The Musical Überfête

2010-03-26T05:36:00.000-07:00

2010-03-09T12:30:00.000-08:00

2010-02-10T15:35:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-17T11:36:00.000-08:00

#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)

2008-11-02T18:10:00.000-08:00

#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)

2008-11-02T18:01:00.000-08:00

#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)

2008-11-02T17:51:00.000-08:00

#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)

2008-11-02T17:41:00.000-08:00

#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)

2008-11-02T17:24:00.000-08:00

#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)

2008-11-01T20:32:00.000-07:00

#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

PJ Harvey: Uh Huh Her (2004)

2008-11-01T20:20:00.000-07:00

#15

Polly Jean, Earth Mother

Regardless whether she was exorcising the voracious man-beasts of her past, pining for her Phoenix to come riding fast outta fire-flames or stepping hand-in-hand through the picturesque nightscape of New York with her life partner, the work of PJ Harvey has always been rooted in pastoral translucence and connected to the land with a distinctive quaintness.

The reason for this is simple. PJ has bucolic blood in her veins. She devours pesticide potatoes and rodenticide radishes for breakfast. Her hometown of Yeovil in Dorset nurtures what David Trimble once called the cock-up theory of genetics, whereby the rules of selective breeding need not apply and the gene pool is a free-for-all. In this town, cousins who are also their sisters-in-law cohabit with their mothers who are also their brothers and half-uncles twice removed. Ross Harper is my lawyer. Have you met him?

Uh Huh Her moves from the glossier rock music she made to nab the Mercury Music Prize in 2000, Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea, back to the moodier magic of her previous albums. As someone who was unimpressed with the execution of her commercial venture, this record knocked me over when I first heard it, and as it stands on its own as an eclectic masterwork in an oeuvre clogged with them.

Although some might take umbrage with the several moments of filler on the album, I believe these unfinished song ideas hold the album together as a conceptual unity, and Uh Huh Her feels much more like a patchwork or photograph album of emotions, as the inside booklet suggests, and encapsulates all the brilliance of her rawest song writing.

The Life & Death of Mr. Badmouth suggests the kind of male expurgation featured on her venomous 1993 blues eruption Rid of Me, but turns into a far more ruminative piece, which the bulk of these pieces become. With the ultra-slick blues riff crawling in through the wistful silence, the tune feels as though it might explode at some point, until Harvey instructs her protagonist in a rather maternal tone to: “Wash it out, wash it out.”

The music on this album is closest to the spiritual sheen of To Bring You My Love and the introspective sadness of Is This Desire? but still manages to retain a complete originality of its own. Shame follows the tense opener, and is one of the most affecting songs Harvey has ever composed, with a gorgeous vocal performance and muted guitar and harmonica backing. With the most minimal of instrumentation she often shines, and rarely on record does she manage to coax this kind of genuine emotion.

Who The F**k? is a delightful blast of noise, and confirms that Harvey is no longer fuelled by chagrin in her rock songs; instead she glows with theatrical ebullience and noise-making freedom. The video is also included here, with PJ leaping around a flat in her underpants.

Pocket Knife is the finest example of the folk influence in her music, and is an elegant piece driven by acoustic guitar but with some integral drumming which helps the bouncier tone of the track to triumph. Rob Ellis from the early days is on drums once more, and with alt-rock curio Head on most other things.

Harvey produced this album herself, and for a first-time effort it is remarkably polished. The Letter is a glorious tune, bringing to life the old-fashioned process of writing by hand into a seductive and curvy blues romp with some stellar backing vocals which sound like graveyard pop harmonies as performed by the undead.

The Slow Drug is a synthetic string-only tune, recalling a certain Man-Size Sextet from yonks back, but has a far sultrier melody going for it and the moody performance makes it a compelling moment of brooding wonder. No Child of Mine is the first of the wilfully short tunes here, just an acoustic guitar, some backing vocals and one repeated verse. Nice while it lasts. In no way do these short bursts diminish the overall brilliance of the album.

Cat On The Wall is proof that of the eleven proper tracks here, there is not one stinker among them. A riotous and rather far-out number, an interesting production approach is taken here to ensure that the springy sense of rapture is no lost behind the thunderous welter of guitars. You Come Through was the second single here, and was an odd choice, since it is a bizarre little distraction one of them beater-bonking instruments with some steamrollered string arrangements. That said, it is an example of how this album is fearless in its ideas and their execution.

It’s You is downbeat but luxurious at the same time, with its slinky piano lead and its seductive guitar groan over the impassioned coo of Harvey, again in hyper-emotional mode throughout. The End is a tribute to her pal Vincent Gallo and is one minute of scant guitar noodling over squished harmonica. Nice and moody, though, and sets the scene before the grand finale.

The Desperate Kingdom of Love is the most powerful piece of music PJ Harvey has ever composed. Stripped of her theatrical blues-rock clout or those crafty intimate tricks that stop the listener getting too close, this is just her, an acoustic guitar and a sensational batch of lyrics.

Here, the soft caress of her guitar and some neat little chord changes leads the listener into a moving and melancholic tune about the deep loss of love, which is the most emotionally honest Harvey has ever been; sounding even resigned. This kind of progression looks good for her next album, due very soon. The seagulls at the end of the song somehow make the piece much more chilling, especially after her hushed line: “At the end of this burning world.”

The Darker Days of Me & Him feels like a bonus track but is a proper end to the album, perhaps to stop it from being too short. As a closer, it is far more effective than her previous piece We Float and again shimmers with the kind of closeness and honesty we never though we were going to get from Polly Jean. A fine end to an exemplary album.

Uh Huh Her, whatever is implied by the title, is one of the three finest PJ Harvey albums and an outstanding piece of work on anyone else’s terms. It is a patchwork of mature, emotive and intimate music that is joyous, peevish, ruminative and just a little tearful. A remarkable achievement from one of the finest artists on the planet and a must for the fan and unconverted alike.

Rating: 8/10

The Kinks: Arthur (Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire) (1968)

2008-11-01T20:07:00.000-07:00

#14

Arthur, We Love You

Some time ago, I introduced those in the dark to the skiffle combo The Egg. Helmed by power-crazed Mrs Halpine in South London, they remained outside the realm of popular consciousness from 1958-1976. Remember now? No? Well, perhaps you might care to pay more attention next time. I refuse to repeat myself at least more than five times.

Around the time The Kinks released this quintessential concept album, The Egg also produced their own impressive song cycle about Essex winkle-pickers and their struggle to survive through the great depression. Some might argue it was nowhere near as wonderful as this masterpiece, Arthur or The Decline and Fall of the British Empire but at least the title was less of a mouthful, released as Jellied Troubles on Uncle Wullie Records in 1959.

This LP, released a decade later in 1969, ranks as perhaps the finest moment from The Kinks, and represents the peak in the lyricism and pop craft of Ray Davies and the band. An extended concept album based around his real-life brother-in-law Arthur, a former RAF pilot who emigrated to Australia following his disillusionment with Britain, it is a sprawling musical adventure and a humanitarian take on the mood of the era it details.

The narrative for a television production was co-written by Julian Mitchell (Davies wanted Alan Bennett), and it is told from the perspective of a WWII soldier during the mass conscriptions. Although the concept album or rock opera is a loose genre and often there is no actual narrative to follow, this one works better despite perhaps the lack of a focussed approach in the writing.

However, there are singles and classics galore, beginning with the rock-out Victoria which is a flag-waving anthem with a bittersweet tang. With its bouncy bass line and groovy acoustic riff, this is a Kinks favourite, with its descending guitar line mirroring the rapturous lead vocals sung in that “daft” voice by Ray (he uses it as a satirical device here to far better effect).

The instrumentation involved is far grander than on all previous Kinks material, since the concept format allows them to play around with their music and how it is arranged. This tune blends a brief section on trumpet, establishing the subject matter of defending Queen and Country, between the sing-along chorus and rollicking verses. A brilliant start which hints at the ambition, experimentalism and subject matter to come.

Nowhere is this experimentation prevalent than on Yes Sir, No Sir, the furious antiestablishment pop tapestry which builds from a basic military drum roll and mellow acoustic riff into a diverse parade of creative vocal styles, clever drum-and-trumpet syncopations and scathing lyricism.

The tune is critical of the working classes being forced into conscription by the upper classes in charge, just as it had been throughout British history for centuries, and it is effectively built around the callow vocals of Dave Davies as an inexperienced solider. The middle section merges into an entirely different piece altogether, just as fast and enjoyable, but narrated from the perspective of the faceless men in charge: “Let them feel that there’s important to the cause… give the scum a gun and make the bugger fight, be sure to have deserters shot on sight.”

The anti-war sentiments continue on the breathtaking Some Mother’s Son, a moving lament with stirring string arrangements over a distant harpsichord and terrific harmonies from the band. Peter Quaife remains on bass and Mick Avory is on drums. From its soft beginning, it takes off into a rousing little piece with grander instrumentation, captivating to the last, especially at the final chorus: “Some mother’s son lies in a field, but to his mother he looks the same as when he went away, they put his picture on the wall… some mother’s memory remains.”

Despite the heavier material and subject matter, there are still Kinks standards such as the pure escapist pop of Drivin’ which pines for of quaint picnics in rural English idylls, the same non-existent places Davies imagined in The Village Green Preservation Society. There are moments of music-hall mania and rabid drum solo action to be found on rave-ups as bizarre and enjoyable as She’s Bought A Hat Like Princess Marina, and more straightforward little angry-young-man numbers like the repetitive but seething hot Nothing To Say.

Brainwashed is an irresistible rocker, another angrier piece which challenges the classic concern expressed by oodles of working class people, that of a predetermined life of mediocrity and stasis through economic circumstance. The centrepiece of the album is the psychedelic indulgence of Australia (clocking in at under 7 minutes) that is in turns hilarious, adventurous and stunning. With some harmonies purloined from The Beach Boys, Davies imagines a life of unspoilt freedom and free from the doldrums of English life, a place where he rather ironically notes: “Everyone walks around with a perpetual smile across their face!”

Shangri-La is the finest of Davies’ character studies about the “the little man who gets the train,” content with the basic life he has made for himself with no aspirations to greater things. With an affecting acoustic guitar opening he winds through evocative and sympathetic verses which trawl the depths of a normal life that might appear mocking were it not for the tumultuous chorus which has an almost religious convergence of guitar, harmonies and background piano.

Davies given his heart to this man; in almost every piece of music he composes he is hiding in there somewhere with a contented smirk. The third section is exceptional; a faster and more obstinate stream of hooks and melodies splintering off into hundreds of directions at once. Some quite unmatchable playing is on display here.

The rest of the original LP is also tremendous, whether it is the looser portrait of conscription Mr. Churchill Says, punctuated by an air-raid siren and a frantic second half that almost winds the listener, or the gentle acoustic piece Young and Innocent Days; one of the most intimate and beautiful acoustic numbers from Davies.

Arthur, the title track, is an incredible rave-up and excels itself in sounding like the most catchy and magnificent pop tune ever written. That might be a tad far-fetched, but the lead hook on electric guitar rips through the clap-along melody with such exuberance this LP might just take residence in your player for months to come. What a magnificent end to a remarkable concept album. I cannot think of a concept album finer than this.

The 2004 Castle Editions are the Kinks remasters to go for, since most of them are abounding with superfluous or brilliant bonus tracks. This LP is no exception, with such wonderful pieces as the powerful Dave Davies omission This Man He Weeps Tonight that could have fit on the original album with ease.

Plastic Man is also a minor pop gem from the golden era when the Kinks were sitting on a creative volcano. Note also the sublime fun of King Kong and the little country deviation of the jaunty Mr. Shoemaker’s Daughter which is a candidate for my favourite Dave Davies piece. Less impressive is Mindless Child of Motherhood, but we won’t spoil it.

There are some unneeded bonuses here that pad the LP to ridiculous length (pushing the 80:00 mark), the stereo versions of Drivin’ and She’s Bought A Hat Like Princess Marina, as well as three of the aforementioned bonus tracks. These are pointless but take that up with the record folks not me. You know where the program function is…

Arthur or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire) is an outstanding concept album recorded in a period of unfettered brilliance from the finest pop band to walk this earth. The work on this album helped pave the way for a generation of experimental popsters but few of them have bettered this Herculean effort. Few ever will. For fans of classic pop albums everywhere.

Rating: 9/10

Madder Rose: Bring It Down (1993)

2008-11-01T19:59:00.000-07:00

#13

Better With the Lights Off

Who remembers the 1990s? What a decade of trash, cheapness, waste, decadence and depression it was. While fellow adolescents were siring children in the car parks of discotheques, tipping truckloads of cheap Dutch jungle juice into their ashtray lungs to the music of 2 Unlimited, us bookish types were indoors reading copies of Being & Nothingness and rocking back and forth to the mournful sway of alt-rock mopesters Madder Rose.

Imagine a drab weekend in one of those towns were the village elders are in charge, and the agenda is bric-a-brac and conversations about Lapsang Souchong. Perhaps this Saturday the vicar, loaded to the eyeballs on antidepressants and homemade tablet, is giving a talk on the history of the tweed industry. Feeling depressed yet? Well, this quartet from New York certainly do. Bring It Down is an elegant album of rainy-day mope rock and mid-tempo alt-rock topped off with the soporific tones of Mary Lorson and the guitar mastery of Billy Cote.

It all sounds rather glum thus far, does it not? Well perhaps I can introduce a little light into this gloomsome world of ours when I say Madder Rose are perhaps the finest overlooked acts to emerge from the mop-top crop of mid-nineties alt rock acts. Their standing in the eyes of this makeshift music critic is above such noise-niks as Hole, such slopsters as The Breeders and streets ahead of those shoe-gazing pretenders such as Lush.

Beautiful John, for example, highlights their talent for upbeat rock pop songs with venomous undertones. The prettiness of Lorson’s vocal is undercut with her repetitive swoon of “you’re no flower” to highlight how the passing of time turns one rank and bitter. While Away is a mellow piece that sways through its random drum tapping and acoustic weariness. Imagine sitting on a porch while the summer sun turns your skin the colour of roast chicken. This tune was designed for such an event. I lost a child to skin cancer once. Nah… just kidding. It was my father.

However, there is more to this album than resigned gloom and escaping the tedium of existence. The jaunty Swim blends self-referential lyrics with a squalling guitar part from exceptional fret-burner Billy Cote. Matt Verta-Ray on the old bass is no slouch either, nor kit-killer Johnny Kick. Note the wow-wee speed of fast-mover 20 Foot Red or the sizzling venture we call the title track for such proof.

Anyway, under a veranda in 1996, I once ran into Cherie Blair, who would then achieve some notoriety as being the wife of the British Prime Minister who confused New Zealand with Australia and made millions milking her position on the lecture circuit. She said the following to me: “In a basement – where the dark forces converge to make whoopee and transform basic dolts of your ilk into Cellophane jerk-offs of the lowest emotional rung – there sits a curtain named Silicone Artichoke.”

“Where she be now, Miss Blair?” I asked, pulling some pasta from my nose.

“For interrupting I’m not going to tell you. Now get on with the review. This is such deviation. Do you want to damage your reputation on this website?” she said, kicking my dog Schafer.

“It’s OK. You don’t think anyone reads this tripe, do you? I’d have greater success running naked through the high street shouting ‘Madder Rose, all fans of alt-rock ought to give them a go’ than scribing half-baked opinions on this website,” I said, eating the remains of my dog.

“What a defeatist attitude. No wonder no-one wants to marry you or buy your igloo. Good day, sir. And please get on with the review,” she added, threatening to unleash John Prescott on me (a fat man in the British Government).

Since I respect Cherie Blair, let me tell all those interested that Lay Down Low is a laugh, a fast one about skinny dipping. Ever done it? I once lost a pair of trunks in the local pool and was giggled at by Jennifer Richmond who once showed me her bra outside the chip shop. That’s as far as I’ve taken the experience. Please send me all your skinny dipping stories. I live somewhere outside America. Those who can name my country of residence wins a car.

OK, OK. Living A Daydream is a charming and wonderful piece of music, dwarfed thoroughly by the soothing depression of Sugarsweet and Lights Go Down. They all make me want to hibernate, live in a tepee and accuse the current generation of old people of messing up our global sense of joie de vivre. That’s a French expression meaning occasional moments of happiness. Happiness is a concept that eludes me. This review is what is known as a “mistake” meaning before writing I took three cartons of milk. Whoops.

Other tracks I didn’t mention are Altar Boy (sublime drumming), Razor Pilot (sublime thrumming), Waiting For Engines (sublime humming) and Pocket Fulla Medicine (not sublime).

Madder Rose were overlooked and Bring It Down is their finest album. It radiates a glorious summer melancholy to “while away” the saddest and hottest months of the year. So get baked or get this record. The choice is yours, people. There, I did it.

I need sleep. Apologies for 99.9 percent of this review since I’m between medications at the moment. Normal quality shall be resumed once I regain consciousness in 2045.

See y’all then.

Rating: 9/10

Throwing Muses: University (1995)

2008-11-01T19:47:00.000-07:00

#12

Strange Time To Be Hazing

What can be said about this magnificent alt-rock unit that has not been pre-blathered before in some of this reviewer’s short but sweet words of praise for either Kristin Hersh or Throwing Muses?

Well… nada really. I love them and they illuminate my world. When things go dark, they switch on the lights. When I feel ice inside the lining of my soul, they break through the frost and make me warm again. Is there higher praise than that for a band? That they make you feel glad to be alive and want to celebrate existence as something to be cherished and not loathed with a vengeance? If so, I’d love to hear it. Those who care can reach me at The Tower in Penn State.

University is the best release from Throwing Muses and an album which has enhanced and transformed my existence in ways mere mortals such as you will not be able to understand. It also helped me survive my time at a literal university in the austere town of Edinburgh, which raises an ironic chuckle for those who like that kind of incidental humour. For those who do not, I blow my nose at you. Twice. Parp parp.

Released in 1995 on 4AD, perhaps the finest independent record label in the multiverse, this record has timeless appeal and has been played back so many times I can predict each and every note of each and every tune that is coming on the stereo system nexty-next. That’s what we call tautological disgrace readers. It’s when the brain scrambles to write something interesting but fails. Ehm. To the songs…

Bright Yellow Gun opens the album with what can only be described as a howling beaming screaming wall of marvellous sound and then some. Although some might favour a different descriptive method. The song simmers with an elegant contempt; finding itself somewhat lost through the squalling lead guitar and the bounce of the ecstatic lead melody where the sheer command of Kristin Hersh (chief songwriter, vocalist and guitarist) comes through with pizzazz and powwow as she proclaims: “I think I need a little poison!”

Start is just as infectious with its dizzying opening lick and the tumultuous drum work of David Narcizo (the only fixed member of the group since its inception) and towers into an overdubbed chorus where Hersh leaps out the stereo in a daze of mesmerising sexuality and pop mastery; out-Heroding most of her male alt-rock contemporaries with the one of the finest mantra lines in modern rock: “I start at his knees and I end in his dreams!”

Hazing begins with a suggestive curl, building into a shrieking kewpie doll of jubilant frustration where Hersh gets to flex her lungs and demonstrates the twisted genius in her guitar playing. Bassist Bernard Georges can barely keep up with the fiery little lass in this outstanding tune (especially in the magical third act).

Shimmer has a more downbeat flavour to it and battles through its trapped feeling into a finale that becomes really something else. One important fact about all of these songs is that nothing is predictable in their lyrics, music or structure at any given stage. It is this adventure and discovery upon each new listen which makes University completely unmatched in the nineties alt-rock staple.

Calm Down, Come Down is one of two the mysterious bridge pieces and acts as a tense little segue before the Los Angeles shimmer of sunbaked ballad Crabtown.

In this tune Hersh translates the delicate beauty of her solo work into a wistful and cryptic piece about lost love on the beach which is both romantic and affecting. With the sparse line of lead guitar and the forlorn coo of her backing harmonies, the listener can feel the sand at their feet as they lose themselves in Hersh’s plea of: “Kiss me over Crabtown, baby brown.”

No Way In Hell is a punchier affair, beginning with the elegant cello flourish of Jane Scarpantoni who features on a number of these pieces and who also added so much to Hersh’s first solo record Hips and Makers. There is a fire in her lead guitar here, which squalls through the silence into a venomous tune about some male vagabond who makes off with her clothes. Rotten apple. Has he never heard of thrift stores?

Surf Cowboy has a real jangle-pop feel to it, more of a throwback to earlier sound from the group, and is such an infectious nugget one can forgive its melodic simplicity. Just joking of course. This is just as mind-bogglingly original as the rest of the wonderful music here.

That’s All You Wanted is one of those tunes which acts as a nice warm cuddle in front of the fireplace, and the cello work lifts the soaring pop harmonies into a plateau of brilliance that for me represents the pinnacle of this band’s mid-nineties powers. In earlier albums there were but one or two flickers of the heights of elegance they would reach here, but this record takes all that unrealised talent to a brilliant apotheosis. Teller has a wearier inflection to it, a story-song with an unfathomable narrative but some of the most sublime chord sequences on the record.

The most haunting moment on the album comes with the title track where Hersh records a dark little guitar line over the first attempts at music from her son Dylan Hersh, resulting in a short piece which is quite effective at delivering a profound and mysterious moment of climax to the record.

On 1991 LP The Real Ramona Hersh also dedicated a track to her son, and given the personal nature of all her work, the listener can appreciate these moments of insight all the greater; given the deep introspection she invests in all her artistic endeavours. Very surreal – but very moving.

Snakeface has a more laid-back feel to it and some creative bongo percussion keeps the mellow beach-side feel alive and kicking. Even in the later songs on the album the ideas and originality are kept burning. Note the appearance of the organ and guest turn from Trina Shoemaker.

Flood is a fine penultimate track and almost bottles the incredible sound of rapture and beauty which permeates this magisterial record to be passed around as a sound fragrance. You sound try and avoid Phil Collins “Essence of Phil” perfume. It stinks. Fever Few is a grand closer which indulges in its longer running time and almost gets away with the fade-out and fade-in trick it pulls on us at the end. A commanding and neat closer.

University is a phenomenal achievement. It is one of the few albums I take out for regular spins after a year of purchase and never grow tired of hearing. It is also the finest album from this remarkable and overlooked group. You know what to do. For those who don’t, try picking up a copy of this album at once.

Rating: 10/10

Patti Smith: Easter (1978)

2008-10-16T07:19:00.000-07:00

#11

The Transformation of Waste

I had a dream a few weeks ago that Patti Smith had accompanied me on a coach trip to Macclesfield. Needless to say, it was not the kind of dream that most people would wish to discuss in public. But since this forum does not exactly count as “in public” I shall continue this story until it is at an acceptable length with which to pad out this review.

We stopped off at the pie factory first of all, where the workers were all haggard devotees to local boys Joy Division. It was around this period, 1978, when punk was on the way out that this album Easter was unleashed on the world. This LP would coincide neatly with beginning of the end of the phenomenon she had helped to create, dovetailing her seminal Horses LP and her mediocre Wave effort.

“What kinda pies ya got here?” she asked some of the semi-conscious staff.
“Um… all kinds of pies. Mince, meat. Mince, kidney. Did I mention mince?” the worker replied.
“Yeah, you kinda did,” Patti replied, not impressed.

Then I woke up. Not exactly that exciting a dream but I can’t explain the damn things. One thing it did open my eyes to was the brilliance of this artist. Horses never set my word ablaze, I must confess, but Easter confirms what people had contested for aeons, that Patti Smith was the true poetess of rock music and is one hell of a talent.

Such is confirmed with the elegant opener Till Victory that begins the album with its distinctive guitar versus church organ sound and commences the spiritual thrust this record has behind it. The music has an outstanding transcendent feel to it, with her impassioned and fiery lyrics that leap from the defiant into confessional within the space of a few minutes. As usual, guitarist Lenny Kaye helps Smith take control of her vision from off, and this album would seem to be the closest she has achieved to realising this vision.

Space Monkey is a crunchier tune on the whole with more of those baffling beat poetry lyrics of hers (the liner notes are written in nonsensical Bob Dylan-speak) and builds to an uncomfortable, ejaculatory climax.

Because The Night was co-written with Bruce Springsteen and is an astonishingly good tune with an unusually romantic performance from Smith and possibly the catchiest chorus in her canon; making it one of the most commercially pleasing efforts.

Ghost Dance is taken from plains Indians, apparently, and re-interpreted as a campfire anthem here to exceptional effect. This track boasts the finest vocal performance from Smith on the album, bar three others, and the backing vocals of the mantra-like chorus are wonderfully stirring. It almost breaks down the walls of history and communes with ghosts of the dead, and not many tunes can pull this feat off – it is spine-chillingly magnificent, trust me. Except those of you who already trust me. Sometimes its 41, sometimes its 40. I’ll find that swine, one day…

Babelogue is a spoken-word rant performed in front of a noisy crowd and provides an odd segue into the next track.

In the decidedly controversial Rock ‘N’ Roll Nigger, Smith wields the taboo of this word for some fired-up attack on society at large, shouting in her finest Alice Cooper growl: “Outside of society! That’s where I want to be!” Lenny Kaye is also allowed to deliver a verse (unfortunately) and although their intentions are honourable, perhaps this tune does not really blast through whatever message it is trying to convey. It does rock, however. And how.

Privilege (Set Me Free) is far more interesting a tune, with a moving prayer section from Smith over some eerie synthesiser effects before it builds into a defiant and powerful piece where she wails out the line as though in some manic celebration of life: “I’m so young, so goddamn young!”

We Three is a simply unbelievable and beautiful piece of music, apparently arranged in 1974 by Tom Verlaine when he was still setting fire to fields with Richard Hell somewhere in New York. Unsurprisingly, it sounds like early Television but this performance of the tune is beautiful. It is a romantic, emotional and intimate tune with an absolutely spell-binding performance from Smith, especially towards the final line where the doo-wop harmonies meet the spirituality of the organ: “Every night we go to sleep and pray so breathlessly.”

25th Floor holds enough New York swagger to blast twelve Lou Reeds off the stage, and is an exhausting rock workout for her band, blending as it does into the spoken-word rant about art High On Rebellion. Some might argue this goes on for a little long but this reviewer finds the entire rave-up an absolutely dynamite work-out for her group. Ivan Kral is on bass, Jay Dee Daugherty is on drums and Bruce Brody is on the keyboards. They all deserve medals.

Easter is a profound closer, with its hypnotic chorus, swooning verse and ornate pan-pipes conclusion. There is some first-rate and stirring poetry from Smith that once more keeps the religious theme going and confirms that she managed to find a direct line to God for this wonderful album. Godspeed is added as a bonus track on the remaster but this is an improvised poetry reading over some horrible finger-clicks and grating piano chords… Birdland all over again.

Unless I have not said so beforehand… I rather adore this record. Easter is my favourite of all Patti Smith works, and she is an artist who delivers consistent quality but never many flat-out masterpieces. I contest this LP blends all that is brilliant about Smith. It is bursting with the intellectual venom, the spiritual beauty and moonlit bliss of her finest music, and demonstrates a simply impassioned and untouchable artist at the peak of her brilliance and divine powers.

Easter is the one true Patti Smith masterpiece. Even if she cannot stand mince pies.

Rating: 9/10

10,000 Maniacs: In My Tribe (1987)

2008-10-11T03:56:00.000-07:00

#10

The Souls of Men & Women, Impassioned All...

Oh… what a vicious world it is we inhabit these days. I refer of course to the period in which this review was keyed (October 2007, in the middle of an August which looked a bit like summer). Before then, things were just a bit “mwah.”

In these dark times, bands like 10,000 Maniacs seem to make it all right. Without wishing to dwell on the gloom too much (heaven forefend) we need protection from the onslaught of another war and the fact as a planet things might get a bit too gaseous and smog-filled for us to breathe in 2034. Since the UN, NATO and the EEC can do sod all for us right now, why not take solace in classic eighties collegiate rock albums in the meantime? Or build a bomb shelter and hide. Drop me an e-mail if you’d like to book a place (standing room only, no gas masks supplied).

In My Tribe cannot combat disease and the mildew of civilisation but it gives things a damned fine polish all the same. This release from 1987 is a triumph of jangle pop melodies, rich and socially astute vocals and sublime musicianship from a concerned bunch of intellectual New Yorkers. In the limited camp of essential LPs which attempt to rattle the cage and thwart the status quo until people LISTEN, this triumph of a record is miles ahead of the rest.

It captures the inherent goodness in humanity and shakes its head at those who fail to understand why we were put on this Earth in the first place. Yes… to write reviews on websites no-one ever reads the whole way through, and to embarrass oneself in front of snobbish librarians. Not a lot else to existence, really…

What’s The Matter Here? has become an alternative rock classic to cherish for time immemorial, and the finest tune about child abuse ever composed. The ecstatic jangle guitars belie the horrors expressed through the campfire squall of lead songstress Natalie Merchant who narrates a sympathetic portrait of a family taking unjust disciplinarian methods against their child. The lead guitar from maestro Robert Buck lifts this piece into a sublime third act which attains a moving climax on its own uncompromising terms. Merchant grips onto the moral high ground and squeezes throughout, but pushes so emotion from her words her message becomes impossible to ignore.

Hey Jack Kerouac is a self-explanatory tribute to the popular author of On The Road, an influential and skittish text I read four or five years ago to this date. I never caught onto his legendary status myself, but he was no slouch in the scribe department that’s for sure. Those seeking an intellectual critique can seek elsewhere. Perhaps Jack would be proud of this swinging tribute? A beatific sound keeps it fast and energetic with a neat keyboard swish from Dennis Drew.

Like The Weather is an ode to depression and gloom which lifts me from the “dull torpor” mentioned in the lyrics until I am swimming in mirth and committing huggish behaviour. Cherry Tree is beautiful – a gentle and understanding look at adult illiteracy with a spine-chilling acoustic guitar bridge from Buck. Tremendous bass guitar accompaniment comes from Steven Gustafson.

The Painted Desert opens with a masterful drum thwack from co-composer and drummer Jerome Augustyniak and creates an aural palate larger than the Aussie outback. What is this one about? Who knows, but it is evocative and powerful in ways most eighties acts never ever achieved throughout their pitiful careers. Wasn’t the eighties terrible? I do believe it was.

Don’t Talk boasts a large arena-rock sound with glorious U2 guitars before it sways into a lighter-waving chorus of humbling proportions. The chorus is more accessible than the elegiac verses, but the same moving climax comes soaring from the swirling instrumentation on a number of occasions so do not fret. I believe this tune is about the pain endured through another’s disgraceful lies. Merchant sounds hurt here and that comes through. You better believe it. Sublime solos from Buck fill out the five minute duration.

Peace Train was snipped from the second pressing of this album for political reasons. Cat Stevens suffered from foot-in-mouth syndrome and the band distanced themselves from his comments. This does nothing to detract from the quality of this innocuous cover version where Merchant pushes the preachiness to such an extent we want to go around cuddling everyone. And why not?

Gun Shy is an anti-war anthem which defines the phrases “quietly chilling” and “humbly effective.” With a forlorn vocal and eerie organ lead, the regrettable verses coast along with silent rage until the chorus says it all with panache: “Well I knew, I could see, it was all cut and dry to me… there was soldier’s blue blood streaming in your veins.”

My Sister Rose is a little self-indulgent and ups the cheese factor to gas mark four. Still, it would take someone of quite an unpleasant temperament to dislike the mambo shimmer of this ode to marriage. I might just be that someone. A Campfire Song boasts a low-key guest turn from Michael Stipe which turns out to be the finest aspect of the tune, until Merchant ups the ante with her chilling refrain of: “Lonely lonely lonely man!”

City of Angels is bizarre and comes close to dud status with the off-key mandolin part and the dank wooble of the keyboard. Like the word “wooble?” It is amazing what the mind will comes up with when proper words elude one.

Verdi Cries ends the album and is the finest piece Natalie Merchant has ever composed; a haunting aubade on the piano with spine-chilling cello accompaniment from Dennis Karmazyn. Her gentle choruses somehow encapsulate the cryptic sadness in the verses; as though lamenting all that has fallen to ruin in the affairs of the world in one afternoon. This is spellbinding stuff and with the string arrangements, forces me into two whole tears upon its closing perfect cadence. Magnificent, unforgettable music.

In My Tribe surely lurks in all record collections somewhere? To ignore this timeless album is to deny the very process of life itself. All those who run in fear from its enchanting beauty and earthbound poetry are surely evil specimens of humanity. Recommended to all those with a pulse.

Rating: 9/10

Radiohead: Kid A (2000)

2008-10-11T03:37:00.001-07:00

David Aaron's Opus

For eight years now, fans of dejected Oxfordshire scamps Radiohead have sought to uncover the identity of this elusive Kid A.

At my school, Grotty Comprehensive in the town of Grump-on-Whine, Kid A was always David Aaron. With his name first on the class register, this blessed sod was first for EVERYTHING. He got first dibs on the climbing frame. He got to handle the big saws in Craft Class before we all did. He was first to commit arson in the tuck shop. He was first to embezzle funds from the PTA and serve two-to-five in juvenile hall. He was first to kill and eat a mollusc. Yes… he was first at truly everything!

What does this have to do with Radiohead? Well… asides from my glib literal interpretation of the title, very little. It was rather petulant of you to ask, actually. Well… it is unlikely David would have taken to this album. The blacker than black soundscapes and lugubrious atonality offered as “music of the future” on Kid A would not sit well next to his collection of Pato Banton LPs. Who remembers “Bubblin’ Hot?”

Kid A was met with critical opprobrium and adulation when it was released in 2001 with its sister piece Amnesiac, reviewed earlier this afternoon by me (aren’t I tedious?) Some kindergarten friends of mine from the local brat-dump remarked the following:

Nigel (aged 3): “It casts a Sisyphean gloom over the listener to such an overbearing extent, he is left lost inside this black canvas of unrelenting rue – in the most archaic sense of the word – and it envelops the neurons in his brain; inducing within him a sort of neuropathological joie de vivre in all its sadness; spreading into a type of inter-cranial Weltschmerz; rather akin to being treated with electro-shock therapy for manic depression… and loving it.”
Theresa (aged 32): “I liked Treefingers.”

The Music

I was unsure what to expect with this album. So when the woodland synthesisers of Everything In Its Right Place struck up, abounding with cavernous menace and futuristic foreboding, and the warped tape loops of Thom Yorke entered to little fanfare, I was a tad surprised. Perhaps I was even delighted. For this schizophrenic piece was perched just on the right side of paranoid, world-weary mania for my liking, and a warm smile came across my face a moment after it ended. Radiohead are back, I thought, staring into the darkness of my fetid soul…

The title track, Kid A, suggested to me that the solution for the next generation of humankind was to build a bomb shelter in which to hide until the dawn of the new world order. This squished lullaby from outer space is like a Stanley Kubrick vision of paradise being spoilt by a hellish Kafkaesque nightmare; but one from a far and distant cosmos. A little piece of my soul got lost in the ambient universe of this song one night…

The National Anthem is all repetitive guitar menace and swirling macabre fright, with the St. John’s Orchestra blowing us into the nightmare of the next world via kick horns. This is a ghoulish rave-up in which all are invited to dance with a sombre quick-step into the bowels of hell. Did I love it? Am I going to get negative about Radiohead? Unlikely, my friends.

How To Disappear Completely is an ambient piece for the most part, working the suicidal dirge of Thom Yorke’s guitar and vocals into the mix for a spirit-draining six minutes. It is a hopeless drift down the Liffey river (East Ireland), washing the listener deep into the gloomiest caverns of his sadness via funereal synths and miserable string arrangements. An elegant but challenging piece of classical woefulness.

Treefingers is an ambient dirge. No time for it. Sorry, Theresa.

Optimistic begins the “squished music” portion of the album where all instruments appeared to have been crammed into a small corner of the mix in favour of the vocals and weirder elements. This has a catchier rock melody afoot, with a doomed mantra chorus in fitting with the band’s despondent aura. In Limbo is distinctly bizarre, perhaps the most hopeful piece on the album with its major key plonking and moments of light respite amid the soul-destroying gloom. What is Yorke singing about? Best not to ask.

Idioteque and Morning Bell make greater use of the drum machine and are both intriguing experiments that uncover this “urban gothic” side of the band (later refined on subsequent albums, see review links below). The former features esoteric samples from Paul Lansky and Arthur Kreiger which is rather pleasing to know.

Closer Motion Picture Soundtrack is a sluggish mope festival with Yorke crawling out of his airtight little hole to complain about the stench of his wretched life. When it ends there is a gap, and then further bizarre things happen after two minutes, most of which are scarier when heard in the dead of night with prowlers outside…

Just listening to Kid A again for the purposes of this review, it is obvious that this record has no universal or mass market appeal whatsoever. It is as leftfield as any contemporary rock record could hope to be. This does not make it unfavourable. Quite the opposite. Although I feel Amnesiac holds more emotional resonance and that these tracks are too aloof and impenetrable to connect with the listener, as a brave stab at alienating their entire listenership, Radiohead have succeeded instead in captivating them.

These two albums are impossible to listen to without antidepressants and a hotline to the Samaritans, but in small doses, they are no less than audacious and avant-garde masterpieces.

Rating: 8/10

Cocteau Twins: Treasure (1984)

2008-10-08T07:44:00.000-07:00

The Wonderful World of Glossolalia

Last week, my dear (eight) readers, I crossed that threshold between maladjusted "normal" person into the beautiful realm of the maladjusted "special" person. What am I banging on about? Well, last week, I was taken out to lunch by a doctor. No ordinary doctor, mind you. We are talking a gentleman with a PhD in English Literature, here. A real life-saver. The restaurant we attended, for fans of geography, sits just on the edge of Guthrie Street in the capital city of Edinburgh from which I hail (in Scotland).

Among the big questions he posed to me that day were when was I going to drop out of my degree, as I had been spending too much time writing music reviews and failed all my exams. More pertinently, however, he asked me what my musical tastes were.

In my portable CD player at that very moment, all I had on me was a copy of the Beta Band’s eponymous first LP, and I was hardly going to lie to him and explain who this band were. Although their eclecticism earned me some bonus points, they just were not leftfield enough, plus I had to make myself appear interesting and intelligent in his presence to banish this image of weird slacker he had (correctly) attached to me. Several band names scrambled in my head until eventually I settled for the mellifluous Celtic folk duo the Cocteau Twins.

"They some kind of pop group?" he piped up, spooning some pasta into his massive gullet. "Far from it," I replied, hoping he would choke on just one ribbon right then and there. For those, like my dead doctor friend, who require information, they are a duo from Grangemouth in Scotland, and used to consist of Robin Guthrie and Elizabeth Fraser. The former wrote all of the music himself and provided all of the technical wizardry, while Fraser supplied the immaculate glossolalia; a big word meaning nonsensical vocals which sound like another language.

This album from the duo is often hailed as their best, and one would be hard pushed to argue with this, quite frankly, since it is pretty much a masterpiece when one considers their overall canon. The tracks here are atmospheric and dark folk tunes which conjure up the sound of dimly-lit caves in magical fairytales, or nasty, unpleasant coves one may discover in the pages of Gormenghast. This album, thematically, centres around powerful female characters in Roman and Greek myth, some of whom I have heard of but others which remain wholly alien, and the tracks are all wholly spectacular.

1. Ivo (3:53)

This luscious piece kicks off the album in dark and moody style, fading in over some ethereal acoustic guitars and moonlit notes on the bass before the drum beats enter and the track is a wash of glorious sound. Across Fraser’s yelping vocals, which conjure up Kate Bush at her most playfully giddy, some bells and guitars jangle out-of-sync over the processed drum machine beats. It might not sound particularly attractive here, but this music is really impossible to conjure up through words alone.

The relentless strumming of the background guitars essentially drives the tune along with the bass through its minor key modulations, but it is the bells and the neat little melancholy effects Guthrie spreads across the layers of intersecting and eye-popping vocals which keeps things original and breathtaking. The electric guitars and some very off-kilter, processed blobs of sound keep it strange indeed, and feedback is used in the way that Sonic Youth could only dream of in 1984. There is so much technical wizardry going here, it is impossible to keep track of where all of these noises are coming from. But the end result on this LP is always especially gorgeous.

2. Lorelei (3:41)

Named after a siren in German legend who lured boatmen to destruction, this track tops the opener and then some. Beginning with those bell noises once more over a quite outstanding bed of crystalline keyboard noise, the drum machine bangs in ferociously while Fraser allows her vocals to ascend to sky-high levels of brilliance. The track is driven along by the blistering glow emanating from the keyboards and the thud of the drums, and Fraser keeps her vocals enchanting throughout.

She really does manage to conjure up this image of herself as some sort of mythological figure, perhaps wrapped in seaweed off some obscure Scottish beach singing her songs a cappella into the night. Such an image can only be reinforced when you hear the deeper layer of her voice sing over the more sugary elements, and when the two of them collide the sound is truly stupendous.

She has a remarkable range, even if she is making nothing more than a series of bizarre vocal sounds, and it acts as a lead instrument on its own. Here it alternates from very high and mysterious to much more frightening and dark, and like a one woman Shakespeare’s Sister, she drags us through the beauty of this piece with a smile on her coquettish lips.

3. Beatrix (3:10)

Much more medieval in sound, this track makes effective use of some eerie notes played on what sounds like some guitars and synthesisers simultaneously. This refrain really sounds as though it should be played on a harpsichord, but still sounds great here on its own. The slinky bass and Fraser then enter, the latter like some mummy emerging from her sarcophagus who suddenly takes a notion to sing. The second half expands into much louder and gloomier piece with some hissy, oppressive percussion and some shouted vocals from Fraser looming down across the sparser sound which is different but no less immediate than on the previous tunes. I have no idea who Beatrix is, incidentally.

4. Persephone (4:16)

For a track about the queen of the underworld, this is surprisingly tame. The drum machine bashes in the beat instantly while the electric guitars growl around this gorgeous wall of sound. An acoustic guitar and bass provide the brooding element once more before Fraser warbles in characteristic style, just a soupcon more audible than she was on the previous tracks.

The wash of crystalline keyboard is back for the chorus, which elevates it to divine status again, while Fraser sings lines which sound like "paper chase is on" and "is what it takes," but Lord knows what any of this actually means. Her vocals are particularly impassioned over the gorgeously remastered screech of the synthesisers and guitars, whereby each an every nuance of the music has been perfectly brought back by Guthrie. The piece ends in coruscating style, with the music just gently simmering in the ear of the listener and sizzling behind their eyeballs. Luscious.

5. Pandora (For Cindy) (5:31)

Some dreamy guitars play over this repetitive track which has an incredibly catchy nonsense chorus which, as well as being a favourite of mine, is equally popular with the folks in Grangemouth asylum. The synthesisers and guitars provide nothing more than a blissful bed for Fraser here, and she is allowed to take reign over the much more spaced-out music which drifts across the speaker beautifully, despite being limited to just one chorus.

The drum machine beat is especially hypnotic and enchanting in this track, but everything else just rocks back and forth like a tortured lullaby perched precariously on the edge of a nightmare. Divided between the dreamy instrumental parts and the repeated chorus pattern, the whole track is oddly mesmerising if a touch overlong.

6. Amelia (3:28)

Much heavier in sound, this crashes in with several layers of acoustic guitars plucking away furiously over the dense wall of drum and bass which Guthrie creates. Two intersecting strands of Fraser’s vocals come together skilfully, the lower layer chirruping in a flighty bird-like style, while the former just hiccups its way through a series of "na-na" passages with aplomb. The drum machine program here is especially complex, but the track rocks back and forth with a surprisingly brighter sound than the previous tunes and is ultimately just as soothing and gorgeous, if just a wee bit more prickly on the ears.

7. Aloysius (3:25)

A much more pleasant sound is cultivated for this gorgeous tune which evokes a much brighter and sunnier landscape in one’s head. Two electric guitars jangle some lush melodies over the first minute before the drum machine boots the piece into action and Fraser is allowed to make effective use of her "sha-sha" vocal sounds. Aloysius was an Italian Jesuit nurse who died nursing plague victims, apparently, so it makes sense that a track in his name would be so pleasurable. It is the vocals and the gorgeous little phrases on the electric guitar which gives this piece its truly uplifting sound, and despite a few darker bridges, it is for the most part, of the most gorgeous and moving pieces on a truly striking and artistic record.

8. Cicely (3:26)

Possibly named after Dame Cicely Saunders who formed St Christopher’s Hospice for the terminally ill in 1967, this piece returns to the darker, more brooding sound of earlier tracks and makes use of some mysterious glockenspiel effects amid the cornucopia of screechy noise and processed genius.

The guitars and synthesisers are pushed in the mid-section to such sonic extremes that a truly deafening wall of noise consumes the listener, and almost forces the sound out through their eyes and nostrils. The duelling vocal dynamic is made use of once more to great effect, but Fraser is nowhere near intelligible as yet. A much more complex track on the whole, there is a whole plethora of curious and brilliant wizardry at play here, which perhaps makes it if not the best track, then certainly one of Guthrie’s most accomplished.

9. Otterley (4:00)

It sounds as though it has been used in some pretentious French perfume advert, and it probably has, because here over the distant warble of the synthesiser and the eerie rumbles of the guitar, Fraser whispers out random French words to spooky effect. She almost sounds tantalisingly erotic here, and if I had a more vivid imagination, this track may send me into paroxysms of adolescent bliss. There is a deliberate attempt to tie the music here to the sea or dark, eerie seascapes, as some sound effects of waves are played in while Fraser plays the blurry mermaid on the horizon. Perhaps a tad overlong, this nevertheless is completely different from all that has gone before, and is a moody and gorgeous little piece in my jaded eyes.

10. Domino (6:19)

The climax of the album is a triumph. Over some rising synthesiser and ascending pads, Fraser sings some domino-themed lyrics while the music is restrained for the first two minutes. It just broods and morphs gently in the distance, forming into the brilliant track it will eventually become, and after too long a wait, it finally erupts into the brilliant closer it is. The guitars chug heavily over Fraser’s galloping vocals, and all of the odd digitised effects come together to create another painterly and vivid wash of noise which sounds like a work of frickin’ art.

How Guthrie manages to get his cheap eighties synthesisers to wail almost like violins, and sound as though he has a ten-piece orchestra in the studio with himself and Liz is a triumph. It abounds with gorgeous little moments around each and every corner and is best enjoyed when it washes over the listener, who is rendered silent in sheer, rapturous delight. It has a much larger and more multi-stranded sound to it which makes it a really thrilling and exciting denouement to the album, and perhaps even the standout tune on this record.

Music about tough mythical creatures sung to nonsense vocals over an incredible canvas of electronica has never sounded so brilliant as this. Cocteau Twins were a singular band, much along the lines of such acts as Dead Can Dance, who manage to incorporate bizarre leftfield genres and turn them into highly enjoyable and accessible albums.

This act take Scottish folk and pretty much drag it backwards through several hedges, and the end result is masterpieces like this or Heaven or Las Vegas. Although their obscurity and the oddity of the sound may be off-putting to some, this is highly recommended to those who appreciate bands who sound utterly unlike any other act who has ever walk the face of the earth and who make music which is very much their own, and nobody else’s. Their finest hour, and now my dead doctor friend’s favourite group.

Rating: 10/10

Johnny Cash: Sings the Ballads of the True West (1965)

2008-10-08T07:05:00.000-07:00

#7

The Finest Cowboy Album Ever Recorded

It is hard to believe, looking at those leather-lined cheeks and suntanned, golf-bag skin, that country legend Johnny Cash was a mere 33 years of age when this staggering album was released.

Despite this difficulty, I’d like y’all to believe it, since it happens to be quite veracious. Of all the American history lessons recorded by Cash in the 1960s, this album eclipses most of his valiant efforts. Here the wildest musician ever to set foot in San Quentin Prison and rouse a bunch of murderers and rapists, sings a collection of traditional numbers and tunes reinterpreted (and thus improved) by him.

Since Cash felt closer to the feral, dangerous spirit of the outlaw, it isn’t much of an effort for him to summon up the ghosts of great cowboys and wild west figures, and channel the spirit of the true west through him as though it was mixed into his very blood. It is difficult to think of a country singer closer to the spirit of the wild west than the indestructible Man In Black.

Sings The Ballads of the True West is perhaps the most personal, wrenching album ever recorded by the great man, and is a blend of classic country and folk music, spoken-word narrative and mournful balladry from the deepest and rawest baritone ever to give his soul to the land. The mixture of these components is sublime, and unlike some of his spoken-word lessons, such as Ride This Train or Bitter Tears: Ballads of the American Indian the blend of these components is absolutely perfect.

What is quite incredible about this album is that Cash was at the time addicted to amphetamines, involved in a divorce and legal cases, increasingly violent in his behaviour and touring America more than Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen put together. Midst all this mess came this beautiful record, sparked from an idea by legendary producer Bob Johnson, and it is one of the best albums about wild west mythology, the endurance of the land, death and the spiritual wonderment of the American desert.

Selections

The Shifting, Whispering Sands Part 1 (2:54)

Instead of the pretentious undertones that a spoken-word piece implies, this narrative tale is beautifully assembled with glorious (and anonymous) string arrangements and sublime backing vocals from The Carter Family. Like so many of these tunes, they are personal ruminations on death, and when he wrote the lyrics Cash was on the site of an Indian burial ground, gazing up at the stars in one of his sulkier moods (by his standards, in good spirits).

The solemnity and beauty of that introspective and spiritual night way out west is perfectly captured here, and it is a wonderful evocation of the endurance of the land reminiscent to me of English folk music at times. The strings sound just like the wind passing and flowing across a tranquil and mournful desert, and the romanticism oozes from the speakers like in some old Scots kailyard novel.

The Ballad of Boot Hill (3:48)

Written by Carl Perkins, like so many great tunes from Cash, this has another short spoken-word intro and is about a graveyard in Arizona commemorating the fallen and forgotten dead of a town called Tombstone. This piece is a 3/4 country shuffle with emotive vocals from The Anita Kerr Singers and gentle piano accompaniment help to comfort the hauntingly bleak vocal from Cash about a whole lot of needless slaughter.

This tune, like so many ballads the album, gets under your skin after several listens, and its emotional impact is probably among the most visceral and powerful I have heard on a record of late. The universal nature of the subject matter, especially the pieces on death and the forgotten dead, make it a tender experience and doubly moving through the gravel-toned otherworldliness of Cash.

Mr. Garfield (4:35)

The record serves up gallows humour in spurts as well. Cash places his allegiance at times so closely to the outlaws that up tempo pieces such as this almost appear mocking and vicious in their tone. It is an enjoyable traditional piece adapted from a separate tune from folk singer Jack Elliot about the shooting of a President named after a spotted ginger kitten. The verses veer from bouncy speech-singing over acoustic guitars to pieces of humorous and rambling narrative.

The presence of The Statler Brothers as well as The Carter Family makes it impossible to dislike, and these lighter pieces help break up the weighty subject matter of the album before it gets too gloomy. Luther Perkins provides most of the electric guitar on the album, and although it is harder to spot than the other instrumentation, his skills are worth a quick mention.

The Streets of Laredo (3:39)

A traditional British tune, adapted for the wild west, this is tailor-made for Cash, a mournful number about a cowpoke approaching his death and looking back on his many, many wrongs. The liner notes on the 2002 remaster here include the original track-by-track notes from Cash, far superior to these meagre opinions, as well as a three paragraphs from music journo Jonny Whiteside. He deserves italics as well, believe me.

Western lingo is also explained, some of which is absent from the songs but fun to know nonetheless. The chorus boasts perhaps the lowest note on the musical scale and Cash makes the most of the emotive twist towards the end as he sings (practically in the grave himself): "Beat the drum slowly, play the pipe lowly, we bitterly wept as we tore him along."

The Blizzard (3:53)

Perhaps my favourite ballad on the album, this is a lingering piece with some wonderful harpsichord work (yes, that’s right) from Bill Pursell and perfect backing as always from June and co. Cash had just started his infamous relationship with June Carter around this time which no doubt explains some of the romance he let creep into songs like this. It is the increasingly troublesome lament from the moribund trekkers at the chorus that makes this so emotive and sumptuous, and once more the backing vocals lift the piece into divine territory.

As expected, things don’t end with a happy resolution but Cash serves up the bitter dramatic irony which is probably more realistic in the wild west. It is a beautiful tune about the kinship of the cowboys on the trail – and indeed friendship – although it’s perhaps not very sympathetic towards Marianne, poor lass. She’d better dial up Wild West Widows at once.

Green Grow The Lilacs (2:47)

Cash sounds the most worse for wear on this jaded lament, with his voice moving from a lovesick tremble to a heartless croon wrapped in a veil of bitter tears for love lost. Maybelle Carter plays the autoharp which is a fabulous instrument with button-control dampers that allows it to be controlled with the foot and plucked with a plectrum. Rather like a zither, but a much more high-class piece of equipment. This piece shuffles along with a palpable sense of despair and hope, erring somehow to the latter but ending on a woozy perfect cadence.

The Rest

The spoken-word pieces which bookend the album are both of equal magnitude, with the first-rate poetry of Reflections perhaps surpassing the historical clout of Hiawatha’s Vision, taken from a Henry Longfellow poem. Mean As Hell is a stranger piece on the whole, something that flirts with becoming a song but remains entirely spoken-word for its duration. It is an affectionate sketch of the west, nonetheless, and has finer characterisation than the entire back catalogue of Sam Peckinpah.

The Road To Kaintuck was composed by June Carter and is one of the more enjoyable and fun-filled pieces on the record, with its winding and bouncy chord sequence, eclipsing the brooding dirge Hardin’ Wouldn’t Run; the lone Johnny Cash composition on the album. I Ride An Old Paint is well known in American songbooks, I believe, and this version one of the most breathtaking ballads on here, especially with the unaccredited strings backing the melancholic lead vocal.

Johnny Reb is about the American Civil War (1861-85, North vs. South) and would seem to feature an unmentioned keyboard tingle which is odd, as well as Bob Johnson on a four-string lute and some fine military drumming from W.S. Holland. A Letter From Home and Stampede are more conventional wild west pieces but importantly sketch the side of the prairie from the side of both women at home and cattle drivers.

The nastiest moment of the record comes from the viperous Sam Hall, sang from the first-person perspective of a psychotic gunman; whom Cash portrays with just a little too much realism. It’s a pretty frightening listen, especially with that rattlesnake hissing up his throat.

25 Minutes To Go is the epitome of the expression gallows humour. The hangman’s pleas before his death waver in this song from amusing to deeply disturbing within a few seconds. It is worth pointing out that the preoccupation with death on this album might spook off some listeners unused to Cash’s literate morbidity. Rodeo Hand is added as a bonus track here, and is similarly hell-raising fare.

Bury Me Not On The Lonesome Prairie is a contender for the finest threnode on this album, with its lavish instrumentation and more of them anonymous strings, provided by some faceless cats in Hollywood. Sweet Betsy From Pike is kind-hearted country waltz which Cash introduces so innocently that the listener is rendered speechless at the malicious twist he plays on us at the end. Old, cantankerous devil.

The Shifting, Whispering Sands Part 2 is less spectacular than the first half, but this album is a lot of work and The Carter Family are a permanent joy to listen to. Stampede (Alternate Instrumental) is the second bonus track; a minute of superfluous banjo-plucking from Bob Johnson. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

Johnny Cash Sings The Ballads of the True West is a tremendous achievement and one of the most essential records in a back catalogue that could easily fill the Grand Canyon. For those who favour their Cash mournful, impassioned, heart-rending and grittier than a whole sackful of hominy, this is the perfect album for you.

It also happens to be one of his finest albums of all time (lucky that), and consolidates what is so wonderful about the man. He was a true American wild man, a romantic, a poet and a visionary songwriter with a heart made from igneous rock but a soul as pure as the desert. This is a brooding, beautiful and timeless album.

Rating: 10/10

Nick Drake: Five Leaves Left (1969)

2008-10-07T09:21:00.000-07:00

#6

An Angel Once Walked Among Us

There is a legitimate reason the mournful, brooding folk music of Nick Drake has earned him cult status as one of the most important musicians who ever walked the earth, and that reason is thus: his music has absolutely everything a listener could wish for.

His debut album Five Leaves Left, frequently cited as one of the finest albums ever made, radiates with a redemptive melancholy, a gentle, earthbound humour, a hopeful and jubilant resignation in the face of personal despair and an empathetic chill which burrows deeper into the human experience in one song than most artists manage in a lifetime of recording.

His voice husks through the stereo assisted by the finest string arrangements on any album from Robert Kirby and it is the otherworldliness in his voice that is responsible for his present-day angelic status. That and his impressive tombstone, no doubt, which looms high over the small church of St. Mary Magdalene’s in Tanworth-in-Arden where he is buried.

Looked upon for what it was, a masterful debut album from a reluctant but undeniable folk talent, it is incredible how well Five Leaves Left (released in 1969) manages to stand up, in spite of all the critical praise and decades of commercial neglect drubbed upon it. Although I favour the picturesque diorama of Bryter Layter, his understated follow-up album from 1970 – a work of unmatchable artistic genius in this opinion – this album is a masterful collection of timeless music in its own right.

Time Has Told Me establishes the jazzy inflection to some of Nick Drake’s work, with a woozy (and rare) lead bass line, performed by Danny Thompson over the trademark acoustic guitar and lightly ruminative opening verse from a cheerful Drake. Although the electric guitar and piano flourishes help diminish the intensity of the music, towards its chorus the piece has a deeply affecting little modulation, and bows out with some of the most painfully simple couplets in musical history: "Time has told me not to ask for more, for some day our ocean will find its shore."

River Man is another of Drake’s most well-known tracks and perhaps one of his most powerful through its tremulous string arrangements from Harry Robinson (only credited for one tune). Whatever special nuance Mr. Robinson had for this tune, it worked, since the strings form a melancholy swirl around the sorrowful lead guitar and contemplative verses about the passing of time from Drake, in his most pensive and introspective mood here.

Although Drake is a subtly poetic lyricist, making it difficult to claw beneath the meaning of his words, the intensity of this music conveys a deep loss and a sadness that is often quite difficult to bear. This is a tune of quite staggering proportions, however. His education in classical music (he often practiced violin for fun with his parents) explains how he is able to attain these heights of emotion.

Three Hours is the most traditional folk piece Drake has recorded, a lengthy and complex piece with shifting time signatures, brooding moments of real searching on the acoustic guitar and gentle bongo accompaniment from Rocki Dzidzornu. One of the darkest pieces here, this one has more in common with age-old folk and even Delta blues than some of the more contemporary arrangements on the album, and Drake almost sounds preserved in a small dark cave performing this one.

Way To Blue is arranged just for strings and vocals, which works to an interesting effect in spite of the lack of melodic flare or a basic tune. To me the strings have often sounded a little too showy and intrusive at times, although Drake sounds even more angelic, especially as he drawls out: "Tell me all that you may know."

Day Is Done debunks such an unfair criticism, since the arrangements lift what is a simple and poignant folk tune into a little nugget of unfettered genius. The sound of a sombre evening coming to its end, this tune rises and sinks with a gentle world-weariness, perhaps even futility, and as such leaves goose bumps on the skin no amount of solvent shall displace.

‘Cello Song follows, used to tremendous effect during a crucial scene in Lynne Anderson’s coming-of-age drama Ratcatcher, and abounds with a pastoral beauty and one unforgettable cello performance from Clare Lowther. The tune coasts along on its ruminative brilliance and crackles with an unspoken sadness, and once more those bongos are used to fine effect. Why there is an apostrophe before this song title eludes me, but it is printed as thus on the album. Strange.

The Thoughts of Mary Jane is beautiful, despite being clearly imprinted in the period with its more saccharine arrangement, but its understated softness and unique sound lends to its power. There are verses and modulations in this tune that prick the same peaks of emotion his strongest music manages to achieve.

Man In A Shed is an important example of the humour in his music that is often overlooked, and although the lyrics here are loaded with a sense of resigned despair, without the gentle optimism in his music, we would have little of modern day reincarnations such as Belle & Sebastian to take his baton. Paul Harris adds some stellar piano to this one.

Saturday Sun closes the album on an upbeat and jazzier note which provides a perfect denouement after what can be an often intense album to sit through time after time. There is a certain ambiguity in his closing sentiment: "Saturday’s sun has turned into Sunday’s rain."

Fruit Tree precedes, perhaps the most wrenching tune he ever composed; given his own increasing legacy thirty-odd years after his passing. It can be difficult when musical figures who die too young write prescient tunes about themselves, since it can make it a strangely ethereal listening experience. This is one of these pieces, an extremely mournful rumination on fame with some of the most stirring string arrangements from Kirby and introspective song writing from Drake.

The entire piece is a perfect artistic triumph, one of the most terrific marriages of a gentle acoustic tune to strings; lifted into immortality by the sheer power of its dramatic arrangements. I challenge any soul not to shed a tear as he sings: "No-one knows you but the rain and the air, don’t you worry, they’ll stand and stare when you’re gone."

Five Leaves Left is not going to wow everyone upon a first listen. It is a dark, challenging, articulate and often bleak album dealing with profound and emotive subjects; full of often haunting and powerful tracks which connect on an immediately visceral level. However, it is the universal nature of this music, its profound transcendence, which makes it impossible to ignore for those seeking first-class song writing of an unmatchable pedigree. All those with no Nick Drake in their collection ought to bow their head in despair.

Rating: 10/10

Belle & Sebastian: Tigermilk (1995)

2008-10-07T07:36:00.000-07:00

#5

In Possession of It

This album merely confirms what most of us knew anyway. Belle & Sebastian have always possessed it. In fact, they hoard it for themselves and share it around like stolen merchandise from a bicycle raid on some nearby branch of Halfords. As such, they have wormed a special place into my heart and record collection.

This LP was knocked out in 1995, just a few weeks after the band first met in some notorious Glasgow cafe and was unavailable to most folks for a long time, before their reputation as cult favourites was cemented. Subsequent masterworks such as If You’re Feeling Sinister and The Boy With The Arab Strap convinced those with ears that this bursting Caledonian sextet had been raiding bike shops for outrageous supplies of it. But the authorities never convicted them, since they too love a good solipsistic pop ditty. Which fool doesn’t?

Tigermilk, replete with mandatory obscure front cover shot, achieves the same staggering heights as the rest of their albums and carves out their gleefully anachronistic niche with skill, melancholy and panache. Except the one misfire, the over-the-top mess I Could Be Dreaming, this as perfect debut as any young band could hope for. It conveys years of experience and personal pain, despite the fact there might have been very little as of yet in their short lives, and soars to staggering heights of pop classicism worthy only of their idols Felt & The Smiths.

Expectations (3:32)

Stuart Murdoch, principal songsmith, has never really recovered from school. This much is commonplace when listening to any B&S release. With subsequent tunes such as If You’re Feeling Sinister, Dirty Dream Number Two and Lord Anthony he shows candid appreciation of the kind of psychological scars that our time at the chalkface can cause. This tune is about one of his many fictional schoolgirl protagonists, loosely modelled on himself, and once suspects he was the loner inside "making life-sized models of the Velvet Underground in clay" more than his fictitious female.

With their signature acoustic guitar sound and rapid-fire vocals, this demonstrates such effortless mastery of the twee pop tune it seems as though it was imbedded in Mr. Murdoch from birth. The highlight here includes the typically fabulous trumpet solo from Mick Cooke and that uplifting chorus in the face of despair: "Soon you will know that you are sane... you’re on top of the world again!"

She’s Losing It (2:20)

Perhaps the snappiest piece on offer here, this makes states of debilitating consciousness sound rather appealing. With its jazzy trumpets and indelible chorus, it all sways beautifully despite the fact his second fictitious girl is making coffee from "washing up" and their appears to be a touch of unsolicited bed-hopping going on somewhere as well. Or perhaps that is just wishful thinking on my part.

It is precisely this sort of snappy and neat pop sensibility, coupled with lyrical sharpness that makes Murdoch et al so appealing. If they did indeed ram-raid Halfords, then the it they made off with seems evenly distributed in this instance. Although Murdoch perhaps was dropped into a great steaming vat of it when he was a nipper. That would explain the talent seeping from his each and every orifice.

You’re Just A Baby (3:40)

This keeps the momentum going and indulges in those West Coast Beach Boys harmonies which my real-life brother finds so abhorrent about this group. Well, all I can say to that is he enjoys the solo work of Donald Fagen. End of discussion. There are also some neat techniques played with echo here, which lifts the coy vocals from Murdoch from their resigned slump.

The guitar skills of Stevie Jackson are also demonstrated from the powerful shuggle into the tune. The lyrics are more repetitive here, but this one more adequately displays quite how neat a synthesis the band achieves, and how they can build to a neat climax around that catchy chorus of: "There must be a reason for all the looks we gave, and all the things we never said before."

Electronic Renaissance (4:43)

Very unique in the B&S canon, this is one of their more experimental pieces demonstrating their eclecticism perfectly. Spoken-word interludes such as A Century of Elvis or A Space Boy Dream often proved some experiments to be a bad idea, but somehow it works for this very odd but compelling sojourn into electronica. The keyboards are thick, the drum machine thumps in over the rich wash of the music and the whole thing sounds as thought it was recorded underwater. Which reminds me, I once found a treasure trove of it while swimming in Naples, but Isobel Campbell pinged past and stole it for herself.

We Rule The School (3:25)

A sublime forerunner to such poignant piano/violin duets as Fox In The Snow or You Made Me Forget My Dreams, this sounds painful to listen to knowing that violinist Campbell and Murdoch are no longer collaborators. Together, they demonstrated so much it, the listener was just rendered ill at the ludicrous levels. Here, a soft and beautiful little urban ballad is plonked out, and elevates itself into transcendent classic with the gorgeous and unbeatable chorus: "Do something pretty while you can, don’t be a fool, reading the gospel to yourself is fine." No man alive conjures up adolescent heartache quite like Murdoch, and he keeps his lyrics as cryptic as mentor Morrissey for this runaway album highlight.

I Don’t Love Anyone (3:54)

For me, any tune that boasts the chorus "if there’s one thing that I learned when I was still a child it’s to take a hiding" gets the triple thumbs up. This is a beautifully dispassionate tune, gleefully combining the witty, battle-scarred lyrics with lush melodies in that way only this fabulous group can. Note also the neat little flourishes from Jackson and the throbbing bass support of Stuart David.

Tigermilk may be a lesser known album from B&S but it certainly does not skimp with the magnificent tunes. Opener The State I Am In appeared as a B-side in slowed down form on the Dog On Wheels single but this is the definitive version, replete with tropical guitars in the intro and some very nifty harmonies indeed. My Wandering Days Are Over unfolds into a forlorn piece across a rather haywire bed of guitars and squidgy keyboard accompaniment, but retains its cool for its duration.

The same cannot be said for the one clunker I Could Be Dreaming which fumbles its way through awkward time signatures, irritating guitars and a misjudged spoken-word part from Campbell in the fade-out. Closer Mary Jo is the very definition of twee-pop with its classic-folk approach and throwback flute. However, it does swirl into a sublime ring of sixties nostalgia which is never off-putting. Unless one loathed the decade. No one does. It was brimming with it.

A terrific debut from this exceptional outfit. Long may they live and flourish with their back-of-the-class cool, their stellar pop credentials and stunning radio looks. I love ‘em all.

Rating: 8/10

The Fall: Grotesque (After the Gramme) (1980)

2008-10-07T04:54:00.000-07:00

The North Rises Again

With a clang-clang here and a thump-thump there, out spills The Fall – a Northern grin on the faces of all those members not named Mark E. Smith.

I believe these to be the primary stages of another musical obsession. It started with Lou Reed. Then moved to Joe Strummer. Then hopped to Nick Cave. It is always the misanthropes with me, damn it! If I endeavour to re-read this review in one year’s time, I will look back upon how uneducated in the ways of the band I was, then spin another of my forty LPs with a cockeyed grin on my face. I will also promise myself to get a sodding life.

What attracts me to this unit is that they are apotheosis of all experimental post-punk acts, rampant experimentalists and barbed wordsmiths of mouth-watering proportions. For someone who likes his music ramshackle, his lyricism literate/cryptic and his oeuvres bountiful with brilliant albums, The Fall seem like my dream band. On top of this, their leader has a pleasantly apocalyptic vision rooted in despair, intolerance and personal hypocrisy. Which is nice too.

Grotesque (After The Gramme) was pushed out in 1980 and has been spinning like a overzealous ballerina in the old CD turntable for nigh on a month. It is an addictive blast of bewitching cult music, abound with thunderous rhythms and lyrics spikier than Davy Jones’ cutlass. The appeal of this band is their wicked combination of coiling hooks, mesmerising experimental musicianship and the distinctively sardonic bile of head honcho Mark E. Smith. The band kept itself fresh through its “revolving door” policy of replacing members to keep the sound alive.

Pay Your Rates, lead-off track, is a fine example of the band firing on all cylinders; a broken-down, leftfield attack from the belly of the proletarian beast at the very beginning of Thatcher’s Hell. With a rampant lead guitar from Craig Scanlon and hounding rhythm section from Marc Riley, this blast of noise crumbles after the first minute, silting into a nightmarish cradle like a Northern tower block nestling in rubble. It surfaces into a sort of drooling nirvana of garbled mantras such as “debtors retreat escape” before building into the defiant crash-thrash of common sense in the final minute. Why is this wonderful? Ask the heavens.

English Scheme is a two-minute snapshot of race war in Britain, delivering a swift and infectious blow over the sickening hurl of disjointed keyboards and the bullet-sharp drumming of Paul Hanley. The rapid-fire build-up of vitriol creates a fine picture of Britain in the grip of mounting turmoil, and this tune sounds close to furious eruption on several times, bowing out with the unsettling truth: “If we was smart we’d emigrate.”

New Face In Hell is a classic, lead by a jangling guitar which throttles through a distasteful yarn about the government planting evidence to frame an innocent man and boasts an outrageous lead hook buzzed out on the kazoo. If ever one tune captured the rapturous sound of disrespectful young people sticking their tongues out at the powers-that-be, it would be this addictive and lengthier kick in the pants.

C ‘n’ C – S Mithering is the most experimental number to be savoured. One repeated hook on the acoustic guitar, the swirling melody is kept interesting through creative drumming and elegant bass work while it segues through its delayed music biz observations into a stream-of-consciousness rant which touches upon everything from “the upstairs Jewish girl” to “a circle of low IQs.”

The Container Drivers is a breakneck rattle through the motorways of Britain; an often incomprehensible look at life through the eyes of the humble truck driver. All romanticism of the road is stripped away in favour of a clamouring rockabilly attack on the transience of technology. Once more, this an exhilarating and informative rush.

Impression of J Temperance builds over a swirling bass line and underground synthesisers into a disconcerting science fiction tale of some beast being born from some gooey mould, culminating over a tin-pan throb with the repeated chant of “this hideous replica.”

Oh, it is addictive. Ever lesser moments such as the crass filler In The Park or the bizarre homemade garbage of primitive drumming via four-track WMC – Blob 59 have a probative curiosity afoot. Likewise, the bouncy Gramme Friday makes for a howling treat with its Tantric hook and garbled vocal loopings.

The NWRA concludes the original album, a nine-minute trek into some inner-city dystopia which endeavours to imagine the north/south divide gone haywire. With its swirling guitar hook and stomping synthesiser, it shifts from a music-hall-in-hell sound into a disturbing wash of sound over which Mark E. Smith is given free reign to narrate a story of violence and uprising. Here, Edinburgh is used as the base of operations for the north of Britain to seize the south, and Smith predicts the subsequent riots and upset in Britain. The guitar starts to splinter like falling bombs or shards of glass and towards the end, it wages a war on your eardrums. A hypnotic piece de resistance.

Castle Records in 2004 re-issued five or six albums in deluxe format, and this edition collects crucial singles from the era, including the paean to writer’s block How I Wrote ‘Elastic Man’ and the obnoxious stomp of City Hobgoblins.

There are no real missteps on this album, but the bizarre looseness of Totally Wired makes for a weak single. B-side Putta Block fuses a vampiric demo of The NWRA before it splices the actual tune (rather crudely) into the mix. There is also a Self-Interview with Mark E. Smith recorded at the time, and without music to hide behind he makes less sense than he does in the songs. A strange curio for die-hards only. Which is soon to be me, I’d imagine.

Grotesque (After The Gramme) is another terrific effort from The Fall in a canon chock full of them. A focussed effort in wonderful thrash-bash and literate melody twisting, it deserves a place in the collections of all those in love with experimental rock music par excellence.

Rating: 9/10

John Cale: Sabotage (Live) (1979)

2008-10-06T11:57:00.000-07:00

A Punch of Salt

Although John Cale’s time in the Velvets was not phenomenally long-lived, his name will forever be tacked onto that revolutionary rock outfit. The majority of people will only become aware of him via such gems as their & Nico debut album, or the classic White Light/ White Heat LP. It is a badge he wears with pride, presumably, although you wonder how peeved he is that it might have overshadowed his own fantastic solo work.

Perhaps not too peeved. John Cale has always been a splendid contradiction, recording more or less the type of music he wants to without chasing the trends of any decade. During the late seventies at the height of punk, Cale returned to rock music, and went touring with his band recording angry songs against the Vietnam war and the social decay of the time. He also joined in with the on stage anarchy and mayhem, allegedly hacking a chicken to death during one evening and joined Patti Smith for several dates as well, of course.

This album, partly live, captures the rock songs he recorded during this period. Since they are Cale’s own works, they are more sophisticated than the sloppy three-chord punk from many bands, and err more on the side of prog rock, with occasional poppy flourishes peaking through. Cale famously spent most of the seventies in the company of such men as Brian Eno and Phil Manzenera, and worked on crafting pop gems and classical songs, the fruits of his labours perhaps best captured in the The Island Years double disc set or the Paris 1919 LP.

These tunes still pounce and throb with power today, and he has a superb bunch of young punk guitarists playing with him, who join in with his rip-roaring solos. It is these which make this album a success and one of his strongest artistic statements as far as rock music is concerned. The set starts off with explosive rock tracks, before settling into a dark and progressive middle half, then ultimately is brought down to earth with a sane conclusion, Cale not completely surrendering himself to reckless abandon, pushing forty around this time.

Tacked onto the original album is the Animal Justice EP, which contains some quirky rock songs, and drags the album off into a long series of more convoluted and indulgent pieces that bring the release down somewhat, especially the gothic closer Rosegarden Funeral of Sores (later covered by Bauhaus).

The majority of tracks here, however, are hugely impressive, and this is the only real album of rock Cale ever recorded, and as close to the brutal assault of White Light/ White Heat as he ever really pulled off himself. I would recommend this to all those who want to hear Cale rocking his hardest, something he rarely did on his albums, or a record which almost matches the power of Lou Reed’s Rock N Roll Animal live disc.

The songs were recorded at the legendary punk venue CBGB’s in New York, in case more authenticity were needed that this is full-on stuff. The stage was decorated with a television screen showing some unpleasant explosions behind the gig. Cale was also made out in a hard hat and camouflage gear which hammered the message home.

1. Mercenaries (Ready For War) (7:54)

Gentle rumbling from the crowd begins this blistering opener. The brutal bass line throbs, establishing the song’s militaristic beat. Cale kicks proceedings off in style with his opening rant: "Mercenaries are useless! Disunited, unfaithful. They have nothing more to keep them in a battle, other than a meagre wage, which is just enough to make them want to kill for you, but not enough to make them want to die for you!"

His original Welsh accent still trickles through here, with a much more American tinge, then the guitars and drums blast in noisily with the first of the many screeching and strangled solos. "I’m just another solider boy! Looking for work, looking for war!"

Cale begins while the guitars jangle to the sneering lyrics. The whole song emanates the punk swagger of the time, with enough reckless tinges to convey anger and enough sarcastic humour to please the crowds. The most appealing moments of this song are the truly thrilling solos between each verse which set the fret board ablaze.

Marc Aaron is on lead guitar here and provides many of these fine moments but Cale is no slouch on guitar either. A modulation in the fourth minute keeps the song blazing and full of fury, and the playing here is nothing short of awe-inspiring and probably put many aspiring punk bands to shame. Lyrically, Cale seems to be attacking the gung-ho attitude of western troops in search for war, captured with the sentiment: "Trying to separate me from my money is like separating me from my life!"

The climax of the song keeps the relentless pace going and it is difficult not to be shocked when Cale starts to sing with increasing panic as if a bomb is about to explode. He begins a countdown and ends the refrain with his unique screech, immortalised in the legendary song Guts from one of his early albums: "Five thousand feet and closing… visibility zero!"

George Scott’s bass playing is razor sharp here, and Doug Bowne on drums also keeps things loud and uncompromising. There are a few plonks on the keyboard throughout, played by Joe Bidwell, but his contribution gets lost amid the glorious chaos. The song ends with a wash of feedback, and they somehow make their guitars sound like bombs a few moments after detonation. A quite unbeatable opener.

2. Baby You Know (4:01)

The keyboard is given more reign on this track and it plays the slightly less punky and more synthesised melody, overtaken by the gloriously seventies solo. The assault is less intimidating here, giving the audience some time to catch their breath after the dazzling opener. The keyboard plays more of an integral part in the melody, although the guitar still drives the song forward, along with the drums which are pushed into the back of the mix. Cale falls onto safe lyrical territory with a song about relationship problems, and the pace of the opener is matched when the song leaps into some wonderful guitar solos and a joyous solo on keyboard as well.

The instrumentation does seem raspy and squished in places, but the pace of the song is just as aggressive, in a more subtle way, especially Cale’s repeated cry of: "The more the get you want, the get the more you want!" The crowd’s response afterwards is slightly disappointing but perhaps there were few people in that evening.

3. Evidence (3:32)

The guitars growl and the confident, noisy pace is re-established for this thrusting track. The bass is dangerously unhinged throughout the song and the solos leap in and out of the verses with impunity. Cale enters with: "This is the morning after, the one the night before. Come crawling through your window, come crawling through your door." The final minute of the song is abound with solos, which screech dangerously at the highest notes of the fret board. Lyrically the song is haywire, but the words are slick and cool enough for this type of music, and he doesn’t have to perform spoken-word Dylan Thomas for it to kick ass.

The structures here, although at odds with the less tuneful ethic of punk rock are still impressive. All in all, the songs here are more impressive than the often sloppy melodies of punk, as these are professionals who know how to craft an engaging rock song. One problem with these tracks, however is that they all seem to bow out without a great deal of racket, and this one in particular has a slightly weak ending.

4. Dr. Mudd (3:54)

Perhaps the closest to Cale’s pop influences, this is fiendishly enjoyable song with an indelible hook and some unexpected ‘do-do’ backing from his players. The bass and drums keep the tune’s catchy melody going here, and it almost detracts from Cale’s confrontational lyrics. "What you gonna do, when China drops a bomb on you?" he asks, shot down by the irreverent backing of his snot-nosed band.

The solos are pushed out of the mix here, sounding more tinny and the bass and drums have the overall dominance, along with Cale who is very coherent throughout. This is actually a surprisingly upbeat track, irrespective of its lyrics, which suggest they were maybe on the wrong tack as far as tone is concerned. If the opener made you sit up and take notice, then this would have the opposite effect. As it stands, it is a skewered piece of rock where Cale just can’t shake off his Brian Wilson fixation long enough to make his points.

5. Walkin’ The Dog (4:08)

Written by Rufus Thomas, this propels the album further away from the aggressive territory towards a lighter, catchier and friendly sound. Just as likeable as the previous song this has another fine chorus which is impossible not to enjoy. "Baby’s back, dressed in black, silver buttons all down her back," he sings, accompanied on gang chorus by the rest of his band. Deerfrance, a punkier version of Nico joins in on backing vocals here before her star turn later on.

There’s a splendidly splintered solo towards the end, and the keyboards keep the tune fresh throughout, taking some of the menace from their sound. The bass is just as raspy as in previous songs and the drums are finely in sync, but this is far too cheerful to be filled with the fire-and-brimstone of punk angst. If anything the assault of the album has been diluted by this stage of the album, but it shifts in a darker direction anyway, so these songs are mainly huge fun.

6. Captain Hook (11:27)

"Take it with a pinch of salt," Cale mutters as this song opens. This comment seems to capture the entire feel of this album and their sessions here, and puts everyone’s mind at ease with regards to their intentions. With that cleared up, this song is free to be enjoyed for the mini-masterpiece it is. This is a large piece of arty prog rock, more akin to the lengthy voyages of Tom Verlaine’s Television than the thrust and power of the Pistols.

For all its indulgence and length, this is a hugely impressive centrepiece. The guitars tingle and screech together, creating these grand waterfalls of noise which are as enchanting as they are mysterious. The drums uncertainly thump and the bass puffs like some gentle waves, creating a choppy sound, perhaps supposed to capture the feeling of being lost at sea.

As a piece of musical imagery, this idea is powerful and makes this track something of a classic in Cale’s oeuvre. A very affecting song indeed. The lengthy intro fades at the end of the third minute, and the keyboard slowly plays the funereal melody. This song then becomes a bleak, mid-tempo voyage and Cale takes us into the gorgeous but despairing landscape he has created.

Deerfrance provides backing vocals which are powerful over the coughing bass and dark guitars, sounding more and more distant and out of reach. "I lost my memory today, the day my ship set sail," Cale begins. The track is at its most powerful after the choruses where Cale sings: "I can’t keep living like this no more, can’t you see you’re losing me… again."

The sudden emotional intensity of this song is unexpected, but it is wholly appropriate given the decaying climate of the time, and the uncertainty that dogged people’s lives during the recessions of the late seventies. Bearing that in mind, this is a strong snapshot of the times and still a strong piece by today’s standards. Another lengthy solo moves the song towards its luscious and powerful climax, and the track has an almost hypnotic quality, with its shimmering guitars and increasingly intense harmonies.

"By hook or by crook, I am the captain of this light!" Cale screeches over the polished solos, refined as the band toured with these songs over the years. This, and the other songs began as improvisations, and from that process this masterpiece grew. The true highlight of this album, this receives the rapturous applause it deserves afterwards from the crowd, and makes the album something more than a collection of rock songs from Cale to keep his oar in.

7. Only Time Will Tell (2:26)

A gentle ballad, sung by Deerfrance, someone almost as uniformly odd as Nico. Her voice is gentle and pretty, with more of an emotional range than the Velvets chanteuse. It is a better voice overall, and works well with the moving viola, played by Cale, and plonks from the keyboard. The song seems an afterthought from the previous monster, looking at the current state of affairs and making the assertion that only time will tell if things shall improve from the unpleasant state they are in at the moment. A bleak sentiment perhaps, but 1979 was no picnic for New York or London, the two hotbeds of urban decay and punk. A gorgeous track, and an almost necessary addendum to the last song.

8. Sabotage (4:25)

The groggy bass and haywire passages on the guitar keep this song fresh, if much harder to like at first. The structure is less conventional here, and the improvisatory feel is obvious as no real song evolves from the mad burps and screeches on the bass and guitars. The drums thud whenever they feel like it and the music is essentially a bed for Cale’s rants. "Read and destroy everything that you read in the press/ It’s a waste of time it’s a waste of energy, whatever you read in books, leave it there!" he yells. This is first and foremost a rant and Cale makes sure that his point is clearly made, without resorting to layers of feedback and more primal assault favoured by groups of the time.

His repeated yells of "Sabotage!" at each chorus, along with sweeping statements as "Human intelligence isn’t what is used to be!" slams the message home nicely. This is another snapshot of the times, and by the time the song finishes, you can almost feel the entire fabric of society splitting completely as the music stops and he’s left alone on stage repeating that buzz word of the time just once more and once more, while the crowd remain mesmerised and palliated. Oddly powerful. It was later ripped off in To The Kill by the Violent Femmes.

9. Chorale (3:45)

The set bows out peacefully, in a forward-looking way. This track which seems to suggest that religion is the answer. The guitars use feedback in a powerful manner, creating a more sweeping sound while Cale’s voice takes centre stage. "The chorale of the living and the chorale of the dead, hand in hand from the beginning to the end," he sings, accompanied on backing vocals by Bidwell and Scott, who also play brief flashes of harmonica.

His verses are slightly unclear here, and unfortunately drag on without much point and reach their powerful conclusion without need of a second verse. Towards the end, the drums play a militaristic roll which makes this sound like some elegy for the fallen in a war, furthering the militaristic imagery but carrying it off with less success. Unsurprisingly, nobody in the audience claps this.

10. Chickenshit (3:34)

The songs on the Animal Justice EP are nothing special at all, and actually bring the album down somewhat. It is always hard to complain about bonus material, however, as it can be ignored by wishy-washy jerks like me. The first of these songs is an average rocker, cut through with kooky snippets of people muttering hearsay about the protagonist who has, by the sounds of things, done something rather bad.

Opening with the declaration of: "Hi, my name’s Arthur and I quit!" the tone here is at complete odds with the more serious material of the album, and this crosses the gap between genuine anger and self-parody. This hasn’t stood the test of time very well, and given how plenty of Cale’s material sounds camp anyway, this does him less favours. Still, there are some neat solos here on a par with those during the live set, but the track is too whimsical to merit repeated listens, except for picky, meticulous pedants like me.

11. Memphis (3:24)

The last rocker, this comes off more successfully than the previous track. The sound is cooler and more detached, with a bouncier melody and some surging bass. The chorus also makes use of the top guitarists with some very screechy solos indeed which sound like they’re being played on a violin and not a guitar. The lyrics have nothing to do with the themes of the album, and are frustratingly about relationships again but plus points go to the acoustic guitar solos. The western influence of the song which is obvious in the title, is pleasing. The finest song of the bonus material.

12. Hedda Gabler (8:10)

The final two tracks are far too long and don’t have anything except interest for rock historians and those interested in sub-par material. Which isn’t a huge amount of people, I think. This track is either about the 1890 play by Henrik Ibsen, a Norwegian dramatist whose work has influenced modern drama hugely, or someone else of the same name Cale knew. Given his previous literary references, I’d imagine the former is nearer the truth.

This is a long and bleak song which opens up into a great landscape, akin to a particularly indulgent Eno composition. The use of sonics here is impressive and it has a lengthy and almost hypnotic charm when the organ and drums slam in for each chorus. Given how it takes over two minutes for the first rendition of the chorus, this is far too long to wait, and given the topic is consciously arty and literate Cale is clearly just taking a chance with this song. Sometimes these types of tracks can be incredibly relaxing and enchanting but this is unfortunately just soporific and overlong.

13. Rosegarden Funeral of Sores (5:43)

The album closes with this odd and unintentionally amusing track, where Cale affects his finest gothic drawl. The bass grunts with its finest menace, and the synthesisers keep the slow, crawling track going as he casts one eye towards the dark, dark times of the eighties. It’s not very entertaining but there is an immeasurable joy in hearing Cale sing: "A paralytic stream of whores, in the rosegarden funeral of sores." It needs to be three minutes shorter, and that drum machine grates slightly after a few seconds. A poor way to round things off, but the song found life after being covered by cult act Bauhaus.

This live album has been touted as one of the best live rock albums of the seventies, and it certainly ranks up their with the finest live testaments of the punk era. Lou Reed’s Take No Prisoners effort was nothing short of dire, and with such classics as the Clash’s From Here To Eternity to compete with, this holds its head high as not only one the best rock albums of the late seventies, bit one of Cale’s most enjoyable efforts.

The original nine tracks here all have their merits and among these songs there are very few problems. The tone of the music is at times slightly off-kilter, but the majority of material here is nothing short of exceptional, and I would certainly recommend this to those looking for life after the Velvets or some of Cale’s most edgy and uncompromising work. The bonus material mires the final portion of the album down, but if one skips these tracks, then one is fine and dandy. Recommended.

Rating: 8/10

Lydia Lunch: Queen of Siam (1979)

2008-10-06T11:14:00.000-07:00

#2

No-Wave Seduction

The trademark sound of Lydia Lunch, legendary avant-garde no-wave drone-rocker and ultra verbose novelist, is something akin to a saxophone being drowned in a bucket of spaghetti while a tone deaf karaoke singer with electrodes attached to his nipples attempts to warble the national anthem.

Sometimes, however, she departs from this niche and actually produces an album of worth. This sleazy, morbid classic came hobbling out of the wreckage that was Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, a band so awful they were covered by both Jessica Simpson and Busted. Her other fine work, 1992’s Roland S. Howard collaboration Shotgun Wedding is a triumph of gothic rock before the genre was mangled by myriad acts of no significance (see Marilyn Manson et al). This album is something of a milestone in rock history.

In many respects it is one of the finest sub-punk albums, despite never really rising above a whisper and taking a pot shot at nothing except life itself. Lunch came from the underground no-wave scene where some unpleasant nihilists and drug addicts made merry music, and this is a testament of that dark period and what makes this such a guilty pleasure.

Songs here rise softly with a coquettish and tortured sigh, occasionally surrendering into their distressed abysses. If not, they are blackly romantic, evoking the sort of lackadaisical lust only someone wilfully on the edge can. Musically this is fairly diverse, making use of softly strummed guitars one minute then a big band sound the next.

From the death knell of Gloomy Sunday, the almost tribal pulse of Atomic Bongos right through to the solipsistic swagger of Knives In The Drain, the proceedings are fairly dark and seductive throughout, and almost endlessly listenable. There is almost a rare beauty and humanity in these songs which her eardrum-bursting other efforts never achieve, especially in the late-night interpretation of Spooky, which is less tortured and more romantic. Never the prolific song writer, most of these tracks are covers or are co-written with producer Pat Irwin, and it is the arrangements, gentle instrumentation and sway of the work which makes it a short, but consistently enjoyable record in what is an erratic and hardly awe-inspiring discography.

1. Mechanical Flattery (2:46)

The finest accolade that can be heaped upon this album would be the way the band marries the grotesque lyrics to morbidly seductive arrangements and creates something worthy of repeated playing. Here all of the instruments seem integral to the sound, and Lunch deliberately adjusts her dark rhymes to flow with the seductive crawl of the melody. Jack Ruby is on bass and Douglas Browne at the drums, keeping his loops very simple and almost tribal. The saxophone player is not credited here, but it is important to note that Robert Quine, player for Lou Reed et al, donated many of the fine guitar solos throughout the record.

This opening track establishes the vulnerable, frightened sound Lunch affect throughout many of these numbers, and begins with a macabre first verse: "Fingers move fingers, my wrist made of satin, don’t be afraid of what’s gonna happen, elbows to ankles my fist’s out of place, I turn around backwards and off slides my face." This track conveys an almost sensual decay, a common theme in her work, and is a slow-building and morbid opener. The piano plonks very basic chords throughout and syncopates with Lunch’s vocals, sounding especially effective during her mewls of: "I run from the night."

The distant blowing of the saxophone can be heard in the background, and the musicianship is tight for the short running time. The melody and music here may be very repetitive, with the same thumped loop on drums and bass, although this droning and zombie-like atmosphere is intentional and the band do have limited ability, especially Lunch. Her lyrics are hypnotising here, however, and the rhyming phrases well judged at every verse. The sax solo plays out the track, pleasingly scuzzy throughout.

2. Gloomy Sunday (2:58)

Perhaps one of Lunch’s most spine-chilling songs, this is a genuinely moody and sombre interpretation of a very old track indeed. Here the music funereally drifts through the hushed, respectful vocals and perfect screech of the sax. Two loud piano chords chime in before the sax blows quietly and Lunch enters mournfully: "Sunday is gloomy my hours are slumberless, dearest those shadows I live with are numberless." A continuous tension, played by a sustained chord on the organ, provides the ethereal lift the song needs while Lunch delivers her requiem in what is an increasingly dark piece of music.

A second saxophone enters for the bridge after the second verse, and squawks over the more subdued puff from the initial instrument, almost sounding like some shrill cry from beyond the grave. This is a song about suicide, there is no getting around this, and as such is as grim and powerful as the material requires. Lunch does a fine job of the vocals here, never allowing her approach to cross over into sneering territory as she sometimes does. When Lunch isn’t peddling nihilism and debauched behaviour (not that I object to this), she can produce some moving music. This is a haunting and elegiac number with mood, pathos and misery in spades.

3. Tied and Twist (2:55)

The guitar solos are the finest element of this atonal piece of underground weirdness. The drums and bass drone and thump throughout the song while discordant guitars on the left and right pluck randomly. Lunch does her best to keep herself as drone-like as possible, adding a second layer of voice over her initial lyrics. On the whole this is rather distressing and dour stuff, but provided it’s taken with a pinch of salt, or alcohol, is pleasingly mesmerising. Quine presumably had plenty to do with the solos here, although Lunch is credited in the inlay for the guitar work on this particular track.

4. Spooky (2:41)

One of the more charming pieces here, this deploys the gentle shimmer of an organ and tingles of a triangle, and keeps the skewered instrumentation focused for the duration. It all sounds very tightly played and in danger of falling apart at the seams, but remarkably holds itself together, despite the shaker being rattled throughout to try and throw the listener off. The drums and guitar flow casually, the former making use of a few surreptitious crunches and the latter tidy rumbles at the end of each verse.

Lunch sounds very young and like a half-hearted karaoke singer throughout this, but just about manages to inject some romance into the proceedings with the naïve lyrics: "Love is kinda crazy with a spooky little boy like you. Spooky!" The double saxes play off-sync and provide a nice bridge which keeps the song uniquely sleazy, and all in all this has a late-evening NY cabaret bar charm going for it.

5. Los Banditos (3:08)

For the under-the-skin, chill factor this track has plenty going for it. Lunch makes her vocals imitate the notes played on the guitar, so the whole song has some ghostly beauty to it. Beginning with a slight strum, she barely rises above a whisper here and sticks to gloomy rhymes: "Slipping seething writhing reeling ghost of my mind… creepy weepy slowly seeping fear what’s not there."

The bass crawls after the verses up a gentle ladder, and a rather Spanish solo plays in the left speaker (hence the title) while a sax is pushed into the right mix with the repeated melody. The song would be repetitive but it coasts throughout on its pitch-dark beauty and fine guitar work from Quine.

6. Atomic Bongos (2:17)

A louder and faster track, this swirling song takes the idea of the repeated melody and ups the ante to almost heart-stopping levels. The bass is louder and more raspy, and incorporates into its melee a bongo solo, while Lunch sings: "I am bongo crazed with the crazy beat," with her more venomous bite.

7. Lady Scarface (3:10)

With bags more attitude going for it, this track is undoubtedly the finest on the album, Lunch blending a sense of humour with her devotion to carnality and mean-minded bloodiness. Not quite as awful as the title suggests, this track is basically a big band number about standing the young Miss Lunch up and is the first appearance from the Billy Ver Planck Orchestra.

Here the loud trumpets and swagger of the music provide ample stage for the tale spun, and the whole thing now sounds nothing more than a parody or something left over from the Fabulous Baker Boys soundtrack. This is heaps of fun, actually, and my favourite lyric has to be: "I was so close, I crept like a cat, visions of seduction lurking under my hat," which displays more New York attitude than 200 Lou Reeds in the world’s largest taxi.

The Rest

The remainder of the album expands upon what has gone before, and takes more a nosedive into obscurity. A Cruise To The Moon is merely a nondescript piece of brass band music without any vocals, and while enjoyable, is slightly flat without Lunch’s input. Carnival Fat Man is three immature people messing around in a studio, and Lunch’s only piano composition. Two male vocalists do silly voices while she tries to identify who the fat man is, before she concludes resolutely: "Well, you both look pretty fat to me!" Appealingly odd filler.

Knives in the Drain is the final highlight of the record, and sounds like a perfect nihilist anthem, with Lunch complaining: "I blacken the walls as I suffer my youth, I’ve got the cancer of birth and I ask… what’s the use?" The big band arrangement is fine here, and there are some wonderful guitar solos towards the end, when the trumpets are deliberately loud just to annoy the listener. Blood of Tin is actually quite an eerie way to end the album, using a backwards tape loop over a tense bed and haunting vocals, the most charming of which is: "The doe lies head, corpse in my guts."

This artist is really only as good as the artists she collaborates with. On her own, her records would be quite awful, and she needs support and assistance to help her gloomy visions blossom, or the equivalent. Even with people, however, sometimes her music is appalling. Here she has fine support, and they all come together to make an album which remains a strangely intriguing piece of work from an erratic era.

That the album ever got made at all remains a mystery, as does the title. Why would anyone want to be the Queen of Thailand? On the whole this is a singularly unique record and asides from several other enticing entries in her canon, really her finest piece of work. It is gloomy, it is dark, but it is hypnotic, moving and a minor, underground gem. Plus it is reassuringly short. If only all her LPs were this teensy in length. Recommended for all fans of dark, ambient drone-rock, although welcome to everyone else as well.

Rating: 8/10

Lisa Germano: Happiness (1993)

2008-10-05T12:15:00.000-07:00

#1

Poor Little Cow

Lisa Germano’s second album is a fully-realised collection of songs combining her hypnotic, ethereal alt-rock and her brooding piano ballads with a vast mixture of styles and experiments. This album delivers all the early promise she had shown on her On The Way Down From The Moon Palace LP (1991). It was released in 1993 and then again in remastered form in 1999 by 4AD with some bonus material.

For the uninitiated, Germano was a violinist for artists such as John Mellancamp in her twenties. She suppressed her multi-instrumental abilities until she decided to go it alone in her thirties. She writes complicated songs with cryptic lyrics, shifting melodies and difficult structures that make them hard to access and fully embrace. Those who choose to do so, however are opening themselves up to a world of personal, intense, emotional and exciting music.

Happiness is no light affair. The whole album is tainted with a post-song pre-song sonic assault that makes it as simultaneously infuriating as it is tremendous. There are short, jagged folk-pop songs here, combined with a plethora of dark and complex experiments. It is all wrapped up in Germano’s self-deprecating humour.

The album is charming and ambitious. Germano likes to decorate her songs with plenty of otherworldly instrumentation, although this album is more firmly rooted in mid-nineties alt-rock at times and showcases more of the sound of a wonderful talent finding her feet with a heterogeneity of styles, ranging from world music to straightforward displays of her violin skills.

Malcolm Burn helped produce this album and no doubt helped contribute to its at times oppressive, at times vulnerable but always fluent sound. Most of Germano’s albums are rife with a lingering melancholy, and this one is no exception, although few of her releases are as playful and melodramatic as this. The 4AD re-release includes the Inconsiderate Bitch EP which takes some of the songs from this album and tweaks them a tad.

1. Bad Attitude (6:11)

This opens with some eerily shimmering guitars, almost funereal in sound, but is a touch too clinical to arouse any emotion. Germano is a fan of this sort of instrumental introduction, and the song begins properly after about a minute and a half of this. With some lightly jangling guitars and surreptitious piano backing her she sings: “You wish it was sunny, but it’s not, ha ha… the sun will come out the day after tomorrow, ha ha,” which captures her off-kilter humour.

This humour is of the dark kind, of course. It is subtle, but actually rather comforting given the traumatic nature of much of her music. The drumming from Ronald Jones is minimal throughout, providing a nice backing beat and Germano gets ample scope for scraping out a tune on her violin. Much of Germano’s music draws from her own personal unhappiness and this is a simple track about being stuck and not knowing how to change, and her lyrics are as usual very personal (see Betty, the real name of Germano’s mother).

“You could start over, it’s never too late, that’s what Betty says… whatever happened to your sense of humour?” Lots of her songs settle into a pleasant groove and remain there so she can deliver her verses, but this track slinks towards a dreamy, distant climax that ponders lost childhood innocence with a plaintive yearning and establishes the ethereal, melancholy tone for the rest of the album.

2. Destroy the Flower (3:12)

The light, jangling guitar, playing comfortably along with Germano’s waiflike and slightly childish voice, dominates this, but it is the piano countermelody that provides most of the dramatic clout. This is a overly hysterical track with a whiny but powerful chorus: “He’ll never come out now, and it’s all your fault… this goes on and on because you didn’t change it.” A nice, short and punchy track shot through with confusion and sorrow. Lovely.

3. Puppet (6:01)

One of the complaints I have about this almost flawless record is that occasionally the tracks are introduced or rounded off by some loud, aggressive growling from the guitar, and this is the first of said songs.

A big grumble that suggests Germano is about to explode into some full-on hair metal begins the tune, but then she comes in with the catchy chorus of: “If I was a puppet, then we’d get along just fine.” Because there were problems with the mixing and such of this album, the superior version is to be found on the Inconsiderate Bitch EP. This version has Germano’s vocals slightly low in the mix. The music is relatively upbeat sounding and is among the sunniest songs on the album, with some fine lyrics throughout.

It is refreshing to hear a more sedate sounding Germano, as her following albums such as 1998’s Slide set a far darker tone for her latter-day career. Much of the textural richness here would be sacrificed for a more insular sound.

4. Everyone’s Victim (4:44)

This keeps up the pace of the album, with a discordant violin, heavy bass line and thunderous drums creating the panicky sound this tune thrives on. Germano is in full dramatic form here, her lyrics delivered like someone terrified out of her wits at one minute, then sounding relatively relaxed the next minute.

Some exciting twists on the guitar, the occasional twang of a mandolin and a constant rising effect in the background make this a packed and melodically rich track. Some vocal effects are also thrown into the mix and one wonders whether this track will ever come a conclusion or if it wants to at all. Bill Dillon provides the loud bass work here, and the manual claims that Germano added the other flourishes to the song as well. Another winner, and another reasonably upbeat track.

5. Energy (3:50)

This follows on from Puppet as the track that could have made a very good single if people were interested in her work. “I have to ask you what’s your problem… I don’t believe that you love anyone,” Germano complains over layers of jangling acoustic guitars and scraping violins. The chorus is again her strong suit here. This song is a jaunty little dance, incorporating a very distorted sounding electric guitar solo with Germano’s pleas for attention.

6. Cowboy (4:07)

“I love my little cowboy, when he’s rough, I’m happy,” Germano sings a little too earnestly in this delicate and decidedly off-kilter acoustic ballad. Her declarations of happiness are so strained here, it is difficult to tell if she is being genuine or not. Some pedal steel guitar is played by John Keane, and some country-sounding warbles in the background add a nice touch, as does the whistling before the final chorus. Her final lyric of: “I know what I’m doing,” is a little frightening and it is that ambiguity makes this song a very curious and touching one indeed.

7. Happiness (3:42)

A darker piece of pop here, this has a plodding and low bass line with some odd and rather self-flagellating lyrics. Germano describes herself as an “inconsiderate bitch” and this description makes up the very catchy chorus. The melody on this track is just indelibly infectious and that makes her sarcastic and sniping lyrics such as: “Give it up, try again, give it up, try again… ain’t life fun?” all the more satisfying.

Like a baby kicking and screaming just for the fun of it, Germano is casting a self-deprecating eye over many of her own behavioural dysfunctions. More of these amusing lyrics would have been welcome as lots of her stuff is blatantly humourless. Another very infectious tune, Germano wouldn’t make music like this ever again. Her intentions would get all the more serious throughout the rest of her recording career.

8. The Earth (2:44)

This foreshadows the visceral sound of her later work with its darkness and repeated pleas. “Enough… enough… how much can I accept?” she repeats here as the light acoustic guitar plays a repetitive melody over dreamy chimes and plonks. The violin comes in for the second half, increasing the intensity of the song due to Germano’s flawless playing.

9. Around The World (4:26)

Perhaps the most difficult track to embrace on the album at first, after its awkward percussion and odd keyboard effects, it is lifted via the ethereal choruses and Germano’s poignant lyrics. “What a waste to feel the way I feel, when happiness is just around the corner and I could have it,” she sings as the song lifts itself up from its original murkiness to become quite a rousing track. The rhythm and melody initially seem more borrowed from world music at first, but Germano imbues it with her own unique sound soon enough and it grows into a very warm piece of music indeed.

10. Sycophant (4:25)

Some more overt self-loathing follows that upbeat number and the tone gets back into the dark territory. “What do you want me to do now, how do you want me to be for you?” she asks over some thumping drums and downbeat violins. This is mostly an instrumental piece, as Germano hasn’t written any verses of note here, but you feel that you get the point from what she’s leaving out rather than what she’s leaving in.

11. Miamo-Tutti (1:57)

A gentle little piano lullaby for Germano’s now deceased cat, Germano’s piano balladry would become far more impressive on later albums. This is over after a minute and twenty seconds, and is followed by some odd humming interspersed with fuzzy sounds from track seven.

12. The Dresses Song (3:39)

This track utilises Germano’s violin playing more effectively and the subject matter is open for interpretation. “Wide wide open spaces, you make me wanna wear dresses,” she sings, which perhaps suggests finding confidence through someone else and overcoming one’s repressions and fears. Another very distinct song burning with a yearning and a positive undercurrent.

13. The Darkest Night of All (4:44)

Germano’s piano balladry would improve, but she does quite an effective job with this ethereal closer to the album which rounds off the record with a plaintive sigh. Her whispery, breathy utterances of “goodnight” over the eerie effects behind her are far from reassuring. This sort of sound would dominate her bleak follow-up album Geek the Girl, and the sound would expand into a more plaintive and insular soundscape which would be as smothering as it was powerful.

Inconsiderate Bitch EP (17:25)

This was added as a generous addendum by 4AD and the only tracks that actually sound different are Puppet, as the sound is clearer and the layers of overdubbed guitar have been taken away, creating a fresher and more tolerable sound. The version of Sycophant has a longer introduction with over a minute of loud, distorted guitar. Germano has stripped away all of the drums and loud instrumentation to concentrate on creating an emptier, barren mixture of random sounds and lyrics.

This is an odd move, as nothing really happens for its over five minute duration and the song seems to have been left empty and airy, with no real purpose to it. The Dresses Song, here re-titled Late Night (Dresses) is just mixed differently, as is the version of Energy. A touch unnecessary, as it sort of weighs down the record. But bonus material is bonus material, and we should be thankful.

All in all, Germano is a mixed taste, and this will only really appeal to fans of her more powerful works such as Geek the Girl or Slide. These tracks capture Germano at her most ebullient and experimental, and I recommend this merely for fans of undiscovered female artists with a unique voice. Although this isn’t her strongest album, it does display her prodigious songwriting talents at their early peak before they became more focused and insular.

Rating: 9/10