Now in its tenth year of existence, Ritchie Young’s Loch Lomond
project has grown and receded through many guises, moving from solo
beginnings to become a revolving, multi-headed ensemble with a small
orchestra of instruments at its disposal. Fourth album Dresses (Loch
Lomond’s second for Chemikal Underground) seems to wheel out every one
of them, though never gratuitously; rather, this elegant collection
elicits emotions through restraint, deploying strings, brass and the
like with moderation.
For the most part, Young’s powerful vocals remain forefront, imbuing
songs like Virgin Mountain with a persuasive drama. But credit is
claimed just as surely by others present – not least longstanding member
Jason Leonard, whose ambient lap steel interludes boost the record’s
pronounced cinematic beauty. Other highlights include the haunting
choral harmonies of atmospheric opener Bells and the closing trumpet
calls of Black Dresses, which supply the record with one final lift to
the heavens – a fitting residence.
Out 8th April
Dear Reader - Rivonia (****)
Dear Reader (the nom-de-plume of South African songwriter Cherilyn MacNeil) has named third album Rivonia after
the Johannesburg neighbourhood she grew up in. But the record has more
demanding lyrical themes than childhood, with the suburb having played a
significant role in the country’s unhappy history of Apartheid: it was
there, at a farm called Liliesleaf, that several ANC members were
arrested, with the subsequent Rivonia trials leading directly to the
imprisonment of numerous key figures (Nelson Mandela included).
It’s an ambitious subject to set down in song, but MacNeil finds
effortless ways in, tackling politics askance through (imagined)
recollections and oblique poetry. The music to which these tales are
set, meanwhile, is vivid and puissant, with 26.04.1994 (the date prior
to the elections that took Mandela to the presidency) a silvery, soaring
highlight and Man of the Book’s dancing, wheezing melodies affirmation
of talents finally finding full voice.
Out 1st April
Roddy Woomble - Listen To Keep (***)
The sleeve for Listen to Keep includes a
snap of Roddy Woomble relaxing by a fireplace, shoes off and feet up.
The music, meanwhile, evidences Woomble’s continued retreat from
erstwhile noisiness, entrenching its maker deeper in the warm and
familiar folk territories explored on predecessors My Secret is My Silence andThe Impossible Song & Other Songs. In short, not only does the former Idlewild frontman look comfortable on his third solo release; he sounds comfortable too.
This can be taken two ways. If you were to insist on looking for
negatives, it’d be relatively simple to make a claim for the album’s
pedestrianism, with smooth easy-listening melodies offering few
surprises. But comfort needn’t imply complacency. While the components
are often stock, their arrangement is consummately considered
throughout, with tracks like The Last One of My Kind possessing a
pronounced pop bent and housing some of Woomble’s most striking lyrics
to date.
Out now
With righteous new album Monkey Minds in the
Devil's Time setting the world to rights, we sit down with Steve Mason
to discuss his politics of dissent [feature written for the March 2013 issue of The Skinny]
A foretaste of Steve Mason’s sharply politicised concept album Monkey Minds in the Devil’s Time
came at the tail end of last year, with the online release of vanguard
track Fight Them Back. A catalytic call-to-arms with a blunt, mantric
message (“You get up and fight them back; a fist, a boot, and a baseball
bat”), it came coupled to an incendiary promo; a collage in which
global protest footage met fragmented symbols of the targeted power
systems: scheming politicians, manipulative media, unfettered capitalist
greed. A real-life variation on Peter Finch’s beleaguered Network
anchorman – mad as hell and not willing to take it anymore – the song’s
narrator addresses the listener directly, asking “at what point do you
think it’s time to act?” After spending a few hours in Mason’s company,
it’s clear this is no idle enquiry. From bank bailouts to David Cameron’s “mission to turn this country into some sort of wasteland,” the
Fife-based songwriter holds forth on a number of topics, freewheeling
from trade unions to tax dodgers and emphasising throughout the
importance of individual responsibility.
“I knew that I wanted do something political," he explains of the
album’s origins, “but a human politics, not necessarily party politics."
He sighs. "We’ve all just been stamped through this mincing machine to
become little capitalist consumers, as if that’s the be all and end all.
And personally, I think it’s time for us as a species to change
our priorities… What happened to spirituality, and love for fellow human
beings? Instead [we have] this idea of living to work, which is a
very odd concept. But it’s been sold to us, and we’ve bought it, and
it’s terrifying. Capitalism can only ever end in a bad fucking way.”
For Mason, signs of endgame exploitation are everywhere: in reports
of office workers made to wear wristbands that monitor their movements;
in the on-going horsemeat scandal (“that didn’t surprise me at all –
you’re a fool if you think that putting food production and capitalism
together isn’t going to end up that way”); and in the recent allegations
that online retailer Amazon hired neo-Nazi heavies to police the
immigrant workforce of a distribution centre in Germany. “These are the
kind of things that I think are very important,” he stresses. “I think
as a race we’ve been smashed into submission by a very small group of
people, and we need to start fighting back and changing the way we live and think about things. There is another way.”
Despite Fight Them Back’s confrontational polemic, Mason is keen to
downplay smash-the-system belligerence as the only valid response. “We have all the power, we just don’t know we’ve got it,” he
emphasises, “but there’s plenty we can do. I used to be, I guess, a
little bit naïve, and think that one massive act would overthrow the
whole system, but the more you look at it the more you realise how
global and interlinked it all is. So for me, as I say on the album, it’s
more about small conversations, open rebellion and generally not
falling into the trap of having an argument when you meet someone who
doesn’t agree with you. Have a conversation, because they can learn
something from you and you can almost certainly learn something from
them.”
He
describes a pay-it-forward car mechanic in Portsmouth who’s apparently
been cutting the bills of hard-up customers on the proviso they
subsequently give the money to a homeless person. “Things like that I
find more inspiring than anything else,” he explains. “I think something
like that would achieve far more than, you know, 10,000 people
protesting on the streets of London. I’ve got to the point now where I
don’t even know if there’s any point in protesting... It feels like when
you protest, you’re meeting the system head on – you’re playing it at
its own game, and it can manipulate that situation however it wants.
It’s got people within the protest group kicking things off, and then
you’ve got your horrible fucking bully boys within the police, people
with no fucking numbers on their uniforms just battering people… I just
think protest needs to be rethought completely. Someone like that mechanic is going to achieve far more in the space of a year than a year of protests.”
The album’s narrative, then, is one of gradual political awakening –
both his personal journey from his mid-teens to now, and an anticipated
public rejection of “false goals” such as extreme wealth or
fame-at-all-costs. Whether censuring stage schools (“enormous shit pumps
filling our culture with meaningless garbage”) or questioning the acute
consumption of bling-laden pop idols (“I think that people will look
back at those people and think ‘fuck me, you squandered that didn’t you –
you had all that and you were just spunking it all over the place’”),
Mason’s social diagnoses are as astute as they are fervidly phrased.
Politics have long informed Mason’s music – from the Gulf War undertones of The Beta Band’s Hot Shots II to the Bush and Blair call-outs in King Biscuit Time cut C I AM 15 – but Monkey Minds…
is their most overt airing yet. Does this reflect a shift in personal
priorities? “I guess I was never particularly what I would call ‘A
Political Person’” he replies. “I knew that the right wing was bad and
that the left never seemed to achieve a whole lot, but my political
opinions have more been formed by realising that there’s just something
intrinsically wrong with society.”
He motions to the street outside. “You’ve only got to look out this
window. We’re sitting in this nice, independently-run café in Edinburgh,
and you look outside and see these horrible fucking bins, scruffy
buildings, horrible pavements – everything’s cheap and throwaway. And it
doesn’t need to be like that, not with the amount of revenue that comes
in from all our various taxes. People think ‘oh, well Leith is a
deprived area,’ but it doesn’t need to be, it really doesn’t. I just
think that we’ve fallen into this trap of believing what governments and
authority tell us. But what they’re telling you is an enormous lie, in
order for the Military-Industrial Complex, the energy companies, and the
banks to profit.”
This reference to a pan-institutional plot is neither the first or
last time during our conversation that Mason alludes darkly to
clandestine networks of power – the sort of talk that’s prone to
attracting all sorts of dismissive labels, ‘conspiracy theorist’ chief
amongst them. But Mason is nothing if not self-aware. He understands how
such grandiose rhetoric could sound to those who don’t share his
anti-authoritarian zeal, and is realistic about where his album fits in
amongst it all. When I ask whether he has any hopes that Monkey Minds…
could help spark an epiphany in even just a single listener, he
dismisses the notion. “No, I think that’s an insane idea,” he smiles. “I
think that the idea is to start a dialogue – a dialogue like this, a
dialogue that somebody might have after they read this interview,
whatever. Even if people think that what I’m saying is crazy or naïve or
whatever it might be, it’s still some sort of conversation.”
"Cameron’s mission is to turn this country into some sort of wasteland” - STEVE MASON
Would it disappoint him if people were enthusiastic about the music
without engaging with its politics? “Absolutely not, because you can…”
he stops and laughs. “I was about to say ‘you can lead a horse to
water,’ but that would be an incredibly stupid thing to say... But
really I wanted [the album] to be full of melody, emotion and beauty,
and I like to think that people can listen to it two different ways – in
terms of the things that we’re talking about, or just as an album of
recorded music. It’s totally up to you and I really don’t mind. I don’t
want to be ramming things down people’s throats – people are having
things rammed down their throats 24 hours a day already. And I’m not
here to sell any kind of ideology – I’m not coming with any
left-wing/right-wing manifesto. So with that in mind,” he smiles, “they
can do what they want.”
Next month, Mason plays a trio of UK gigs – an abridged tour that he
hopes to expand on later in the year. “Gigs are difficult because
ideally you want to…” he clears his throat. “Er, make some money from
what you do.” He laughs, evidently aware of the irony. “So it’s very
hard. You’ve just got to be so careful how you spend the money you have.
The dream at the moment is just being able to finance it and make it
break even.”
Considering his anti-corporate stance, do financial pressures put his personal convictions under strain? “Well
that’s why I quit the Beta Band,” he replies. “All through the Beta
Band we’d been offered a lot of money – and when I say a lot, I mean
over a million in licensing deals – and I had to turn them down. And
that’s fine, but what I realised – and it sounds very obvious but it
took me a while to realise – is that turning down adverts is a luxury.
It’s very easy to do when you’ve got money in your bank account, it’s a
fucking doddle. Unless you’re a greedy fuck – unless you’re Ant or Dec
or somebody like that – it’s a relatively easy decision to make. But it
becomes increasingly difficult… I mean, I’m 40 now, and obviously you
start thinking about the future. You think, ‘fuck, I’m living
hand-to-mouth and I don’t know if in 5 years’ time I’m going to have a
record deal, or if anyone’s going to want to buy my music.’ So you do
start to worry; you don’t really think like an 18-year-old anymore...”
He breaks off. “The thing is, you get these companies phoning you up and
they’re like, ‘oh, we’re a clothing brand and we’re cool and we’d like
to be associated with you,’ and when you do a bit of investigating you
find out they’re owned by JD Sports.”
The example isn’t plucked from thin air, but relates to a genuine
recent request. “They wanted to licence Fight Them Back,” Mason
recounts, his disbelief still clear. “They wanted to have posters of me
in the changing rooms: ‘We’re JD Sports, and we support the fight
against the power system, and this guy’s with us all the way!’”
So a subsidiary of a company amongst the most looted during the 2011 riots wanted to use related imagery to flog stock? “Exactly!”
he exclaims. “It’s like, don’t you understand? But I suppose the
frightening thing is maybe, because they’ve been able to buy everything
before, it would never cross their mind that someone would turn them
down. It would never cross their mind that somebody meant what they were
saying, and that they weren’t just going for the protest dollar, as
Bill Hicks might say. That’s a frightening concept – that they’re so
used to everything being for sale. But it’s not.”
It may be provincial inexperience talking, but booing a film
screening has always seemed like unusual behaviour – pointless when
directed at unresponsive flickers of light and shade, and needlessly
spiteful when done with the filmmakers present. Yet every year, reports
from Cannes suggest that vociferously bellowing displeasure screen-wards
is all the rage amongst festival critics, with putdowns in print
apparently only part of their appraisal process. As with most forms of
knee-jerk evaluation, such opprobrious jeers rarely translate into
lasting negativity, with the list of films to famously elicit boos in
the festival’s 67-year history containing a significant number of works
now widely (though obviously not unanimously) acknowledged as amongst
cinema’s finest: L’Avventura (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1960), Gertrud (Carl Th. Dreyer, 1964) and The Tree of Life
(Terence Malick, 2011), amongst others. In all three cases, catcalls at
premieres were later drowned out, with the first awarded the Jury
Prize; the second named one of the films of that year by Cahiers du Cinema critics; and the third scooping Cannes’ top prize the Palme d’Or.
Of last year’s competition, Mexican auteur Carlos Reygadas’ wilfully challenging fourth feature Post Tenebras Luxreportedly garnered the loudest derision from French cineastes, with Manohla Dargis of The New York Times noting it came in ‘for the harshest reception I’ve heard here since Vincent Gallo’s Brown Bunny in 2003’.[1] While, like L’Avventura
et al, the boos by no means reveal all about the film’s Cannes welcome
(with a Best Director prize one of several off-setting details), they
have been predictive of the film’s subsequent rough treatment by a
number of critics: Xan Brooks describes it as ‘a congealed Jungian
stew’;[2] Geoff Andrews declared it a ‘frustratingly vague achievement’;[3] while David Jenkins argues that Reygadas ‘has chosen to take his audience spelunking in the surreal depths of his own naval.’[4]
Amidst this are, of course, notable voices to the contrary, including
Jonathan Romney (who has celebrated the film’s originality in both Screen Daily and Sight and Sound) and Tony Rayns, who praises its ‘sheer sensory impact’.[5] Whether one agrees with its detractors or champions, it’s fair to say that Post Tenebras Lux
is not a film to yield meaning easily. Throughout, it is never fully
clear whether what we are watching in any particular scene is past,
present or future; a character’s reality or their fantasy; a symbolic
aside or an integral piece of the puzzle. This balanced obscurity is
reflected in the film’s distinctive aesthetic: shot in the square
dimensions of Academy ratio using a distorting camera lens that blurs
and bends the edge of the frame, thereby presenting the film like a
puzzle box, with inscrutable edges masking any potential clarity at its
core.
The opening sequence shows a young girl playing in a flooded field as
the sun sets and the weather turns. As the child happily splashes after
cows and horses, the light fades further and thunder enters the
soundtrack; childish enthusiasm gives way to fear, and soon she is in
complete darkness, only visible in silhouette when sheet lightning
flashbulbs the sky. And that, in terms of incident, is all that happens;
but the way it happens – creating an unstable tone that
fluctuates from innocent abandon to quiet dread – is affecting in a way
that has little to do with narrative understanding. Which is fortunate,
since the scene it segues into proves an early mettle-tester for those
sceptical of Reygadas’s experimentalism, boasting what is perhaps the
film’s most striking image: a glowing demon entering the home of a
sleeping family, for motives unknown. The scenes are linked visually by
the lightning’s strobing effect and aurally by cricket song, bridging
one hypnotic sequence of ambiguous meaning with another and leaving thin
threads of understanding that thicken as the film progresses. Even on
second viewing, these threads resist being fully knitted together
(particularly when further enigmas in the form of English rugby matches
and foreign sex clubs are factored in), but neither is the film as
thoroughly resistant to interpretation as cynics would have you believe.
Certain scenes may be non-sequiters in terms of plot, but there is
always something – a gesture, an echo, a feeling – from which to hang
connections. For instance, when the demon scene is later repeated, the
shots either side add highly suggestive layers to the monster’s symbolic
meaning.
Towards the end, a character sits down at her piano to play a dying
man a song. Emotively off-key, her serenade seems to extend comfort not
just to its onscreen recipient, but to perplexed sections of the
audience. ‘It’s a dream/ only a dream/ and it’s fading now’ she sings,
Neil Young’s lyrics seeming to urge the viewer to abandon causal logic
and embrace the associational interconnections of dreams. The other
option is rejection: to survey the film’s mysteries and proclaim the
emperor naked – and while to treat Reygadas such seems unjust, it would,
at least, place him in good company. Writing on the aforementioned Gertrud,
David Bordwell suggests that dismissive reactions to demanding material
can sometimes be indicative ‘of something very important.’ He argues
that Gertrud’s initial rejection revealed ‘the panic that can
seize us when confronted with a film that unremittingly, almost
malevolently, refuses to be cinema of any classifiable kind.’[6] For this reason alone, it seems safe to suggest that a film as vividly idiosyncratic as this one is not to be judged hurriedly.
Christopher Buckle
Researcher and journalist
March 2013
Enjoyment of Identity Thief largely rests on how much goodwill
you feel towards its stars’ respective shticks, with both Jason Bateman
and Melissa McCarthy cast to type and coasting on well-worn tics: he
plays Sandy, another in a long line of nice guys prone to feeling
wearisomely undervalued; she plays Diana – brashly non-decorous but with
a good heart deep down. When the latter steals the former’s identity it
falls to Sandy to drive her halfway across the country to fess up to
her crimes – and what’s more, for tenuously explained reasons, he’s only
got a few days to do it! Add gangsters, bounty hunters and snakes to
the mix and you’ve got the makings of a zany mismatched buddy flick in
the Planes, Trains and Automobiles mould, except, in this case,
the formula’s coughed out a dud. The leads’ chemistry can’t disguise
the lack of decent gags; ultimately, their cross-country trip feels as
arduous for us as it is for them.
1. hookworms - preservation
2. the history of apple pie - shelf life
3. shearwater - immaculate
4. killing joke - requiem
5. the the -i've been waiting for tomorrow (all my life)
6. marnie stern - the year of the glad
7. the b-52s - rock lobster
8. the talking heads - road to nowhere
9. sinkane - running
10. django django - default
11. bobby womack - across 110th street
12. the knife - pass it on
13. css - hit me like a rock
14. scott and charlene's wedding - gammy leg
15. pavement - two states
16. kid canaveral - breaking up is the new getting married
17. the strokes - the modern age
18. the nerves - hanging on the telephone
19. sparks - number 1 song in heaven
20. robyn - dancing on my own
21. tv on the radio - wolf like me
22. neu - after eight
23. the flaming groovies - paint it black
24. buzzcocks - orgasm addict
25. wire - mannequin
26. tlc - no scrubs
27. mclusky - alan is a cowboy killer
28. the breeders - divine hammer
29. the cars - you might think
30. electric light orchestra - livin' thing
31. fleetwood mac - you make loving fun
32. the pretenders - stop your sobbing
33. santigold - les artistes
34. electronic - getting away with it
35. beastie boys - no sleep till brooklyn
36. jimmy eat world - salt sweat sugar
37. jimi hendrix - crosstown traffic
38. the wedding present - kennedy
39. interpol - pda
40. sebadoh - beauty of the ride
41. devo - space junk
42. spencer davis group - keep on running
43. the isley brothers - nowhere to run
44. the supremes - the happening
45. the jesus and mary chain - head on
46. pixies - gouge away
47. yeah yeah yeahs - gold lion
48. the clash - rock the casbah
49. abba - summer night city
50. michael jackson - don't stop till you get enough
51. tatu - all the things she said
52. prince - i could never take the place of your man
53. david bowie - let's dance
54. blondie - atomic
55. billy idol - mony mony
56. dexy's midnight runners - jackie wilson said
57. the four tops - loco in aculpulco
58. dusty springfield - i only want to be with you
59. rocket from the crypt - on a rope
60. bruce springsteen - born to run
61. chuck berry - rock and roll music
Steve Mason - Monkey Minds in the Devil's Time (****)
In both breadth and depth, Steve Mason’s new opus is a lot to
assay. A far-reaching concept album with an ardent heart, it’s driven
thematically by fiery dissent and musically by restless exploration. Its
20-track girth helps facilitate this diversity, as Mason interlinks a
core set of songs with an array of wing-spreading vignettes: from
slivers of moody dub to pointed speech samples; collages of
palette-cleansing noise to a piquant guest spot from London MC Mystro,
dissecting the London riots to a sturdy backbeat.
The longer offerings display as much inspiration, with A Lot of
Love’s blissful introspection, Lonely’s gracious gospel and Fight Them
Back’s impassioned rallying cry but three of the many highlights.
Sequenced with a raconteur’s exactitude, the narrative that forms has
both definition and emotional heft (with closer Come to Me possibly the
album’s most affecting five minutes), conveying an uncommon integrity
and re-affirming Mason’s invigorating talents.
Out 18th March
Marnie Stern - The Chronicles of Marnia (****)
With Marnie Stern’s signature sound long honed to a tee, Chronicles of Marnia sees
the voyage of this born shredder take a turn for the less frenetic.
Though still rooted in jaw-dropping fretwork, the intensity has shifted
down a gear, and the relative lightness is flattering.
A personnel change plays a part in this refreshment, with Zach Hill
vacating the kit to focus squarely on Death Grips after three albums by
Stern’s side. His replacement is no technical slouch himself (to put it
mildly), but Kid Millions’ comparatively reserved contributions suit the
album’s clarity, with toned-down polyrhythms affording Stern’s
songwriting more space to breathe. Indeed, tracks like Nothing Is Easy
are Stern’s poppiest yet - though that doesn’t mean she’s lost her hard
edge, as pacey opener Year of the Glad testifies. The cleaner aesthetic
may shed a fan or two, but Stern’s set to replace them with a whole heap
more.
Out 18th March
Harper Simon - Division Street (***)
It would be easy to see the calibre of guest musicians on Division Street –
including members of The Strokes, Elvis Costello’s Attractions, Wilco
and Bright Eyes – and cynically conclude that being the son of a star
doesn’t half help grease the wheels. But such an assumption pays Harper
‘son of Paul’ Simon a massive disservice, with his music more than
strong enough to stand on its own two feet.
His vintage rock/country/folk style isn’t overly concerned with
originality, but breezily up-tempo tracks like Nothing Gets Through
convey an inherited ear for melody and a knack for rendering same-old
sounds newly inviting. Crisp production transmits a slick but not
misplaced confidence, and while the lack of surprises stunts Division Street’s
memorability, it gets in its share of peaks before attentions wane,
from the throbbing bassline and garage guitar of Dixie Cleopatra, to
quiet closer Leaves of Golden Brown.
The third feature from Andrey Zvyagintsev is an icy anti-thriller
thick with tension and brimming with allegorical undertones. Nadezhda
Markina is superb in the title role: a retired nurse from a modest
background now married to a rich former patient. Despite occasional
tenderness the couple live separate lives, with Elena acting more as
housekeeper than matrimonial partner but seemingly accepting of her lot –
in all but one regard.
Both have children from former marriages: on his side, a disdainful
daughter; on Elena’s, a feckless son. When a health scare introduces the
issue of inheritance, resentments seep through and the sanctity of family
is dramatically tested by money's corrupting influence. Throughout,
events are staged with masterly precision, with scenes turning on a
knife edge and nerves stoked by Philip Glass’s foreboding score. If The Return was Zvyagintsev’s calling card and The Banishment clarified his ambition, Elena is the film where the Russian director affirms himself one of contemporary cinema’s most assured voices.
Kid Canaveral - Now That You Are A Dancer (****)
With Now That You Are a Dancer, Kid
Canaveral make the whole ‘difficult second album’ to-do look terribly
passé, offering a textbook example of how to build on past successes
without diluting them. The finer qualities of assured debut Shouting at Wildlife are nimbly carried over, with the band’s abundant charm and indie-pop antics as appealing as ever.
There’s nary a slither of sophomore slump to clutter
proceedings, as tracks like buoyant opener The Wrench and the propellant
pace of Breaking Up is the New Getting Married re-establish a
personable palette of dynamic guitar lines and crisp wit. But,
importantly, inspirations haven’t stood still for the quartet, and there
are newfound tweaks to testify to their musical development. From the
synth clinch of Skeletons to A Compromise’s cacophonous finale, Kid
Canaveral have matured their sound whilst retaining their trademark
spryness, confidently extending themselves and thereby hinting at
further, yet-untapped promise.
Out now
Scott & Charlene's Wedding - Two Weeks EP (****)
The nuptials between Erinsborough’s number one sweethearts
isn’t the crispest of pop culture references, but it befits a project
with its head in the past. Craig Dermody’s slacker rock sound first took
shape on debut Para Vista Social Club, and this
follow-up EP sticks closely to its predecessor’s scuffed blueprint, both
in terms of lyrics (biographical) and pedal settings (fuzzy).
This continuity gives Two Weeks the air of a welcome
dispatch from a faraway friend (albeit one prone to oversharing in the
case of comically nauseating highpoint Gammy Leg), but while full of
echoes, this is no pale re-tread. On the contrary, the melodies are
sharper and the impact more pronounced, with Dermody’s charmingly
unruffled mien conveying ever-increasing appeal.
Out 11th March
Conquering Animal Sound - On Floating Bodies (****)
Entropy and hydrostatics aren’t your average lyrical fodder,
but Conquering Animal Sound (aka Anneke Kampman and James Scott) aren’t
your average musicians. Their breadth of inspiration – not only
scientific and intellectual, but in terms of musical tone and texture –
is truly impressive, their sound a glittering, brittle synthesis of
agitated machine music and celestial lullabies.
The duo’s second album recalls many of the same touchstones as debut Kammerspeil
(Warn Me’s thematic echoes of Hyperballad, for instance, reinstate the
Bjork comparisons), but the results feel more assertively individual
than before, cultivating a distinctive atmosphere at once warm and
disquieting.
From the ominous aura of Ultimate Heat Death of the Universe (as
boldly impressive as its end-of-existence title would indicate) to the
dark magic of Treehouse, the restrained pulse of A Noise Remains to the
future-R&B of tracks like No Dream, On Floating Bodies proves an intoxicatingly unorthodox pop record bursting with ambition.
With his moneyed exterior and supreme self-assurance, hedge-fund
capitalist Robert Miller (Richard Gere) epitomises the maxim that image is
everything; that the projection of success is as important as actual success. Director
Nicholas Jarecki seemingly operates from a similar principle, his debut feature
using a financial-ese title and high-calibre cast to create a semblance of
intelligence and depth not supported by the content.
Jarecki’s chief coup is the casting of Gere, whose slick
demeanour fits the role like a bespoke Rolex. As Miller’s life unravels due to
a mix of misjudgements and bad driving, Gere convincingly conveys the
character’s uncowed arrogance, as he scrabbles to salvage a fraudulent merger
while evading the attentions of a dogged homicide detective. But given lines
like “I’m a patriarch! That’s my role!”, the actor’s composure understandably
falters, and with little of consequence to say about the bubbled world it
depicts (and a plot that collapses into conveniences), Arbitrage is ultimately left as depleted as its protagonist’s
balance sheet.
Tonight’s the final UK date
of what Frightened Rabbit’s Scott Hutchison will later describe as “one
of the best tours we’ve ever had.” Furthermore, it comes a fortnight
after fourth album Pedestrian Verse wound up
plonked between Rihanna and Calvin Harris in the album chart top ten – a
valedictory confirmation of just how broad the band’s appeal has grown.
This heightened buzz is reflected in tonight’s turnout. The fact the
gig sold out well in advance was to be expected, but less anticipated is
how quickly the room fills on the night, with the ballroom bustling
well ahead of the headliners. Maybe it’s pure anticipation that brings
folk out so early. Or maybe they just caught wind of how good first
support Three Blind Wolves are sounding these days, with sprawling new single In Here Somewhere building nicely and boding well for their future. Wintersleep
fare less well – proficient, but mostly ignored by the now-heaving
Barrowlands (save for the straightforward folk stomp of Weighty Ghost,
which prompts the odd whoop). For the pockets paying attention, however,
they hit their marks, with expansive closer Nerves Normal, Breath
Normal making the most distinct impact.
Frightened Rabbit know a thing or two about impact,
with the scream that greets their arrival deafening and shrill. They
explode out the traps with Holy and The Modern Leper, and though the
latter’s dampened by temporarily poor sound, any cracks are patched by
the crowd’s amplified enthusiasm. Highlights of albums 2-4 (it seems Sing the Greys
has been resigned to history, unfortunately) are plentiful: My
Backwards Walk is more majestic than ever; Nothing Like You rattles
along at an invigorating clip; while a hypnotic Acts of Man rounds out
the main set. As is customary, Scott delivers Poke solo and sparks a
bellowing sing-along – a favourite set-trick that seems to trigger an
even more pronounced response than usual. Scott looks genuinely moved,
even teary. “You’re fucking wonderful” he says with a slightly breaking
voice as the room takes over – right back at you, Frabbits.
Let’s not mince words: Hansel and Gretel is
not a good movie. But with its shoddiness so clearly telegraphed – from
its premise (fit for a gag or two but already overstretched before the
end of the opening credits) to the pushed back release date (ostensibly
an attempt to capitalise on Jeremy Renner’s rising status, but
nevertheless rarely a sign of studio confidence) – anyone leaving the
cinema disappointed by the ludicrous and unwieldy results really only
has themselves to blame.
As the sorceress-slaying siblings, Renner and Gemma Arterton struggle
valiantly with a script that mostly involves cracking hag-heads while
cracking wise. With so little to work with their talents are largely wasted, but at least they seem to be having fun, and this self-awareness
(rubbish, but proudly rubbish) proves the film’s saving grace. Hints of
a sequel are, however, a step too far: to borrow a (tiresome) quote
from the film itself: “you gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Tuesday, 5 March 2013
Feeling a little short on
blurb inspiration this month, we searched the World Wide Web for a
template we could use for the March bottle rocket invitation…
To Whom It May Concern:
I, [BOTTLE ROCKET], would like to invite [YOU LOT AND ANYONE ELSE WHO'S
ABOUT] to [HAVE A DANCE] at [NICE N SLEAZY]. As one of our longtime
valued customers, we hope you will join us for what is sure to be a
[DECENT ENOUGH] event. The
[BOTTLE ROCKET] will take place on the [15th MARCH] from [11:30PM] until
around [3AM]. Limited free parking is available at [I DON’T KNOW OF ANY
PARKING I DON’T THINK THIS BIT APPLIES].
In addition to the [MUSIC FOR DANCING] there will be [DUNNO, DRINKS?], so don’t miss out on the fun!
Everyone here at [BOTTLE ROCKET] looks forward to meeting you and
sharing our [MUSIC FOR DANCING] with you at this special [MONTHLY]
event.
Yours faithfully, [BOTTLE ROCKET]
(bottle rocket, nice n sleazy, friday 15th march, 11:30pm-3am, indienewwavepoprocknrollsoulpostpunketc – requests on the facebook wall as per usual!)
Tiptoeing the divide between showiness and subtlety, Caitlin Rose has
a voice all-but guaranteed to melt hearts. Velvet-soft and
effortlessly emotive, the 25-year-old Nashville native clearly has the
capacity to belt out the high notes, but the good sense to know she
doesn’t always have to, her tender restraint infinitely more affecting
than any big-lunged talent show warbler. But while arguably the star
attraction, there’s more to recommend The Stand In than just a pretty voice.
As on debut Own Side Now, Rose’s hometown heritage shapes her sound significantly; if anything, The Stand In’s
fuller arrangements at times move Rose closer to her more mainstream
modern country contemporaries, not further. But throughout, the
songwriting remains distinguished and immaculately pitched, whether it’s
walking a melancholic waltz (Pink Champagne) or an upbeat strut
(Waitin’). Her mastery of melody yields soulful results that are proud
of their roots yet gratifyingly unbeholden to them.
Out now
Conny Ochs - Black Happy (**)
Best known for his collaboration with doom merchant Wino,
German singer-songwriter Conny Ochs returns to a simple solo set-up with
second album Black Happy. Though a seasoned
performer with many years of music-making under his belt, Ochs’
preferred lyrical topics – pain, sadness, disenchantment – have a
tendency to evoke overdone adolescent angst rather than the more
profound weltschmerz they presumably shoot for; less like a soul laid bare and more like a teenager glowering that no one understands them.
But that’s not to write Black Happy off entirely, with a
scattering of successes present amongst the glum humdrum – an
unexpectedly well-turned phrase here, an impassioned delivery there. No
Sleep Tonight is an example of the latter quality, with its considerable
clichés transcended by a convincing vigour, while the fingerpicked calm
of Stable Chaos demonstrates a rarely-used grace – a simplicity that
possesses far more appeal than the overwrought emotions plied elsewhere.
Out today
Julia Kent - Character (***)
Cellist Julia Kent describes third solo album Character in
evocatively conceptual terms, its ten instrumental pieces a musical
musing on life’s unpredictability, particularly the lack of control each
of us have in our own futures. It’s a suitably grand theme for an album
that has a pronounced transportive power, its affecting serenity
capable of sparking the same kind of meditative introspection in the
listener as that which reportedly drove its creation.
Using loops and beds of found sound, Kent bows palliating melodies
with low key exactitude, and it’s initially a profoundly immersive
listening experience. But Kent’s talents can’t keep Character’s
quality up for its full duration; after a while, the textures blur and
the willing sense of absorption fades into distraction, with tracks too
similar in sound for all to possess their own distinct tenor. While it
lasts, however, the spell cast is strongly felt, and therefore worth
seeking exposure too.
Glasgow Film Festival 2013's closing gala party features a tribute
to Big Star, with DJ sets from Mogwai’s Stuart Braithwaite and the good
folks at Monorail. We take a look at some of the ways Big Star and
Glasgow have connected over the years...
Over 4000 miles of Dixie and ocean separate Memphis, Tennessee from
Glasgow, Scotland, but influence travels far without fatigue. As
tonight’s closing gala tribute will underscore, the music of Big Star
has had a pronounced impact on many of our city’s musicians, with the
mercurial Alex Chilton particularly cherished thanks to time spent here
and friendships made before his sad passing in 2010, aged just 59.
Through a handful of songs, we consider some of the ways in which
Glasgow has shown Big Star love over the years, and been shown it back.
Teenage Fanclub – Ret Liv Dead
The Fannies have never been shy about showing their indebtedness to Chilton and co, going as far as to name fourth album Thirteen after #1 Record’s wistful paean to adolescent romance. While Thirteen
occupies a relatively lowly position in the band’s radiant discography,
the fuzzy beauty of Ret Liv Dead pins down the influence: blissful
melodies, vibrant guitar lines and a frequent, almost tangible
melancholia.
V-Twin – Derailed
V-Twin’s Jason McPhail was a close friend of Chilton’s, putting him
up on his visits to Glasgow and spearheading the Mono tribute concert
held in mid-2010. This gently abrasive ballad combines a simple
vocal-plus-guitar melody with creaking strings and pockets of feedback –
a rough-with-the-smooth aesthetic suggestive of Big Star’s opus work Third/Sister Lovers.
Primal Scream – Star
According to Bobby Gillespie, Big Star influenced Primal Scream in
ways “too many to mention” (with Chilton’s early tutelage of The Cramps
also notably formative). We’ve singled out Vanishing Point’s
oasis of calm Star –not because its title constitutes 50% of the act in
question, but because its woozy lullaby reportedly found a fan in
Chilton himself.
1990s – Take Me Home and Make Me Like It
V-Twin’s other core member Michael McGaughrin went on to drum with
zesty rock and rollers 1990s, who have been known to perform this
ramshackle slice of honky-tonk sleaze-pop live. First appearing on
Chilton’s Bach’s Bottom LP, the track constitutes one of the
more accessible moments in a sprawling solo career known to split Big
Star devotees down the middle.
Teenage Fanclub & Alex Chilton – I’ve Never Found a Girl (To Love Me Like You Do)
A second Teenage Fanclub appearance brings this mini mix-tape full
circle. The Belshill band collaborated with their idol-cum-cohort on
several occasions, with this soulful take on I’ve Never Found a Girl –
recorded for mid-nineties Scottish arts show Don’t Look Down –
particularly worth tracking down on your online video sharing site of
choice.
Kuma opens with a traditional Turkish wedding, but as events
will subsequently underscore, appearances are deceiving. Though
ostensibly marrying the young and handsome Hasan (Murathan Muslu), Ayse
(Begüm Akkaya) is in fact a second wife (or ‘kuma’) for Hasan’s father,
with the whole family proceeding to live under one roof in a flat in
Vienna.
This opening is one of several instances in which director Umut
Dag conspires to create false readings, but the sleight of hand has
purpose, the script’s sly structure keeping secrets from the audience just
as the characters keep secrets from society. Unfortunately, the film
grows over-saturated with big dramatic themes: domestic abuse, cancer,
hidden homosexuality, even talk of honour killings. This surfeit of
plots and issues threatens to give this otherwise fascinatingly complex
family drama the air of a cheap soap opera, but it succeeds nonetheless
in part due to the strength of its performances, with Akkaya’s nuanced
blend of timidity and independence particularly memorable.
