The La's: The La's (1990)

#22

The Greatest Band There Never Was

There was a common cliché in usage here on the British Isles that Scousers can be work-shy scroungers who value their free-time so much, they very often spend an entire lifetime on the lam from occupational pursuits. Would it be unfair to call Lee Mavers one of these Scousers?

Since this album was released in 1990, he has been able to support himself and his family on the profits generated by the timeless summer anthem There She Goes. Since then, well… maybe a game or two of croquet? Three or four rounds of whist with his bored nephew? Lucky that offensive stereotype does not apply to Scousers these days. Still waiting on that second album, Lee. Take your time.

The La’s will be remembered as the greatest band that never was

and this record sits next to all the one-album masterpieces out there worth a place in all CD collections. Wish I could think of several other ones now. Parallelograms from Lisa Perhacs, perhaps? Although that does not qualify as a masterpiece, per se. This eponymous album was not one either, but the bonus tracks added to the 2001 remaster mean that it now can be labelled a five-star masterpiece without fear of jumping to meretricious conclusions. Sense to follow.

The Past

The original album is a minor pop gem brimming with original ditties that abound with gorgeous little hooks, and still wipes the floor with contemporary chancers such as The Zutons. Son Of A Gun opens with two gambolling hooks that intersect over the free-wheeling hook of the vocals towards several other hooks hidden down there somewhere. Within just the first five seconds, this listener is convinced that Lee Mavers knows his way around a pop melody like no man before him.

The electric guitars here bounce through some of the tightest arrangements and niftiest wordplay modern man has ever managed on a pop album. His harmonies are irresistible and heavy Liverpool accent has never sounded as fabulous since the Fab Four disguised theirs on record all those decades ago. It all then changes after the second minute. I Can’t Sleep comes staggering in with a louder electric guitar and hopping bass line, building to another splendid chorus and makes the threat of a “big black cloud coming” sound like a nice slab of birthday cake. Wonderful and over far too soon.

Timeless Melody owes more to the Merseybeat sound than other tunes on this, but with a little nod to the sky-high pop work of the Lightning Seeds as well, whose first LP preceded this one by one year. The opening verse has a distinctive melody to it and Mavers sounds as though he was destined to make this kind of wonderful pop music. It is almost sad to hear him sing “a melody always finds me” when he has been in professional retirement for almost two decades, but this tune has a staggering guitar solo and wistful pop credentials a-go-go.

Liberty Ship is all jangled guitars, craftily plucked acoustics and bouncy vocals comfortable in the slinky bass support and indelible harmonies building to an oceanic chorus. It almost makes me nostalgic for 1990. Even though I was the paltry age of 3 for most it.

There She Goes

The tune that made Lee Mavers a rather large amount of money, it is possible to draw similarities between this classic and There She Goes Again from the Velvet Underground, but this has its own little hook and sky-high summer melody to play with. The attractive feature of this track is its innocence and bottled euphoria. It is simultaneously one of the happiest tunes produced by a living mortal while at the same time it retains a wistful feel that lingers below the tear-jerking harmonies.

This makes it an ambiguous anthem of loss, happiness and captures the feel of a never-ending summer like no other track ever has (or will) before it. On a musical level, the little pauses before the guitars and drums crash together would appear to have been taken from the Velvet Underground tune (as well as three quarters of the title), but this is far superior to Lou Reed’s slice of domestic violence. This is one of the best pop songs ever recorded because the hook, the lyrics, the vocals and the harmonies are all absolutely perfect. Quite frankly, Mavers deserves all the royalties he can cream for this one.

The Others

Doledrum shifts gear with another fun stab of Merseybeat brilliance. Mavers vocal tapers off into gloomier territory because of the subject matter and the acoustic guitars are accompanied by some neat bongo touches and omnipresent backing vocals that he is not reticent about using.

Feelin’ bounces its way through next with another unique batch of hooks deployed in perfect places and electric guitars that help support the speedy vocal tics and jaunty leaps. Way Out jangles in with a distinctive acoustic sound an keeps the original pace of the album going with another new approach and series of neat harmonies, verses and choruses. Being surrounded by all this perfection can be a problem – these are demonstrations of pop perfection and when all together risk being taken for granted.

I.O.U boasts perhaps the most effortlessly catchy chorus of the record and also one of the neatest little modulations in between the last verse. Freedom Song is another demonstration of the genius of this group, tinged with a reggae influence and a bouncy melody that teeters on the brink of disaster as it wobbles in discomfort towards its unexpected conclusion.

John Power was the only fixed second member of the group and lends a neat second guitar to this tune which highlights the sheer scope of their sound. Failure is a harder rocking track that buries its hook deep behind a louder growl and more abrasive performance and is the least successful piece on the album here.

Looking Glass is a breathtaking closer to the original LP – a searching lament on the passage of life and the meaning of it all that builds to an earth-shattering climax.

The Present

The 2001 re-issue tacked on several bonus tracks that are terrific in their own strange manner. Unexpected dirge All By Myself is added here and despite the tongue-in-cheek lyrics and self-pitying chorus, is a quite poignant little tune with eerie cello part and droning bass as Mavers croons “sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”

Other gems include the B-side Clean Prophet that was fine enough for inclusion on the original album; a manic little jangle-pop wonder that jerks through its pleasant instrumental parts in uproarious fashion while the chorus kneels at the command of Mavers.

Knock Me Down makes the band sound rather like Crowded House, which is no great thing since despite being magnificent – they are no Crowded House. This sounds like a prehensile pop tune to-be until the hook comes out of nowhere from the unusual background percussion overdub. Not terrific. Over has poor(ish) sound, recorded as it was in a stable in Liverpool, but from the scratchy tape sound a beautiful melody twinkles its way into the ear of the listener and an undiscovered gem emerges from the angelic lead harmony.

That glorious sound would capture anyone’s attention were they present beside the sheep and fowl that evening. I.O.U is here again in studio-take form. I prefer the original, but it was nice to include this take as well so all those non-fans can listen with indifference. It captures the rawer side of the group well.

Keep The Royalties Coming

The La’s is a quintessential cult record that has probably made Lee Mavers even more scrumptious millions following its continual lionisation in the press and from music enthusiasts on websites such as this. But there is a reason for this. These people have heard the record. It was one of the finest pop albums made in the 1990s still stands up as a phenomenally strong piece of work seventeen years after it was released and its composer went into hibernation.

Whatever the reason he retired, whatever caused the sudden desire to stop making music, this was one hell of a debut album from a band that should have been made to keep going. There are too many bands who just should not form or make records. The La’s were mercifully cut short and this is their one and only gift to the world. Now, altogether, say thank you.

Rating: 10/10

The Beta Band: The Three EPs (1998)

#21

The Sound of Perfectionism

Like fellow Auld Reekie kooks Long Fin Killie, this band will have slipped below the radar for most listeners. The difference between these gents and this band, however, is that most people will have heard some of their tunes somewhere, whether they recognise the composer or not, and will have been hugely impressed.

This album arrived at a time when the state of play within the musical world was so dreary that the subsequent year people would look to Coldplay as the saviours of popular music, which certainly goes a long way to explain why many embraced this sprawling collection of wonderful songs.

It may also be because The Beta Band manage to successfully incorporate myriad genres and styles into their indulgent compositions, from sixties folk, country/ blues tinged psychedelia to casual experiments into the realms of trip-hop and ambient. These EPs are the first of their endeavours into the musical world, and as such as are wildly experimental, overly ambitious and shamelessly self-indulgent. Oh… and they also contain some of the best music that has ever been committed to disc over the last twenty years. No exaggeration.

This is music made by a bunch of perfectionists without a great deal to lose. The best (and worst) kind. As well as being ruthlessly self-critical, The Beta Band have always been a rather self-deprecating bunch, dismissing their 1999 debut as “f*cking awful.”

Upon several repeated listens of this album, it becomes apparent that they are geniuses, and they seem to casually demonstrate mastery of about fourteen different musical genres over the space of one tune. This album collects the three EPs where the band made their impact, before they recorded their self-panned debut album, and is often cited as their finest album, although Heroes to Zeroes and Hot Shots II are nowhere near what one may call poor. Asides from two standout clunkers on ‘The Patty Patty Sound EP,’ this is an hour of epoch-making craftsmanship and its highlights more than redeem its shortcomings (it is just under 80 minutes in length).

The Patty Patty Sound is a decidedly experimental EP, with the 15-minute ambient centrepiece Monolith at the middle sticking out like a sore thumb beside the failed pseudo-rap The House Song. Asides from this, it is all gold, and luckily modern technology allows us to program out the tat, so it is not an issue.

Champion Versions which opens the album contains two succulent instrumentals and two eye-poppingly wonderful tracks which bookend the release. Los Amigos Del Beta Banditos is a much more palliative experience on the whole, with some truly stellar work towards the end. All these tracks are lengthy, very indulgent and slow-building pieces, making use of their space to grow into life-affirming anthems or just examples of rather aimless but wonderful experimental songcraft.

Push It Out incorporates a piano and guitar solos between its relentless five-minute mantra chorus, whereas more conventional tunes like Needles In My Eyes, She’s The One and Dry The Rain are some of the finest tracks recorded over the last twenty years.

The instrumentals such as B+A are moodily devastating in their own right, and there really is no moment on this record where you should find yourself disinterested. The band, now defunct, consisted of Stephen Mason on vocals, Robin Jones at the drums, John Maclean as the DJ/ sampler and bassist Richard Greentree.

1. Dry The Rain (6:05)

With a gentle drum beat and some cool, country-tinged guitars, this tune jangles in casually as though oblivious to its own brilliance. Mason, also oblivious, drawls his laid-back opening lyrics, his voice some wicked hybrid of an early nineties hipster and a Mancunian trad-rock revivalist: “This is the definition of my life, lying in bed in the sunlight.”

Before the tune has even really began, it already sounds absolutely spectacular, and just shimmies along of its own accord; sun shining out from each rung in the speakers. With some twanging background guitar, maracas and furtive notes from a wriggly bass, Mason beguiles the listener with his hypnotic pleas of: “Take me in and dry the rain.”

The tune shuffles into an even catchier second half when the drum beat changes and some of the background instruments are allowed to come in heavier, but there is craftsmanship beyond my understanding at this level of genius. The electric guitar then charges in through the ever-expanding brilliance that is this tune, and the best thing to do is tap your toes and surrender yourself to the sheer bliss which is to come.

With some snaky notes on the bass and some complex loop-work at the drums, the whole comes together wonderfully into a vibrant canvas of sound which most bands would hack their arms off to be able to create. The sound here is uplifting, awe-inspiring and truly melodic all at once, and the trumpets elevate the track to spine-tingling and touched-by-God status as Mason sings: “If there’s something inside that you want to say, you can it out loud it’ll be OK… I will be your light!”

Jon Levien provides the trumpets here, which slink throughout the gorgeous instrumentation in a track which has capably warped from a delicate piece of country-tinged folk a la My Morning Jacket to a piece of surrealist pop shot through with about four different genres and ninety influences at once. One of the finest openers to an album ever recorded.

2. I Know (3:58)

A more chilled-out piece, this opens with some measured, ultra-hip lines on the bass before the molasses-thick guitar drips down over Mr. Greentree, aided by some mild backing from the drums and tambourine. You can just hear the meticulous craft in each and every second of these tunes, and when Mason enters for his vocals, you know that it is no accident his voice just sounds so perfectly sleepy next to the music.

He whispers some repeated lines for his vocals in what is ostensibly a wholly instrumental piece. Some electronic blips are added across the stoned, gentle shuffle of the music and the tune perhaps may come as a surprise to listeners emerging from the opener full of mirth. A much more ambient piece, it instantly showcases the band’s restlessness and eclecticism (I will only use that word once), peppered as it is with flourishes of electronica and psychedelic nuances akin to The Verve or The Charlatans (but in a good way).

The track might indeed seem like a disappointment after ‘Dry The Rain,’ but the utterly different nature of the piece entirely actually makes it all the more impressive, and therein lies the genius of this band.

3. B+A (6:35)

Another gentle, mellow and super-cool phrase, this time on the guitar, begins this exciting instrumental piece. It builds slowly, with the bass and processed industrial drum loop entering in brief succession, and moves its way towards downbeat and groovy little segues and phrases which make use of the smorgasbord of samples and effects the group clearly has at their disposal.

Their eponymous debut was packed full of these sorts of quirky samples and jerky effects, by the end the record was practically bursting at the seams. Here, since the guys are just finding their feet, they thankfully keep it light and juxtapose the blips and vinyl hisses perfectly with muffled acoustic lines and steady melodies.

The second half of the track bursts into a colourful, hippified, clap-your-hands affair with some actual hand claps negotiating the beat as the cymbals rain down peace and love over the mega-smooth bass line, distant rises of backing vocalists and an increasingly crowded percussion accompaniment. In the final minute, Mason tries to push through the sea of noise with some imperceptible vocals, but the idea here is to get swept away in the fabulous tsunami of sound. What a wave, indeed.

4. Dogs Got A Bone (5:57)

A personal favourite of mine (along with everything else on the album, frankly), this opens with a wonderful little phrase on the acoustic guitar and accordion, accompanied all at once by the bass and bongos. Three dubs of Mason then enter and deliver his ultra-hip vocals threefold, before the tracks veers off into an explosion of creative genius, making my job to describe this music very hard indeed.

The first modulation lifts the track into darker and more transcendent territory, and the jaded noise from the accordion seems to parley the track from its surrealist folk sea shanty beginnings towards the kaleidoscopic, psychedelic aural odyssey it wants to be. Several layers of vocals, some slide guitar, human beatbox and even a harmonica solo are added to keep the tune fresh and beguiling but it really is not as though we need them. The tune conjures up perhaps the darker side of Beck’s acoustic folk tracks, but subverts every new sound it resembles, unwilling to pigeonhole itself within the space of thirty seconds.

Like a Madonna song, constantly rejuvenating its image every minute, this damn thing will not sit still, and is all the better for it. The final minute incorporates some piano chords and tinkles over its drunk, unsettling shuffle, and wraps itself up gloriously in a huge swaddling of noise, rendering the track completely unrecognisable to the one which started five and a half minutes ago. It also ends with some drums… when the heck did they join the tune?

5. Inner Meet Me (6:17)

The least successful EP on this compilation, this begins the Patty Patty Sound, which has two outstanding pieces at the start and finish of the record. Beginning with some sci-fi sound effects over the robotic mantra of the title, an acoustic guitar fades in over additional rumbling noises, which are really unnecessary as this has a great melody of its own to play with. Once the chorus begins this tune is already spectacular and even achieves a hitherto untapped poignancy with its chorus of: “Keep your head up, never show up… Never dream alone.”

For the most part, Mason keep his lyrics surreal and crammed full of intelligent, word-bending titbits reminiscent of Beck, but this track refuses to shirk its weird, outer space qualities for undiluted pop, pasting the vocals with the repeated mantra which began it into the fabric of the piece. On top of this, it dares to segue towards some free-form jazzy improv on the bass into the fourth minute, and the sound effects find themselves the stars of the tune later on. The cheek.

The entire track is warm, transcendent and every second is gut-bustingly original. I can think of very few bands who have ever made music like this, and the fact all their wonderful ideas come so brilliantly to fruition just makes this track even more of a joy to devour and re-devour, time and time again.

6. The House Song (7:14)

There is only really one legitimate reason why this and the following track fail, and here it is: the experimentation falls flat. As simple as that. This track repeats the lyric: “Put it in your pocket for a rainy day, sing your song and you know you’re wrong now” ad nauseam for over two minutes, while some backwards tape loops and headache-inducing feedback screech across assorted tuneless racket.

The rest of the piece is equally odd, incorporating an embarrassing rap across some weird hip-hop beats and its redemptively slinky bass line. There are elements to this track which are satisfying (it does improve in its final half) but the first three minutes are just profoundly irritating and over-ambition perhaps gets the better of the gents at this point.

The bass line remains fabulous throughout, however, and some of the bizarre trills from the birds and clangs from the percussion create an interesting free-form jam over the last three minutes. All in all, though, the tune takes to long to kick itself into gear, is overlong and ends up petering out with nowhere to go very quickly. Still, it is not the worst piece on here, and worth spinning if just for the jam in the second half.

7. Monolith (15:47)

Instead of stodging through all 15 minutes of this avant-garde, absurdly experimental piece of nonsense, I shall just sum it up in simpler terms to save anyone the trauma of having to hear it. Well… here goes. Birds, mariachi music, fiddly sound effects, skull-busting ambient nonsense, no real tune or melody and… can someone pass me the aspirin?

Not the finest of summations, I should concede, but the band spend fourteen minutes rolling the biggest snowball they possibly can, before realising that they simply cannot throw it anyone, and all their friends have gone home anyway. There are free-form jams on the drums, an endless drone on the synthesiser and a cameo from the Laughing Gnome singing Live Like The Automatics by Mull Historical Society.

If this was snipped from the album, perhaps it would detract from the impact of the group, since they are clearly prepared to go extremes in their music to find la dolce vita, but this seems wilful nonsense and an awful exercise in cut and paste craftsmanship. A real stinker, then, which would have dragged down the album if the rest of the material around it was not so fabulous, and this was not a compilation.

8. She’s The One (8:17)

Some strums and a jew’s-harp begin this outstanding track which is so remarkable that within the first minute alone it manages to erase the entire mistake which preceded it. Mason fires off rapid phrases of free-association poetry in the manner of some tranquillised fever rant while the swirling acoustic guitars and heavy bass and drum landscape quickly engulfs him. “Fat girl ticklish, crazy Miss stimulus, falling on your face with a stupid library, singing pop goes the weasel as he paints another easel,” I think he rambles at one point, just one of the many lyrical highlights on offer.

His hypnotic vocals dominate the first half and eventually splinter off into two contrasting layers and into even kookier neologisms, finally achieving some resolution and sense at the chorus of: “She’s the one for me!” The second half is dedicated to a quite unbelievable instrumental section which includes some bizarre Laughing Gnome sound effects, wonderful drumming and divine organ accompaniment.

Once again, the tune unfolds into something so complex and musically varied it is literally impossible for me describe what goes on. The chorus seems to fall down in beautiful little balls of rhythm which splash rapturously across the glorious cavern of sound and illuminate the fifty different lines of instrumentation playing at once. The piece hobbles along wonderfully for the full eight minutes, and finally ends with some twangs on the jew’s-harp over the fabulous drumming of Jones. But you won’t want it to. Quite possibly the finest track on the record.

9. Push It Out (5:22)

The start of the Los Amigos Del Beta Banditos EP, possibly the best of the bunch, this has a much darker sound to it completely, despite the jaunty title. Some incredibly dense cymbals reverberate through the speakers before the repeated mantra of: “Push it out… push it all out.” The purpose of this track is at first as a mellow ambient anthem, and since it just sways and soothes for the first two minutes, it is best listened to as an example of this genre. Some handclaps and a snaky bass line eventually join the track in this second minute, accompanied by the piano (the lead instrument on this EP).

Unlike The House Song this repeated line does not become tiring but instead cultivates a palliative quality and musically the track keeps itself varied enough; finally adding an additional verse in the last two minutes over some gentle plucks on duelling acoustic guitars. It almost moulds itself into a campfire tune in the letter stages, but keeps itself in the ambient camp just before the band do that transformation thing they love so well. A naturally miscellaneous start.

10. It’s Over (3:47)

Another acoustic guitar-driven tune, this also has a slinky double bass line and some gorgeous glockenspiel backing up its sleeve. Over the elegant slapped notes of the bass, Mason weaves more of his syntax-bending lyrics into a more melancholic musical palette. The tune, despite its jazzy and luscious sound, teeters on the edge of panic the whole time while keeping itself self-consciously surreal through lines such as “spooky little lizard-girl where did you run to, I only asked your name, I never meant to hurt you.”

The second half is much more intimate, stripping away everything from the first half for some overdubs of Mason and plenty of tense, downbeat acoustic guitars strumming around a spookier bed of instrumentation, giving the track the requisite introspective feel which helps segue into the next piece perfectly.

11. Dr. Baker (4:08)

With its sweeping, downbeat piano chords, this is the stand-out weepy on the record, if you can apply that term to this band. Over this rather poignant and sombre piano bed, a reverb and echo-drenched Mason sings his desperate lyrics about some errant medical professional as he discovers “his wife was dead, his dog was dead and misery planned inside his head.”

The tune breaks down after each gentle piano verse, with some percussive racket and squalls from out-of-tune guitars and random drum fills, creating the necessary anarchy to sit in stark contrast with the gorgeous creep of the piano. Mason communicates in odd vocal sounds over some glockenspiels and xylophones towards the end, repeating “I’m a-hoverin’ on!” as the tune ends. A very bizarre piece of music… even by this band’s standards.

12. Needles In My Eyes (4:32)

The final track is another example of the finest reason we all have ears, and rounds off this sensational set in uplifting style. With a religious-sounding organ over some bird noises, this piece slithers in with the bass and the wonderfully mal-tuned guitar in the same unassuming style and drops another miniature bomb. Mason is quieter with his depressive vocals here which almost act like a desperate confessional, right before the healing chorus of: “Needles in my eyes won’t cripple me tonight all right, I’m twisted on my mind, please pull me through the light, all right!”

The guitar twangs some off-kilter phrases which conjure up the glorious solos of early Pavement, but the chorus is really the fabulously uplifting highlight of the album. Simple, understated, and luscious, expressed in a standard hippy-ism, but somehow still wonderfully comforting and inspiring. The Beta Band force you to leave their record twice as delighted and joyous as you were as soon as you entered it, and that, my jaded friends, is no mean feat.

It is, of course, such a terrible shame that the band are no longer with us, citing frustrations with commercial rejection for their split in 2005. When we live on a planet where music as wonderful as this is ignored in favour of derivative garbage, well… I sense a rant coming on. For those unfamiliar with this exceptional four-piece, I implore you all to seek out this record as it is a fabulous introduction to one of the finest bands of the last ten years, who didn’t even last 8 years.

Yes, it is overlong and yes, Monolith honks like last year’s turkey leftovers at the back of the fridge, but the 10 gems which make up the album serve you the kind of warm welcome every other no-good young band could only dream off as their career retrospective. If they must remain cult and critics favourites then so be it, but people simply have to hear their music, as it is in its own league for unparalleled creativity, skill and… more importantly… it will stay in your stereo for months and months on end. Now go off and buy it, you silly sods!

Rating: 9/10

Isobel Campbell: Milkwhite Sheets (2006)

#20

The Cream of Classicist Folk

We have never experienced a great deal of folk music here in Omsk. There was that small man with the stovepipe hat who used to wander from village to village with a guitar but whenever I saw him, he always seemed to be using it as a doorstop, or just to sit on whenever there were no seats left on the train. It was very unlikely that he could play it. Still, his “sitting down” sessions were very popular, and he became one of the most successful artists in the town, having cut no albums since his arrival. More power to him.

Folk music has enjoyed a re-emergence throughout the nineties, noticeable from the huge roster of singer-songwriters in the traditional mould who walk from land to land with nothing but a guitar in their hand and songs in their head. It was, of course, indie pioneers Belle & Sebastian who made it cool again.

After they dropped their trilogy of classic nineties albums on the world, Nick Drake was once again lionised for the forgotten genius he was, and soon everyone was locked away in empty, draughty rooms making wistful folk that conjured up lonely autumn afternoons in the sixties and the kind of nostalgic melancholy you can only sniff directly from the pages of Dickens.

Isobel Campbell was an integral part of this band, her violin skills often the standout highlight on some of the group’s most memorable moments, and she took quickly writing some of her own gentle pieces which were as strong as those of head honcho Stuart Murdoch. Her solo career began with side project The Gentle Waves who released two albums between 1999 and 2000, before she left the band properly to record the gorgeous Amorino with an Italian producer in 2003.

Her recent balladry with Mark Lanegan of Screaming Trees obscurity was typically unconventional but the most successful record of her career, and in the spirit of such unconventional practice, she released this low-key folk paean six months later just to seal her reputation as one of the finest female talents of these times.

Milkwhite Sheets is dedicated to female folk artists such as Shirley Collins, Anne Briggs and Jean Ritchie, whom she quotes in the liner notes, and these tracks are almost all traditional pieces ,with one or two personal compositions which demonstrate her own unique ability. Some have complained about Belle & Sebastian losing the low-key and quiet pulchritude from their earlier albums, and likewise from Campbell’s own solo records.

This re-captures all of the picturesque and novelistic beauty of the early days of that band, while demonstrating how the genre it seems will never date; this folk is made with such skill and panache it all seems as timeless as those fine B&S records. The result is the best album from Isobel Campbell to date, and one of the finest secrets from late last year.

Willow’s Song (4:19)

The minimal nature of these pieces is their beauty, but the arrangements here are of equal import. Campbell is an extremely capable multi-instrumentalist, and one suspects she needs little of the many players here to assist her on this album, but they are effective and skilled pros all the same. Especially the likes of folk veterans Jim McCulloch and Margaret Smith who make flute, violin and guitar appearances.

This is a shimmering piece which starts with an eerie, trembling violin effect before building into a shadowy and mysterious little gem from the folk annals. It builds through its haunted and wraith-like lyrical phrases before the drums enter with the kind of drumbeat you would only expect from PJ Harvey in a song as hushed as this. Some harder acoustic guitars drive through the music towards the end, and it almost mutates into a lost B&S toe-tapping classic. The sound of a girl lost in the forest, searching in vain for some mysterious figure, before getting lost completely. An evocative and original interpretation.

Yearning (4:14)

A much more intricate and almost classical folk piece, this demonstrates more than any other tune on this album her complete mastery of the genre. More shimmering percussive accompaniment, including bells and glockenspiels, assist her through the scraping violins and her very shrill vocal parts, which sound as though they recorded about five metres away from the microphone.

This is her own composition, and along with the other two or three tracks she penned here, it fits in effortlessly with the originals. Her vocals almost sound tinged with a little Asian influence, as though she is being beaming messages from folk artists worldwide mid-recording. It is pieces such as this which put her on her a par with her idols Ritchie, Collins & Briggs. Glorious.

Reynardine (2:53)

One of the strongest traditional pieces here, this is perhaps the most wistful number on the album which Campbell describes as “the song of the fox.” Like the other most evocative tracks here, it revolves around just the acoustic guitar, minimal arrangements and the strength of her milk-white voice. It barely rises above a whisper here but it tingles with the gentle beauty and shimmers with the almost heart-breaking pathos of the original.

Cachel Wood (2:37)

Another of those slight but gorgeous little folk tunes, this ditty is wonderfully simple but also such a rich, delightful tune all the same. It is especially gorgeous towards the beautiful harmonies around the chorus: “Follow the bird to the sea, how my poor heart weeps for thee.”

Beggar, Wiseman or Thief (3:12)

Apparently inspired by a short story by Count Stembock, whomever he maybe have been, this is a very old-fashioned tune about a woman choosing a potential suitor to be her husband and again makes use of just an acoustic guitar and a deceptively simple chorus.

Thursday’s Child (7:12)

The lengthiest track on the album makes fine use of guest James Iha, who is no stranger to this sort of musical territory. Campbell was no doubt a massive fan of The Smashing Pumpkins and his own gentle solo record Let It Come Down from 1998. Sadly he has yet to write anymore material since the group disbanded, and only really crops up as a guest musician on albums such as this.

He contributes some juno keyboard and guitar, a style which is unmistakably his own, for what is quite a palliative and soothing denouement to the album. The track shimmers along for its lengthy duration, developing into something of a dreamy lullaby over the swirling and repetitive lines of keyboard. A little overlong perhaps, but a fine way to round things off nonetheless.

This is a clever record because it makes use of its instrumental tracks not merely as inconsequential filler, but as gorgeous pieces in their own right. All of the vocal-free pieces here seem straightforward tributes to Nick Drake.
Milkwhite Sheets is the shortest piece on the album, but also the most melancholy moment as well as Campbell demonstrates what the violin should be used for and how effective a tool of pathos it can be. James is credited as a tribute to guest contributor James Iha, who should be flattered since the track conjures up such Drake pieces as Cello Song or Bryter Layter.

What a tribute, indeed. Over the Wheat and the Barley also circles his memory with due deference. The non-instrumental Hori Horo seems to be a traditional piece from the Gaelic folk tradition, except the words remain in English, so maybe I have that entirely wrong. If only Brian L were here to clear this up…

Campbell is incapable of making any truly bad material under this harmless genre, although some may be unimpressed by some of the very low-key moments. The a cappella Loving Hannah for example, might not be for everyone given the fragility and slightness of her voice. That said, the lovely album opener O Love Is Teasin’ and the lighter-than-air Are You Going To Leave Me? should really present few problems unless you have been locked in a room with nothing but heavy metal albums and no soul for two decades.

Milkwhite Sheets is a non-showy album of subtle, perfectly crafted modern-day folk gems. I can heartily endorse it to all fans of early Belle & Sebastian, those au fait with Campbell already or those who love autumnal, beautiful and melancholy music par excellence from the voice of a gossamer-winged cherub.

Fly away with Isobel.

Rating: 9/10

The Velvet Underground: The Velvet Underground & Nico (1966)

#19

What Made Lou Reed Immortal

Where I live, bananas are bloody expensive.

I state this fact by means of a confession; with a view to tying it in later somehow with this classic album. In my youth (five years ago) I used to peruse the fruit section of my local Tesco in the hope I would see a great big tarantula creeping across a batch of juicy bananas. One afternoon in March, I spotted three huge arachnids clinging to the Ffyes brand with alarming possessiveness and wondered just what the heck was going on. Yes, young Brian Vesuvius Lettsin was flustered. Especially since these spiders were huge tropical ones from the theraphosidae family. Yes... it was that exciting.

As the weeks passed, I discovered that these spiders were in fact munching their way through the entire batch of Ffyes bananas, and the reason for this has nothing to do with The Velvet Underground. So there is very little point of carrying on this preamble. Needless to say, the spiders were successfully hosed from the supermarket and everything was back to normal the following week. Look... sometimes my life is just dull, all right?

This album found its way into my CD player on February the 3rd 2005. I was, at the time, a scruffy student with one thing on my rotten mind, aside from the obvious preoccupations of a world-weary loser with ridiculously long, unkempt hair. That thing was guitars – played very noisily indeed.

Loud enough to engender some long-standing auricular damage or pop enough brain cells that the rest of my adolescence would unfold in prolonged periods of woe and super-woe, bubbling softly in through my subconscious. It made logical sense that I would make friends with this act, since they had sufficiently loud guitars, but also a precocious Welsh geezer with an equally noisome viola squalling over the avant-garde hullabaloo. A match made in heaven, surely?

Despite dissenting voices, some on this very site, that the moody persona and drab vocal stylings of Teutonic warbler Nico spoiled this legendary debut, I maintain The Velvet Underground have made one of the finest albums in rock and roll history which still remains thrilling to this day despite the awful production.

The man we blame for this production blip is misunderstood genius Andy Warhol, that awkward pioneer of pop-art; an artistic movement remembered for its cartoon cans of soup and pointless Marilyn Monroe paintings. Well, say what you will about the Exploding Plastic Inevitable, but no one could paint soup like Warhol. Mainly because they never tried. Monet was moved more by water lilies, the silly sausage.

Lou Reed formed The Velvet Underground through the influence of Warhol and the bespectacled one exerted artistic sovereignty over their debut as they took residence in his New York Factory to compose this album and kick-start his sixties underground revolution.

To the popular criticisms of this album – that the slow numbers are just throwaway psychedelic filler and Nico has all the personality of a heifer but none of the singing voice – I say poppycock. The album has an incredible flow and retains is its duality between mesmerising beauty and violent brutality.

Plus, pretty pieces such as Femme Fatale or I’ll Be Your Mirror do actually represent some of Reed’s softer and most intimate moments. The well-known classics remain undiminished like all great art, if I may get a touch pretentious, and the experimental pieces remain as purposefully difficult to absorb as they were all those years ago.

True, the wilful noise-making of closer European Son was surpassed by the brutal epic Sister Ray a year later, but this is but a mere act of historical nit-picking. The Velvet Underground & Nico is still one of the most important classic rock albums everyone is bugging you to hear for a reason – it is a flat-out work of genius. Explanations to follow.

I’m Waiting For My Man (4:37)

Ladies and gentlemen, we present the birth of three-chord punk. The perpetual pummel of this track is really all it has to offer, but it seemed to inspire the career of The Stooges and every other punk band who followed rather well. A simple, repeated two chord pattern dominates this abrasive and vamping garage rocker while Reed, here sounding like the coolest man ever to front a beat combo, waits notoriously for his heroin dealer on Lexington 1-2-5, feeling “sick and dirty, more dead than alive.”

To have been present that night at the Factory when the band dropped this particular sound-bomb would have been something quite extraordinary. All this tune does is thump, stomp and drill its way towards the centre of your brain, and if it fails then in the fourth minute piano chords are bashed to seal the endless headache while it hammers, thunders and storms towards its increasingly unstable end; reigned in with a mercy-killing fade-out. Find fault in this and you really do not like rock music.

Venus In Furs (5:08)

Still arguably one of the scariest pieces of music ever recorded, I would concur with one-time Sex Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren that this is impossible to listen to without picturing some disturbing S&M practice, or indeed your favourite dominatrix.

Visions of Shelley McTavish, that spirited punisher down in Galashiels appear for me whenever this brutal classic screams out from my speakers. Which is presumably the intention. An overwhelmingly arresting piece of music, this is dominated by the howling screech of Cale’s electric viola, which in turn is draped around the thunderous guitar work from Reed and Sterling Morrison and the hypnotic one-drum approach from Moe Tucker.

The track can only be described as some nightmarish trip through the darkest annals of human consciousness, and plays like the soundtrack for the dreams of David Lynch while it shivers towards its blood-curdling, ejaculatory climax. There is something medieval and indeed primeval about this trance-like behemoth while Reed spills out his spot-on lyrics: “Downy sins of streetlight fancies, chase the costumes he shall wear/ Ermine furs adorn imperious, Severin, Severin waits you there.”

Run Run Run (4:19)

Those unimpressed with the fret-work on the solo records of Lou Reed will be satisfied here, unless they lost their hearing during the first four tunes. Which is entirely possible. This is the first genuine demonstration of the faultless pop skills of Reed, and he spruces up his impossibly catchy lead hook with some outrageous solos which defy the realms of physical possibility and cement his reputation as one of the finest guitarists who ever walked the earth.

The tune is lyrically bound to the poetic depiction of New York he would never really budge from until, that is, he began writing about himself or whatever was bugging him that particular week. It is indeed the solos that impress the most here, and the production in this instance seems to serve them well – they squeak and howl with more delirium than a field full of chickens being savaged by twelve farmers armed with cattle prods.

His lead guitar is made to sound as though there is in fact genuine electricity coursing through his veins, or as though his fingers are being guided by the Lord herself. Goodness me.

All Tomorrow’s Parties (5:57)

Almost impossible to imagine without the dull, dronish vox of Nico, this does suffer at the mixing desk of Warhol but retains its oppressive sound due to the hypnotic repeated melody which suits her vocals well. What reads in the lyric sheet like some straightforward attack on fashion is delivered with such deadpan power that the tune sounds personal, embittered and wickedly caustic.

Tucker provides the throbbing percussive beat over the piano line which snakes its way up the left speaker for the duration of the track like a very irritating itch. Reed and Morrison provide the solos and general guitar presence, but wait carefully for Nico to finish, sit down and phone her agent before they enter. It is difficult not to feel threatened by her commanding German vocals, especially towards the final modulation where she warbles: “A blackened shroud, a hand-me-down gown of rags and silks – a costume fit for one who sits and cries for all tomorrow’s parties.”

Heroin (7:09)

The centrepiece of each blazing Reed concert in the early seventies, this tune has never appeared in more devastating form than on this album. John Cale provides the viola magic here which lifts the tune into its untouchable realm of musical transcendence while Reed supplies the oppressively strummed guitars and Tucker the gut-wrenching primal drums. The task? To convey the nightmare of drugs and their repercussions using music as their art form. The results?

As ruthless, hideous on the ear and nightmarish as taking any Class A substance I suspect would be. The violin and feedback clamour at once convey the sensation of a needle shooting into an open vein and the (briefly) pleasurable dissonant guitars offer the proverbial calm before the storm.

The blistering third half is an avant-garde masterclass; a dark journey into the heart of the heroin nightmare from someone who has no doubt been there himself. Heroin probably functions as the finest anti-drugs tune every composed, if played at full volume into the ears of any potential user, especially as Reed groans his way through the final chorus: “When the heroin is in my blood, and the blood is in my head, thank God that I’m good as dead.”

There She Goes Again (2:38)

A terrific slice of vintage (if violent) pop, this seems so incongruous among seven-minute, avant-garde epics about drug overdoses and sadomasochism, despite the fitting allusions to physical violence towards the chorus. The syncopated drum and guitar parts help such barbed chorus endings as “There she goes again, she’s knocked out on her feet again... you’d better hit her” leap out at the listener, and the drums mirroring the punches from this thug makes the whole tune a disconcertingly rewarding listen.

The track is also a forerunner to the kind of pop mastery Reed would reel in for the final album with The Velvet Underground, the magnificent Loaded from 1970. Without this little cracker, R.E.M. would have never happened. I meant that to sound positive.

The Remaining Gems

Sunday Morning opens the album and is a fantastic, laid-back little lullaby with some innocent glockenspiel plonks over the exceptionally chilled-out vocals of Reed who was right not to assign singing duties to Nico in this instance. John Cale co-wrote only two tunes with Reed on this album, not including the improvised noise-making session European Son, and this has proven to be perhaps their prettiest or indeed finest collaboration of all time.

Femme Fatale seems written just to draw attention to the linguistic foibles of Nico and her unavoidable German accent but is another very mellow pop tune in the child-like vein which Reed rarely attempted in his solo career. The soft, intimate side of The Velvet Underground is easily as affecting and powerful as their rabid experimentalism.

I’ll Be Your Mirror proves this opinion to be entirely correct, and I will hunt down and execute any poor soul who is not quietly palliated by that gorgeous chorus of: “When you think the night has seen your mind, that inside your twisted and unkind, let me stand to show that you are blind... please put down your hands, ‘cause I see you.” This is definitely the tune which breaks Nico and invests her voice with a soft, delicate edge which is hitherto shrouded amongst her bland, detached drawl.

The Black Angel’s Death Song is pretentious not just in name only but also in arrangement, as it revolves around a jerky viola part, psychedelic poetry and terrible, head-grinding production. On no other album would this be acceptable. Here it sounds like the most normal track number ten in the world. A real document of the time and indicative of the fearless experimentation of the group. Whether you like it or not, The Velvet Underground would not be The Velvet Underground without this.

European Son begins with a snazzy bass line from Morrison and a neat hook from Reed, which proves to be entirely misleading since the track explodes into a miasmic eruption of thunderous feedback, tinny rattled guitars, random percussion explosions and shattered glass sound effects. There are dozens of solos here that splinter off into random burps of dissonance, and neat twists on the rhythm guitar which also end up forming the same kind of racket. This is a headache-inducing feedback dirge, and I absolutely adore all seven and a half minutes of it – the perfect climax to one of the finest debuts in musical history.

Deluxe Edition Extras

Unfortunately, the 2002 2-disc deluxe edition is low on decent extras, containing no outtakes or B-sides from the era but merely alternative cuts on the second disc and extracts from the first solo album from Nico, Chelsea Girl.

The second disc is merely the Mono Version of the original album, which to users of modern stereos really means very little. Some tracks run for one or two seconds longer, but the versions remain exactly the same unless one owns an old-fashioned stereo. Or gramophone, perhaps. The single version of All Tomorrow’s Parties is terrible, and the single cuts of I’ll Be Your Mirror, Sunday Morning and Femme Fatale are basically the same. I could not bring myself to drop the rating because, well... it’s The Velvet Underground.

As far as the Nico material is concerned, I cannot see the appeal of some of these interminable tracks, especially the dreary It Was A Pleasure Then or the endless drone of Chelsea Girls. Some tunes are bouncier, such as the mellow Little Sister or Winter Song which actually have some melodies behind the throb of the electric viola and celesta. The Reed-penned Wrap Your Troubles In Dreams is a pleasurable addition, however, and apparently sparked the rumours the he nurtured a secret love for the strange, brooding actress-cum-chanteuse. Heaven forbid.

The Velvet Underground & Nico will play havoc with your senses ten times more than that holiday you took to Guantanamo Bay. Avoid the Deluxe Edition and pick up the original remaster it all its badly produced, undiluted glory. Few bands have ever achieved these staggering heights of creativity and very few shall ever again. A bona fide classic.

Rating: 10/10