment, hampered by the fact that it was still broad daylight in mid-afternoon. With extraordinary strip make-up across his eyes, Michael Stipe begins to look less endearingly charismatic and more sinister. He remains one of the best stage performers in the business. 'We are REM and this is what we do', he said with customary self-deprecation. What they do is to be consistently the best live act in the world year after year. Long may it continue.
Ms Dynamite proved, aside from Kofi Annan and Nelson Mandela (speaking in Johannesberg), to be the most articulate political voice of the day, arriving at the point crisply and persuasuvely. Her message that 'the debt is surely ours' was warmly received. Whilst many attempt Bob Marley's 'Redemption Song', her remarkable rendition had real character and pathos. She shows every sign of maturing into a major, distinctive British soul voice.
Keane and Travis then also did what they do, but with less overwhelming impacts. Keane do nothing for me whatsover. What some find anthemic, I find turgid and lacking in ambition. Watching their keyboard player's violent and exaggerated motions also induced a slight feeling of nausea. At least they appear to be down-to-earth, genuinely decent people, surprised by their perplexing commercial success. Travis were dependably inoffensive, and despite the recent dip in their profile, monosyllabic titles like 'Sing' and 'Side' obviously still carry memories for many people. Nobody could object to a run through of 'Why Does It Always Rain On Me' either.
Neither could anyone really object to Bob Geldof indulging in a quick rendition of 'I Don't Like Mondays'. The moronic chavs next to us secured their one vaguely funny moment with their chorus chant of 'Tell Me Why! I only have one song...' (it's not true of course - The Boomtown Rats had several hits in their day). It's actually an enduringly good song too, its theme of high-school massacre now genuinely prescient, even though its stylings are entirely copied from Born To Run-era Springsteen.
Revelation of the day was Annie Lennox. As good a pop band as The Eurythmics were, Lennox's solo career has been faltering, and she has shown little sign of the true artistry she is capable of. That artistry was present in bucketloads today - her solo piano rendition of 'Why' proving quietly devastating. 'Little Bird' and an energised version of 'Sweet Dreams' provided more upbeat balance. Her voice was controlled but extremely powerful, demonstrating that she is indeed a tremendously talented vocalist who prefers distinctive, emotive delivery over blandly virtuosic extemporising (others on the bill could learn from this, but more of that later).
Things then started to get more bizarre, and the quality more variable. I went to get Falafel during UB40, but their medley sadly seemed to drift more in favour of their successful cover versions than their earlier politicised material. Why not play 'One In Ten' or 'King' instead?
Snoop Dogg may well have been the source of most of the BBC's complaits, liberal as he was with his language still relatively early in the evening. As others have noted, his exortation to 'put your hands in the air like you just don't care' seemed ill-advised - we're supposed to be here because we do care aren't we? Still, it's difficult to resist the wickedly brilliant 'Drop It Like It's Hot', or indeed some of the earlier Funkadelic-inspired material aired in truncated versions. His laconic drawl remains one of hip-hop's most distinctive voices, even if he is now more cuddly poodle than savage terrier.
I almost warmed to Razorlight during their short set, specifically during a genuinely excellent rendition of 'Golden Touch' with some gospel backing vocalists. Unfortunately, Johnny Borrell's extreme self-confidence (he clearly sees his band performing to audiences of this size in their own right in the not-too-distant future) remains a distraction. Why can't the man keep his clothes on for even a 15 minute set? Still, their energy and boisterous enthusiasm may prove infectious, especially for those who know nothing of their thinly veiled New York punk influences.
Next came what everyone were all waiting for - the 'queen bee of Rock and Roll', Madonna. I'm genuinely glad to have seen her without paying £150 for the privilege, even though the juxtaposition of her jewellery encrusted fingers gripping the hand of an Ethiopian famine survivor provided one of the most uncomfortable big screen images of the evening. Her performance was simply fantastic - she commanded both the stage and the audience and her voice has clearly grown in stature and power over the years. She may now deserve the title of artist as well as star, so convincing were her performances of 'Like A Prayer' and the triumphant 'Ray Of Light'. 'Music' seemed the most appropriate song of the whole event - 'music makes the people come together' runs the chorus, and today it clearly did. The first act to really integrate performance into her act - her dancers and choir making her diva-ish demands for increased rehearsal time seem necessary rather than frustrating. Her cry of 'Are you fucking ready? Are you ready to start a revolution?' may have been the least convincing political rallying cry of all time - but we'll forgive her all that.
Snow Patrol played 'Chocolate' and 'Run', two exhuberant choruses in search of decent verses, or even a middle eight. Hardly a highlight. All the more disappointing then that The Killers, in spite of having delivered a chart-topping debut album, were restricted to just one song, a rousing 'All These Things I've Done'. No doubt the crowd would have appreciated 'Somebody Told Me' and 'Mr. Brightside' as well. They may not be particularly original but they look set to become festival favourites over the next few years.
Joss Stone performed customarily barefoot renditions of classic soul material including 'Supa Dupa Love' and 'Some Kind Of Wonderful'. How has she managed to convince the likes of James Brown, Willie Mitchell and Betty Wright that she is a genuine soul talent when she is evidently a diluted, pure commodity-pop repackaging of musical history? I do wish she'd stick to the melody line too. Despite her constant giggling in interviews, she may be starting to take herself a little too seriously.
Scissor Sisters remain a camp pop phenomenon, and at Live 8 they pulled off a neat trick by being the only act daring enough to perform previously unheard material. Their new song 'Everyone Wants The Same Thing' may well be their best yet, immediately infectious and engaging. 'Laura' and 'Take Your Mama' provided wholesome, light-hearted entertainment too. Too many artists on the bill didn't quite have the shameless energy and enthusiasm needed to reach such a large crowd but the Scissor Sisters had the necessary effervesence.
Velvet Revolver were a baffling selection, and were totally awful. This kind of sludgy, corporate rock felt horribly out of place in this line-up, and the band seemed somewhat confused by the whole occasion. They tried their best - but this crowd would obviously much rather see Slash patch things up with Axl Rose and deliver a quick blast of 'Paradise City' and 'Sweet Child O Mine'. Not likely, but we can continue dreaming.
I've never been a fan of Sting but something about his performance here carried substantial weight. Perhaps it was the explicit refashioning of 'Every Breath You Take' into a pointed attack on Blair and Bush, which seemed dignified and intelligent. It was also there in the renewed energy in his performance of 'Message In A Bottle', in which he avoided nostalgia and breathed new life into the material.
Mariah Carey provided the day's real nadir (sorry Adrian!). Her upbeat material is relatively inoffensive, and during 'Make It Happen' she paced the stage energtically and with authority. Unfortunately, she is such a hopeless diva, with backstage crew bringing her water to sip through a straw between every song and performing a horrible version of 'Hero', already one of the very worst songs of all time, with an African Childrens' Choir. She was the first artist of the night whose motivations I genuinely doubted - something about the set seemed insincere, particularly when she closed with a screechy and perfunctory promotional rendition of her latest single, which added nothing to the recorded version.
Thank goodness then for Robbie Williams (did I just say that?) who did his peerless showman act with renewed charisma. As promised, he included Queen's 'We Will Rock You' in his brief set, in reference to the first Live Aid event. He was also the only person to thank Midge Ure, who whilst still involved in the trust in some capacity, appears to have been sidelined from its public front. Williams' material may be cringe-inducing at times, but at least he made up for the crowd's notable antipathy to Mariah's self-indulgence with an inevitable singalong-an-'Angels'. He flew over from LA, where he has clearly been residing for several months, and many seem to think he has used Live 8 as a means to relaunch his career in the UK. He hardly needs to though - he could record himself pissing in a pot and it would still sell by the truckload.
Then came the elder statesmen of the rock establishment. Both The Who and Pink Floyd were spectacular. The former played 'Won't Get Fooled Again', a song that still burns with righteous fury, even though its composers now look more like University lecturers than rock stars. Pete Townsend is actually a supremely talented and intuitive guitarist, not just for the whilrling arm pyrotechnics, but for some inventive and subtle mid-song finger picking too. I've always found Pink Floyd to be on the dull side of worthy, but they performed four of their most enduring songs and seemed genuinely pleased to have patched up their differences. Even Roger Waters, notorious for his diffidence and arrogance, radiated newfound warmth on stage, dedicating the poignant and endearing 'Wish You Were Here' to the reclusive, troubled Syd Barrett. They even reclaimed 'Comfortably Numb' from the Scissor Sisters, making rich and inventive use of visuals on the big screen as they performed. Dave Gilour's fretwork was thrillingly skilled, and the sound quality was at its fullest and most convincing during their set. They may be chief executives in the business of denial at the moment - but surely a full reunion tour beckons?
Paul McCartney closed things off with brio, duetting with George Michael (who still shies from ever performing his own work live) on 'Drive My Car', delivering a surprise, highly kinetic version of 'Helter Skelter' before launching into a rather icky 'Long and Winding Road' (never his best song) and the previously announced all-star chorus of 'Hey Jude'. Cheesy in the extreme, but a necessarily unified and uniting conclusion to a quite remarkable mass gathering. Whether na na nas can change the world though may be more doubtful.
*The curious paucity of black artists on the bill in London appeared to have a wider implication - the crowd was shockingly, overwhelmingly white. This is hardly representative of modern Britain!
For better or for worse, I felt a part of something at the Live 8 concert in Hyde Park last weekend. I've never seen such a huge crowd of people - it stretched as long and wide as the eye could see. The event seemed to be a protest against cynicism and apathy as much as anything, and as such it may have just convinced me that it was greatly positive. The message was loud and clear - gathering people together can and must effect change. The unsurprising warning from George Bush that Tony Blair can expect little in return for his commitment in Iraq may suggest otherwise, but it will be interesting to see what impact, if any, these international concerts have at the G8 summit.
I have no problem whatsoever with the notion that musicians can have a political voice. There are many who think that musicians should stick to writing songs and entertaining people. This is a profoundly dangerous and anti-democratic sentiment. As Michael Stipe said recently - in campaigning on issues such as the US election and global poverty, he is exercising his right as a private citizen to voice opinions. He also happens to be a public figure and, as such, can disseminate his message to greater effect. All well and good.
Still, I have some reservations I need to get out of the way at the outset. There were times, when performances were juxtaposed with emotive images of starving children, that it felt as if a giant pop concert may not have been the most appropriate way of focussing the world's attention on these significant issues, especially as the event appears to have generated little attention in Africa itself. This was not its aim of course. The focus has been on the G8 summit and what it could achieve, rather than the countries that are themselves in need of debt relief and much more. This is why the criticism over the lack of African artists on the bill rather missed the point.*
My second reservation is that this campaign may sweep broader, more complicated issues under the carpet. Whilst the view that African poverty can only be solved by Africa itself is grossly offensive, even complete debt cancellation is unlikely to resolve the problem. Only a handful of artists involved made any reference to the real problem - the need for a system of fair trade that does not systematically exploit African producers. Even more ignored were the troublesome conditions which will be imposed on countries before they can receive any kind of debt relief: the elimination of corruption (fair enough, but difficult to achieve), but worse, enforced privatisation and free market liberalisation. There is no evidence that this will actually be of benefit. It has certainly created problems in South America. I fear that, should any postive developments come from this, the result may be the creation of elites in Africa, and a massive gulf between the extremely rich and the extremely poor. We must guard against this if real progress is to be made. It's worth remembering that many African countries have repaid most if not all of what they borrowed, but thanks to the wonders of compound interest, now find themselves in debt to the tune of billions.
Thirdly, why has the focus solely been on Africa? Extreme poverty exists elsewhere in the world, and there are vast areas of real suffering that never receive any media attention. Are we simply to ignore humanitarian disasters elsewhere?
Nevertheless, to raise awareness has to be a good thing. I can't help but feel that there is a whole generation (post-the original Live Aid) who know very little about these issues. We can be cynical about the motives of the artists involved (and the likes of Robbie Williams and Pink Floyd have unsurprisingly experienced a massive surge in their album sales over the weekend), but their presence can only help rather than hinder any action. Some artists may have become involved with the Make Poverty History campaign as a result of record company manoevres, but acts like McFly appear to have genuinely had their eyes opened to problems they simply were not aware of beforehand. We should not dismiss their voices. As blandly emotive and cliched as they may sometimes appear, Bob Geldof and Bono do have genuine concerns. It's easy to forget that the former has worked tirelessly for the Commission for Africa, and has at least done some research. Their weaknesses come with their unwillingness to challenge some of the least attractive elements of power politics - will they achieve more by being photographed in friendly poses with Blair and Bush? The message of hope certainly rang loudly through Hyde Park - will it transcend its gates?
Did it work as an event and as a concert? There were certainly problems. The stewarding at the start was hopeless - as huge crowds of people were herded like sheep into one giant mass across three lanes of entrances, rather than into any kind of fair and organised queue. Whilst the concert overran by hours, the onstage and backstage organisation must have been superb - it's almost unfathomable to think how they managed to engineer so many performances by so many acts at one single event. The sound did not carry well across the park, however. As a result, the effect was rather like watching a dodgy, slipping VHS tape on giant screens (the stage being barely visible). The cordoning off of the 'gold circle' seemed completely against the spirit of the event, creating a privileged elite at the front of the crowd.
It was also frustrating that it was so flagrantly hijacked by rampant commercialism (look- there are thousands of free copies of the Daily Mirror strewn all over Hyde Park!). The presence of other, completely inappropriate campaigns also proved frustrating - some I support (No 2 ID has their giant balloons - but this was hardly the time or the place), and the usual suspects who attempt to take over every protest going (hello Socialist Worker). Luckily, many audience members I observed in the queue seemed engaged with the issues (some were openly discussing them), and only a small number of morons laughing through the films of starving children spoiled the mood during the concert itself.
I therefore couldn't help by submitting to the feeling that this was a brilliant, major event. There is always something thrilling about being part of a large, united crowd, and even when I disliked the music, the whole experience still felt uniquely positive. Standing for several hours was something of an endurance test - but a number of remarkable performances made it all worth it on a musical level alone.
The show kicked off on time with a bizarrely inaudible fanfare before U2 took to the stage with Paul McCartney to perform what was apparently the first live performance of Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (McCartney had performed the reprise on his recent tours, but not the full version). It felt a little flat, but U2 were clearly awed to be sharing the stage with the former Beatle. Before ushering in their own 'Beautiful Day', Bono asked the crowd 'did that really just happen?' At any other event, U2's three song set (with Bono's overt preaching and the release of a flock of white doves into the air) may well have felt uncomfortably mawkish. Here, something resolutely cheesy and sentimental felt like the perfect opening to the event. 'Beautiful Day' was appropriately anthemic, 'Vertigo' confident and strident, despite its obvious limitations as a song, and 'One' was particularly touching. Bono still has a commanding presence on stage that is impossible to ignore.
Next up were Coldplay - a decidedly mixed blessing. 'In My Place' remains one of their best songs, but Chris Martin's flat intoning of Status Quo's 'Rocking All Over The World' was criminally unfunny. Richard Ashcroft took to the stage for a faithful run through of 'Bittersweet Symphony'. Whilst hardly earth shattering as a performance in its own right, it reminded me what a good song it is, and how Richard Ashcroft appears to have left his talents somewhere in Wigan ever since. Still, even the most ardent of Verve fans must have choked at Martin's ardent flattery - 'this is probably the best song in the world sung by the greatest singer in the world'. Ashcorft could not even be considered the greatest living singer singer in the world, let alone the best ever. Such overstatement may go some way in explaining Martin's own considerable limitations. Someone should introduce him to Roy Orbison and Sam Cooke. They closed with 'Fix You', an earnest ballad that shamelessly references Elbow and, perhaps precisely because of this, may well come to be their best song. Its carefully controlled crescendos linger in the mind.
After a brilliant introduction from Little Britain's Lou and Andy, Elton John provided the day's first genuine surprise. He was superb - a top notch showman wisely opting to perform two of his very best and most rousing songs ('The Bitch Is Back' and 'Saturday Night's All Right For Fighting'). It was a timely reminder that he can be a great songwriter when he puts his mind to it - it's such a pity he's been churning out middle of the road pap for the last 25 years. It was also a shame that his set was soured by an embarassingly, ahem, shambolic Pete Doherty, who teamed up with Elton to perform 'Children Of The Revolution' with committed swagger, but sadly he hadn't bothered to learn the tune. The bizarre pairing was certainly unexpected but in the event, not all that satisfying.
The less said about Dido the better. She is profoundly dull in every conceivable way, from the bland synth pad stylings of her tepid band to her weak and irresolute singing voice. She was completely upstaged by the arrival of guest Yossou N'Dour who demonstrated his talent even whilst duetting on the awful 'Thank You' and his sole UK megahit 'Seven Seconds'. How does Dido manage to communicate to so many people with no stage presence and no charisma? You're in front of 200,000 people woman! Do something!
The Stereophonics strangely started to engage the crowd a little more, despite turning in a perfunctory set with little subtlety. Still, at least they played 'Local Boy In the Photograph', the lyrics of which I still find moving. It's the one indication that Kelly Jones may possess some talent somewhere, even though with bluster like 'The Bartender and The Thief', and plodding tosh like 'Maybe Tomorrow', he keeps it well hidden.
Ricky Gervais bowed to pressure from the crowd and dutifully performed the infamous David Brent dance from The Office for 'one last time', before REM provided a welcome burst of quality. Hard to believe that The Stereophonics were gifted with four songs, whilst one of the world's most significant bands were restricted to just three, but their performance came with their usual verve and vigour as well as an unusual and endearing timing slip during 'Everybody Hurts'. Shame they played three big hits rather than testing the crowd with some of their more overtly political material. Even one of the better, more engaged selections from 'Around The Sun' might have seemed more appropriate to the event. At least 'Everybody Hurts' provided an obligatory lighters aloft moment, hampered by the fact that it was still broad daylight in mid-afternoon. With extraordinary strip make-up across his eyes, Michael Stipe begins to look less endearingly charismatic and more sinister. He remains one of the best stage performers in the business. 'We are REM and this is what we do', he said with customary self-deprecation. What they do is to be consistently the best live act in the world year after year. Long may it continue.
Ms Dynamite proved, aside from Kofi Annan and Nelson Mandela (speaking in Johannesberg), to be the most articulate political voice of the day, arriving at the point crisply and persuasuvely. Her message that 'the debt is surely ours' was warmly received. Whilst many attempt Bob Marley's 'Redemption Song', her remarkable rendition had real character and pathos. She shows every sign of maturing into a major, distinctive British soul voice.
Keane and Travis then also did what they do, but with less overwhelming impacts. Keane do nothing for me whatsover. What some find anthemic, I find turgid and lacking in ambition. Watching their keyboard player's violent and exaggerated motions also induced a slight feeling of nausea. At least they appear to be down-to-earth, genuinely decent people, surprised by their perplexing commercial success. Travis were dependably inoffensive, and despite the recent dip in their profile, monosyllabic titles like 'Sing' and 'Side' obviously still carry memories for many people. Nobody could object to a run through of 'Why Does It Always Rain On Me' either.
Neither could anyone really object to Bob Geldof indulging in a quick rendition of 'I Don't Like Mondays'. The moronic chavs next to us secured their one vaguely funny moment with their chorus chant of 'Tell Me Why! I only have one song...' (it's not true of course - The Boomtown Rats had several hits in their day). It's actually an enduringly good song too, its theme of high-school massacre now genuinely prescient, even though its stylings are entirely copied from Born To Run-era Springsteen.
Revelation of the day was Annie Lennox. As good a pop band as The Eurythmics were, Lennox's solo career has been faltering, and she has shown little sign of the true artistry she is capable of. That artistry was present in bucketloads today - her solo piano rendition of 'Why' proving quietly devastating. 'Little Bird' and an energised version of 'Sweet Dreams' provided more upbeat balance. Her voice was controlled but extremely powerful, demonstrating that she is indeed a tremendously talented vocalist who prefers distinctive, emotive delivery over blandly virtuosic extemporising (others on the bill could learn from this, but more of that later).
Things then started to get more bizarre, and the quality more variable. I went to get Falafel during UB40, but their medley sadly seemed to drift more in favour of their successful cover versions than their earlier politicised material. Why not play 'One In Ten' or 'King' instead?
Snoop Dogg may well have been the source of most of the BBC's complaits, liberal as he was with his language still relatively early in the evening. As others have noted, his exortation to 'put your hands in the air like you just don't care' seemed ill-advised - we're supposed to be here because we do care aren't we? Still, it's difficult to resist the wickedly brilliant 'Drop It Like It's Hot', or indeed some of the earlier Funkadelic-inspired material aired in truncated versions. His laconic drawl remains one of hip-hop's most distinctive voices, even if he is now more cuddly poodle than savage terrier.
I almost warmed to Razorlight during their short set, specifically during a genuinely excellent rendition of 'Golden Touch' with some gospel backing vocalists. Unfortunately, Johnny Borrell's extreme self-confidence (he clearly sees his band performing to audiences of this size in their own right in the not-too-distant future) remains a distraction. Why can't the man keep his clothes on for even a 15 minute set? Still, their energy and boisterous enthusiasm may prove infectious, especially for those who know nothing of their thinly veiled New York punk influences.
Next came what everyone were all waiting for - the 'queen bee of Rock and Roll', Madonna. I'm genuinely glad to have seen her without paying £150 for the privilege, even though the juxtaposition of her jewellery encrusted fingers gripping the hand of an Ethiopian famine survivor provided one of the most uncomfortable big screen images of the evening. Her performance was simply fantastic - she commanded both the stage and the audience and her voice has clearly grown in stature and power over the years. She may now deserve the title of artist as well as star, so convincing were her performances of 'Like A Prayer' and the triumphant 'Ray Of Light'. 'Music' seemed the most appropriate song of the whole event - 'music makes the people come together' runs the chorus, and today it clearly did. The first act to really integrate performance into her act - her dancers and choir making her diva-ish demands for increased rehearsal time seem necessary rather than frustrating. Her cry of 'Are you fucking ready? Are you ready to start a revolution?' may have been the least convincing political rallying cry of all time - but we'll forgive her all that.
Snow Patrol played 'Chocolate' and 'Run', two exhuberant choruses in search of decent verses, or even a middle eight. Hardly a highlight. All the more disappointing then that The Killers, in spite of having delivered a chart-topping debut album, were restricted to just one song, a rousing 'All These Things I've Done'. No doubt the crowd would have appreciated 'Somebody Told Me' and 'Mr. Brightside' as well. They may not be particularly original but they look set to become festival favourites over the next few years.
Joss Stone performed customarily barefoot renditions of classic soul material including 'Supa Dupa Love' and 'Some Kind Of Wonderful'. How has she managed to convince the likes of James Brown, Willie Mitchell and Betty Wright that she is a genuine soul talent when she is evidently a diluted, pure commodity-pop repackaging of musical history? I do wish she'd stick to the melody line too. Despite her constant giggling in interviews, she may be starting to take herself a little too seriously.
Scissor Sisters remain a camp pop phenomenon, and at Live 8 they pulled off a neat trick by being the only act daring enough to perform previously unheard material. Their new song 'Everyone Wants The Same Thing' may well be their best yet, immediately infectious and engaging. 'Laura' and 'Take Your Mama' provided wholesome, light-hearted entertainment too. Too many artists on the bill didn't quite have the shameless energy and enthusiasm needed to reach such a large crowd but the Scissor Sisters had the necessary effervesence.
Velvet Revolver were a baffling selection, and were totally awful. This kind of sludgy, corporate rock felt horribly out of place in this line-up, and the band seemed somewhat confused by the whole occasion. They tried their best - but this crowd would obviously much rather see Slash patch things up with Axl Rose and deliver a quick blast of 'Paradise City' and 'Sweet Child O Mine'. Not likely, but we can continue dreaming.
I've never been a fan of Sting but something about his performance here carried substantial weight. Perhaps it was the explicit refashioning of 'Every Breath You Take' into a pointed attack on Blair and Bush, which seemed dignified and intelligent. It was also there in the renewed energy in his performance of 'Message In A Bottle', in which he avoided nostalgia and breathed new life into the material.
Mariah Carey provided the day's real nadir (sorry Adrian!). Her upbeat material is relatively inoffensive, and during 'Make It Happen' she paced the stage energtically and with authority. Unfortunately, she is such a hopeless diva, with backstage crew bringing her water to sip through a straw between every song and performing a horrible version of 'Hero', already one of the very worst songs of all time, with an African Childrens' Choir. She was the first artist of the night whose motivations I genuinely doubted - something about the set seemed insincere, particularly when she closed with a screechy and perfunctory promotional rendition of her latest single, which added nothing to the recorded version.
Thank goodness then for Robbie Williams (did I just say that?) who did his peerless showman act with renewed charisma. As promised, he included Queen's 'We Will Rock You' in his brief set, in reference to the first Live Aid event. He was also the only person to thank Midge Ure, who whilst still involved in the trust in some capacity, appears to have been sidelined from its public front. Williams' material may be cringe-inducing at times, but at least he made up for the crowd's notable antipathy to Mariah's self-indulgence with an inevitable singalong-an-'Angels'. He flew over from LA, where he has clearly been residing for several months, and many seem to think he has used Live 8 as a means to relaunch his career in the UK. He hardly needs to though - he could record himself pissing in a pot and it would still sell by the truckload.
Then came the elder statesmen of the rock establishment. Both The Who and Pink Floyd were spectacular. The former played 'Won't Get Fooled Again', a song that still burns with righteous fury, even though its composers now look more like University lecturers than rock stars. Pete Townsend is actually a supremely talented and intuitive guitarist, not just for the whilrling arm pyrotechnics, but for some inventive and subtle mid-song finger picking too. I've always found Pink Floyd to be on the dull side of worthy, but they performed four of their most enduring songs and seemed genuinely pleased to have patched up their differences. Even Roger Waters, notorious for his diffidence and arrogance, radiated newfound warmth on stage, dedicating the poignant and endearing 'Wish You Were Here' to the reclusive, troubled Syd Barrett. They even reclaimed 'Comfortably Numb' from the Scissor Sisters, making rich and inventive use of visuals on the big screen as they performed. Dave Gilour's fretwork was thrillingly skilled, and the sound quality was at its fullest and most convincing during their set. They may be chief executives in the business of denial at the moment - but surely a full reunion tour beckons?
Paul McCartney closed things off with brio, duetting with George Michael (who still shies from ever performing his own work live) on 'Drive My Car', delivering a surprise, highly kinetic version of 'Helter Skelter' before launching into a rather icky 'Long and Winding Road' (never his best song) and the previously announced all-star chorus of 'Hey Jude'. Cheesy in the extreme, but a necessarily unified and uniting conclusion to a quite remarkable mass gathering. Whether na na nas can change the world though may be more doubtful.
*The curious paucity of black artists on the bill in London appeared to have a wider implication - the crowd was shockingly, overwhelmingly white. This is hardly representative of modern Britain!
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Reinventing The Wheel
I've not been spending much money on music lately (mainly because I don't have much to spend!) - but two albums which cautiously reshape established formulas have struggled to leave my CD player in the last few weeks.
The first and most heavily publicised is 'Get Behind Me Satan', the latest effort from The White Stripes. The packaging retains the band's love for stylised artwork, and the music still fits neatly into their defiantly minimalist framework. Yet, as many reviews have suggested, there's something different lurking here too. Partially, it's the instrumentation - although the idea that Jack White has abandoned the guitar is slightly misleading. There's certainly much less of the sharp, aggressive electric fretwork, and much more acoustic strumming. There's also plenty of piano. White has used this before, usually for the slightly twee side of the band's catalogue, but here he uses the piano as a full bodied rhythmic instrument, and the result is some of the band's most driving and insistent work. The critics perhaps make rather too much of the marimba, which sounds wonderful, but appears only on one track.
So is this a crisis of confidence or a bold new direction? I don't think it's really the latter - this is still recognisably a White Stripes album, just a more difficult and unusual one. Quirkiness has been amplified on a number of tracks - 'Red Rain' and 'The Nurse' both have familiar and exhilirating bursts of guitar noise, but the comfortable elements are refracted through a distorting lens of woozy weirdness. Both tracks are excellent, the latter sounding particularly exotic. 'Little Ghost' is a breakneck bluegrass hoedown - I'd like to think White gained the inspiration from it from The Broken Family Band, although I doubt he's familiar with Cambridge's finest.
Elsewhere, 'My Doorbell' is outstanding, a rare example of Meg's rudimentary drumming making for a simple, effective groove. The vocal phrasing is crisp, and the thudding piano chords and weight and energy. They replay the same trick for 'The Denial Twist', demonstrating how easy it would have been to make a rather repetetive album. All credit to Jack and Meg that they have resisted this temptation and have instead opted for confounding variety - 'Forever For Her (Is Over For Me)' is a brilliantly mournful stately ballad and 'Take, Take, Take' with its depiction of an encounter with Rita Hayworth, is one of the album's most singular and evocative moments.
Sometimes its hard to know whether Jack White lovingly recreates traditional forms, or whether he is actually parodying them. This is a particular problem with the final track 'I'm Lonely (But I Ain't That Lonely Yet)', a gospel tinged blues that hits all the right buttons, both with its lyrics and melody, but has a slightly detached, possibly ironic tone. It could be the perfect kiss-off, or it could be a clue to the band's approach for the whole of 'Get Behind Me Satan'. Turned over within a matter of weeks, was this a calculated gambit, or an unrestrained bit of fun that actually managed to secure a commercial release?
Either way, it's an intriguing, fascinating record - and one that they probably needed to make. The single 'Blue Orchid' suggested they were all too happy to remake 'Seven Nation Army' all over again - but this has not proved to be the case. Here, they show a willingness to do as much as they can within their aesthetic, and actually begin to show some real creative drive. That their most ambitious record also appears to be their least pre-conceived record to date shows that they have managed to retain all that made them special - an instinctive appreciation for the visceral force of blues-inspired music, a howling, primal form that still serves them well, even in quirkier, more muted form.
Earlier this year I crafted a highly critical review of 'Trials and Errors', a live album and the first official release from Jason Molina's new band Magnolia Electric Co. To these ears, the performances seemed stodgy and mostly overlong, and it did not bode well for the forthcoming studio album. That record has now been granted a full UK release. Entitled 'What Comes After The Blues', it is by some considerably distance the most accessible album that Molina has penned to date, and is likely to put yet more distance between him and his friend and mentor Will Oldham. It also comes as a merciful relief that it is also an absolutely fantastic record.
Not always known for his sensitivity in production techniques, somehow Steve Albinini has managed to muffle the colossal and insensitive drum thud that marred the live album. In fact, much of the playing here, whilst frequently exhuberant and spirited, is a great deal more subtle than I had expected. Even the most conventional tracks, where Molina's current Neil Young fixation is most apparent, have a wistful melodic appeal and are arranged with more restraint and care than anything on 'Trials and Errors'. 'The Dark Don't Hide It' opens the album with a sugar rush of chiming guitars and slide solos, along with a strident, almost infectious melody. It's a powerful statement, but actually somewhat misleading for the rest of the album. Elsewhere, Molina appears more reflective and less blustery.
There are two superb examples of this - the eerie and mysterious 'Hard To Love A Man', which is beautifully performed to emphasise its ambiguities. More familiar is the charming, melancholy 'Leave The City', which bears a slight resemblance to Scott Mackenzie's 'If You're Going To San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair)', but manages to find its own distinctive voice by virtue of some beguling trumpet melodies.
Lyrically, this is clearly an unashamed attempt at capturing the great American vernacular. There are numerous references to highways, roads and north stars which place this firmly in Springsteen territory. The inspiration, according to Molina himself, was Hank Williams' 'I Have Seen The Light', a statement made explicit in the concluding song, cunningly titled 'I Have Not Seen The Light'.
The album is structured so that the calmer, acoustic moments come towards the end. This is not a structuring policy I would expect to appreciate - but it works surprisingly well here, as it allows the album to develop an increasingly elegiac mood. The final few tracks will be familiar to long-term Molina fans, but they are more immediate and less elusive than anything on 'The Lioness' or 'Didn't It Rain'. 'Hammer Down' and 'North Star Blues' are particularly memorable.
Throughout Jennie Benford plays a very effective Emmylou Harris to Molina's Gram Parsons, and she even contributes one quite remarkable song, the genuinely moving 'Night Shift Lullaby', which may as well have been written especially for me! The tone is vulnerable and delicate throughout, but Molina's voice appears to have assumed a new force, which works very well wheh paired with Benford's sweet harmonies.
The title 'What Comes After The Blues' is also illuminating. This is not a blues album as such, but it is full of the resonances, cadences and wisdom of traditional American music. Molina has now firmly placed himself in a songwriting tradition (that of Dylan, Young and Springsteen) and, as such, 'What Comes After The Blues' may be unfairly dismissed as his most conventional work. This would be a mistake, however. There is still some of the raw brilliance of the later Songs:Ohia albums here and plenty of Molina's distinctive way with mood and atmosphere. A remarkable album.
The first and most heavily publicised is 'Get Behind Me Satan', the latest effort from The White Stripes. The packaging retains the band's love for stylised artwork, and the music still fits neatly into their defiantly minimalist framework. Yet, as many reviews have suggested, there's something different lurking here too. Partially, it's the instrumentation - although the idea that Jack White has abandoned the guitar is slightly misleading. There's certainly much less of the sharp, aggressive electric fretwork, and much more acoustic strumming. There's also plenty of piano. White has used this before, usually for the slightly twee side of the band's catalogue, but here he uses the piano as a full bodied rhythmic instrument, and the result is some of the band's most driving and insistent work. The critics perhaps make rather too much of the marimba, which sounds wonderful, but appears only on one track.
So is this a crisis of confidence or a bold new direction? I don't think it's really the latter - this is still recognisably a White Stripes album, just a more difficult and unusual one. Quirkiness has been amplified on a number of tracks - 'Red Rain' and 'The Nurse' both have familiar and exhilirating bursts of guitar noise, but the comfortable elements are refracted through a distorting lens of woozy weirdness. Both tracks are excellent, the latter sounding particularly exotic. 'Little Ghost' is a breakneck bluegrass hoedown - I'd like to think White gained the inspiration from it from The Broken Family Band, although I doubt he's familiar with Cambridge's finest.
Elsewhere, 'My Doorbell' is outstanding, a rare example of Meg's rudimentary drumming making for a simple, effective groove. The vocal phrasing is crisp, and the thudding piano chords and weight and energy. They replay the same trick for 'The Denial Twist', demonstrating how easy it would have been to make a rather repetetive album. All credit to Jack and Meg that they have resisted this temptation and have instead opted for confounding variety - 'Forever For Her (Is Over For Me)' is a brilliantly mournful stately ballad and 'Take, Take, Take' with its depiction of an encounter with Rita Hayworth, is one of the album's most singular and evocative moments.
Sometimes its hard to know whether Jack White lovingly recreates traditional forms, or whether he is actually parodying them. This is a particular problem with the final track 'I'm Lonely (But I Ain't That Lonely Yet)', a gospel tinged blues that hits all the right buttons, both with its lyrics and melody, but has a slightly detached, possibly ironic tone. It could be the perfect kiss-off, or it could be a clue to the band's approach for the whole of 'Get Behind Me Satan'. Turned over within a matter of weeks, was this a calculated gambit, or an unrestrained bit of fun that actually managed to secure a commercial release?
Either way, it's an intriguing, fascinating record - and one that they probably needed to make. The single 'Blue Orchid' suggested they were all too happy to remake 'Seven Nation Army' all over again - but this has not proved to be the case. Here, they show a willingness to do as much as they can within their aesthetic, and actually begin to show some real creative drive. That their most ambitious record also appears to be their least pre-conceived record to date shows that they have managed to retain all that made them special - an instinctive appreciation for the visceral force of blues-inspired music, a howling, primal form that still serves them well, even in quirkier, more muted form.
Earlier this year I crafted a highly critical review of 'Trials and Errors', a live album and the first official release from Jason Molina's new band Magnolia Electric Co. To these ears, the performances seemed stodgy and mostly overlong, and it did not bode well for the forthcoming studio album. That record has now been granted a full UK release. Entitled 'What Comes After The Blues', it is by some considerably distance the most accessible album that Molina has penned to date, and is likely to put yet more distance between him and his friend and mentor Will Oldham. It also comes as a merciful relief that it is also an absolutely fantastic record.
Not always known for his sensitivity in production techniques, somehow Steve Albinini has managed to muffle the colossal and insensitive drum thud that marred the live album. In fact, much of the playing here, whilst frequently exhuberant and spirited, is a great deal more subtle than I had expected. Even the most conventional tracks, where Molina's current Neil Young fixation is most apparent, have a wistful melodic appeal and are arranged with more restraint and care than anything on 'Trials and Errors'. 'The Dark Don't Hide It' opens the album with a sugar rush of chiming guitars and slide solos, along with a strident, almost infectious melody. It's a powerful statement, but actually somewhat misleading for the rest of the album. Elsewhere, Molina appears more reflective and less blustery.
There are two superb examples of this - the eerie and mysterious 'Hard To Love A Man', which is beautifully performed to emphasise its ambiguities. More familiar is the charming, melancholy 'Leave The City', which bears a slight resemblance to Scott Mackenzie's 'If You're Going To San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair)', but manages to find its own distinctive voice by virtue of some beguling trumpet melodies.
Lyrically, this is clearly an unashamed attempt at capturing the great American vernacular. There are numerous references to highways, roads and north stars which place this firmly in Springsteen territory. The inspiration, according to Molina himself, was Hank Williams' 'I Have Seen The Light', a statement made explicit in the concluding song, cunningly titled 'I Have Not Seen The Light'.
The album is structured so that the calmer, acoustic moments come towards the end. This is not a structuring policy I would expect to appreciate - but it works surprisingly well here, as it allows the album to develop an increasingly elegiac mood. The final few tracks will be familiar to long-term Molina fans, but they are more immediate and less elusive than anything on 'The Lioness' or 'Didn't It Rain'. 'Hammer Down' and 'North Star Blues' are particularly memorable.
Throughout Jennie Benford plays a very effective Emmylou Harris to Molina's Gram Parsons, and she even contributes one quite remarkable song, the genuinely moving 'Night Shift Lullaby', which may as well have been written especially for me! The tone is vulnerable and delicate throughout, but Molina's voice appears to have assumed a new force, which works very well wheh paired with Benford's sweet harmonies.
The title 'What Comes After The Blues' is also illuminating. This is not a blues album as such, but it is full of the resonances, cadences and wisdom of traditional American music. Molina has now firmly placed himself in a songwriting tradition (that of Dylan, Young and Springsteen) and, as such, 'What Comes After The Blues' may be unfairly dismissed as his most conventional work. This would be a mistake, however. There is still some of the raw brilliance of the later Songs:Ohia albums here and plenty of Molina's distinctive way with mood and atmosphere. A remarkable album.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Contort Yourself
A fun night was had by all at Twisted Charm's Club Twisted night at the Buffalo Bar in Highbury last night. Unit played our second gig in the bar, one of my favourite North London venues, as part of what turned out to be a pretty top bill. We played a pretty storming, highly energetic set, including the first 'proper' performance of new song 'Take Your Hangover Crosstown' (sadly marred by some annoying techincal problems with Chris' keyboard). Otherwise, it as a back-to-basics set with minimal instrument swapping, no synth and no laptop. Our full set was:
2 C Others As They See Me
The Explorer
Listen It Out
Edge Of Town
Lovers' Mesh
Take Your Hangover Crosstown
Television
There was a good crowd, hopefully now converted by Daniel's eager after-show promotional activities, and spirits were good. Tonight we hit Leicester Square's Marquee Club.
Also playing last night were Blah Blah Blah, a new project from Twisted Charm's Nathan Doom who played a short but sweet fifteen minute set of electro-punk. Ironic lyrics mixed with propulsive drum machine beats, some interesting non-chordal guitar playing and the odd burst of synth attack. Nathan's snarly vocals suited the music well, and this showed plenty of promise.
Next up were The Schla-La-Las, who started dreadfully, with a whole host of technical problems and bursts of rather uninspired two chord dirges. Once the problems had been resolved, however, I warmed to them considerably. Perhaps it's just because I'm a complete sucker for girl-pop, but songs like 'Are You Ready?' and 'Up For It' had cute harmonies and bucketloads of energy. Of course, the playing was decidedly sloppy (and, really, there's no need for two bass players when they both mindlessly strum the same parts), but as a punk band, it's much more about an aesthetic than intricate musicianship. In their uniform dresses, and with plenty of good humour to go round, the girls made for endearing performers. When the songs were good, the lack of musical innovation didn't really matter. One song sticks in my mind particularly - a list of foodstuffs in German followed by an hilarious chorus: 'I'm going back to Germany to stuff my face (she's going back to Germany to stuff her face)!!'. Quite brilliant. Mitch Benn and the Distractions may want to follow their wonderful parody 'Everyone Sounds Like Coldplay Now' with a sequel, 'Everyone Sounds Like The Shangri-Las Now', such is the currency of girl-pop right now. I fear, however, that The Schla-la-Las might suffer inevitable and unfavourable comparisons with the Pipettes, who are lighter, more subtle and probably better.
Then came our hosts for the evening, Twisted Charm. Musically, this was ragged but completely inspired - with Nathan's guitar processed to sound like an 80s synth and Luke's howling saxophone pitted against rudimentary but thrillingly unhinged drumming. New single 'London Scene?' is bound to gain them new attention, with its slightly barmy rhyming lyrics about teenage mums taking over the streets whilst no-one has the time (or perhaps the inclination?) to read John Keats. Ironic? Probably. Entertaining? Very much so. Nathan Doom and Luke Livid may be slight of frame, but they make for charismatic performers, completely absorbed in a riotous, energetic noise. Whilst the lyrics sometimes tend towards the simplistic, at their best Twisted Charm are relentlessly exciting. We hope to play with them again some time soon.
Headlining tonight were C-Jags, probably the most musically proficient band on the bill, with some infectious vocal harmonising and manic, technically incredible drumming. There was something missing here for the most part though - good pop songs, performed with authority and conviction, but somehow a great deal more conventional than the blast of avant-punk that came before them.
Even better were the tunes spun between the sets - James Chance and The Contortions, The Lounge Lizards messing up Thelonious Monk, Acoustic Ladyland, Sonic Youth, Royal Trux, The Specials, LCD Soundsystem - awesome!
2 C Others As They See Me
The Explorer
Listen It Out
Edge Of Town
Lovers' Mesh
Take Your Hangover Crosstown
Television
There was a good crowd, hopefully now converted by Daniel's eager after-show promotional activities, and spirits were good. Tonight we hit Leicester Square's Marquee Club.
Also playing last night were Blah Blah Blah, a new project from Twisted Charm's Nathan Doom who played a short but sweet fifteen minute set of electro-punk. Ironic lyrics mixed with propulsive drum machine beats, some interesting non-chordal guitar playing and the odd burst of synth attack. Nathan's snarly vocals suited the music well, and this showed plenty of promise.
Next up were The Schla-La-Las, who started dreadfully, with a whole host of technical problems and bursts of rather uninspired two chord dirges. Once the problems had been resolved, however, I warmed to them considerably. Perhaps it's just because I'm a complete sucker for girl-pop, but songs like 'Are You Ready?' and 'Up For It' had cute harmonies and bucketloads of energy. Of course, the playing was decidedly sloppy (and, really, there's no need for two bass players when they both mindlessly strum the same parts), but as a punk band, it's much more about an aesthetic than intricate musicianship. In their uniform dresses, and with plenty of good humour to go round, the girls made for endearing performers. When the songs were good, the lack of musical innovation didn't really matter. One song sticks in my mind particularly - a list of foodstuffs in German followed by an hilarious chorus: 'I'm going back to Germany to stuff my face (she's going back to Germany to stuff her face)!!'. Quite brilliant. Mitch Benn and the Distractions may want to follow their wonderful parody 'Everyone Sounds Like Coldplay Now' with a sequel, 'Everyone Sounds Like The Shangri-Las Now', such is the currency of girl-pop right now. I fear, however, that The Schla-la-Las might suffer inevitable and unfavourable comparisons with the Pipettes, who are lighter, more subtle and probably better.
Then came our hosts for the evening, Twisted Charm. Musically, this was ragged but completely inspired - with Nathan's guitar processed to sound like an 80s synth and Luke's howling saxophone pitted against rudimentary but thrillingly unhinged drumming. New single 'London Scene?' is bound to gain them new attention, with its slightly barmy rhyming lyrics about teenage mums taking over the streets whilst no-one has the time (or perhaps the inclination?) to read John Keats. Ironic? Probably. Entertaining? Very much so. Nathan Doom and Luke Livid may be slight of frame, but they make for charismatic performers, completely absorbed in a riotous, energetic noise. Whilst the lyrics sometimes tend towards the simplistic, at their best Twisted Charm are relentlessly exciting. We hope to play with them again some time soon.
Headlining tonight were C-Jags, probably the most musically proficient band on the bill, with some infectious vocal harmonising and manic, technically incredible drumming. There was something missing here for the most part though - good pop songs, performed with authority and conviction, but somehow a great deal more conventional than the blast of avant-punk that came before them.
Even better were the tunes spun between the sets - James Chance and The Contortions, The Lounge Lizards messing up Thelonious Monk, Acoustic Ladyland, Sonic Youth, Royal Trux, The Specials, LCD Soundsystem - awesome!
Friday, June 10, 2005
Cat People
South San Gabriel and The Ralfe Band - Borderline 29/5/05
I've been meaning to write something about this for ages, but have only just managed to compose my thoughts. This was a pretty major night for gigs - and I sacrificed seeing Hot Chip or Lou Barlow in order to come to this one. This was mainly because, at the time of booking, I was curious about South San Gabriel's new full length - an unashamedly whimsical concept album about the (mis)adventures of a cat called Carlton. Did the evening fulfil its initial promise?
First of all, a brief word must be said about the Ralfe Band, who were somewhat demented. Their music seemed to encompass a plethora of genres, taking in Calexico-style desert border strumming, campfire laments, klezmer, Les Dawson-esque comedy dissonance and invigorating hoe-downs. There was also a wealth of instrument swapping (even a viola, the most cruelly maligned of orchestral instruments, was deployed at one stage). It was a compelling and highly entertaining mix, although I did find myself wondering at one stage if the band's considerable ambition and ingenuity with arrangements might risk outstripping their songwriting skills. I'll reserve judgement until I've heard more, but there's no doubt that there is plenty of mileage here and an album from this band will be schizophrenic, challenging and, quite possibly, really very good.
South San Gabriel (one of many outfits for prolific songwriter Will Johnson, who also records under his own name and witl Centr-O-Matic) were considerably less wild. In fact, they were arguably a bit one-dimensional by comparison. We basically got the whole of the new record and the same problem that afflicted the record transferred to the show - it's a bit one-paced, and the pace is relentlessly slow and drawn-out. The songs are long, stretched and very deliberate.
Still, the music is plaintive, haunting and extremely beautiful. Also, in constructing a cohesive style, the band have very much defined their own sound (although obvious influences such as Neil Young hover in the background). It's like a more reflective My Morning Jacket (withouth the occasionally intrusive 70s rock behemoth tendencies). Everything is bathed in eerie reverb, and the presence of slide guitar enhances the dusty, otherworldly effect.
Johnson also makes for a compelling performer. Even though he remains seated throughout the entire performance, he appears completely committed to the music, and totally absorbed within it. His vocals are soft, soothing but with a vulnerable quality - and the band have a remarkable ear for harmony. If you were not familiar with the material, you'd be hard pressed to know it was all about a cat - it is performed tonight in considered and serious fashion. 'A bit presumptious of me to know what a cat is thinking about...' Johnson concedes dryly, but he appears to have done a good job.
I've been meaning to write something about this for ages, but have only just managed to compose my thoughts. This was a pretty major night for gigs - and I sacrificed seeing Hot Chip or Lou Barlow in order to come to this one. This was mainly because, at the time of booking, I was curious about South San Gabriel's new full length - an unashamedly whimsical concept album about the (mis)adventures of a cat called Carlton. Did the evening fulfil its initial promise?
First of all, a brief word must be said about the Ralfe Band, who were somewhat demented. Their music seemed to encompass a plethora of genres, taking in Calexico-style desert border strumming, campfire laments, klezmer, Les Dawson-esque comedy dissonance and invigorating hoe-downs. There was also a wealth of instrument swapping (even a viola, the most cruelly maligned of orchestral instruments, was deployed at one stage). It was a compelling and highly entertaining mix, although I did find myself wondering at one stage if the band's considerable ambition and ingenuity with arrangements might risk outstripping their songwriting skills. I'll reserve judgement until I've heard more, but there's no doubt that there is plenty of mileage here and an album from this band will be schizophrenic, challenging and, quite possibly, really very good.
South San Gabriel (one of many outfits for prolific songwriter Will Johnson, who also records under his own name and witl Centr-O-Matic) were considerably less wild. In fact, they were arguably a bit one-dimensional by comparison. We basically got the whole of the new record and the same problem that afflicted the record transferred to the show - it's a bit one-paced, and the pace is relentlessly slow and drawn-out. The songs are long, stretched and very deliberate.
Still, the music is plaintive, haunting and extremely beautiful. Also, in constructing a cohesive style, the band have very much defined their own sound (although obvious influences such as Neil Young hover in the background). It's like a more reflective My Morning Jacket (withouth the occasionally intrusive 70s rock behemoth tendencies). Everything is bathed in eerie reverb, and the presence of slide guitar enhances the dusty, otherworldly effect.
Johnson also makes for a compelling performer. Even though he remains seated throughout the entire performance, he appears completely committed to the music, and totally absorbed within it. His vocals are soft, soothing but with a vulnerable quality - and the band have a remarkable ear for harmony. If you were not familiar with the material, you'd be hard pressed to know it was all about a cat - it is performed tonight in considered and serious fashion. 'A bit presumptious of me to know what a cat is thinking about...' Johnson concedes dryly, but he appears to have done a good job.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Dinosaur Rock!
Dinosaur Jr. at The Forum 8/6/05
They say it takes a lot to get J Mascis out of bed. Well, someone must have offered him a real cash prize because not only as he come over to England for tour dates, including this weekend's Download Festival, but he's brought the original line-up of Dinosaur Jr. with him! I'd just about given up hope of ever seeing Dinosaur Jr. live, and certainly never thought J Mascis and Lou Barlow would bury the hatchet and perform together again. Yet, here they are, two of the musicians most influential to me, shuffling on stage as if they were completely inconsequential!
True to slacker form, J, Lou and Murph step out and spend what seems like an eternity tuning up. Did the sound tech people not just do all that for them? Yet, by the time they're plugged in and bursting into a terrifying rendition of 'Gargoyle', all doubts are immediately dispelled. This show really did lay down the gauntlet for all reunion shows. Unlike the Pixies show I saw last year, which to me felt forced, uncomfortable and mostly perfunctory (although I concede almost everyone disagreed with me) - this was energised, persuasive and very, very loud. Subtlety was never really a Dinosaur trait and here they are, looking older (is J's long hair greying, or just dyed blond?) but still every bit as visceral and aggressive. Lou hammers seven shades of shit out of his bass, playing with almost total disregard for technique. J attacks his guitar in numerous lengthy solos, which work wonderfully because his guitar playing is paradoxically both unnervingly unhinged and musically considered. Murph is also an absolutely terrific drummer, and plays with thunderous enthusiasm tonight. Lou Barlow genuinely seemed to be having fun (unusual for such a famously, err, reflective chap) and J even seemed to smile a couple of times, even if his rapport with the audience didn't really go beyond the occasional strange whistle or grunt.
As this was the original line-up, there was unsurprisingly no material post-Bug. It would have been great to hear the original band reconfigure some of J Mascis' later material, but not really something surprising or worth complaining about. From those pivotal early albums, we get just about everything we could ask for in a necessarily brief but thoroughly invigorating set. Almost unbelievably, this was the first time 'Little Fury Things' had been performed live with Lou on bass, despite it being one of the most popular songs from the first Dinosaur era. This lent it a renewed thrill and intensity that went beyond mere nostalgia. Other highlights included a swampy 'No Bones', a savage blast through 'In A Jar' (dispensed with quickly, surprisingly early in the set) and kinetic takes on 'Forget The Swan' and 'Repulsion'.
The closing moments seemed to come from nowhere. Suddenly, they're playing 'Freak Scene', one of alternative rock's finest moments and a pillar of proto-grunge. J Mascis messes up the stripped down bit completely, adding humour to the 'don't let me fuck up will you...' line, but it doesn't matter. It sounds committed and fiery nonetheless. It seemed that they might be too cool for encores, but they return with a full blooded performance of their interpretation of The Cure's 'Just Like Heaven' and a fractious, stormy 'Does It Float'. Despite Lou having savaged his bass to such an extent that strings have broken, he straps on a new bass, and they finish with a determinedly sludgy 'Mountain Man', which seems to encapsulate all the messy, untutored power that this remarkable band command.
Older, but seemingly wiser, Dinosaur Jr. still rocked righteously. As I left the venue I heard someone say 'I'm so glad it wasn't shit'. I'll second that - reunion exercises can be dour and unpleasant, this one was something special. Download is in for a treat.
They say it takes a lot to get J Mascis out of bed. Well, someone must have offered him a real cash prize because not only as he come over to England for tour dates, including this weekend's Download Festival, but he's brought the original line-up of Dinosaur Jr. with him! I'd just about given up hope of ever seeing Dinosaur Jr. live, and certainly never thought J Mascis and Lou Barlow would bury the hatchet and perform together again. Yet, here they are, two of the musicians most influential to me, shuffling on stage as if they were completely inconsequential!
True to slacker form, J, Lou and Murph step out and spend what seems like an eternity tuning up. Did the sound tech people not just do all that for them? Yet, by the time they're plugged in and bursting into a terrifying rendition of 'Gargoyle', all doubts are immediately dispelled. This show really did lay down the gauntlet for all reunion shows. Unlike the Pixies show I saw last year, which to me felt forced, uncomfortable and mostly perfunctory (although I concede almost everyone disagreed with me) - this was energised, persuasive and very, very loud. Subtlety was never really a Dinosaur trait and here they are, looking older (is J's long hair greying, or just dyed blond?) but still every bit as visceral and aggressive. Lou hammers seven shades of shit out of his bass, playing with almost total disregard for technique. J attacks his guitar in numerous lengthy solos, which work wonderfully because his guitar playing is paradoxically both unnervingly unhinged and musically considered. Murph is also an absolutely terrific drummer, and plays with thunderous enthusiasm tonight. Lou Barlow genuinely seemed to be having fun (unusual for such a famously, err, reflective chap) and J even seemed to smile a couple of times, even if his rapport with the audience didn't really go beyond the occasional strange whistle or grunt.
As this was the original line-up, there was unsurprisingly no material post-Bug. It would have been great to hear the original band reconfigure some of J Mascis' later material, but not really something surprising or worth complaining about. From those pivotal early albums, we get just about everything we could ask for in a necessarily brief but thoroughly invigorating set. Almost unbelievably, this was the first time 'Little Fury Things' had been performed live with Lou on bass, despite it being one of the most popular songs from the first Dinosaur era. This lent it a renewed thrill and intensity that went beyond mere nostalgia. Other highlights included a swampy 'No Bones', a savage blast through 'In A Jar' (dispensed with quickly, surprisingly early in the set) and kinetic takes on 'Forget The Swan' and 'Repulsion'.
The closing moments seemed to come from nowhere. Suddenly, they're playing 'Freak Scene', one of alternative rock's finest moments and a pillar of proto-grunge. J Mascis messes up the stripped down bit completely, adding humour to the 'don't let me fuck up will you...' line, but it doesn't matter. It sounds committed and fiery nonetheless. It seemed that they might be too cool for encores, but they return with a full blooded performance of their interpretation of The Cure's 'Just Like Heaven' and a fractious, stormy 'Does It Float'. Despite Lou having savaged his bass to such an extent that strings have broken, he straps on a new bass, and they finish with a determinedly sludgy 'Mountain Man', which seems to encapsulate all the messy, untutored power that this remarkable band command.
Older, but seemingly wiser, Dinosaur Jr. still rocked righteously. As I left the venue I heard someone say 'I'm so glad it wasn't shit'. I'll second that - reunion exercises can be dour and unpleasant, this one was something special. Download is in for a treat.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
The Big Guns Shoot Down The Real Heroes
So, while I've been out and about soaking up the sunshine in Seville, the big albums on which the very lifeblood of the record industry seems to depend have finally emerged. This week, what the NME has referred to as 'Super Monday' brought the ludicrously over-hyped new Coldplay album, along with 'Get Behind Me Satan', the album which supposedly sees The White Stripes move beyond their guitar-drums thrashing template, possibly with mixed results. I've yet to hear the latter, but I've plenty to say about the former (surprisingly, given that my usual reaction to Coldplay is complete indifference). Also, last week brought another Oasis album. 'They've rediscovered what made them great!' trumpeted the predictably unsubtle Observer Music Monthly, obviously attempting to lead some sort of premature critical rehabilitation, and conveniently ignoring the fact that Oasis were never actually great in the first place.
In the meantime, two albums slipped out quietly, highly unlikely to sell in bucketloads, but of much greater musical significance. Sleater Kinney's fruitful collaboration with Dave Fridmann 'The Woods' is dependably exhilirating, whilst Smog's 'A River Ain't Too Much To Love' suggests that the more accessible 'Supper' was a cheeky bluff - this is one of his more abstruse and challenging collections. Read on for my thoughts in full.
Coldplay - X&Y
As we all know, the delays and botched recordings in the sessions for 'X&Y' gave rise to disgruntled feelings among EMI shareholders and a major profit warning. Listening to it after all the hype, EMI really needn't have worried. 'X&Y' comes with swathes of synth strings and keyboards, but is really just a bigger, more confident (occasionally even strident) update of the familiar Coldplay template. Its sound is collossal and, at least initially, genuinely impressive. Even the most ardent of Coldplay haters would have to accept that this is leagues ahead of the inconsequential strumming of their debut, or even the mundane chugging of much of 'A Rush Of Blood To The Head'. There are healthy signs here that Coldplay have finally realised that the arrangement of a song is as important as its melody or sentiment. Hence, they even (gasp!) play on the offbeats, or employ some pleasantly substantial echoey guitar effects, even if it occasionally sounds too much like an attempt to replicate latter-day U2. Even the basslines have become more propulsive and less grindingly predictable. The production is effective, but there remains the linering doubt that it is all a bit clinical - big guitars suddenly emerge to underpin Chris Martin's none-too-subtle overwraught emoting.
When it works, it's easy to understand why it will no doubt be the stadium soundtrack of the summer. The opener, 'Square One' is bold and muscular, with an intriguingly twisting melody. The overall sound of first single 'Speed Of Sound' is a fair pointer - much of 'X&Y' sounds very polished and not too far from the likes of A-ha. The real focus of the album is the lengthy, spacious 'White Shadows', which neatly segues into the album's killer big ballad 'Fix You'. The former is the album's most impressive arrangment, with more rhythmic interest than anything Coldplay have previously recorded, whilst the latter flagrantly tugs the heartstrings. It would be churlish to deny the impact of its deceptively simple, haunting melody and the characteristically vulnerable tones of Martin's vocal. I suspect it will be released as a single, and will likely propel the album to become one of the all time biggest sellers. Quite how such an unassuming and generally unambitious band got to this stage is somewhat baffling.
Elsewhere, they try to prove their cultural worth by stealing the melody line from Kraftwerk's 'Computer Love' on 'Talk', although they don't do much of interest with it, using it as the main melodic device for the chorus vocal and the guitar line. A dialogue where both participants persist in repeating the same script does not hold the attention for long. Whilst the arrangements here are undoubtedly much improved, 'X&Y' still seems to suffer from a paucity of ideas. It's their most cohesive album to date, and seems to be striving for the big studio sound so successfully realised by the likes of Doves and Elbow. Unfortunately for Coldplay, those two bands have a much wider musical palette to draw from, and its difficult to detect the same instinctive acuteness on 'X&Y'. Still, those that admire the sound will no doubt not object to twelve tracks all adopting much the same approach at varying tempos. For these ears, the concept really starts to wear thin towards the end, where 'The Hardest Part' is pretty, but played rather conventionally (and therefore struggles to rise above blandness), 'Swallowed In The Sea' is dreadful and 'Twisted Logic' sounds big, but also somehow predictable and safe.
The real problem here is the lyrics. At best, they are banal. 'Speed Of Sound' and 'Square One' attempt to ask the big spiritual questions, but end up sounding thoroughly meaningless and somehow simultaneously cliched. The forced rhyme schemes reach an appalling apotheosis on 'Swallowed In The Sea' ('You put me on a she-eee-eelf/ And kept me for yourse-ee-eelf/ I can only blame my-see-eelf' etc) where Martin takes his uncomfortable emoting to ridiculous levels. Even the big love songs ('Fix You' aside) sound strangely self-conscious. Initially touching, repeated listens reveal 'What If' to be a merely skeletal lyric set to moody piano chords. Ironically, the simplest and least problematic love song is the uncredited 'Til Kingdom Come', the song the band originally wrote for Johnny Cash, a rare soujourn into countrified acoustic lament territory.
'X&Y' is not a bad album and in aiming to beef up their sound Coldplay have, ahem, put to bed all those criticisms of their 'bedwetter music'. Unfortunately, the lyrics rather leave those feelings lingering, despite the band's best efforts, and there is still the tendency towards meandering blandness and plodding tempos. For much of its first half, 'X&Y' shows a real sense of progression, but the latter half reveals that Coldplay are still shrouded in a restrictive safety net.
Oasis - Don't Believe The Truth
Indeed - don't believe it, for it is rubbish. By capturing the British mood for brash nostalgia during the mid-nineties Britpop boom, Oasis have had ridiculous expectations heaped upon them ever since. Essentially a pub rock band made good, they have struggled to recapture the undeniable thrill that catipulted them to fame. Through numerous line-up changes and fractious disputes, it's now been seven years since Oasis last made a half decent record, yet they still inspire ardent devotish from their closed-minded, loutish fans and can still command the odd magazine cover and deluded rapture from critics. Even I, long completely indifferent to the band had hoped, following my rather guilty enjoyment of their nostalgic headline set at Glastonbury (far from the disaster many reports denounced it as), that 'Don't Believe The Truth' might at least be enjoyably insubstantial. It's not at all - it sounds ham-fisted, unimaginative and, despite its lengthy gestation, somewhat rushed.
The spontaneity and humour of 'Definitely Maybe' has long given way to a monolithic, monotonous guitar thrum. Occasionally, they break the mould by adding piano or acoustic guitars, but the chord progressions remain familiar, and most of the melodies are predictably lifted from much better records. Noel Gallagher has never been one for original ideas, but with the new democratic approach to songwriting there seem to be more people on-hand to plagiarise. Noel's own 'Mucky Fingers' is a hotch-potch mix of the chugging rhythm of The Velvet Underground's 'I'm Waiting For My Man', the chords from the Ska classic 'A Message To You Rudy' and, more frustratingly, part of the melody from the godawful 'Smile' by The Supernaturals. The result is lumpen and thoroughly unengaging, but at least they are new influences. Liam's 'Guess God Thinks I'm Abel' pales into insignificance next to Elvis Costello's more inventive use of a similar pun, and shamelessly lifts the tune from 'I Wanna Be Your Man', conveniently a hit single for both The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, the two touchstones for this band. More bizarrely, Gem Archer's 'A Bell Will Ring', which is at least serviceable, faintly resembles Abba's unwitting gay anthem 'Does Your Mother Know?'.
Even more problematic than the chronic lack of invention is the terrible delivery of these limited ideas. Where once Liam Gallagher sounded snarly - a mix of compelling arrogance and untrained charm, he sounds lazy here. Whether it be imitating John Lennon on the utter piffle that is 'Let There Be Love', or simply disinterested on his own 'Love Like A Bomb', not even his vocal character can rescue such thin material. The drums are persistently thunderous, but with no dynamism whatsoever to the playing. The relentless strum and thump obliterates any sense of fun or enjoyment, and renders most of 'Don't Believe The Truth' thoroughly charmless.
A small handful of songs do at least manage to linger in the mind. Few would claim first single 'Lyla' to be one of their greatest achievements, but it at least has a catchy singalong chorus. Noel suggests he might eventually develop some subtlety with 'The Importance Of Being Idle' and 'Part Of The Queue', both of which resort to well-worn themes, but at least sound almost relaxed and comfortable.
This will no doubt sell enough to keep Oasis in business, but even that demonstrates what Oasis have become. They are their own corporation, and will keep putting out records because it is what they do. Yet, increasingly, they simply deliver a product designed to sell, but for which very little craft or industry have actually been deployed. The band sound like they were in separate rooms when this was recorded - there are no signs of chemistry or life here, no rush of blood, no thrill.
Sleater-Kinney - The Woods
Unfortunately, another Sleater-Kinney album is unlikely to register beyond their small but devoted fanbase. This is a shame, as here is a band constantly seeking to reshape and redefine their sound. Much has already been written about how this Dave Fridmann produced effort is substantially harder and heavier than previous outings. This is not entirely untrue, but the blues-rock dominated 'One Beat' had already given hints at this direction. Scuzzy opener 'The Fox' sets the tone defiantly, with a raw and relentless rhythmic hammer underpinnning Corin Tucker's uncompromising guttural howl.
For me, what really impresses about 'The Woods' is not its heavier approach, but the way in which it has substantially broadened the band's musical outlook. There are still hints at more melodic girl pop on the intriguing 'Jumpers' and the uncharacteristically breezy 'Modern Girl' (the latter suggesting that Sleater-Kinney can do summery pop as well as blisteringly intense wig-outs). There is bluesy-garage on the kinetic 'Rollercoaster' and a ferocious and righteous anger on 'Entertain', which seems to combine at least two different songs together with thrilling results. Much of 'The Woods' ups the ante in terms of ambition - 'Let's Call It Love', far from the bland platitudes of Coldplay or Keane, actually encompasses the tumult and wonder that its title suggests, descending into an extended 'jam' that is both temporarily unhinged and carefully controlled. It then seques into the loose, dense and groovy 'Night Light', both tracks showing the band pushing into new ground, much of their experimenting propelled by the energy and vigour of Janet Weiss' drumming.
The news that 'The Woods' had been produced by Dave Fridmann could have been viewed as overwhelmingly exciting or as a cause for concern. Fridmann has helmed his fair share of classics ('The Soft Bulletin' and 'Deserter's Songs' spring immediately to mind) but he also frequently over-eggs the pudding. The booming drums of Mogwai's 'Come On Die Young' occasionally threaten to overpower any sense of melody, whilst the numerous bleeps and glitches of The Flaming Lips' 'Yoshimi Battle The Pink Robots' infuriate. This year, however, Fridmann really has excelled himself, largely through some unusual and fruitful collaborations. First, Low's 'The Great Destroyer' retained all that band's myriad strengths, whilst bolstering a previously fragile sound. Now, with 'The Woods', he has sensibly resisted adding much in the way of production trickery. He has simply captured the thrilling essence of a band still seemingly in their prime. A techincally assured, wonderfully exciting record.
Smog - A River Ain't Too Much To Love
At last, those infuriating parentheses have gone! Does this mean a new, less obtuse, more contented Bill Callahan? Fat chance! 'A River Ain't Too Much To Love' reneges on much of the promise of 'Supper' (which added slide guitar, keyboards and lingering melodies to Callahan's famously dark wit), but with intriguing results. This is mostly pared down acostic music, occasionally interrupted by Jim White's brilliantly cluttered, off-kilter drumming, but it is far from twee. It's one of Callahan's most challenging records to date - his voice is deeper and more conversational than ever, and the harmonic basis is defiantly minimal. Callahan seems determined, wherever possible, to wring as much as possible from just one chord or, occasionally, just one note. There is nothing out of place on 'A River...' and nothing is made more complicated than it need be.
On most of the songs here, Callahan sounds frustrated and uncomfortable. On 'Say Valley Maker' we find him sailing down river, singing simply 'to keep from cursing'. By the end, he's promising to rise Phoenix-like from his own ashes. On the utterly brilliant 'The Well' he begins his lenghty, opaque narrative in a restless state, throwing a bottle into the woods and then searching for the pieces. On 'I Feel Like The Mother Of The World', he puts a stop to any theological debate. 'God is a word', he states flatly 'And the argument ends there'. Lyrically, he's on terrific form, and fans of his mordant irony will find an abundance of riches here.
Musically, 'A River...' is deceptively simple, its drones and repetitions acting as smoke and mirrors for its entrancing overall impact. It sounds appropriately rustic and isolated, but also ghostly and fragmentary. Despite its basic, mostly traditional instrumentation, it still sounds peculiar and highly original. It is haunting and hypnotic, and a difficult beast to get to grips with. It lacks the immediacy of 'Knock Knock' or 'Supper', but with the almost dangerous , sinister intrigue of songs like 'The Well' or 'Running The Loping', and the bleak hilarity of 'I'm New Here', it may prove to be one of his more enduring works - a 'Wild Love' rather than a 'Rain On Lens'.
In the meantime, two albums slipped out quietly, highly unlikely to sell in bucketloads, but of much greater musical significance. Sleater Kinney's fruitful collaboration with Dave Fridmann 'The Woods' is dependably exhilirating, whilst Smog's 'A River Ain't Too Much To Love' suggests that the more accessible 'Supper' was a cheeky bluff - this is one of his more abstruse and challenging collections. Read on for my thoughts in full.
Coldplay - X&Y
As we all know, the delays and botched recordings in the sessions for 'X&Y' gave rise to disgruntled feelings among EMI shareholders and a major profit warning. Listening to it after all the hype, EMI really needn't have worried. 'X&Y' comes with swathes of synth strings and keyboards, but is really just a bigger, more confident (occasionally even strident) update of the familiar Coldplay template. Its sound is collossal and, at least initially, genuinely impressive. Even the most ardent of Coldplay haters would have to accept that this is leagues ahead of the inconsequential strumming of their debut, or even the mundane chugging of much of 'A Rush Of Blood To The Head'. There are healthy signs here that Coldplay have finally realised that the arrangement of a song is as important as its melody or sentiment. Hence, they even (gasp!) play on the offbeats, or employ some pleasantly substantial echoey guitar effects, even if it occasionally sounds too much like an attempt to replicate latter-day U2. Even the basslines have become more propulsive and less grindingly predictable. The production is effective, but there remains the linering doubt that it is all a bit clinical - big guitars suddenly emerge to underpin Chris Martin's none-too-subtle overwraught emoting.
When it works, it's easy to understand why it will no doubt be the stadium soundtrack of the summer. The opener, 'Square One' is bold and muscular, with an intriguingly twisting melody. The overall sound of first single 'Speed Of Sound' is a fair pointer - much of 'X&Y' sounds very polished and not too far from the likes of A-ha. The real focus of the album is the lengthy, spacious 'White Shadows', which neatly segues into the album's killer big ballad 'Fix You'. The former is the album's most impressive arrangment, with more rhythmic interest than anything Coldplay have previously recorded, whilst the latter flagrantly tugs the heartstrings. It would be churlish to deny the impact of its deceptively simple, haunting melody and the characteristically vulnerable tones of Martin's vocal. I suspect it will be released as a single, and will likely propel the album to become one of the all time biggest sellers. Quite how such an unassuming and generally unambitious band got to this stage is somewhat baffling.
Elsewhere, they try to prove their cultural worth by stealing the melody line from Kraftwerk's 'Computer Love' on 'Talk', although they don't do much of interest with it, using it as the main melodic device for the chorus vocal and the guitar line. A dialogue where both participants persist in repeating the same script does not hold the attention for long. Whilst the arrangements here are undoubtedly much improved, 'X&Y' still seems to suffer from a paucity of ideas. It's their most cohesive album to date, and seems to be striving for the big studio sound so successfully realised by the likes of Doves and Elbow. Unfortunately for Coldplay, those two bands have a much wider musical palette to draw from, and its difficult to detect the same instinctive acuteness on 'X&Y'. Still, those that admire the sound will no doubt not object to twelve tracks all adopting much the same approach at varying tempos. For these ears, the concept really starts to wear thin towards the end, where 'The Hardest Part' is pretty, but played rather conventionally (and therefore struggles to rise above blandness), 'Swallowed In The Sea' is dreadful and 'Twisted Logic' sounds big, but also somehow predictable and safe.
The real problem here is the lyrics. At best, they are banal. 'Speed Of Sound' and 'Square One' attempt to ask the big spiritual questions, but end up sounding thoroughly meaningless and somehow simultaneously cliched. The forced rhyme schemes reach an appalling apotheosis on 'Swallowed In The Sea' ('You put me on a she-eee-eelf/ And kept me for yourse-ee-eelf/ I can only blame my-see-eelf' etc) where Martin takes his uncomfortable emoting to ridiculous levels. Even the big love songs ('Fix You' aside) sound strangely self-conscious. Initially touching, repeated listens reveal 'What If' to be a merely skeletal lyric set to moody piano chords. Ironically, the simplest and least problematic love song is the uncredited 'Til Kingdom Come', the song the band originally wrote for Johnny Cash, a rare soujourn into countrified acoustic lament territory.
'X&Y' is not a bad album and in aiming to beef up their sound Coldplay have, ahem, put to bed all those criticisms of their 'bedwetter music'. Unfortunately, the lyrics rather leave those feelings lingering, despite the band's best efforts, and there is still the tendency towards meandering blandness and plodding tempos. For much of its first half, 'X&Y' shows a real sense of progression, but the latter half reveals that Coldplay are still shrouded in a restrictive safety net.
Oasis - Don't Believe The Truth
Indeed - don't believe it, for it is rubbish. By capturing the British mood for brash nostalgia during the mid-nineties Britpop boom, Oasis have had ridiculous expectations heaped upon them ever since. Essentially a pub rock band made good, they have struggled to recapture the undeniable thrill that catipulted them to fame. Through numerous line-up changes and fractious disputes, it's now been seven years since Oasis last made a half decent record, yet they still inspire ardent devotish from their closed-minded, loutish fans and can still command the odd magazine cover and deluded rapture from critics. Even I, long completely indifferent to the band had hoped, following my rather guilty enjoyment of their nostalgic headline set at Glastonbury (far from the disaster many reports denounced it as), that 'Don't Believe The Truth' might at least be enjoyably insubstantial. It's not at all - it sounds ham-fisted, unimaginative and, despite its lengthy gestation, somewhat rushed.
The spontaneity and humour of 'Definitely Maybe' has long given way to a monolithic, monotonous guitar thrum. Occasionally, they break the mould by adding piano or acoustic guitars, but the chord progressions remain familiar, and most of the melodies are predictably lifted from much better records. Noel Gallagher has never been one for original ideas, but with the new democratic approach to songwriting there seem to be more people on-hand to plagiarise. Noel's own 'Mucky Fingers' is a hotch-potch mix of the chugging rhythm of The Velvet Underground's 'I'm Waiting For My Man', the chords from the Ska classic 'A Message To You Rudy' and, more frustratingly, part of the melody from the godawful 'Smile' by The Supernaturals. The result is lumpen and thoroughly unengaging, but at least they are new influences. Liam's 'Guess God Thinks I'm Abel' pales into insignificance next to Elvis Costello's more inventive use of a similar pun, and shamelessly lifts the tune from 'I Wanna Be Your Man', conveniently a hit single for both The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, the two touchstones for this band. More bizarrely, Gem Archer's 'A Bell Will Ring', which is at least serviceable, faintly resembles Abba's unwitting gay anthem 'Does Your Mother Know?'.
Even more problematic than the chronic lack of invention is the terrible delivery of these limited ideas. Where once Liam Gallagher sounded snarly - a mix of compelling arrogance and untrained charm, he sounds lazy here. Whether it be imitating John Lennon on the utter piffle that is 'Let There Be Love', or simply disinterested on his own 'Love Like A Bomb', not even his vocal character can rescue such thin material. The drums are persistently thunderous, but with no dynamism whatsoever to the playing. The relentless strum and thump obliterates any sense of fun or enjoyment, and renders most of 'Don't Believe The Truth' thoroughly charmless.
A small handful of songs do at least manage to linger in the mind. Few would claim first single 'Lyla' to be one of their greatest achievements, but it at least has a catchy singalong chorus. Noel suggests he might eventually develop some subtlety with 'The Importance Of Being Idle' and 'Part Of The Queue', both of which resort to well-worn themes, but at least sound almost relaxed and comfortable.
This will no doubt sell enough to keep Oasis in business, but even that demonstrates what Oasis have become. They are their own corporation, and will keep putting out records because it is what they do. Yet, increasingly, they simply deliver a product designed to sell, but for which very little craft or industry have actually been deployed. The band sound like they were in separate rooms when this was recorded - there are no signs of chemistry or life here, no rush of blood, no thrill.
Sleater-Kinney - The Woods
Unfortunately, another Sleater-Kinney album is unlikely to register beyond their small but devoted fanbase. This is a shame, as here is a band constantly seeking to reshape and redefine their sound. Much has already been written about how this Dave Fridmann produced effort is substantially harder and heavier than previous outings. This is not entirely untrue, but the blues-rock dominated 'One Beat' had already given hints at this direction. Scuzzy opener 'The Fox' sets the tone defiantly, with a raw and relentless rhythmic hammer underpinnning Corin Tucker's uncompromising guttural howl.
For me, what really impresses about 'The Woods' is not its heavier approach, but the way in which it has substantially broadened the band's musical outlook. There are still hints at more melodic girl pop on the intriguing 'Jumpers' and the uncharacteristically breezy 'Modern Girl' (the latter suggesting that Sleater-Kinney can do summery pop as well as blisteringly intense wig-outs). There is bluesy-garage on the kinetic 'Rollercoaster' and a ferocious and righteous anger on 'Entertain', which seems to combine at least two different songs together with thrilling results. Much of 'The Woods' ups the ante in terms of ambition - 'Let's Call It Love', far from the bland platitudes of Coldplay or Keane, actually encompasses the tumult and wonder that its title suggests, descending into an extended 'jam' that is both temporarily unhinged and carefully controlled. It then seques into the loose, dense and groovy 'Night Light', both tracks showing the band pushing into new ground, much of their experimenting propelled by the energy and vigour of Janet Weiss' drumming.
The news that 'The Woods' had been produced by Dave Fridmann could have been viewed as overwhelmingly exciting or as a cause for concern. Fridmann has helmed his fair share of classics ('The Soft Bulletin' and 'Deserter's Songs' spring immediately to mind) but he also frequently over-eggs the pudding. The booming drums of Mogwai's 'Come On Die Young' occasionally threaten to overpower any sense of melody, whilst the numerous bleeps and glitches of The Flaming Lips' 'Yoshimi Battle The Pink Robots' infuriate. This year, however, Fridmann really has excelled himself, largely through some unusual and fruitful collaborations. First, Low's 'The Great Destroyer' retained all that band's myriad strengths, whilst bolstering a previously fragile sound. Now, with 'The Woods', he has sensibly resisted adding much in the way of production trickery. He has simply captured the thrilling essence of a band still seemingly in their prime. A techincally assured, wonderfully exciting record.
Smog - A River Ain't Too Much To Love
At last, those infuriating parentheses have gone! Does this mean a new, less obtuse, more contented Bill Callahan? Fat chance! 'A River Ain't Too Much To Love' reneges on much of the promise of 'Supper' (which added slide guitar, keyboards and lingering melodies to Callahan's famously dark wit), but with intriguing results. This is mostly pared down acostic music, occasionally interrupted by Jim White's brilliantly cluttered, off-kilter drumming, but it is far from twee. It's one of Callahan's most challenging records to date - his voice is deeper and more conversational than ever, and the harmonic basis is defiantly minimal. Callahan seems determined, wherever possible, to wring as much as possible from just one chord or, occasionally, just one note. There is nothing out of place on 'A River...' and nothing is made more complicated than it need be.
On most of the songs here, Callahan sounds frustrated and uncomfortable. On 'Say Valley Maker' we find him sailing down river, singing simply 'to keep from cursing'. By the end, he's promising to rise Phoenix-like from his own ashes. On the utterly brilliant 'The Well' he begins his lenghty, opaque narrative in a restless state, throwing a bottle into the woods and then searching for the pieces. On 'I Feel Like The Mother Of The World', he puts a stop to any theological debate. 'God is a word', he states flatly 'And the argument ends there'. Lyrically, he's on terrific form, and fans of his mordant irony will find an abundance of riches here.
Musically, 'A River...' is deceptively simple, its drones and repetitions acting as smoke and mirrors for its entrancing overall impact. It sounds appropriately rustic and isolated, but also ghostly and fragmentary. Despite its basic, mostly traditional instrumentation, it still sounds peculiar and highly original. It is haunting and hypnotic, and a difficult beast to get to grips with. It lacks the immediacy of 'Knock Knock' or 'Supper', but with the almost dangerous , sinister intrigue of songs like 'The Well' or 'Running The Loping', and the bleak hilarity of 'I'm New Here', it may prove to be one of his more enduring works - a 'Wild Love' rather than a 'Rain On Lens'.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)