In the world of
moneyed mediocrity, it doesn’t feel right to be picking on Richard Hawley (of
all people), but his latest record makes you think. He is a songwriter you can
respect and admire and appreciate and God knows what else, but I can’t imagine one single person who would say that
Richard Hawley is their favourite artist. I’m not saying this isn’t possible,
but it’s highly unlikely and would seem rather odd.
Hollow Meadows sounds like a painfully fitting album title.
You could argue that
each one of these 11 new songs is well written and beautifully crooned in that
low-key, old-fashioned way that hasn’t lost all of its appeal. It’s charming, it’s
tasteful, but there’s little you could do about the severe lack of identity. Hawley
can be special for some, obviously. However, let’s face it: anyone and anything
can be special. But if someone tells me he is their favourite artist on account
of his music (which is good music,
don’t get me wrong), my immediate response would be ‘you should get out more’.
In view of this, it’s
somewhat frustrating that I can very much imagine how Miley Cyrus could be
someone’s favourite artist. On account of the fucking music. Tragic, really.
