Of all the reincarnations we've had of indie bands, it was surprising that it took a band until 2006 to hit upon the idea of resurrecting the Jesus and Mary Chain, complete with Velvets-aping drummer standing up. In the unlikely event you'd missed the cues they even neon signed it by with a straight cover of Be My Baby (and a darkly Spectoresque Christmas album). I don't think they took it as far as intraband scrapping, but you never know...
Anyway, with an enforced change of personnel behind the drums it looks like sordid tales of absentee dads, social workers and getting stabbed is out, along with the gloom. And again, they're not being subtle about it with frontman James Allan checking in his regulation black attire at the door and going for Persil white jeans and t-shirt. It's not quite the volte face it appears either - whilst songs such as Geraldine might've been a rare shaft of light on their debut, the key pointer towards the second album was A Snowflake Fell (And It Felt Like A Kiss) from their Christmas EP. But here that spark of fragile optimism, hope out of darkness, has been kindled into a roaring bonfire of joy. It might not be immediately obvious, with Allan's mumbling slur for the verses underpinned by rushing, nervy instruments. But then, the chorus hits you, a sonic Ecstasy rush of pure joy. It's so big it could eat a galaxy. But crucially, it's saved from the blandness that going big usually entails by Allan's heartfelt delivery. You can imagine he's been in the situation outlined here, screwing up the courage to ask a girl out (hence the wired verse) and the indescribable happiness when she says yes. Something's going right for a change in his world and it sounds bloody wonderful.
Saturday, 26 March 2011
The overdue 2010 verdict
Right, so that plan for best of 2010 went out of the window. In case anyone's remotely interested, Kanye West won on a coin flip from Janelle Monae with John Grant and Marina and the Diamonds scrapping it out for the bronze. Because sprawling nutso excess will always push my buttons as long as self indulgence is skirted.
Anyway, 2011... and there's plenty of cathing up to do already.
Anyway, 2011... and there's plenty of cathing up to do already.
Sunday, 5 December 2010
Your Future Our Clutter - The Fall
One day after the nuclear apocalypse there will be two survivors. The first will be the cockroach, no doubt mutated into a superpowerful intelligent lifeform, a hundred times the size it is now. And in charge of the cockroaches, having them beat a primitive rhythm on their chitinuous exteriors and the ground, will be Mark E Smith. Because it doesn't matter if you're a superevolved hyperintelligent insect, there's no arguing with a force of nature.
Usually with albums from bands who've been going for more than three decades you'd say that you know what to expect. After all, by the time they'd been going as long as Smith, the Stones were burning their bridges to Babylon and resorting to making the most obvious record it was possible for them to make (yes, I mean their remarkably unremarkable cover of that that Dylan song, one that sounded like it'd had all the fire and piss of the original drained and replaced by some synthetic ennui). But then Jagger always seemed to want to use his countercultural cred to gain the approval and friendship of the Establishment and Keef always seemed more interested in chemical and sexual highs (and varieties on old riffs) to be bothered to develop too far from the musical template of their youth (the likes of the trend following Their Satanic Majesties Request and Some Girls being the exception rather than the rule). The albums seem to be simply the excuse for their latest world bestriding moneymaking tour. They haven't so much ploughed their own musical furrow as dug their own chasm, and they're so far entrenched in it there's no way back to the light. Smith's their clear polar opposite. As with the Glimmer Twins, his band are simply his musical vehicle, a dictatorship to express the personality of the leader. The only position in a rock band less secure than being in The Fall is that of Spinal Tap's drummer.
Obviously I exaggerate for dramatic effect there - this album is by the same line up that produced the previous Imperial Wax Solvent. Clearly the current incarnation of The Fall can still satisfy Smith's relentlessly forward looking musical urge. Whilst I admit to being no expert on The Fall bar a few albums here and there and the BBC's recent excellent documentary, it seemed to me that Smith generally split his bands to avoid finding a musical comfort zone and keep the band fresh. It's consistent with the spirit that's seen them move from post punk, through their relatively pop mid 80s, the scoring of ballet I Am Kurious, Oranj and the electronica of much of their early 90s output. The man most famously a fan of theirs, John Peel, once argued that 'they are always different, always the same'. And although that might look like an oxymoron, it's the best definition of the band. The Fall don't make the same album twice, but Smith's presence means you can immediately identify a Fall record. I promise that'll be the only time I mention St Peel here, to simply flag them as his favourite band is to do a disservice to his almost infinitely broad tastes and the band's output.
Your Future Our Clutter is no exception to that definition. Despite the lengthy nature of the songs this is a lean record, at times almost brutally so. I don't mean that in the conventional musical sense, the one that speaks of mean, sparse instrumentation, but in terms of intent - this is a record which embraces sampling Daft Punk in the middle of Cowboy George's rock n roll guitars, so it's not so unimaginative as to restrict itself. Smith declaims 'a new way of recording' as 'a chain around the neck' at one point), condemning an obsession with the cutting edge in one of his trademark pithy withering put downs.
While it's bracing and typically atypical, the only criticism I'd level here would be that it might be the sort of record those unfamiliar with The Fall would expect of The Fall - generally a clatter of guitar and drums with a grumpy Manc bark hectoring over them. it's the little unexpected moments that redeem that though, the aforementioned sampling and the seconds of silence in the middle of Weather Report 2. The Fall albums I've heard are ones which demand and reward close listening, looking to keep the listener as off balance as possible.
Weather Report 2 ends with Smith whispering 'you don't deserve rock n roll' to his listeners, before ending with a few seconds of a new song. There's no better illustration of Smith's art than that, the great contrarian railing against even those who listen to him before looking to move on and say something new. There's lyrical and musical references to previous records, reminding us this is the same band, the one you always knew, but one capable of change and adaptation, yes probably even in the face of a nuclear apocalypse. Smith and The Fall will always be with us, restlessly the same and relentlessly different. They've avoided making the same record yet again here. And long may they go on doing that.
Usually with albums from bands who've been going for more than three decades you'd say that you know what to expect. After all, by the time they'd been going as long as Smith, the Stones were burning their bridges to Babylon and resorting to making the most obvious record it was possible for them to make (yes, I mean their remarkably unremarkable cover of that that Dylan song, one that sounded like it'd had all the fire and piss of the original drained and replaced by some synthetic ennui). But then Jagger always seemed to want to use his countercultural cred to gain the approval and friendship of the Establishment and Keef always seemed more interested in chemical and sexual highs (and varieties on old riffs) to be bothered to develop too far from the musical template of their youth (the likes of the trend following Their Satanic Majesties Request and Some Girls being the exception rather than the rule). The albums seem to be simply the excuse for their latest world bestriding moneymaking tour. They haven't so much ploughed their own musical furrow as dug their own chasm, and they're so far entrenched in it there's no way back to the light. Smith's their clear polar opposite. As with the Glimmer Twins, his band are simply his musical vehicle, a dictatorship to express the personality of the leader. The only position in a rock band less secure than being in The Fall is that of Spinal Tap's drummer.
Obviously I exaggerate for dramatic effect there - this album is by the same line up that produced the previous Imperial Wax Solvent. Clearly the current incarnation of The Fall can still satisfy Smith's relentlessly forward looking musical urge. Whilst I admit to being no expert on The Fall bar a few albums here and there and the BBC's recent excellent documentary, it seemed to me that Smith generally split his bands to avoid finding a musical comfort zone and keep the band fresh. It's consistent with the spirit that's seen them move from post punk, through their relatively pop mid 80s, the scoring of ballet I Am Kurious, Oranj and the electronica of much of their early 90s output. The man most famously a fan of theirs, John Peel, once argued that 'they are always different, always the same'. And although that might look like an oxymoron, it's the best definition of the band. The Fall don't make the same album twice, but Smith's presence means you can immediately identify a Fall record. I promise that'll be the only time I mention St Peel here, to simply flag them as his favourite band is to do a disservice to his almost infinitely broad tastes and the band's output.
Your Future Our Clutter is no exception to that definition. Despite the lengthy nature of the songs this is a lean record, at times almost brutally so. I don't mean that in the conventional musical sense, the one that speaks of mean, sparse instrumentation, but in terms of intent - this is a record which embraces sampling Daft Punk in the middle of Cowboy George's rock n roll guitars, so it's not so unimaginative as to restrict itself. Smith declaims 'a new way of recording' as 'a chain around the neck' at one point), condemning an obsession with the cutting edge in one of his trademark pithy withering put downs.
While it's bracing and typically atypical, the only criticism I'd level here would be that it might be the sort of record those unfamiliar with The Fall would expect of The Fall - generally a clatter of guitar and drums with a grumpy Manc bark hectoring over them. it's the little unexpected moments that redeem that though, the aforementioned sampling and the seconds of silence in the middle of Weather Report 2. The Fall albums I've heard are ones which demand and reward close listening, looking to keep the listener as off balance as possible.
Weather Report 2 ends with Smith whispering 'you don't deserve rock n roll' to his listeners, before ending with a few seconds of a new song. There's no better illustration of Smith's art than that, the great contrarian railing against even those who listen to him before looking to move on and say something new. There's lyrical and musical references to previous records, reminding us this is the same band, the one you always knew, but one capable of change and adaptation, yes probably even in the face of a nuclear apocalypse. Smith and The Fall will always be with us, restlessly the same and relentlessly different. They've avoided making the same record yet again here. And long may they go on doing that.
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Wreckin' Bar (Ra Ra Ra) - The Vaccines
It's fairly easy to describe the first single from The Vaccines - Wreckin' Bar's essentially the sound of what The Ramones would've sounded like if they'd grown up on the other side of the continent and gone surfing rather than hang around in CBGBs looking moody in leather. And no doubt Da Bruddas would've approved of the refreshing 84 second brevity too, a dumb ramalama party of a track that insists that pogoing must happen, and happen now. The B side starts off with a a Pixies circa Velouria style guitar riff before building joyfully into what sounds like a fuzzed up tribute to Pulp's Trees. It may have been done before, but in a world where the softer end of the indie spectrum currently rules (hello Vampire Weekend, hey there Drums!) it's a welcome and bracing scuzzy reminder that rock is far more fun when there's a bit of roll included too.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
The Family Jewels - Marina and the Diamonds
It was both the curse and the blessing of The Strokes that they arrived perfectly formed. Everything you ever need to know about the band can be gleaned from listening to their instantly legendary debut. Is This It was five lads in skinny jeans and box fresh Chucks raiding their parents record collections for the cool stuff and blasting out the results. Essentially it was the sound and attitude of 70s New York filtered through the attitude of late 90s/early 00s New York. You had the nagging indiepop magnificence of Last Nite, the 'fuck you authority' stance of New York City Cops*, the inarticulate don't-have-the-word-so-not-gonna-bother insouciance of Hard To Explain and all the lippy attitude you could ever want courtesy of Julian Casablancas' slurring, just got outta bed at 4 pm vocals. And all in an easy on the eye, sexy package.
Trouble is, after you've just perfected what you're trying to do in one shot where do you go from there? Go too far away from what made people love you and buy your music in the first place and you'll lose everyone. Stick with what you know and people might start to wonder if you've got more than one trick. From their two subsequent albums to date The Strokes really don't know whether to stick or twist, producing the odd urgent gem such as Reptilia or Juicebox, but mainly ending up ploughing the same groove to less and less memorable effect. Even three years on from First Impressions of Earth their concerts consist of the same old material, not a note of a new song yet heard. Various solo albums have trickled out, as have reassurances that they're working on new material but it's hard to dodge the impression of a crisis of confidence.
Of course, The Strokes aren't the only band who've found a crisis of confidence after producing the instant perfection the modern music industry demands. Oasis and The Libertines are two of the more recent high profile examples there, defining themselves and shooting their bolt over the course of their debut album. There's less room than ever to hone your craft away from the spotlight, instead commercial pressures mean you tend to have to hit the charts brandishing defining images, killer hooks and instant classic tunes. It seems increasingly rare that an artist aiming for commercial success will have to pay their dues, trying the limits of their talents to see what works and what doesn't. Failure's a dirty word, whether it's a single song or a whole album that doesn't come together. Leaps of faith are infinitely more pressurised when performed in the spotlight, and you can hardly blame young artists looking for an extended musical career for playing it safe. It might mean you lose some edge, but like a warm bath it's the comfortable option and there's no reason to get out into the cold.
So it's refreshing when you hear an album like The Family Jewels. It's big, bold, messy and admirably willing to try any bloody thing it can to grab and hold your attention. It won't stop with chucking the kitchen sink in when it can chuck the whole kitchen in and a fair chunk of the rest of the house too. This is an album that won't be satisfied with sticking to one genre when it can ram raid every genre under the sun and maybe discover a few new ones along the way. It jags between the pure pop of the likes of Hollywood and Oh No! and the balladry of I Am Not a Robot and Obsessions, restlessly exploring and discarding pop styles like a kid who's stuffed themself in a sweet shop. That might become wearing over the course of an album were it not welded together by Marina Diamandis' personality and the very modern theme of desiring fame and the potential effects of achieving your desires. This isn't an album which preaches at the listener, it's one which seeks to explore Marina's thoughts and perspectives on fame, whether it's the obliquely but wonderfully phrased Mowgli's Road, Shampain or Are You Satisfied?. Diamandis often doesn't seem to know whether wanting fame is a good thing or not, content to explore but often not conclude. It's an endearing insecurity which again removes an edge which the tendency to place herself at the centre of the lyrics might give - the (in)famous 'Oh my God/ you look just like Shakira/ No, no you're Catherine Zeta/ Actually my name's Marina' only being the most obvious.
That combination of personality and obsession with fame has an obvious parallel across the Atlantic with Lady Gaga exploring similar themes (and there are further parallels, such as the bestowing of nicknames on their fans or placing themselves at the heart of their lyrics). Musically though there's major differences. Gaga's pop is shiny, sleek and cold, a ruthless musical machine that sets the artist up on a queenly pedestal, distant from the fans. It's something to be admired rather than devoutly loved (and there's a hell of a lot to admire in the pop nous of the likes of Poker Face and Bad Romance). Diamandis is a wilder proposition, seeming to ask for love as much as Gaga but providing a warmer facade in return. It's wild, messy stuff, a technicolour barrage compared to Gaga's ice white facade. And where you get the impression Gaga's every move is calculated to the nth degree, Diamandis seems far more instinctive, wanting to try everything on to see what works, not simply presenting the result of some ruthless honing. Gaga's industrial strength pop could almost have come from anyone, so polished is it, it's hard to imagine anyone else could have come up with anything remotely like The Family Jewels. Gaga's best known hit is Bad Romance, a song that, the chant of her name aside, is a piece that could be worn by almost any female performer you can think of, whereas Diamandis' calling card is the quirky Mowgli's Road, a lyric you can't imagine another performer writing or performing. And in the end, that's why The Family Jewels ends up something of a pop triumph, because the artist has put herself right there, vulnerable at the heart of the work, putting her views and music out there to be challenged. Yet, even doing that she refuses to define herself or her music and leaves the impression that she's got a huge number of musical avenues to explore. The likes of The Strokes might have made artistically perfect debuts, but The Family Jewels ends up being the debut that's perfect for the artist, allowing her to show off her talent but suggest there's more to her than we see here.
* unless of course you're American, in which case those nice boys immediately removed the track from the initial pressing after the NYPD did such a sterling job during 9/11 and any dissing of New York's finest might've led to a backlash.
Trouble is, after you've just perfected what you're trying to do in one shot where do you go from there? Go too far away from what made people love you and buy your music in the first place and you'll lose everyone. Stick with what you know and people might start to wonder if you've got more than one trick. From their two subsequent albums to date The Strokes really don't know whether to stick or twist, producing the odd urgent gem such as Reptilia or Juicebox, but mainly ending up ploughing the same groove to less and less memorable effect. Even three years on from First Impressions of Earth their concerts consist of the same old material, not a note of a new song yet heard. Various solo albums have trickled out, as have reassurances that they're working on new material but it's hard to dodge the impression of a crisis of confidence.
Of course, The Strokes aren't the only band who've found a crisis of confidence after producing the instant perfection the modern music industry demands. Oasis and The Libertines are two of the more recent high profile examples there, defining themselves and shooting their bolt over the course of their debut album. There's less room than ever to hone your craft away from the spotlight, instead commercial pressures mean you tend to have to hit the charts brandishing defining images, killer hooks and instant classic tunes. It seems increasingly rare that an artist aiming for commercial success will have to pay their dues, trying the limits of their talents to see what works and what doesn't. Failure's a dirty word, whether it's a single song or a whole album that doesn't come together. Leaps of faith are infinitely more pressurised when performed in the spotlight, and you can hardly blame young artists looking for an extended musical career for playing it safe. It might mean you lose some edge, but like a warm bath it's the comfortable option and there's no reason to get out into the cold.
So it's refreshing when you hear an album like The Family Jewels. It's big, bold, messy and admirably willing to try any bloody thing it can to grab and hold your attention. It won't stop with chucking the kitchen sink in when it can chuck the whole kitchen in and a fair chunk of the rest of the house too. This is an album that won't be satisfied with sticking to one genre when it can ram raid every genre under the sun and maybe discover a few new ones along the way. It jags between the pure pop of the likes of Hollywood and Oh No! and the balladry of I Am Not a Robot and Obsessions, restlessly exploring and discarding pop styles like a kid who's stuffed themself in a sweet shop. That might become wearing over the course of an album were it not welded together by Marina Diamandis' personality and the very modern theme of desiring fame and the potential effects of achieving your desires. This isn't an album which preaches at the listener, it's one which seeks to explore Marina's thoughts and perspectives on fame, whether it's the obliquely but wonderfully phrased Mowgli's Road, Shampain or Are You Satisfied?. Diamandis often doesn't seem to know whether wanting fame is a good thing or not, content to explore but often not conclude. It's an endearing insecurity which again removes an edge which the tendency to place herself at the centre of the lyrics might give - the (in)famous 'Oh my God/ you look just like Shakira/ No, no you're Catherine Zeta/ Actually my name's Marina' only being the most obvious.
That combination of personality and obsession with fame has an obvious parallel across the Atlantic with Lady Gaga exploring similar themes (and there are further parallels, such as the bestowing of nicknames on their fans or placing themselves at the heart of their lyrics). Musically though there's major differences. Gaga's pop is shiny, sleek and cold, a ruthless musical machine that sets the artist up on a queenly pedestal, distant from the fans. It's something to be admired rather than devoutly loved (and there's a hell of a lot to admire in the pop nous of the likes of Poker Face and Bad Romance). Diamandis is a wilder proposition, seeming to ask for love as much as Gaga but providing a warmer facade in return. It's wild, messy stuff, a technicolour barrage compared to Gaga's ice white facade. And where you get the impression Gaga's every move is calculated to the nth degree, Diamandis seems far more instinctive, wanting to try everything on to see what works, not simply presenting the result of some ruthless honing. Gaga's industrial strength pop could almost have come from anyone, so polished is it, it's hard to imagine anyone else could have come up with anything remotely like The Family Jewels. Gaga's best known hit is Bad Romance, a song that, the chant of her name aside, is a piece that could be worn by almost any female performer you can think of, whereas Diamandis' calling card is the quirky Mowgli's Road, a lyric you can't imagine another performer writing or performing. And in the end, that's why The Family Jewels ends up something of a pop triumph, because the artist has put herself right there, vulnerable at the heart of the work, putting her views and music out there to be challenged. Yet, even doing that she refuses to define herself or her music and leaves the impression that she's got a huge number of musical avenues to explore. The likes of The Strokes might have made artistically perfect debuts, but The Family Jewels ends up being the debut that's perfect for the artist, allowing her to show off her talent but suggest there's more to her than we see here.
* unless of course you're American, in which case those nice boys immediately removed the track from the initial pressing after the NYPD did such a sterling job during 9/11 and any dissing of New York's finest might've led to a backlash.
2010
Right, the first month or so of this blog will mainly be about the albums I bought in 2010. There's neither rhyme nor reason to their order, it's just whatever I'm in the mood to listen to on the day. And I might well do a post dealing with my albums of the year at the end of it, but as I've only listened to several of them once and haven't yet done enough listening to them, or engaging with them, I really can't do that as yet. I have certain gut instincts as to the albums that might turn up near the top, but this'll at least be an interesting exercise in seeing how opinions change with time, which albums fade after the glory of the initial headrush is gone, and which give up dirty little secrets on repeated listens. These won't necessarily be reviews though, there's enough of those out there. They're more likely to be what occurs to me as I listen.
It might take a little longer than a month as I've bought around 70 albums this year, but alea jacta est as the Romans used to say in Asterix. What's the point in declaring your album of the year before the year's over anyway?*
* Aside from helping the record industry flog more records for the Christmas market, obviously. If it really mattered, these sort of thing would be done in January.
It might take a little longer than a month as I've bought around 70 albums this year, but alea jacta est as the Romans used to say in Asterix. What's the point in declaring your album of the year before the year's over anyway?*
* Aside from helping the record industry flog more records for the Christmas market, obviously. If it really mattered, these sort of thing would be done in January.
It's Just Me, Myself and I
So why set this up right now? Well, as ever with blogs, purely for selfish reasons really. Firstly it's to make it easier when I go back through the year and jog my memory as to how I loved/hated/ was indifferent to various albums. Which (hopefully) means I'll be busy for a while as I tend to spend a fair bit of disposable income on music - I've bought 70 albums released in 2010 alone, no idea how many that expands to if you include albums from past years.
And my perspective? Well, I'm way beyond the NME's target audience, but I still buy it because I want the latest cheap thrill. Mojo's still too fusty for me and Q's shifted away from my tastes into the lifestyle section, but The Word tends to be my favourite magazine at the moment, although it often skews just older than me. The first album I ever bought was Madonna's Like A Virgin, the first singles (in one fell swoop) were Do They Know It's Christmas? by Band Aid and Ghostbusters by Ray Parker Jnr. The song I loved as a kid was Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles (yeah, I *was* a strange kid, ok?), hence those moptops hooked me from a young age. The first song to really blow my mind was R.E.M.'s Losing My Religion (nothing to do with the video, I never saw it until 1995), hence the first album to make me realise music could be so much more than simply a disposable background hum was Out of Time. I adored Britpop, but always tried to look beyond it, to where it had come from and looking at what else was out there. And I still try to do that to this day. I don't believe in ghettoising music into genres, I find it becomes an excuse to prejudge a record. Oh yeah, and my first concert was The Alarm in February 1990, my last one Marina and the Diamonds a couple of weeks ago. And above all, if someone's passionate about a record, that's enough to persuade me it's worth a listen. Because if it inspires passion, there must be some point to it.
Yeah. So that's me.
And what am I going to chuck in here? Well, my thoughts on current albums and songs of course but also a few random thoughts on music, whenever it came from. That's the general idea, anyway. I have no idea how the music industry does (or doesn't work), nor of why a series of noises emitted by a particular instrument can be so compelling. I only have an idea of how I respond. So that's what this blog is; a document of my responses to music and maybe, just maybe me getting some vague inkling of why I respond like that.
And my perspective? Well, I'm way beyond the NME's target audience, but I still buy it because I want the latest cheap thrill. Mojo's still too fusty for me and Q's shifted away from my tastes into the lifestyle section, but The Word tends to be my favourite magazine at the moment, although it often skews just older than me. The first album I ever bought was Madonna's Like A Virgin, the first singles (in one fell swoop) were Do They Know It's Christmas? by Band Aid and Ghostbusters by Ray Parker Jnr. The song I loved as a kid was Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles (yeah, I *was* a strange kid, ok?), hence those moptops hooked me from a young age. The first song to really blow my mind was R.E.M.'s Losing My Religion (nothing to do with the video, I never saw it until 1995), hence the first album to make me realise music could be so much more than simply a disposable background hum was Out of Time. I adored Britpop, but always tried to look beyond it, to where it had come from and looking at what else was out there. And I still try to do that to this day. I don't believe in ghettoising music into genres, I find it becomes an excuse to prejudge a record. Oh yeah, and my first concert was The Alarm in February 1990, my last one Marina and the Diamonds a couple of weeks ago. And above all, if someone's passionate about a record, that's enough to persuade me it's worth a listen. Because if it inspires passion, there must be some point to it.
Yeah. So that's me.
And what am I going to chuck in here? Well, my thoughts on current albums and songs of course but also a few random thoughts on music, whenever it came from. That's the general idea, anyway. I have no idea how the music industry does (or doesn't work), nor of why a series of noises emitted by a particular instrument can be so compelling. I only have an idea of how I respond. So that's what this blog is; a document of my responses to music and maybe, just maybe me getting some vague inkling of why I respond like that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)