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Go to: My Other Blog :: Documentary Evidence :: twitter.com/mjasmith
I was originally going to write about the CDs I was given for Christmas, but someone told me that they were fed up with me writing about David Byrne, Ryan Adams and Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore. Plus I'm keeping the comments on the excellent new Githead album (Landing) and the compilation of Nick Cave and Warren Ellis film scores (White Lunar) I was given by Santa for the Documentary Evidence website.
Instead I'll write about Contra, the follow up to Vampire Weekend's eponymously-titled album. The teaser track 'Horchata', which was given away free last year and which opens the album, provides a clue to the overall sound of Contra – odd little rhythms, elliptical lyrics, African percussion sounds deftly-deployed synths and sweeping strings. It's certainly a positive progression on Vampire Weekend, and certainly avoids any of the second-album hang-ups that beleaguer lots of heavily-hyped bands. Lead vocalist Ezra Koenig masterfully delivers his David Byrne-esque (whoops) lyrics with an occasional lilting edge that comes close to Paul Simon.
My personal favourite track is 'Giving Up The Gun', which has a shimmery, luminescent summery feel to its bold pop strokes; but it also embodies my only criticism of this album. It's not its genre-defying musical skittishness; after all their New York musical contemporaries like MGMT and Dirty Projectors, and forebears like Talking Heads (whoops again), have made it their sound business to restlessly hop around the musical landscape like they own the entire sonic spectrum. No, it's more the fact that this album is far, far too optimistic and fuzzily warm for this time of year. As criticisms go, I guess that's not bad. On the strength of Contra, 2010 is going to be a vintage year for music.
Back in the summer I mentioned a New Jersey band called Real Estate, whose 'Fake Blues' single was on heavy rotation for a good few weeks on my iPod. Real Estate's debut album was released by the low-key Woodsist toward the back end of the year, and was perhaps a couple of months late in coming since, like Contra, Real Estate is way too cheerful for the bleak weather we're having here in the UK.
Best described as a more lo-fi Fleet Foxes, Real Estate combine brushed cymbal-heavy percussion with delicate filigree guitar sections and the sort of dreamy melodic hooks that makes the whole alt. folk axis so appealing right now. Martin Courtney's vocals are delivered with an air of cursory, otherworldly detachment on songs like the opener 'Beach Comber', while instrumental tracks like 'Atlantic City' propel themselves forward with some of the most innocently beguiling guitar sections you'll probably ever hear.
The same can not be said for Pat Metheny's ominously-named Zero Tolerance For Silence, an album whose title probably passes the fabled Ronseal test in saying all you really need to know about what's contained on the five tracks here. For me, this out-of-print 1994 album has a near-mythical status. I first borrowed the CD from my local library, and was initially attracted neither by Metheny's guitar dexterity nor his vast and prolific back catalogue. It was two things – the photograph of a neon striplight on the sleeve (don't ask me why; it just appealed) and a typically enthusiastic display of gushing praise by Thurston Moore (whoops; I swear that wasn't planned) on a sticker afixed to the case.
Zero Tolerance For Silence is a challenging listen from the off. Metheny, a jazz guitarist by trade, here delivers five tracks that have much in common with Sonic Youthers Moore (that just keeps happening!) and Lee Ranaldo's excursions into free improv the world over. When I first heard it in 1994, I wasn't ready for the ear-shredding sonic onslaught that Metheny conjures from his electric guitars, and so I never made a recording. Since then my musical tastes have broadened ('worsened'?) and I have tried to track this down for the best part of a decade. Essential music for anyone interested in the locus between total punk anarchy and free jazz.
And look Neil, I didn't mention Ryan Adams once. Oh, actually...
Go to: My Other Blog / twitter.com/mjasmith Last week was spent listening – mostly – to music that prompts recollections of events, people and situations.
The first was Possessed by the Balanescu Quartet. Possessed is effectively a collection of classical arrangements of Kraftwerk songs – ‘The Robots’, ‘The Model’, ‘Autobahn’ – and a handful of other arrangements, including ‘Hanging Upside-Down’ by David Byrne.
I saw the Balanescu Quartet perform live at the Patti Smith-curated Jimi Hendrix tribute, the last event to take place at the Royal Festival Hall on London’s South Bank before it closed for a swanky refit. They performed four classical adaptations of Hendrix tracks, their version of ‘Foxy Lady’ being the best of the bunch; they certainly providing an accessible counterpoint to other acts on the bill, chiefly Red Hot Chili Pepper bassist Flea who provided ten minutes of looping bass and trumpet that bore little relation to any of the Hendrix back catalogue.
Alexander Balanescu is not simply known for these arrangements of music from other genres; he is an accomplished composer whose scores have adorned film and television soundtracks, but Possessed is what it is – an accessible classical album, but one that fans of Kraftwerk can listen to comfortably, hearing the tracks almost as remixes rather than re-arrangements.
This album has a tragic poignancy for me. The first time I listened to this album was on the Underground. I was stuck on a train a few feet below the streets around Kings Cross, having just left the bright platforms of the Tube station. The train stopped and just sat there, sporadic announcements from the driver that we’d be sat there for a few minutes more and that we’d be on the move very soon.
Me, I couldn’t have cared less. I was enjoying the album and the delay simply meant that I’d be late for work, which at the time was no bad thing. In the end, the train pulled forward to a disused platform beneath Pentonville Road, whereupon we were evacuated up into the bright lights of the early morning. It was only at this point that the chaos, panic and devastation of that day, 7 July 2005, became evident. The album played on in my ears but I just wasn’t listening to it anymore.
Listening to Possessed this week was the first time I’ve attempted to listen to it since that day.
Another album prompting memories to resurface is Warp Record’s Artificial Intelligence II collection of ‘ambient’ electronica from the likes of Autechre, Cabaret Voltaire’s Richard H. Kirk, Speedy J and Link. It was the summer 1994 and I’d just been unceremoniously and unexpectedly dumped by a girl. I spent the afternoon laid up on my parents’ sofa listening, initially, to the Depeche Mode song ‘The Things You Said’ on repeat, the accusatory disappointment of that song perfectly matching my despondency. After ten or twelve listens I decided to put something else on; it was a close call between the embittered rage of Nine Inch Nail’s The Downward Spiral or the much more chilled Artificial Intelligence II compilation. The latter won the afternoon, leading me to a more logical and calm state of mind.
While we’re heading down musical memory lane, I downloaded Radio Musicola by Nik Kershaw this week, the Eighties doyen’s third album. I bought this on cassette from Cash Converters in Colchester in 1997, the day after my first Valentine’s Day ‘with’ my ex-girlfriend. For some reason, we’d decided to spend the evening apart. So I went out into Colchester with my housemates, drank too many Moscow Mules and, well, it didn’t end terribly advantageously. The next day, bleary-eyed, my friend Neil and I went into town late in the afternoon and bought a load of second hand tapes from Cash Converters, one of which was Radio Musicola. While not as good as Kershaw’s first two albums, it nevertheless remains a pop gem. But it definitely sounds better when you’re not hungover.
Some other things on my iPod this week – ‘Horchata’, the new song by Vampire Weekend which they have punted for free this week (verdict : more of the same, only with bigger production and strings); In Rainbows by Radiohead (not a fan of the band per se, and I’m glad I only paid a couple of quid for this when it was made available as a ‘pay what you like’ download, but it is good); and Howyoudoin? by dub-influenced Sarf Londoners Renegade Soundwave. I don’t know why, but I stuck that last album on my dad’s car stereo one Saturday afternoon on the way to pick up my mother and sister. He balked at the messy, sample-heavy songs, but I insisted on listening to it. He turned to me when we were sat waiting at a red light and said ‘I don’t think your mum would like this,’ as the apocalyptic bad-drug-experience (but never exactly precautionary) account detailed on ‘Blast ‘Em Out’ started its slow and edgy journey out of the speakers.
Ordinarily, this blog has been about things I like. This week, however, I feel compelled to depart from that ethos after watching footage of The Killers from the BBC's coverage of the V Festival in Chelmsford.
Like many others, I was suckered in by their debut album with it's Anglo / Eighties influences, but it's an album that hasn't stood up to the ravages of time. But it's watching them perform live where I have the biggest issue. From Sam's Town onwards they may have perfected a more stadium-friendly sound, but in Brandon Flowers they have a perenially weak frontman with little rock 'n' roll persona and a terrible predeliction for feather epaulettes. I had an online spat of sorts with a fellow tweeter about my feelings toward the band, so I thought I'd best finally check out Sam's Town, which a colleague gave me a copy of when it was released but which I just couldn't bring myself to listen to – the press releases that proclaimed it to be influenced by Bruce Springsteen just made me want to cry. Having listened to it, I can honestly say that I will not be changing my opinion of this Emperor and his new clothes anytime soon. I feel about as indifferent toward The Killers as I do about Oasis calling it quits.
A band much more deserving of the hype surrounding them is Arctic Monkeys, whose Reading set from the following week was astounding. Their new album, Humbug, is totally worthy of all the plaudits being heaped upon it and yet Alex Turner and co remain as unassuming as ever. There's no trace of ego here (take note Mr Flowers), and in 'Crying Lightning' the band have produced a song that could usurp 'I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor' as their finest track ever. Then of course there's their cover of Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds' 'Red Right Hand', which is rendered perhaps even bleaker and more terrifying than Cave's original.
One of the most impressive things about Arctic Monkeys is just how polished their live sets are. They never make mistakes and the songs – intricate though they often are – sound just like they do on their albums. In that way, they remind me of Kings Of Leon, who I honestly think are the best live band on the planet. Their Reading set was typically excellent, and I'm glad that they delivered the awful-but-crowd-pleasing 'Sex On Fire' with an evident distaste. Apparently they weren't happy with their performance, though I fail to see why.
Nerd-rockers Vampire Weekend are on the cusp of releasing their second album, and tracks like 'A-Punk' had an afternoon Reading crowd pogoing like Zebedee. I think I liked the band before I heard them: intuitively, if a band is centred in New York chances are I'll like them (glib and shallow though that is). Add to that songs which deal with two of my favourite topics – architecture ('Mansard Roof') and the correct use of grammar ('Oxford Comma') – and it's fairly obvious why I'd like them. Bring on album number two, I say. Meanwhile, I'll be checking out their side-project Discovery. (Anyone similarly interested in the correct use of grammar should check out the Apostrophe Protection Society website).
