As if 2007 hadn’t yet proved wonderful enough, take a look at this rather tasty list of what the rest of the year has in store:
Aesop Rock – None Shall Pass (released in the UK today – one of modern hip hop’s great masters)
Dirty Projectors – Rise Above (11th Sep in the US – one of the most innovative and exciting bands I’ve heard in a long while)
Gravenhurst – The Western Lands (10th Sep – no doubt more electronica-tinged folksmithery)
Murcof – Cosmos (17th Sep - atmospheric electronica on the wonderful Leaf label)
Supersilent – 8 (17th Sep - I can’t express how much I’m looking forward to this – more unplanned free improv from Arve Henriksen, Helge Sten et al)
Kevin Drew – Broken Social Scene Presents Kevin Drew’s Spirit If (Sep 17th – ‘solo’ project from Broken Social Scene mainman sounds excellent)
PJ Harvey – White Chalk (Sep 24th – reportedly sees Polly at the piano, sounds very promising)
Manu Katche – Playground (Sep 24th – outstanding percussionist/composer on ECM)
Scott Walker – And Who Shall Go To The Ball? And What Shall Go To The Ball? (Sep 24th – the results of SW’s recent commission for a ballet project at the Royal Festival Hall)
Iron and Wine – The Shepherd’s Dog (Sep 24th – features more collaborations with Calexico and no doubt another fine album from one of America’s greatest contemporary songwriters, now on Transgressive in the UK).
Steve Earle – Washington Square Serenade (Sep 24th – The politically daring Earle returns with an album inspired by America’s capital)
Bettye Lavette – Scene Of The Crime (Sep 24th – The great overlooked soul singer continues her comeback, this time with an album of songs written by men).
Beirut – The Flying Cup Club (reportedly influenced by chanson music – out in October??)
Bruce Springsteen – Magic (Oct 1st – ‘Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night’ – Bruce returns with his most straight ahead rock record for some time).
Underworld – Oblivion With Bells (Oct 1st – dependable dance pioneers return)
Band Of Horses – Cease To Begin (Oct 1st – 2nd album from excellent My Morning Jacket soundalikes)
Robert Wyatt – Comicopera (Oct 8th – The return of a living genius)
Black Dice – Load Blown (Oct 8th – one of the better set of laptop experimentalists)
Prefuse 73 – Preparations (Oct 23rd – more stuttering, unpredictable hip hop)
Boxcutter – Glyphic (tbc – playful dubstep extraordinaire)
Shortwave Set – Replica Sun Machine (tbc – junkyard pop)
Also tbc – Spiritualized, REM, Portishead (but maybe now delayed until 2008?)
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The One U Wanna C?
Prince at the 02 Arena
Reports on Prince’s 21 night stand in London have so far been mostly ecstatic. The few murmurings of dissent seem to have been judged as tantamount to some unforgivable act of treason. Those lucky enough to attend the opening night (and I suspect the same will be true of the closing night too) were treated to a lengthy set concluding with a generous three encores. Elsewhere in the run, he seems to have been onstage for barely 70 minutes. The ticket price, set at his magic number of £31.21 may be reasonable – but all are paying the same amount, even for the ghastly seats at the top level of the 02, set back at a severe distance from the stage, and where the sound quality was horrific.
My own experience of two of the shows suggests that the minority of dissenters have been right to express their reservations. Although the show on Friday 17th August was considerably better than the earlier show on the 7th, there was little in either performance to imply that Prince was doing anything other than hitting the button marked ‘cruise control’. The second show was never anything less than entertaining – but surely this is the very least we expect from someone with Prince’s star quality? He is not, after all, a Janet Jackson or a Madonna – being as much an immensely versatile musician and outrageously gifted songwriter as great performer.
Prince’s great contribution to popular music has been to break down stereotyped boundaries – there is no ‘white’ and ‘black’ in his music and he remains as likely to be as influenced by new wave and soft rock balladry as George Clinton’s P-Funk. Similarly, even when his albums have been completely lacklustre (sadly the new ‘Planet Earth’ album falls squarely into this category – giving it away free with the Mail generated hype the content alone could never have mustered), none has sounded remotely like its immediate predecessor.
The centrepiece of the set on the 7th was a lengthy and somewhat lumbering funk jam session giving legendary JBs saxophonist Maceo Parker a little too much space to blow. Parker has impressive power and muscularity, but little in the way of subtlety and this is hardly what most punters paid to see. ‘Musicology’ was supremely groovy, but segueing it into a covers of ‘Pass The Peas’ and ‘Play That Funky Music’ (complete with unwitting members of the audience dancing onstage – presumably only those with the VIP tickets near enough to get picked out) seemed pointless and indulgent. Similarly, the ghastly cabaret jazz take on ‘What A Wonderful World’ that enabled Prince to make the first of two costume changes (mercifully there were no ‘wardrobe malfunctions’ in this show) was a step too far into the realms of mouldy cheese.
Whilst the set list for the 7th available at fansite housequake.com lists 29 songs, I only counted 12 original songs played in full, which for an artist now on his 26th album is simply not enough. There was a strange and surreal aura to this show which mostly served to emphasise Prince’s diva tendencies rather than his manifest talents. Prince opened the show alone with his guitar, playing a rather tantalising medley of some of his greatest songs (‘Little Red Corvette’, ‘Alphabet Street’, ‘Sometimes It Snows In April’). This would have been a masterful way to open an intimate club show, but in the cavernous environment of the hellish former millennium dome, it hardly constituted playing to the gallery. Also, if anyone rashly assumed that this would presage a barrage of hits played in full with the band, they would have been left mightily disappointed. Prince somehow managed to make this worse by breaking up the set with a second medley performed alone at the piano. Both medleys demonstrated his technical ability, but left me with a curiously dissatisfied feeling – a little inappropriate given that much of Prince’s lyrical output focuses on his ability to satiate!
This show seemed to demonstrate Attention Defecit Disorder more than stamina. The closing run of ‘Kiss’ and ‘Purple Rain’ and the delightfully energetic encore of ‘Let’s Go Crazy’ provided crowd pleasing moments, particularly the mass singalong that ended ‘Purple Rain’, but it all seemed too little too late really. He obviously remains convinced of his own genius, breaking off from the lyric of Purple Rain to exclaim ‘I just love this song!’ Well, quite right, so do we – but we love plenty of other Prince songs too, and he could do so much more than treat his catalogue with brash and arrogant contempt.
The set on the 17th was structured much more sensibly for the nature of the venue, with the full band starting the show immediately with ‘1999’. How much better that the whole audience was brought to its feet from the very outset! Similarly, moving the segue of ‘I Feel For You’ into ‘Controversy’ to the end of the show gave it greater prominence, and emphasised the quality of Prince’s early material as much as his mid-period hits.
The funk jam was tauter and more spirited this time and we were ‘treated’ to an endearingly shambolic vocal and dance from Bourne Ultimatum actress Julia Stiles, who conveniently happened to have a front row seat. It was a shame she didn’t brush up on her lyrics! The inclusion of ‘7’ (one of his better New Power Generation-era moments) provided a welcome surprise in the main set and mercifully he restricted himself to just one medley this time, this one delivered with more humour and less bravado. Sadly, it contained mere snippets of some of his greatest songs – there’s simply no justification for only delivering ten seconds apiece of ‘Raspberry Beret’ and ‘When Doves Cry’ in order to favour much less interesting songs such as ‘Cream’, ‘Guitar’ and ‘Musicology’ in the main set!
The ‘in the round’ stage design was a clever gimmick but not, in the event, particularly well utilised. Prince spent most of his time facing one way, so a sizeable part of the audience paid to look directly at the back of his head. He proved better at engaging the side stands, moving to either side of the stage (predictably designed to replicate his androgynous symbol) and giving the lively crowd plenty of encouragement.
The quality of sound at both shows was hopeless – even close to the stage there was little definition. There seems little point in having two keyboardists in the band if there’s precious little possibility of distinguishing the individual parts above a nasty low-end rumble. Sometimes even Prince’s vocals became inaudible. This is clearly something this enormous venue needs to work on, although as arenas go, it’s clearly preferable to Wembley simply by virtue of serving good beer (Murphy’s ?!?!) and relatively adventurous fast food.
Prince is justified in bragging (‘too many hits – too little time!’), and maybe it would have been better had he graced London with his presence more than once in the last ten years. The tremendous weight of expectation has rendered it difficult to judge these concerts with any real degree of objectivity. As an entertainer, Prince may have lived up to those expectations but he has surely failed to seize a golden opportunity by not surpassing them.
Reports on Prince’s 21 night stand in London have so far been mostly ecstatic. The few murmurings of dissent seem to have been judged as tantamount to some unforgivable act of treason. Those lucky enough to attend the opening night (and I suspect the same will be true of the closing night too) were treated to a lengthy set concluding with a generous three encores. Elsewhere in the run, he seems to have been onstage for barely 70 minutes. The ticket price, set at his magic number of £31.21 may be reasonable – but all are paying the same amount, even for the ghastly seats at the top level of the 02, set back at a severe distance from the stage, and where the sound quality was horrific.
My own experience of two of the shows suggests that the minority of dissenters have been right to express their reservations. Although the show on Friday 17th August was considerably better than the earlier show on the 7th, there was little in either performance to imply that Prince was doing anything other than hitting the button marked ‘cruise control’. The second show was never anything less than entertaining – but surely this is the very least we expect from someone with Prince’s star quality? He is not, after all, a Janet Jackson or a Madonna – being as much an immensely versatile musician and outrageously gifted songwriter as great performer.
Prince’s great contribution to popular music has been to break down stereotyped boundaries – there is no ‘white’ and ‘black’ in his music and he remains as likely to be as influenced by new wave and soft rock balladry as George Clinton’s P-Funk. Similarly, even when his albums have been completely lacklustre (sadly the new ‘Planet Earth’ album falls squarely into this category – giving it away free with the Mail generated hype the content alone could never have mustered), none has sounded remotely like its immediate predecessor.
The centrepiece of the set on the 7th was a lengthy and somewhat lumbering funk jam session giving legendary JBs saxophonist Maceo Parker a little too much space to blow. Parker has impressive power and muscularity, but little in the way of subtlety and this is hardly what most punters paid to see. ‘Musicology’ was supremely groovy, but segueing it into a covers of ‘Pass The Peas’ and ‘Play That Funky Music’ (complete with unwitting members of the audience dancing onstage – presumably only those with the VIP tickets near enough to get picked out) seemed pointless and indulgent. Similarly, the ghastly cabaret jazz take on ‘What A Wonderful World’ that enabled Prince to make the first of two costume changes (mercifully there were no ‘wardrobe malfunctions’ in this show) was a step too far into the realms of mouldy cheese.
Whilst the set list for the 7th available at fansite housequake.com lists 29 songs, I only counted 12 original songs played in full, which for an artist now on his 26th album is simply not enough. There was a strange and surreal aura to this show which mostly served to emphasise Prince’s diva tendencies rather than his manifest talents. Prince opened the show alone with his guitar, playing a rather tantalising medley of some of his greatest songs (‘Little Red Corvette’, ‘Alphabet Street’, ‘Sometimes It Snows In April’). This would have been a masterful way to open an intimate club show, but in the cavernous environment of the hellish former millennium dome, it hardly constituted playing to the gallery. Also, if anyone rashly assumed that this would presage a barrage of hits played in full with the band, they would have been left mightily disappointed. Prince somehow managed to make this worse by breaking up the set with a second medley performed alone at the piano. Both medleys demonstrated his technical ability, but left me with a curiously dissatisfied feeling – a little inappropriate given that much of Prince’s lyrical output focuses on his ability to satiate!
This show seemed to demonstrate Attention Defecit Disorder more than stamina. The closing run of ‘Kiss’ and ‘Purple Rain’ and the delightfully energetic encore of ‘Let’s Go Crazy’ provided crowd pleasing moments, particularly the mass singalong that ended ‘Purple Rain’, but it all seemed too little too late really. He obviously remains convinced of his own genius, breaking off from the lyric of Purple Rain to exclaim ‘I just love this song!’ Well, quite right, so do we – but we love plenty of other Prince songs too, and he could do so much more than treat his catalogue with brash and arrogant contempt.
The set on the 17th was structured much more sensibly for the nature of the venue, with the full band starting the show immediately with ‘1999’. How much better that the whole audience was brought to its feet from the very outset! Similarly, moving the segue of ‘I Feel For You’ into ‘Controversy’ to the end of the show gave it greater prominence, and emphasised the quality of Prince’s early material as much as his mid-period hits.
The funk jam was tauter and more spirited this time and we were ‘treated’ to an endearingly shambolic vocal and dance from Bourne Ultimatum actress Julia Stiles, who conveniently happened to have a front row seat. It was a shame she didn’t brush up on her lyrics! The inclusion of ‘7’ (one of his better New Power Generation-era moments) provided a welcome surprise in the main set and mercifully he restricted himself to just one medley this time, this one delivered with more humour and less bravado. Sadly, it contained mere snippets of some of his greatest songs – there’s simply no justification for only delivering ten seconds apiece of ‘Raspberry Beret’ and ‘When Doves Cry’ in order to favour much less interesting songs such as ‘Cream’, ‘Guitar’ and ‘Musicology’ in the main set!
The ‘in the round’ stage design was a clever gimmick but not, in the event, particularly well utilised. Prince spent most of his time facing one way, so a sizeable part of the audience paid to look directly at the back of his head. He proved better at engaging the side stands, moving to either side of the stage (predictably designed to replicate his androgynous symbol) and giving the lively crowd plenty of encouragement.
The quality of sound at both shows was hopeless – even close to the stage there was little definition. There seems little point in having two keyboardists in the band if there’s precious little possibility of distinguishing the individual parts above a nasty low-end rumble. Sometimes even Prince’s vocals became inaudible. This is clearly something this enormous venue needs to work on, although as arenas go, it’s clearly preferable to Wembley simply by virtue of serving good beer (Murphy’s ?!?!) and relatively adventurous fast food.
Prince is justified in bragging (‘too many hits – too little time!’), and maybe it would have been better had he graced London with his presence more than once in the last ten years. The tremendous weight of expectation has rendered it difficult to judge these concerts with any real degree of objectivity. As an entertainer, Prince may have lived up to those expectations but he has surely failed to seize a golden opportunity by not surpassing them.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Soy Super Bien!
Super Furry Animals - Hey Venus!
It’s perhaps understandable that Super Furry Animals have recently diminished in status from national treasure to a dependable band rather taken for granted. This has much to do with the rather assuming nature of their previous two albums, particularly 2005’s ‘Love Kraft’. A collaboration between SFA and Beastie Boys producer Mario Caldato Jr., ‘Love Kraft’ should have been inspired. Unfortunately, the result sounded like an album made under the influence of too many depressive substances – occasionally enlightened (‘Zoom’, ‘Laser Beam’ and ‘Cyclone’ are among their best songs) but mostly hazy, slothful and lacking in energy. All bands have to undergo an inevitable maturing process but in this case the gonzo spirit that informed the first three SFA albums seemed to have been surgically removed rather than merely tempered. It was the first SFA album that couldn’t even begin to match the exuberant qualities of Pete Fowler’s artwork.
‘Hey Venus!’ goes some distance in restoring that enthusiasm and restless creativity and it makes for a much more satisfying record as a result. The album’s concept about a runaway girl might well be a loose afterthought, but the sound (now controlled by Broken Social Scene’s remarkable engineer Dave Newfeld) is coherent and intelligent. ‘Hey Venus!’ at last sees SFA make inventive use of the studio again.
It also restores the maverick sense of humour that ‘Love Kraft’ transparently lacked. The opening ‘Gateway Song’ lasts a mere 45 seconds, neatly presaging the fun and games that follow, with Gruff Rhys boasting that ‘it brings us up nicely to the harder stuff and once you get hooked, you can’t get enough’. The Phil Spector-esque ‘Run-Away’ begins with a rather wonderful piece of spoken explanation – ‘this next song is based on a true story, which would be fine if it wasn’t autobiographical!’ He sounds rather like a Welsh Jarvis Cocker at this point and indeed ‘Run-Away’ would have fitted rather neatly on Jarvis’ recent solo album. ‘Hey Venus!’ also benefits from some spectacularly silly song titles – ‘Carbon Dating’, ‘Battersea Odyssey’, ‘Baby Ate My Eightball’ – the group clearly haven’t lost their delirious love of wordplay.
There’s still a lingering sense of disappointment in the fact that the band have settled for emphasising their more conservative 60s and 70s psychedelic influences over the rush of lo-fi magic that made ‘Mwng’ so captivating, or the experiments with techno and electronica that permeated ‘Rings Around The World’ and ‘Guerilla’. ‘Show Your Hand’, the album’s first single, whilst undeniably pretty, is really nothing more than you’d expect from a band with a barely restrained infatuation with ‘Surf’s Up’-era Beach Boys. There was a time when SFA seemed to have no care whatsoever for categorisation or the expectations of their audience, successfully challenging people to embrace whatever they had to offer. Nowadays, they seem to have settled into some kind of quirky pop-meets soft rock bracket.
The positive response to this is that the band has blessed ‘Hey Venus!’ with some genuinely memorable tunes (the delicate doo-wop of ‘Carbon Dating’, the brass laden stomp of ‘Battersea Odyssey’ or the ELO-esque harmonies of ‘The Gift That Keeps Giving’). There are some moments when the band’s masterful synthesis of old and new shines through with real clarity (the deliciously funky ‘Into The Night’ or the enjoyable ‘Neo Consumer’) Even the more lightweight moments come with a tremendous sense of fun (the fuzzy disco of ‘Baby Ate My Eightball’). It’s also worth recognising that ‘Hey Venus!’ is SFA’s eighth album proper, which is quite an achievement in itself. Kindred spirits The Boo Radleys sadly couldn’t manage that kind of longevity, unfairly maligned as they now are. ‘Hey Venus!’ doesn’t exactly break any new ground for SFA and, at just 36 minutes, many may feel a little short changed on duration. Let’s not take them for granted though, eh?
It’s perhaps understandable that Super Furry Animals have recently diminished in status from national treasure to a dependable band rather taken for granted. This has much to do with the rather assuming nature of their previous two albums, particularly 2005’s ‘Love Kraft’. A collaboration between SFA and Beastie Boys producer Mario Caldato Jr., ‘Love Kraft’ should have been inspired. Unfortunately, the result sounded like an album made under the influence of too many depressive substances – occasionally enlightened (‘Zoom’, ‘Laser Beam’ and ‘Cyclone’ are among their best songs) but mostly hazy, slothful and lacking in energy. All bands have to undergo an inevitable maturing process but in this case the gonzo spirit that informed the first three SFA albums seemed to have been surgically removed rather than merely tempered. It was the first SFA album that couldn’t even begin to match the exuberant qualities of Pete Fowler’s artwork.
‘Hey Venus!’ goes some distance in restoring that enthusiasm and restless creativity and it makes for a much more satisfying record as a result. The album’s concept about a runaway girl might well be a loose afterthought, but the sound (now controlled by Broken Social Scene’s remarkable engineer Dave Newfeld) is coherent and intelligent. ‘Hey Venus!’ at last sees SFA make inventive use of the studio again.
It also restores the maverick sense of humour that ‘Love Kraft’ transparently lacked. The opening ‘Gateway Song’ lasts a mere 45 seconds, neatly presaging the fun and games that follow, with Gruff Rhys boasting that ‘it brings us up nicely to the harder stuff and once you get hooked, you can’t get enough’. The Phil Spector-esque ‘Run-Away’ begins with a rather wonderful piece of spoken explanation – ‘this next song is based on a true story, which would be fine if it wasn’t autobiographical!’ He sounds rather like a Welsh Jarvis Cocker at this point and indeed ‘Run-Away’ would have fitted rather neatly on Jarvis’ recent solo album. ‘Hey Venus!’ also benefits from some spectacularly silly song titles – ‘Carbon Dating’, ‘Battersea Odyssey’, ‘Baby Ate My Eightball’ – the group clearly haven’t lost their delirious love of wordplay.
There’s still a lingering sense of disappointment in the fact that the band have settled for emphasising their more conservative 60s and 70s psychedelic influences over the rush of lo-fi magic that made ‘Mwng’ so captivating, or the experiments with techno and electronica that permeated ‘Rings Around The World’ and ‘Guerilla’. ‘Show Your Hand’, the album’s first single, whilst undeniably pretty, is really nothing more than you’d expect from a band with a barely restrained infatuation with ‘Surf’s Up’-era Beach Boys. There was a time when SFA seemed to have no care whatsoever for categorisation or the expectations of their audience, successfully challenging people to embrace whatever they had to offer. Nowadays, they seem to have settled into some kind of quirky pop-meets soft rock bracket.
The positive response to this is that the band has blessed ‘Hey Venus!’ with some genuinely memorable tunes (the delicate doo-wop of ‘Carbon Dating’, the brass laden stomp of ‘Battersea Odyssey’ or the ELO-esque harmonies of ‘The Gift That Keeps Giving’). There are some moments when the band’s masterful synthesis of old and new shines through with real clarity (the deliciously funky ‘Into The Night’ or the enjoyable ‘Neo Consumer’) Even the more lightweight moments come with a tremendous sense of fun (the fuzzy disco of ‘Baby Ate My Eightball’). It’s also worth recognising that ‘Hey Venus!’ is SFA’s eighth album proper, which is quite an achievement in itself. Kindred spirits The Boo Radleys sadly couldn’t manage that kind of longevity, unfairly maligned as they now are. ‘Hey Venus!’ doesn’t exactly break any new ground for SFA and, at just 36 minutes, many may feel a little short changed on duration. Let’s not take them for granted though, eh?
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Oh Susanna!
What a shame that Susanna Wallumrod (this time billed without her Magical Orchestra) has given her first solo album such a laughably pretentious title, for ‘Sonata Mix Dwarf Cosmos’ is one of 2007’s genuine treasures. It doesn’t veer too far from the Nordic minimalism of her two albums with the Magical Orchestra, and many of the Rune Grammofon collective appear here to give her a helping hand. Helge Sten from Supersilent contributes some essential and subtle guitar parts, whilst the same remarkable improvising group’s Deathprod is responsible for the album’s warm and hypnotic sound. Susanna’s ECM jazz pianist brother Christian also appears on a handful of tracks, emphasising further continuity with the Magical Orchestra albums.
Just like those discs, Susanna’s solo cosmos is a largely percussionless, listless and free-floating musical landscape, but there are some very subtle variations in the approach to arrangements. Sten’s guitar adds warmth and texture, as does the greater range in instrumentation more generally. Equally welcome are the theremin on the opening ‘Intruder’ and the grand piano more frequently deployed throughout.
These twelve hauntingly beautiful songs cover matters of the heart with a disarming directness and insightful charm. Appropriately, Susanna’s voice remains a beacon of understatement and restraint and an instrument that deftly handles these consistently moving melodies. She delivers her words with a precision perfect and delicately unfolding grace that effortlessly matches the gentle undertones of her skeletal accompaniments.
It is precisely because these songs are so rich in nuance and feeling that this atmospheric music never becomes boring. Susanna’s musical backdrops are not merely hypnotic or wistful, but also deeply sensual and sublime. The opening trio of ‘Intruder’, ‘Born In The Desert’ and ‘Hangout’ are among the most strikingly beautiful songs released this year, whilst ‘Better Days’, with its swathes of guitar, points at how Susanna’s trademark sound might be further enhanced and developed.
It’s possible that Susanna’s quiet, pensive and melancholic exploration of emotional tensions might be lost amidst the far more blatant noise and confusion elsewhere. That would be a great shame – because she has much in common with other trailblazing female artists (Nico, Kate Bush, Bjork, Feist etc) in that she operates in her own unique space, completely removed from prevailing trends.
Just like those discs, Susanna’s solo cosmos is a largely percussionless, listless and free-floating musical landscape, but there are some very subtle variations in the approach to arrangements. Sten’s guitar adds warmth and texture, as does the greater range in instrumentation more generally. Equally welcome are the theremin on the opening ‘Intruder’ and the grand piano more frequently deployed throughout.
These twelve hauntingly beautiful songs cover matters of the heart with a disarming directness and insightful charm. Appropriately, Susanna’s voice remains a beacon of understatement and restraint and an instrument that deftly handles these consistently moving melodies. She delivers her words with a precision perfect and delicately unfolding grace that effortlessly matches the gentle undertones of her skeletal accompaniments.
It is precisely because these songs are so rich in nuance and feeling that this atmospheric music never becomes boring. Susanna’s musical backdrops are not merely hypnotic or wistful, but also deeply sensual and sublime. The opening trio of ‘Intruder’, ‘Born In The Desert’ and ‘Hangout’ are among the most strikingly beautiful songs released this year, whilst ‘Better Days’, with its swathes of guitar, points at how Susanna’s trademark sound might be further enhanced and developed.
It’s possible that Susanna’s quiet, pensive and melancholic exploration of emotional tensions might be lost amidst the far more blatant noise and confusion elsewhere. That would be a great shame – because she has much in common with other trailblazing female artists (Nico, Kate Bush, Bjork, Feist etc) in that she operates in her own unique space, completely removed from prevailing trends.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Tales of Minor Disappointment
King Creosote, New Pornographers, Liars
Along with Badly Drawn Boy, Kenny Anderson AKA King Creosote was just a few years ago one of the bright hopes among British solo artists. Sadly, both Damon Gough and now bard of Fife Anderson too seem to have disappeared into a pit of dispiriting ordinariness that doesn’t befit their distinctive characters, and from which it seems unlikely that either will emerge with dignity intact. Chief operator among the Fence Collective, Anderson was a fiercely independent, idiosyncratic and unusual writer, and a devotee of homespun, ramshackle folk arrangements often focussed on the harmonium. His last album, ‘KC Rules OK’ was his first for a big label (679 – also home to Mystery Jets and The Streets amongst others) and showed him aiming for a more conventional singer-songwriter market. It had its moments, but the arrangements seemed markedly less interesting and the soul was lost.
Unfortunately, ‘Bombshell’ continues this trend. Only the lovely opener ‘Leslie’ really retains the warmth and heart of Creosote’s home recordings. Elsewhere, the tender, affecting melody of ‘Home In A Sentence’ is smothered by glossy production, blandly strumming acoustic guitars and a rather hamfisted attempt at anthemics that make Anderson sound rather like an indie Deacon Blue. Some of the plodding tempos that anchored ‘KC Rules OK’ firmly to the ground return in the form of ‘There’s None Of That’ and ‘Nooks’. ‘You’ve No Clue Do You’ is at least catchy, but the attempt at a driving Franz Ferdinand-esque disco beat seems decidedly clumsy.
The yearning melancholy that characterised songs like ‘Friday Night in New York’ is given more room to breathe on ‘Church as Witness’, but even that is slightly undermined by its bed of directionless synth pads. The epic ‘At The W.A.L.’ demonstrates that Anderson still retains his story-spinning lyrical charm and it begins with considerable promise, emphasising mystery over clarity. Sadly, it develops only into another driving conventional rock arrangement. The haunting conclusion of ‘The Racket They Made’ gives a hint of what Anderson is capable of when left to his own devices – it’s a deeply powerful duet with fellow Fence Collective member HMS Ginafore, and along with ‘Leslie’, it bookends a highly disappointing album with real quality. ‘Common sense must prevail’ sings Anderson on ‘Home In A Sentence’, as if he’s resigned himself to a fate determined for him by some over-zealous record company man. I preferred him when he lacked a marketing strategy and distributed his tapes for free.
I’m equally unsure of ‘Challengers’, the fourth album from The New Pornographers, the Canadian band we must not call a supergroup. On their last album, the mighty ‘Twin Cinema’, the band concocted a slightly rough around the edges, highly spirited collection of rather ingenious guitar pop, where Kurt Dahle’s vigorous drumming was as central as Carl Newman’s spindly melodies. Although all the essential ingredients of the band’s signature style are present and correct on ‘Challengers’, they’ve performed something of a volte-face in terms of production values, very much cleaning up their act and swallowing the ‘bigger is better’ mantra a little too uncritically. Out go the big drums, in come the chugging guitars and grafted on string arrangements.
Some of the songs sound like pristine rewrites of songs from ‘Twin Cinema’. The opening ‘My Rights Versus Yours’ closely resembles the insistent, jaunty groove of ‘Use It’ but sounds a little more ornate and polite. Many of the other songs adopt the mid-tempo stomp of ‘The Bones of an Idol’ as their template, but the album occasionally drifts into plodding territory. There are pretty melodies in abundance, particularly on ‘Go Places’, where Neko Case handles the lead vocal with admirable restraint. The infectious ‘All The Old Showstoppers’ demonstrates Newman’s canny ability with vocal harmonies, and the lively, unpredictable ‘Mutiny, I Promise You’ shows more imagination with rhythm and metre than most indie rock bands can muster.
However, by the album’s conclusion there’s largely a sense of missed opportunity. It’s all very well adding instrumentation, but the horns and strings frequently just sound pretty rather than engaging or bold. Some tracks drift into blandness, and the album’s centrepiece, ‘Unguided’ chugs so unimaginatively that it could be Snow Patrol. And Christ, does it really have to be six and a half minutes long? It doesn’t go anywhere remotely interesting! Dan Bejar does his usual psychedelic weirdness schtik with ‘Myriad Harbour’ and the superior ‘Entering White Cecilia’, but the songs he penned for the last Destroyer album were more unhinged and bizarre. ‘Challengers’ is hardly a bad record but this band is clearly capable of more, and they sound much better when they come with energy and vigour rather than merely with calculated ambition.
I was expecting to be immediately smitten with the latest, eponymously titled album from Liars, which has been billed rather simplistically as the closest they will get to making a pop album. I find myself having reservations with it, though, perhaps because I admired the demented weirdness of ‘Drum’s Not Dead’ and the conceptual grand folly of ‘They Were Wrong So We Drowned’ a little too much. This band were never going to become technically gifted musicians overnight but I can’t help feeling much of ‘Liars’ reveals their limitations a little too obviously. They are better when they pay attention to the detail of the sound, rather than attempting to write anything approaching conventionally structured songs. I’m not particularly taken with the rudimentary drum machine that restricts a handful of these tracks, nor with the greater emphasis on Angus’ somewhat wayward falsetto vocal. The more brutal, attacking moments are much more successful, particularly the colossal single ‘Plastercasts of Everything’ and the insistent, explosive ‘Cycle Time’. Elsewhere, there’s a tendency for a rather tinny sound to prevail which is transparently reminiscent of The Jesus and Mary Chain. This was a very exciting sound in 1984, but I’m not sure it befits a band usually so fresh and difficult to categorise in 2007.
Along with Badly Drawn Boy, Kenny Anderson AKA King Creosote was just a few years ago one of the bright hopes among British solo artists. Sadly, both Damon Gough and now bard of Fife Anderson too seem to have disappeared into a pit of dispiriting ordinariness that doesn’t befit their distinctive characters, and from which it seems unlikely that either will emerge with dignity intact. Chief operator among the Fence Collective, Anderson was a fiercely independent, idiosyncratic and unusual writer, and a devotee of homespun, ramshackle folk arrangements often focussed on the harmonium. His last album, ‘KC Rules OK’ was his first for a big label (679 – also home to Mystery Jets and The Streets amongst others) and showed him aiming for a more conventional singer-songwriter market. It had its moments, but the arrangements seemed markedly less interesting and the soul was lost.
Unfortunately, ‘Bombshell’ continues this trend. Only the lovely opener ‘Leslie’ really retains the warmth and heart of Creosote’s home recordings. Elsewhere, the tender, affecting melody of ‘Home In A Sentence’ is smothered by glossy production, blandly strumming acoustic guitars and a rather hamfisted attempt at anthemics that make Anderson sound rather like an indie Deacon Blue. Some of the plodding tempos that anchored ‘KC Rules OK’ firmly to the ground return in the form of ‘There’s None Of That’ and ‘Nooks’. ‘You’ve No Clue Do You’ is at least catchy, but the attempt at a driving Franz Ferdinand-esque disco beat seems decidedly clumsy.
The yearning melancholy that characterised songs like ‘Friday Night in New York’ is given more room to breathe on ‘Church as Witness’, but even that is slightly undermined by its bed of directionless synth pads. The epic ‘At The W.A.L.’ demonstrates that Anderson still retains his story-spinning lyrical charm and it begins with considerable promise, emphasising mystery over clarity. Sadly, it develops only into another driving conventional rock arrangement. The haunting conclusion of ‘The Racket They Made’ gives a hint of what Anderson is capable of when left to his own devices – it’s a deeply powerful duet with fellow Fence Collective member HMS Ginafore, and along with ‘Leslie’, it bookends a highly disappointing album with real quality. ‘Common sense must prevail’ sings Anderson on ‘Home In A Sentence’, as if he’s resigned himself to a fate determined for him by some over-zealous record company man. I preferred him when he lacked a marketing strategy and distributed his tapes for free.
I’m equally unsure of ‘Challengers’, the fourth album from The New Pornographers, the Canadian band we must not call a supergroup. On their last album, the mighty ‘Twin Cinema’, the band concocted a slightly rough around the edges, highly spirited collection of rather ingenious guitar pop, where Kurt Dahle’s vigorous drumming was as central as Carl Newman’s spindly melodies. Although all the essential ingredients of the band’s signature style are present and correct on ‘Challengers’, they’ve performed something of a volte-face in terms of production values, very much cleaning up their act and swallowing the ‘bigger is better’ mantra a little too uncritically. Out go the big drums, in come the chugging guitars and grafted on string arrangements.
Some of the songs sound like pristine rewrites of songs from ‘Twin Cinema’. The opening ‘My Rights Versus Yours’ closely resembles the insistent, jaunty groove of ‘Use It’ but sounds a little more ornate and polite. Many of the other songs adopt the mid-tempo stomp of ‘The Bones of an Idol’ as their template, but the album occasionally drifts into plodding territory. There are pretty melodies in abundance, particularly on ‘Go Places’, where Neko Case handles the lead vocal with admirable restraint. The infectious ‘All The Old Showstoppers’ demonstrates Newman’s canny ability with vocal harmonies, and the lively, unpredictable ‘Mutiny, I Promise You’ shows more imagination with rhythm and metre than most indie rock bands can muster.
However, by the album’s conclusion there’s largely a sense of missed opportunity. It’s all very well adding instrumentation, but the horns and strings frequently just sound pretty rather than engaging or bold. Some tracks drift into blandness, and the album’s centrepiece, ‘Unguided’ chugs so unimaginatively that it could be Snow Patrol. And Christ, does it really have to be six and a half minutes long? It doesn’t go anywhere remotely interesting! Dan Bejar does his usual psychedelic weirdness schtik with ‘Myriad Harbour’ and the superior ‘Entering White Cecilia’, but the songs he penned for the last Destroyer album were more unhinged and bizarre. ‘Challengers’ is hardly a bad record but this band is clearly capable of more, and they sound much better when they come with energy and vigour rather than merely with calculated ambition.
I was expecting to be immediately smitten with the latest, eponymously titled album from Liars, which has been billed rather simplistically as the closest they will get to making a pop album. I find myself having reservations with it, though, perhaps because I admired the demented weirdness of ‘Drum’s Not Dead’ and the conceptual grand folly of ‘They Were Wrong So We Drowned’ a little too much. This band were never going to become technically gifted musicians overnight but I can’t help feeling much of ‘Liars’ reveals their limitations a little too obviously. They are better when they pay attention to the detail of the sound, rather than attempting to write anything approaching conventionally structured songs. I’m not particularly taken with the rudimentary drum machine that restricts a handful of these tracks, nor with the greater emphasis on Angus’ somewhat wayward falsetto vocal. The more brutal, attacking moments are much more successful, particularly the colossal single ‘Plastercasts of Everything’ and the insistent, explosive ‘Cycle Time’. Elsewhere, there’s a tendency for a rather tinny sound to prevail which is transparently reminiscent of The Jesus and Mary Chain. This was a very exciting sound in 1984, but I’m not sure it befits a band usually so fresh and difficult to categorise in 2007.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
A Shaggy Dog Story
Iron and Wine/Jeremy Warmsley @ The Spitz
With some hasty last minute arranging, one of last week’s most fruitful evenings proved to be a trip to the imminently departing Spitz club for a masterclass in the art of songwriting. Before we get to that though, it’s worth having a mini-rant at The Spitz’s unfortunate fate. The venue already has its own (genuinely excellent) restaurant downstairs, but the upstairs space has now been sold to new owners, promising, with an extraordinary lack of logic, another restaurant. Does East London not have enough fashionable eateries? Why replace an outstanding restaurant and open-minded music venue with another restaurant? The Spitz’s promoters hope to find a new East London location for the venue. I sincerely hope they succeed – as it’s one of the few places in London to programme such a wide variety of quality music - jazz, rock, blues, and the more challenging and adventurous breed of singer-songwriter can all be found during the course of any one week there.
Iron and Wine and Jeremy Warmsley are now labelmates at the excellent Transgressive label (although, lovely as this music sounds, one has to wonder how ‘transgressive’ it really is). I’ve not seen Jeremy perform to such a sizeable audience before, and he immediately commands attention. Audiences are rarely this quiet and appreciative for support acts – it’s clear that Jeremy’s idiosyncratic style and genuine musicality are captivating qualities. There’s a little more melodrama in this short set than I can remember from the most recent performances I’ve seen, and as a solo artist Jeremy continues to refuse, admirably, to treat his songs as static objects. With an appealing lack of reverence, he precedes ‘Dirty Blue Jeans’ with an unfamiliar introduction, before delivering the song itself in a particularly savage and untamed version. ‘Five Verses’ continues to be the most endearing of the songs from ‘The Art of Fiction’, and he performs it playfully and affectionately. Things get more serious when he shifts to the piano, for an intense reading of ‘I Knew Her Face Was A Lie’, complete with ornate piano flourishes. Best of all tonight is a new-ish song, which might possibly be called ‘Dancing With The Enemy’. Jeremy won’t thank me for finding the chorus slightly reminiscent of Frankie Valli’s ‘Oh What A Night’, but the song pulled off a neat trick in combining its insistent hook with enigmatic and intriguing lyrics. The work-in-progress new album promises to push him to another level – hopefully commercial success will follow.
Sam Beam seems like an unassuming chap – arriving onstage sheepishly, stroking his lengthy mane of hair, and waiting for an AWOL Sound Engineer to return and fade out the background music. This is very much a low key show – just Beam with his acoustic guitar, and a set comprised of an intriguing balance of early songs and new material. He struggles with his complex tunings throughout, and is appealing in his sincere humility. Luckily, his songs speak for themselves – rich as they are in an extraordinarily intricate linguistic tapestry. Beam clearly loves language – and the minimal musical accompaniments he uses to embellish his otherworldly folk discourses make it necessary to completely drown in his unique world. His more rhythmic, blues-tinged material gets the edge, although the audience are most rapturous at his reworked, wonderfully laconic version of ‘A History of Lovers’ from the recent collaboration with Calexico. Of the new material, new single ‘Boy With A Coin’ sounds bright and insistent, whilst the beautiful ‘Flightless Bird, American Mouth’ may be the most soulful and affecting song he has yet written. Beam’s soft, understated voice somehow speaks volumes – he has a natural, unforced delivery which conveys sensitivity and emotion without admonishing his audience in any way. He is becoming a significant treasure.
Feist/Noah and The Whale @ The Scala
From hardly visiting the UK at all, Leslie Feist seems to have become a regular fixture in light of the success of her wonderful album ‘The Reminder’. This gig at the Scala felt appropriately intimate, given the sophisticated chamber-pop sound she crafts so expertly.
Supporting her tonight (and also supporting Broken Social Scene when they premier Kevin Drew’s ‘Spirit If’ next month) are the quite wonderful Noah and the Whale. It’s really gratifying that this band are getting such a push – their folk narratives are wispy and difficult to pigeonhole, although singer Charlie Fink may well have taken some indirect lessons from Conor Oberst for his vocal stylings. Mercifully, he’s not as overbearing or self-important as Oberst, and whilst he spent too much time staring at the floor last time I saw Noah and the Whale perform, he seems more concerned with connecting with the audience on this occasion. Performing tonight without Charlie’s drumming brother Doug, the band undoubtedly miss their skeletal clatter, but the songs still have unusual and compelling charm, a strange combination of surrealist invention, endearing naivety and spellbinding wordplay. Tom Hobden’s confident violin playing demonstrates both conviction and a genuine enthusiasm for the American folk language. It’s difficult to predict whether this band’s distinctive appeal will find a wide audience, but they are one of the more intriguing and hopeful prospects British pop music has thrown up in recent years.
‘The Reminder’ is so emotionally alive - honest and personal yet universal in its shared wisdom and insight - that it’s almost surprising to find Feist so personable and humorous an onstage presence. Entertainment is clearly not beneath her, as she gets the crowd to join in their own messy but joyous harmony. The set doesn’t vary too much from her previous London show at Shepherd’s Bush, so there isn’t too much to add to my review of that performance. She opens with a lush version of ‘One Morning’, and adds a couple of unfamiliar covers of songs by Canadian songwriters she admires (the Sarah Harmer song is particularly touching), but the focus remains very much on the refined, compelling atmospherics of ‘The Reminder’. Feist is both elegant and commanding onstage, and her voice is rapturous, passionate and utterly compelling.
With some hasty last minute arranging, one of last week’s most fruitful evenings proved to be a trip to the imminently departing Spitz club for a masterclass in the art of songwriting. Before we get to that though, it’s worth having a mini-rant at The Spitz’s unfortunate fate. The venue already has its own (genuinely excellent) restaurant downstairs, but the upstairs space has now been sold to new owners, promising, with an extraordinary lack of logic, another restaurant. Does East London not have enough fashionable eateries? Why replace an outstanding restaurant and open-minded music venue with another restaurant? The Spitz’s promoters hope to find a new East London location for the venue. I sincerely hope they succeed – as it’s one of the few places in London to programme such a wide variety of quality music - jazz, rock, blues, and the more challenging and adventurous breed of singer-songwriter can all be found during the course of any one week there.
Iron and Wine and Jeremy Warmsley are now labelmates at the excellent Transgressive label (although, lovely as this music sounds, one has to wonder how ‘transgressive’ it really is). I’ve not seen Jeremy perform to such a sizeable audience before, and he immediately commands attention. Audiences are rarely this quiet and appreciative for support acts – it’s clear that Jeremy’s idiosyncratic style and genuine musicality are captivating qualities. There’s a little more melodrama in this short set than I can remember from the most recent performances I’ve seen, and as a solo artist Jeremy continues to refuse, admirably, to treat his songs as static objects. With an appealing lack of reverence, he precedes ‘Dirty Blue Jeans’ with an unfamiliar introduction, before delivering the song itself in a particularly savage and untamed version. ‘Five Verses’ continues to be the most endearing of the songs from ‘The Art of Fiction’, and he performs it playfully and affectionately. Things get more serious when he shifts to the piano, for an intense reading of ‘I Knew Her Face Was A Lie’, complete with ornate piano flourishes. Best of all tonight is a new-ish song, which might possibly be called ‘Dancing With The Enemy’. Jeremy won’t thank me for finding the chorus slightly reminiscent of Frankie Valli’s ‘Oh What A Night’, but the song pulled off a neat trick in combining its insistent hook with enigmatic and intriguing lyrics. The work-in-progress new album promises to push him to another level – hopefully commercial success will follow.
Sam Beam seems like an unassuming chap – arriving onstage sheepishly, stroking his lengthy mane of hair, and waiting for an AWOL Sound Engineer to return and fade out the background music. This is very much a low key show – just Beam with his acoustic guitar, and a set comprised of an intriguing balance of early songs and new material. He struggles with his complex tunings throughout, and is appealing in his sincere humility. Luckily, his songs speak for themselves – rich as they are in an extraordinarily intricate linguistic tapestry. Beam clearly loves language – and the minimal musical accompaniments he uses to embellish his otherworldly folk discourses make it necessary to completely drown in his unique world. His more rhythmic, blues-tinged material gets the edge, although the audience are most rapturous at his reworked, wonderfully laconic version of ‘A History of Lovers’ from the recent collaboration with Calexico. Of the new material, new single ‘Boy With A Coin’ sounds bright and insistent, whilst the beautiful ‘Flightless Bird, American Mouth’ may be the most soulful and affecting song he has yet written. Beam’s soft, understated voice somehow speaks volumes – he has a natural, unforced delivery which conveys sensitivity and emotion without admonishing his audience in any way. He is becoming a significant treasure.
Feist/Noah and The Whale @ The Scala
From hardly visiting the UK at all, Leslie Feist seems to have become a regular fixture in light of the success of her wonderful album ‘The Reminder’. This gig at the Scala felt appropriately intimate, given the sophisticated chamber-pop sound she crafts so expertly.
Supporting her tonight (and also supporting Broken Social Scene when they premier Kevin Drew’s ‘Spirit If’ next month) are the quite wonderful Noah and the Whale. It’s really gratifying that this band are getting such a push – their folk narratives are wispy and difficult to pigeonhole, although singer Charlie Fink may well have taken some indirect lessons from Conor Oberst for his vocal stylings. Mercifully, he’s not as overbearing or self-important as Oberst, and whilst he spent too much time staring at the floor last time I saw Noah and the Whale perform, he seems more concerned with connecting with the audience on this occasion. Performing tonight without Charlie’s drumming brother Doug, the band undoubtedly miss their skeletal clatter, but the songs still have unusual and compelling charm, a strange combination of surrealist invention, endearing naivety and spellbinding wordplay. Tom Hobden’s confident violin playing demonstrates both conviction and a genuine enthusiasm for the American folk language. It’s difficult to predict whether this band’s distinctive appeal will find a wide audience, but they are one of the more intriguing and hopeful prospects British pop music has thrown up in recent years.
‘The Reminder’ is so emotionally alive - honest and personal yet universal in its shared wisdom and insight - that it’s almost surprising to find Feist so personable and humorous an onstage presence. Entertainment is clearly not beneath her, as she gets the crowd to join in their own messy but joyous harmony. The set doesn’t vary too much from her previous London show at Shepherd’s Bush, so there isn’t too much to add to my review of that performance. She opens with a lush version of ‘One Morning’, and adds a couple of unfamiliar covers of songs by Canadian songwriters she admires (the Sarah Harmer song is particularly touching), but the focus remains very much on the refined, compelling atmospherics of ‘The Reminder’. Feist is both elegant and commanding onstage, and her voice is rapturous, passionate and utterly compelling.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Blood, Sweat and Tears
Okkervil River - The Stage Names
With its majestic artwork and cleverly constructed, Tim Hardin-inspired song cycle, Okkervil River’s ‘Black Sheep Boy’ was one of the best rock albums of 2005. Much like Beirut’s ‘Gulag Orkestar’, it became something of a slow-burning cult success largely through word of mouth, something that should ensure this equally impressive album gets some deserved attention.
Musically, ‘The Stage Names’ partially takes flight from where some of the crisper, edgier tracks from ‘Black Sheep Boy’ left off, particularly with the pounding, insistent double opening punch of ‘Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe’ and ‘Unless It Kicks’, both tracks building to ferocious and unrepentant climaxes. ‘A Hand To Take Hold Of The Scene’ and ‘You Can’t Take The Hand Of A Rock ‘N’ Roll Man’ add an insistent, Motown-flavoured backbeat to the proceedings that works surprisingly well. The overall sound is sparer and less ornate than ‘Black Sheep Boy’, although the central focus of the album is on a series of unashamedly melodramatic ballads.
As a lyricist, Sheff rejects conventional phrasing, structure and rhyme schemes, instead favouring verbose but intelligent prose-poetry rich in ideas and imagery. Many of the adjectives that immediately spring to mind whilst listening to ‘The Stage Names’ might more likely be applied to an American novelist as the cumulative impact of these songs is vivid, imaginative, compelling, lucid and captivating. His writing can be savage (‘I want a smile like a glistening shard, I want a kiss that’s as sharp as a knife’ or, even more forcefully, ‘Marie’s passed out in a chair with her once fussed-over hair all mussed into an I’ve just been f*cked shape’) or tender and compassionate (‘Let fall your soft and swaying skirt. Let fall your shoes. Let fall your shirt. I’m not the ladykilling sort enough to hurt a girl in port’). Along with Iron and Wine’s Sam Beam, Will Sheff is one of the most idiosyncratic and immersing writers currently at work in American music. It again begs the question of why there are no British songwriters with such original and unique voices.
Perhaps best of all are the album’s two most direct songs, ‘Savannah Smiles’ and ‘Plus Ones’. The former describes the distance between father and daughter with sincere regret and haunting power, the song’s protagonist regretting the glimpse into his daughter’s private world through an illicit perusal of her diary. He ends up wondering ‘is she someone I don’t know at all? Is she someone I betrayed?’, concluding the song with touching but unsentimental poignancy (‘all I’m seeing is her face aged eight’). ‘Plus Ones’ dissects a failing relationship with severe acuity, as well as a truckload of rather grim irony. It begins with an earnest confession – ‘I am all out of love to mouth into your ear, and not above letting a love song disappear before it’s written’. With a sly reference to Paul Simon, Sheff sings ‘The 51st way to leave your lover, admittedly, doesn’t seem to be as gentle or as clean as all the others, leaving its scars.’ Somehow, the song contains both bitter cynicism and real wisdom gained through experience. Both these songs capture Okkervil River at their most languid and melancholy.
Throughout, Sheff’s voice follows the intrepid contours of his words, veering from vulnerable, underplayed mumble to devastating howl. Nowhere is this more impressively delivered than on the marvellous ‘John Allyn Smith Sails’, essentially a poet’s extended suicide note, musing on failure and disappointment. It concludes with a brutal refashioning of ‘Sloop John B’, a move that in lesser hands would result in disaster, but here has a momentous and unstoppable force. It might be completely sincere or it might be the blackest comedy imaginable. Given the irony found elsewhere (the aforementioned ‘Plus Ones’, the fact that the title track is called, well, ‘Title Track’), it’s tempting to plump for the latter.
Whilst Sheff obviously has a love of writing in character, there’s also plenty of his own life on display here, from the references to backstage chatter and touring disillusion. In ‘Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe’, Sheff wryly observes how the conventional techniques of cinema are not reflected in our own lives – there are no fade ins, quick cuts or dissolves – but it’s still worth watching. ‘Unless It’s Kicks’ crisply describes human attempts to make sense of troublesome situations (‘what gives this mess some grace unless it’s kicks, man, unless it’s fictions, unless it’s sweat or it’s songs?’).
‘The Stage Names’ pulls off a neat trick in sounding both raw and carefully crafted, with Sheff a continuing master of rock dynamics. Sheff also proves himself adept at taking the conventional elements of rootsy American music (blues chord sequences, occasional slide guitar, rockabilly riffs) and translating them into a new and adventurous idiom. ‘The Stage Names’ is a gripping and gutsy treatise on love and life, with its own peculiar language and a relentlessly beating heart.
With its majestic artwork and cleverly constructed, Tim Hardin-inspired song cycle, Okkervil River’s ‘Black Sheep Boy’ was one of the best rock albums of 2005. Much like Beirut’s ‘Gulag Orkestar’, it became something of a slow-burning cult success largely through word of mouth, something that should ensure this equally impressive album gets some deserved attention.
Musically, ‘The Stage Names’ partially takes flight from where some of the crisper, edgier tracks from ‘Black Sheep Boy’ left off, particularly with the pounding, insistent double opening punch of ‘Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe’ and ‘Unless It Kicks’, both tracks building to ferocious and unrepentant climaxes. ‘A Hand To Take Hold Of The Scene’ and ‘You Can’t Take The Hand Of A Rock ‘N’ Roll Man’ add an insistent, Motown-flavoured backbeat to the proceedings that works surprisingly well. The overall sound is sparer and less ornate than ‘Black Sheep Boy’, although the central focus of the album is on a series of unashamedly melodramatic ballads.
As a lyricist, Sheff rejects conventional phrasing, structure and rhyme schemes, instead favouring verbose but intelligent prose-poetry rich in ideas and imagery. Many of the adjectives that immediately spring to mind whilst listening to ‘The Stage Names’ might more likely be applied to an American novelist as the cumulative impact of these songs is vivid, imaginative, compelling, lucid and captivating. His writing can be savage (‘I want a smile like a glistening shard, I want a kiss that’s as sharp as a knife’ or, even more forcefully, ‘Marie’s passed out in a chair with her once fussed-over hair all mussed into an I’ve just been f*cked shape’) or tender and compassionate (‘Let fall your soft and swaying skirt. Let fall your shoes. Let fall your shirt. I’m not the ladykilling sort enough to hurt a girl in port’). Along with Iron and Wine’s Sam Beam, Will Sheff is one of the most idiosyncratic and immersing writers currently at work in American music. It again begs the question of why there are no British songwriters with such original and unique voices.
Perhaps best of all are the album’s two most direct songs, ‘Savannah Smiles’ and ‘Plus Ones’. The former describes the distance between father and daughter with sincere regret and haunting power, the song’s protagonist regretting the glimpse into his daughter’s private world through an illicit perusal of her diary. He ends up wondering ‘is she someone I don’t know at all? Is she someone I betrayed?’, concluding the song with touching but unsentimental poignancy (‘all I’m seeing is her face aged eight’). ‘Plus Ones’ dissects a failing relationship with severe acuity, as well as a truckload of rather grim irony. It begins with an earnest confession – ‘I am all out of love to mouth into your ear, and not above letting a love song disappear before it’s written’. With a sly reference to Paul Simon, Sheff sings ‘The 51st way to leave your lover, admittedly, doesn’t seem to be as gentle or as clean as all the others, leaving its scars.’ Somehow, the song contains both bitter cynicism and real wisdom gained through experience. Both these songs capture Okkervil River at their most languid and melancholy.
Throughout, Sheff’s voice follows the intrepid contours of his words, veering from vulnerable, underplayed mumble to devastating howl. Nowhere is this more impressively delivered than on the marvellous ‘John Allyn Smith Sails’, essentially a poet’s extended suicide note, musing on failure and disappointment. It concludes with a brutal refashioning of ‘Sloop John B’, a move that in lesser hands would result in disaster, but here has a momentous and unstoppable force. It might be completely sincere or it might be the blackest comedy imaginable. Given the irony found elsewhere (the aforementioned ‘Plus Ones’, the fact that the title track is called, well, ‘Title Track’), it’s tempting to plump for the latter.
Whilst Sheff obviously has a love of writing in character, there’s also plenty of his own life on display here, from the references to backstage chatter and touring disillusion. In ‘Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe’, Sheff wryly observes how the conventional techniques of cinema are not reflected in our own lives – there are no fade ins, quick cuts or dissolves – but it’s still worth watching. ‘Unless It’s Kicks’ crisply describes human attempts to make sense of troublesome situations (‘what gives this mess some grace unless it’s kicks, man, unless it’s fictions, unless it’s sweat or it’s songs?’).
‘The Stage Names’ pulls off a neat trick in sounding both raw and carefully crafted, with Sheff a continuing master of rock dynamics. Sheff also proves himself adept at taking the conventional elements of rootsy American music (blues chord sequences, occasional slide guitar, rockabilly riffs) and translating them into a new and adventurous idiom. ‘The Stage Names’ is a gripping and gutsy treatise on love and life, with its own peculiar language and a relentlessly beating heart.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Cinematic Art Did Not Die With Bergman And Antonioni
Auteurist craftsmanship still vies with empty posturing in an exciting contemporary landscape
In the aftermath of the deaths of Antonioni and Bergman, much predictable guff has been written about the end of the golden age of cinema, and the loss of the last great auteurs in particular. Geoffrey Macnab wrote an interesting piece in The Independent last week that proved refreshingly positive, despite its headline proclaiming the death of cinema as we know it. He cited a number of modern directors who could qualify as contemporary heirs to the spirit of Antonioni and Bergman. I do wonder, however, if he selected the right people.
Somewhat inevitably, Lars Von Trier and Lukas Moodysson were both included in MacNab’s list. I’m reliably informed that I once referred to Von Trier as a ‘ludicrous charlatan’ somewhere on these pages, a position I continue to maintain after seeing the utterly ghastly ‘Dogville’. Von Trier’s critique on America lacks value because he is ill-informed and schematic, and the film’s forced theatrical setting removes any possibility of cinematic alchemy. Of his previous films, ‘Dancer in the Dark’ is interesting chiefly due to the extraordinary presence of Bjork, whilst ‘The Idiots’ is the work of a provocative chancer with little knowledge of his subject matter. ‘Breaking the Waves’ is unremitting in its gloomy absurdity, whilst ‘Europa’ offers clear signs of real talent squandered by grandiose pretentions and obfuscation. Moodysson shares a complete disregard for satisfying audience expectation with Bergman (who was an enthusiast for Moodysson’s films himself), but this has not led him in consistently fulfilling directions so far. ‘Show Me Love’ and ‘Together’ were touching, witty and affecting films, whilst the grandiose ‘Lilya 4 Ever’ had a bleak but compelling vision at its core. ‘Hole In My Heart’ however, took him into the weird world of gonzo pornography, with startlingly unpleasant results. It’s certainly possible to make films containing real sex that capture something tangible, wild and beautiful, as I think John Cameron Mitchell recently did with ‘Shortbus’. Moodysson did not succeed though, instead producing something nasty, excessive and unrestrained.
I am an admirer of Francois Ozon’s work, but he seems more of a jack-of-all-trades than a filmmaker with a distinctive creative vision, perhaps the nearest comparison being Britain’s versatile Michael Winterbottom (also included in MacNab’s list). Again, his work has been somewhat inconsistent and almost all his films stretch the boundaries of credulity at key points (if anything, it’s this that has become his trademark). His last film, ‘Time To Leave’, was given rather short shrift by some critics here, although I think it’s the closest he’s come to capturing something emotionally affecting. A better example of a French filmmaker with clear vision might well be Laurent Cantet, interested as he is in very human stories surrounding work and its relationship to personal identity.
It’s also surely too early to include the likes of Andrea Arnold and Jonathan Glazer in the list (with just one and two features to their names respectively). Arnold’s ‘Red Road’ could not fulfil any acceptable definition of an auteurist work anyway, as a chiefly collaborative project with characters and script ideas pre-determined by Lars Von Trier’s production company. I still wonder whether Arnold might actually have been somewhat stifled by this approach, with the film refusing to state explicitly its position on ‘benevolent surveillance’ and performing something of a volte-face on its expertly crafted tension by its conclusion.
It’s certainly positive to read this kind of encouraging reassessment of the contemporary scene, even if its specific conclusions are questionable. These days I find it difficult to enjoy the writing of, say, David Thomson, who claims that cinema is in irreversible decline whilst somehow managing to omit Abbas Kiarostami, Wong Kar-Wai and Tsai Ming-Liang from the last edition of his otherwise magesterial Biographical Dictionary of Film. It’s hard to believe that someone can be so passionate about an art form, yet so sterile and conservative in their approach that they see nothing of value in what is new. Perhaps Thomson just no longer knows where to look for cinematic talent, obsessed as he is with the machinations of Hollywood and the American movie industry. I just don't see that it's worth writing about the likes of Woody Harrelson or Edward Norton, when there are many more interesting screen presences elsewhere.
Although he’s notable by his absence from Macnab’s list, many would no doubt cite Mexican Carlos Reygadas as a prime contender to inherit the auteurs’ mantle. Despite Jonathan Romney’s glowing report on the premier of his new film ‘Silent Light’ at Cannes, I remain steadfastly unconvinced. The acclaimed ‘Japon’ remains one of the worst films I have ever seen, and a prime example of a picture reliant on all the worst aspects of ‘art’ cinema culture. Heavily influenced by Tarkovsky, yet without either the technical mastery or spiritual wisdom to pull it off, the film is dominated by long shots of nothing in particular, with numerous 360 degree pans around its rugged landscape. Even worse, its central premise is at best ludicrous and at worst offensive. A depressed middle aged man takes root in a small Mexican rural community with the intention of ending his days there, befriending an old woman in the process. After two and a half hours following the man walking, painting, walking and painting, we’re eventually treated to his graphically filmed and thoroughly unpleasant sex with the old woman, seemingly in order that she then sacrifice her life to rejuvenate his. What pretentious nonsense, offering us no insight whatsoever into the nature and meaning of depression, death or sex, its three most obvious themes.
So let’s not assume that the current breed of auteurs all need to be young, fresh and cool, or either European or Western. The austere, challenging style of Bergman and Antonioni’s cinema may be best reflected in filmmakers from areas as diverse as Turkey, Taiwan, China, Iran, Russia and, yes, I will concede, even dear old Blighty.
The clearest heir to Bergman is currently unable to produce a film, despite recent renewed interest in his work. I’ve written about Terence Davies’ films in depth elsewhere in this blog, but it’s worth noting that Davies admits in the interview with Geoff Andrew that accompanies the BFI’s wonderful DVD of ‘Distant Voices, Still Lives’ that he compares his own films with Bergman’s and finds them wanting. Yet there is such clarity, compassion, depth of emotion and warmth in his film’s that it is clear that cinema is a genuine vocation and passion for Davies. His mastery of the slow, steady tracking shot and visceral close up also clearly betray the influence of Bergman, albeit filtered through his individual, very British vision. It is criminal that he has not been able to make a film, purely through lack of funding, since ‘The House of Mirth’ (his third masterpiece in my view, and one of the best examples of screen adaptations of classic literature).
Elsewhere in Europe, there are filmmakers at work who are every bit as significant as their illustrious predecessors. Michael Haneke has long been pursuing an extreme and uncompromising ideal of cinema, but has recently translated this into significant popular appeal with the unsettling and profoundly thrilling ‘Hidden’. Its immediate predecessor, ‘Time of The Wolf’, whilst less well distributed, was also a startling and challenging work, similar in its simple, unpretentious vision of an apocalyptic world to Cormac McCarthy’s brilliant novel ‘The Road’. What a shame he now feels the need to capitalise by remaking his deliciously savage, confrontational and brutal ‘Funny Games’ in America. There’s also the Italian Paolo Sorrentino, maker of ‘The Consequences of Love’ and ‘The Family Friend’, although many express the underlying suspicion that he emphasises style over substance (I’ve not seen the latter, but ‘The Consequences of Love’ struck me as exquisitely poised).
Turkey’s Nuri Bilge Ceylan has only made four films so far, but he is working at an unusually prolific rate by modern standards. ‘Uzak’ is simply wonderful, and completely unlike anything else in modern cinema. ‘Climates’ fortunately proved a worthy successor, demonstrating Ceylan’s talent for portraying emotional extremes, along with real attention to detail in both image and sound design.
Think also of Thailand’s Achiatpong Weerasethakul, who already has a season in his honour at the BFI Southbank in September. ‘Blissfully Yours’, with next to no dialogue or music, is a beautiful dream of a film, capturing a simple moment of languid romance in something close to real time. ‘Tropical Malady’, with its sudden tangential leap in the middle, has no respect whatsoever for plot or structure.
From Russia, Alexander Sokurov continues to be a challenging and unpredictable filmmaker of sometimes insane ambition. For me, ‘Russian Ark’ was a rather drab and pointless exercise, impressive for its technical achievement alone, and certainly not inspiring or interesting (the film consists of just one tracking shot through the Hermitage museum in St Petersburg). ‘Father and Son’ and ‘Moloch’ are bizarre, unforgiving and surreal films, certainly unpalatable to some, but refreshing in their refusal to adhere to conventions. His one unqualified success is ‘The Sun’, a deeply peculiar look at the collapse of Hirohito that is somehow both elusive and insightful. It’s too early to say whether Alexander Zvyagintsev might join this cardre of directors. The genuine brilliance of ‘The Return’ was somewhat overshadowed by the tragic death of one of its young actors, and initial reports suggest that its follow-up, ‘The Banishment’, is somewhat less assured. He shows real promise and originality though. Similarly, I suspect Germany’s bold and visceral Fatih Akin is waiting in the wings and also a soon-to-be-contender.
Taiwan has now established a great tradition of intelligent, perceptive and idiosyncratic filmmaking. I would certainly have namechecked Edward Yang as an underrated successor to the auteurist spirit were it not for his own tragic and unexpected death last month (in many ways a bigger loss than Bergman’s because he clearly had so much more left to offer). Hou Hsiou-Hsien remains an unstoppable creative force though, and with ‘Three Times’ he appeared to have produced a work remarkable for its lyrical qualities, ingenious use of triptych structure and palpable technical control. Less well known here is the elliptical and confounding Tsai Ming-Liang, for whom an NFT (sorry, BFI Southbank) retrospective is surely long overdue. Many walked out of the screening of ‘I Don’t Want To Sleep Alone’ (Tsai’s contribution to the New Crowned Hope project) that I attended, but I felt it was a visionary, powerful and ultimately moving work.
It’s also worth remembering that the likes of Wong Kar Wai, Bela Tarr, Abbas Kiarostami, Pedro Almodovar, Theo Angolopolous, Terrence Mallick and Gus Van Sant remain active filmmakers, all still capable of work that exposes some of the younger pretenders as frauds. All have doggedly pursued and developed their own personal vision. Van Sant looked for a spare, non-judgmental style first with the wonderful ‘My Own Private Idaho’ (although I wonder whether that film would have been quite so beautiful without the overwhelming iconic presence of River Phoenix) and then through his most recent trilogy, beginning with ‘Gerry’ and continuing with ‘Elephant’ and ‘Last Days’. His latest picture ‘Paranoid Park’, deploying the outrageously gifted cinematographer Christopher Doyle (himself playing a large part in the luminous beauty of many of Wong Kar-Wai’s films), appears to have divided opinion but I look forward to its UK release with keen anticipation. Van Sant has cited Bela Tarr as the primary influence on his recent work, and it would be hard to find a filmmaker less interested in market concerns than Tarr. Yet ‘Werckmeister Harmonies’, ‘Damnation’ and the colossal ‘Satantango’ (7 hours long!) are all remarkable, compelling and unique works. ‘The Man From London’ looks very much like his most accessible film to date, at a manageable length and with something approaching conventional narrative. Angolopolous works at his own glacial pace (much like the pacing of his films), but is in the middle of a new trilogy exploring Greek political and social history. Wong, on the other hand, appears to have transplanted himself to Hollywood, bizarrely casting Norah Jones as his latest lead, and possibly shooting himself in the foot in the process. Almodovar went badly wayward with the excessive and confusing ‘Bad Education’, but ‘Volver’ put him back on the right track and ‘Talk To Her’ remains one of the most daring and successful films released during my lifetime. Should any of these iconic artists live to the ripe old age of 89, I have little doubt that they will be in receipt of similar kinds of plaudits to those applied to Bergman and Antonioni.
Writing this, I ultimately wonder whether there was ever any real meaning in Cahiers du Cinema’s concept of auteurist theory at all. Any successful piece of art should contain the vivid stamp of its creator’s personal vision, yet this shouldn’t (and usually doesn’t) preclude the possibility of collaboration. The great auteur directors certainly reduced the emphasis on screenwriting and conventional plotting (no bad thing). However, they also relied heavily on the genius of their cinematographers (note the role played by Sven Nykvist in many of Bergman’s finest films) or their charismatic performers (both Godard and Truffaut relied on iconic presences, and Antonioni’s most famous works lived and breathed by virtue of the elegance and physical beauty of Monica Vitti and Alain Delon). Similarly, the most independent, bold voices in contemporary music often depend heavily on the input of their creative partners (Bjork would be a prime example of this). Sometimes the dogged pursuit of an individual vision can result in a creative cul-de-sac, sometimes it results in a string of unparalleled masterworks. It’s certainly a tradition that’s still alive and well though, in cinema as much as anything else. The deaths of towering figures can be dispiriting but what is new can still challenge, provoke and inspire. The new methods of digital production and distribution also promise to change the way film is consumed, possibly in beneficial ways. Don’t let the killjoys put you off.
In the aftermath of the deaths of Antonioni and Bergman, much predictable guff has been written about the end of the golden age of cinema, and the loss of the last great auteurs in particular. Geoffrey Macnab wrote an interesting piece in The Independent last week that proved refreshingly positive, despite its headline proclaiming the death of cinema as we know it. He cited a number of modern directors who could qualify as contemporary heirs to the spirit of Antonioni and Bergman. I do wonder, however, if he selected the right people.
Somewhat inevitably, Lars Von Trier and Lukas Moodysson were both included in MacNab’s list. I’m reliably informed that I once referred to Von Trier as a ‘ludicrous charlatan’ somewhere on these pages, a position I continue to maintain after seeing the utterly ghastly ‘Dogville’. Von Trier’s critique on America lacks value because he is ill-informed and schematic, and the film’s forced theatrical setting removes any possibility of cinematic alchemy. Of his previous films, ‘Dancer in the Dark’ is interesting chiefly due to the extraordinary presence of Bjork, whilst ‘The Idiots’ is the work of a provocative chancer with little knowledge of his subject matter. ‘Breaking the Waves’ is unremitting in its gloomy absurdity, whilst ‘Europa’ offers clear signs of real talent squandered by grandiose pretentions and obfuscation. Moodysson shares a complete disregard for satisfying audience expectation with Bergman (who was an enthusiast for Moodysson’s films himself), but this has not led him in consistently fulfilling directions so far. ‘Show Me Love’ and ‘Together’ were touching, witty and affecting films, whilst the grandiose ‘Lilya 4 Ever’ had a bleak but compelling vision at its core. ‘Hole In My Heart’ however, took him into the weird world of gonzo pornography, with startlingly unpleasant results. It’s certainly possible to make films containing real sex that capture something tangible, wild and beautiful, as I think John Cameron Mitchell recently did with ‘Shortbus’. Moodysson did not succeed though, instead producing something nasty, excessive and unrestrained.
I am an admirer of Francois Ozon’s work, but he seems more of a jack-of-all-trades than a filmmaker with a distinctive creative vision, perhaps the nearest comparison being Britain’s versatile Michael Winterbottom (also included in MacNab’s list). Again, his work has been somewhat inconsistent and almost all his films stretch the boundaries of credulity at key points (if anything, it’s this that has become his trademark). His last film, ‘Time To Leave’, was given rather short shrift by some critics here, although I think it’s the closest he’s come to capturing something emotionally affecting. A better example of a French filmmaker with clear vision might well be Laurent Cantet, interested as he is in very human stories surrounding work and its relationship to personal identity.
It’s also surely too early to include the likes of Andrea Arnold and Jonathan Glazer in the list (with just one and two features to their names respectively). Arnold’s ‘Red Road’ could not fulfil any acceptable definition of an auteurist work anyway, as a chiefly collaborative project with characters and script ideas pre-determined by Lars Von Trier’s production company. I still wonder whether Arnold might actually have been somewhat stifled by this approach, with the film refusing to state explicitly its position on ‘benevolent surveillance’ and performing something of a volte-face on its expertly crafted tension by its conclusion.
It’s certainly positive to read this kind of encouraging reassessment of the contemporary scene, even if its specific conclusions are questionable. These days I find it difficult to enjoy the writing of, say, David Thomson, who claims that cinema is in irreversible decline whilst somehow managing to omit Abbas Kiarostami, Wong Kar-Wai and Tsai Ming-Liang from the last edition of his otherwise magesterial Biographical Dictionary of Film. It’s hard to believe that someone can be so passionate about an art form, yet so sterile and conservative in their approach that they see nothing of value in what is new. Perhaps Thomson just no longer knows where to look for cinematic talent, obsessed as he is with the machinations of Hollywood and the American movie industry. I just don't see that it's worth writing about the likes of Woody Harrelson or Edward Norton, when there are many more interesting screen presences elsewhere.
Although he’s notable by his absence from Macnab’s list, many would no doubt cite Mexican Carlos Reygadas as a prime contender to inherit the auteurs’ mantle. Despite Jonathan Romney’s glowing report on the premier of his new film ‘Silent Light’ at Cannes, I remain steadfastly unconvinced. The acclaimed ‘Japon’ remains one of the worst films I have ever seen, and a prime example of a picture reliant on all the worst aspects of ‘art’ cinema culture. Heavily influenced by Tarkovsky, yet without either the technical mastery or spiritual wisdom to pull it off, the film is dominated by long shots of nothing in particular, with numerous 360 degree pans around its rugged landscape. Even worse, its central premise is at best ludicrous and at worst offensive. A depressed middle aged man takes root in a small Mexican rural community with the intention of ending his days there, befriending an old woman in the process. After two and a half hours following the man walking, painting, walking and painting, we’re eventually treated to his graphically filmed and thoroughly unpleasant sex with the old woman, seemingly in order that she then sacrifice her life to rejuvenate his. What pretentious nonsense, offering us no insight whatsoever into the nature and meaning of depression, death or sex, its three most obvious themes.
So let’s not assume that the current breed of auteurs all need to be young, fresh and cool, or either European or Western. The austere, challenging style of Bergman and Antonioni’s cinema may be best reflected in filmmakers from areas as diverse as Turkey, Taiwan, China, Iran, Russia and, yes, I will concede, even dear old Blighty.
The clearest heir to Bergman is currently unable to produce a film, despite recent renewed interest in his work. I’ve written about Terence Davies’ films in depth elsewhere in this blog, but it’s worth noting that Davies admits in the interview with Geoff Andrew that accompanies the BFI’s wonderful DVD of ‘Distant Voices, Still Lives’ that he compares his own films with Bergman’s and finds them wanting. Yet there is such clarity, compassion, depth of emotion and warmth in his film’s that it is clear that cinema is a genuine vocation and passion for Davies. His mastery of the slow, steady tracking shot and visceral close up also clearly betray the influence of Bergman, albeit filtered through his individual, very British vision. It is criminal that he has not been able to make a film, purely through lack of funding, since ‘The House of Mirth’ (his third masterpiece in my view, and one of the best examples of screen adaptations of classic literature).
Elsewhere in Europe, there are filmmakers at work who are every bit as significant as their illustrious predecessors. Michael Haneke has long been pursuing an extreme and uncompromising ideal of cinema, but has recently translated this into significant popular appeal with the unsettling and profoundly thrilling ‘Hidden’. Its immediate predecessor, ‘Time of The Wolf’, whilst less well distributed, was also a startling and challenging work, similar in its simple, unpretentious vision of an apocalyptic world to Cormac McCarthy’s brilliant novel ‘The Road’. What a shame he now feels the need to capitalise by remaking his deliciously savage, confrontational and brutal ‘Funny Games’ in America. There’s also the Italian Paolo Sorrentino, maker of ‘The Consequences of Love’ and ‘The Family Friend’, although many express the underlying suspicion that he emphasises style over substance (I’ve not seen the latter, but ‘The Consequences of Love’ struck me as exquisitely poised).
Turkey’s Nuri Bilge Ceylan has only made four films so far, but he is working at an unusually prolific rate by modern standards. ‘Uzak’ is simply wonderful, and completely unlike anything else in modern cinema. ‘Climates’ fortunately proved a worthy successor, demonstrating Ceylan’s talent for portraying emotional extremes, along with real attention to detail in both image and sound design.
Think also of Thailand’s Achiatpong Weerasethakul, who already has a season in his honour at the BFI Southbank in September. ‘Blissfully Yours’, with next to no dialogue or music, is a beautiful dream of a film, capturing a simple moment of languid romance in something close to real time. ‘Tropical Malady’, with its sudden tangential leap in the middle, has no respect whatsoever for plot or structure.
From Russia, Alexander Sokurov continues to be a challenging and unpredictable filmmaker of sometimes insane ambition. For me, ‘Russian Ark’ was a rather drab and pointless exercise, impressive for its technical achievement alone, and certainly not inspiring or interesting (the film consists of just one tracking shot through the Hermitage museum in St Petersburg). ‘Father and Son’ and ‘Moloch’ are bizarre, unforgiving and surreal films, certainly unpalatable to some, but refreshing in their refusal to adhere to conventions. His one unqualified success is ‘The Sun’, a deeply peculiar look at the collapse of Hirohito that is somehow both elusive and insightful. It’s too early to say whether Alexander Zvyagintsev might join this cardre of directors. The genuine brilliance of ‘The Return’ was somewhat overshadowed by the tragic death of one of its young actors, and initial reports suggest that its follow-up, ‘The Banishment’, is somewhat less assured. He shows real promise and originality though. Similarly, I suspect Germany’s bold and visceral Fatih Akin is waiting in the wings and also a soon-to-be-contender.
Taiwan has now established a great tradition of intelligent, perceptive and idiosyncratic filmmaking. I would certainly have namechecked Edward Yang as an underrated successor to the auteurist spirit were it not for his own tragic and unexpected death last month (in many ways a bigger loss than Bergman’s because he clearly had so much more left to offer). Hou Hsiou-Hsien remains an unstoppable creative force though, and with ‘Three Times’ he appeared to have produced a work remarkable for its lyrical qualities, ingenious use of triptych structure and palpable technical control. Less well known here is the elliptical and confounding Tsai Ming-Liang, for whom an NFT (sorry, BFI Southbank) retrospective is surely long overdue. Many walked out of the screening of ‘I Don’t Want To Sleep Alone’ (Tsai’s contribution to the New Crowned Hope project) that I attended, but I felt it was a visionary, powerful and ultimately moving work.
It’s also worth remembering that the likes of Wong Kar Wai, Bela Tarr, Abbas Kiarostami, Pedro Almodovar, Theo Angolopolous, Terrence Mallick and Gus Van Sant remain active filmmakers, all still capable of work that exposes some of the younger pretenders as frauds. All have doggedly pursued and developed their own personal vision. Van Sant looked for a spare, non-judgmental style first with the wonderful ‘My Own Private Idaho’ (although I wonder whether that film would have been quite so beautiful without the overwhelming iconic presence of River Phoenix) and then through his most recent trilogy, beginning with ‘Gerry’ and continuing with ‘Elephant’ and ‘Last Days’. His latest picture ‘Paranoid Park’, deploying the outrageously gifted cinematographer Christopher Doyle (himself playing a large part in the luminous beauty of many of Wong Kar-Wai’s films), appears to have divided opinion but I look forward to its UK release with keen anticipation. Van Sant has cited Bela Tarr as the primary influence on his recent work, and it would be hard to find a filmmaker less interested in market concerns than Tarr. Yet ‘Werckmeister Harmonies’, ‘Damnation’ and the colossal ‘Satantango’ (7 hours long!) are all remarkable, compelling and unique works. ‘The Man From London’ looks very much like his most accessible film to date, at a manageable length and with something approaching conventional narrative. Angolopolous works at his own glacial pace (much like the pacing of his films), but is in the middle of a new trilogy exploring Greek political and social history. Wong, on the other hand, appears to have transplanted himself to Hollywood, bizarrely casting Norah Jones as his latest lead, and possibly shooting himself in the foot in the process. Almodovar went badly wayward with the excessive and confusing ‘Bad Education’, but ‘Volver’ put him back on the right track and ‘Talk To Her’ remains one of the most daring and successful films released during my lifetime. Should any of these iconic artists live to the ripe old age of 89, I have little doubt that they will be in receipt of similar kinds of plaudits to those applied to Bergman and Antonioni.
Writing this, I ultimately wonder whether there was ever any real meaning in Cahiers du Cinema’s concept of auteurist theory at all. Any successful piece of art should contain the vivid stamp of its creator’s personal vision, yet this shouldn’t (and usually doesn’t) preclude the possibility of collaboration. The great auteur directors certainly reduced the emphasis on screenwriting and conventional plotting (no bad thing). However, they also relied heavily on the genius of their cinematographers (note the role played by Sven Nykvist in many of Bergman’s finest films) or their charismatic performers (both Godard and Truffaut relied on iconic presences, and Antonioni’s most famous works lived and breathed by virtue of the elegance and physical beauty of Monica Vitti and Alain Delon). Similarly, the most independent, bold voices in contemporary music often depend heavily on the input of their creative partners (Bjork would be a prime example of this). Sometimes the dogged pursuit of an individual vision can result in a creative cul-de-sac, sometimes it results in a string of unparalleled masterworks. It’s certainly a tradition that’s still alive and well though, in cinema as much as anything else. The deaths of towering figures can be dispiriting but what is new can still challenge, provoke and inspire. The new methods of digital production and distribution also promise to change the way film is consumed, possibly in beneficial ways. Don’t let the killjoys put you off.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Summer Confectionary
Animal Collective - 'Strawberry Jam' (Domino)/Caribou - 'Andorra' (Merge)
With the weather, in London at least, finally having taken some kind of turn toward the norm for the season, two albums have come along that enhance the sense of wonder in the rays of sunshine.
The development of Animal Collective from freaky feedback noise merchants to quirky pop act would now appear to be complete. ‘Strawberry Jam’ is comfortably their most accessible album to date, although it achieves this without compromising on their distinctive ethos. Their characteristic elements are all still intact – including Panda Bear’s vigorous tribal drumming, the strange interventions of electronic noise, the childlike melodies and the disorientating overlapping vocal lines.
Although ‘Sung Tongs’ and ‘Feels’ had already made strides in this direction, there’s an immediate and clear difference to the sound of this new album. The vocals are produced with greater clarity and pushed much higher in the mix, so much so that the group’s somewhat bizarre, lysergic-sounding lyrics are at last comprehensible with little effort. There are individual lines that stand out as a result, perhaps for the first time on an AC record (‘For Reverend Green’s triumphant singalong ‘I think it’s alright to be inhuman now!’ or ‘Unsolved Mysteries’ relating the surprise of looking into someone’s eyes and ‘finding out he’s Jack the Ripper’). They can also make much more of their unhinged singing styles – the weird and wonderful yelps that pepper the background add a warped intensity, and the sudden leaps into falsetto without prior warning become much more striking here.
It’s also much simpler rhythmically – the jerky mechanics of previous records have been almost completely eschewed in favour of pulsating heartbeats and relentless pounding. It’s clear that Brian Wilson, particularly the ‘child is the father of the man’ idea that dominated ‘Smile’, remains the primary influence, but his harmonic and melodic values are filtered through such a peculiar prism that this band can comfortably be distanced from more slavish Wilson copyists (The High Llamas or even Super Furry Animals).
All nine of these songs boldly straddle the fine line between infectious and infuriating, mostly staying on just the right side of it. There’s certainly a real sense of fun and enthusiasm infusing the whole record, each song being delivered with demented glee. ‘Peacebone’ seems almost unstoppable in its release of primal joy, whilst ‘Unsolved Mysteries’ sounds like a demonic fairground carousel. The album is dominated by two lengthy explorations – the hazy, surreal and mysterious ‘For Reverend Green’ and the evocative, gently rolling ‘Fireworks’. The former seems unusually linear, extrapolating its single, insistent idea to its very limit.
The group remain structurally unpredictable but easily identifiable in their sound, and the greater emphasis on immediacy and vocal clarity has given them a fresh lease of life. With publishing now handled by Rough Trade and a new deal with Domino, there’s every chance of ‘Strawberry Jam’ being a modest commercial breakthrough. I shall be spreading it on my toast liberally.
The artist formerly known as Manitoba is another act to have undergone a rather dramatic and unusual change in sound. It is increasingly hard to believe that the same Dan Snaith who made the warm, jittery electronica of Manitoba’s ‘Start Breaking My Heart’ also made this musically audacious but melodically conventional record under the name of Caribou.
Again, the influence of Brian Wilson and The Beach Boys would appear to be somewhat thinly veiled, but the music is a heat-hazed, endearingly ragged concoction that delves into a broad range of musical inspirations. There are hints of the bold, ambitious production values of David Axelrod, particularly on the stomping and insistent ‘Eli’, and the big, clattering drums throughout are redolent of the percussive sound textures Kieren Hebden conjured for the last two Four Tet albums. A number of tracks benefit from real attention to detail, with chattering woodwind samples creating a disorientating sense of confusion.
Superimposed over this peculiar sound mix is a lush and unashamed lyrical romanticism. Several tracks are given girls’ names for titles (‘Sandy’, ‘Eli’, ‘Irene’) and there’s a summery, loving atmosphere pervading throughout. At its most restrained, there’s a hint of the strange combination of positivity and melancholy that Yo La Tengo have recently captured so well, but when the clatter kicks back in, it’s bracingly synaesthetic.
There are points at which the music here becomes genuinely, unsettlingly odd. ‘Irene’ for example sounds like an old piece of sun-warped vinyl, its shimmering chords veering oddly out of tune. Its processed mechanical drum beat also breaks the mood somewhat – given the use of live-sounding drums throughout the rest of the record. ‘Andorra’ also closes on a peculiarly dark note, with ‘Niobe’ initially sounding like the start of a pulsating house track, before journeying off on several unpredictable tangents.
Yet for all its attempts to confound and confuse, ‘Andorra’ is in the main a refreshingly warm and approachable work and one that completely envelops the listener in its sun-drenched majesty.
With the weather, in London at least, finally having taken some kind of turn toward the norm for the season, two albums have come along that enhance the sense of wonder in the rays of sunshine.
The development of Animal Collective from freaky feedback noise merchants to quirky pop act would now appear to be complete. ‘Strawberry Jam’ is comfortably their most accessible album to date, although it achieves this without compromising on their distinctive ethos. Their characteristic elements are all still intact – including Panda Bear’s vigorous tribal drumming, the strange interventions of electronic noise, the childlike melodies and the disorientating overlapping vocal lines.
Although ‘Sung Tongs’ and ‘Feels’ had already made strides in this direction, there’s an immediate and clear difference to the sound of this new album. The vocals are produced with greater clarity and pushed much higher in the mix, so much so that the group’s somewhat bizarre, lysergic-sounding lyrics are at last comprehensible with little effort. There are individual lines that stand out as a result, perhaps for the first time on an AC record (‘For Reverend Green’s triumphant singalong ‘I think it’s alright to be inhuman now!’ or ‘Unsolved Mysteries’ relating the surprise of looking into someone’s eyes and ‘finding out he’s Jack the Ripper’). They can also make much more of their unhinged singing styles – the weird and wonderful yelps that pepper the background add a warped intensity, and the sudden leaps into falsetto without prior warning become much more striking here.
It’s also much simpler rhythmically – the jerky mechanics of previous records have been almost completely eschewed in favour of pulsating heartbeats and relentless pounding. It’s clear that Brian Wilson, particularly the ‘child is the father of the man’ idea that dominated ‘Smile’, remains the primary influence, but his harmonic and melodic values are filtered through such a peculiar prism that this band can comfortably be distanced from more slavish Wilson copyists (The High Llamas or even Super Furry Animals).
All nine of these songs boldly straddle the fine line between infectious and infuriating, mostly staying on just the right side of it. There’s certainly a real sense of fun and enthusiasm infusing the whole record, each song being delivered with demented glee. ‘Peacebone’ seems almost unstoppable in its release of primal joy, whilst ‘Unsolved Mysteries’ sounds like a demonic fairground carousel. The album is dominated by two lengthy explorations – the hazy, surreal and mysterious ‘For Reverend Green’ and the evocative, gently rolling ‘Fireworks’. The former seems unusually linear, extrapolating its single, insistent idea to its very limit.
The group remain structurally unpredictable but easily identifiable in their sound, and the greater emphasis on immediacy and vocal clarity has given them a fresh lease of life. With publishing now handled by Rough Trade and a new deal with Domino, there’s every chance of ‘Strawberry Jam’ being a modest commercial breakthrough. I shall be spreading it on my toast liberally.
The artist formerly known as Manitoba is another act to have undergone a rather dramatic and unusual change in sound. It is increasingly hard to believe that the same Dan Snaith who made the warm, jittery electronica of Manitoba’s ‘Start Breaking My Heart’ also made this musically audacious but melodically conventional record under the name of Caribou.
Again, the influence of Brian Wilson and The Beach Boys would appear to be somewhat thinly veiled, but the music is a heat-hazed, endearingly ragged concoction that delves into a broad range of musical inspirations. There are hints of the bold, ambitious production values of David Axelrod, particularly on the stomping and insistent ‘Eli’, and the big, clattering drums throughout are redolent of the percussive sound textures Kieren Hebden conjured for the last two Four Tet albums. A number of tracks benefit from real attention to detail, with chattering woodwind samples creating a disorientating sense of confusion.
Superimposed over this peculiar sound mix is a lush and unashamed lyrical romanticism. Several tracks are given girls’ names for titles (‘Sandy’, ‘Eli’, ‘Irene’) and there’s a summery, loving atmosphere pervading throughout. At its most restrained, there’s a hint of the strange combination of positivity and melancholy that Yo La Tengo have recently captured so well, but when the clatter kicks back in, it’s bracingly synaesthetic.
There are points at which the music here becomes genuinely, unsettlingly odd. ‘Irene’ for example sounds like an old piece of sun-warped vinyl, its shimmering chords veering oddly out of tune. Its processed mechanical drum beat also breaks the mood somewhat – given the use of live-sounding drums throughout the rest of the record. ‘Andorra’ also closes on a peculiarly dark note, with ‘Niobe’ initially sounding like the start of a pulsating house track, before journeying off on several unpredictable tangents.
Yet for all its attempts to confound and confuse, ‘Andorra’ is in the main a refreshingly warm and approachable work and one that completely envelops the listener in its sun-drenched majesty.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
A Brief Rant
One of the monthly music magazines this month opens its review of the latest Bad Plus album by claiming: "For all those who thought that jazz was a group of dusty old men pootling through Night and Day in the pub snug, the success of this US trio playing jazz with indie-rock attitude will have been a gust of fresh air". Just who does think this exactly? Anyone reading this unfathomably patronising review might be forgiven for thinking that The Bad Plus were the first jazz group not to include standards in their repertoire! Naturally, the review proceeds to emphasise the group's goofy pop covers over their own originals, despite the increasing quality of the latter (as emphasised on this blog more than once). The originals, the writer states, 'will probably work best live'. Funny that, given that even The Bad Plus' jazz-with-rock-dynamics is essentially a live art form, based as it is on the qualities of group improvisation! All this kind of writing achieves is to present a group purely in terms of the marketing spin applied to them, rather than producing any kind of original critical thinking.
Even up to last month, this same publication had a dedicated jazz column in its reviews section but unless I'm going completely mad (or there are no jazz releases in the whole of August), this now appears to have been edited out. Why this complete lack of regard for the versatile tastes and informed views of a large part of its readership? Mercifully, the reviews of recent reissues from greats including Andrew Hill and Joe Harriott make for more comfortable reading, which makes for some recompense for the lack of critical judgment on the new.
Two of the main competing monthly publications are increasingly driving me insane with their constant battling to cover the same ground. On one hand, we have yet another Rolling Stones cover and on another, we have Weller picking his 'Modfather classics'... again! What is the interest in either of these features at this point in time? The Stones are of course on perpetual tour, but they hardly need to sell more tickets! One of the two publications has a thorough, lengthy overview of Prince's recording career, surely a more aposite cover feature given the controversy over the distribution of his new album, and his imminent 21-night stand in London? I appreciate that these magazines both have international audiences for whom they need to cater, and that the big figures in the rock canon sell copies, but it would be satisfying if we could go through a year without an obligatory Stones, Beatles or Dylan cover. It seems the only contemporary act currently worthy of a cover feature would be Arctic Monkeys. It is increasingly interesting to observe how Word magazine is occupying the clear gap in the market by giving more prominence to current acts (Amy Winehouse, Rufus Wainwright etc - none of them particularly avant garde, but at least offering some sort of variety).
Both major 'classic rock' monthlies have proved extremely valuable mouthpieces for a diverse range of artists both current and established (The Hold Steady, Rilo Kiley, Warren Zevon, Arcade Fire, Broken Social Scene, Sly and The Family Stone, Scott Walker etc), yet none of these artists have even come close to gracing the front cover (with the possible exception of Sly Stone who I think once featured several years ago). Surely it's time for a change?
Even up to last month, this same publication had a dedicated jazz column in its reviews section but unless I'm going completely mad (or there are no jazz releases in the whole of August), this now appears to have been edited out. Why this complete lack of regard for the versatile tastes and informed views of a large part of its readership? Mercifully, the reviews of recent reissues from greats including Andrew Hill and Joe Harriott make for more comfortable reading, which makes for some recompense for the lack of critical judgment on the new.
Two of the main competing monthly publications are increasingly driving me insane with their constant battling to cover the same ground. On one hand, we have yet another Rolling Stones cover and on another, we have Weller picking his 'Modfather classics'... again! What is the interest in either of these features at this point in time? The Stones are of course on perpetual tour, but they hardly need to sell more tickets! One of the two publications has a thorough, lengthy overview of Prince's recording career, surely a more aposite cover feature given the controversy over the distribution of his new album, and his imminent 21-night stand in London? I appreciate that these magazines both have international audiences for whom they need to cater, and that the big figures in the rock canon sell copies, but it would be satisfying if we could go through a year without an obligatory Stones, Beatles or Dylan cover. It seems the only contemporary act currently worthy of a cover feature would be Arctic Monkeys. It is increasingly interesting to observe how Word magazine is occupying the clear gap in the market by giving more prominence to current acts (Amy Winehouse, Rufus Wainwright etc - none of them particularly avant garde, but at least offering some sort of variety).
Both major 'classic rock' monthlies have proved extremely valuable mouthpieces for a diverse range of artists both current and established (The Hold Steady, Rilo Kiley, Warren Zevon, Arcade Fire, Broken Social Scene, Sly and The Family Stone, Scott Walker etc), yet none of these artists have even come close to gracing the front cover (with the possible exception of Sly Stone who I think once featured several years ago). Surely it's time for a change?
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Back In The Mainstream Again
Rilo Kiley’s 'Under The Blacklight'
I’m expecting some rather baffled reactions to this latest outing from music press darlings Rilo Kiley, at the very least from the indie mafia. A couple of years ago, John Kell and I went to see them at the Marquee in London, an enjoyable show that nevertheless prompted John to dismiss them as MOR. In a way, he had a point, and this album will certainly bolster his argument. ‘Under The Blacklight’ is a very clever and calculated attempt to catapult the band away from the indie ghetto and into the world of major league pop.
Luckily, at its best, it is indeed poptastic. The highlights here draw on a wide range of 60s and 70s black music influences, from disco to simmering Stax soul, but these influences are processed through a lush, highly polished US West Coast production. It’s a delightfully summery record, but also a notably pristine and perfected one too. The opening ‘Silver Lining’ which places some of Jenny Lewis’ more expressive vocals against some brilliant high end guitar pluckings is completely delightful. Even better is the delectably light disco groove of ‘Breakin’ Up’. ‘Smoke Detector’ is unashamedly lightweight, and works brilliantly as a result, whilst ‘15’ sets its cautionary tale of unwitting exploitation of an underage girl to a sultry soul backing, complete with lovingly arranged horn section. It’s mostly mercifully more faithful genre recreation than pastiche.
I’m even gradually learning to love the tracks I was initially uncertain about. ‘When The Angels Come Around’ is most like the Rilo Kiley of old, but has a wonderfully infectious, stomping chorus. ‘The Moneymaker’, which initially sounded rather heavy handed and lumbering, is revealing itself as a slightly off-kilter oddity and ‘Close Call’ is luscious and sensual. Blake Sennett’s ‘Dreamworld’ is a step too far into cod-ethereal blandness for me though, and doesn’t really go anywhere particularly exciting.
I’m afraid I remain unconvinced about Jenny Lewis herself though. If the great Elvis Costello admires her as a lyricist, one would be forgiven for assuming that she’s a writer of real substance. I’m not so sure. ‘Under The Blacklight’ is preoccupied with sex, and whilst it’s neither embarrassing nor laboured, I’m not sure Lewis is anywhere near as insightful as she clearly wants to be. Some of the lyrics are also either clunky or meaningless. Her voice has definitely assumed more character though and the sultriness now seems less forced.
The polished production and mainstream values suit this band so much better than the faux-indie pretentions of old. Listening to ‘Under The Blacklight’, one gets the impression that, much like The Cardigans, or Blondie before them, they have always secretly wanted to be a mega-selling pop act. With this record, they may well achieve that – and that’s no crime against humanity.
I’m expecting some rather baffled reactions to this latest outing from music press darlings Rilo Kiley, at the very least from the indie mafia. A couple of years ago, John Kell and I went to see them at the Marquee in London, an enjoyable show that nevertheless prompted John to dismiss them as MOR. In a way, he had a point, and this album will certainly bolster his argument. ‘Under The Blacklight’ is a very clever and calculated attempt to catapult the band away from the indie ghetto and into the world of major league pop.
Luckily, at its best, it is indeed poptastic. The highlights here draw on a wide range of 60s and 70s black music influences, from disco to simmering Stax soul, but these influences are processed through a lush, highly polished US West Coast production. It’s a delightfully summery record, but also a notably pristine and perfected one too. The opening ‘Silver Lining’ which places some of Jenny Lewis’ more expressive vocals against some brilliant high end guitar pluckings is completely delightful. Even better is the delectably light disco groove of ‘Breakin’ Up’. ‘Smoke Detector’ is unashamedly lightweight, and works brilliantly as a result, whilst ‘15’ sets its cautionary tale of unwitting exploitation of an underage girl to a sultry soul backing, complete with lovingly arranged horn section. It’s mostly mercifully more faithful genre recreation than pastiche.
I’m even gradually learning to love the tracks I was initially uncertain about. ‘When The Angels Come Around’ is most like the Rilo Kiley of old, but has a wonderfully infectious, stomping chorus. ‘The Moneymaker’, which initially sounded rather heavy handed and lumbering, is revealing itself as a slightly off-kilter oddity and ‘Close Call’ is luscious and sensual. Blake Sennett’s ‘Dreamworld’ is a step too far into cod-ethereal blandness for me though, and doesn’t really go anywhere particularly exciting.
I’m afraid I remain unconvinced about Jenny Lewis herself though. If the great Elvis Costello admires her as a lyricist, one would be forgiven for assuming that she’s a writer of real substance. I’m not so sure. ‘Under The Blacklight’ is preoccupied with sex, and whilst it’s neither embarrassing nor laboured, I’m not sure Lewis is anywhere near as insightful as she clearly wants to be. Some of the lyrics are also either clunky or meaningless. Her voice has definitely assumed more character though and the sultriness now seems less forced.
The polished production and mainstream values suit this band so much better than the faux-indie pretentions of old. Listening to ‘Under The Blacklight’, one gets the impression that, much like The Cardigans, or Blondie before them, they have always secretly wanted to be a mega-selling pop act. With this record, they may well achieve that – and that’s no crime against humanity.
It's A Family Farce
Sly and The Family Stone?! In Boscombe?!
Well what on earth was that about? Without doubt, Sly Stone's 'appearance' at the Bournemouth Opera House last weekend was the weirdest gig I have ever seen. Brought to life admirably by some tight but generic funk-lite from local heroes The Baker Brothers, and then some spectacularly outmoded but highly enjoyable electro soul from the very promising Unklejam, we were then treated to a spectacularly long wait. There may well have been more crew members tinkering onstage (or just frequently just crashing into each other) than there were people in the audience.
The rumour is (I'm not prepared to confirm or deny this in public in case it proves incorrect) that band and crew only arrived two hours after the doors opened, with no soundcheck prior to the gig. I certainly witnessed the late arrival of the tour manager, who was briskly ushered backstage, later appearing onstage, and then bizarrely attempted to engineer the group's sound, with seemingly no knowledge whatsoever of the venue's equipment.
Arriving onstage some 45-50 minutes later than scheduled, the group then essentially attempted to soundcheck whilst performing, frequently stopping to test some horrendously malfunctioning radio mics. Their attempts to enliven the audience were not greatly appreciated ('Sly says he ain't getting on this stage until his mic is right! Fix Sly's mic! Fix Sly's mic!' etc).
This new incarnation of Sly and The Family Stone is essentially a very slick tribute band led by Sly's sister Vet and niece Lisa, and featuring two members of the original Family Stone horn section. We knew from reviews of the Lovebox Weekender and the European shows that Sly himself would only appear with the group for a maximum of four tunes, so nobody could have been expecting very much.
Truthfully, though, nobody could have expected this utter shambles either, and rarely have I seen a supposedly professional touring act hold their paying audience with such complete contempt. Beginning with about 8 bars of 'In Time', ironically played very much out of time, it was clear that this was going to be a bit of a mess. For a few minutes 'Dance To The Music' felt like it captured the collective spirit of the original Family Stone unit, but the group lost the structure and ended up repeating the lyrics several times before finally agreeing to curtail it.
'Hot Fun In The Summertime' was a blast of breezy pop joy, but the band looked visibly distressed, with no audio in their monitors onstage. The ensuing chaos made for grim and uncomfortable watching and the group then somehow managed to make the awesome 'Don't Call Me Nigger, Whitey' sound bland, in spite of Lisa Stone's powerful vocal. 'Somebody's Watching You' made for an improvement, but again it all just sounded too polished - without the gritty rough edges that defined the original group.
When Sly finally emerged, looking peculiarly hunched, listless and zombified (rather like a decrepit Flavor Flav from Public Enemy), his mic was most certainly not fixed. He was virtually inaudible throughout 'If You Want Me To Stay', although very close listening revealed that the pinched, nasal quality of his voice was still very much intact, despite his 20 years in the wilderness. During 'Sing A Simple Song' though, the man came alive in the most bizarre way possible - leaping away from his keyboards, dancing awkwardly across the stage and vocalising incomprehensibly. He then decided he was 'off to take a piss' and promptly left the stage, leaving the band to gamely carry on for a few more numbers.
He returned halfway through a spirited version of 'Thank You Faletinme Be Mice Elf Again' for more of the bizarre dancing, spinning on his chair behind his keyboards, and generally prancing around with a demented, perpetual grin across his face. He returned to the keyboards for a closing medley of 'Stand!' and 'I Want To Take You Higher' in which he veered from the initially vulnerable and delicate to concluding on a note of manic glee, jumping off the stage in the most rigid posture imaginable and then having to be lifted back on again.
There have been many theories posited as to why Sly Stone refuses to perform a complete set himself. It might well be stage fright after 20 years as a reclusive figure, although his onstage antics suggest otherwise. It may have something to do with his recent freak accident, falling off a cliff near his LA home. More plausibly though, it may have much more to do with his character, which seems to be somewhat unhinged and bizarre. There was evidence here to suggest that, despite all the ravages of the intervening years, there was still some of the genius captured on those early albums left intact.
There is simply no denying that this man was once one of the great masters of contemporary pop music. Sly and The Family Stone were a multi-racial collective that recognised no boundaries, whether cultural or musical. Easily the most influential and significant of the acts that performed at Woodstock (and controversially I include Hendrix here), they epitomised better than any other group the idealism of the 60s decaying into the murk and pessimism of the 1970s - although notably Sly and his new family completely eschewed his confused and jaded masterpiece 'There's A Riot Goin' On' for these shows.
This 'comeback' tour has undoubtedly been an expensive farce, for the punters at least, and many will be unforgiving in their criticism of this once strident and iconic figure. Yet there was something so utterly odd, so grimly compelling about this whole event that maybe some will take memories of a deeply unusual value away from it.
Well what on earth was that about? Without doubt, Sly Stone's 'appearance' at the Bournemouth Opera House last weekend was the weirdest gig I have ever seen. Brought to life admirably by some tight but generic funk-lite from local heroes The Baker Brothers, and then some spectacularly outmoded but highly enjoyable electro soul from the very promising Unklejam, we were then treated to a spectacularly long wait. There may well have been more crew members tinkering onstage (or just frequently just crashing into each other) than there were people in the audience.
The rumour is (I'm not prepared to confirm or deny this in public in case it proves incorrect) that band and crew only arrived two hours after the doors opened, with no soundcheck prior to the gig. I certainly witnessed the late arrival of the tour manager, who was briskly ushered backstage, later appearing onstage, and then bizarrely attempted to engineer the group's sound, with seemingly no knowledge whatsoever of the venue's equipment.
Arriving onstage some 45-50 minutes later than scheduled, the group then essentially attempted to soundcheck whilst performing, frequently stopping to test some horrendously malfunctioning radio mics. Their attempts to enliven the audience were not greatly appreciated ('Sly says he ain't getting on this stage until his mic is right! Fix Sly's mic! Fix Sly's mic!' etc).
This new incarnation of Sly and The Family Stone is essentially a very slick tribute band led by Sly's sister Vet and niece Lisa, and featuring two members of the original Family Stone horn section. We knew from reviews of the Lovebox Weekender and the European shows that Sly himself would only appear with the group for a maximum of four tunes, so nobody could have been expecting very much.
Truthfully, though, nobody could have expected this utter shambles either, and rarely have I seen a supposedly professional touring act hold their paying audience with such complete contempt. Beginning with about 8 bars of 'In Time', ironically played very much out of time, it was clear that this was going to be a bit of a mess. For a few minutes 'Dance To The Music' felt like it captured the collective spirit of the original Family Stone unit, but the group lost the structure and ended up repeating the lyrics several times before finally agreeing to curtail it.
'Hot Fun In The Summertime' was a blast of breezy pop joy, but the band looked visibly distressed, with no audio in their monitors onstage. The ensuing chaos made for grim and uncomfortable watching and the group then somehow managed to make the awesome 'Don't Call Me Nigger, Whitey' sound bland, in spite of Lisa Stone's powerful vocal. 'Somebody's Watching You' made for an improvement, but again it all just sounded too polished - without the gritty rough edges that defined the original group.
When Sly finally emerged, looking peculiarly hunched, listless and zombified (rather like a decrepit Flavor Flav from Public Enemy), his mic was most certainly not fixed. He was virtually inaudible throughout 'If You Want Me To Stay', although very close listening revealed that the pinched, nasal quality of his voice was still very much intact, despite his 20 years in the wilderness. During 'Sing A Simple Song' though, the man came alive in the most bizarre way possible - leaping away from his keyboards, dancing awkwardly across the stage and vocalising incomprehensibly. He then decided he was 'off to take a piss' and promptly left the stage, leaving the band to gamely carry on for a few more numbers.
He returned halfway through a spirited version of 'Thank You Faletinme Be Mice Elf Again' for more of the bizarre dancing, spinning on his chair behind his keyboards, and generally prancing around with a demented, perpetual grin across his face. He returned to the keyboards for a closing medley of 'Stand!' and 'I Want To Take You Higher' in which he veered from the initially vulnerable and delicate to concluding on a note of manic glee, jumping off the stage in the most rigid posture imaginable and then having to be lifted back on again.
There have been many theories posited as to why Sly Stone refuses to perform a complete set himself. It might well be stage fright after 20 years as a reclusive figure, although his onstage antics suggest otherwise. It may have something to do with his recent freak accident, falling off a cliff near his LA home. More plausibly though, it may have much more to do with his character, which seems to be somewhat unhinged and bizarre. There was evidence here to suggest that, despite all the ravages of the intervening years, there was still some of the genius captured on those early albums left intact.
There is simply no denying that this man was once one of the great masters of contemporary pop music. Sly and The Family Stone were a multi-racial collective that recognised no boundaries, whether cultural or musical. Easily the most influential and significant of the acts that performed at Woodstock (and controversially I include Hendrix here), they epitomised better than any other group the idealism of the 60s decaying into the murk and pessimism of the 1970s - although notably Sly and his new family completely eschewed his confused and jaded masterpiece 'There's A Riot Goin' On' for these shows.
This 'comeback' tour has undoubtedly been an expensive farce, for the punters at least, and many will be unforgiving in their criticism of this once strident and iconic figure. Yet there was something so utterly odd, so grimly compelling about this whole event that maybe some will take memories of a deeply unusual value away from it.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Ingmar Bergman 1918 - 2007
With impeccable timing, the legendary Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman has died, at the grand age of 89, just as his most famous work, The Seventh Seal, is enjoying yet another retrospective.
Bergman was one of the towering masters of the cinematic art, able to elicit performances of visceral intensity and raw emotion, as well as having a genius for staging and the close up shot. Like Leonard Cohen in the world of popular music, his reputation for doom and gloom preceded him, but this not only ignores his capacity to capture real feeling, but also the equal power of some of his lighter, more approachable fims (Summer With Monika). Woody Allen described him as 'probably the greatest artist, all things considered, since the invention of the motion picture camera'.
Still, some remain unconvinced, viewing even his greatest films as emphasising technical machismo above emotional substance. In my view this is wrong. His best works, particularly when at his most discomforting, match powerful, disorientating imagery with overwhelming emotional force. Many will rush to cite The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, Fanny and Alexander or Persona as his ultimate masterpiece. I would opt for the extraordinary Cries and Whispers, easily one of the most painful films I can remember watching - the vivid crimson colours and the howls of torment are still imprinted on my mind. He will remain unchallenged as the filmmaker to capture most powerfully the extremes of emotional confrontation.
Bergman was one of the towering masters of the cinematic art, able to elicit performances of visceral intensity and raw emotion, as well as having a genius for staging and the close up shot. Like Leonard Cohen in the world of popular music, his reputation for doom and gloom preceded him, but this not only ignores his capacity to capture real feeling, but also the equal power of some of his lighter, more approachable fims (Summer With Monika). Woody Allen described him as 'probably the greatest artist, all things considered, since the invention of the motion picture camera'.
Still, some remain unconvinced, viewing even his greatest films as emphasising technical machismo above emotional substance. In my view this is wrong. His best works, particularly when at his most discomforting, match powerful, disorientating imagery with overwhelming emotional force. Many will rush to cite The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, Fanny and Alexander or Persona as his ultimate masterpiece. I would opt for the extraordinary Cries and Whispers, easily one of the most painful films I can remember watching - the vivid crimson colours and the howls of torment are still imprinted on my mind. He will remain unchallenged as the filmmaker to capture most powerfully the extremes of emotional confrontation.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Journey To The Margins Part 3
Kenny Werner, The Bad Plus, Michael Brecker, Box Of Dub, Cinematic Orchestra
Kenny Werner is reasonably well known as a Pianist, mostly working with a trio, in relatively conventional post-bop style. With his latest album though (his first for Blue Note), he has thrown everyone a giant curveball. Not only has he assembled an absolute dream team for these sessions (Dave Douglas, Chris Potter, Scott Colley and Brian Blade, who plays at this swinging, subtle best here), but he has also ventured into the realms of jazz-rock and electronics. Actually, there’s probably enough refined jazz here to keep everyone happy (Werner’s playing is especially mellifluous on ‘The 13th Day’, a long piece that ends with a haunting theme), but what is most striking is the inventive use of studio resources. Luckily, Werner has achieved this without stifling his group’s energy, and Colley and Blade appear to have struck up an enervating empathy with each other. ‘New Amsterdam’ is underpinned by a quirky groove, whilst the brilliantly named ‘Lawn Chairs (and Other Foreign Policy)’ features some deliciously squelchy keyboard sounds and ‘Uncovered Heart’ is a lush ballad with hints of African melodic influence. ‘Inaugural Balls’ is superbly jagged, and features some energetic free blowing. The electronics sit comfortably alongside the group performances and this is an album of refreshing variety.
It’s always good to hear from The Bad Plus, a group who have divided opinion for as long as they have existed. Oddly, both Marsalis brothers appear to detest them, whilst others (myself included) admire them deeply for expanding the language of trio jazz and opening the music up to a whole new audience. In recent years, however, there has been a strong sense that the group have been losing commercial ground, particularly in this country, where a whole new wave of British groups have occupied the open minded jazz-rock ground they once claimed. ‘Prog’ appears to be a mostly self-financed album, released independently by the band themselves.
The album also represents a certain kind of retrenchment by increasing the quota of reworkings of popular songs. Most are played pretty straight – it’s arguable that this version of ‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’ is as ponderous and meandering as the original, albeit with pretentions at serious art. ‘Life On Mars’ is carefully extrapolated and rewired, whilst by its very nature, Rush’s ‘Tom Sawyer’ is inevitably the most deconstructed. None are as exciting as their earlier interpretations of Nirvana, Blondie or Aphex Twin though, and ‘prog’ seems to confirm my suspicions that it is now their original compositions that are most rewarding.
Luckily the group excel themselves in their writing here, particularly bassist Reid Anderson, who contributes two masterful compositions in ‘Physical Cities’ and the choppy ‘Giant’. The latter allows versatile, supremely technical drummer David King to flex his muscles. Ethan Iverson’s piano playing is characteristically polyrhythmic throughout, often apparently pulling in several different directions simultaneously. They remain a superb ensemble, capable of real structural invention.
What a tragedy that Michael Brecker’s final album ‘Pilgrimage’ has had to be released posthumously, but what a miracle it is that he essentially kept himself alive in order to complete it. This would be a remarkable record from anyone in full health – as a result, it’s next to impossible to believe that Brecker was in the advanced stages of terminal cancer whilst recording this. His playing throughout is vibrant and full-bodied, and it’s clear that he remained a confident master of his instrument right to the last moment. It’s also by no means mere hyperbole to suggest that Brecker might have reached his compositional peak here. Whilst there’s nothing in this set that will challenge or reshape the musical landscape, the themes are consistently memorable and the record has an appreciably timeless sound.
It certainly helps that Brecker assembled a group of masters to accompany him. Pat Metheny is at his expressive best here, providing subtle chordal backings and frequently supporting the main melody with counter figures of his own. John Patitucci remains one of the ablest and most solid bassists in the world, and combining him with the swashbuckling drive of Jack De Johnette makes for a pretty much unbeatable rhythm section. The compositions are therefore rendered rhythmically intricate and the intensity is brilliantly sustained throughout, notably so on the magnificent opener ‘The Mean Time’ and the driving groove of ‘Tumbleweed’. The latter has a brilliantly onomatopoeic title, for it does indeed tumble and rattle – with real energy and conviction. There’s also a neat contrast between the insistent, immediate piano playing of Herbie Hancock and the more ponderous and studied style of Brad Mehldau (a musician I personally find somewhat difficult).
There’s a relentless momentum to much of this material, alongside some brilliant improvising, investing new life in what are essentially familiar modal explorations. The sound is always crisp and full of spirit, so even over the most elaborate extemporisations (the extended introduction of the title track for example), there is a curious warmth and zest. The group is equally adept at handling introspection though, and the central ballad ‘When Can I Kiss You Again?’ is moving in its unassuming grace and elegance.
‘Pilgrimage’ will inevitably be seen as a symbolic recording – a miraculous valedictory statement of real integrity and depth. In this case, though, this is not without genuine justification. Brecker appears to have imbued this material with personal warmth, compassion and humanity. As a result, it’s a record that, whilst brimming with musicality, is also purely and simply enjoyable.
The Soul Jazz record label, already established as a superb chronicler of otherwise hard to find soul and reggae rarities, has been branching out considerably in recent years. Branching into the world of arty disco, punk and post-punk, they have been instrumental in recovering a number of lost masters of their art. Perhaps their most significant release to date remains the wonderful Arthur Russell compilation, the success of which led to other companies investing in recapturing the rest of his extraordinary output, both as a composer and as a producer (although I’m still waiting for a CD reissue of the Dinosaur L album). This year, they have journeyed yet further into the contemporary pop landscape with a compilation of prime jungle and drum ‘n’ bass from the early nineties, and the truly magnificent Box Of Dub, a compilation that neatly connects the nascent dubstep movement back to its dub reggae origins.
All the genre’s prime movers and shakers are here (Burial, Kode 9, Skream, Scuba), with a generous selection of tracks not available on their respective albums. The Kode 9 and Burial tracks are particularly impressive, dark and imposing in their creative vision, and brilliantly executed.
Yet it’s the less well known moments that are most striking, in that they show clear links between this ‘future dub’ collection and the classic Lee Perry and Keith Hudson produced works which no doubt served as major sources of inspiration. ‘Dread Cowboy’ is credited to Tayo Meets The Acid Rockers Uptown, a direct reference to the King Tubby/Augustus Pablo classic, and is a deliciously laconic skank refreshed for the contemporary sonic landscape by the use of stuttering percussion and sub-bass sounds borrowed from grime. The two tracks by Sub Version feat. Paul St. Hilaire (unfortunately the sleeve notes are not informative enough to indicate whether these are direct collaborations or a producer’s reversions of pre-existing tracks) are most illuminating – Hilaire’s voice is strongly reminiscent of Horace Andy, and both tracks are majestic.
Jason Swinscoe’s Cinematic Orchestra have finally returned with yet another ‘soundtrack to an imaginary film, as yet unmade’. Fortunately, ‘Ma Fleur’ is arguably their most evocative record to date, benefiting considerably from a number of significant contributors from the jazz world and beyond, and frequently moving outside the jazz-meets-trip-hop box in which Swinscoe had been in danger of confining himself. There are hints of folk music and pop balladry (the latter mostly brought by singer-songwriter Patrick Watson), and the comparisons with Talk Talk’s ‘Spirit of Eden’ are not entirely wide of the mark, although ‘Ma Fleur’ doesn’t share that record’s extraordinary sense of space and control.
That being said, those wanting more of the same will be more than satisfied with the reappearance of legendary soul and gospel singer Fontella Bass on ‘Familiar Ground’ (aptly titled) and ‘Breathe’, the latter pulling off a neat trick in combining concerns both old and new. It’s a strikingly beautiful and poignant piece of music, brilliantly constructed. Bass has apparently been unwell – perhaps as a consequence she sounds more vulnerable and less overpowering on these tracks. ‘Child Song’ again prominently features the sinewy drum loops of Luke Flowers and rolling upright bass figures of Phil France, albeit with some neatly arranged backing vocals varying the texture. Elsewhere, guest musicians such as percussionist Milo Fell and pianist Nick Ramm leave their own indelible mark on proceedings, and the string arrangements are dependably lush, particularly on the lovely ‘All The Stars Fell’.
A number of the other tracks require some effort on behalf of the listener, particularly the gentle, deceptively simple ‘Music Box’ which sees Watson share vocal duties with former Lamb singer Lou Rhodes. The title track represents Swinscoe at his most engaging, collaborating with saxophonist Tom Chance to produce something immersing and compelling. The opening ‘To Build A Home’, somewhat oddly, most closely resembles Coldplay, were that group to have any sense of real drama beyond the merely emotionally manipulative.
‘Ma Fleur’ is a slow burning but beautiful achievement, and it seems appropriate that it needs to be ingested as a complete whole. It has a delicate ebb and flow, and at its best is as emotional as it is atmospheric.
Kenny Werner is reasonably well known as a Pianist, mostly working with a trio, in relatively conventional post-bop style. With his latest album though (his first for Blue Note), he has thrown everyone a giant curveball. Not only has he assembled an absolute dream team for these sessions (Dave Douglas, Chris Potter, Scott Colley and Brian Blade, who plays at this swinging, subtle best here), but he has also ventured into the realms of jazz-rock and electronics. Actually, there’s probably enough refined jazz here to keep everyone happy (Werner’s playing is especially mellifluous on ‘The 13th Day’, a long piece that ends with a haunting theme), but what is most striking is the inventive use of studio resources. Luckily, Werner has achieved this without stifling his group’s energy, and Colley and Blade appear to have struck up an enervating empathy with each other. ‘New Amsterdam’ is underpinned by a quirky groove, whilst the brilliantly named ‘Lawn Chairs (and Other Foreign Policy)’ features some deliciously squelchy keyboard sounds and ‘Uncovered Heart’ is a lush ballad with hints of African melodic influence. ‘Inaugural Balls’ is superbly jagged, and features some energetic free blowing. The electronics sit comfortably alongside the group performances and this is an album of refreshing variety.
It’s always good to hear from The Bad Plus, a group who have divided opinion for as long as they have existed. Oddly, both Marsalis brothers appear to detest them, whilst others (myself included) admire them deeply for expanding the language of trio jazz and opening the music up to a whole new audience. In recent years, however, there has been a strong sense that the group have been losing commercial ground, particularly in this country, where a whole new wave of British groups have occupied the open minded jazz-rock ground they once claimed. ‘Prog’ appears to be a mostly self-financed album, released independently by the band themselves.
The album also represents a certain kind of retrenchment by increasing the quota of reworkings of popular songs. Most are played pretty straight – it’s arguable that this version of ‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’ is as ponderous and meandering as the original, albeit with pretentions at serious art. ‘Life On Mars’ is carefully extrapolated and rewired, whilst by its very nature, Rush’s ‘Tom Sawyer’ is inevitably the most deconstructed. None are as exciting as their earlier interpretations of Nirvana, Blondie or Aphex Twin though, and ‘prog’ seems to confirm my suspicions that it is now their original compositions that are most rewarding.
Luckily the group excel themselves in their writing here, particularly bassist Reid Anderson, who contributes two masterful compositions in ‘Physical Cities’ and the choppy ‘Giant’. The latter allows versatile, supremely technical drummer David King to flex his muscles. Ethan Iverson’s piano playing is characteristically polyrhythmic throughout, often apparently pulling in several different directions simultaneously. They remain a superb ensemble, capable of real structural invention.
What a tragedy that Michael Brecker’s final album ‘Pilgrimage’ has had to be released posthumously, but what a miracle it is that he essentially kept himself alive in order to complete it. This would be a remarkable record from anyone in full health – as a result, it’s next to impossible to believe that Brecker was in the advanced stages of terminal cancer whilst recording this. His playing throughout is vibrant and full-bodied, and it’s clear that he remained a confident master of his instrument right to the last moment. It’s also by no means mere hyperbole to suggest that Brecker might have reached his compositional peak here. Whilst there’s nothing in this set that will challenge or reshape the musical landscape, the themes are consistently memorable and the record has an appreciably timeless sound.
It certainly helps that Brecker assembled a group of masters to accompany him. Pat Metheny is at his expressive best here, providing subtle chordal backings and frequently supporting the main melody with counter figures of his own. John Patitucci remains one of the ablest and most solid bassists in the world, and combining him with the swashbuckling drive of Jack De Johnette makes for a pretty much unbeatable rhythm section. The compositions are therefore rendered rhythmically intricate and the intensity is brilliantly sustained throughout, notably so on the magnificent opener ‘The Mean Time’ and the driving groove of ‘Tumbleweed’. The latter has a brilliantly onomatopoeic title, for it does indeed tumble and rattle – with real energy and conviction. There’s also a neat contrast between the insistent, immediate piano playing of Herbie Hancock and the more ponderous and studied style of Brad Mehldau (a musician I personally find somewhat difficult).
There’s a relentless momentum to much of this material, alongside some brilliant improvising, investing new life in what are essentially familiar modal explorations. The sound is always crisp and full of spirit, so even over the most elaborate extemporisations (the extended introduction of the title track for example), there is a curious warmth and zest. The group is equally adept at handling introspection though, and the central ballad ‘When Can I Kiss You Again?’ is moving in its unassuming grace and elegance.
‘Pilgrimage’ will inevitably be seen as a symbolic recording – a miraculous valedictory statement of real integrity and depth. In this case, though, this is not without genuine justification. Brecker appears to have imbued this material with personal warmth, compassion and humanity. As a result, it’s a record that, whilst brimming with musicality, is also purely and simply enjoyable.
The Soul Jazz record label, already established as a superb chronicler of otherwise hard to find soul and reggae rarities, has been branching out considerably in recent years. Branching into the world of arty disco, punk and post-punk, they have been instrumental in recovering a number of lost masters of their art. Perhaps their most significant release to date remains the wonderful Arthur Russell compilation, the success of which led to other companies investing in recapturing the rest of his extraordinary output, both as a composer and as a producer (although I’m still waiting for a CD reissue of the Dinosaur L album). This year, they have journeyed yet further into the contemporary pop landscape with a compilation of prime jungle and drum ‘n’ bass from the early nineties, and the truly magnificent Box Of Dub, a compilation that neatly connects the nascent dubstep movement back to its dub reggae origins.
All the genre’s prime movers and shakers are here (Burial, Kode 9, Skream, Scuba), with a generous selection of tracks not available on their respective albums. The Kode 9 and Burial tracks are particularly impressive, dark and imposing in their creative vision, and brilliantly executed.
Yet it’s the less well known moments that are most striking, in that they show clear links between this ‘future dub’ collection and the classic Lee Perry and Keith Hudson produced works which no doubt served as major sources of inspiration. ‘Dread Cowboy’ is credited to Tayo Meets The Acid Rockers Uptown, a direct reference to the King Tubby/Augustus Pablo classic, and is a deliciously laconic skank refreshed for the contemporary sonic landscape by the use of stuttering percussion and sub-bass sounds borrowed from grime. The two tracks by Sub Version feat. Paul St. Hilaire (unfortunately the sleeve notes are not informative enough to indicate whether these are direct collaborations or a producer’s reversions of pre-existing tracks) are most illuminating – Hilaire’s voice is strongly reminiscent of Horace Andy, and both tracks are majestic.
Jason Swinscoe’s Cinematic Orchestra have finally returned with yet another ‘soundtrack to an imaginary film, as yet unmade’. Fortunately, ‘Ma Fleur’ is arguably their most evocative record to date, benefiting considerably from a number of significant contributors from the jazz world and beyond, and frequently moving outside the jazz-meets-trip-hop box in which Swinscoe had been in danger of confining himself. There are hints of folk music and pop balladry (the latter mostly brought by singer-songwriter Patrick Watson), and the comparisons with Talk Talk’s ‘Spirit of Eden’ are not entirely wide of the mark, although ‘Ma Fleur’ doesn’t share that record’s extraordinary sense of space and control.
That being said, those wanting more of the same will be more than satisfied with the reappearance of legendary soul and gospel singer Fontella Bass on ‘Familiar Ground’ (aptly titled) and ‘Breathe’, the latter pulling off a neat trick in combining concerns both old and new. It’s a strikingly beautiful and poignant piece of music, brilliantly constructed. Bass has apparently been unwell – perhaps as a consequence she sounds more vulnerable and less overpowering on these tracks. ‘Child Song’ again prominently features the sinewy drum loops of Luke Flowers and rolling upright bass figures of Phil France, albeit with some neatly arranged backing vocals varying the texture. Elsewhere, guest musicians such as percussionist Milo Fell and pianist Nick Ramm leave their own indelible mark on proceedings, and the string arrangements are dependably lush, particularly on the lovely ‘All The Stars Fell’.
A number of the other tracks require some effort on behalf of the listener, particularly the gentle, deceptively simple ‘Music Box’ which sees Watson share vocal duties with former Lamb singer Lou Rhodes. The title track represents Swinscoe at his most engaging, collaborating with saxophonist Tom Chance to produce something immersing and compelling. The opening ‘To Build A Home’, somewhat oddly, most closely resembles Coldplay, were that group to have any sense of real drama beyond the merely emotionally manipulative.
‘Ma Fleur’ is a slow burning but beautiful achievement, and it seems appropriate that it needs to be ingested as a complete whole. It has a delicate ebb and flow, and at its best is as emotional as it is atmospheric.
Journey To The Margins Part 2
Stars Of The Lid, Colleen, Fennesz Sakamoto, Led Bib, James Blackshaw
Much has already been written about Kranky label artists Stars Of The Lid, with the 4AD label boss making the particularly bold assertion that they were already making the most significant music of the 21st Century. Such hyperbole surely neglects all the minimalist composers who have so clearly influenced them, but there’s little doubt that there is something strange and beautiful about this percussionless, almost anti-rhythmic music.
It’s certainly physically and mentally relaxing, and for many listeners ‘Stars Of The Lid and Their Refinement of the Decline’ may be far more effective at inducing sleep than any tranquiliser. Yet there’s also something contemplative and meditative in its very stillness – a peace and calm that is decidedly absent from most popular music and also exposes most branded ‘chill out’ music for the vacuous wallpaper that it is.
Stars Of The Lid’s music is all about the lush combination of electronically generated sounds with the intervention of acoustic instruments. There is no percussion, no beat, and only the vaguest sense of time and rhythm. This is music that, as Jason Pierce might have it, floats in space. There are also no clearly identifiable themes – instead melodic ideas (always played at the most laconic pace imaginable) drift in and out of the ether at undefined intervals. Adam Wiltzie and Brian McBride mostly avoid dissonance or uncomfortable sound clashes, but there’s still something peculiarly disquieting and odd about this music. It constantly leads the listener in expecting some form of climax that never arrives – there is never any release of tension. It also feels eerie and solipsistic. Even if it were being performed live to a stadium crowd, you’d still feel as if you were the only person listening.
There’s also something quite delicious and enticing about their dry sense of humour. This is clearly evident in their song titles, from the opening ‘Dungtitled (in A Major)’ to ‘Even If You’re Never Awake’ and ‘Another Ballad For Heavy Lids’. They’re certainly leaving an open goal for anyone who does wish to charge them with being soporific!
This is a double set, an undoubted indulgence, and I would find it quite a challenge to get through both discs in one uninterrupted sitting. This album is uniquely relentless in its adherence to one single idea, and some may even find it tyrannical as a result. Still, it’s beautiful music made with real conviction that rewards close attention.
Cecile Schott has been making tranquil, beautiful music under the name of Colleen for the Leaf label for a few years now. ‘Les Ondes Silencieuses’ may be her finest work to date. She has veered increasingly astray from her initial preoccupation with electronic loops in favour of acoustic instrumentation and cross-fertilising early music with a defiantly minimalist approach. The list of influences on her website is both fascinating and refreshing, running the gamut from Schubert to Terry Riley, Keith Jarrett and Derek Bailey. She also lists a whole range of ‘non-western’ music with which I am completely unfamiliar. It’s brilliant simply to find a contemporary musician prepared to admit to being influenced by a musical heritage (in my time in student radio I got so bored with interviewing pop musicians who claimed, absurdly, either not to listen to other music, or not to think about it). It’s therefore even better to find someone who is prepared to inform themselves from all angles.
Colleen’s last work saw her playing a number of music boxes, with impressively powerful results. On ‘Les Ondes Silencieuses’ she performs on a wider range of unusual instruments, including the viola da gamba, classical guitars and the spinet. The music is deliberately under-arranged, often revolving around repeating four note motifs. The playing is consistently delicate and restrained, and textural variety is achieved through very minimal overdubbing and the use of different playing techniques. It’s somehow both spare and elegant, and remarkably peaceful.
I’ve been an admirer of the work of laptop experimentalist Christian Fennesz for some time now, although I’m reliably informed that watching him live is much like watching paint dry. Whilst his early work tended to be abrasive and uncompromising, he has gradually steered himself towards something more accessible, but no less challenging. His greatest achievement perhaps remains the ‘Fennesz Plays’ EP, for which he radically deconstructed Brian Wilson’s ‘Don’t Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder’ and The Rolling Stones’ ‘Paint It Black’. The following ‘Endless Summer’ album, now something of an established classic, was his warmest, most inviting work, full of all manner of intriguing processed guitar sounds set against an all-enveloping fuzz. If anything, the follow-up (‘Venice’) was warmer still. His latest work is a collaboration with the legendary Yellow Magic Orchestra mainman Ryuichi Sakamoto, and it is decidedly intimate. Fennesz’s laptop processing is becoming increasingly musical – there’s much more variety in pitch and tone here than on previous outings. Sakamoto’s sustained piano chords meld with Fennesz’s backdrop with consummate ease, and, in leaving harmony hanging unresolved, Sakomoto adds elements of mystery and suspense (‘Kokoro’ sounds particularly creepy). The whole work seems to have a modern chamber feel, but also sounds vividly cinematic.
Along with Fraud, Babel labelmates Led Bib are another heavily hyped act in the new explosion of British jazz talent. Drummer/composer Mark Holub, although an American by birth, now lives in London. He has recently been heaped with all manner of acclaim and is the recipient of awards and funding galore. It’s not difficult to understand why Led Bib are incredibly hip right now – much like Acoustic Ladyland, their sound references punk and heavy rock as much as it does a jazz tradition. Their music is brash, noisy and blisteringly intense, and after several listens, I’m finally being convinced that there’s more to 'Sizewell Tea', their second album, than meets the eye. The compositional device of using two alto saxophonists (Chris Williams and Pete Grogan) to play the melodies in demonically dissonant intervals initially works brilliantly. The opening ‘Stinging Nettle’ is both fiery and nasty and ‘Battery Power’ is impressive in its willingness to embrace the tangential. Across an entire album though, the formula begins to reek somewhat of gimmickry, and the band work best when they veer away from this rather restrictive template (‘The Keeper’, for example, despite its rhythmic invention and playful quality, is really rather irritating). The improvising is mostly savage and untamed, but perhaps not especially musical. As a drummer, Holub is powerful, driving, heavy and furious, but rarely inventive or innovative. The group playing often seems more competitive than complementary, and the general dynamic seems to be simply to play hard and fast. This works well when Grogan and Williams battle against each other, but gets oppressive when overused. When other players are allowed more space, such as when keyboardist Toby McClaren blurts all over ‘Spring’, the results are emphatically more challenging. The uncharacteristically pretty ‘Shower’, the marvellously crisp ‘Manifesto For The Future’ and impressive refashioning of David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’ are standout moments that may well point the way forward.
James Blackshaw is a young self-taught guitarist from London who gathered rave reviews from well informed music writers for his last work, 2006’s ‘O True Believers’. He’s now back with another spiritual-themed work, again strongly influenced by the Takoma school of guitar playing instigated by the legendary John Fahey. His latest work ‘The Cloud of Unknowing’ consists of five mostly long pieces that extemporise on basic themes. His layers of rolling guitars feel like undulating tidal waves, and the music veers between feeling meditative and overwhelming. It’s a powerful set with a very distinctive sound, suggesting that Blackshaw is not just a master instrumentalist, but also a master craftsman. This is an enriching work far removed from any underlying trends in British music.
Much has already been written about Kranky label artists Stars Of The Lid, with the 4AD label boss making the particularly bold assertion that they were already making the most significant music of the 21st Century. Such hyperbole surely neglects all the minimalist composers who have so clearly influenced them, but there’s little doubt that there is something strange and beautiful about this percussionless, almost anti-rhythmic music.
It’s certainly physically and mentally relaxing, and for many listeners ‘Stars Of The Lid and Their Refinement of the Decline’ may be far more effective at inducing sleep than any tranquiliser. Yet there’s also something contemplative and meditative in its very stillness – a peace and calm that is decidedly absent from most popular music and also exposes most branded ‘chill out’ music for the vacuous wallpaper that it is.
Stars Of The Lid’s music is all about the lush combination of electronically generated sounds with the intervention of acoustic instruments. There is no percussion, no beat, and only the vaguest sense of time and rhythm. This is music that, as Jason Pierce might have it, floats in space. There are also no clearly identifiable themes – instead melodic ideas (always played at the most laconic pace imaginable) drift in and out of the ether at undefined intervals. Adam Wiltzie and Brian McBride mostly avoid dissonance or uncomfortable sound clashes, but there’s still something peculiarly disquieting and odd about this music. It constantly leads the listener in expecting some form of climax that never arrives – there is never any release of tension. It also feels eerie and solipsistic. Even if it were being performed live to a stadium crowd, you’d still feel as if you were the only person listening.
There’s also something quite delicious and enticing about their dry sense of humour. This is clearly evident in their song titles, from the opening ‘Dungtitled (in A Major)’ to ‘Even If You’re Never Awake’ and ‘Another Ballad For Heavy Lids’. They’re certainly leaving an open goal for anyone who does wish to charge them with being soporific!
This is a double set, an undoubted indulgence, and I would find it quite a challenge to get through both discs in one uninterrupted sitting. This album is uniquely relentless in its adherence to one single idea, and some may even find it tyrannical as a result. Still, it’s beautiful music made with real conviction that rewards close attention.
Cecile Schott has been making tranquil, beautiful music under the name of Colleen for the Leaf label for a few years now. ‘Les Ondes Silencieuses’ may be her finest work to date. She has veered increasingly astray from her initial preoccupation with electronic loops in favour of acoustic instrumentation and cross-fertilising early music with a defiantly minimalist approach. The list of influences on her website is both fascinating and refreshing, running the gamut from Schubert to Terry Riley, Keith Jarrett and Derek Bailey. She also lists a whole range of ‘non-western’ music with which I am completely unfamiliar. It’s brilliant simply to find a contemporary musician prepared to admit to being influenced by a musical heritage (in my time in student radio I got so bored with interviewing pop musicians who claimed, absurdly, either not to listen to other music, or not to think about it). It’s therefore even better to find someone who is prepared to inform themselves from all angles.
Colleen’s last work saw her playing a number of music boxes, with impressively powerful results. On ‘Les Ondes Silencieuses’ she performs on a wider range of unusual instruments, including the viola da gamba, classical guitars and the spinet. The music is deliberately under-arranged, often revolving around repeating four note motifs. The playing is consistently delicate and restrained, and textural variety is achieved through very minimal overdubbing and the use of different playing techniques. It’s somehow both spare and elegant, and remarkably peaceful.
I’ve been an admirer of the work of laptop experimentalist Christian Fennesz for some time now, although I’m reliably informed that watching him live is much like watching paint dry. Whilst his early work tended to be abrasive and uncompromising, he has gradually steered himself towards something more accessible, but no less challenging. His greatest achievement perhaps remains the ‘Fennesz Plays’ EP, for which he radically deconstructed Brian Wilson’s ‘Don’t Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder’ and The Rolling Stones’ ‘Paint It Black’. The following ‘Endless Summer’ album, now something of an established classic, was his warmest, most inviting work, full of all manner of intriguing processed guitar sounds set against an all-enveloping fuzz. If anything, the follow-up (‘Venice’) was warmer still. His latest work is a collaboration with the legendary Yellow Magic Orchestra mainman Ryuichi Sakamoto, and it is decidedly intimate. Fennesz’s laptop processing is becoming increasingly musical – there’s much more variety in pitch and tone here than on previous outings. Sakamoto’s sustained piano chords meld with Fennesz’s backdrop with consummate ease, and, in leaving harmony hanging unresolved, Sakomoto adds elements of mystery and suspense (‘Kokoro’ sounds particularly creepy). The whole work seems to have a modern chamber feel, but also sounds vividly cinematic.
Along with Fraud, Babel labelmates Led Bib are another heavily hyped act in the new explosion of British jazz talent. Drummer/composer Mark Holub, although an American by birth, now lives in London. He has recently been heaped with all manner of acclaim and is the recipient of awards and funding galore. It’s not difficult to understand why Led Bib are incredibly hip right now – much like Acoustic Ladyland, their sound references punk and heavy rock as much as it does a jazz tradition. Their music is brash, noisy and blisteringly intense, and after several listens, I’m finally being convinced that there’s more to 'Sizewell Tea', their second album, than meets the eye. The compositional device of using two alto saxophonists (Chris Williams and Pete Grogan) to play the melodies in demonically dissonant intervals initially works brilliantly. The opening ‘Stinging Nettle’ is both fiery and nasty and ‘Battery Power’ is impressive in its willingness to embrace the tangential. Across an entire album though, the formula begins to reek somewhat of gimmickry, and the band work best when they veer away from this rather restrictive template (‘The Keeper’, for example, despite its rhythmic invention and playful quality, is really rather irritating). The improvising is mostly savage and untamed, but perhaps not especially musical. As a drummer, Holub is powerful, driving, heavy and furious, but rarely inventive or innovative. The group playing often seems more competitive than complementary, and the general dynamic seems to be simply to play hard and fast. This works well when Grogan and Williams battle against each other, but gets oppressive when overused. When other players are allowed more space, such as when keyboardist Toby McClaren blurts all over ‘Spring’, the results are emphatically more challenging. The uncharacteristically pretty ‘Shower’, the marvellously crisp ‘Manifesto For The Future’ and impressive refashioning of David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’ are standout moments that may well point the way forward.
James Blackshaw is a young self-taught guitarist from London who gathered rave reviews from well informed music writers for his last work, 2006’s ‘O True Believers’. He’s now back with another spiritual-themed work, again strongly influenced by the Takoma school of guitar playing instigated by the legendary John Fahey. His latest work ‘The Cloud of Unknowing’ consists of five mostly long pieces that extemporise on basic themes. His layers of rolling guitars feel like undulating tidal waves, and the music veers between feeling meditative and overwhelming. It’s a powerful set with a very distinctive sound, suggesting that Blackshaw is not just a master instrumentalist, but also a master craftsman. This is an enriching work far removed from any underlying trends in British music.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Journey To The Margins Part 1
This is going to become a big multiple post catching up on some of the more unusual and esoteric sounds I’ve been immersing myself in this year. My musical tastes are continually expanding, particularly as I get further alienated by the focus of the mainstream music press and radio on generic guitar music that I’ve heard several hundred times before. I still value great songwriters as artists, as my previous few posts have explicitly stated, but I grew up with traditions of instrumental music, particularly jazz, and I’ve been building on these foundations with more ambitious and abstract listening habits of late.
I’ve particularly been meaning to write about David Torn’s remarkable ‘Prezens’ album for some time but have struggled to find words or even concepts that adequately capture its artistry. This is Torn’s first album as bandleader for the ECM label in twenty years, and what a remarkable group he has assembled for these sessions. With New York free improvising legend Tim Berne on saxophone, the in-demand Craig Taborn on keys and world class drummer Tom Rainey, this is a prime example of fascinating music drawn from collective improvisation. The pieces are all comprised from recordings of group sessions, to which Torn has added electronics and manipulated the structures. The resulting sound is nearly impossible to classify, although there are identifiable elements drawn from the free jazz tradition, fusion, heavy metal and electronica.
There is a striking attention to detail, and Torn’s emphasis is as much on mood, texture and sound as it is on technical virtuosity. Many guitarists these days use effects, processing and live sampling to manipulate their sound, but few have done this with as much success and originality as Torn achieves here. His own playing is frequently subsumed not just by the overall atmosphere but also by the group’s rampant and celebratory hard grooving. When he eventually comes to the foreground, it’s with a searing, excoriating force. More generally, there are times (particularly on the lengthy ‘Structural Functions Of Prezens’ and ‘Bulbs’) when the listener is hypnotically lulled into a false sense of security before the music explodes with dizzying, calamitous abandon. At its most extreme, the music is quite extraordinary in its lack of respect for classification. ‘Sink’ begins with a dirty groove that could almost be described as funky, before becoming increasingly abstract, with Berne exploiting the highest registers of his instrument. Rainey is simply superb throughout, delivering rhythms that are frequently breathtaking in their intricacy and invention.
It would be easy to overstate this record’s strangeness or ‘otherness’ but also essential to its impact is a very deep and ingrained understanding of the blues. This can be heard even in the album’s most deconstructionist moments. The opening ‘AK’ for example, is closely in touch with American blues traditions. Amidst all the clatter and clamour there is actually a very recognisable beating heart. In a year when the ECM is truly excelling itself, this may be their most significant release.
Bassist and composer Scott Colley has established himself as a major played in the New York jazz scene (he also features prominently on Kenny Werner’s rather strange ‘Lawn Chair Society’ album), but has been somewhat overlooked so far here in the UK. There’s a very peculiar review of the ‘Architect of the Silent Moment’ album over on allaboutjazz.com that I find rather baffling. It argues that this music emphasises individual virtuosity over melodic accessibility. I have to confess that I was initially most struck by this album’s accessibility – the rhythm section is subtle but compelling, and the harmonised melodies seem to me to be attractive and mostly immediate in their impact. There’s an impressive reworking of Andrew Hill’s ‘Smoke Stack’, but everything else is a Colley original, and he already seems to have established some kind of signature sound. There’s no denying the improvisational chops of the individual group members (including Craig Taborn again, outstanding trumpeter Ralph Alessi and the exquisite Jason Moran guesting on piano), but there’s also a thematic quality to all of these pieces. It might be fair to argue that the rhythm section are sometimes too content to provide backing and don’t always converse as equals with the soloists, but this isn’t a consistent problem throughout. The record is best when making full use of the talents of Moran, especially as the contrast in styles between his piano and Taborn’s unpredictable, angular keyboard interruptions is powerful and arresting. There’s more to come from Colley for sure, but this is a pretty impressive calling card.
My Mercury musings of the past few days have already indicated that I’m genuinely impressed by the much hyped self titled debut from Fraud. This is frequently odd, discomforting and original music, dominated not just by joyous and disrespectful improvising, but also by outrageously crisp rhythm playing.
The band have a particularly novel line-up, deploying two drummers. This would seem like enough for most bands, but when one of those drummers is the immensely creative, chattery and fidgety Tim Giles (one of the best drummers on the London jazz circuit at present), it’s clear that this was always going to be a highly percussive record. Luckily, Fraud achieve this in a refreshingly unconventional way – there’s little sign of tedious drum battling or aggression – the group instead prefer to seek out the full range of sounds both from drum kits and from electronic percussion. They also use a baritone guitarist, but no bassist, which imbues the music with extra space and freedom.
The compositions frequently turn the conventions of group playing upside down, frequently beginning with abstract exposition before coalescing into more conventional rhythm-directed hard riffing. Saxophonist James Allsopp plays with a tone that is defiantly gritty and harsh, sometimes even intentionally nasty. The group also make considered use of keyboard and electronic textures.
It’s a peculiar clattering noise, but it’s not all fast and furious, and frequently there’s an obvious group dynamic at work. The closing ‘Mystery Box’ is as close as the group get to a conventional ballad, resembling as it does Charles Mingus’ ‘Goodbye Pork Pie Hat’, but it feels otherworldly and disorientating rather than melancholy, haunting or beautiful.
This inventive, fearless but ultimately enjoyable album gives further evidence of the brilliant health of British jazz right now.
My Mercury musings also directed me towards two albums on the wonderful Type label from 2006 that had sadly passed me by at the time. ‘The Dead Sea’ by Xela is simply superb, a compelling blend of drones, abstractions, guitar pluckings and strange percussive sounds that is both mysterious and riveting. Its central image of being lost at sea is powerful and terrifying, and the closing ‘Never Going Home’ concludes the set on a palpably bleak and resigned note. The use of seamless segues between the compositions makes the work feel like a complete and carefully structured whole, with subtle variations in texture providing shape and transition. It’s strongly influenced by the techniques of sound collage, and the shifting layers of noise are both cerebrally and emotionally affecting.
‘Coins and Crosses’ by Ryan Teague is an impressive offering in an increasingly fashionable sub-genre that sees contemporary composition merge with electronic experimentation. I’m not sure there’s anything particularly audacious in the compositional techiniques that Teague deploys, and the Cambridge Philharmonic Orchestra is mostly used to rather conventional effect. Teague has supposedly been strongly influenced by early sacred music, and as a result there are times when this album sounds very close to the much more successful spiritual works of Arvo Part. Still, the electronic sounds are successfully subsumed within the greater whole rather than overpowering the traditional textures, and there are some achingly beautiful melodies that flow effortlessly at the core of this music. This is more likely to offer inspiration to other electro-acoustic musicians than to establish Teague as a major composer in his own right, but it’s undoubtedly a pleasure to hear.
I’ve particularly been meaning to write about David Torn’s remarkable ‘Prezens’ album for some time but have struggled to find words or even concepts that adequately capture its artistry. This is Torn’s first album as bandleader for the ECM label in twenty years, and what a remarkable group he has assembled for these sessions. With New York free improvising legend Tim Berne on saxophone, the in-demand Craig Taborn on keys and world class drummer Tom Rainey, this is a prime example of fascinating music drawn from collective improvisation. The pieces are all comprised from recordings of group sessions, to which Torn has added electronics and manipulated the structures. The resulting sound is nearly impossible to classify, although there are identifiable elements drawn from the free jazz tradition, fusion, heavy metal and electronica.
There is a striking attention to detail, and Torn’s emphasis is as much on mood, texture and sound as it is on technical virtuosity. Many guitarists these days use effects, processing and live sampling to manipulate their sound, but few have done this with as much success and originality as Torn achieves here. His own playing is frequently subsumed not just by the overall atmosphere but also by the group’s rampant and celebratory hard grooving. When he eventually comes to the foreground, it’s with a searing, excoriating force. More generally, there are times (particularly on the lengthy ‘Structural Functions Of Prezens’ and ‘Bulbs’) when the listener is hypnotically lulled into a false sense of security before the music explodes with dizzying, calamitous abandon. At its most extreme, the music is quite extraordinary in its lack of respect for classification. ‘Sink’ begins with a dirty groove that could almost be described as funky, before becoming increasingly abstract, with Berne exploiting the highest registers of his instrument. Rainey is simply superb throughout, delivering rhythms that are frequently breathtaking in their intricacy and invention.
It would be easy to overstate this record’s strangeness or ‘otherness’ but also essential to its impact is a very deep and ingrained understanding of the blues. This can be heard even in the album’s most deconstructionist moments. The opening ‘AK’ for example, is closely in touch with American blues traditions. Amidst all the clatter and clamour there is actually a very recognisable beating heart. In a year when the ECM is truly excelling itself, this may be their most significant release.
Bassist and composer Scott Colley has established himself as a major played in the New York jazz scene (he also features prominently on Kenny Werner’s rather strange ‘Lawn Chair Society’ album), but has been somewhat overlooked so far here in the UK. There’s a very peculiar review of the ‘Architect of the Silent Moment’ album over on allaboutjazz.com that I find rather baffling. It argues that this music emphasises individual virtuosity over melodic accessibility. I have to confess that I was initially most struck by this album’s accessibility – the rhythm section is subtle but compelling, and the harmonised melodies seem to me to be attractive and mostly immediate in their impact. There’s an impressive reworking of Andrew Hill’s ‘Smoke Stack’, but everything else is a Colley original, and he already seems to have established some kind of signature sound. There’s no denying the improvisational chops of the individual group members (including Craig Taborn again, outstanding trumpeter Ralph Alessi and the exquisite Jason Moran guesting on piano), but there’s also a thematic quality to all of these pieces. It might be fair to argue that the rhythm section are sometimes too content to provide backing and don’t always converse as equals with the soloists, but this isn’t a consistent problem throughout. The record is best when making full use of the talents of Moran, especially as the contrast in styles between his piano and Taborn’s unpredictable, angular keyboard interruptions is powerful and arresting. There’s more to come from Colley for sure, but this is a pretty impressive calling card.
My Mercury musings of the past few days have already indicated that I’m genuinely impressed by the much hyped self titled debut from Fraud. This is frequently odd, discomforting and original music, dominated not just by joyous and disrespectful improvising, but also by outrageously crisp rhythm playing.
The band have a particularly novel line-up, deploying two drummers. This would seem like enough for most bands, but when one of those drummers is the immensely creative, chattery and fidgety Tim Giles (one of the best drummers on the London jazz circuit at present), it’s clear that this was always going to be a highly percussive record. Luckily, Fraud achieve this in a refreshingly unconventional way – there’s little sign of tedious drum battling or aggression – the group instead prefer to seek out the full range of sounds both from drum kits and from electronic percussion. They also use a baritone guitarist, but no bassist, which imbues the music with extra space and freedom.
The compositions frequently turn the conventions of group playing upside down, frequently beginning with abstract exposition before coalescing into more conventional rhythm-directed hard riffing. Saxophonist James Allsopp plays with a tone that is defiantly gritty and harsh, sometimes even intentionally nasty. The group also make considered use of keyboard and electronic textures.
It’s a peculiar clattering noise, but it’s not all fast and furious, and frequently there’s an obvious group dynamic at work. The closing ‘Mystery Box’ is as close as the group get to a conventional ballad, resembling as it does Charles Mingus’ ‘Goodbye Pork Pie Hat’, but it feels otherworldly and disorientating rather than melancholy, haunting or beautiful.
This inventive, fearless but ultimately enjoyable album gives further evidence of the brilliant health of British jazz right now.
My Mercury musings also directed me towards two albums on the wonderful Type label from 2006 that had sadly passed me by at the time. ‘The Dead Sea’ by Xela is simply superb, a compelling blend of drones, abstractions, guitar pluckings and strange percussive sounds that is both mysterious and riveting. Its central image of being lost at sea is powerful and terrifying, and the closing ‘Never Going Home’ concludes the set on a palpably bleak and resigned note. The use of seamless segues between the compositions makes the work feel like a complete and carefully structured whole, with subtle variations in texture providing shape and transition. It’s strongly influenced by the techniques of sound collage, and the shifting layers of noise are both cerebrally and emotionally affecting.
‘Coins and Crosses’ by Ryan Teague is an impressive offering in an increasingly fashionable sub-genre that sees contemporary composition merge with electronic experimentation. I’m not sure there’s anything particularly audacious in the compositional techiniques that Teague deploys, and the Cambridge Philharmonic Orchestra is mostly used to rather conventional effect. Teague has supposedly been strongly influenced by early sacred music, and as a result there are times when this album sounds very close to the much more successful spiritual works of Arvo Part. Still, the electronic sounds are successfully subsumed within the greater whole rather than overpowering the traditional textures, and there are some achingly beautiful melodies that flow effortlessly at the core of this music. This is more likely to offer inspiration to other electro-acoustic musicians than to establish Teague as a major composer in his own right, but it’s undoubtedly a pleasure to hear.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
An Alternative Mercury Shortlist
OK, I've made some predictions and selections, now I've thought of my ideal alternative shortlist. Please note that I'm actually pleased at the nominations for Amy Winehouse and Basquiat Strings, but I didn't want this list to overlap in any way with the official one, so neither are included here. Also, I don't go for tokenism, so I haven't restricted myself to one jazz entry.
1.Broken Family Band - Hello Love (superior guitar based indie-pop - only those completely ignorant of musical history would take The View over this gem).
2.Fraud - Fraud (very impressive debut, some gritty improv and hard riffing)
3.Finn Peters - Su-Ling (deliciously swinging)
4.Cinematic Orchestra - Ma Fleur (atmospheric, subtle, evocative)
5. Dani Siciliano - Slappers (inventive production, clever songs)
6. Alasdair Roberts - The Amber Gatherers (warm and affecting Scottish folk)
7. Xela - The Dead Sea (innovative use of sound and texture, very striking, disturbing in places)
8. Jeremy Warmsley - The Art Of Fiction (independent, bedroom-produced pop)
9. Curios - Hidden (The Art of the Trio)
10.Ryan Teague - Coins and Crosses (intriguing mix of very early and very contemporary influences, passed me by last September unfortunately)
11.The Long Blondes - Someone To Drive You Home (more superior indie-pop)
12. Kode 9 and Spaceape - Memories of the Future (intoxicating, strange, disorientating, dubby)
1.Broken Family Band - Hello Love (superior guitar based indie-pop - only those completely ignorant of musical history would take The View over this gem).
2.Fraud - Fraud (very impressive debut, some gritty improv and hard riffing)
3.Finn Peters - Su-Ling (deliciously swinging)
4.Cinematic Orchestra - Ma Fleur (atmospheric, subtle, evocative)
5. Dani Siciliano - Slappers (inventive production, clever songs)
6. Alasdair Roberts - The Amber Gatherers (warm and affecting Scottish folk)
7. Xela - The Dead Sea (innovative use of sound and texture, very striking, disturbing in places)
8. Jeremy Warmsley - The Art Of Fiction (independent, bedroom-produced pop)
9. Curios - Hidden (The Art of the Trio)
10.Ryan Teague - Coins and Crosses (intriguing mix of very early and very contemporary influences, passed me by last September unfortunately)
11.The Long Blondes - Someone To Drive You Home (more superior indie-pop)
12. Kode 9 and Spaceape - Memories of the Future (intoxicating, strange, disorientating, dubby)
Two Extremes: Steely Dan and Daniel Johnston In Concert
It would be difficult to watch two more different gigs consecutively than Steely Dan at the Hammersmith Apollo and Daniel Johnston at The Union Chapel. The former came with predictable musical virtuosity, as well as tremendous clarity of sound and execution astounding in its precision and accuracy. The latter was raw and untutored, unashamedly vulnerable and brilliantly moving.
Steely Dan haven’t visited the UK in a while, and this time they brought an ensemble that Walter Becker has repeatedly described as the best group they’ve yet assembled. This is without doubt a bold claim, but with the dexterous, driving drumming of the tremendous Keith Carlock and a particularly intricate horn section, there’s plenty of evidence to support this.
Certainly this was a much better show than the Wembley Arena performance I caught a few years ago. The advance publicity had lead me to expect plenty of recent material, including Donald Fagen solo tracks and some premieres of new work from Becker’s forthcoming second solo album. In fact, there was none of this, the band instead offering a shrewdly selected set of material ‘delving back into the deep 70s’.
The presentation was tremendous, with the band arriving onstage to open with a deeply swinging jazz groove to usher Becker and Fagen to the stage. Fagen played melodica for the first few tracks, which was a nice touch, and a refreshing change from his usual key-tar. ‘Time Out Of Mind’ made for a neat opener, metronomically groovy but with one of their most infectious melodies.
They only play two tracks from the past decade – an engaging, clattering ‘Two Against Nature’ and a tightly controlled rendition of ‘Godwhacker’. Much of the rest of the set focused on their golden period of transition (from 1974’s Katy Lied through to 1977’s Aja) – when they began to move from the fixed line-up and freewheeling multi-genre spirit of the early albums towards a more perfectionist adherence to strict time and jazz charts. In recent years, this perfectionism has proved stifling – with both studio and live bands forced to play rigidly composed lines with little free reign. Mercifully, this ethos has been at least partially abandoned for this tour. Becker and Fagen employed Musical Director and the horn charts particularly were meticulously arranged but they also left plenty of space for dynamic soloing and the horn players trade lines as if their lives depended on it (in fact, they probably did – Becker and Fagen are notoriously tricky taskmasters).
The show was testament to the duo’s longstanding writing talents, both as musical arrangers and as storytellers, with their surreal, hyper-literate tales of geeks, hipsters, drug dealers and outsiders. They also delivered plenty of laconic, dry humour too. Becker brings the volume right down during ‘Hey Nineteen’ to address the audience (‘it’s a lovely midsummer evening, and the last place you really want to be is at a Steely Dan show – you’d rather be on the banks of the river, with a beautiful lady…’). When Becker introduces the band towards the show’s conclusion, he introduces his partner in crime as ‘composer, pianist, songwriter, visionary and raconteur’. He may well be all these things but he still has the worst posture at an electric piano that I’ve ever seen.
Highlights included a stunning recreation of ‘Aja’, complete with Keith Carlock’s thrilling and visceral take on the infamous Steve Gadd drum solo. It’s also hard to overstate the audience’s delight when the band encored with ‘FM’, a genuinely surprising populist gesture. It sounded superbly slinky. ‘Chain Lightning’ is rendered as a particularly dirty blues, whilst ‘Bad Sneakers’ and ‘Kid Charlemagne’ made for pleasing curveball selections. The show also benefited greatly from variety, with Becker taking the lead vocal on ‘Haitian Divorce’ (with ample irony) and one of the backing vocalists taking lead vocal duties on a richly soulful, gospel-tinged version of ‘Dirty Work’ (one of the few forays into the earlier catalogue, there was no ‘Do It Again’, ‘Bodhisattva’ or ‘Reelin’ In The Years’ this time round). The closing ‘My Old School’ was particularly satisfying. The man sitting next to me simply could not resist the temptation to play air drums.
Daniel Johnston, by complete contrast, is not a musician’s musician. His vocal pitching is wavering and uncertain, his guitar and piano playing both lack any recognisable sign of technique or training, and his sense of time is so wayward as to be non-existent. His songs deploy only very limited harmony, often written in the same key and using the same three or four chords.
It’s not difficult to explain his extraordinary appeal though. His songs are among the most simple, direct and breathtakingly honest testaments in the modern pop landscape. They are frequently heartbreaking, and clearly a form of solace for the extreme emotional and mental anguish he has suffered throughout his life. He is endearingly childlike, but this also imbues him with a pithy wisdom completely absent from more self-conscious and verbose singer-songwriters. Sometimes watching him feels intensely voyeuristic – is it right to enjoy these manifestations of one man’s personal torment?
On the evidence of this outstanding show, the answer to that question is definitely a firm yes. What really shines through at the Union Chapel is Johnston’s underlying sense of hope and positivity. His songs address difficult issues, from unrequited love to his artistic and personal battles against depression (the quite brilliant ‘Story of An Artist’). Yet there is also real warmth at the heart of his work, particularly evident in the tender piano ballad ‘Love Enchanted’ and the unashamedly sentimental ‘True Love Will Find You In The End’.
There is real musicality to this performance too though, mostly due to the carefully structured nature of the show. Johnston arrives onstage to mass applause, beginning with a handful of solo performances, before inviting special guests James Yorkston and Adem to accompany him on a fascinating range of instruments (Adem plays mandolin and harmonium, whilst Yorkston gets an extraordinarily rich sound from his acoustic guitar). Johnston does his best to throw his accompanists off track, but they do an admirable job in keeping him true. They deliver spirited versions of ‘Casper The Friendly Ghost’ and ‘Walking The Cow’, amongst other songs from throughout the Johnston catalogue.
There’s then a short break before Johnston returns with another guitarist, introduced as a friend from the ‘songs of pain’ era. There’s then another short set where Johnston is backed by a full band, a surprisingly successful venture into conventional musicality.
Johnston is characteristically nervous and self effacing throughout, but there’s also a real sense of conviction underneath it all. He shakes consistently and violently, so much so that John Kell and I wondered whether he now had a physically degenerative disease to add to his other problems, but apparently the shakes are side effects from taking lithium. He sustains his extraordinary gift for communication throughout the show and he remains a prime example of how untrained musicians can break free from academic, formal preconceptions of what constitutes great art. Music shouldn’t exist purely for musicians – it should speak to everyone. Johnston achieves this with quiet dignity and integrity. In baring his soul so unreservedly, he challenges us to look more closely at ourselves.
Steely Dan haven’t visited the UK in a while, and this time they brought an ensemble that Walter Becker has repeatedly described as the best group they’ve yet assembled. This is without doubt a bold claim, but with the dexterous, driving drumming of the tremendous Keith Carlock and a particularly intricate horn section, there’s plenty of evidence to support this.
Certainly this was a much better show than the Wembley Arena performance I caught a few years ago. The advance publicity had lead me to expect plenty of recent material, including Donald Fagen solo tracks and some premieres of new work from Becker’s forthcoming second solo album. In fact, there was none of this, the band instead offering a shrewdly selected set of material ‘delving back into the deep 70s’.
The presentation was tremendous, with the band arriving onstage to open with a deeply swinging jazz groove to usher Becker and Fagen to the stage. Fagen played melodica for the first few tracks, which was a nice touch, and a refreshing change from his usual key-tar. ‘Time Out Of Mind’ made for a neat opener, metronomically groovy but with one of their most infectious melodies.
They only play two tracks from the past decade – an engaging, clattering ‘Two Against Nature’ and a tightly controlled rendition of ‘Godwhacker’. Much of the rest of the set focused on their golden period of transition (from 1974’s Katy Lied through to 1977’s Aja) – when they began to move from the fixed line-up and freewheeling multi-genre spirit of the early albums towards a more perfectionist adherence to strict time and jazz charts. In recent years, this perfectionism has proved stifling – with both studio and live bands forced to play rigidly composed lines with little free reign. Mercifully, this ethos has been at least partially abandoned for this tour. Becker and Fagen employed Musical Director and the horn charts particularly were meticulously arranged but they also left plenty of space for dynamic soloing and the horn players trade lines as if their lives depended on it (in fact, they probably did – Becker and Fagen are notoriously tricky taskmasters).
The show was testament to the duo’s longstanding writing talents, both as musical arrangers and as storytellers, with their surreal, hyper-literate tales of geeks, hipsters, drug dealers and outsiders. They also delivered plenty of laconic, dry humour too. Becker brings the volume right down during ‘Hey Nineteen’ to address the audience (‘it’s a lovely midsummer evening, and the last place you really want to be is at a Steely Dan show – you’d rather be on the banks of the river, with a beautiful lady…’). When Becker introduces the band towards the show’s conclusion, he introduces his partner in crime as ‘composer, pianist, songwriter, visionary and raconteur’. He may well be all these things but he still has the worst posture at an electric piano that I’ve ever seen.
Highlights included a stunning recreation of ‘Aja’, complete with Keith Carlock’s thrilling and visceral take on the infamous Steve Gadd drum solo. It’s also hard to overstate the audience’s delight when the band encored with ‘FM’, a genuinely surprising populist gesture. It sounded superbly slinky. ‘Chain Lightning’ is rendered as a particularly dirty blues, whilst ‘Bad Sneakers’ and ‘Kid Charlemagne’ made for pleasing curveball selections. The show also benefited greatly from variety, with Becker taking the lead vocal on ‘Haitian Divorce’ (with ample irony) and one of the backing vocalists taking lead vocal duties on a richly soulful, gospel-tinged version of ‘Dirty Work’ (one of the few forays into the earlier catalogue, there was no ‘Do It Again’, ‘Bodhisattva’ or ‘Reelin’ In The Years’ this time round). The closing ‘My Old School’ was particularly satisfying. The man sitting next to me simply could not resist the temptation to play air drums.
Daniel Johnston, by complete contrast, is not a musician’s musician. His vocal pitching is wavering and uncertain, his guitar and piano playing both lack any recognisable sign of technique or training, and his sense of time is so wayward as to be non-existent. His songs deploy only very limited harmony, often written in the same key and using the same three or four chords.
It’s not difficult to explain his extraordinary appeal though. His songs are among the most simple, direct and breathtakingly honest testaments in the modern pop landscape. They are frequently heartbreaking, and clearly a form of solace for the extreme emotional and mental anguish he has suffered throughout his life. He is endearingly childlike, but this also imbues him with a pithy wisdom completely absent from more self-conscious and verbose singer-songwriters. Sometimes watching him feels intensely voyeuristic – is it right to enjoy these manifestations of one man’s personal torment?
On the evidence of this outstanding show, the answer to that question is definitely a firm yes. What really shines through at the Union Chapel is Johnston’s underlying sense of hope and positivity. His songs address difficult issues, from unrequited love to his artistic and personal battles against depression (the quite brilliant ‘Story of An Artist’). Yet there is also real warmth at the heart of his work, particularly evident in the tender piano ballad ‘Love Enchanted’ and the unashamedly sentimental ‘True Love Will Find You In The End’.
There is real musicality to this performance too though, mostly due to the carefully structured nature of the show. Johnston arrives onstage to mass applause, beginning with a handful of solo performances, before inviting special guests James Yorkston and Adem to accompany him on a fascinating range of instruments (Adem plays mandolin and harmonium, whilst Yorkston gets an extraordinarily rich sound from his acoustic guitar). Johnston does his best to throw his accompanists off track, but they do an admirable job in keeping him true. They deliver spirited versions of ‘Casper The Friendly Ghost’ and ‘Walking The Cow’, amongst other songs from throughout the Johnston catalogue.
There’s then a short break before Johnston returns with another guitarist, introduced as a friend from the ‘songs of pain’ era. There’s then another short set where Johnston is backed by a full band, a surprisingly successful venture into conventional musicality.
Johnston is characteristically nervous and self effacing throughout, but there’s also a real sense of conviction underneath it all. He shakes consistently and violently, so much so that John Kell and I wondered whether he now had a physically degenerative disease to add to his other problems, but apparently the shakes are side effects from taking lithium. He sustains his extraordinary gift for communication throughout the show and he remains a prime example of how untrained musicians can break free from academic, formal preconceptions of what constitutes great art. Music shouldn’t exist purely for musicians – it should speak to everyone. Johnston achieves this with quiet dignity and integrity. In baring his soul so unreservedly, he challenges us to look more closely at ourselves.
Labels:
Classic Rock,
Indie,
Jazz,
Live,
Music,
Songwriters
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