Mike Leigh’s Two Thousand Years is conventional and disappointing
Part of my high expectations for Mike Leigh’s return to the stage for the first time in 12 years undoubtedly sprung from his exemplary record as a film director, but I’d be deluding myself if I didn’t concede that I’d also fallen victim to the press hype and hyperbole surrounding this production. There has been much speculation and excitement about Leigh’s improvisatory working methods (which have been in place now for many years) and the fact that the work did not even have a title when commissioned by the National Theatre in London. In this case, I’m saddened to report that the weight of considerable expectation has proved to be an overwhelming burden.
‘Two Thousand Years’ delves once again into that familiar Leigh theme, dysfunctional family life, but with far less insight and impact than he managed with his award winning ‘Secrets and Lies’. Danny and Rachel are a middle class, liberal and avowedly secular Jewish family living in Cricklewood, North West London. Danny is a dentist and loves to tell appalling jokes; Rachel is supportive but independently minded. Despite (or perhaps because of) being born on a Kibbutz, Rachel and her family have consigned any religious dimension of their heritage to the scrapheap of irrational beliefs.
They are therefore shocked when their disconnected, vacant and moody son Josh turns to religion. His adoption of Jewish study and ritual is just the first in a series of events which bring simmering tensions in the family to boiling point, and one might expect it to usher in a typically incisive examination of unspoken feelings and passions.
Sadly it doesn’t. Leigh has deliberately elected to set the family’s story against the backdrop of the past year of political life, both globally (terrorism, Israel/Palestine and the war on Iraq are all discussed) and nationally (Rachel’s socialist father is horrified by the convergence of Labour and Tories). Perhaps it’s a product of the somewhat stereotyped nature of the characterisation (Danny and Rachel read The Guardian!), but much of the political discussion felt forced and unconvincing.
There are some very witty moments, such as when the idealistic daughter Tammy answers the question ‘why are we all here?’ with her desire to play her part for good in the world and Danny takes up this theme by stating ‘that’s why I still take NHS work – that’s my attempt to do good’. John Burgess does an excellent job in his role as Rachel’s disgruntled, sardonic and confrontational father. Mostly the humour is, however, very conventional (much of it feels less adventurous than an episode of ‘One Foot In The Grave’), and the descent into farce in the closing 30 minutes following the arrival of Samantha Spiro’s histrionic estranged family member is clumsy and predictable (her character achieves the extraordinary feat of appearing more shallow than Dorian from ‘Birds Of A Feather’). Her unannounced arrival after eleven years of silence would certainly be expected to cause shock and conflict, but the overacted comedy here fails to explain why Josh suddenly appears to resolve many of his personal issues in the final scenes. The implication is that he embraced religion as a means to escape the mundanity of domestic family life – and has now rejected it because he has now been shown the importance of maintaining close familial relationships.
Leigh is usually a master of integrating the personal and political – but the real theme at the heart of ‘Two Thousand Years’ is singularly personal – that of relationships between parents and their children. The political dimension is therefore somewhat fudged. I’m aware of Jewish families who see their religion in cultural rather than spiritual terms – but would any family really be so shocked that their son had taken an interest in his family history, whatever their opinions on faith? Religion seems so significant an element of world politics at the moment that Leigh could, and arguably should, have made more of these issues, rather than simply giving them cursory debate over endless cups of tea (the one residual element from Leigh’s last film project, the excellent ‘Vera Drake’). This is the sort of project described in less enlightened quarters as ‘very politcal’ – but in many ways, the politics of this production are mostly banal. This is a strength in as far as Leigh’s directorial presence is mostly detached and non-judgmental (more evidence against those who accuse Leigh of being ‘patronising’ towards his characters), but it also means that arguments remain fragmentary and undeveloped. At times Leigh just seems to be throwing too many ideas and subjects into what becomes a somewhat cloudy mix. In characterising Josh as withdrawn and uncommunicative, we don’t get a sense of where he draws his palpable anger from and his reasons for embracing religion remain frustratingly elusive. His rebellion and defiance includes a firm refusal to respond to interrogation or justify his actions.
If Leigh remains unconventional in his working methods, this time the result lacks originality. The confrontation at the end feels like a deliberate retread of 'Secrets and Lies' but there are no overwhelming revelations and it seems like a rather obvious device to bring about a somewhat straightforward and contrived resolution. Where there are signs of directorial influence from Leigh - they are not entirely encouraging either. The structure of the play is very bitty, with short, often perfunctory scenes split by snatches of music. Where on screen Leigh is a master of sustained and believable emotions (always heightened by his use of close-up shots), he seems here to be constrained by the limitations of the single location stage play. Whilst 'Two Thousand Years' is intermittently entertaining, it's hard to believe watching it, that Leigh once mastered this very form so thoroughly with 'Abigail's Party'.
The stage set is a pointed and accurate replica of a liberal North London family home, made all the more amusing when Tammy introduces her new Israeli boyfriend. She points at the small collection of books – ‘here is the library, where I received my education’. It’s therefore an even greater pity that the action that takes place within it seems so surprisingly stilted.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Wildlife Extravaganza
Animal Collective/Caribou/Aoki Takamasa and Tojiko Noriko/Kieren Hebden – The Scala, London 25/10/05
Bloody hell – I should really make it to Eat Your Own Ears gigs more often. What a superb line-up! Well, now I’ve got the free advertising for an excellent promotions company out of the way, we can get down to the nitty gritty of reviewing the evening’s music…
The Scala was packed out tonight, which I found pleasantly surprising after my last experience there (a half-empty but entertainingly shambolic Alfie gig). Given that these acts make challenging, sometimes confrontational music that is unlikely to get much in the way of radio or TV exposure, it’s refreshing to realise that such material can indeed attract a substantial audience. The Scala makes for the perfect evening for this sort of affair, and it was pleasing to see joyous dancers and chin-strokers in equal measure.
First up, Aoki Takamasa and Tojiko Noriko soothed us with their beguiling electronic reveries. It was certainly all very pretty, but really no more than exactly what you’d expect a Japanese male/female laptop electronica duo to sound like. Of all the acts on tonight’s bill, they were the least concerned with pushing boundaries, dealing as they did with the kind of delicately rustling sounds so familiar to anyone who has ever heard the likes of Susumu Yokota.
That could not be said for DJ Kieren Hebden (Four Tet) who managed to play intelligently selected and frequently inspiring records in between the live performances. I must confess that I have no idea what most of these records were, but Hebden’s avowedly anti-specialist sets veered between genres with effortless ease.
Dan Snaith’s Caribou may have had an enforced name change, but their sonic brand remains very much intact. Despite an obvious reliance on electronics and backing tracks, it’s often hard to believe that there are just three musicians on stage, especially when two of them are bashing seven shades of shit from two drum kits. This is highly kinetic, thrilling stuff. The Krautrock-inspired grooves are appropriately relentless, but it’s the unrestrained arrangements which add originality and invention to the mix, and the mid-song instrument swapping is a joy to watch. It all seems to have been mapped out with mathematical precision, although Snaith is wise enough to leave room for an old-fashioned, summery approach to a good melody which contrasts neatly with the frequently frenetic music.
If Animal Collective are sometimes baffling on record, as a live band they are totally bonkers. It’s not too much of an exaggeration to state that this really sounded (and arguably looked) like nothing else around. It was a complete performance, with Panda Bear standing, energised and focussed behind his skeletal drum kit, and Avey Tare and Geologist trading quirky physical movements. Animal Collective’s killer weapon lies in their brilliantly executed vocal choreography, not just in terms of conventional harmonies, but also in their intricately competing yelps and screams. This made for a percussive performance in the broadest possible sense of the word.
Tonight’s set was divided into four extended segments which combined pre-released material (mostly from the excellent new album ‘Feels’) with the band’s customary tendency to develop prototypes of new material on the road. The integration of drones and electronic sounds with post-rock infused guitars arguably sounded more comfortable than it does on record, and it’s pleasing that the band seem to be leaving the more provocative, high-treble feedback experiments of their earlier records behind. Where once they may have preferred to bury their peculiar lyrics and turbulent melodies beneath thick swathes of noise, they have now developed an effective means of combining the various elements of their sound.
The Scala was packed out tonight, which I found pleasantly surprising after my last experience there (a half-empty but entertainingly shambolic Alfie gig). Given that these acts make challenging, sometimes confrontational music that is unlikely to get much in the way of radio or TV exposure, it’s refreshing to realise that such material can indeed attract a substantial audience. The Scala makes for the perfect evening for this sort of affair, and it was pleasing to see joyous dancers and chin-strokers in equal measure.
First up, Aoki Takamasa and Tojiko Noriko soothed us with their beguiling electronic reveries. It was certainly all very pretty, but really no more than exactly what you’d expect a Japanese male/female laptop electronica duo to sound like. Of all the acts on tonight’s bill, they were the least concerned with pushing boundaries, dealing as they did with the kind of delicately rustling sounds so familiar to anyone who has ever heard the likes of Susumu Yokota.
That could not be said for DJ Kieren Hebden (Four Tet) who managed to play intelligently selected and frequently inspiring records in between the live performances. I must confess that I have no idea what most of these records were, but Hebden’s avowedly anti-specialist sets veered between genres with effortless ease.
Dan Snaith’s Caribou may have had an enforced name change, but their sonic brand remains very much intact. Despite an obvious reliance on electronics and backing tracks, it’s often hard to believe that there are just three musicians on stage, especially when two of them are bashing seven shades of shit from two drum kits. This is highly kinetic, thrilling stuff. The Krautrock-inspired grooves are appropriately relentless, but it’s the unrestrained arrangements which add originality and invention to the mix, and the mid-song instrument swapping is a joy to watch. It all seems to have been mapped out with mathematical precision, although Snaith is wise enough to leave room for an old-fashioned, summery approach to a good melody which contrasts neatly with the frequently frenetic music.
If Animal Collective are sometimes baffling on record, as a live band they are totally bonkers. It’s not too much of an exaggeration to state that this really sounded (and arguably looked) like nothing else around. It was a complete performance, with Panda Bear standing, energised and focussed behind his skeletal drum kit, and Avey Tare and Geologist trading quirky physical movements. Animal Collective’s killer weapon lies in their brilliantly executed vocal choreography, not just in terms of conventional harmonies, but also in their intricately competing yelps and screams. This made for a percussive performance in the broadest possible sense of the word.
Tonight’s set was divided into four extended segments which combined pre-released material (mostly from the excellent new album ‘Feels’) with the band’s customary tendency to develop prototypes of new material on the road. The integration of drones and electronic sounds with post-rock infused guitars arguably sounded more comfortable than it does on record, and it’s pleasing that the band seem to be leaving the more provocative, high-treble feedback experiments of their earlier records behind. Where once they may have preferred to bury their peculiar lyrics and turbulent melodies beneath thick swathes of noise, they have now developed an effective means of combining the various elements of their sound.
Influences can be detected beneath the dense and quirky exterior – perhaps the clearest is Syd Barrett’s taste for nonsense poetry and confounding song structures. If Animal Collective refer to any formative template though, they have stretched and manipulated it into something modern and largely unrecognisable. They have crafted a weird and wonderful world that is entirely their own.
Monday, October 17, 2005
It Was The Colonel, In The Kitchen, With The Lead Piping
Colonel Bastard - Halcyon Days
At last - a proper album from these very fine quirky popsters from Cornwall via Cambridge. Wisely, it gathers together most of the band's live favourites into a brilliantly concise, immediately appealing collection. In Martin White and Ben Garnett, the band possess two gifted songwriters with neatly contrasting styles. White's songs brim with energy and exhuberance, whilst Garnett's, sometimes more refective and subdued, require a few listens before they work their magic. Both have a mastery of infectious melody and the combination results in an album that is much more than the sum of its parts.
Were anyone to offer Colonel Bastard a sizeable advance, it's conceivable that they could be lumped in with the current Britpop revival alongside the Kaiser Chiefs and their ilk. They certainly have an unmistakeably British sensibility informing their work (an American band would surely never rhyme 'lager' with 'aga'). They are better than our current chancers though, and the influences are more subtle. Whilst there are hints of Blur and Supergrass here, the band seem to possess something of the alchemical talents of the likes of The Boo Radleys and Teenage Fanclub (relatively underrated bands at the margins of the original Britpop explosion) for infusing 60s-tinged, summery pop with a quirkier, spikier edge.
It's clear that a number of these songs have been kicking around for a while, at least judging from the band's choice of cultural references. Internet porn no longer seems like a particularly cutting edge subject for a song, but somehow 'Surf The Sexx.Net' manages to sound like a fresh discovery. Peter Sissons is hardly the BBC Newsreader of choice these days, yet his name provides the title for Martin White's hilarious tale of crime and misfortune. Ben Garnett's 'The Day I Met The Bloke From Hollyoaks' might be a little behind the times too - isn't it all The OC and One Tree Hill these days? A US teen soap would seem inappropriate though - far too glamorous and glossy for this band's closer-to-home concerns. The songs are smart and engaging enough to transcend their references. 'Peter Sissons' benefits from a spiky, angular guitar riff that wouldn't sound out of place on a Franz Ferdinand single, whilst '...Hollyoaks' seduces with its truly irresistible chorus.
The lyrics are witty and incisive throughout. There's no Dylanesque verbosity here, but there are plenty of pithy, humorous couplets. My personal favourite is the fantastic opening line to 'Bubblegum Bears' - 'Well she's a honey and I'm Winnie The Pooh/I wanna get my paws on her 'fore the other bears do'.
They're not afraid of a good guitar solo either, but the musicianship is instinctive and thrilling rather than studied or virtuosic. The production is suitably under-polished, with well-arranged harmonies, but a gritty drum and guitar sound that captures the spirit of the band's live performances. Perhaps even last year, I might have described this as endearingly unfashionable, but with guitar pop rapidly squeezing out the pure pop market, I can't think of a better time for Colonel Bastard to make a bid for success.
See Colonel Bastard and Unit live tonight - LSE Student Union, Quad Bar, Houghton Street, London. Doors 7.30pm.
At last - a proper album from these very fine quirky popsters from Cornwall via Cambridge. Wisely, it gathers together most of the band's live favourites into a brilliantly concise, immediately appealing collection. In Martin White and Ben Garnett, the band possess two gifted songwriters with neatly contrasting styles. White's songs brim with energy and exhuberance, whilst Garnett's, sometimes more refective and subdued, require a few listens before they work their magic. Both have a mastery of infectious melody and the combination results in an album that is much more than the sum of its parts.
Were anyone to offer Colonel Bastard a sizeable advance, it's conceivable that they could be lumped in with the current Britpop revival alongside the Kaiser Chiefs and their ilk. They certainly have an unmistakeably British sensibility informing their work (an American band would surely never rhyme 'lager' with 'aga'). They are better than our current chancers though, and the influences are more subtle. Whilst there are hints of Blur and Supergrass here, the band seem to possess something of the alchemical talents of the likes of The Boo Radleys and Teenage Fanclub (relatively underrated bands at the margins of the original Britpop explosion) for infusing 60s-tinged, summery pop with a quirkier, spikier edge.
It's clear that a number of these songs have been kicking around for a while, at least judging from the band's choice of cultural references. Internet porn no longer seems like a particularly cutting edge subject for a song, but somehow 'Surf The Sexx.Net' manages to sound like a fresh discovery. Peter Sissons is hardly the BBC Newsreader of choice these days, yet his name provides the title for Martin White's hilarious tale of crime and misfortune. Ben Garnett's 'The Day I Met The Bloke From Hollyoaks' might be a little behind the times too - isn't it all The OC and One Tree Hill these days? A US teen soap would seem inappropriate though - far too glamorous and glossy for this band's closer-to-home concerns. The songs are smart and engaging enough to transcend their references. 'Peter Sissons' benefits from a spiky, angular guitar riff that wouldn't sound out of place on a Franz Ferdinand single, whilst '...Hollyoaks' seduces with its truly irresistible chorus.
The lyrics are witty and incisive throughout. There's no Dylanesque verbosity here, but there are plenty of pithy, humorous couplets. My personal favourite is the fantastic opening line to 'Bubblegum Bears' - 'Well she's a honey and I'm Winnie The Pooh/I wanna get my paws on her 'fore the other bears do'.
They're not afraid of a good guitar solo either, but the musicianship is instinctive and thrilling rather than studied or virtuosic. The production is suitably under-polished, with well-arranged harmonies, but a gritty drum and guitar sound that captures the spirit of the band's live performances. Perhaps even last year, I might have described this as endearingly unfashionable, but with guitar pop rapidly squeezing out the pure pop market, I can't think of a better time for Colonel Bastard to make a bid for success.
See Colonel Bastard and Unit live tonight - LSE Student Union, Quad Bar, Houghton Street, London. Doors 7.30pm.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The Real Super Monday (Part One)
Back in June, the NME, with its finger firmly on a great cross-promotional marketing opportunity, eagerly declared June 6th to be 'Super Monday'. Released on that day were the latest efforts from the perenially worthy Coldplay, blues infused garage rock duo The White Stripes and jangle-indie revivalists The Tears. Whilst The White Stripes album certainly had its merits, it was difficult to get truly excited about another Coldplay album and The Tears, whilst pleasant enough, could hardly be deemed significant.
No doubt the modern NME, now almost entirely a narrow 'indie rock' genre publication (yet one that still has the temerity to use the image of champion of diversity John Peel for front cover crredibility), will ignore the diversity of releases on offer this coming Monday, October 17th. There is the eagerly anticipated new album from reclusive electronica duo Boards Of Canada, the first new album in 35 years from folk legend Vashti Bunyan, a dependably impressive new Depeche Mode album, an outstanding reinvention from southern rock behemoths My Morning Jacket, yet another album from the prolific New York electronica-meets-hippy-folk Animal Collective, the first new material in over ten years from Stevie Wonder, yet another new album from sadly defiant homophobe Sizzla (who I've rather lost touch with over the last couple of years) an essential collaboration between two of the brightest stars in modern hip hop (Dangermouse and MF Doom), a new record from Scottish melancholics Arab Strap and, for some at least, a long awaited full commercial release for The Crimea's 'Tragedy Rocks' album. Take a deep breath and dig deep into the wallet!
Reviews of some of these releases will follow shortly...
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Formats and Concepts
Forgive me for sounding like one of Petridish's dreaded Guardian reviews for a moment, but there have been two notable trends in 2005 - the return of the formerly derided 'concept' album, and a new enthusiasm for the stop-gap mini album. In the former category, there have been some ambitious and remarkable achievements and adoption of a more 'thematic' approach to the long-player has been most welcome, with artists finding some imaginative context for their material.
Perhaps most impressive of all has been Matthew Herbert's radical 'Plat Du Jour' project, a largely wordless polemic against the manipulative and exploitative tendencies of the food industry. Herbert has long been a fervent musical adventurer, although he works within the confines of some stringent self-imposed regulations which see him find samples and sounds in the most extraordinary of places. Having sampled human digestion and his pet hamster exercising in its cage on his fantastic bodily functions album, Herbert has now made a righteous political statement constructed from the sound of food and its industrial production.
Whereas his recent production duties for Roisin Murphy's 'Ruby Blue' album traded in quasi-sophisticated and polite textures, 'Plat du Jour' is considerably more confrontational. The result is a sometimes severe but frequently dazzling new form of 'musique concrete' that makes for Herbert's most challenging listening experience to date. The fascination with jazz forms made explicit with his big band project is perhaps less overt here, but the contributions of jazz musicians Phil Parnell, Dave O' Higgins and arranger Pete Wraight are again fundamental to the overall sound of the album. All three improvise inventively with the sampled sounds, adapting confidently to what may have seemed initially an unfamiliar idiom. 'Plat du Jour' is as much a celebration of contemporary musical diversity as it is a political statement. The combination of modern composition, electronic production values and improvisatory spirit makes for an original and winning formula, with a consistent mood and tone pervading across the whole album.
In spite of this, 'Plat du Jour' cannot be appreciated fully without its lengthy and compelling set of inlay notes. Anyone who illegally downloads this material without the packaging will be missing out on reams of explanation and extrapolation. Herbert meticulously lists the sources for all his sounds, including live concert audiences eating apples on 'An Apple A Day', 30,000 broiler chickens in a barn on 'The Truncated Life Of A Modern Industrialised Chicken', and perhaps most ingeniously of all, the sound of a tank driving over a reconstruction of the meal prepared by Nigella Lawson for the 20th November 2003 meeting between George Bush and Tony Blair. The latter neatly combines the food theme with Herbert's passionate opposition to the war in Iraq.
Many of Herbert's political concerns are also expressed in his customarily didactic fashion. 'These Branded Waters' contrasts the recent obsession with corporate bottled water with the lack of access to sanitary services in parts of India and Bangladesh. The apocalyptic 'Empire Of Coffee' deals with the devastating trade problems in the coffee industry. 'Celebrity', the most accessible track on the album thanks largely to Dani Siciliano's sultry vocal and its unabashed sense of humour, is constructed entirely from the sounds of celebrity endorsed food products, most of which are, according to Herbert, of 'dubious nutritional value'. The track has a fantastic slightly delayed rhythm and its central ironic cheerleading chant of 'Go Gordon! Go Ramsey! Go Beyonce! Go Beyonce!' is brilliant.
Herbert's decision to make the majority of 'Plat du Jour' instrumental proves to be inspired. The message is invoked through the use of sounds rather than through forced or hackneyed 'political' lyrics. 'Plat du Jour' is suddenly remarkably topical in light of the recent Jamie Oliver school meals campaign and government policy on junk food (although my more liberal side feels New Labour's controlling element may have yet again too far in imposing a ban on all junk food sales). 'Plat du Jour' goes much further than this rather superficial debate, however - it does not merely consider the content and nutritional balance of modern diets, but also asks uncomfortable questions about the unsavoury role of corporate bodies, multinational organisations and aggressive marketing strategies in global health. It is as much about the destruction of independent businesses as a result of supermarket culture as it is about the fat content of McDonald's products. Following 'Super Size Me' and the Jamie Oliver series, there has been plenty of debate about the effects of poor diets, but few have been prepared to link the food industry with wider global trends quite as convincingly as Herbert does here.
Herbert is a passionate believer in the power of the individual to effect change through direct action. He at least largely puts his money where his mouth is (he now refuses to fly except to visit his family in America once a year). The central motto of the inlay to 'Plat du Jour' is 'avoid supermarkets'. If only this were so straightforward for people living in areas where a supermarket is the only food outlet available. Herbert's committed environmentalism and political awareness is commendable, and he remains one of the most vital musical artists at work in Britain today. 'Plat du Jour' makes for a thrilling education.
Sufjan Stevens has taken the concept album to new levels of excess with his surely unrealisable 50 states project. Nevermind that Stevens would have to produce an album a year until he was over the age of 75 to complete the Herculean task, he's continuing apace anyway. 'Greetings From Michigan' was an inspired collection that balanced sombre and incisive reflections on industrial decline with more rousing celebrations of his home state with remarkable aplomb. Its follow up, 'Illinois' (full title 'Sufjan Stevens invites you to: Come on feel the Illinoise') dismisses any concerns that Stevens would be unable to apply the same range of sympathy and compassion to the other US states. It is personal odyssey, historical document and geographical commentary rolled into a giant, monolithic statement.
On the surface, 'Illinois' is very impressive, displaying the same aptitude for exquisite arrangement that made 'Michigan' such a treat. It's this undeniable quality that most likely helps explain why 'Illinois' has been sitting pretty at the top of the rateyourmusic.com and metacritic albums of the year since Asthmatic Kitty issued the first pre-release mail order copies.
There are problems here though that make me slightly suspicious of the zealous critical praise 'Illinois' has enjoyed. Sadly the ludicrously verbose song titles, a refreshing conceit on 'Michigan', now appear slighly pretentious and do much to detract from the poignant and literate quality of many of the songs. At over 74 minutes, it's also massively overlong, and Stevens' richly detailed arrangements acquire an unwanted twee and sugary quality as a result of overexposure. Some more judicious editing might have transformed 'Illinois' from an exceptional record into a solid gold classic.
These are not severe or insurmountable setbacks though, and there is so much to admire on 'Illinois' that it will most likely retain a top 10 position in my albums of the year list. I'm beginning to prefer Stevens at his more delicate and restrained, and one of the clear highlights here is 'John Wayne Gacy, Jr.' a song ostensibly about a murderer, but really dealing with the wider issue of the secrets we keep concealed. It ends with a remarkable lyric - 'And in my best behaviour/I am really just like him/Look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid'. It is a controlled and moving testament. 'Decatur' is an equally assured banjo and vocal harmony dominated track, with a remarkably infectious central melody. Here, Stevens neatly captures an American historical spirit ('Sang-a-man river it overflowed/It caused a mudslide on the banks of the Operator?Civil war skeletons in their graves/They came up clapping in the spirit of the Aviator').
John Kell (http://www.kingofquiet.co.uk) has described Stevens in passing as being 'a bit plinky plonk'. Elsewhere on 'Illinois', these tendencies are further amplified so that he could be derided as 'a bit happy clappy'. The vocal choruses increasingly resemble child choirs, and parping crumhorns and chiming bells dominate the sound. At their best, these moments are uniquely uplifting, such as the title track's combination of a deconstruction of the American dream with a vivid description of a visitation of the ghost of Carl Sandburg to Stevens in a dream. Even better is the euphoric wall of sound Stevens constructs in the magnificent 'Chicago'. In reality, the quality control is remarkably consistent over the course of the album, it's just that some of these stylings become over-familiar towards the album's conclusion. Stevens' melodies can be a little formulaic, and so seem repetetive over too great a period of time. This is a bit frustrating as one of the album's real highlights, the soulful, slinky 'They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbours!! They Have Come Back From The Dead!! Ahhhh!' (you see what I mean about the titles) is buried three quarters of the way through the album.
Few artists have the talent, the passion or the necessary self-belief to invest so much energy and time to the development of a project from initial concept to finished product. Few also imbue that product with this level of human empathy and wisdom. Unusually for a concept album, 'Illinois' may be best listened to on shuffle or in small doses, but it's a richly rewarding encapsulation of the human spirit nonetheless.
Adopting a rather more unusual approach to concept and theme, 'Black Sheep Boy' by Okkervil River is a sublime manipulation of traditional Americana into a sort of crimson, cinematic melodrama. Songwriter Will Sheff has taken the Tim Hardin song that provides the album's title and expanded its central character across ten fresh songs of his own. Lyrically, the album is fascinating, imbuing familiar themes (jealousy, betrayal, rejection, frustration) with fresh appeal through the invigorating deconstruction of rhythm and meter. The structure of the album provides a distinctive narrative continuity, and Sheff's peculiar prose-poetry comes with violent dynamics and restless energies which are reflected in the frequently tempestuous music. Sheff's ragged voice has some of the angst and anger of Bright Eyes, but comes blessed with a much more instinctive feel for raging desire and the darker recesses of the human heart.
Opening with a faithfully minimal and subdued version of the Hardin song, the album bursts into life with the visceral, highly charged 'For Real'. This is where Sheff first demonstrates his vision of Okkervil River as a band, rather than merely a vehicle for his songs - the track boasts a confident mastery of unpredictable dynamic contrast. Never content to opt entirely for guitar strumming, 'For Real', like many of the other outstanding songs here, places the evocative sound of the Wurlitzer electric piano firmly in the foreground. The subsequent 'In A Radio Song' makes for an immediate and striking contrast, the musical accompinament skeletal and delicate, leaving plenty of room for the expansive, free-flowing lyrics to breathe. The opening lines clearly demonstrate Sheff's deftness of touch - 'Black sheep boy, blue-eyed charmer, head hanging with horns from your father - oh, in a cold little mirror you were grown, by a black little wind you were blown, blown, blown'.
The rest of the album is just as remarkable - from the pained but propulsive 'Black', with a chorus that threatens to veer into the poptastic side of indie to the thrilling stomp of 'The Latest Toughs', via the detailed slow build of 'A King And A Queen'. Perhaps most poignant is the controlled jealousy of 'A Stone' - 'Hot breath, rough skin, warm laughs and smiling, the loveliest words whispered and meant - you like all these things. But though you like all these things, you love a stone'. There is an extraordinary love of language at the heart of these songs.
It ends with the epic desperation and longing of 'So Come Back, I Am Waiting', Sheff showing considerable resolve in not providing a more comforting conclusion by ending the central torment. It ends with some chilling words - "I am waiting hoof and on hand. I am waiting all hated and damned. I am waiting - I snort and I stamp. I am waiting you know that I am, calmly waiting to make you my lamb". What a powerful conclusion to a magnificent, primal, deeply felt song cycle.
Of the mini albums, I have already waxed lyrical about the remarkable collaboration between Calexico and Iron and Wine, one of the albums of the year. There's a strange sense of urgency to the return of Grandaddy, which they have dismissed by releasing a low-key mini album in preparation for the next full-length which is due in early 2006. It would be unfair to suggest that Grandaddy lost form exactly, but 'Sumday' did suffer somewhat as a result of a monotony of pace and tone. The wonderfully titled 'Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla' has remedied this problem immediately. It doesn't perhaps rank with their very best work (it lacks the thematic coherence of 'The Sophtware Slump' or the wide-eyed fascination of 'Under The Western Freeway'), but it provides a welcome return to their trademark blend of bubblegum melody and analogue burblings.
There is more variation in tone and texture between the first two tracks than 'Sumday' managed across an entire album. Opener 'Pull The Curtains' is a delightful excursion into what seems almost like a Californian punk-pop sound. Of course, Grandaddy manage this genre exercise with real elan (they even opt to return to the sound later in the album with 'Florida', which adds entirely unexpected Pixies style screeching into the equation). Second track 'At My Post' veers between contrasting sections, one a melancholy, funereal reflection, the other a familiar Grandaddy trudge, with synths foregrounded above the guitars. It sounds like a sense of ambition and a desire to overcome their musical limitations have returned.
The subsequent three tracks, 'A Valley Son', 'Cinderland' and 'F*ck The Valley Fudge' are characerised by a mournful delicacy and a sense of loss, the latter very skeletal in its vocal and piano stylings. These are deceptively pretty, highly unusual songs and make for worthy additions to the Grandaddy canon.
'...Todd Zilla' could perhaps be criticised for gathering together a range of elements from Grandaddy's back catalogue rather than offering anything really original - but the the bleepy synthesisers remain more distinctive than the production sheen that stifled the last album, and the mini-album format offers little room for filler. It's a pleasing hint at what may come, but we'll have to wait until 2006 before we really know whether or not they have developed.
The progtastic Pure Reason Revolution have made their debut with mini-LP (or long EP) 'Cautionary Tales For The Brave'. Somewhat appropriately, a cautionary word is needed right from the outset as the 12 minute single 'Bright Ambassadors Of Morning' makes up the bulk of the material here. If you already have that, it may well not be worth £6.99 of your hard earned cash to buy this. If this represents first contact with the band, however, it makes for a useful introduction. PRR are defiantly unfashionable, combining the layered harmonies of Crosby, Stills and Nash with the lengthy explorations of Pink Floyd and the edgy riffing of Metallica. It's a distinctive combination, although the results sometimes sound slightly laboured. At their best, however, as on the uncharacteristically concise chug of opener 'In Aurelia' and on the aforementioned centrepiece, there is an admirable fearlessness and audacity at work. Is it really viable in the narrow mainstream marketplace though? Will they be able to sustain their potentially lucrative Sony contract?
Perhaps most impressive of all has been Matthew Herbert's radical 'Plat Du Jour' project, a largely wordless polemic against the manipulative and exploitative tendencies of the food industry. Herbert has long been a fervent musical adventurer, although he works within the confines of some stringent self-imposed regulations which see him find samples and sounds in the most extraordinary of places. Having sampled human digestion and his pet hamster exercising in its cage on his fantastic bodily functions album, Herbert has now made a righteous political statement constructed from the sound of food and its industrial production.
Whereas his recent production duties for Roisin Murphy's 'Ruby Blue' album traded in quasi-sophisticated and polite textures, 'Plat du Jour' is considerably more confrontational. The result is a sometimes severe but frequently dazzling new form of 'musique concrete' that makes for Herbert's most challenging listening experience to date. The fascination with jazz forms made explicit with his big band project is perhaps less overt here, but the contributions of jazz musicians Phil Parnell, Dave O' Higgins and arranger Pete Wraight are again fundamental to the overall sound of the album. All three improvise inventively with the sampled sounds, adapting confidently to what may have seemed initially an unfamiliar idiom. 'Plat du Jour' is as much a celebration of contemporary musical diversity as it is a political statement. The combination of modern composition, electronic production values and improvisatory spirit makes for an original and winning formula, with a consistent mood and tone pervading across the whole album.
In spite of this, 'Plat du Jour' cannot be appreciated fully without its lengthy and compelling set of inlay notes. Anyone who illegally downloads this material without the packaging will be missing out on reams of explanation and extrapolation. Herbert meticulously lists the sources for all his sounds, including live concert audiences eating apples on 'An Apple A Day', 30,000 broiler chickens in a barn on 'The Truncated Life Of A Modern Industrialised Chicken', and perhaps most ingeniously of all, the sound of a tank driving over a reconstruction of the meal prepared by Nigella Lawson for the 20th November 2003 meeting between George Bush and Tony Blair. The latter neatly combines the food theme with Herbert's passionate opposition to the war in Iraq.
Many of Herbert's political concerns are also expressed in his customarily didactic fashion. 'These Branded Waters' contrasts the recent obsession with corporate bottled water with the lack of access to sanitary services in parts of India and Bangladesh. The apocalyptic 'Empire Of Coffee' deals with the devastating trade problems in the coffee industry. 'Celebrity', the most accessible track on the album thanks largely to Dani Siciliano's sultry vocal and its unabashed sense of humour, is constructed entirely from the sounds of celebrity endorsed food products, most of which are, according to Herbert, of 'dubious nutritional value'. The track has a fantastic slightly delayed rhythm and its central ironic cheerleading chant of 'Go Gordon! Go Ramsey! Go Beyonce! Go Beyonce!' is brilliant.
Herbert's decision to make the majority of 'Plat du Jour' instrumental proves to be inspired. The message is invoked through the use of sounds rather than through forced or hackneyed 'political' lyrics. 'Plat du Jour' is suddenly remarkably topical in light of the recent Jamie Oliver school meals campaign and government policy on junk food (although my more liberal side feels New Labour's controlling element may have yet again too far in imposing a ban on all junk food sales). 'Plat du Jour' goes much further than this rather superficial debate, however - it does not merely consider the content and nutritional balance of modern diets, but also asks uncomfortable questions about the unsavoury role of corporate bodies, multinational organisations and aggressive marketing strategies in global health. It is as much about the destruction of independent businesses as a result of supermarket culture as it is about the fat content of McDonald's products. Following 'Super Size Me' and the Jamie Oliver series, there has been plenty of debate about the effects of poor diets, but few have been prepared to link the food industry with wider global trends quite as convincingly as Herbert does here.
Herbert is a passionate believer in the power of the individual to effect change through direct action. He at least largely puts his money where his mouth is (he now refuses to fly except to visit his family in America once a year). The central motto of the inlay to 'Plat du Jour' is 'avoid supermarkets'. If only this were so straightforward for people living in areas where a supermarket is the only food outlet available. Herbert's committed environmentalism and political awareness is commendable, and he remains one of the most vital musical artists at work in Britain today. 'Plat du Jour' makes for a thrilling education.
Sufjan Stevens has taken the concept album to new levels of excess with his surely unrealisable 50 states project. Nevermind that Stevens would have to produce an album a year until he was over the age of 75 to complete the Herculean task, he's continuing apace anyway. 'Greetings From Michigan' was an inspired collection that balanced sombre and incisive reflections on industrial decline with more rousing celebrations of his home state with remarkable aplomb. Its follow up, 'Illinois' (full title 'Sufjan Stevens invites you to: Come on feel the Illinoise') dismisses any concerns that Stevens would be unable to apply the same range of sympathy and compassion to the other US states. It is personal odyssey, historical document and geographical commentary rolled into a giant, monolithic statement.
On the surface, 'Illinois' is very impressive, displaying the same aptitude for exquisite arrangement that made 'Michigan' such a treat. It's this undeniable quality that most likely helps explain why 'Illinois' has been sitting pretty at the top of the rateyourmusic.com and metacritic albums of the year since Asthmatic Kitty issued the first pre-release mail order copies.
There are problems here though that make me slightly suspicious of the zealous critical praise 'Illinois' has enjoyed. Sadly the ludicrously verbose song titles, a refreshing conceit on 'Michigan', now appear slighly pretentious and do much to detract from the poignant and literate quality of many of the songs. At over 74 minutes, it's also massively overlong, and Stevens' richly detailed arrangements acquire an unwanted twee and sugary quality as a result of overexposure. Some more judicious editing might have transformed 'Illinois' from an exceptional record into a solid gold classic.
These are not severe or insurmountable setbacks though, and there is so much to admire on 'Illinois' that it will most likely retain a top 10 position in my albums of the year list. I'm beginning to prefer Stevens at his more delicate and restrained, and one of the clear highlights here is 'John Wayne Gacy, Jr.' a song ostensibly about a murderer, but really dealing with the wider issue of the secrets we keep concealed. It ends with a remarkable lyric - 'And in my best behaviour/I am really just like him/Look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid'. It is a controlled and moving testament. 'Decatur' is an equally assured banjo and vocal harmony dominated track, with a remarkably infectious central melody. Here, Stevens neatly captures an American historical spirit ('Sang-a-man river it overflowed/It caused a mudslide on the banks of the Operator?Civil war skeletons in their graves/They came up clapping in the spirit of the Aviator').
John Kell (http://www.kingofquiet.co.uk) has described Stevens in passing as being 'a bit plinky plonk'. Elsewhere on 'Illinois', these tendencies are further amplified so that he could be derided as 'a bit happy clappy'. The vocal choruses increasingly resemble child choirs, and parping crumhorns and chiming bells dominate the sound. At their best, these moments are uniquely uplifting, such as the title track's combination of a deconstruction of the American dream with a vivid description of a visitation of the ghost of Carl Sandburg to Stevens in a dream. Even better is the euphoric wall of sound Stevens constructs in the magnificent 'Chicago'. In reality, the quality control is remarkably consistent over the course of the album, it's just that some of these stylings become over-familiar towards the album's conclusion. Stevens' melodies can be a little formulaic, and so seem repetetive over too great a period of time. This is a bit frustrating as one of the album's real highlights, the soulful, slinky 'They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbours!! They Have Come Back From The Dead!! Ahhhh!' (you see what I mean about the titles) is buried three quarters of the way through the album.
Few artists have the talent, the passion or the necessary self-belief to invest so much energy and time to the development of a project from initial concept to finished product. Few also imbue that product with this level of human empathy and wisdom. Unusually for a concept album, 'Illinois' may be best listened to on shuffle or in small doses, but it's a richly rewarding encapsulation of the human spirit nonetheless.
Adopting a rather more unusual approach to concept and theme, 'Black Sheep Boy' by Okkervil River is a sublime manipulation of traditional Americana into a sort of crimson, cinematic melodrama. Songwriter Will Sheff has taken the Tim Hardin song that provides the album's title and expanded its central character across ten fresh songs of his own. Lyrically, the album is fascinating, imbuing familiar themes (jealousy, betrayal, rejection, frustration) with fresh appeal through the invigorating deconstruction of rhythm and meter. The structure of the album provides a distinctive narrative continuity, and Sheff's peculiar prose-poetry comes with violent dynamics and restless energies which are reflected in the frequently tempestuous music. Sheff's ragged voice has some of the angst and anger of Bright Eyes, but comes blessed with a much more instinctive feel for raging desire and the darker recesses of the human heart.
Opening with a faithfully minimal and subdued version of the Hardin song, the album bursts into life with the visceral, highly charged 'For Real'. This is where Sheff first demonstrates his vision of Okkervil River as a band, rather than merely a vehicle for his songs - the track boasts a confident mastery of unpredictable dynamic contrast. Never content to opt entirely for guitar strumming, 'For Real', like many of the other outstanding songs here, places the evocative sound of the Wurlitzer electric piano firmly in the foreground. The subsequent 'In A Radio Song' makes for an immediate and striking contrast, the musical accompinament skeletal and delicate, leaving plenty of room for the expansive, free-flowing lyrics to breathe. The opening lines clearly demonstrate Sheff's deftness of touch - 'Black sheep boy, blue-eyed charmer, head hanging with horns from your father - oh, in a cold little mirror you were grown, by a black little wind you were blown, blown, blown'.
The rest of the album is just as remarkable - from the pained but propulsive 'Black', with a chorus that threatens to veer into the poptastic side of indie to the thrilling stomp of 'The Latest Toughs', via the detailed slow build of 'A King And A Queen'. Perhaps most poignant is the controlled jealousy of 'A Stone' - 'Hot breath, rough skin, warm laughs and smiling, the loveliest words whispered and meant - you like all these things. But though you like all these things, you love a stone'. There is an extraordinary love of language at the heart of these songs.
It ends with the epic desperation and longing of 'So Come Back, I Am Waiting', Sheff showing considerable resolve in not providing a more comforting conclusion by ending the central torment. It ends with some chilling words - "I am waiting hoof and on hand. I am waiting all hated and damned. I am waiting - I snort and I stamp. I am waiting you know that I am, calmly waiting to make you my lamb". What a powerful conclusion to a magnificent, primal, deeply felt song cycle.
Of the mini albums, I have already waxed lyrical about the remarkable collaboration between Calexico and Iron and Wine, one of the albums of the year. There's a strange sense of urgency to the return of Grandaddy, which they have dismissed by releasing a low-key mini album in preparation for the next full-length which is due in early 2006. It would be unfair to suggest that Grandaddy lost form exactly, but 'Sumday' did suffer somewhat as a result of a monotony of pace and tone. The wonderfully titled 'Excerpts From The Diary Of Todd Zilla' has remedied this problem immediately. It doesn't perhaps rank with their very best work (it lacks the thematic coherence of 'The Sophtware Slump' or the wide-eyed fascination of 'Under The Western Freeway'), but it provides a welcome return to their trademark blend of bubblegum melody and analogue burblings.
There is more variation in tone and texture between the first two tracks than 'Sumday' managed across an entire album. Opener 'Pull The Curtains' is a delightful excursion into what seems almost like a Californian punk-pop sound. Of course, Grandaddy manage this genre exercise with real elan (they even opt to return to the sound later in the album with 'Florida', which adds entirely unexpected Pixies style screeching into the equation). Second track 'At My Post' veers between contrasting sections, one a melancholy, funereal reflection, the other a familiar Grandaddy trudge, with synths foregrounded above the guitars. It sounds like a sense of ambition and a desire to overcome their musical limitations have returned.
The subsequent three tracks, 'A Valley Son', 'Cinderland' and 'F*ck The Valley Fudge' are characerised by a mournful delicacy and a sense of loss, the latter very skeletal in its vocal and piano stylings. These are deceptively pretty, highly unusual songs and make for worthy additions to the Grandaddy canon.
'...Todd Zilla' could perhaps be criticised for gathering together a range of elements from Grandaddy's back catalogue rather than offering anything really original - but the the bleepy synthesisers remain more distinctive than the production sheen that stifled the last album, and the mini-album format offers little room for filler. It's a pleasing hint at what may come, but we'll have to wait until 2006 before we really know whether or not they have developed.
The progtastic Pure Reason Revolution have made their debut with mini-LP (or long EP) 'Cautionary Tales For The Brave'. Somewhat appropriately, a cautionary word is needed right from the outset as the 12 minute single 'Bright Ambassadors Of Morning' makes up the bulk of the material here. If you already have that, it may well not be worth £6.99 of your hard earned cash to buy this. If this represents first contact with the band, however, it makes for a useful introduction. PRR are defiantly unfashionable, combining the layered harmonies of Crosby, Stills and Nash with the lengthy explorations of Pink Floyd and the edgy riffing of Metallica. It's a distinctive combination, although the results sometimes sound slightly laboured. At their best, however, as on the uncharacteristically concise chug of opener 'In Aurelia' and on the aforementioned centrepiece, there is an admirable fearlessness and audacity at work. Is it really viable in the narrow mainstream marketplace though? Will they be able to sustain their potentially lucrative Sony contract?
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
From Jackson To Jacksonville
New albums from Jackson and His Computer Band, John Cale, Calexico/Iron and Wine, Bill Frisell, The Bad Plus and Ryan Adams hit the In League With Paton CD player.
There’s a whole plethora of material from across the sound spectrum to cover in this massive post, from the stuttering electronica of new Warp signing Jackson, to the second of three albums this year from the increasingly prolific troubadour Ryan Adams.
‘Smash’, the debut album from Jackson and His Computer Band is assertive, provocative music indeed, but it also comes with the kind of humorous party sensibility that the likes of Daft Punk now appear to have abandoned in favour of charmless repetition. Jackson is clearly someone with a short attention span – his tracks tend to flit rapidly between different sounds and ideas, but they work magic because they are usually anchored with one notable melodic line or texture.
The opening ‘Utopia’ is an excellent case in point. Jackson deploys a dazzling technique in cut-and-paste vocal sampling, but burbling beneath the surface is an insistent ostinato synth figure, veering between two notes in a fashion not entirely unlike the Jaws theme tune. Whilst that memorable piece of music created escalating tension and fear, Jackson’s motif affords the piece an oasis of calm.
The same cut-and-paste techniques recur on the disorientating ‘Rock On’, where we are very much in Daft Punk territory. Here, Jackson allows a possibly unironic love for seventies rock posturing to seep through. It’s a thrilling, highly entertaining track. By way of contrast, the child narrative on ‘Oh Boy’ is slightly sinister and reminiscent of the peculiarly malevolent atmosphere conjured by Boards of Canada on ‘Geogaddi’. This creepy atmosphere is heightened by the interjection of tantalisingly brief backing vocal samples (taken from Roy Orbison’s ‘Blue Bayou’ if my sample-detecting ears do not deceive me), the punctuations left lurking in the background of the mix.
The album sustains its defiantly scattershot approach surprisingly well, and benefits from a typically inspired guest appearance from Mike Ladd on the bemusing ‘TV Dogs (Cathodica’s Letter)’. The mysterious swells, pulses and ghostly choral samples of ‘Hard Tits’ provide further balance, the track sounding more contemplative in spite of its crude title.
Jackson has probably taken influence from the dancefloor disco of Daft Punk or Cassius, but has injected a new lease of life through his own maverick production techniques. He often opts for being deliberately melodramatic and, at its best, ‘Smash’ is a startling and unpredictable beast.
One could be forgiven for expecting ‘Black Acetate’, the new album from John Cale to share a maverick spirit with modern electronic pioneers, but some might be surprised by just how accessible, perhaps even conventional a record this is. Certainly, had the light pop-punk of first single ‘Perfect’ been recorded by McFly, every respectable critic in the land would not even consider devoting column inches to it. It’s rather zippy pacing sounds a little uncomfortable, not because Cale is too old for such amusements, but simply because it doesn’t sit entirely comfortably with the rest of the album.
If anything, ‘Black Acetate’ is further evidence that Cale is no longer pushing boundaries of his own, but rather following where his current influences lead him. His last album, the highly acclaimed ‘Hobosapiens’ saw him discovering Pro-Tools several years too late for it to really be ‘cutting edge’, whilst the foundations of ‘Black Acetate’ have been crafted with two major collaborators – funk producer Herb Graham Jr. and Eels sideman Mickey Petralia.
Luckily, the influences are many and varied. Reviewers have likened startling opener ‘Outta The Bag’ to the Neptunes, but that comparison fails to pin down its appealingly inelegant combination of falsetto vocals, sludgy rock and digitised Memphis style horns. Elsewhere, the playful squelch of ‘Brotherman’ suggests a combination of the classic funk of Curtis Mayfield and the mid-80s explorations of Prince. It depends more on intricate rhythm and atmosphere than melody for its impact. ‘Hush’ even closely resembles the bedroom electronica of Hot Chip – could Cale have been listening and taking note?
Melody plays a more significant role on the lush ‘Satisfied’, which benefits from a particularly strong vocal performance from Cale. The gravel-voiced murmurings and muted atmospherics of ‘In A Flood’ suggest the influence of Bob Dylan’s Daniel Lanois-produced albums. These songs are the album’s engaging and intriguing highlights. It is true that later in the album they do give way to rather more generic, lumbering creations (the aforementioned ‘Perfect’ ‘Wasteland’ and ‘Turn The Lights On’), but in concluding with the remarkable, funereal ‘Mailman (The Lying Song’, the overriding impression of ‘Black Acetate’ is positive.
‘Black Acetate’ may not rival ‘Music For A New Society’ for radical invention, nor ‘Paris 1919’ for songwriting ingenuity, but it nevertheless provides a fascinating document of an influential artist still totally engaged with current musical developments. There can be no obligation on an artist like Cale to revolutionise once more – a grand synthesis such as ‘Black Acetate’ is more than illuminating enough.
Cale’s work is certainly a collaborative effort, as is ‘In The Reins’, a near-faultless new mini album from the dream team of Calexico and Iron and Wine. This is one of those deceptively calm, unassuming accomplishments that will most likely slip through the critical net in the UK. Whilst Iron and Wine have already released one impressive mini album this year (‘Woman King’), there was a growing sense that Sam Beam’s well honed rustic Americana needed a new injection of life. He needed a musical backdrop that matched his richly poetic narratives. By joining forces with the dependably excellent Calexico, he has now achieved this.
It helps that the songs on ‘In The Reins’ are the best of Beam’s career to date – songs that inherit the classic American songwriting tradition of Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash and Townes van Zandt. Beam has found his own narrative voice here, in much the same way that Springsteen claimed to have found his American storytelling voice with ‘Darkness On The Edge Of Town’. These songs, through their manipulation of language and their vivid construction of character and feeling, say far more about love, family and the underbelly of the American Dream than anything on Neil Young’s latest maudlin effort.
‘Prison On Route 41’ effortlessly captures a conflict between the protagonists’s jailed family, and the righteous path set out for him by his Virginia. It’s brilliantly realised (‘There’s a prison on route 41, a home to my mother, step brother and son/ And I’d tear down that jail by myself, if not for Virginia who made me someone else’), and delivered with Beam’s characteristic soft tones, which successfully underline its pathos. Elsewhere, ‘Sixteen, Maybe Less’ is a wonderfully subtle memory of love, tinged with a lingering sadness. The closing ‘Dead Man’s Will’ is deceptively simple, and unspeakably moving, a dedication of love from beyond the grave full of regret (‘give this bone to my father/He’ll remember hunting in the hills when I was ten years old’).
Although the songs are certainly marked with Beam’s distinctive stamp of authority, Calexico’s role here is pivotal. The mariachi horns that bolster the fantastic ‘History Of Lovers’ are a Calexico staple, and they elevate the song to thrillingly higher plane. On ‘Red Dust’, and ‘Burn That Broken Bed’, the band hit tremendous backbeat grooves, hinting at the close links between country music and soul. The strong influence of border music pervades throughout, from the strange but powerful interjection of Spanish operetta in the opening ‘He Lays In The Reins’ to the ragged percussion of ‘Burn That Broken Bed’.
This is a quietly remarkable record, rich in wisdom and experience heightened by a manifest love of language, both poetic and musical. It presents a prime example of how brilliant songs can be enhanced through the honing of instrumentation and arrangement. It would be wonderful if the two acts got together to perform this work live – it’s so good that I have to hope it’s not merely a one-off.
Whilst the Americana brigade at Uncut magazine might pick up on Calexico and Iron and Wine’s little gem, it’s unlikely they will make much noise about ‘East/West’, the latest double live album from guitarist Bill Frisell. This is a great pity that emphasises exactly how unhelpful the tendency in the UK media towards specialisation and compartmentalisation can be. Whilst he is known chiefly as a jazz musician, I wonder if there is anyone at work today who can rival Frisell’s instinctive understanding of the American folk tradition. On ‘East/West’, Frisell reinterprets some cornerstones of the American songbook in his own uniquely fluid style – ‘I Heard It Through The Grapevine’, ‘Shenandoah’, ‘My Man’s Gone Now’ (from Porgy and Bess), Leadbelly’s blues standard ‘Goodnight Irene’ and Bob Dylan’s ‘A Hard Rain’s-A-Gonna Fall’ are just a handful of the many highlights.
The concept is simple but effective – ‘East/West’ is a two-disc set containing selections from two concerts, one from the East Coast and one from the West Coast of America. The ‘West’ disc, a trio set recorded at Yoshi’s in Oakland, California with Viktor Krauss on bass and Kenny Wollesen on drums is by far the more immediately appealing. Frisell’s playing is at its most lyrical on the sublimely atmospheric interpretation of ‘Shenandoah’ and Dylan’s ‘Hard Rain’, to which Frisell adds a sublime introduction of his own. These selections might well have seemed corny in the hands of a less adept communicator, but Frisell always brings his own touch of class to the material, deploying his trademark effects and guitar loops to craft a meticulously controlled atmosphere.
The group dynamic on this disc is terrific too. Krauss’ bass is relentlessly driving on Frisell’s own ‘Blues For Los Angeles’, combining in dual attack with some thunderous drumming from Wollesen. Another of Frisell’s compositions, ‘Boubacar’, a tasteful exploration into African modes in its original setting on ‘The Intercontinentals’ album, now becomes a much more aggressive creation and one that sits remarkably well with the American material.
The second disc, with Tony Scherr replacing Viktor Krauss on bass, is considerably more reflective and abstract. It requires some work, but is not without ample reward. The version of ‘My Man’s Gone Now’ demonstrates how crucial space and silence are to interpretations from the standard repertoire – what Frisell does not play here is every bit as important was what he does. Frisell’s own ‘Ron Carter’, presumably named in honour of the great bass player, is lengthy, and perhaps a little hesitant, but more concise readings of ‘Crazy’ and ‘Tennesee Flat Top Box’ round things off in style.
‘East/West’ provides an effective snapshot of Frisell’s live work over the past few years, but works best as a distilled summary of his major concerns thus far – a wonderful refashioning of the jazz tradition to incorporate soul, country, gospel and rock. Frisell will play live in the UK in November as part of the London Jazz Festival.
Another jazz act who have brought the music to a wider audience whilst making outrageous creative innovations of their own are The Bad Plus. The band are nominally a piano trio, but forget any preconceptions about what a piano trio should or should not sound like. They are almost entirely devoid of the warm resonances of EST or the polite lyricism of Tord Gustavsen’s trio. In fact, with their inspirations drawn from heavy rock and pop as well as the jazz tradition, they are perhaps even more aggressive in challenging purist ideas than Bill Frisell. Famed for their interpretations of successful pop hits, anyone who has yet to hear their versions of The Pixies’ ‘Velouria’ or Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ should investigate their earlier albums apace.
Their latest set, ‘Suspicious Activity?’, relies less on these bizarre reconstructions of rock hits, and instead emphasises the equally audacious nature of their own compositions. Amidst the familiar gleeful cacophony, there is also a rigorous attention to detail at work, and this may be their most intricate and impressive collection yet. ‘Prehensile Dream’ is angular and confounding, with some extraordinary polyrhythmic piano flourishes eventually giving way to an energised groove. It demonstrates the band’s uncanny ability to extrapolate a simple melodic idea into highly inventive improvisations. On ‘Anthem For The Earnest’, pianist Ethan Iverson demonstrates that he has one of the strongest and most rigorous left-hand accompaniment style in modern jazz, over which he is able to develop a series of conflicting polyrhythmic figures. ‘The Empire Strikes Backward’ (great title!) is supremely confident and radical. Anyone who has previously accused this band of being a goofy novelty act may well have to reconsider their position- Ethan Iverson’s piano playing is powerful throughout, and the trio are brilliant at manipulating the core material into something much more than the sum of its parts.
They still find room for one re-interpretation, this time the familiar theme tune from ‘Chariots Of Fire’, which retains much of the melody, but completely removes the mechanistic strictures of the Vangelis original. It’s an intriguing selection and one that, as usual, they make entirely their own. It complements the original material effectively and it is illuminating to hear the band apply a similar approach to deconstructing a famous piece of music as they do when working on their own music.
Like Bill Frisell, the band also appear at the upcoming London Jazz Festival. I’m actually quite pleased I picked this record up in Canada, as it doesn’t seem to be getting its UK release until November 7th.
Ryan Adams is probably an insufferable tosser, and certainly someone who can knock out serviceable songs in his sleep. ‘Jacksonville City Nights’ is the second of three proposed full length releases this year and, much like ‘Cold Roses’ before it, it’s pretty good, although it lacks that spark of inspiration that made ‘Heartbreaker’ such a striking solo debut. Adams is something of a musical chameleon, and not a true original. For the dire ‘Rock ‘N’ Roll’, he dressed himself up in a variety of horrific karaoke disguises, ranging from U2 to Aerosmith. On the opening track here, the honky tonk gem ‘A Kiss Before I Go’, he tries out his best Gram Parsons impression. It serves as a timely reminder of how well he mastered the country shuffle on ‘Heartbreaker’.
Adams sometimes has the ability to sink into a mire of cloyingly mannered vocals which undermines his considerable songwriting talents. The worst offender here is ‘Peaceful Valley’, where the vocal is almost unlistenable but the song is not without its qualities. ‘The End’ could have suffered the same fate, but Adams exerts just enough control to pull it back from the brink, and what could have been overblown becomes an affecting Nashville waltz. ‘Hard Way To Fall’ has a similar stripped back acoustic feel to ‘Peaceful Valley’, but is one of his most straightforwardly impressive songs for some time. The production remains faithful to the original country stylings Adams strives to imitate, and the unwelcome intrusions of ‘Rock ‘N’ Roll’ are mercifully absent.
He’s actually at his best here when veering away from his comfort zone. ‘September’ is a lush and wistful ballad brimming with emotion, whilst ‘Dear John’ features the vocals of Norah Jones of all people, but remains touching in spite of this. These songs are tinged with regret and longing, but without what some (arguably mistakenly) took to be the dour and miserable navel gazing of the ‘Love Is Hell’ material.
‘Smash’, the debut album from Jackson and His Computer Band is assertive, provocative music indeed, but it also comes with the kind of humorous party sensibility that the likes of Daft Punk now appear to have abandoned in favour of charmless repetition. Jackson is clearly someone with a short attention span – his tracks tend to flit rapidly between different sounds and ideas, but they work magic because they are usually anchored with one notable melodic line or texture.
The opening ‘Utopia’ is an excellent case in point. Jackson deploys a dazzling technique in cut-and-paste vocal sampling, but burbling beneath the surface is an insistent ostinato synth figure, veering between two notes in a fashion not entirely unlike the Jaws theme tune. Whilst that memorable piece of music created escalating tension and fear, Jackson’s motif affords the piece an oasis of calm.
The same cut-and-paste techniques recur on the disorientating ‘Rock On’, where we are very much in Daft Punk territory. Here, Jackson allows a possibly unironic love for seventies rock posturing to seep through. It’s a thrilling, highly entertaining track. By way of contrast, the child narrative on ‘Oh Boy’ is slightly sinister and reminiscent of the peculiarly malevolent atmosphere conjured by Boards of Canada on ‘Geogaddi’. This creepy atmosphere is heightened by the interjection of tantalisingly brief backing vocal samples (taken from Roy Orbison’s ‘Blue Bayou’ if my sample-detecting ears do not deceive me), the punctuations left lurking in the background of the mix.
The album sustains its defiantly scattershot approach surprisingly well, and benefits from a typically inspired guest appearance from Mike Ladd on the bemusing ‘TV Dogs (Cathodica’s Letter)’. The mysterious swells, pulses and ghostly choral samples of ‘Hard Tits’ provide further balance, the track sounding more contemplative in spite of its crude title.
Jackson has probably taken influence from the dancefloor disco of Daft Punk or Cassius, but has injected a new lease of life through his own maverick production techniques. He often opts for being deliberately melodramatic and, at its best, ‘Smash’ is a startling and unpredictable beast.
One could be forgiven for expecting ‘Black Acetate’, the new album from John Cale to share a maverick spirit with modern electronic pioneers, but some might be surprised by just how accessible, perhaps even conventional a record this is. Certainly, had the light pop-punk of first single ‘Perfect’ been recorded by McFly, every respectable critic in the land would not even consider devoting column inches to it. It’s rather zippy pacing sounds a little uncomfortable, not because Cale is too old for such amusements, but simply because it doesn’t sit entirely comfortably with the rest of the album.
If anything, ‘Black Acetate’ is further evidence that Cale is no longer pushing boundaries of his own, but rather following where his current influences lead him. His last album, the highly acclaimed ‘Hobosapiens’ saw him discovering Pro-Tools several years too late for it to really be ‘cutting edge’, whilst the foundations of ‘Black Acetate’ have been crafted with two major collaborators – funk producer Herb Graham Jr. and Eels sideman Mickey Petralia.
Luckily, the influences are many and varied. Reviewers have likened startling opener ‘Outta The Bag’ to the Neptunes, but that comparison fails to pin down its appealingly inelegant combination of falsetto vocals, sludgy rock and digitised Memphis style horns. Elsewhere, the playful squelch of ‘Brotherman’ suggests a combination of the classic funk of Curtis Mayfield and the mid-80s explorations of Prince. It depends more on intricate rhythm and atmosphere than melody for its impact. ‘Hush’ even closely resembles the bedroom electronica of Hot Chip – could Cale have been listening and taking note?
Melody plays a more significant role on the lush ‘Satisfied’, which benefits from a particularly strong vocal performance from Cale. The gravel-voiced murmurings and muted atmospherics of ‘In A Flood’ suggest the influence of Bob Dylan’s Daniel Lanois-produced albums. These songs are the album’s engaging and intriguing highlights. It is true that later in the album they do give way to rather more generic, lumbering creations (the aforementioned ‘Perfect’ ‘Wasteland’ and ‘Turn The Lights On’), but in concluding with the remarkable, funereal ‘Mailman (The Lying Song’, the overriding impression of ‘Black Acetate’ is positive.
‘Black Acetate’ may not rival ‘Music For A New Society’ for radical invention, nor ‘Paris 1919’ for songwriting ingenuity, but it nevertheless provides a fascinating document of an influential artist still totally engaged with current musical developments. There can be no obligation on an artist like Cale to revolutionise once more – a grand synthesis such as ‘Black Acetate’ is more than illuminating enough.
Cale’s work is certainly a collaborative effort, as is ‘In The Reins’, a near-faultless new mini album from the dream team of Calexico and Iron and Wine. This is one of those deceptively calm, unassuming accomplishments that will most likely slip through the critical net in the UK. Whilst Iron and Wine have already released one impressive mini album this year (‘Woman King’), there was a growing sense that Sam Beam’s well honed rustic Americana needed a new injection of life. He needed a musical backdrop that matched his richly poetic narratives. By joining forces with the dependably excellent Calexico, he has now achieved this.
It helps that the songs on ‘In The Reins’ are the best of Beam’s career to date – songs that inherit the classic American songwriting tradition of Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash and Townes van Zandt. Beam has found his own narrative voice here, in much the same way that Springsteen claimed to have found his American storytelling voice with ‘Darkness On The Edge Of Town’. These songs, through their manipulation of language and their vivid construction of character and feeling, say far more about love, family and the underbelly of the American Dream than anything on Neil Young’s latest maudlin effort.
‘Prison On Route 41’ effortlessly captures a conflict between the protagonists’s jailed family, and the righteous path set out for him by his Virginia. It’s brilliantly realised (‘There’s a prison on route 41, a home to my mother, step brother and son/ And I’d tear down that jail by myself, if not for Virginia who made me someone else’), and delivered with Beam’s characteristic soft tones, which successfully underline its pathos. Elsewhere, ‘Sixteen, Maybe Less’ is a wonderfully subtle memory of love, tinged with a lingering sadness. The closing ‘Dead Man’s Will’ is deceptively simple, and unspeakably moving, a dedication of love from beyond the grave full of regret (‘give this bone to my father/He’ll remember hunting in the hills when I was ten years old’).
Although the songs are certainly marked with Beam’s distinctive stamp of authority, Calexico’s role here is pivotal. The mariachi horns that bolster the fantastic ‘History Of Lovers’ are a Calexico staple, and they elevate the song to thrillingly higher plane. On ‘Red Dust’, and ‘Burn That Broken Bed’, the band hit tremendous backbeat grooves, hinting at the close links between country music and soul. The strong influence of border music pervades throughout, from the strange but powerful interjection of Spanish operetta in the opening ‘He Lays In The Reins’ to the ragged percussion of ‘Burn That Broken Bed’.
This is a quietly remarkable record, rich in wisdom and experience heightened by a manifest love of language, both poetic and musical. It presents a prime example of how brilliant songs can be enhanced through the honing of instrumentation and arrangement. It would be wonderful if the two acts got together to perform this work live – it’s so good that I have to hope it’s not merely a one-off.
Whilst the Americana brigade at Uncut magazine might pick up on Calexico and Iron and Wine’s little gem, it’s unlikely they will make much noise about ‘East/West’, the latest double live album from guitarist Bill Frisell. This is a great pity that emphasises exactly how unhelpful the tendency in the UK media towards specialisation and compartmentalisation can be. Whilst he is known chiefly as a jazz musician, I wonder if there is anyone at work today who can rival Frisell’s instinctive understanding of the American folk tradition. On ‘East/West’, Frisell reinterprets some cornerstones of the American songbook in his own uniquely fluid style – ‘I Heard It Through The Grapevine’, ‘Shenandoah’, ‘My Man’s Gone Now’ (from Porgy and Bess), Leadbelly’s blues standard ‘Goodnight Irene’ and Bob Dylan’s ‘A Hard Rain’s-A-Gonna Fall’ are just a handful of the many highlights.
The concept is simple but effective – ‘East/West’ is a two-disc set containing selections from two concerts, one from the East Coast and one from the West Coast of America. The ‘West’ disc, a trio set recorded at Yoshi’s in Oakland, California with Viktor Krauss on bass and Kenny Wollesen on drums is by far the more immediately appealing. Frisell’s playing is at its most lyrical on the sublimely atmospheric interpretation of ‘Shenandoah’ and Dylan’s ‘Hard Rain’, to which Frisell adds a sublime introduction of his own. These selections might well have seemed corny in the hands of a less adept communicator, but Frisell always brings his own touch of class to the material, deploying his trademark effects and guitar loops to craft a meticulously controlled atmosphere.
The group dynamic on this disc is terrific too. Krauss’ bass is relentlessly driving on Frisell’s own ‘Blues For Los Angeles’, combining in dual attack with some thunderous drumming from Wollesen. Another of Frisell’s compositions, ‘Boubacar’, a tasteful exploration into African modes in its original setting on ‘The Intercontinentals’ album, now becomes a much more aggressive creation and one that sits remarkably well with the American material.
The second disc, with Tony Scherr replacing Viktor Krauss on bass, is considerably more reflective and abstract. It requires some work, but is not without ample reward. The version of ‘My Man’s Gone Now’ demonstrates how crucial space and silence are to interpretations from the standard repertoire – what Frisell does not play here is every bit as important was what he does. Frisell’s own ‘Ron Carter’, presumably named in honour of the great bass player, is lengthy, and perhaps a little hesitant, but more concise readings of ‘Crazy’ and ‘Tennesee Flat Top Box’ round things off in style.
‘East/West’ provides an effective snapshot of Frisell’s live work over the past few years, but works best as a distilled summary of his major concerns thus far – a wonderful refashioning of the jazz tradition to incorporate soul, country, gospel and rock. Frisell will play live in the UK in November as part of the London Jazz Festival.
Another jazz act who have brought the music to a wider audience whilst making outrageous creative innovations of their own are The Bad Plus. The band are nominally a piano trio, but forget any preconceptions about what a piano trio should or should not sound like. They are almost entirely devoid of the warm resonances of EST or the polite lyricism of Tord Gustavsen’s trio. In fact, with their inspirations drawn from heavy rock and pop as well as the jazz tradition, they are perhaps even more aggressive in challenging purist ideas than Bill Frisell. Famed for their interpretations of successful pop hits, anyone who has yet to hear their versions of The Pixies’ ‘Velouria’ or Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ should investigate their earlier albums apace.
Their latest set, ‘Suspicious Activity?’, relies less on these bizarre reconstructions of rock hits, and instead emphasises the equally audacious nature of their own compositions. Amidst the familiar gleeful cacophony, there is also a rigorous attention to detail at work, and this may be their most intricate and impressive collection yet. ‘Prehensile Dream’ is angular and confounding, with some extraordinary polyrhythmic piano flourishes eventually giving way to an energised groove. It demonstrates the band’s uncanny ability to extrapolate a simple melodic idea into highly inventive improvisations. On ‘Anthem For The Earnest’, pianist Ethan Iverson demonstrates that he has one of the strongest and most rigorous left-hand accompaniment style in modern jazz, over which he is able to develop a series of conflicting polyrhythmic figures. ‘The Empire Strikes Backward’ (great title!) is supremely confident and radical. Anyone who has previously accused this band of being a goofy novelty act may well have to reconsider their position- Ethan Iverson’s piano playing is powerful throughout, and the trio are brilliant at manipulating the core material into something much more than the sum of its parts.
They still find room for one re-interpretation, this time the familiar theme tune from ‘Chariots Of Fire’, which retains much of the melody, but completely removes the mechanistic strictures of the Vangelis original. It’s an intriguing selection and one that, as usual, they make entirely their own. It complements the original material effectively and it is illuminating to hear the band apply a similar approach to deconstructing a famous piece of music as they do when working on their own music.
Like Bill Frisell, the band also appear at the upcoming London Jazz Festival. I’m actually quite pleased I picked this record up in Canada, as it doesn’t seem to be getting its UK release until November 7th.
Ryan Adams is probably an insufferable tosser, and certainly someone who can knock out serviceable songs in his sleep. ‘Jacksonville City Nights’ is the second of three proposed full length releases this year and, much like ‘Cold Roses’ before it, it’s pretty good, although it lacks that spark of inspiration that made ‘Heartbreaker’ such a striking solo debut. Adams is something of a musical chameleon, and not a true original. For the dire ‘Rock ‘N’ Roll’, he dressed himself up in a variety of horrific karaoke disguises, ranging from U2 to Aerosmith. On the opening track here, the honky tonk gem ‘A Kiss Before I Go’, he tries out his best Gram Parsons impression. It serves as a timely reminder of how well he mastered the country shuffle on ‘Heartbreaker’.
Adams sometimes has the ability to sink into a mire of cloyingly mannered vocals which undermines his considerable songwriting talents. The worst offender here is ‘Peaceful Valley’, where the vocal is almost unlistenable but the song is not without its qualities. ‘The End’ could have suffered the same fate, but Adams exerts just enough control to pull it back from the brink, and what could have been overblown becomes an affecting Nashville waltz. ‘Hard Way To Fall’ has a similar stripped back acoustic feel to ‘Peaceful Valley’, but is one of his most straightforwardly impressive songs for some time. The production remains faithful to the original country stylings Adams strives to imitate, and the unwelcome intrusions of ‘Rock ‘N’ Roll’ are mercifully absent.
He’s actually at his best here when veering away from his comfort zone. ‘September’ is a lush and wistful ballad brimming with emotion, whilst ‘Dear John’ features the vocals of Norah Jones of all people, but remains touching in spite of this. These songs are tinged with regret and longing, but without what some (arguably mistakenly) took to be the dour and miserable navel gazing of the ‘Love Is Hell’ material.
It’s all pleasant enough, and it’s particularly good to hear a gem plucked from the vaults (‘My Heart Is Broken’ was co-written with Caitlin Cary, presumably dating from the Whiskeytown era), but there’s nothing here as beautifully mournful as ‘I See Monsters’ or as cathartic as ‘To Be Young, Gifted and Sad’. Will Lost Highway release the remarkable ‘Destroyer’ album Adams recorded a few years ago with Gillian Welch and David Rawlings?
Well, that's it until the next post, but there's still plenty to catch up on, so expect more imminently.
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