Albums Roundup Part 2
1/5
By: Kevin Molloy
'Love And Other Planets' (*** / Domino) is a beautiful album. Adem has the kind of voice that doesn't need acrobatics to show its strength, and probably isn't limber enough to manage them anyway, but that can capture you in that rare way most voices can only manage live, and not from a spinning plastic disc. It's a shame, then, when the whole thing gets really rather boring. Sometime between the third track and the silence after the CD stops the songs become indistinguishable. They still sound individually gorgeous: the guitars flow lovingly over each other in harmony, and the newfound beats push the whole album forwards, saving it from the musical boredom that occasioned the former offering. It's the words that really let the LP down. When he's not repeating the same inane phrase over and over again ("always love" is the ad-infinitum phrase on 'Something's Going To Come'), it sounds as if he's reading from a book, not a set of lyrics. Not that we're close-minded enough to say all words should have tune, rhyme and scansion. But it would be nice if they didn't sound like a Patrick Moore lecture.
In case the last reference seems a little obscure, we forgot to mention that Adem has an obsession with space on this LP. At first it's novel, but it soon becomes clear it's far from being a concept album, and that the theme is dull and overworked. Despite all that, it's a beautiful, beautiful album, perfect for a folky chill-out, or general background contemplation. But if Adem ever wants to move into the foreground, it might serve him well to find a little more life in his own work and words, and to stop looking for it so hard elsewhere...
Anything such as Dilated Peoples' '20/20> (*** / Parlophone) featuring Dr Greenthumb should carry an advisory sticker right next to the one about explicit lyrics, warning of the inevitable over-saturation of weed-centric puns, boasts and rhyming reposts. Not that it's a terribly bad thing, but to open an album with it doesn't bode well for the chance of innovative things to come. Those stickers can make us judge an album by its cover, though, and even our first aural impressions can be wrong. The first 40 seconds of '20/20' are dull, run-of-the-mill filler. 'Back Again', however, 40 seconds of drivel late in its arrival, is spot-on. Full of energy, full of beat and full of itself, you find yourself truly believing in their own hype. The trend, luckily, continues... and it's not just the beats and the bravado. Dilated Peoples take the moral baton on a step further this time round, and preach and testify to their beliefs in a way Greenthumb's intro wouldn't have left you thinking at all likely. 'Alarm Clock Music' is a perfect demonstration of how even the most insistently repetitive looping doesn't have to get old, whilst 'Olde English' and 'The Eyes Have It' are a stoned witmonger's tour-de-force.
Sometime the 'Peoples take their eyes off the ball and slip focus into the hazy shapes of inter-track skits and mildly amusing weed jokes. They wouldn't be as credible or fun if they didn't. But the majority of this album is sharp and incisive, and well worth stumping up the price of a quarter for.
'Scribbled in Chalk' (**** / Shoeshine) is Karine Polwart's tour-de-force. She's already held the folk world's attention for a good few years now, playing off her live charisma, and more-than-promising earlier offering, 'Faultlines'. That album was a gem; this one is a shop-full. Lyrically she's matured... in all sense of the word. The voice carries something more worldly than your average, but without losing any of its pure innocence and joy. All of this is backed up by perfectly orchestrated strings, strings that scoop up the pictures the words paint, and press the stories to that emotional centre accessible only to a string quartet.
But this is a bearded folkie talking. This album is perfect, but in that peculiar way that means half of you shouldn't pick it up even from a bargain bin. Well, you should, but you might not realise how very good it really is. Polwart, whether consciously or not, comes from a long tradition, that can be heard throughout the LP, but most of all perhaps on the closing track, 'Follow the Heron'. And unfortunate as it is, that tradition has a boring reputation, and she only just steers the album clear of the soporific folk abyss. But steer it past she does, and there's a dangerous excitement in that safe voyage. Seeing the album navigate the straits of tedium successfully is rather like watching another narrowly avoiding becoming static or noise. When the album closes you realise you've been gripping the edge of your seat, and there's a moment of disbelief, as you wonder, can 50 minutes have just passed without a single faux-pas? 'Scribbled in Chalk' is an album of extraordinary beauty, poignancy and strength, and shows the potential for that transcendence of genre that fellow folksters like Joni and Bob have occasionally managed.
There are a lot of things that make Howling Bells (self titled, **** / Bella Union) a great band (and a great album - possibly the biggest downfall of which is that initial lack of inspiration that forces us to label this LP as 'S/T'. Let that being our biggest axe to grind speak volumes). Chief among these virtues, however, has to be Juanita Stein's voice. It smooches up to you in a flowing cocktail dress, and whispers warmly into your ear. Simultaneously throaty and ethereal (no mean feat), it guides the songs in their winding way through the LP. Each song meanders into the next without actually having to merge, Fuzzy, dirging guitars mysteriously give way to floating melodies, then screeching guitar harmonies are backed by a monotone intonation. They certainly keep you on the edge of your seat. 'Low Happening' is a clear standout, as Juanita's voice nearly cracks as she sings "you listen to trash, but it's not rock n roll" is an exercise in watching someone bend the veneer of polished cool without ever breaking it.
The sound is studied, but the approach is decidedly lo-fi... at times they sound like early Warhols, the laidback grinds are heavily reminiscent of the Velvet Underground, but the whole thing has been transformed by the darker forces of lounge music, fused with the country music of Transylvania. It's messed up, but in that pretty, cohesive way that'll have you returning to it time and again, searching out the nuggets of musical gold hidden away in its sepia dream world.
This writer could probably never find a bad word to say about Pretty Girls Make Graves ('Élan Vital', **** / Matador)... formative band in his musical back-story y'see. Plus they're bloody brilliant. It's lucky, then, that they've produced such a good standing this time out.
Those dizzy, spiralling, echoing guitar riffs are still there. So's Zollo's perfectly bundled energy, released just as needed to build up into a seemingly helpless crescendo, without ever breaking a sweat. Things are artier this time round, though. The words are that bit cleverer. The songs have the occasional darker edge that you can't quite get a handle on... and those droning harmonies can be the saddest sound in the universe. Then again, they also make cracking choruses, and this is an album full of chorus. The primary school scales on the xylophone or organ that were previously relegated to their B-sides ('C-30, C-60, C-90, Go!' etc) get a look-in too. The optimism sometimes spills right over - 'Parade' is an outrageously joyful song for PGMG. And all of this change is for the good: the sound is more mature, innovation is taking place. Listening to 'Élan Vital' teaches you something, damn it, as all good music should: it makes you think. Here are none of the metal-tinged anthems that defined their earlier offerings ('Speakers Push the Air', 'All Medicated Geniuses'), but that metal edge has been traded in for a broader, more effective sword. PGMG have performed that most essential of tasks to maintain their formative status in a fan's collection: they've changed. And even if they've not got any better (they have), they've pushed the envelope a stage further, and are just as darned good as they were before, and more interesting into the bargain.
Let's get the comparisons out of the way to start with. Babyshambles may have risen out of the ashes of the 'tines first, and Doherty is a pan-media sensation (whether positive or negative is of no relevance really). But in Dirty Pretty Things, Barat has made a band. It's clear from the outset, if it hadn't been before, that this is the really continuation of that life-blood that the pair spawned before.
That said, 'Waterloo to Anywhere' (*** / Vertigo) is an album that's been crafted, mulled over and its every turn thought out. The polish has left a slightly reflective surface over every track. Which makes it all the better when we don't mind... the tread of as many feet as will dance to this record will provide the scuff on the brilliant dancefloor. What Barat has done is to capture relatively pristine versions of the live sets... a form of musical taxidermy, or animatronics. The pulsing distorted guitars and slurred vocals are almost live recordings... almost. And that's a good thing... as Coxon has demonstrated it's a viable tactic, and Barat certainly seems to have taken a few tips from Graham's (small) commercial rulebook. Hence the proliferation of first-class, dancefloor-filling singles-to-be. An album can't fail to be good when it's this much fun, spitting out enough energy to slam you onto the 'floor, drunk or not, to flail your arms about like they were actually there.
Neil Hannon. A one-man force in the songwriting world for the last lord only knows how long (16 years - God!). His latest offering as The Divine Comedy, 'Victory For The Comic Muse' (*** / Parlophone), sadly enough, shows no real progression from the last. But perhaps that's ok, when you're as talented as Mr Hannon. There are hurdles to be taken in loving this album. You have to get past the keen sense of embarrassment at the dad-rock factor: a strong force on this album. The humour is long and slow, the puns are in abundance, and the dad-talking-about-sex vibe is apparent in a good quarter of the tracks. Take 'To Die A Virgin', for instance, where Hannon tries to get into a teenage boy's mind, who in turn is trying to get into a teenage girl's pants. The song is really and truly very good, and very funny... but it takes a bit of getting used to.
Lyrically Hannon is at the top of a medium-paced, high-wit game. The catch-lines have the suave feel of a swing tune to them ('A Lady of a Certain Age'), that is when they're not being just plain old inspired: 'Arthur C Clarke's Mysterious World' wins the prize with the timeless slap-inspiring suggestion that his girlfriend is entirely 'logic-free' rhyming with the Baltic Sea. The songs are middle-of-the-road, though, and there's no denying it. Deny it we would love to, because we enjoy it all so, but Hannon has passed his days of excitement. He is achieving, however, what all artists dream of (those that don't actually want to go out in flames, that is), and maturing gracefully and with the musical world's respect. He's far from over-the-hill, but if he must crest it, he's going to coast the summit for as long as possible. If this is a fall from his peak, it's imperceptible, and the occasional witty swell carries him just as high as he's ever been...
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