A chance discovery like the one Michael Johnson made prior to recording this album (his first under the Ape School title) can shape a recording and give it focus, or it can restrict it. Happily, Johnson’s discovery was a beautiful old Moog (apparently the fourth ever made by Mr. Moog himself), and its ghostly presence is something of an underpinning drone throughout this self-titled opus. While that sonic territory has been infinitely mined by less Moog-heavy artists like The Sleepy Jackson and all the sunshine-pop references therein is of minor detraction, but the sun still shine brightly through the cracks.
It seems that each song has its own concept, its own chosen timbre that defines its brief existence. Be it a particular guitar tone, a lolloping rhythm or a wash of that omnipresent Moog, there’s always one meme that separates each track from the next. The inherent danger lies in relying on solely that, and omitting much of a melody or inspiring delivery. Much of Ape School is well-crafted and functional, but it needed a little more consideration of its performance to elevate it to the great height Johnson is clearly capable of attaining. The meandering The Underground is probably the most ambitious cut here, ushering in a ponderous melody amongst light sonic deconstructions, channelling the likes of Gainsbourg as meddled-with by Jason Lytle.
Deathstomp is impressive in its width of aural intensity, but ultimately a little limp. This is, crucially, a song that will only work at gargantuan volume, a diseased glam romp through a plot of land shared by Goldfrapp and Marc Bolan. With that all-important volume dial turned up, it sounds majestic. Turned to a moderate level, the intensity dies thanks to Johnson’s ever-laconic vocals. If he were to commit to the sound a little more (and not just on this one example), a world of performative contrast might open up before him. Different shades, trills and ticks are what makes an interesting vocal performance. With his attractively lazy approach up against all this sonic majesty, it’s inevitably a jarring battle that, while diverting, could have been much improved.
Ape School leaks promise and mastery, but is held back by conceptual and aesthetic confusion. It’s one thing to juxtapose two styles of delivery, but to do so when neither force might stand up alone is a shame. The Moog discovery should have been a more involving and focused one. Though it permeates the record, it does little to inform it and shape it, and the same might be said of the vocals. A shame, because Michael Johnson is a clear, clear talent.
—
This is out on Counter on July 6th. Bit early, this. Go here.
Oh, I get it, dollar signs look like an ‘S’. Right. Childish by name, one supposes, childish by nature. Indeed, Pop Levi’s Police $ign begins with some rhythmic spitting and soon cavorts into primary-aged dullard rock histrionics. The monster that is the elusive riff, as a concept, can be seen in embryonic form here. It is slightly too simplistic, but still pleasingly vigorous. Think about The Hives. (Now stop thinking about The Hives. That’s no fun). Luckily for Pop Levi (formerly Ladytron’s bassist, oh well…), he has elected to include the odd lyrical drop of hilarity-phlegm – “it was happenstance, got me caught without my pants…” Apart from that, it’s over in a flash and doesn’t mean anything.
The flip, Terrifying, is not as good. Another riff, but slower, and with a neat mix of the major and minor thirds, but that’s about it.
—
Police $S$$SSS$ign is available on Counter Records from June 1st. Go here.
Speech Debelle’s genesis has been one defined entirely by herself, and one that purposefully eschews any conventional notions of lay-dee hip-hop. There’s little hardship and none of it is glamorised, the music is only harsh when it needs to be and, most importantly, Debelle’s dizzying lyrical constructs provide fulfilment and intrigue. Opener Searching is a delicately brushed entrance, all sighing acoustica, dripping with yearning and hunger. As a description of her time in grotty London hostels, it’s desperate, beautiful and the total opposite of Lisa Maffia. “I’m surrounded by cats, filthy cats, sitting on steps with cat-sized rats”, she quietly wails, never becoming self-pitying. Later, the texture of the song changes only to accommodate talk of arguments and pressures, sudden shuffling snare replacing the lilt of before. When that lilt returns, maturity and knowledge of timbral shifts is totally evident.
Better Days features a grumpy contribution from avant-upstart Micachu, with well-measured strings offset by Speech’s tales of urban tedium, not being able to get to the gym, missing her mum, that kind of thing. It’s a potent contrast to have Micachu guest on the song – where she is gruff, almost mumbled in her diction, Debelle enunciates with cracking clarity, accent intact. Even further, Micachu’s mumblings almost border on the existential while Debelle’s hyper-realism grounds the song with another obvious but essential balancing point. Lead single The Key serves as another whimsical argument against the postures of commercial hip-hop, delightfully buoyant with chorusing clarinets and a frenetic narrative about childish grudges and standing up to slappers. All the time the listener spends in Speech’s company, they are lulled by the sound and slapped by the content.
On Daddy’s Little Girl, we reach something of an emotional centrepoint. This is the closest thing on the whole of Speech Therapy to other, more trodden areas of British hip-hop. Despite the familiarity of the tale, the obvious honesty carries it totally and, because of all the inventiveness showcased beforehand it comes across as a worthy letter to a confusing figure. Best of all, Debelle involves the listener in the album process. We hear her mental struggle to complete her opus on Finish This Album, and in it discover that our Speech has to work hard to be as good as this, and that we might have to wait some time for a return. It’ll be worth it. With lyrics so accomplished, entertaining and labyrinthine as these to be matched with well-measured, anti-bravado beats and textural sensitivity it’s difficult not to see a bright future for Speech Debelle.
—
Speech Therapy is out on Monday June 1st, and PM is off to the release party tomorrow night. We’re hoping for one of those round table, candle on each table, gently clicking instead of applause affairs. Like those BBC1 Sessions where Paul Simon makes the middle-aged weep. Anyway, have a listen to Speech Debelle here. You can also see this review here.
This week, the escalating-in-excellence Steve Abel has a go. His latest album is really good, and you’d buy it if you knew about how good it was. Here’s how good it is. Anyway, recovering from the torrential water attacks from nature which habitually bombard our fair capital, here’s Steve.
In a word, how’s your week?
Bustling.
What did you get up to last night and how was it?
Gig in North London at The Steeles with Dan Mangan. Good scene.
What’s for dinner tonight and who’s cooking it?
Very large bowl of miso and veg care of the Fujiyama in Brixton – superb! Ray cooked it apparently. Tomorrow I make Brazilian black beans and rice.
What have you listened to today and did you like it?
Forgot the stuff I didn’t like. Listened to some new Bill Callahan online and I did like it. Also The Specials Do Nothing‘ and Ghost Town (genius) and a Dennis Wilson track from ‘77 called Moonshine – lush, expansive, beautiful.
What’s your favourite/least favourite thing that’s happened this week?
Found a new chord for a new song – favourable. The least would be waiting cold and weary in the Camden night for the last bus to Brixton, though not complaining.
—
Hope you got dry quick and that the Brazilian black beans were a solid success, Steve! Hear, here.
Malcolm Middleton – Waxing Gibbous (Full Time Hobby)
Because Waxing Gibbous is reputedly Malcolm Middleton’s last solo LP for quite some time, you’d expect some sort of parting message, a farewell, a sign-off. It appears to be “Fuck off. Can’t be fucked”. And that’s in no way a bad thing. Hasn’t most of his career, whether in Arab Strap or on his own, been a series of statements that amount to an almighty two fingered salute? Far from being a punk aesthete, Middleton has proven if nothing else to be a man continually obsessed with valorising himself. Desperate to be worthy and convinced that he’s not, this struggle has informed the work of other confused tykes like Jeffrey Lewis, but suits Middleton’s dour deliveries beautifully.
Waxing Gibbous begins with Middleton’s strongest ever single, Red Travellin’ Socks. A breezy, brisk and flying paean to change and not changing, it’s just about short enough and, in a weird Travelling Wilburys kind of way, totally heartening in its gruff harmonies and infinite chug. His Bat Out Of Hell. Of course, that can’t-be-fucked attitude doesn’t seem apparent amongst the Springsteen pomp and bristle, but Middleon’s typically self-chastising words paint a mirrored image. “I’m out of money and I’m sick of these songs… I need to get back where I belong,” When he’s knocked his material in the past, such as in the celestially excellent Devil And The Angel, it’s been from the perspective of others. The Devil visits Middleton in bed and tells him that his songs are shite, but this time Middleton’s telling himself.
Of course, it could be a numbing tactic of just knowing that your songs are alright while protesting that they aren’t so that people are encouraged to praise them, but that seems unlikely given the forceful and constant reference Middleton makes to his own shite-ness. When, on Ballad Of Fuck All, he whines softly of “dying softly” and other such weighty bags, we can see that the concerns of artistic integrity have not only become magnified, they’ve mutated into existential worries as well. What a time to leave the game, Malcy! Things are starting to get really interesting. That much of this new found focus on ‘the biggies’ of life is accompanied by a renewed sonic palette is a double frustration, because the wispy and relentlessly bleak crushing of man-made electrics is beautifully balanced with his now almost-virtuosic strumming.
But that doesn’t matter on the album’s closing track. Made Up Your Mind is a delicate ballad with balls, the likes of which Middleton has become used to effortlessly producing. Cruising he may be, but lines like “I’ve not given you all I’ve got” make his decision to abandon the solo craft for the meantime seem all the more inexplicable. If that stuff he hasn’t yet given us takes shape in another project then that’s fine, but his first five solo LPs have given us so much that any other incarnation will seem slightly alien. Until that happens, Malcolm Middleton couldn’t be fucked with how we feel about all this. Well, some of us could give a fuck, and want some more.
—
This is out on June the first, via Full Time Hobby. More here ‘cos that’s where it is and where you should go for it yep. Also reviewed at The Quietus, here. Happy Bank Holiday, see you Tuesday with a few words from Steve Abel…
This time, PM has managed to pin down Rob from Morton Valence and ask him our usual pertinent posers. This could well be the first subject where the final question is answered with one statement. Then again, on hearing Morton Valence’s latest album, it comes as no surprise. Bitterness and loveliness all bundled up like paired socks in an overnight bag.
In a word, how’s your week?
Average.
What did you get up to last night and how was it?
I won 4 quid on a scratch card and found myself singing Goldfinger in a karaoke bar, a perfect night.
What’s for dinner tonight and who’s cooking it?
A kebab probably, probably the Turkish fella in the kebab shop.
What have you listened to today and did you like it?
My neighbours singing along to Beyonce’s Put a Ring On It, it wasn’t bad.
What’s your favourite/least favourite thing that’s happened this week?
Falling in love.
—
Have a listen to Morton Valence here. The album, Bob And Veronica Ride Again, is utterly excellent, and picking up rave reviews everywhere (including here), so knock yourself out with a copy.
Trespassers William – The Natural Order Of Things EP (Gizeh)
Matt Brown and Anna-Lynne Williams are intuitively linked to one another, sharing a musical relationship that is both complimentary and wrought with nuance. This EP sees their haziness reach their most ethereal depths yet, but still manage to handle pop currency well enough to make the whole a gem of restraint. As it batters quietly on, Red needs only simple, smoky organ progressions and Williams’ charmed vocals to sustain the interest. Any melodic focus is entirely at her discretion, and she wields the power very sparingly indeed.
It is the interaction that works the best here, instinctive bounces that create woozy, subconsciously beautiful and seeping entities. The high watermark is undoubtedly Catch Not Break, where Williams lets us see the most of her vocals and Matt Brown’s burbling electronics are more concrete in the Stochausen sense than just random bursts of atmosphere. There’s a sweet lilt to the whole song, too, courtesy of the odd pinch of ride cymbal, but it’s merely a device to help the experimentation more digestible. Do not be fooled – any glimpses of token rhythm and normality are more than entertainingly offset by the invention and interaction at work on this EP. Scintillating at all turns.
—
Have a listen here – it’s difficult to know when this gem arrived/arrives, PM’s post is hella-outta-order. Soz.
At the tail-end of last week, I was due to interview one of The Wu Tang Clan’s most eloquent, passionate and natural vocalists, Ghostface Killah. He, along with his accompanying Theodore Unit troupe, was to appear at the Scala in Kings Cross. Because of the reported nature of the hip-hop interview, I expected some degree of being mucked about but, inexperienced noob as I am, I hadn’t planned on the epic scenes I took in. Ineptitude, deviance and violence are all major players here, and it truly is a wonder that anything gets completed by these people.
I made myself available from approximately 2pm on the day of the interview, having been told that I would be telephoned with a meeting place and time. It wasn’t until around 5pm that I was told to meet the gig promoter outside the venue at about 8pm. This, I could stomach. I had time to prepare myself, to expect the worst and read a bit of my book with a coffee. Fine. 8pm rolled around, and I met the promoter, along with one other journalist intending to interview (we’d been allocated paltry 15-minute slots) and his photographer pal. Lovely stuff. We’re told that his Lordship Ghostface is not yet inside the building, and that phone calls were being made to ascertain his whereabouts. We retire upstairs for a beer.
One of those phone calls comes, and we’re told that they’ve finally left the hotel and, because of the Scala’s apparently non-existent back door, I should be the one to stand in the stairwell to catch the entourage and snag interview information. Of course, they slip by, or go in another way, or something, but they arrive ten minutes before stage time and we get the pleasure of speaking to Ghost’s manager. A smooth-talking, quiet and polite Frenchman, he assures us that after the show will be the best time to complete an interview, and that we should head in and enjoy the show.
The other journalist decides that, British transport being what it is to the commuting population, he should get a train back the ‘burbs so that he doesn’t spend all night trying in vain to get an interview. The show itself begins triumphantly, and continues to be triumphant for a good 45 minutes. Dennis Coles stalks menacingly around the stage, tightly and efficiently brushing lyrics out as if they were grit between his teeth. The shrieks begin to go up for Wildflower, but there’s a tension of sorts brewing. Casually, almost too casually, members of Theodore Unit bring out bales of t-shirts and CDs to sell, and the music stops until at least some are bought. At £25 per t-shirt, this is a slow process, and one that generates some serious animosity amongst a skint, recession-transfixed crowd. Some boo, some leave, some shout that it’s unfair and that some music should be played. Ghost himself assures those shouting that if they continue to badmouth him and his associates, then he knows some people who can “fuck you up real good”. In a final attempt to appease the crowd, he performs an a capella Wildflower to a half empty venue.
The show continues soon after, with several Dirty Bitches joining the crew on stage. One girl in particular, as pointed out by an eagle-eyed accomplice of my photographer friend, has disappeared into the dressing room side of stage. When the door opens, she is fellating one of the support acts and stands up quickly, embarrassed. On stage, the lines between stage and floor become blurred as the venue continues to empty and the performers continue to perform. When things grind to a halt, it becomes obvious that there is a queue of women outside the dressing room waiting to see Ghost. Some take longer than others to emerge from the room again. I join the queue and attempt to attract the attention of the manager.
The door opens and slams repeatedly, we see all manner of people flying in and out of the doors, but the door with Ghost behind it remains locked. I speak to his manager, who assures me that the interview will proceed soon, and that maybe it would involve going back to the Hilton to complete it. Apparently, our man Dennis is “currently in an interview of his own”. It’s difficult to tell which girl was in there with him and for how long, but he looks tired on his emergence. People continue to mill about. I ask again about the interview. The manager assures me, again, that everything’s fine. Still more people disappear backstage for photos, autographs and blow-jobs. I ask the manager again, he reassures me again.
I ask for a final time, the venue close to total dereliction. Surely, if there was a time for an interview, this was it. The manager turns on me, all of a sudden. “Why the fuck are you still here? No fucking interview today! I already fucking told you! Why do you people not listen?!” I calmly (whilst shitting myself) explain that the interview had been sorted out a good few weeks in advance, and that I’d not be leaving without one. I was met with another similarly inane and confusing torrent, and then ejected by a very friendly security man. Leaving, I call to J-Love and Shawn Wigs on stage “thanks anyway, guys, good show”, and I’m given an embarrassingly silent response. Everyone’s a little confused. Things got ugly really quickly. Why had the gig itself descended so quickly into bizarre farce? Where’s the respect from artist to audience? Do they expect this with every act they see? Should I have offered fellatio? The answers are, very probably, pointless when considering such an unaffected performer and his bespoke industry.
Steve Abel & The Chrysalids – Flax Happy (Kin’sland)
There’s a vein in Antipodean pop that deals with the very darkest material, from the ubiquitous Nick Cave to the newly valorised Devastations, who find melody and drama in life’s corners and crannies more than their highways and coffee shops. Sonically, Steve Abel’s second album aligns with many of these quite closely – it’s sparse but dense, quiet but intense the whole way through. Lyrically, Abel dashes from antiquated reference to almost-comical asides – is the phrase “boob rot” supposed to make us laugh?
What remains, despite the confusingly satisfying breadth of lyrical sentiment, is the desire to create utter and total warmth in all the album’s timbres. Rarely do we hear a roar, but when we do we know we’ve worked hard for it, and it’s effective. Like the similar work of James Yorkston, these atmospheres are inviting and accessible, but Abel is wise enough to pepper his expressions with enough challenge to render Flax Happy an engaging, not merely passive, experience. Pin Of Love is a bilingual triumph, with traditional Maori language mixing with simple, folksy English. It never raises beyond a titter but, thanks to the interaction between Abel and Texan guest Jolie Holland, results in a thick, foggy exploration.
As it develops, Flax Happy becomes ever more immersive. When we begin to wind down, the close-miced Heart Of Misery emerges as the album’s simultaneously lightest and darkest moment. Holland returns to add some colourful harmonies, but Abel’s lyrics are foxing – sweet but completely punishing. This is a man who has literally lost everything and concludes by making the ultimate sacrifice, perhaps with a wry grin on his face. It’s equal parts disturbing and lullaby-esque, but one certainly not designed to aid soothing slumber.
Hardly ever have the lines of prettiness and ugliness been so starkly crossed. It’s a fairly standard maxim for the prettiest tunes to have the ugliest sentiments, but Steve Abel sharpens the focus of how that might be possible. Consummately relaxed danger.
It’s not often I’d slip into a first-person perspective, but this one’s kind-of important. The first record I ever bought for myself, armed with accrued pocket money and the influence of an older brother’s desire for making exhaustive mixtapes, was Sense by Ian Broudie’s Lightning Seeds. As a work, it rides a dicey wave of sunshine-pop continually enhanced by melancholy, with Broudie’s soft scouse burr making this first conscious purchase of mine one that resulted in countless visits to the “twee” section of independent record shops in later life. I knew how to rock, too, but I knew that I could deal with all that later. For now, Ian Broudie lived in my Venturer mini hi-fi, backlit display beaming across my bedroom at night.
It seemed to me that Broudie’s songs were one of purest examples of balancing heartbreak in lyric with pointed optimism in music. A potent combination that had been done before, but one that Broudie tackled with the Gods of Merseybeat and Motown smiling down on him. When things started to tail off for Broudie, creatively if not monetarily, the Lightning Seeds became something of a Beautiful South prospect – a band you’d seriously have to justify harbouring affections for unless you were someone’s dad. With Four Winds (which is in serious danger of being dubbed Broudie’s long-awaited comeback), the goalposts have been bent slightly. It’s not a classic pop record, but it is an excellent Lightning Seeds record. If that makes sense.
It has clearly been very difficult to shoehorn Broudie’s feelings into these songs (in recent years he has lost several members of his family, including both parents, and his marriage ended) but, because of that, they positively bleed and cry. The opening title track asserts the whole album as one that is emotionally wrangled into place, with its reverberating piano sonority and exploratory bass clarinet opening. The lyrics are simplistic but full-bodied and red-blooded, speaking of an almost Halcyonic relationship with his brother who “got those blues” and committed suicide. Broudie’s voice, previously of an uncomplicated sweetness and a conversational ease, has now changed into something more befitting his 50 years – a light rasp graces the edges of certain lines on Things Just Happened, lending them poignancy and the impression of serious time and experience having passed since the days of Jollification.
Just like on previous records, there’s a constant mask of buoyant musical gesture shielding the true, depressive nature of many of these songs. The winsome Pacemakerisms of All I Do is all Brian Wilson guitars and clanging glockenspiels, but Broudie can’t bring himself to contemplate new love – “I think I’ve had enough of love/I know it’s had enough of me”. Indeed, the latter stages of the album are particularly cheerful in tone and timbre and taking the form of relentlessly typical pop structures. You might even call them a little boring, but at least they are excellently produced and executed. This does not dull the occasional moments when Broudie’s words catch the listener off-guard – something that he’s made a career of.
On Sense, when it was humming across the dark bedroom, one line stood out from Tingle Tangle – “holding back the tears can make you cry”. It was furthered by the declaration that “only time can melt the ice cream cloud”. Forgiving the silly ice cream bit, there’s not a better way to describe the conflicts in Four Winds. Broudie tries not to let depression get him down, will not let trivial things like emotion stand in the way of fine pop. This leads to identikit pop tunes with affecting lyrics – a nice enough pie, but only on the tracks when the emotion is spelled out amongst beautiful backing does the record reach its peaks. Indeed, time has melted Broudie’s ability to control his emotion with slicker pop than the words might suggest, and it’s to our benefit. When the thaw is complete, we might finally see him in his purest light.
—
Four Winds is out on Monday via Universal. More here. Read this review at The Quietus, too, without all the first-person guff.
Pop Musicology 