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

The Smiths: The Smiths (1984)

#18

Alias Morrissey & Marr

I feel such an almighty power as I sit here in my comfortable, well-ventilated room, casting a smug glance back over the fifty decades of music that have gone before me.

Up on my pedestal, I can grimace at the botched attempts of Simply Red to record an album that doesn’t make the listener cringe with embarrassment. I cackle as Joss Stone sets her career on fire with her latest transitional effort.

I can look back over the 1960s with the privilege of being able to pick and choose; scooping up the best of The Beatles, Bob Dylan or The Velvet Underground while turning a blind eye to Pink Floyd for fear of deep comatose. Likewise, with 1970s I can curse the overblown progressive rock of Genesis or Rick Wakeman while indulging in as much David Bowie as my ears will permit. The music of the past affords me the right to select based on my own whims, ficklenesses or prejudices since all the money just goes into already bulging bank accounts.

However, when flicking back through the cultural and musical mores of decades past, the 1980s seems like the war no one talks about anymore. Music, as well as the British Isles, was in a state of turmoil and distress thanks mainly to the Iron Lady, Douglas Hird. Mrs. Thatcher also did some unpleasant things as well. Just joking. She would never hurt a fly. Unless it was a miner. The emergent youth were therefore torn between the new-found political angst of punk and the emergent popularity of the synthesiser as a serious musical instrument, triggered no doubt by Brian Eno. That notorious turnip.

Gloom became a marketable necessity, and myriad groups leaped on the bandwagon. Outfits such as New Order or The Cure gave birth to kind of theatrical gloom which was then pounced upon by successful miserablists like Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds or Lloyd Cole. Neither of these bands were a patch, however, on this seminal act The Smiths.

Everyone emerged in such heightened states of distress from the 1980s. As a very young observer, their personalities seemed at times permanently damaged. My cousin Terence, for example began the decade an optimistic socialist fresh from university with a passable 2:1. He then spent the subsequent three years on the dole with his fellow Cambridge graduates eating sandwiches on squeezable cheese in his bedsit in West London, where everyone lived in those days.

He introduced himself to the blossoming socialist activism scene and turned into a fired-up leftie lunatic, hopelessly dreaming of a political utopia that was never going to happen. He then, wisely, turned to The Smiths.

The Smiths derived their power and massive following through tapping into the emotional extremities and difficulties that faced confused adolescents. They were not a band exclusively for isolated, outsider teenagers but leaders Johnny Marr and Steven Morrissey appreciated that pop music was purchased predominantly by this age group; therefore it would make sense to say something truer for a change and to use the pop song as a forum for outspoken, intelligent views on life.

Those were the days. Their debut record, together with the follow-up Meat Is Murder do expressly deal with such topics as repressed adolescent lust, extreme isolation and depression, but this record in particular seems more preoccupied with the process of adult manhood as one of transitional difficulty and impossible frustration.

The Smiths is an overly dramatic, introspective and plaintive record merely since the mindset of its adolescent audience would be too. The tone of the music correlates perfectly with the emotion and sentiments conveyed in the lyrics, which made it such a therapeutic album for many young people and provided such comfort and relief whenever the listeners felt overwhelmed by themselves. It is a record which does not patronise, pander or manipulate the listener. It merely invites them to connect deeply with the music in the hope that in some way it enriches or assists their lives.

Morrissey possessed a voice which captured the frightened child in all of us. No matter how intelligent, poetic or grown-up he sounded, he appreciated that we can never escape the shackles of our childhood; it is a period that imprints itself on all our lives. The pathos here is therefore one of profound sorrow, either at the hand the individual is dealt, and the process of graduating towards adulthood. It is evoked in such a poignant manner at times, that the power of this music is unavoidable and its influence is impenetrable.

The Smiths liberated an entire generation of listeners, allowing them to cope with their personal angst or just providing a voice for those who had been voiceless for too long. For all of Morrissey’s well publicised pessimism, the message they brought was powerful in its humanity.

This record is an astonishing achievement since it communicates the concept that for all the difficulty everyone encounters in life, love is impenetrable and omnipresent in the world no matter what. Yes, exactly what Richard Curtis has been saying for years but without the all-star cast or triteness. Those who listen to this album at face value will no doubt find it a rather miserable journey, but underneath its swirling depression lies an LP more life-affirming than a ditch full of Beach Boys records. No, I am not joking. Curtis made off with all my gags in 1998.

Reel Around The Fountain (5:57)

The Smiths was released in 1984 and conveys more than any other album the extremity and pathos of adolescent yearning. This landmark opener, for all its torch-light melancholy, is a beautiful and elegiac piece of music which proves the Marr and Morrissey relationship was perfection from the get-go. Since the listener is not supposed to disentangle each and every word Morrissey is singing the impression made by this tune is one not just of idle, fatalistic fantasy but of someone, confused, just trying to penetrate the surface of love as a concept.

The lyrics have a confessional intimacy about them, and no doubt whatever is being expressed has been held back for too long a time. Marr manages to keep his acoustic and electric guitar parts rather subdued, allowing instead the steady drumbeat of Mike Joyce and piano/ organ accompaniment from guest player Paul Carrack to help frame the sweeping performance from Morrissey who builds to his moving refrain of: “People see no worth in you, but I do, oh but I do.”

You’ve Got Everything Now (3:59)

A spikier track that highlights more blatantly the rough production values of producer John Porter (recently employed by Morrissey devotee Ryan Adams for his Love Is Hell LP) this track takes us back to some gruesome Manchester playground, or more specifically “the old grey school where I would win and you would loose.”

This track, as deceptively cryptic as the rest of the material, sounds rather like Morrissey just ruminating on his own time at school, where he famously suffered at the hands of a rather disciplinarian regime; expounded further on the controversial The Headmaster Ritual.

The track rings truer to me as another lament to unrequited lust, or an almost masochistic desperation for the teen to be popular, witnessed by his plea to be “tied to the back of your car.” The tune is catchier and more playful, at any rate; the lyrics far too tongue-in-cheek to be digested with the most emotionally wrenching material on the remainder of the album.

Pretty Girls Make Graves (3:43)

One of the many tunes that helped people understand just why Morrissey was so keen to proclaim his celibacy, this is a bouncy little track which shivers with the cold, as though walking us hand-in-hand along this deserted pier as the scene he depicts here unfolds.

The unconventional song-writing technique of Marr is well established by this point in the album, and each tune has such a distinctive sound to it that often his layers of electric guitar which ring over the soft acoustic layers can be overlooked in their subtlety. In this case, the contentious lyrical statements expressed dominate the proceedings as Morrissey croons: “I’m not the man you think I am... I’m Sorrow’s native son.”

The tune explores what happens when attempts to attain this elusive love thing turn stale, and the results in this instance are bitter; rather like being cruelly dumped by someone close to you on a hideously windy afternoon in December. It fades out with an appropriately prolonged phrase, as though the person is disappearing fully from view and life. A very evocative and thought-provoking piece of music.

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle (4:37)

A deeply disturbing track, here Morrissey’s introspective croon, the dark bass playing of Andy Rourke and the hypnotic guitars from Marr combine into a captivating tune which makes for compelling if wrenching listen. The emotion evoked here is almost overwhelming as some stream-of-consciousness lyrical approach is deployed over guitars which sway back and forth to create a dark, brooding lullaby. Morrissey croons as though singing a child to sleep, which makes his opening line such an evocative one: “Please don’t cry, for the ghost for the storm outside will not invade this sacred shrine nor infiltrate your mind.”

Whatever this tune is about, I have little idea, but it paints such a distressing portrait of suggested child abuse or potential tragedy in the family that through such elegiac poetry, the tears come in buckets during his final, haunting refrain of: “As long as there’s love, as long as there’s love...”

It depicts a troubled adult, desperate to shield his child from the barbarity of the world outside, and is an immensely powerful tour de force in both lyricism as pure poetry and Marr’s ability to capture the exact mood his vocalist is after. This is an example of The Smiths at their most extreme, but the beauty of this timeless song is undeniable.

Still Ill (3:20)

One of the first overtly political pieces from The Smiths, Morrissey kept his politics close to his chest, but his republican and anti-Thatcherite views correlated with most of the political bands of the era; such as the Pet Shop Boys who Marr would later work with in Electronic. “I decree today that life is simply not giving... England is mine, it owes me a living,” he begins, which still has to be one of the hottest and most contentious opening lines to a pop tune ever penned. Nobody raised hell as eloquently as Steven Patrick Morrissey in his heyday.

This began life as a up-tempo rockabilly shuffle in the vein of Rusholme Ruffians, replete with harmonica intro, which sat unnervingly with the downbeat chord change in the opening verse. This is the finest version when contrasted with the rough cut available on Hatful of Hollow. A softer, melodious tune, here Morrissey makes up for some of the weaker notes in his voice earlier by stretching out his protracted wails with genuine pathos at that gorgeous chorus: “We cannot cling to the old dreams anymore, no we cannot cling to those dreams... am I still ill?” Thank goodness I missed the 1980s. Sheesh.

Suffer Little Children (5:27)

The stink caused by this tune was almost legendary and in retrospect, it is hard to see why. The track was essentially, in my opinion, an attempt to perhaps link the desolation of something as hideous as the Moors Murders into the state of the climate and country of Britain as it existed at the time. Or if not Britain, exclusively the industrial north which had sufficient reason to want to hang its head in shame.

Morrissey felt perhaps that by making use of a contentious subject, he could help bridge some kind of gap between the north and south, and that the former’s perception of Manchester specifically being a repository for squalor and horror would be shattered. The perception had such a knock-on effect on the confidence of the city or its capacity to change that such despair as evoked in the lyrics would be necessary. The hushed, gauzy guitars here are pitch-black, and the tune hardly ends the proceedings on an high note, just with one despairing sentiment: “Oh, Manchester, so much to answer for.”

The Other Songs

Many slate Miserable Lie for its noisome drum beat and the shabby falsetto from Morrissey in the final half, but there is nothing ostensibly wrong with the track at all. It is a petrified-sounding, depressive tune about the extreme fear of accepting sex or love in any guise; trapped desperately inside a mind afraid of intimacy or ravaged by shyness: “I need advice, I need advice – nobody ever looks at me twice!”

This Charming Man is one of the cheeriest and most literate tracks the band ever released, with an agreeably hooky chorus, melody and one of the most famous lyrical snippets from Morrissey which helped make him a superstar in the first place: “Why pamper life’s complexities when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat?”

Hand In Glove would appear to be about homosexuality and although it is not the most agreeable tune with its abrasive harmonica section and rather lumbering melody it is perhaps one of the most liberating tracks to come from the pen of Morrissey, whether or not he himself is of that persuasion.

What Difference Does It Make? is incredibly bouncy and the music does verge upon eighties dance almost with its jangling guitars crashing together which had people moving to such bitter sentiments as: “But still, I’d leap in front of a flying bullet for you, so what difference does it make?”

Finally, I Don’t Owe You Anything which is the slowest tune here, and the most musically sparse, but is too prickly and romantic to be overlooked, despite the violence which simmers beneath those small jangled phrases of Marr on guitar. Perhaps one of the most understates Smiths gems, too.

The Smiths released better records than this, but never again did they come packaged in such a raw, awkward and naked form as this. Morrissey sounds as though he just stumbled into the band, his voice still in its nascent stage and the production is some of the grainiest one will ever find on an album of gloomy bedsit music. But, as I mentioned in the introduction, the music is here to liberate, challenge, comfort and be enjoyed.

There was little that The Smiths could not do in the time at the top, and this debut album is a perfect encapsulation of all the emotional honesty and power they managed to articulate in just one half of a tune. Most other bands would kill for just one Smiths moment throughout their entire careers. This is an unflinching, unsentimental and uplifting classic.

Rating: 10/10

Belly: Star (1993)

#17

Dead Babies, Ravenous Trees and Transparent Dogs: Please Welcome Tanya Donnelly

It was during a conversation about St. Peter’s new girlfriend that I blurted it out. After spending weeks attempting to suppress my secret, Azrael overheard me humming one of the songs, possibly ‘Angel.’ “Well, her name is Tanya Donnelly, and she plays with this group Belly,” I coughed, masking my embarrassment while Raphael asked me to pass the dip.

I had good reason for such blushes, of course. For this million-selling album is the stuff of truly angelic beauty, and is perhaps one of the most consistently enjoyable pop records of the early nineties, foreshadowing the work of myriad female artists with a penchant for pitch-black lyrics carved around ethereal melodies and indelible hooks.

Star is in parts influenced by Donnelly’s work with the Throwing Muses, and even her brief fling with the Breeders at the turn of the decade, but is her most consistently enjoyable work, nearly a masterpiece from beginning to end. The line-up for the band changed for their commercial follow up, the rather flat King LP, but here she is supported ably by Fred Abong on bass, Chris Gorman on drums and brother Thomas on second guitar and it is all divine. Here’s why.

1. Someone To Die For (2:03)

This ethereal masterpiece begins in characteristically peculiar style. Some syncopated guitars pluck their way throughout the charming opener which introduces us to the dreamy vocals of Donnelly, who has her head in the clouds from the off: “Poor thing, poor thing, do you have a sister? /Would you lay your body down on the tracks for her?” she sings, her entire voice one fabulous, disarming palliative.

The loud, chiming guitar is played along with a pedal guitar or some other bizarre type of instrument, and is plucked more ferociously in sync, stopping only for the choruses. She establishes the style of her lyrics here, namely rather sugary musings on life with a dark, realistic undertone. The basic melody deployed here is catchy, and it ends with a louder twang and proves from the beginning this band are compelling even with just a minimal of instrumentation.

2. Angel (2:57)

A warning pluck, again made to sound rather bell-like and dreamy, opens this track which then wails into a distorted passage with some louder feedback and controlled noise over a light bass line before the driving melody.

The verses are dominated by some light plucking from the guitars over more complicated drum work from Chris Gorman while she wails out her lyrics which utilise thorny religious imagery: “Give it to me please I said to God, it’s only fair/ Instead he sent three angels to move the river.” It might be worth noting that Donnelly is nothing but cryptic and dark throughout this album, and her vocals just seem to float through the mix as though recorded live from the Thrones.

The chorus makes use of some odd, distant warping while the guitars attempt to push proceedings into a faster territory and give it more of a driving force. This is a dark track which pushes away from just being wholly catchy, focusing on the odder elements of Donnelly as a songwriter. It shows off primarily the talents of the three males around her who can keep up with the leaps and jumps of these songs.

3. Dusted (2:46)

A grumbling bass begins a more straightforward rock track which really does sound like a Throwing Muses off-cut. (If a rather inferior one). The guitars rock here with force, retaining a moody but still accessible sound and leaping into some enjoyable stabs with the drums for some head-bopping thrills. Donnelly is perhaps at her most emotive here, her voice often too saccharine and waiflike to achieve real emotional resonance, and she sings perhaps her darkest set of lyrics on offer.

There are some understated surprises here, such as a light guitar solo just before the second verse, but this track is one of the more obvious rockers on the album. The drums support the thundering guitars which dominate throughout and lyrically this song would appear to be about discovering a moribund infant in one’s basement: “Baby’s playing dead in the cellar, gave her water just got paler/ Grass stains, back burns, she’s a screamer, she’s just dusted, leave her.”

For some reason only some of Donnelly’s lyrics are printed here, perhaps because she often makes use of unstructured lines which don’t appear too coherent when printed.

4. Every Word (3:33)

Perhaps my all-time favourite Belly song (there are only about 40) this is a very enjoyable and quirky track demonstrating this group are at their finest when exploring their oddball side. Some light, fuzzy jangles on the guitar begin the song which slowly crawls into a medium-tempo, wriggling number with a loud, distorted guitars and a more scorned performance from Donnelly.

Lyrically, this sounds like a straightforward track about deceit, which makes the rest of the instrumentation something of a curiosity. It slowly unravels into a lush middle section with some gorgeous little solos on the guitar and her vocals are swathed in echo before the brilliant finale. Stopping almost entirely, the song then plods along at a reduced pace while the drums thump their way through a screechy guitar solo which sounds more like a theremin but is in fact just two out-of-tune guitars.

“I heard every word,” Donnelly drawls, just to make certain whomever this song is intended for understands this clearly. Terrific.

5. Gepetto (3:22)

A fuzzy intro playing softly over some cherubic guitars marks this out immediately as one of the lighter numbers on the album and introduces us to the more fantastical side of Mrs Donnelly, which some may appreciate less than her dark side. I don’t however, although this perhaps is obvious single material (you cynical get).

The first verse abounds with galloping guitars and swirling solos but the song cannot wait to move towards its enjoyable chorus where harmonies, chugging guitars and drums dominate the bulk of the music. Some ascending and noisier guitar solos cut through the mirth as the tune leaps through its verses and chorus so quickly most of this might just pass the listener by.

6. Witch (1:35)

One of the two tracks under two minutes, this keeps the record flowing along at an enjoyable pace and continues the shimmering beauty of the previous material. Some hypnotic guitars pluck throughout the minute and a half while the continuously kooky lyrics keep the proceedings moving along pleasingly. Instead of being filler, this enhances the album somewhat and actually adds to the exceptional structure of the LP which keep it consistently compelling from beginning to end.

7. Slow Dog (4:01)

Another runaway highlight, this begins with some fast ascending/ descending duel guitars over a louder bass line. The drums bounce the melody delightfully while Donnelly introduces the fictitious dog of the song which keeps getting shot. Silly mutt. The chorus is where this song takes off, however; the layered acoustic guitars rumbling with more thrust while the electric guitars and drums lift the track into exhilarating and exciting passages dominated by Donnelly’s near orgasmic vocals.

“Maria carry a rifle, Marry carry a dog on her back, that dog is hit again, that slow dog is hit again/ With his see-through skin, the kind of skin you can see through, he’s shot again,” she sings, bathing us in sugary pop exultation. The rumbling acoustic guitars and fast pace of this song make it one of the best moments on the album, and lift the album effortlessly into its charming pop peaks.

8. Low Red Moon (5:31)

The centrepiece of the album is a medium-tempo number dominated by ethereal vocals from Donnelly and a much more sludgy guitar sound. Throughout the whole of this track we are driven and compelled by Donnelly and her voice seduces into this pretty but ominous landscape populated by various childlike characters which dominate the bulk of her imagination throughout the LP. An organ, played by Thomas Gorman, is added behind the driving guitars and shimmers through the airy landscape created by the instruments.

The track deploys some spiky acoustic guitars through the dark morass like some small patters of rain throughout the stormy palette. Her vocals are warped slightly at the mixing desk and she ups the ante by attempting some higher notes, lifting the track towards a cryptic finale: “You made me cry when I was young/ Now I’ve got strong arms.” I have no idea what she’s singing about, but this is utterly enchanting for its lengthy running time. The track ends with some delicate guitars over muttered vocals from Donnelly.

9. Feed The Tree (3:28)

Slightly lighter, but just as enjoyable, this has a softer approach to the previous pop stylings used before and a beguiling chorus makes sure the exceptional craft shows no signs of faltering at this stage in the record. Her vocals are layered here by the mighty Gil Norton, giving her more omnipotence while the music is once more luscious and Donnelly less of just a floaty, coy presence on the album. The chorus is an easier affair to sing along to, as well: “Take your hat off boy, when you’re talking to me, and be there when I feed the tree.”

10. Full Moon, Empty Heart (3:01)

A longer, more indulgent introduction makes this perhaps one of the more challenging tracks on the album. Donnelly with just a guitar is compelling enough anyway, and it is admirable she is playing with her song structures like this. The track takes its time to jangle and harmonise its way towards the bouncier melody which flourishes optimistically into gorgeous kaleidoscopes of colour and hues of shimmering beauty.

Following her highest note of the record, the melody unfolds its way into what is actually one of the most beauteous and gorgeous tracks on the entire record, and no mistake. The loud howls make Donnelly even more angelic, frankly.

11. White Belly (3:35)

This track keeps jumping on my CD player, which is a shame as it is another quirky number which somehow manages to sound completely unique and apart from every other song on the album. The darker tone is established from the outset and some creative drumming from the man at the kit shows the terrific interplay between the group and how it is not just Donnelly’s show.

The chorus is perhaps one the finest examples of Donnelly’s spaced-out pop style and how she marries her terrific melodies with idiosyncratic arrangements that are wonderfully singular. She also had help from Fred Abong here with the writing, it is worth pointing out. “Somewhere to sleep, somewhere to scrape your body off my feet/ Put on your black dress, put on your back,” she sings, still quite difficult to understand but getting away with it magnificently.

12. Untogether (4:43)

As I said earlier, Donnelly with just an acoustic guitar is compelling and for this swaying number we get just that. With just some rather straightforward strumming and country-tinged swirls on the pedal guitar, Donnelly sings this track with some backing vocals from Fred Abong.

Here she manages to make this word ‘untogether,’ a slang term meaning emotionally unstable, sound positively glorious: “The bird nest on my back keeps me turning and straining to see/ He threw outrageous parties, we were golden/ Now the bird keeps its distance and I keep my speed, sometimes there’s no poison like a dream.” A virtuoso display of cryptic song writing which almost matches her old compadre Kristin Hersh, and keeps the album exciting.

13. Star (1:26)

Perhaps the most unnecessary track on the album, this reminds me of the filler on Throwing Muses albums, or some of the dreary acoustic passages from Hersh’s Hips & Makers LP. For the first verse she actually manages to sound like Hersh as well, and the music here is rather bland and goes nowhere, slowing the record down somewhat. I do think if they had just erased this track, this record would have been an absolute classic from beginning to end. Just a tad too ambitious, perhaps and the only throwaway of the album.

14. Sad Dress (3:45)

Some distortion and feedback once more lead us deceptively into the downbeat proceedings and Donnelly’s vocals are pushed around both the left and right speakers for a woozier sound (presumably the desired effect). Perhaps the hardest rocking number on the album, some fuzzy and screechy solos are played while the track lumbers along with an alcohol-intoxicated brusqueness and the final half of the song takes us down into an exciting avenue of quirky vocals tics and messy solos, giving it a more improvisatory feel.

15. Stay (4:56)

The closer is singly the most moving track on the album, and Donnelly’s vocals actually achieve a rare emotional beauty despite the religious imagery and deliberate lyrical subterfuge. The chorus here is lavish and gorgeous, and her overdubbed harmonies lightly float over some soft and melancholic guitars which support her heavenly voice beautifully. A violin is added to the line-up, played by John Douglass, and although managing to sound like a guitar, it adds a pleasant touch to the proceedings, especially in the last minute.

Donnelly’s light pleas for whomever to stay, mixed with her religious lyrics, make this sound like something of a paean to God. It is therefore something of a spiritually moving number and imbues the music with a rare transcendence rarely seen on pop albums. All right, maybe not, but it is gorgeous. “He lives in the yard, he keeps himself hard, he keeps himself homeless and heartless and hard/ But I love him dear, and I’ve loved him hundreds of thousand of years,” she sings, never once sounding too syrupy.

The final refrain showcases her vocals at their most gorgeous while she sustains her notes in the chorus and the violin ends the album on a delicate and plaintive note, with a gigantic, warm smile still at its core, despite the best attempts to make this as dark as possible. A wonderful closer.

This debut album by Belly remains one 4AD’s finest records and definitely still the finest non-Muses album featuring the talents of Tanya Donnelly. It is a shame about the title track, as I think it spoils what could have been a faultless record. It runs along smoothly and hypnotically, with each track as seductive as the next, and it just seems to stick out and ruin it. Still, there is such a thing as a program function on CD players, or a fast forward button, so maybe I should just shut up.

This is about as perfect an ethereal, shimmering pop album as one can buy these days in what is obviously a fertile market for such fare. Forget every solo female pop artist you have enjoyed before 1993 and remember Donnelly as the true innovator hoarding all the hooks and looking very rightly pleased with herself. Donnelly recorded music as equally pretty as this, but nothing quite as transcendent that will lodge itself firmly in the memory like this does. A wonderful masterpiece, and very highly recommended.

Rating: 10/10

The White Stripes: Icky Thump (2007)

#16

Baffling & Beautiful

Another brief hiatus, another exceptional piece of work from adenoidal wunderkind Jack White and unlikely drumming superstar Meg White. Please welcome back The White Stripes.

Jack’s previous masterpiece was an eponymous one-album side project with Brendan Benson known as The Raconteurs, who served up divine pop-rock hookier than one-hundred fishing rods. Before then, he delivered five solid-gold albums of garage-rock and blues that remained in my CD player for up to six or seven months on end. Elephant from 2003 and De Stijl from 2001 still get regular spins to this date. Perhaps even after this review, should the spirit take me.

Icky Thump is the latest masterwork from Meg White and Jack White who remain faithful to their spurious brother/ sister relationship, although most people seem to have dropped the interest nowadays. Their bond as musicians has managed to override all behind-the-scenes shenanigans and their homes are on opposite sides of America anyways.

The bizarre title of this album hails from an old Northern English expression, and was a catchphrase popularised by seventies comedy duo The Goodies – a slapstick troupe overshadowed by Monty Python with an axe to grind these days on the subject. It would appear just to be an exclamatory expression whenever something goes awry. Someone in 1970s Yorkshire might bang their foot on a coffee table, for example, and shout: “Iiiiieeeee! Icky Thump!”

Glad I made that clear. Little has changed since Get Behind Me Satan from 2005 in terms of the presentation and stylistic approach from the duo. Except perhaps a conscious decision to push their sense of humour to the fore after the affected poses on the previous album cover. Inside the album the red, white and black motifs are still used and the grainy B&W cover of them dressed as a pearly king and queen in a random snapshot pose is just a slice of fun, and retains the down-to-earth personae that makes them such a universally appealing group.

There is also another nonsensical essay from Jack White in the opening sleeve that sounds pretentious at first, but then lapses into goofiness towards the end just before people view him as some chump who just can’t find a comb. Still… he ain’t bad on that guitar.

Icky Thump (4:14)

In terms of the musical approach, the emphasis is on the eclectic and experimental side of the band this time around. In this respect it has more in common with the ebullient jerks and twists of De Stijl than it does the electrifying hard rock of Elephant.

This tune is probably the most haywire piece on the album, with its evil electric organ opening followed in quick succession by the menacing staccato stomps of the guitar and drums. The lead guitar line pulls the listener into a brief state of calmness and familiarity before the organ returns for some truly freakish twinkles that suggest something bad is about to go down. The points of reference band-wise are all over the map – The White Stripes have the canny knack of sounding like fourteen different bands within the space of one solo.

Jack White booms from three speakers swathed in echo, his nonsensical lyrics about ginger senoritas and one-eyed dead lassies almost holding one by the neck in some sordid Mexican bar. Whatever this song is all about is irrelevant – the duo here are back on electrifying form and the music registers in one’s gut in that special way their previous material did all them years ago. All the experimental stuff is just manna.

Bone Broke (3:14)

The flat-out rockers on the album, as always, steal the show and this tune from the vaults of 1998 is of the head-banging crowd-pleasing variety with a marvellous lead hook and staggering rock howl from Jack. The production on this album is less centred around old-fashioned equipment, and the guitars sound fresh and thunderous instead of the preserved, crackle-thunder from previous records.

We can hear each nuance of his stellar guitar work as it should be heard and Meg’s powerhouse drumming is again used to provide some support or control over his lone guitar going pleasantly haywire. This memorable tune moves through a celestial chord sequence that gives Jack the chance to snarl and bite in equal measure, and warm tingles travel through my bones as he sings: “Look another way girl I’m telling ya, God gave seven minutes right to ya.”

Little Cream Soda (3:44)

This is the standout rocker on the album, and a candidate for the one of the most eye-popping tunes ever recorded by the group. It is a storming piece of rock showmanship that rattles and croaks through its distorted lead hook channelled through squealing ascending-descending feedback solos into a bouncy bridges where the tune takes a breath to stop and look around. The most sensational aspect of their music is that the listener has no idea in which direction it shall head next.

Ominous guitars simmer here with imminent violence, before exceptional blues lyrics are deployed in the tense respite: “Well every highway that I go down seems to be longer than the last one that I knew about, oh well.” The vocals here are perched on the edge of genuine terror but are so jaw-droppingly slick I cannot help but grin like a fool whenever I hear them. These exhilarating verses are also enhanced with his use of “oh well, oh well” before the mushed guitar solo, proving that Jack White is a first-rate rock dramatist as well as exceptional guitarist. This tune is reason enough to seek out the record. I know… but I mean it.

Rag and Bone (3:46)

This gem begins like Back Door Man from The Doors before it twists into a cocky piece of surrealist spoken-word blues with a chorus that drags the listener into hooks he never saw coming. Jack once again sounds like a musician able to fuse elements of music from three separate decades and the strange banter that makes up the verses is not too cutesy but more manic and edgy.

Meg once again sounds lighter, as though she has grown into her vocal parts, which were once a little pedestrian for me. Although she does little noticeable singing on this album (which is for the best). The music here is quite similar to the short rave-up Let’s Build A Home from De Stijl or indeed Broken Bricks from their debut album, but has a far more frantic (and frankly much better) climax.

Jack sounds like some possessed hobo as he rattles out the third verse: “Lots of place we ain’t been to yet, east side, southwest side, middle east, rich house, dog house, cat house, halfway homes, old folks homes, down in the catacombs!”

Catch Hell Blues (4:19)

Their mastery of the blues is what The White Stripes made so wonderful on previous albums and this tune begins with a series of blues licks that gently tantalise before the tune bounces into action. Fans of the breakneck blues numbers from De Stijl such as Little Bird or Death Letter (most mortals) should find this piece to their liking. It has less of a structure to it at times and seems more of an excuse for Jack to demonstrate his damned fine guitar playing (which is hardly a bad thing). The vocals here are indeed ancillary to the virtuoso guitar work, fill-in-the-blanks at times, but the brilliance and tension of this tune is impossible to fault.

Horses & Cockneys

You Don’t Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You As You’re Told) opens with a razor-sharp guitar stomp that almost sounds off-kilter infused with the bouncy pop melody and more involved organ backing.

The tune, at the risk of shifting into Raconteurs territory, gels at the bridges where Jack squeals out three or four guitar solos through the galloping din of the music. Meg White is in there somewhere as well, sounding enthusiastic as usual. 300 M.P.H. Torrential Outpour Blues is a leisurely piece that twists from the soft acoustic guitar and drum syncopation of previous triumphs such as Take, Take, Take before it cuts into noisome electric guitar solos that sound stitched at the production desk but do not diminish its enjoyment value.

For the sake of balance, however, I would have to admit this is the weakest piece on the album. It wavers between the delayed excitement of Ball & Biscuit and the bluesy dreariness of A Boy’s Best Friend and ends up more the latter. Got to love that closing line, however: “One thing’s for sure in that graveyard, I’m gonna have the shiniest pair of shoes.”

Conquest is an actual cover (gasp), and for once not of the blues variety. Instead it is a song written by Corky Robbins and popularised, I believe, by Patti Page. It makes use of hilarious mariachi trumpets that are a genuine surprise at first, then ludicrously theatrical vocals which help diminish the shock.

To keep proceedings even more strange, the harmonies are pushed through the speakers and the trumpets are allowed to jam with the squalling guitar. The bizarre pre-chorus parts even sound like synthesisers which makes this by far the most experimental and enthralling record by the duo on instrumentation alone.

Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn wins the best title award, as well as the award for the most audaciously experimental and rewarding piece here. The White Stripes in this tune manage the impossible, which is to make the tuneless drone of the bagpipe fit into a jaunty acoustic ditty. This is in itself an incredible achievement, especially for those such as myself who have grown up with this horrible instrument. What could have been an embarrassment is an enjoyable detour – the Caledonian cousin to Little Ghost perhaps.

Although it must be said the attempted Scots accent from Jack in the last verse was a bad idea, but I’m prepared to offer some benefit of the doubt. St. Andrew (The Battle Is In The Air) sounds like an absolute mess at first, and remains so, but is such a delirious distraction it is impossible to resist. What is even more bizarre is that Meg White seems to have a different voice to the one she used on previous albums; it has a sweeter, more girly edge to it more in common with Scottish indie rock bands like Belle & Sebastian. She sounds like Isobel Campbell, in fact. Which was perhaps the idea.

I’m Slowly Turning Into You makes use of a stop-start electric organ, drone-guitar and drum rhythm that almost grates until the sensational electric guitar gives way to a delectable pop chorus with a melee of whispery voices and twinkling solos from up above. The remainder of the tune has an improvisatory feel which is an utter thrill, and it builds to a sing-along chorus which is almost as sky-high as those Raconteurs numbers some of us loved so much.

I’m A Martyr For My Love For You is the sole ballad on the album that manages to side-step the tedium of the previous piano-led efforts on Get Behind Me Satan that made the record a little tough to wade through at times. The organ here works well over the acoustic guitar and soft vocals from Mr. White. This one is more reminiscent of the noisy balladry from White Blood Cells and conjures up the delicate work displayed on tunes such as The Same Boy You’ve Always Known and suchlike. OK, enough back referencing!

Effect and Cause is a light-hearted piece on the acoustic guitar in the manner of previous fun-filled album closers. I will not name them. No more back references. Mr. White dusts off his country voice for this one and it boasts the cleverest lyrics and neatest wordplay to fall from his pen, which is probably why he sniggers mid-verse. Thus ends another miniature masterpiece from the triumphant twosome.

Yes, Yes…

Icky Thump is impossible to resist. It is a five-star album since it is very very light on imperfections and I was bowled over by all of these tunes when I first spun it. Since then, all of these wonderful pieces have clicked to become bona fide White Stripes classics and this is another utter triumph from start-to-finish. We would expect nothing less from thee band of the noughties. It is a far more experimental, heavier rocking and ultimately superior record to Get Behind Me Satan and is a bold step forward that also capitalises on what is so great about the band in the first place.

The ad-hoc garage-rock feel is retained despite the vast riches they have amassed, and infused with a fearless eclecticism. All their genius from 1997 to the present day is to be found somewhere on this album and I have a strong feeling it shall take residence in my CD player for months and months to come. So ignore the daft title once again, and surrender to the music.

Rating: 9/10