Music: The White Stripes - Icky Thump

The White Stripes
Icky Thump
[Rock]







Ever since the follow up to runaway success "Elephant", "Get Behind Me Satan", defied expectations and split opinions, all eyes focused on Detroit blues-rockers The White Stripes to see what direction they'd go in next. The answer; a partial climbdown. New album "Icky Thump" may feature many an experimental element, but it's closer by far to the stripped down garage rock of "Elephant" than the wild experementalism of "Satan"'s marimba, bluegrass, backward drum loops and thirty second tracks.

Oddly, title track opener and lead single "Icky Thump" is one of the most adventurous pieces on the record; although it's driven by the kind of raucous, righteous guitar lick and atypically political lyrics ("White Americans, what, nothing better to do? / Why don't you kick yourself out, cos you're an immigrant too") that propelled it, somehow, to number two in the charts. Second single "You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do as You're Told)" marries some witty, satisfying lyrics to a more conventional musical structure, making it a more obvious choice of single. It's only by third track, "300 mph Torrential Downpour Blues" that you get the slightest feeling you've heard it all before; could the Stripes be falling into a rut? Thankfully, a tremendously bombastic version of "Conquest", complete with spanish horns, reassures that the will to dabble is still theirs. "Bone Broke", unfortunately, is really a very archetypal White Stripes song, with little to distinguish it from many others; thumping monosyllabic drums and Jack's impassioned screeches. "Prickly Thorn, but Sweetly Worn" however, twists the listener back into a world of surprises; this time they drag out the pipes for what sounds like a scottish folk song. It's followed by a short snippet of experimental nonsense, more self indulgent outro than song, entitled "St. Andrew (This Battle Is in the Air)"; a mercifully short bout of Meg talking about not very much over increasingly erratic music. Then it's back to the classic approach for the rest of the album; "Little Cream Soda" is perfectly serviceable. "Rag and Bone" provides a pleasant surprise and personal favourite as Jack and Meg summarise their philosophy as musical recyclers by literally masquerading as rag and bone collectors. Then for the last four tracks, the band alternates between two strident, adrenaline filled jams ("Catch Hell Blues" and "I'm Slowly Turning Into You"), and the sweet, quiet, ballad "A Martyr For My Love For You" which is complimented by the satisfying closer "Effect and Cause"; suberbly constructed lyrics about a well known fallacy which dovetail into a love story of sorts. This is not an album which matches "Elephant"'s consistency or "Satan'"s spirit of adventure; in fact, the best word to describe it is "Solid". Solid songs, solid construction, solid lyrics, solid musicianship, solid Stripes.

80

Music: Interpol - Our Love to Admire

Interpol
Our Love to Admire
[Rock]

Of all the great post-millennial records to have emerged from the renewed New York indie scene (Is This It, Fever To Tell, Bows and Arrows, Blueberry Boat, Misery Is a Butterfly), Interpol's Turn on the Bright Lights stands out as the most important. Released less than year after 9/11, it perfectly captured the air of doom, alienation and misery that pervaded the city back in 2002. It was also a near-perfect record, wallowing in an apocalyptic mire of cold-warm guitar textures, skeletal rhythms and gloomy atmospherics, all perfectly suited to a midnight jaunt through modern-day NYC.

2004's Antics was the ideal companion piece - ten well-crafted, finely-tuned singles squeezed together on a single disc - and justified Interpol's reputation, alongside the White Stripes and Radiohead, as one of the twenty-first century's few great bands . Cue undivided attention, heaps of pressure, rumours of a split, unusually bated breath and the inevitable major label move ahead of their third full-length, Our Love to Admire; most listeners, it would seem, expected the OK Computer of the noughties (and, almost exactly ten years down the line from that fateful release date, those expectations were perhaps understandable).

Inexorably, therefore, Our Love was always going to be a disappointment. Interpol are not (yet) the type of band to produce an OK Computer: their sound, though fresh, is predictable; their ambition, though impressive, is limited; their self-seriousness, though apparent, is not quite serious enough. However, what they have produced is a pretty good disappointment, replete with trademark Interpol depth, wonder, polish and, perhaps most importantly of all, choonz.

Despite leaning more toward Antics, Our Love attempts to incorporate the best elements from each of the band's first two records. And, like most efforts of its type (two relatively recent examples being Squarepusher's Hello Everything and Bjork's Volta), it is very calm, clean-cut and consistent. Though never quite succumbing to the spectre M.o.R. banality, there are moments when any sense of urgency seems to be lacking. For example, closing couplet 'Wrecking Ball' and 'The Lighthouse' fail to advance beyond second gear, while The Scale' plods like an Antics offshoot with main man Paul Banks sounding willfully disinterested.

Part of the problem stems from the altered power structure within the band: where Carlos D and Sam Fogarino were once the Clyde to Banks and Daniel Kessler's Bonnie, they now play a distinctly minor role in the majority of Our Love's eleven songs. In itself that isn't a problem, but what it does mean is that, when Kessler and Banks can't manage a good riff, the rhythm section is no longer on hand to bail them out. Take, for instance, the repetitive up and down melody that ambles through four-and-a-half minutes of 'Pace Is the Trick', begging for a winding bass-line or some more imaginative time-keeping.

However, in spite of all the nit-picking, Our Love is still an enjoyable listen more often than not. Among the highlights, 'Pioneer to the Falls' continues Interpol's habit of opening records with a winning number, almost equaling the disparate, unrivalled majesty of 'Untitled' or the restrained brilliance of 'Next Exit'. An excellent starter for ten, it immediately intrigues with a taut, ringing guitar line and tickles of piano, before Banks' still-eerie robot drone and deep-sea drum 'n' bass give the song a menacing edge. Further in, Kessler goes more post-rock than is normally considered decent with some dazzling guitar shimmers reminiscent of Explosions in the Sky at their Those Who Tell the Truth best.

Elsewhere, 'Who Do You Think?' recalls the stripped-down, guitar-pop sensibilities of of 'Slow Hands', 'No I in Threesome' is the cheeriest song the foursome have ever recorded, and the one-two punch of 'The Heinrich Maneuver' and 'Mammoth' - both stoked up to the eyeballs with self-righteous bitterness - are typically invigorating.

Technically, Banks' vocals have come on leaps and bounds from TOTBL's monotone drawl. Though not necessarily a required progression (a sustained, one-note baritone certainly didn't do Ian Curtis any harm), he now has the capacity to carry songs which fail to excite musically. For example, drug-fuelled paean to sobriety 'Rest My Chemistry' would be rather uninspiring without the surprisingly heartfelt delivery, while 'All Fired Up' is similarly spared from being conventional stutter-rock post-punk fare.

Owing to the occasional clanger (see, for instance, "Her stories are boring and stuff / She's always calling my bluff" on TOTBL's 'Obstacle 1', or "The stars we will navigate through the holes in your eyes" on Antics' 'Public Pervert'), baby-faced misanthrope Banks is often assumed to be a poor wordsmith. Such sentiment is not only misguided; it is deceitful and facetious, akin to inferring Bowie or Dylan's cultural significance from their unlistenable late '80s output. More often that not, Banks' musings glimmer with corporeal beauty ("Her rabid glow is like braille to the night" from 'Leif Erikson') or delight with cunning ("The underground drip was just like her scuba days" from 'Stella Was a Diver...'). Occasionally, they can even do both ("I bounce you on the lap of silence / We will free love to the beats of science" from 'Not Even Jail').

Our Love continues the trend, positively brimming with poetic intrigue ("Show me the dirt pile and I will pray / That the soul can take three stowaways" from 'Pioneer...') but periodically undermined by a lazy, forced rhyme ("You're like a daisy in my lazy eye" from 'Rest My Chemistry'). The wicked sense of humour also remains, best illustrated by Banks' deadpan delivery of the titular line from 'No I in Threesome'. Minor creases aside, he remains a significant lyricist.

So, while Interpol's third record is their weakest, it is nevertheless streets ahead of much of the competition. The inevitable self-consciousness accompanying a major label switch, coupled with the increasingly guitar-led compositional style, has taken some of the edge off their work, but, as is the case with all important bands, they are experiencing a transitional phase. We can only hope they emerge successful, changed but unscathed, on the other side. 70

Music: The Hold Steady - Boys and Girls in America

The Hold Steady
Boys and Girls in America
[Rock]

Unloading on The Hold Steady - America's friendliest, cheeriest, tipsiest rock 'n' rollers - feels a lot like bullying the fifteen-year-old kid at school who still thinks pissing himself is funny; it's not pleasant, but someone's got to do it because, you hope, they'll turn out better for it in the end. There comes a point when listening to certain records that you just have to ask yourself, "At what point is imitation no longer flattery? At what point is leeching of another's success just plain wrong?" For sure, Interpol are not Joy Division, Franz Ferdinand are not Gang of Four, Oasis are not The Beatles, but The Hold Steady are Bruce Springsteen & The E-Street Band. Absolutely, unequivocally, The Hold Steady ape the boss, down to a blue-collared, beer-soaked, everyman tee.

Well, almost. Crucially, though front man Craig Finn's tales of idealized Americana occasionally resonate alongside the 'Born to Run's of this world, he doesn't have the wit or lyrical dexterity to consistently blow the mind the way Bruce seems to do so effortlessly. For instance, on opener 'Stuck Between Stations', the impact of some great lines ("She was a real good kisser but she wasn't that strict of a Christian") are lessened by the overriding sense that he's trying a little too hard to be profound ("The devil and John Berryman took a walk together").

On other songs, such as 'Party Pit' or 'Chillout Tent', he doesn't even bother, instead opting for lazy drugs 'n' booze name drops ("His friend gave him four [mushrooms] but he said only take one / But then he got bored he ended up taking all four") without offering any variation on the constrictive boy-meets-girl template. Finn is keen to reference important literary figures (Kerouac, Tennyson), which is fine, but on much of this evidence he's read introductions and nothing more.

That said, Boys and Girls in America will not shift units by the bucket-load on the strength of the words; it will sell because of Finn's terrific, slurred delivery, crashing power chords, nostalgic piano refrains and drums that sound as if stick man Bobby Drake is tooled-up with a pair of sledge hammers and a dustbin lid. This is 'classic' rock in every sense of the word, except that it isn't: it is imitation rock - cheap and cheerful but oh so shallow. The question remains: why listen to Boys and Girls when there is Born to Run? 44

Music: The Field - From Here We Go Sublime

The Field
From Here We Go Sublime
[Techno]

Three quarters and forty-five minutes into Axel Willner's first full-length recording, I found myself faced with the rarest of questions: could this be a perfect record? Not just a solid album (where well-polished pleasantries sneak by, polite and unassuming and unspectacular: think Antics, Transformer or Revolver), but an album where each song is your favourite song of the year, where each song fills you with a kind of unbridled, childish glee, where each song just works?

And then, just as I was beginning to believe, the thing collapsed in on itself, delivering three successive sour notes, one after the other, bringing From Here We Go Sublime's almost indefatigable momentum to a stunning anti-climax. Bang, bang, bang. Nice try. Better luck next time.

Repeat listens both reassured and disappointed; Willner (a.k.a. The Field) has indeed crafted an album's worth of gorgeous, minimal techno with the first seven songs, only to have gone and spoiled the fun by cluttering the mix with a final, unnecessary three. Given the breathtaking simplicity of his technique - electronic and voice samples, sliced and diced and looped, over and over and over, set to the simplest of beats - you'd have thought overcrowding the least of his worries, but alas not. The result? Willner only has himself to blame for 2007's most frustrating listen.

However, as frustrating listens go, From Here We Go Sublime must surely rank among the most satisfying. Opener 'Over the Ice' slips and slides with remarkable grace, peaking and subsiding innumerable times during seven seemingly short minutes, as blissfully urgent as a hurried hallucination. As with much of Sublime, it sounds like something you should be able to knock up on Pro Tools in half an hour, but at the same time you know you just couldn't resist slotting in an extra hi-hat here or another bass-line there. To strip music down to its bare essentials is any genre is a risky business, but to do so in modern electronic music, post-James and -Jenkinson, is verging on suicidal. Somehow, Willner pulled it off.

'A Paw in My Face' then resumes the steady momentum for a patient minute, before soaring skywards as the beat strengthens, synth textures sweep in from acute angles and a clipped guitar sample provides the first glimpse of melody. A predictable crescendo involving all three arrives, lights flashing, after four minutes, but the sheer bliss of the moment is so overwhelming that any sense of over-familiarity is quickly forgotten.

Though the opening pair are excellent, by far the strongest track on Sublime is sixth song 'Silent'. Gradually climbing to an anthemic peak from a steady, beat-driven birth, its wispy "ooh-oohs", astral swirls and progressively hardening drums combine for a truly transcendental experience, like the fitter happier cousin of the Velvet Underground's 'Heroin'. Music this beautiful, this ethereal, this...colourful is just so hard to come by.

Elsewhere, 'Good Things End' is perhaps the most club-ready track on offer, rumbling with a muffled, skittering beat and warmly cushioned by frequent ripples of lush background noise. 'Everday' is epileptic and chilled in equal measure, surfing a sea of snappy, erratic clicks and a soothing vocal loop, while 'The Little Heart Beats So Fast' grooves under and over suggestive gasps. 'The Deal' is the record's ten minute centrefold, a brooding, atmospheric piece built around an obtuse wall of interlocked shifts, taps, groans and howls. It's Sublime's deepest and most rewarding track, and would have served as a useful end to the record had Willner opted to quit while he was ahead.

As it is, we're left with 'Sun and Ice' (a weak wave of candy floss white noise which fails to invigorate), 'Mobilia' (Willner's doomed attempt to do something a bit odd) and the pithy title track to close the album with a confused, dull whimper; a certain album of the year becomes a sure-fire top ten fixture. Oh Axel, you had us all going for a minute. 87

Music: Manic Street Preachers - Send Away the Tigers

Manic Street Preachers
Send Away the Tigers
[Rock]









As evidenced by 2004's lacklustre Lifeblood, Manic Street Preachers' sound now appears irreversibly crisp and controlled - Sean Moore's drums bob with metronomic precision, Nicky Wire's bass throbs politely out of plain view and James Dean Bradfield's guitars whisper verses and bellow choruses on demand. It is highly unlikely they will ever attempt to surpass the ice-cold gothic no-wave of The Holy Bible, the unhinged abandon of Know Your Enemy or the caustic bile of Generation Terrorists. But, in the grand scheme of things, does that really matter?

Here is a band who have railed against poverty (Slash 'N' Burn), drugs ('Methadone Pretty'), fascism ('If You Tolerate This...'), consumerism ('Motorcycle Emptiness') and gender roles ('Little Baby Nothing'), loud and proud, while others were seemingly content to gaze shoeward. They have criticized mindless liberalism ('Year of Purification') and declared support for the death penalty ('Archives of Pain'). With alarming alacrity they anticipated (and condemned) society's assault on thin women a decade before it began (4st 7lbs). And, perhaps most importantly of all, they have always encouraged kids to read books rather than get drunk - if you disagree with what they have to say, they want you to know what you're talking about.

No wonder it is often suggested that the Manics will be remembered more for their political posturing that their music. But therein lies a problem: their political posturing is their music, and vice versa, and it always has been and always will be.

Take, for example, the song 'Indian Summer' on their new record, Send Away the Tigers. "Maybe this time we'll kiss and not shake hands / And leave all this material belief / Remember the reasons / The reasons that made us be" howls Bradfield, defiant enough to avoid being submerged by a flood of text book strings and drab rock riffs. Elsewhere, on 'Rendition', Bradfield attempts to avoid death by banality as he ridicules the decline of idealism amid chugging strums and - shock of shocks - pounding 4/4 drums: "Blame it on the coalition / I never knew the sky was a prison".

Some of the songs even appear to embrace a sort of self-conscious cheesiness. For example, the impossibly bouncy pop of 'Autumnsong' and the exasperatingly conventional quiet/loud/quiet/loud/louder dynamics of 'Underdogs' underline the band's traditional disdain for needless experimentation. In fact, many of the ten tunes on offer here are so simple it almost hurts.

However, the Manics' role as a band, unreal as it seems, has always been to say rather than to sound - an idea Send Away the Tigers reinforces with aplomb. In one of those rare instances when simplicity usurps convolution, the plainness of the racket provides an effective backdrop for Wire to kick and spit with renewed vigour. Their eighth studio album and newest manifesto may not be a musical masterpiece but, in spite of that, it is a typically worthy release and certainly worth hearing. 74

Music: Klaxons - Myths of the Near Future

Klaxons
Myths of the Near Future
[Rock]






Klaxons really shot themselves in the foot when they coined the term 'new rave' to generate pre-release hype for their relatively conventional take on dance-punk. Despite singer/bassist Jamie Reynolds' admission that the term was used as an in-joke - an idea backed up by the hilariously inappropriate use of a klaxon (geddit?) in the opening seconds of 'Atlantis to Interzone' and a cheeky cover of rave music's official anthem, 'It's Not Over Yet' - most of the criticism aimed at the group's first full-length record, Myths of the Near Future, bemoans the lack of whack.

Stylus Magazine, for example, noted that it "clearly isn't rave, or even a reinvention of rave...[it's] a half-decent gimmick", while Rolling Stone contested that the sound is "suspiciously indie-ish". And it gets worse: desperately attempting to cling to a "movement" in order to counter plummeting sales, the NME even sponsored a new-rave tour in honour of the non-existent genre.

One would have hoped that, even if the above clues as to the tongue-in-cheek nature of the phrase were overlooked, the prevalence of glowsticks at the band's shows would have pointed unbelievers toward the obvious irony. Alas it didn't and, as a result, Klaxons appear to have been judged according to their credentials as field-filling drug-pushers rather than the quite good indie rock 'n' rollers they have always proved themselves to be since the initial release of their first single, 'Gravity's Rainbow', a year ago.

When they get it right, as on four of Myths' five singles ('Atlantis to Interzone', 'Golden Skans', 'Gravity's Rainbow', 'It's Not Over Yet') and 'Two Receivers', they really get it right, concocting a delicious musical salad of schizophrenic guitars, thick bass and multi-layered falsetto sweeps ready-made for chart consumption. For instance, the "oohs" and "ahhs" providing the wordless chorus on 'Golden Skans', the unjustly funky rhythm of 'Gravity's Rainbow', the relentless locomotive clatter of opening couplet 'Atlantis to Interzone' and 'Two Receivers' and the teary-eyed chorus of 'It's Not Over Yet' are all perfect examples of pop perfection.

Elsewhere, however, shockingly poor production, a definite lack of ideas and an inescapable sense of over-familiarity combine to undermine the ferocious punch of the fantastic five. It is difficult to overstate just how terrible James Ford's studio work is on Myths, but suffice to say that at least three or four songs are completely destroyed by the Simian Mobile Disco man.

Perhaps keen to express his fondness for beats (he provided the album's drums and percussion), he has ramped up the drumming to such an unnecessary volume that the trio's glorious, interlocking harmonies and manic squeals are often completely drowned out. In addition, the guitars are sometimes stretched to ear-splitting frequencies ('Magick', 'As Above, So Below', 'Totem on the Timeline') while the bass is usually far too loud ('Isle of Her', 'Four Horsemen of 2012'). At times, Myths' forceful tone borders on unlistenable - certainly not something that strict adherents to the mathematical formulas of The Manual - as Klaxons have confessed they are - would have wished for.

Where the band occasionally bail themselves out of Ford's atrocity exhibition, though, is with some inspired literary lyrics. Naming their album and (at least) three songs after cult works by Ballard, Burroughs, Pynchon and Crowley may appear to be a Maximo Park-esque plea to be recognised as well-read, but a quick run through of the words suggests otherwise. Lines like "Krill edible oceans at their feet / A troublesome troop out on safari / A lullaby holds their drones in sleep" smack of pretension in a way that Paul Banks could only ever dream of. Not convinced? How about "All ships of sense on hyper ocean / All Kytes of chaos still in motion / My culture vulture such a dab hand / I'll steal you from the year 4000" for size? In a British music scene where reading books is commonly considered to be an unspeakable hate crime, Klaxons' fantastic blend of the surreal and the absurd is so refreshing as to be virtually cathartic.

Unfortunately, however, Myths' weaknesses are just too apparent for it to be considered an essential record. In fact, taken on its own terms, the finished product is little more than a slightly quirky but fairly weak indie album. Rather, my reserved fondness for the band is significantly (and perhaps wrongly) based on their initial intention to do something challenging and original, their instigation of the 'new rave' obsession in the media, their impressive run of artistic videos and their incredible knack for crafting excellent singles. So they failed with a whole album's worth of material - does it really matter that much? For certain, the British music scene is a far better place with Klaxons that without them. 60

Music: Porcupine Tree - Fear of a Blank Planet

Porcupine Tree
Fear of a Blank Planet
[Progressive Rock]









For a band with such a varied and impressive track record, Porcupine Tree’s rise to mini-stardom in 2005 was ironic for two reasons. Firstly, that year’s Deadwing was among their weakest recordings, for once finding the band struggling to pin down a distinct sound and thus resulting in an inconsistent and, in places, distinctly mediocre album. Secondly, despite the fact they had been gradually building their fan base with a decade’s worth of hugely ambitious, multi-layered, mostly wordless soundscapes, the only reason the Deadwing received any attention at all was down to the four minutes of pop perfection in lead single ‘Lazarus’. They had, in effect, become recognised through of a lack of ambition (who’d have thought it?), something they are clearly looking to redress with Fear of a Blank Planet - their most obtuse record since 1996’s career-defining masterpiece, Signify.

Although their latest effort does retain elements of Deadwing’s tighter, heavier sound, it is more closely related to their earlier records, featuring longer, more free-form songs (the shortest of the six is five minutes long), a greater emphasis on texture (rather than melody) and some very strong instrumental pieces. Fear of a Blank Planet is also another concept album, though unlike Deadwing’s vague connection to a Stephen Wilson film project that has subsequently been shelved, the narrative here helps to expand rather than restrict.

Imagining an apathetic, culturally sterile near-future, each of the songs is a document of depression as the band attempt to uncover the reason for such a decline. Television and video games are predictably the easy target (“The flicker of the screen / I’m basking in the shit flowing out of it”), however other, less obvious factors are also explored. For example, the nature vs. nurture debate, society’s desire to medicate, the role of the media, loveless sex and childhood alienation all feature prominently, though never to such an extent that the listener is denied the opportunity to make up his or her own mind. Considering Wilson’s sketchy lyrical past (see ‘Hatesong’ for a good cringe), it is certainly encouraging to see him engaging on a more intellectual level and attempting to achieve the same proficiency with words that he has so often exhibited with a guitar.

Continuing the band’s habit of excellent artwork, the accompanying booklet is laden with creepy images of ‘blank’, seemingly soulless children staring right out of the page, lending extra weight to the apocalyptic theme and helping to tighten the overall concept.

Though technically consisting of six songs, Fear of a Blank Planet is essentially a single piece of music split into six different sections, imploring the listener to listen for the duration rather than dip in and out for a short fix. Though this could have failed spectacularly and resulted in the record rapidly gathering dust, the music is more than strong enough to warrant fifty minutes’ attention.

The title track kicks things off nicely, opening with a gently picked guitar and uptight drums before multiple key changes, lots of reverb and cosmic vocals combine to give it a brutal, tempestuous surge. Aesthetically it is very similar to Deadwing’s fantastic titular piece, though it just about emerges victorious with the sheer weight of its gravitational pull, ever threatening to implode, ethereal yet dangerous.

Such an aural rush inevitably requires a lengthy comedown, and one is helpfully supplied in the form of ‘My Ashes’ - a chilled-out, effortlessly bliss number that takes its time and refuses to be rushed. Mainly musing on life’s regrets (“And my ashes find a way beyond the fog / And return to save the child that I forgot”), Wilson has crafted a ballad on par with some of his best work. Though not quite equalling the sinister majesty of ‘.3’ or the heart-rending candour of ‘Stop Swimming’, its carefully measured guitar and keyboard verses and pounding string crescendos would certainly not pale in their company.

The best is still to come, however, with the ridiculously long, ridiculously overblown and ridiculously ambitious eighteen minutes of ‘Anesthetize’. Attempting to describe its musical construction would be like trying to understand the plot of Inland Empire - a pointless and unnecessary endeavour - but, suffice to say, its like ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ on speed and methadone, shaken up, left to stew and multiplied by infinity. It is the type of song that reveals something new with each listen, cannot fail to excite even the most ardent cynics of prog and, one feels, the type of song Porcupine Tree wanted to show the world they could make. Having now achieved a measure of fame, the desire to experiment appears to have recaptured Porcupine Tree’s imagination and, at times, sees them hurtling above and beyond the imposing peak of ‘Voyage 34: Phase 1’ which, for over a decade, has been the band’s defining, and greatest, achievement.

The fourth song then continues the album’s impressive form, consisting of some free-form drumming, pleasant guitar strums, sweeping soundscapes and more of Wilson’s breathy melancholia. The title of ‘Sentimental’ perhaps doesn’t do the song justice, pre-empting a clumsy whine while the content, in actual fact, thoughtfully considers the surreptitiousness, inevitability and accompanying misery of the ageing process: “Sullen and bored the kids stay / And in this way they wish away each day”. Admittedly, ‘Sentimental’ never attempts to be in the same league as its predecessor, but it is nevertheless solid and, though by itself nothing special, is holistically valuable, adding to rather than detracting from the formidable first half.

However, either because of or in spite of the first two-thirds’ impressive strength, the final two songs are something of a disappointment. ‘Way Out of Here’ suffers from characteristics often (wrongly!) said to correlate with progressive rock - that is, it is a formless, dull and forgettable mess, unlikely to please newcomers to or veterans of the genre. Closer ‘Sleep Together’ is a little better, beginning menacingly enough with refrained, earthy drums and some electronic squiggles before being swamped by a horribly conceited and unnecessarily brash chorus that really saps the verses of any potency; think ‘A Design for Life’ or, more recently, any Muse song.

Following in Deadwing’s footsteps, Fear of a Blank Planet again resists Porcupine Tree’s previous habit of producing either 5-star records (Voyage 34: The Complete Trip, The Sky Moves Sideways, Signify, In Absentia) or absolute musical monstrosities (Stupid Dream, Yellow Hedgerow Dreamscape). However, whereas the former was bona fide mediocrity, the group’s latest effort is a four-and-a-bit-star case of the almost great which can nevertheless be proud of itself. In strict mathematical terms, four and a half good songs out of six equals a solid seventy five; however, given the mind-blowing brilliance of ‘Anesthetize’ and my long-standing support of the band, I’m inclined to be a little generous. 81

Music: The Arcade Fire - The Neon Bible

The Arcade Fire
The Neon Bible
[Rock]






Before getting into a review of The Neon Bible - The Arcade Fire’s second, epic, multi-instrumental showpiece - I ought to get something off my chest. Alternative and mainstream musicians alike have been relentlessly fetishizing the Iraq war for over four years now, ceaselessly bombarding us with details of how much they hate Bush and why the war is wrong, more often than not with toe-curling clumsiness. A quick glance at the lyrics on The Neon Bible suggests this trend is set to continue, with choice snippets including:

“Mirror, mirror on the wall / Show me where the bombs will fall”

“You’re still a soldier in your mind / Though nothing’s on the line”

“Working for the church while your life falls apart”

“Hear the soldier groan / We’ll go at it alone”

“Now the war is won / How come nothing tastes good?”

“Don’t wanna fight in a holy war / I don’t wanna live in America no more”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than happy with fuzzy Oberstian metaphors (see below), but preaching this heavy-handed is, quite frankly, rather off-putting. Whereas The Arcade Fire’s majestic debut Funeral focused mainly on human relationships and was underscored with some heart-wrenching arrangements, here Iraq - so often the reserve of the floundering lyricist - is the dominant theme.

It is also no surprise to learn, then, that some of the most successful songs on the mostly successful The Neon Bible hark back to older days. Live favourite ‘No Cars Go’ has been hanging around for some time now and, rather than lingering like a bad smell, the aura of Funeral gives it a definite sweetness. You know the score - drums, accordions, strings and trumpets swim together effortlessly as Win Butler and Régine Chassagne lay down their manifesto with dizzied yelps: “We know a place where no cars go / Between the click of the light and the start of the dream…women and children, let’s go!” Its six minutes manage to recapture the relentless momentum of ‘Rebellion (Lies)’ and ‘Power Out’ with the closing, choral-backed instrumental burst being particularly impressive.

Also recalling past glories is the first ninety seconds of two-part blockbuster ‘Black Wave / Bad Vibrations’, an irresistibly charming, bi-lingual, percussion- and voice-led shimmer awash with the childlike enthusiasm of Régine and Sarah Neufield. “We’ll make it if we run / Run from the memory / Je nage, mais les sonts me suivent” they sing, shedding light on the other recurring theme of the record: water.

For some reason or another, very possibly climate change (the new Iraq?), The Arcade Fire are obsessed with the seas, swimming, drowning, being submerged and other water-related peculiarities on The Neon Bible. It is certainly a commendable fixation, arguably best explored on the apocalyptic ‘Windowsill’. A Kaczynskian denouncement of recent human ‘advances’, it defiantly resists the urge to comply while a sinister, plucked guitar dangles menacingly: “Don’t want it faster, I don’t want it free…Don’t wanna give ‘em my name and address / Don’t wanna see what happens next…’Cause the tide is high and it’s rising still”. After a couple of combustible minutes the song finally surfaces as strings come in, the voices get a bit shakier and crescendos abound, all while the line “Don’t wanna see it at my windowsill” is wailed by every member of the septet for a considerable duration. Gloomy stuff, non?

More of the see-through stuff comes in the baroque thump of lead single ‘Black Mirror’ (“I walked down to the ocean / After waking from a nightmare”), the guitar-heavy ‘The Well and the Lighthouse’ (“So down I fell into the water black”), the brooding whisper that is ‘Ocean of Noise’ (“In an ocean of noise / I first heard your voice”) and the more up-tempo, poppy number ‘Keep the Car Running’ (Can’t swim across a river so deep”). While never becoming dull, the over-reliance on the water theme does draw attention to some fleeting references to the band’s more interesting politics. Even though I disagree with both of the bands other messages - abortion is indefensible (“Now who here among us still believes in choice? Not I”, “Why did I take the pill?”), the state should get lost (“Shot by a security camera”, the name and address reference in ‘Windowsill’) - it is encouraging to see such directness from the, Iraq aside, seemingly depoliticized mainstream indie scene.

Though the aforementioned tunes see The Arcade Fire in the steady, 8/10 mode they have seemingly mastered so easily, The Neon Bible’s two standout tracks see the band move into a different gear altogether. Essentially a hymn, fourth song ‘Intervention’ has, fittingly, music to die for. Starting with bone-chilling organ chords, strummed guitar and occasional brushes of the humble triangle, the stage is certainly set for a stunning song. After a couple of minutes drums and strings flesh it out further, before the choral shrieks of Régine and Sarah are again put to good use. It is such a great shame, then, that much of the song’s lyrical content is focussed on you-know-what. For such a spellbinding musical achievement, however, I’m willing to overlook some of the words. In any case, Win delivers them with such teary-eyed vulnerability that he could be singing about toothpaste and still be assured of shivers down spines.

The other highlight of The Neon Bible is the band’s grandiose rant against anything and everything, ‘[Antichrist Television Blues]’. Though it could be argued that the brackets aren’t exactly essential, the song itself is, bringing together everything that has so far made The Arcade Fire a household name: angelic, undulating backing vocals; Win getting angry; a toe-tapping guitar and drum progression; strings on demand; crescendos and refrains in equal, innumerable measure; unashamed Biblical overtones; someone attacking a piano. If this is The Arcade Fire by numbers, I for one will keep score.

The only obvious sour notes on The Neon Bible are the two minutes of underwhelming, plodding title track and momentum-sapping concluder ‘My Heart Is a Cage’. While the former is undoubtedly a poor song, the latter may have worked if not placed after such a tailor-made album closer in ‘No Cars Go’. As it is, I could do without it.

Aside from those two missteps, The Neon Bible is an exceptionally strong album musically. It could be better lyrically, but then that would be like asking Bob Dylan to go a bit faster or telling Beastie Boys get a bit more serious. The OK Computers, Marquee Moons and If You’re Feeling Sinisters of this world are few and far between and, while The Arcade Fire are prone to the odd ham-fisted or clichéd observation, they are first and foremost an exceptional musical outfit. For that, and perhaps that alone, we should be very grateful. 84

Music: Bright Eyes - Cassadaga

Bright Eyes
Cassadaga + Four Winds EP + Extras
[ Rock ]







As resident Conor Oberst devotee, my judgment may rightly be questioned every time I review the Omaha-based folk-emo-punk-rock-country troubadour's releases. But I can tell you one thing right now, which is as close to a solid fact as you are going to get in the subjective world of music journalism;

The track listing on Cassadaga is seriously fucked up. More on that story later.

The first thing you'll notice about Cassadaga is the gorgeous packaging. The white-noise pages of the leaflet reveal hidden pictures and messages when passed over with the included "spectral de coder" device. Special praise is due to Zack Nipper, Saddle Creek's resident designer, for a gimmick both entertaining and in keeping with the album's otherwordly themes (Cassadaga is a Florida spiritualist camp Oberst visited briefly.) In the album itself, things start off strongly; the mutterings of a psychic lady set over an ambient collage; the kind of stunt Oberst and his band (Bright Eyes now includes permanent members Nate Walcott and producer Mike Mogis as well as the frontman and an ever changing roster of helpers) pull off frequently, and it always portends something big. The melancholy, cynical beauty of opener Clairaudients (Kill Or Be Killed), when it starts in earnest, is magnificent; "Future Markets, Holy Wars / Been tried ten thousand times before / If you think that God is keeping score, Hooray!". After the opener, in kicks an explosive change of pace with the fiddle-led single Four Winds. The lyrics are as sharp as ever "The squatters made a mural of a Mexican girl / With fifteen cans of spraypaint in a chemical swirl / She's standing in the ashes at the end of the world / Four winds blowing through her hair ... The Bible's blind, the Torah's deaf, the Qu'ran is mute / If you burn them all together you get close to the truth". And there was Conor promising to make a non-political album.

The treats continue with the mature, cathartic If The Brakeman Turns My Way, some glorious harmonies combining with the repeated emphasis of "leveling out"; "First a mother bathes her child then the other way around / The scales always find a way to level out." Lest we be filled with too much of a warm, fuzzy feeling at the end of the track, Oberst bookends it with the biblical squall of Hot Knives and it's uplifting conclusion; "So let us rejoice / In all this pink noise / An oscillation / That we can pinpoint"

Make A Plan To Love Me marks a new experiment for Oberst; mellow. Yes, the songwriter who once invented a fictional baby brother that drowned in a bathtub is crooning like Sinatra (well, almost), about a career woman who doesn't have the time to love him. It's a unique pop gem, then, if an atypical offering.

He's not retreated from introspective self-loathing, though, as the scathingly witty Soul Singer in A Session Band proves. Comparing himself to the "Soul singer in a session band / Cut to ribbons beneath a microphone band" he bemoans that he "was a hopeless romantic / Now I'm just turning tricks". Ah, the curse of success.

Avid Conor-o-philes or gossip junkies will notice the inspiration of Classic Cars being a certain klepto hollywood actress who will remain nameless. But Winona Ryder aside, Classic Cars tackles the subjects of celebrity, image, and older women with a dextrous touch and suitably classic country stylings.

Middleman, the cowboy-styled epic that sounds in places suspiciously like the theme to Steven Spielberg's recent TV series Into the West, bemoans the impossibility of holding absolute principles in our shifting global landscape. The electronic vocal effects deliberately clash with the folksy melodies in an evocative fashion.

It's at this point in the album that one starts to doubt the wisdom of how the tracks were ordered and which should have been included in the album. Individually, Cleanse Song, No One Would Riot For Less, and Coat Check Dream Song are perfectly competent songs; but chaining three very low tempo, generally laid-back tracks together, and then ending on one (Lime Tree) only broken by glorious live favourite I Must Belong Somewhere is a bit much, especially as No One Would Riot gets dangerously close to the tedium barrier (it's grim, dark, eco-warrior message hampered by the fact that it's maybe just a bit; well, too dark and desolate.) Cleanse Song and Coat Check meander around happily, recalling a little bit of previous electronica experiment Digital Ash in A Digital Urn, but with less drive and urgency. Thankfully, I Must Belong Somewhere, with it's dozens of structured verses ranging from the whimsical "Leave the cauliflower in the casserole" to the charged "Leave the hawks of war in their capitals", almost saves the day. It's simple, strong melody and epic scope screams "Finale", but unfortunately Conor doesn't quit while he's ahead, ending on a fizzle with the sweet, but impossibly quiet Lime Tree, which simply doesn't have the confidence to end an album with a bang, or the melodic strength to be a quiet coda.

The biggest mystery about Cassadaga's line up though, remains the B-Sides; if you're going to write the best set of songs in your career, surely you put the highlights on the album? Not Conor. He saves some of the best tracks for the B-sides; the free download only Endless Entertainment contrasts lyrics like "My serotonin's rationed / I think I caught the blues ... My smile's in sad shape / All that dead weight I keep carrying" with jaunty, guitar led music to impressive effect. It's not a song to give away lightly.

Susan Miller Rag, the US-only-free-with-company-store-pre-orders-mini-cd is a real uncut gem. Raw guitars and drums mesh with a beautiful chorus "Far away from the rag trade / Far away from this maritime state you're stuck in / Relax your law / Relax your ego / And groove... from the deep-sea dive to the nose-bleed altitudes.". It sounds positively carribbean. Yes, I'm still talking about Conor Oberst.

More treats abound in the US EP single "Four Winds" (Import the disc from Amazon instead of buying all the British formats for the B-Sides) which really shines. Reinvent The Wheel's spiralling strings, undeniable melody and harmonica finale is a key track. It's followed by the delicately impressive M. Ward collaboration Smoke Without Fire, and the ragged joy of Stray Dog Freedom. After that, the righteous, riotous country rock of Cartoon Blues hits home; replete with a clever "cartoon" vocal trick on the lyrics; "Now my days are distractions that ring in my hands / Solitaire crosswords and films on demand / When you turn from a cartoon back into a man / You start to smell that human smell." As if to demonstrate how to end an album effectively with a quiet track, Tourist Trap then explores the familiar Bright Eyes territory of belonging and change complete with cowboy boot percussion. Beautiful.

I can't emphasise how strongly I feel that those extra tracks need to be hunted down before you can enjoy the complete Cassadaga experience. It's the album of his career, for sure, but Oberst seems damn well determined to make the worst of it. Perhaps he's just trying to avoid the session band's soul singer.

Cassadaga 78
Four Winds EP 94
Susan Miller Rag 86
Endless Entertainment 91

Music: Bloc Party - A Weekend in the City

Bloc Party
A Weekend in the City
[ Rock ]






Though they were initially -- and lazily -- touted as forerunners of the post-punk ‘revival’ after “Helicopter” received heavy radio play, Bloc Party made no attempt to hide the fact they were different. Refusing to exhume, exploit and exhibit a style befitting of its time (as so many of their contemporaries opted to do), they instead focused on being one of the few, truly twenty-first century bands.

Released in early 2005, Bloc Party’s debut long player Silent Alarm was most notable as a record of contrast -- of shivering warmth (“So Here We Are”, “Plans”), brutal intimacy (“Banquet”) and doleful idealism (“Helicopter”, “Price of Gas”). What made it such an intriguing dichotomy was hard to pinpoint, though a fair guess would surely incorporate the schizophrenic guitars, dizzying drum rhythms and sinister bass work, not to mention Kele Okereke’s nervous, irregular and often confusing chatter. Regardless of the exact reason, Silent Alarm continues to endure as a triumph of creativity, bravery, ambition and intelligence.

With their status cemented as such an important, modern and forward-looking rock outfit, the pressure for Bloc Party to deliver a satisfying follow-up was inevitably going to be huge. Few expected A Weekend in the City to better its predecessor, mind you; while it would be great to have got our grubby mitts on another Modern Life is Rubbish, something akin to a Room on Fire would have sufficed nicely -- in other words, a good enough reminder to reconcile the fact we fell in love with yet another bunch of awkward posh kids.

However, after repeat listens to their sophomore effort, it becomes clear that Bloc Party have failed to deliver on both counts. Instead, they have opted for another well-known approach when recording the notorious ‘difficult second album’: play it very, very, very safe. In fact, save for a handful of inspired sequences early on, the record is almost completely devoid of edge.

But should we have seen this coming? After all, given the Futurheadian risks associated with recording a more ambitious follow-up, can our boys really be blamed for looking to secure their future and pay off the remainder of those student debts? Bono’s recent knighthood suggests not, though as any artist worth his NME cover shoot will attest, bland is definitely not best.

The early signs were also not encouraging: stopgap single “Two More Years” was notable for its “shades of grey” (so helpfully pointed out by the band). Decidedly pale bass, colourless drums and a washed-out guitar line characterized the song which, backed with a dull video, inevitably succeeded in the singles chart.

What was interesting about the new sound, though, was the increased prominence of vocals compared to earlier singles. It was almost as if the music had become a single instrument, acting as a platform on which a more assured, relaxed and confident Kele could lay down his thoughts without interference. Gone were the panicked yelps and squeals of “Price of Gas”, instead replaced by more of traditional indie rock set-up.

A Weekend in the City follows this formula to the letter for the most part, exemplified most obviously in opener “Song for Clay (Disappear Here)”. Taking centre stage, Kele flicks his guitar gently while delivering a typically provocative statement of intent: ‘I am trying to be heroic in an age of modernity’. No doubt about it, this is a cracking first line of a record, threatening to pave the way for another great listen.

But then it hits, subtle as a runaway train, one of the other great sophomore slip-ups: the bit when we hear how hard it is to be so terribly rich and famous. ‘I devour flesh and wine and luxury,’ shrugs Kele, ‘but in my heart I am lukewarm / Nothing really touches me.’ Seriously, what emotion is this kind of vain moralizing supposed to inspire? Pity? Jealousy? Admiration? Whatever the intent, it surely fails, rather adding water to the already overflowing notion that all rock stars are, in some capacity or other, pig-headed egoists.

Nevertheless, I’m willing to forgive a band I once considered potential Radiohead-beaters and who I have closely followed for around four years. After all, what’s rock ‘n’ roll without a little charity? So, assuming the fois-gras references are put aside for a second, it does actually develop into a pretty good tune.

The gentle opening is soon replaced by Matt Tong’s aggressive (though admittedly formulaic) drums, meanwhile Russell Lisack’s guitar bobs and weaves nicely at a safe distance, alternating between generic hard rock riffing and more free form explorations that give Clay’s song a welcome unsteadiness. The most important line of the record -- ‘East London is a vampire / It sucks the joy right out of me’ -- is also delivered without a shred of irony and certainly deserves a mention.

(It is worth noting at this point that Gordon Moakes’ bass is, inexplicably, almost completely unnoticeable on A Weekend in the City, despite being one of the most accomplished aspects of the first record. When it is audible, it is completely unremarkable, and thus does not warrant a mention from hereon in…sorry Gordon!)

“Hunting for Witches” then kicks and squeals with all the ferocity of “Helicopter” as shredded voice samples, tiptoe guitar and up-tempo drums irresistibly combine to demand attention. A thunderous riff subsequently strikes and takes charge, driving the momentum and completing one of the band’s best intros since “She’s Hearing Voices”.

Unfortunately, Okereke is in the inexorable post-9/11 mood for poorly veiled, poorly observed social commentary, offering the following observation: ‘I'm sitting on the roof of my house with a shotgun / ... / The newscaster says the enemy's among us / As bombs explode on the 30 bus / ... / Now is not the time for liberal thought’. So he thinks Britain’s reaction to the London bombings has been excessive. Well, quite frankly, who in the predominantly left-leaning guitar rock world doesn’t? He follows it up with a cheap shot at the Daily Mail, which, though deserved, is so twenty-five years ago. What’s next -- a carefully considered critique of Hitler's domestic policy, perhaps? The song also refuses to progress musically, stuck in first gear for the duration, enhancing the sense of disappointment after such a promising start.

Thankfully, we are then treated to the best song -- musically at least -- on A Weekend in the City. “Waiting for the 3.16” is the song that sticks closest to the overall concept, successfully capturing the atmosphere of a chilly London night. Excusing another lyrical faux-pas (‘Spend all of your time trying to escape / With crosswords and Sudoku’), it really feels alive, holding its breath during the subdued verses before exploding into colour with necessarily grand walls of guitar when the chorus draws near. As if that wasn’t enough, they even throw in some choral wails to eke out a tear or two. Oh London, how we hardly knew ye.

Aside from abominable lead single and homage to rock star excees, “The Prayer”, and woeful sneer at yoof culture, “Uniform” (‘All the young people look the same / Wearing their masks of cool and indifference / Commerce dressed up a rebellion’ -- hang on, weren’t these guys part of the Converse-sponsored t-shirts and scarves retro ‘rebellion’ of years past?), the rest of the album is lyrically sound.

Okereke is obviously most at ease when musing about love, perhaps best exemplified on “I Still Remember”, a sweet recounting of unconsummated schoolboy romance. “You should have asked me for it / How could I say no?” is the key line, though the homophobic press are unfortunately given some bait to snatch at with the detail that “We left our trousers by the canal”. He’s gay?! Oh. My. God. Fetch the cameras; we need to interview this guy!

Elsewhere it’s all a bit, well, dull. Aside from the aforementioned ninth track, the entire second half of the record melts together in a thick soup of MOR mediocrity. “Where is Home”, “Kreuzberg”, “Sunday” and “SXRT” are all Coldplay songs: nice enough to look at on the plate but without anything to really get your teeth into. To put it differently, you know you’re in trouble when so much of your grandiose and supposedly ambitious ‘concept album’ is this pleasant.

So, all in all, A Weekend in the City will mostly be remembered as a major failure. In a way, though, I’d rather they mess up this badly and for it to be clearer exactly what they did wrong. One of the major issues I had with Franz Ferdinand’s You Could Have It So Much Better... was that it was almost impossible to spot the holes. It wasn’t bad but, then again, it wasn’t particularly stunning either. At least now Bloc Party knows which direction it shouldn’t be heading in. Whether they take heed, or whether the flesh, wine and luxury prove a bigger draw remains to be seen. For now, though, we are simply left with a(nother) telling lesson in how not to follow up a great first record. 46

Music: Brit Awards 2007 (Part 2)

Four correct guesses out of twelve. Two worthy winners out of twelve. There is thus only one conclusion: Musically Sound is better than the British music industry.

On another note, I will try to ensure that follow-up features are not posted two months after the relevant event. Some would say it's the effort that counts, but they probably work for rival blog #945456748.

In future, Musically Sound promises to be much more punctual with it's witty and informative two-part pieces, widely known to offer insightful and cultured debate regarding key events in the...[end]

Music: The Decemberists - The Crane Wife

The Decemberists
The Crane Wife
[Chamber Pop / Indie]






Everyone's favourite Dickensian indie urchins return with a typically strong set of songs. Whilst all their staples (antiquated crime, exotic locales, wordy lyrics) remain in force, right from the opening they seem to be operating in a more epic, muscular mode than you may be used to. Opener The Crane Wife Part 3 may be chronologically out of order with parts 1 and 2 (found as a single track later on the record; a deceptively short-looking 10 tracks is actually 13 if we count the two three-parters on the album seperately) but it forms an appropriate opener with it's epic fairytale feel. A spin on an old Japanese tale, it's the story of a poor man rewarded for saving a bird with a bride; and then rebuked for working her hard out of greed.

But if The Crane Wife 3 is a good introduction, it's The Island which really opens the record out. The three part epic moves from the commanding, slightly funky Come and See to the bitter You Won't Feel The Drowning; "Go to sleep now, little ugly, / Go to sleep now, you little fool" with ease and style. Yankee Bayonet and O Valencia! feel more like the Decemberists we've been used to in the past, but neither have immediate appeal of something like 16 Military Wives. O Valencia! is good single fodder, but it doesn't quite have the bouncy drive or satiric immediacy necessary to really engage like Military Wives. It's only when we get to the forcefully rhythmic Perfect Crime #2 that the listener is reassured of this album's progression. The material is tried and true Decemberists pulp but the song's musical qualities are what set it apart from their back catalogue.

When The War Came is possibly the album's weakest song, but it's abrasive, slightly queasy sounds suit the lyrics, and it can be argued that it's inclusion was to the advantage of the album as a whole. Following it are Shankhill Butchers and Summersong, two very typically Decemberists songs, but offerings set in sharp contrast; from the menacing minimalism of Butchers to Summersong's breezy pop; "My girl, linen and curls / Lips parting like a flag all unfurled / She's grand, the bend of her hand / Digging deep into the sweep of the sand".

But the mark of how good an album is as a whole lies, for me, in it's finale. The Crane Wife delivers a one-two punch with the beginning parts of it's title song, a quite, introspective, beautiful song that most bands would be proud to have as a finale; it's here the wisdom of the ordering of the tracks becomes apparent. Not content to rest on this, the band pulls out a last ace with Sons and Daughters, a rousingly optimistic glob of pop honey that manages to make nonsensical lyrics like "We'll build our walls of aluminum / We'll fill our mouths with cinnamon" sound inspiring.

The Crane Wife is an unusually hard album to grade. Whilst it works extremley well as a coherent whole, a few of the tracks, whilst pleasing, seem like treading water for the band. The lack of a single as strong as 16 Military Wives is also somewhat of a dissappointment, but an album this epic and consistent can't, in the end, fail to impress. A strong offering then, but from a band that needs to evolve a little more from their past albums. 80

Music: Brit Awards 2007 (Part 1)

One of a number of music awards shows believing itself to be the industry standard, the much-maligned Brit Awards are apparently undergoing a resurgence. At least that's what we're being told; to trained ears, it simply means that more money is being poured in to promote a show that, devoid of any particular identity in the post-Britpop era, has really struggled to attract a decent share of viewers in the noughties.

Last year's show was a minor improvement (mainly due to Chris Evans' short-lived comeback) and, with the return to a live setting in 2007, the organisers are clearly aiming to revisit the show's more controversial years. In other words, they'll get Russell Brand to call someone a cunt just after nine and try to break the viewer complaints record. Cynical it may well be, but it's about time we had something to talk about.

This year's list of nominations is about as interesting as can be expected, although the dreaded MOR curse could strike and, if potent enough, has the potential to engulf every category. Here's hoping Lightbody and co. have a quiet one...

In typically investigative fashion I've decided to offer some predictions: who should win in every category and who will win in every category. Hopefully I'll be able to report back in Part 2 with the smug conviction that I'm one step ahead of the British music industry. If I get them all wrong, mind, I'll chew up this article, spit it out and duly commit it to burn for all eternity in Musically Sound's long-forgotten archives. The horror! The horror!

British Male Solo Artist
Winner: James Morrison
Shoulda: Thom Yorke

British Female Solo Artist
Winner: Lily Allen
Shoulda: Nerina Pallot

British Group
Winner: Arctic Monkeys
Shoulda: Arctic Monkeys*

British Album
Winner: Arctic Monkeys
Shoulda: Amy Winehouse

British Single
Winner: Take That
Shoulda: Lily Allen*

British Live Act
Winner: Muse
Shoulda: Guillemots

British Breakthrough
Winner: James Morrison
Shoulda: Lily Allen*

International Male
Winner: Jack Johnson**
Shoulda: Justin

International Female
Winner: Beyonce
Shoulda: Christina

International Group
Winner: Scissor Sisters**
Shoulda: Flaming Lips

International Album
Winner: Gnarls Barkley
Shoulda: Gnarls Barkley*

International Breakthrough
Winner: Gnarls Barkley
Shoulda: Gnarls Barkley*

It must be noted that some of these have been made under duress due to the limited selection. For example, other than Arctic Monkeys the choices for best British group are Kasabian, Snow Patrol, Muse and Razorlight.

A special mention should go to Oasis who will be getting a lifetime achievement award for an album they released thirteen years ago. There's nothing like a bit of superstition is there chaps?

* indicates a reluctant choice
** indicates a win by default (only one to give a shit)

Film / Games / Music: Harry's Review of 2006

2006 was, as always with the arts, an interesting year.

In music there were highly-publicised releases from the likes of The Beatles, The Killers, Bob Dylan, Nas, Beyonce, Justin, Christina, My Chemical Romance and Tom Waits, as well as fervent championing of a number of lesser-known acts such as Belle & Sebastian, Liars, The Knife, Joanna Newsom, Ghostface, TV on the Radio (proving the old adage that one single does not a good album make) and more. We saw Hope of the States split up after disastrous sales of their sophomore album, Left, and the effective demise of The Futureheads as they too experienced second album difficulties - News & Tributes shifted a measly 32,000 copies and the band were subsequently dropped from their label, 679 Recordings.

Movie-wise, we witnessed "the end of Western civilisation as we know it" (Mark Kermode) as Gore Verbinski's bloated Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest became one of the highest grossing movies ever made, while a number of foreign language films broke through into the mainstream, most notably Requiem and Pan's Labyrinth. We had a new Bond (yay), Borat's debut (nay) and everyone's favourite slightly disturbing celebrity (no, not Michael Jackson) return in Mission Impossible: III (hmm). Just when you thought it wasn't possible to continue raping the cash cow that is 1970s horror movies, along came Jonathan Liebesman's horrific (in a bad way) prequel to the remake The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning. At least we had Saw 3, eh?

2006 brought a sad end to the decade-old era of gameplay with the arrival of next-gen tomfoolery; Gears of War scooping countless awards for being shiny, despite lacking original narrative, setting, characters or gameplay comes to mind. At least Monsieur Sea Bass Takatsuka finally perfected his world-beating footie franchise with the colossal Pro Evolution Soccer 6 (this time it can't get any better, it just can't damn it!) and we saw a slight return to story-based gaming on the PC with Dreamfall: The Longest Journey, Broken Sword: The Angel of Death and the welcome return of Sam & Max. Artsy gaming continued to suffer as the big names trumped the independent studios, culminating in the lamentable demise of Clover Studios, creators of the (apparently) masterful Okami. The Nintendo DS outfought the PSP, though as long as portable games remain laughably overpriced that fails to be of particular concern.

And, without further ado, here is my rundown of the best of this year's releases in music, movies and games.

Top 10 Singles:

01. The Spinto Band - "Oh Mandy"
02. The Wombats - "Moving to New York"
03. The Pipettes - "Pull Shapes"
04. CSS - "Let's Make Love and Listen to Death from Above"
05. Justice vs. Simian - "We Are Your Friends"
06. Christina Aguilera - "Ain't No Other Man"
07. Gnarls Barkley - "Crazy"
08. TV on the Radio - "Wolf Like Me"
09. Peter Bjorn & John - "Young Folks"
10. Belle & Sebastian - "Funny Little Frog"

Top 10 Album Tracks:

01. Belle & Sebastian - "Another Sunny Day"
02. Liars - "Let's Not Wrestle Mt. Heart Attack"
03. Squarepusher - "The Modern Bass Guitar"
04. Hope of the States - "This is A Question"
05. Clipse - Dirty Money
06. The Long Blondes - "Swallow Tattoo"
07. The Pipettes - "It Hurts to See You Dance So Well"
08. The Knife - "Silent Shout"
09. Thom Yorke - "Cymbal Rush"
10. Guillemots -"Sao Paulo"

Top 10 Albums:

01. Liars - Drum's Not Dead*
02. Joanna Newsom - Ys*
03. Guillemots - Through the Window Pane*
04. The Knife - Silent Shout
05. Thom Yorke - The Eraser
06. Clipse - Hell Hath No Fury
07. Squarepusher - Hello Everything
08. Ghostface - Fishscale
09. Amy Winehouse - Back to Black
10. Howling Bells - Howling Bells

Top 5 Movies:

01. Pan's Labyrinth (del Toro)*
02. Grbavica (Zbanic)
03. The Departed (Scorsese)
04. Inside Man (Lee)
05. Requiem (Schmid)

Top 5 Games:

01. Pro Evolution Soccer 6 (KCET)*
02. The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion (Bethesda)*
03. Dreamfall: The Longest Journey (Funcom)
04. Medieval 2: Total War (Sega)
05. Half-Life 2: Episode One (Valve)

* denotes 90+ rating

Music: Adrian's Review of 2006

Best Albums:

1) Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say...
Hyped to death, overplayed by radio and embarassingly clung to by politicians wanting to be down with the kids, but still by far the best thing 2006 gave us. In blending the two most important British acts of the noughties - the Streets and the Libertines - Arctic Monkeys produced an album that is both a pop classic and a lyrical masterpiece. The highlight of an album of highlights comes at the end, with "A Certain Romance" offering as vivid a representation as you'll find of what it's like to be a young person growing up in Britain today.

2) Long Blondes - Someone To Drive You Home
The success of the aforementioned Monkeys brought about a plethora of very similar sounding (and frankly generally crap) bands from Sheffield passing observation on increasingly mundane parts of life. With their distinctive appearance and a female vocalist, The Long Blondes were bound to stand out from this cloud of mediocrity emerging from the Steel City. If not exactly original, Someone to Drive You Home stood out in a year of increasing blandness in British indie. The dark yet intelligent lyrics of lost female autonomy combined with wonderful pop songs create an album that's both packed with killer tunes and highly intelligent.

3) Brakes - Beatific Visions
Pithiness defined Brakes' excellent 2005 debut Give Blood, and rare is it to see musicians express a political view as succinctly as Brakes do in the first verse of opening track "Hold Me In The River": 'I woke up late and found my liberty lost / It had been written down in law as a security cost'. If only Sting knew such brevity. Beatific Visions' triumph is its electicness, with it never leaving the listener on one musical strand long enough to induce boredom. One moment vocalist Eamon Hamilton is pontificating animatedly about who would win in a battle between a porcupine or a pineapple (continuing, however eccentricly, the anti-war theme), the next he's moved onto the surprsingly touching "Mobile Communication". More consistent than British Sea Power, less stodgy than Electric Soft Parade, what was once a side-project has become a far more exciting prospect than the bands that originally formed it.

4) Ben Kweller - Ben Kweller
2006 was not a good year for the singer-songwriter, with the genre suffering from the critical derision brought onto it by a certain Mr. Blunt, and Damien Rice's highly anticipated second album proving disappointing. Ben Kweller's eponymous third album represented a bridging of the gap between the delicacy of Coner Oberst and the summer pop of Ben Folds. Displaying a great sense of melody, maturity and consistency, this was one of the year's hidden gems.

5) My Latest Novel - Wolves
My Latest Novel have been described as the Scottish Arcade Fire; undoubtedly a flattering comparison, but one which does not entirely do justice to the originality of the band. They build up layers of sound, steadily increasing an impressive array of instruments before reaching a triumphant climax. This lacks the wrist-slitting inducing frustration of similarly whimsical bands such as Explosions In The Sky, with the songs always going somewhere and possessing enough hooks to make them stick in the listener's head. Subtle, but very sophisticated.

Top 5 Singles:
1) Flaming Lips - "The Yeah Yeah Song"
2) Divine Comedy - "A Lady of a Certain Age"
3) Dustins Bar Mitzvah - "To The Ramones"
4) Guillemots - "Trains To Brazil"
5) Jarvis Cocker - "Running The World"

Top 5 Gigs:
1) Divine Comedy - Newcastle - October
2) Art Brut - London - April
3) Arctic Monkeys - Sheffield - January
4) Dustins Bar Mitzvah - Newcastle - May
5) Captain Dangerous - Nottingham - December

Best Video:
Jim Noir - My Patch

Biggest Disappointments:
The Futureheads - News And Tributes
Morrissey - Ringleader of the Tormentors
Razorlight - Razorlight
The Holloways - So This Is Great Britain

Tips for 2007:
Jamie T
Hot Club De Paris
The Maccabees
The Rumble Strips
Foals
Captain Dangerous

Music: The Long Blondes - Someone to Drive You Home

The Long Blondes
Someone to Drive You Home
[Guitar Pop / Indie]








Something that really irks me about modern British "indie" music is the prominence of substance over style. The seemingly endless procession of scrubbed-up, safe, mirror kissing rock and rollers has really hit a high point in 2006, and sadly looks set to continue. It is fair to say that, since the release of Silent Alarm in early 2005, only North American music has really mattered, seeing strong releases from Joanna Newsom, Sufjan Stevens, Animal Collective, The Decemberists, The Hold Steady, The New Pornographers, My Morning Jacket, Sleater-Kinney, Wolf Parade, Antony and the Johnsons, TV on the Radio...do I need to go on? Even Belle & Sebastian, traditionally one of the shining lights in British indie, served up an underwhelming effort with The Life Pursuit.

That said, it's even more annoying when my ingrained elitist preconceptions about British guitar bands are found to be fallible, as was recently the case with the Long Blondes. Sure, they attract innumerable scenesters, fit snugly in the NME and will be forgotten as quickly as they arrived, but their music displays qualities traditionally associated with good bands. Yes, really. Though singer Kate Jackson's shy introvert shtick is about as transparent as Larrikin Love's...well...everything, her strained Debbie Harry-style histrionics are pleasantly alluring. Some of the songs have irresistible hooks and, while shortlived, certainly leave an impression.

Someone to Drive You Home may not be the most sophisticated music you'll hear in years, but then the Long Blondes are not a sophisticated band. That said, on the odd occasion the band do attempt to break the mould, they are surprisingly successful. The one-two punch of "Swallow Tattoo" and "Weekend Without Makeup" provides the album's strongest sequence, and elsewhere "Giddy Stratospheres" and "Once & Never Again" feature soulful, believable vocals and strong melodies. What is noticeable on each of these songs is that, though playing pretty safe music, The Long Blondes are an extremely tight unit. Each instrument is clear and the sounds mesh together nicely without ever sounding over-produced or artificial.

Despite these four noticeable highs, however, The Long Blondes appear to be on auto-pilot for much of their debut. Many songs on Someone To Drive You Home are indistinguishable from one another, following the same structure, repetetively musing on the naivety of youth and sounding pretty much identical. Only the aforementioned "Weekend..." has lyrics of interest, with Jackson refusing to play the role of "some kind of 50s housewife" and heartily bitching about her man until the realisation hits: "I've got you, got you under my skin". Elsewhere, it's all boys, girls, lipstick and giddy-eyed romance. Snooze.

So, while Someone to Drive You Home may not be the indie masterpiece the British scene badly needs, it's a pleasant enough surprise to warrant a knowing wink of approval. Well done, chaps. 61