2022: Top Ten

10. Spiritualized - Everything Was Beautiful

We are at a point when every new Spiritualized album could be their last. That is an uncomfortable thought. Having said that, if Everything Was Beautiful is the end (and it does seem likely) then this is a proper farewell. From the sweet singalong "Always Together With You" to the epic closer "I'm Coming Home Again", this is equal parts noisy beauty and beautiful noise. A masterful album.

Best song: "I'm Coming Home Again"

9. Built To Spill - When The Wind Forgets Your Name

Just do not let a bad cover get in the way of a good album, and you will be all right. Built To Spill's latest is quietly brilliant. Shimmering melodies, controlled guitar outbursts and the childish whimsy of Doug Martsch's voice. I think this should rank among Built To Spill's best ever albums.

Best song: "Comes A Day"

8. Ezra Furman - All Of Us Flames

All Of Us Flames is a hodgepodge of styles, moods and even sound quality, but I would say that it all works to the album's advantage. Ezra Furman is such a great songwriter that the music works whether we are talking about anthemic rockers ("Throne"), lo-fi bedroom pop ("Ally Sheedy In The Breakfast Club") or confessional acoustic balladry ("Come Close").

Best song: "Lilac And Black"

7. Alela Diane - Looking Glass

To me, Alela Diane just sounds timeless. Time and time again she offers the perfect escape with that voice and the wistful yet elated atmosphere of her albums. Which, however, would not mean as much without Alela's consistently great and nuanced songwriting. Looking Glass effortlessly switches from piano to orchestration to acoustic guitar and it all works beautifully. "Dream A River" is something else.

Best song: "Dream A River"

6. Alex Cameron - Oxy Music

First of all, a confession is in order: in spring and early summer, I was downright obsessed with this album. I could not get enough of its clever synth pop that revealed songwriting of such depth that made everything else pale in comparison. The wit of "Cancel Culture"? The chorus of "Sara Jo"? The lyrics of "Best Life"? The coda of "Oxy Music"? This is genius stuff, and the odd thing is that I had never really cared for Alex Cameron before he released this album.

Best song: "Dead Eyes"

5. Fontaines D.C. - Skinty Fia

As ever with Fontaines D.C., their latest is a tasteful and impeccably realised album. Skinty Fia opens with a bubbling bass guitar and an Irish chant and just grows and builds incessantly before becoming the band's signature statement. However, they managed to better it with the closing "Nabokov" which is all attitude, balls and charisma. In between, it is the usual deal, literate and propulsive rock music with an occasional accordion thrown in for good measure.

Best song: "Nabokov"

4. Florence + The Machine - Dance Fever

Once again, I had never been convinced by Florence Welch before the sweeping chant in the second half of "King" really got to me. And all of a sudden, Dance Fever won me over. With the understated beauty of "Morning Elvis", with the protean "Choreomania", with the charming menace of "Daffodil", with the instant pop classic "Free" - how could it not?..

Best song: "Free"

3. Black Country, New Road - Ants From Above

While I thought their debut was a little overhyped, there was nothing wrong with Ants From Above. It is both challenging and oddly accessible, it features complex arrangements and magnificent melodies (if you are looking for instant gratification, try the chorus of "Chaos Space Marine"). The album is sometimes sparse, sometimes abundant and it never really lets up (the twelve-plus minute epic that closes the album holds your attention all the way through). Ants From Above is like a very intense lover whom you really love.

Best song: "Concorde"

2. Kiwi Jr. - Chopper

There is a slight concern that Black Country, New Road take themselves a little too seriously. No such problem here. Kiwi Jr. do nothing else but write some of the most exciting and irresistible melodies in music today. If the synth line that propels "Unspeakable Things" leaves you cold, check your pulse. Chopper is tuneful, clever, charismatic - and, last but not least, it is great fun.

Best song: "The Extra Sees The Film"

1. Luke Haines & Peter Buck - All The Kids Are Super Bummed Out

A sprawling no-prisoners-taken double LP that is also the greatest collection of Luke Haines's songs in years (not that he has ever released a bad album). The first side is mostly an onslaught of stomping, glammed-up, ear-splitting rockers and the second side is a diverse pop set from one of the greatest living songwriters. However, it is the three-song punch in the middle ("When I Met God", "Minimalist House Burns Down", "Exit Space") that convinced me that this was far and away the best album of 2022. 

Best song: "Minimalist House Burns Down"

Bonus: 70 Years of Songs

Pop music did not exactly start in 1953 but that is the farthest that my modest knowledge of it goes. Which makes it 70 years. To celebrate this, here is my list of the greatest songs year by year. From 1953 to 2022, from Big Mama Thornton to Florence Welch. Sometimes the choice was agonisingly difficult (like preferring "Sunny Goodge Street" to "Sinnerman" for 1965) but overall I would say I did not lose sleep over it.

1953. "Hound Dog" by Big Mama Thornton

1954. "Sh-Boom" by The Chords

1955. "Thirteen Women" by Bill Haley & The Comets

1956. "Downbound Train" by Chuck Berry

1957. "Peggy Sue" by Buddy Holly

1958. "Rumble" by Link Wray

1959. "Sligo River Blues" by John Fahey

1960. "Will You Love Me Tomorrow" by The Shirelles

1961. "(Marie's The Name) His Latest Flame" by Elvis Presley

1962. "Tous les Garçons et les Filles" by Françoise Hardy

1963. "Girl From The North Country" by Bob Dylan

1964. "She's Not There" by The Zombies

1965. "Sunny Goodge Street" by Donovan

1966. "I'm Only Sleeping" by The Beatles

1967. "(Do I Figure) In Your Life" by Honeybus

1968. "Summertime" by Big Brother & The Holding Company

1969. "Candy Says" by The Velvet Underground

1970. "Waiting For The Sun" by The Doors

1971. "Jesus Was A Crossmaker" by Judee Sill

1972. "Reelin' In The Years" by Steely Dan

1973. "In Every Dream Home A Heartache" by Roxy Music

1974. "The End Of The Rainbow" by Richard & Linda Thompson

1975. "Free Money" by Patti Smith

1976. "Achilles Last Stand" by Led Zeppelin

1977. "Blank Generation" by Richard Hell & The Voidoids

1978. "Another Girl, Another Planet" by The Only Ones

1979. "Jumping Someone Else's Train" by The Cure

1980. "Going Underground" by The Jam

1981. "Say Hello, Wave Goodbye" by Soft Cell

1982. "Leave It Open" by Kate Bush

1983. "Musette and Drums" by Cocteau Twins

1984. "Androgynous" by The Replacements

1985. "Field Of Glass" by The Triffids

1986. "Brilliant Mind" by Furniture

1987. "The Clarke Sisters" by The Go-Betweens

1988. "New Big Prinz" by The Fall

1989. "Nothing To Be Done" by The Pastels

1990. "Queen Elvis" by Robyn Hitchcock

1991. "Фа-фа" by Auktsyon

1992. "I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday" by Morrissey

1993. "Razzamatazz" by Pulp

1994. "Me And My Charms" by Kristin Hersh

1995. "When We Were Young" by Whipping Boy

1996. "Unsolved Child Murder" by The Auteurs

1997. "Downer" by Edwyn Collins

1998. "Louisiana" by The Church

1999. "Pink Cigarette" by Mr. Bungle

2000. "The Facts Of Life" by Black Box Recorder

2001. "Never Work" by Luke Haines

2002. "The Good Old Days" by The Libertines

2003. "Murrow Turning Over In His Grave" by Fleetwood Mac

2004. "The One You Love" by Rufus Wainwright

2005. "The Bleeding Heart Show" by The New Pornographers

2006. "Bird Of Cuzco" by Nina Nastasia

2007. "The Magic Position" by Patrick Wolf

2008. "Soul On Fire" by Spiritualized

2009. "Ave Maria" by Rowland S. Howard

2010. "Deep Blue" by Arcade Fire

2011. "Under Cover Of Darkness" by The Strokes

2012. "I'm Not Talking" by A.C. Newman

2013. "Picacho Peak" by Howe Gelb

2014. "Living Signs" by Cold Specks

2015. "Nobody's Empire" by Belle & Sebastian

2016. "Rings Of Saturn" by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

2017. "Prince of Tears" by Baxter Dury

2018. "The Gypsy Faerie Queen" by Marianne Faithfull

2019. "Big" by Fontaines D.C.

2020. "Fine" by Will Butler

2021. "The Constable" by Sloppy Jane

2022. "Free" by Florence + The Machine

A Christmas Carol

One of my favourite Christmas memories is of a group of atheist friends sitting by the piano late at night and singing Christmas carols in a small English town around ten years ago. Christmas Carols was also the last book I bought from a great Minsk book shop called Gogol's Dream before it closed down back in 2020. 

Which brings me to Pete Seeger's Traditional Christmas Carols album from 1967. To me, the essential Christmas album. Timeless-sounding, subtle, and impossible not to sing along to. Merry Christmas!

Three films. Old Christmas.

Somebody should do research and explain why is it that modern Christmas movies look so hapless, so tedious, and so deficient when compared to the ones made eighty years ago. When I start thinking about good Christmas films made this century, I can only come up with three or four decent examples (half of which are animated). I am not even selling my childhood here. The films I am going to be talking about had all been made ages before I was born. And they all tower well above anything that has been released since. 

These are all black and white Hollywood movies, mostly from the 40s. Not every old black and white Christmas film is great, mind you (take Meet John Doe, for instance), but these ten are. Each of these films feels effortless. Each of these films has a disarming charm and an affectionate heart to it. Each of these films is an absolute joy to watch over the course of this festive season. 

But before we get to the best three, a few others that are just as good: Shop Around The Corner (1940) - even if I am not a fan of Margaret Sullivan's character; Miracle on 34th Street (1947) - watch the original, not the sappy remake; Holiday Affair (1949) - the dinner speech from the elderly couple is one of the most heartfelt moments in cinema; The Bishop's Wife (1947) - what a deeply strange but beautiful film; Christmas in Connecticut (1945) - this one always has me in fits; It's A Wonderful Life (1946) - this one always has me in bits; It Happened On 5th Avenue (1947) - oh those eyes of Ann Harding. 

The Man Who Came To Dinner (1942)

This film is completely insane. It has an insane premise and it has insane performances (from Monty Woolley, from Reginald Gardiner, from the inimitable Jimmy Durante) - but the more I watch it, the more I feel caught up in this insanity. It is Christmas time, obviously, and a successful and conceited American writer suffers an unfortunate slippery accident and is forced to spend the whole holiday season in the house of righteousness and boredom. Worse, he is tied to a wheelchair. The way the plot unravels beggars belief, but by the time we arrive at the sarcophagus scene at the end, you are ready to take on anything thrown your way. 

At this point, I am completely in love with Monty Woolley's voice ('my blossom girl' never leaves my head) and Ann Sheridan's shamelessness, with Banjo's song (see below) and with Bette Davis's aristocratic detachment. Also, this was the film that started my love for baked sweet potatoes.

Remember The Night (1940)

Barbara Stanwyck is great in every film I can think of, but none is better than Remember the Night. John Sargeant (Fred MacMurray) is a prosecutor who is about to condemn Lee Leander (Stanwyck) to an extended prison term for stealing a bracelent from a jewelery store in New York City. However, this is almost Christmas Eve, and you can imagine where it goes from there.

Except nothing about Remember the Night feels trite and predictable. The film is a wild ride. The scene with cows is screwball comedy, the scene at sheriff's home is action thriller and the scene with Lee's mother is utterly devastating drama that for a moment makes you forget that Remember the Night is a Christmas movie. The best scenes, however, are all inside John's family house where the Christmas celebrations are filled with the kind of warmth and genuine feeling that you are bound to start longing for the old times you have never really experienced.

The Apartment (1960)

The Apartment is not just the greatest Christmas movie that I know - it is one of my favourite films of all time. The great Jack Lemmon plays a loser by the name of C.C. Baxter who lets his office superiors use his apartment in Upper West Side for dating purposes. Then Shirley MacLaine (elevator operator Fran Kubelik) appears and things begin to change.

This is a perennial story of self-worth versus corporate ladder but it is done with such style and great story-telling that you start to really care. The acting is superb, too, and the film is basically an endless collection of unforgettable scenes. I especially enjoy the ones with the doctor ("be a Mensch!"), but I believe it is the scene at the bar that truly gets me every time I watch The Apartment. It is a beautiful film that may get sombre on occasion but, equally, it is a film that never takes itself too seriously. To quote the wonderful Miss Kubelik, "Shut up and deal!"

Polish Diary. "The Soil".

It is always wrong to reduce a whole museum to just one work of art. However, if I absolutely had to do it here, at the National Museum in Warsaw, I would go to Ferdynand Ruszczyc and his masterwork "The Soil". That is a painting of such internal power and primordial intensity that you have to make sure you take it all in slowly, calmly, getting lost in the rough textures of what you are seeing. Because it is not even about the details. This time, it is all about the sheer grandiosity of those horrifying clouds that the lonesome farmer is carrying on his shoulders. 

Oddly, I have always believed Ferdynand Ruszczyc to be a Belarusian painter. He was born in Belarus and died there (Bohdanow village in the Western part of the country), he spent his childhood in Minsk and he identified as Belarusian. However, Poland claims Ruszczyc as its own, even despite his early education in St. Petersburg as well as the fact that much of his life as an artist was spent in Vilnius. Having said that, the artist held Polish citizenship and it was in Poland that he got his recognition. To me, the point of the argument centres around the very painting. "The Soil". This bold, challenging work was rejected by St. Petersburg for its radical break with conventions but was accepted in Poland that immediately recognised "The Soil" for what it was: a masterpiece of impressionistic realism. That, as well as Ruszczyc's subsequent career in Poland, guarantees the rightfulness of Poland's claims. 

The National Museum in Warsaw displays great works of international, and internationally recognised, art. In its essence, however, it is a Polish museum. The first floor is devoted exclusively to religious paintings, icons, sculptures and installations, which subdues your spirit and sets the mood for the whole experience. And then, upstairs, Gustave Courbet and Paul Signac, while certainly good, do not really overshadow the works of Polish art. Alfred Kowalski's travelling stories of grim realism, Piotr Michałowski's striking portraits from the 19th century, Aleksander Gierymski's early impressionism... These are all works that give credibility to Polish art, which is precisely the point of any national museum.

Still, while I was impressed by the story behind Stanisław Wyspiański's creepy "The Mulchs" and the tasteful, slightly mysterious expressionism of Konrad Krzyżanowski, it is Ferdynand Ruszczyc and "The Soil" that have really stayed with me. I remember how once, in the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC, I spent an inordinate amount of time staring at "Woman with a Parasol" (which could qualify as my favourite painting of all time). Well, the National Museum of Warsaw gave me something similar in the sense that I could not look away from Ruszczyc's painting even as people were rushing by me and a group of Polish children were listening to a lecture behind my back. Monet's masterpiece is a work of ecstatic beauty and subtle impressionism, but this is something completely different. 

With "The Soil", it is the physical, physiological effect that absorbs you. The painting is huge, but that is the only way for it to exist (I am enclosing it here, but it has to be seen live). It is not that "The Soil" drags you into its frame - it is that the painting bursts out of it. And you feel small, and insignificant, and utterly gripped, and a tiny step closer to discovering what art really stands for.

Album of the Month: PREMONITION by White Lung

"Hysteric" kicks off with two or three seconds of near silence. The anticipation (premonition, if you want) is resolved joyously, in a way both old and familiar: barrage of speedy guitar lines, relentless drumbeat and stellar vocal melodies. The whole package, the immaculate noise punk racket you have grown to love over the 12 years of the band's existence. In a way, there are few things more comforting than the signature wall of sound from one of Vancouver's finest bands. 

This, sadly, is White Lung's final album. Premonition had actually been written prior to 2020 but the pandemic put things on hold. The hiatus did not, in fact, break the band. The decision had actually been made earlier - and I do not find it tragic. First, nothing beats a discography of five consistently brilliant albums. Second, Premonition is a dream ending to a great career. 

Essentially, White Lung's take on hardcore punk is different in the sense that it stays non-abrasive and even (God help me) family friendly without losing any of the rough edges associated with the genre. Anne-Marie Vassiliou pounds those drums with intelligent savagery. Kenny McCorkell crafts the incessant onslaught of orgasmic guitar intricacies. Mish Barber-Way weaves timeless melodies into and out of the beautiful noise. That's it. That is the pattern. But what a great fucking pattern that it.

As ever, the album features 10 songs and the overall running time does not exceed 30 minutes (worth remembering, though, that some of their earlier LPs did not even reach 20 minutes). Nothing overstays its welcome, everything hits hard and gets the fuck out. "Date Night" and "Tomorrow" are great singles but you could throw a dart at the track list and hit another one. Having said that, "Under Glass" is almost a ballad, "Girl" is almost filler and the epic (I'm using the word loosely) "Winter", with its powerful interruption in the middle, is most definitely the perfect swan song.

Not too many bands release great albums in December - but there is something deeply satisfying about White Lung pulling it off with the last record of their career (hence the delay in the monthly feature on this blog). Premonition is a beautiful end in a world where nobody knows how and when to stop. 

November Round-Up

If you, like me, heard Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix in 2009 and thought this was as good as indie rock gets, you would not want to miss any of the follow-ups. I have not missed them and, sadly, they have all been disappointing. Alpha Zulu (★★★) is slick synthpop whose melodic substance is, while catchy and stylish, a little too sterile. The title song will be coming to me in nightmares.

As for Neil Young's latest, World Record (★★★½) is another fine addition to the ragged and charming catalogue of Crazy Horse albums. Some lovely accordion reminiscent of Harvest Moon ("This Old Planet"), wild waves of distortion (you can definitely imagine how "Break The Chain" goes before you actually listen to it) and a fascinating 15-minute closer called "Chevrolet" (not exactly "Cortez The Killer" but nothing is). 

Finally, everybody keeps worshipping Weyes Blood, and I still, for the love of me, cannot hear it. And In The Darkness, Hearts Aglow (★★★) is lovely and everything - but what makes this special, exactly? Hollow, vaguely majestic compositions with beautiful singing and little substance. "God Turn Me Into A Flower" is a little more majestic than others, I will give her that, but otherwise I will go back to my Judee Sill records thank you very much. 

"She Is A Fighter" by Robert Forster

Last time that a two-minute song hit me as hard as this was back in 2019 when Fontaines DC released their single "Big". "She's a Fighter" is simple and charismatic, visceral and subdued. As is the video where everything is just perfect - and that includes a shopping trolley used as a musical instrument. 

Robert Forster's new album is out in early February. Fingers crossed for Karin.  

Polish Diary. Warsaw Film Festival.

This year, The Warsaw Film Festival was more than its name would suggest. Alongside the main programme (which is in itself quite extensive) it incorporated what would have been The Odesa International Film Festival. The latter did not take place for obvious reasons and so this gesture from Poland was, again, timely and gracious. Interestingly, though, the first thing I noticed as I stepped into the cinema to attend my first screening, was that in comparison with Odesa's festival, the one in Warsaw just did not have the oomph. In Warsaw, this was yet another event, one of many. 

Obviously, there were dozens upon dozens of movies in Warsaw this October and going through all of them would be a task both tedious and impossible. Which is why I would like to focus on just three of them. The ones that have won nothing and yet the ones that seemed most enduring to me. I sincerely hope they will not be forgotten, as so many things are once a film festival is over.

The first work that really caught my attention was What Remains by the Chinese filmmaker Ran Huang. It is an unnerving Scandinavian film set in the 90s about a man, formerly a patient of a psychiatric hospital, who confesses to a number of shocking murders committed years ago. We then embark on a journey that unravels something deeply disturbing about all of its main characters (policeman, psychiatrist, the self-confessed criminal). There is not much humour in the film and even the little warmth that it has gets compromised in the end, but the lead performances are all amazing (Stellan Skarsgård is perfect here) and the questions the film poses are the kinds that matter. Like, do we really want to know? Because we probably don't. 

Then there was a Danish period drama called The Kiss that looked lavish and sumptuous but which made me leave the cinema with my mind and my mental state completely unsettled. The Kiss is about the days just prior to the start of the First World War and a young recruit (excellent but awkward) whose good deed towards a stranger ties him to a rich household with a beautiful but crippled girl. What ensues is a Mermaid-like story that is also a complete opposite to what a fairy tale should stand for. The film has wonderful Danish restraint and a lot to say about white lies and how important it is to listen to your heart. And, equally, about how important it is to not listen to it too much.

Finally, there was an evocative Latvian film called January about a young wannabe filmmaker / photographer who finds himself in the midst of a difficult relationship and his country fighting for its independence from the swiftly disintegrating Soviet Union. It is a great story, and the historical backdrop makes it all the more powerful (especially if you consider how cruelly history keeps repeating itself). Oddly, parts of the film are a little reminiscent of Jarmusch's Stranger Than Paradise (a comparison the film is fully aware of). The acting from the young cast is emotional and bruising, the symbolism is inescapable, and the ending straddled the fine line between devastation, beauty and hope.  

It is hard to shake off the feeling that The Warsaw Film Festival just does not have as much significance as the famed Gdynia event in September. The one that truly is the Polish Film Festival that matters. Still, you do not really go to all these screenings to be swept away by the dresses and the buzz and the statuettes. Predictably, you only come here for the movies, and there is no question that there were some shattering cinema experiences in Warsaw this October. Those hopeful, depressing scenes from the streets of Riga in particular will stay with me forever.

Three Podcasts. Making Sense, B.E.E., Discord & Rhyme.

The problem is much the same: too many podcasts, one life. 

Making Sense with Sam Harris

It seems that I have been listening to Sam Harris's podcast my whole life. And yet it has barely been a decade. I listen to Making Sense (Waking Up, originally) in wild, addictive bursts. It slips out of my life and then it comes up in memory and in conversations and I get back to being a subscriber. I hear Sam Harris's voice, and for an hour or two, the world no longer feels like a bunch of non-sequiturs thrown together by a child's hand. I value Sam Harris for being a calming presence in my life, for being a great thinker and a scientist (the "Four Horsemen" video is still the best thing on YouTube). In his weekly podcast, Sam talks to people ranging from world's leading economists to comedians to Muslim dissidents to specialists in meditation. 

Sam Harris is a devastatingly reasonable human being who keeps getting into trouble in the age of unreason. These days, his views often get labelled as provocative and dangerous, and yet you could not even pigeonhole him as being anti-woke. He calls out idiots and exposes Islam for what it is. He defends Joan Rowling against the most ardent proponents of cancel culture. He talks to people who have been ostracised for their views and who have gotten into serious mess for trying to stay reasonable (the podcast with Bret Weinstein is essential listening). And then there are occasional stories about Christopher Hitchens (who was Sam Harris's friend), and I cannot really miss those.

The Bret Easton Ellis Podcast

Bret Easton Ellis is an interesting case in my life. I do not exactly love any of his novels (notable exceptions being The Rules of Attraction and American Psycho) but when I first heard his podcast on my way from Minsk to Madrid in the summer of 2015, back when it first appeared, I could not stop listening. His taste seemed impeccable (I believe that first podcast was to do with the brilliant little film called It Follows), and his verbose speaking style worked like a powerful incantation. I remember lying in my hotel room in Toledo during that hot, hot summer, writing stories, eating melons with ham, drinking Mateus and listening to Bret Easton Ellis talking to people like Mark Danielewski and John Carpenter. 

But then it stopped. Suddenly, the podcast ceased to exist and there were no more discussions about Trump, TV vs. movies and Bret Easton Ellis's own forays into filmmaking (of which we should not speak). This was in 2017, and it felt like a loss. Because the podcast was fascinating, and regardless of your opinion of the man's writing, you had to admire his insights into the world of art and politics and everything in between. But, as it turns out, all is not lost - and the Bret Easton Ellis's podcast has never really stopped. These days, you should come here, become a Patreon subscriber and start listening. Believe me, it is worth it. Bret Easton Ellis's mind is a minefield that does not kill.

Discord & Rhyme: An Album Podcast

Back in 2002 or thereabouts, I stumbled upon something called Web Reviewing Community and the wonderful and frightening world of independent reviewers and music commentators who have introduced me to a lot of great music I might never have discovered on my own. Later, I got out of loop and when I returned - WRC had virtually been decimated. Some died, some vanished, some gave up. And then, a short while ago, something called Discord & Rhyme came to my attention. A podcast launched by several of those music enthusiasts from the past; a podcast devoted to their favourite albums which they review song by song and with the sort of genuine obsession I have come to appreciate in people. The tastes of these people are diverse enough to cover artists as disparate as Bruce Springsteen and The Fall. 

These days, I find myself listening to this podcast on a train or else while walking the dog and I always find something new and worthwhile in their dissections of albums I have heard a million times before. They have reignited my love for 69 Love Songs, made me less afraid of Phish, helped me rediscover the demented brilliance of Mr Bungle's California and proved that there is something fundamentally wrong with me as I still do not care for the music of Stevie Wonder. My two minor complaints: first, I would like to see a little more discord; second, how in God's name have they released 106 shows and three (!) of those have been about The Moody Blues?!.

The Libertines in Warsaw. A review of sorts.

Disclaimer: This is a review of a concert I did not go to. 

Having toyed for a few months with the idea of going to The Libertines concert in Warsaw (November 4), I decided not to do that in the end. The concert was affordable, and there were tickets. But you see, there are certain things in life which should not just be viewed as part of history - but should remain that. Listening to The Libertines and Peter Doherty twenty years ago was a revelation. Up the Bracket and Down in Albion in particular. It would be hard to explain today, in 2022, what exactly it meant to be completely wiped out by the chorus of "The Good Old Days" or the fucked-up emotional intensity of "Albion", but that was like being dragged across the cobblestone and actually enjoying that. It was different. And it was special. 

And now, in 2022, when I saw a poster advertising The Libertines playing at a club in Warsaw, my first impulse was of course to go for it. But oddly, the idea made me feel uncomfortable. After all, I had just listened to the new album of Peter Doherty and loved it. In fact, if you asked me now that we are coming towards the end of the year, I would say The Fantasy Life Of Poetry And Crime is one of the most underrated records of 2022. It is broken, tuneful, romantic, and it plays to Doherty's strengths. There is that unmistakable brittle beauty in something like "The Epidemiologist" and "Abe Wassenstein", and there are charming vestiges of past anthemic glories in "You Can't Keep It From Me Forever". Seeing this man play "Time For Heroes" and "Boys In The Band" would not make any sense to me. It would probably not make any sense to him either.

I am not talking about Carl Barât not releasing anything of note in years. I am not talking about Peter Doherty living with his new partner in some French house and indulging in his obsession with cheese. It is not about any of that. It is my imagination drawing vivid (and, let's be honest, we all have access to YouTube) pictures of Peter Doherty and Carl Barât huddled by the single boom stand and screaming "Don't Look Back Into The Sun" in that impossibly sad and tuneless barroom manner. Also, my imagination is drawing something else... them huddled by the single boom stand in the good old days and meaning every word which they sing. 

And also, there is reality. The reality is that I still love Peter Doherty. And yes, his album in 2022 was excellent. And today I would rather be in a lonely French mansion, listening to him doing this (see video below). To me, this is not sad. This is beautiful.

Album of the Month: ALL THE KIDS ARE SUPER BUMMED OUT by Luke Haines & Peter Buck

It is always great to pinpoint the precise moment in time. And I know the moment I realised this was Luke Haines's greatest album in years (since 2009, if you want the details). It was when that haunting piano line first kicked in during "Minimalist House Burns Down". Either that, or when Luke intoned in that unmistakable sneery half-whisper: 'Swedish jazz... no one gives a shit'. 

These days, I am not especially intrigued by double albums, and when I discovered that Luke Haines once again teamed up with Peter Buck for a 17-song LP with that album name and with psychedelic song titles like "The British Army on LSD", "The Skies Are Full Of Insane Machines" and, well, "Psychedelic Sitar Casual", I had every right to be apprehensive. I expected a racket. Worse, I expected a mess. My bad. Because with Luke Haines, whatever the racket, you are always getting the songs. 

Seventeen of them, too. The hight-octane beginning is supposed to blow you away, and it will (I recommend headphones). My personal favourite is the propulsive, enormous-sounding "The Skies Are Full Of Insane Machines" that is drenched in Peter Buck's terrific guitar tones and features a stellar anthemic melody from Luke Haines. I am also partial to the single "Won't Even Get Out Of Bed" that has the leisurely tempo in the vein of "Married To A Lazy Lover" - but the effect here is much warmer, less sinister. Each song has something to offer here - both lyrically and instrumentally. 'God is doing the handjob' is one hell of a line, and that guitar break in "Commies Are Coming" is criminally short. 

To me, the album reaches its peak with three songs in the middle. "When I Met God" opens with acoustic guitar strumming reminiscent of "Sister Morphine". Then come a giant wave of feedback, a killer vocal melody and lyrics you will not forget. The aforementioned "Minimalist House Burns Down" is just fucking unbelievable. And then "Exit Space (All The Kids Are Super Bummed Out)" is a seven-minute progressive rock freak-out featuring a choir, a saxophone and a monkey laughing. It is a classic, of course. In fact, the only problem with it is that it makes the rest of the album feel like a bit of an afterthought. A shame, because we are still in for six excellent pop songs from Mr. Haines. The sweet and dreamy "Waiting For The UFOs" in particular is a beautiful closer. 

Really, if it takes Peter Buck on the guitar to bring out the best in Luke Haines, then so be it. All The Kids Are Super Bummed Out is a sprawling double LP that has something for everyone. Tons of personality, colourful guitar racket, kazoo. And an album of the year if there ever was one.

October Round-Up

For a man who has once called John Lennon a cunt, Todd Rundgren has not written too many great songs. An excellent producer, yes, but also a man without identity. I know people who swear blind that A Wizard / A True Star is a masterpiece but personally I find it both patchy and bland. Space Force (★★½), his new album, is an odd affair that features collaborations with artists ranging from Rivers Cuomo to Steve Vai. It is a diverse collection and certainly has its moments ("Someday" with Davey Lane) - but it is still patchy. And still bland. 

Speaking of cunts, I quite like this phase that Alex Turner is going through these days. The late-night crooner music of The Car (★★★½) is Turner disappearing further down the rabbit hole of the smooth, lightly orchestrated vibes of Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino. This time, a few majestic highlights aside, there is just not enough substance. 'I can't for the life of me remember how they go', he sings at some point, and that is also me and some of the melodies from this album. 

Another album I found a little blander than necessary was Direction of the Heart (★★★) by Simple Minds. I am not saying I was expecting another "Someone Somewhere", and there are some terrific synth-pop throwbacks here (most notably "Human Traffic" with Russell Mael), but many of these hooks fall flat. Which of course does not happen on Paul Heaton's latest. N.K-Pop (★★★½) conjures up the fond memories of the best songs from The Beautiful South. Uplifting, cynical, playful - and you will not find a bouncier melody as a backdrop to someone singing about a dead mother. 

Still, by far the most entertaining album of the month came from John Moore. I loved his first LP earlier this year and the second one (who does he think he is? Robert Pollard?) is pure rock and roll joy. 56 (★★★½) is lyrically and musically infectious (the story of Elvis Presley's secret visit to London is especially good), and the closing "Positive For Cocaine" is one of my songs of the year. Speaking of songs of the year, Peter Astor had a couple this month ("Time On Earth" and "English Weather" both qualify), but while the man's taste is impeccable and Time On Earth (★★★½) is another fine addition to his catalogue, there was something missing in some of these songs. Something timeless, something you could once hear in songs like "Almost Falling In Love" and "Tiny Town". I still believe Songbox is his masterpiece. 

Some more fine English gentlemen have released their albums this October. Among them Robyn Hitchcock, whose self-titled 2017 album was supposed to be his last. Then, however, the lockdown happened, and he was in mood to write another LP. Shufflemania! (★★★★) is your classic Robyn Hitchcock album, timeless ("One Day (It's Being Scheduled)") and deliciously silly (title song). Mostly both. Finally, I was happy to listen to David Westlake's My Beautiful England (★★★½) album. 14 short songs filled with numerous reference points and that sharp and insidious melodicism that has not changed much since the times of The Servants. Ultimately, a beautiful paean to his country. I would like to use this opportunity and recommend his unjustly forgotten Play Dusty For Me from 2010 as a subtle, transcendental experience.

When I think of transcendental, Alela Diane always comes to mind. Alela is one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary folk music. Actually, if it were not for the sheer brilliance of Luke Haines's latest, Looking Glass (★★★★) would be my album of the month. She is special. With that rich voice, that knack of writing a striking, haunting melody, Alela Diane has no peers. "Dream a River" will leave you speechless. Another folk album I liked this month was Sorrows Away (★★★½) by The Unthanks. This is a more traditional take on folk music and few do it better than them. A very consistent LP that builds up and fades away with an absolutely gorgeous harmonious chant during the second half of the closing title song. 

Gorgeous harmonies were not something I was expecting from Dry Cleaning, the latest critical darlings of British music press. I was not a big fan of their debut, and Stumpwork (★★★) is little better. It is slightly more coherent and melodic, but this sparse, spoken word take on post-punk is more 'interesting' than 'good'. I am afraid that they have charisma but they do not have the songs. If you want both, I would point you in the direction of Benjamin Clementine. Benjamin's debut album At Least For Now won the Mercury Prize in 2015 and has not buried Benjamin under its weight. His impressionistic pop music is as soulful and imaginative as ever. And I Have Been (★★★★) is uncharacteristically short but it still finds time for a six-minute piano instrumental inspired by Erik Satie. Stylish music. The only downside is that this LP (in fact, the first part of a two-album project) might be his last.

Sadly, I wish Archers of Loaf had not decided to write a follow-up to their brilliant White Trash Heroes (1998) that was supposed to be their final statement. Reason In Decline (★★★) is a decent comeback, and it has some powerful guitar-rock urgency but much of it still sounds a little generic and underwhelming. Very much like the title of Will Sheff's debut album. Nothing Special (★★★★) sounds humble to a fault. However, ever since I first heard "John Allyn Smith Sails" (Christ what a song, down to its inspired "Sloop John B." ending) I have never missed a new Okkervil River album. Most of them have been disappointing - but Nothing Special is different. Like Yawn in 2018, like Serpentine Prison in 2020, Nothing Special is moody and strangely cathartic. A very special autumnal album, an album to live with. 

The Cure in Kraków, 20.10

The ageless, ageing Robert Smith. Over time, he has turned into a big old softie. He puts his hands on the chest in a humble gesture of gratitude. He walks around the stage at the start and at the end of the show, saying thank you to each fan who dares to establish the eye contact. He does small talk between songs - saying irreverent things that seem to genuinely amuse him. He even cracks a silly joke about trying to speak Polish. He no longer pretends that this is the last album by The Cure. The last tour. The last everything. Moreover, he actually says after the inevitable encore capped off with "Boys Don't Cry" that he will return to Kraków. Like I say - a softie. 

And yet when that voice bursts out halfway into the opener "Alone", it is like we are still in the early 80s and he still means it. All that anguish, all that yearning. I guess he does still mean it. Which is to say - these days, Robert Smith is in imperious form.

photo by Tomasz Stańczak

Indeed, it would be hard to find a person who has been unimpressed by a live show from The Cure. The soundscape which they create is so monumental and so engrossing that you are effectively eaten alive like the unfortunate narrator of "Lullaby" (which is performed with the aplomb that it deserves). A friend of mine who has never been a fan once told me that he accidentally caught them live at the Leeds Festival ten years ago and was left speechless by the sheer power of the sound. Even more amusingly, his twelve-year-old daughter whose love for rock music at the time did not stretch beyond "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers, was equally dazzled. And so despite the steep price and the fact that I had to travel to another city on a week day, I could not afford to miss the concert.

Oh but it is a grand occasion. A relatively big opening act (The Twilight Sad - competent but lacking identity), a string of somber e-mails notifying you of the exact time and zero tolerance for electronic tickets. So that even before you actually get there and walk through a dozen checks on the way to your seat, you know you are in for the show of your life. 

That it is not could hardly be blamed on the performance. The band gave it all, and every little detail that makes The Cure so great live was in place. The long, intense build-ups. The majestic wall of sound. Robert Smith's charisma. The restrained yet captivating stage antics (everyone was somewhat static except for the bassist who was crawling about like a drunk spider). The musicianship. The voice. No, my complaints are very personal and could be deemed improper by any other member of the audience. Still, I have to say this: beyond the inescapable "Just Like Heaven", the band played nothing from Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me (which, let us be clear on this, is The Cure's greatest album). The sharp, clever songwriting of that LP was eschewed and, instead, Robert Smith favoured more sprawling, epic compositions of Disintegration. Which is understandable in view of its critical and commercial success, but I have never been bowled over by its somewhat meandering nature.   

Still, this is of course merely a matter of personal taste, and there could also be people equally let down by the surprising underrepresentation of Pornography. Because you cannot really go wrong with a vast catalogue like that, and both "A Forest" and "Play For Today" chug along in a hypnotic fashion, "A Night Like This" is a timeless classic, and "Close To Me" is, well, "Close To Me" (that is to say, one of the greatest songs ever written). They play the latter during the final encore, together with "The Walk" and "Friday I'm In Love" and all those songs that Robert Smith plays with an odd mixture of gusto and total indifference. But he is a softie, we have established that already, so he has to give people what they want. Most importantly, however, is that he debuts a few songs from The Cure's mythical new album (which, according to Smith, should have been released days, months, years ago). I will not say much about them, everything The Cure do live sounds great, but there is no question that "And Nothing Is Forever" is one of the most beautiful songs Robert Smith has ever done. 

Kraków is a city of smells. Everything has its own distinct smell here, from autumn leaves to restaurant food to dapple grey horses prancing around Main Square. In the end, the smell becomes so immense that I take off my headphones (playing Wish, inevitably) to give myself to it entirely. They will lead you anywhere, those smells. To Jewish cafes, to record shops, to cemeteries. And then, obviously enough, they will lead you, by way of black leather and thick hair spray, to the Tauron Arena at the edge of the city. Because no offence to dapple grey horses and to the stunning streets of Kraków sugar coated in the golden foliage - but this is why you are here tonight. To see The Cure and the ageless, ageing Robert Smith.

Polish Diary. Купалаўцы ў Варшаве.

Я ішоў на варшаўскую прэм'еру Купалаўцаў з цяжкім пачуццём у сэрцы і адной толькі думкай: пазнаю ці не? Углядзеўшыся ў родныя твары, ці знайду Манаева, Белахвосцік, Гарбуза? Ці пазнаю? Ці ёсць там яны яшчэ? Ці не засталіся ў Кіеве? Ці не з'ехалі ў Канаду? Справа ў тым, што я не бачыў іх, здавалася, паўвека. Калі не лічыць спарадычных пастановак з анлайн-каналу Купалаўцаў, то апошнім разам я бачыў іх тры гады таму, калі на Малой сцэне давалі "Радзіва Прудок", а бліскучы Іван Трус гуляў сам-адзін усю набокаўскую "Камеру абскуру". Калі ж казаць пра тое, што адбывалася па-за сцэнай, то ў апошні раз я бачыў іх каля Купалаўскага тэатру восенню 2020 году. У той дзень амаль кожны з іх выйшаў да дзвярэй тэатру, каб падтрымаць Паўла Латушку.  

І амаль ўсе яны выйшлі на сцэну напрыканцы прошлага тыдня, калі ў Польскім тэатры гулялі новую пастаноўку Міхаіла Пінігіна. Яны выйшлі на драўляны памост, Манаеў прамовіў першыя словы па-польску (і апошнія, далей усё было выключна па-беларуску), і нешта ў сэрцы ні то абарвалося, ні то ўспыхнула. Хутчэй за ўсе, два гэтыя працэсы адбыліся адначасова. Так, я пазнаў іх - нават тых, каго не ведаў раней. 

На самой справе, эмоцыі пачалі грукацца да мяне яшчэ звонку, дзе было чуваць беларускую мову, і дзе пры добрай фантазіі можна было ўявіць, што гэта не вуліца Казіміра Карася, а так добра знаёмы кут Аляксандраўскага скверу. Ды і ўнутры, асабліва ў вялікай залі тэатра, можна было адчуць камерны подых Купалаўскага. І сапраўды: нават вялікая зала, дзе адбывалася прэм'ера, не ўражвае сваім памерам і стварае інтымную атмасферу ўлюбёнай залі ў цэнтры Мінска. Тым часам, вакол цябе па-ранейшаму гучаць беларускія словы, і толькі немаладая дама, станістая і стылёвая, прабіраецца да свайго месца са звыклым польскім przepraszam. Дарэчы, я думаю пра яе даволі шмат на працягу спектаклю. Здаецца, яна прышла сюды дзеля вершаў Міцкевіча, і мяне ўвесь час непакоіць пытанне, ці разумее яна беларускую мову.

Бо гулялі вершы Адама Міцкевіча ў беларускім перакладзе. Назва праграмы "Рамантыка", і гэта даволі эфектнае спалучэнне паэзіі ды акторскай гульні. Акторы прамаўляюць радкі, якія ў гэтый жа час гуляюць на сцэне. Вершы не заўсёды звязаныя паміж сабой, але тым не менш яны ствараюць наратыў, які робіцца суцэльным за кошт сваёй шчырасці і праніклівасці інтанацый. Усе гэтыя інтанацыі добра знаёмыя і счытваюцца на нейкім амаль фізіялагічным узроўні. Цікава тое, што на пачатку спектакля меліся невялікія праблемы з гукам, і некаторыя словы не было чуваць зусім - але ж я цалкам разумеў іх. Нават ня ведаючы вершаў Міцкевіча, я адчуваў радкі праз позірк актораў і мінімалістычныя пінігінскія дэкарацыі.

Калі казаць пра дамінуючыя эмоціі, то атмасфера "Рамантыкі" не толькі рамантычная, але і жудасная. Містычная сутнасць паэтычнага таленту Міцкевіча праглядваецца тут паўсюль. Так, лепшай і самай насычанай інсцэніроўкай была трагічная гісторыя пра двух братоў, якія (не ведаючы таго) закахаліся ў дзяўчыну, забіўшую іх брата. Гэта амаль шэкспіраўская гісторыя пра каханне, зайздрасць і здраду, і яна передадзена ў страшэнных дэталях. Калі ў нейкі момант на сцэне з'яўляецца здань з закрытым тварам і ў жалезных даспехах, то гэта нагадвае эпізод з сапраўднага начнога кашмару. Але ж амаль ва ўсім праступае містычная рамантыка Міцкевіча, складаная і шматслойная, якая падаецца як праблемай, так і вырашэннем усіх праблем. Прысутнічае на сцэне і гумар, які з'яўляецца ў жорсткім выглядзе і даволі рэдка, але добра зніжае непрыкметны градус напружанасці, выкліканы блеклай атмасферай і эмігранцкімі ўспамінамі. 

Напружанасць дасягае крытычнай кропкі ў заключных словах апошняй часткі, якія б'юць мацней за ўсё. Калі адзін з герояў кажа пра тое, што вера і пачуццё заўсёды пераадольваюць бессардэчную мудрасць, то гэта падаецца сапраўднай кульмінацыяй вечару. За ёю ўжо слёзы (прычым слёзы ўсіх, ад актораў да гледачоў), узнятыя рукі ды такія знаёмыя два словы - якія аб'ядноўваюць усіх нас і дзеля якіх мы, падаецца, і завіталі ў Польскі тэатр. Яркія, гучныя вобразы Міцкевіча застаюцца са мной яшчэ доўгі час - але ж нічога не параўнаць з тымі апошнімі некалькімі хвілінамі, цяжкімі, эмацыйнымі, існуючымі дзякуючы тым самым веры і пачуццю. Тым, якія нельга апрануць у які-небудзь язык, ці то польскі, ці то беларускі. Дарэчы, польская дама, як і мы, стаяла побач з намі і прагна чакала кожнае чарговае з'яўленне купалаўцаў на біс.

І некалькі словаў пра назву. Спачатку яна падавалася мне досыць аднабокай і недастаткова глыбокай. "Рамантыка"? І гэта пры ўсім трагічным і няпростым, што адбываецца на сцэне? Але гэта было спачатку. На шляху дадому я ўжо добра разумеў, што гэтая назва ідэальна пасуе спектаклю. Бо рамантыка бывае рознай. І ў эмігрантаў яна свая, складаная і шматпавярховая. Яна месціць у сабе каханне, містыку, трагедыю і крыху чорнага гумару.

Three albums. Slint, Polvo, Stern.

Math-rock is a genre that sounds more dangerous than it really is. Back when I knew nothing about it, I thought of metallic sheen and people in black drinking blood during live shows. It was when I heard Polvo for the first time that I realised what math-rock stood for: musicians playing their instruments in an elaborate manner, with mathematical accuracy. If that sounds dull, it should not. 

But I do really have little patience for what passes for math-rock these days. Once in a while, YouTube throws up high-quality videos of smug-looking people performing their songs with immaculate technical precision (Polyphia, anyone?). The problem with these bands is that they are awful. They cannot write songs. So however brilliant their skills are, they do not impress me.

These three albums do. To me, they represent some of the absolute best music in the math-rock genre. 

Slint. Spiderland (1991).

This album is legendary, which makes it all the more strange that it took me years to finally hear it. As a matter of fact, it took an interview with David Pajo and company in a recent issue of Uncut to make me put on a pair of large headphones and listen to Spiderland in all its cryptic, ecstatic, spoken word glory. 

It is an incredible experience that hits as hard as it probably did thirty years ago. Having spent a few years in the garage honing their technique (and releasing the not-quite-as-bad-as-they-tell-you Tweez in 1989), Slint put out their masterpiece in the year of grunge and Nevermind. However, there is little Nirvana about it beyond a couple of screaming sections in "Nosferatu Man". Mostly, it is a very intricate, well thought-through 40 minutes of slow-burning emotional intensity and ominous guitar arpeggios that sound both hypnotic and utterly beautiful. 

The album builds up and breaks down all over the place, and yet it never fails to impress. It may be a difficult listen, granted, but equally - nobody can deny the gorgeous guitar line in "Washer" or Pajo's unforgettable outburst at the end of "Good Morning, Captain". A timeless album. 

Polvo. In Prism (2009).

I sometimes think Polvo are the greatest band of all time. And then, when I forget that, it only takes me one minute of "Right The Relation" to put me right. 

Throughout their career, Polvo (have) released six albums and a few EPs of such mind-blowing math-rock brilliance that picking In Prism as their best may seem like a choice completely arbitrary - if not, in fact, nonsensical. But I stand by it. Because however much I love Celebrate The New Dark Age and Exploded Drawing, it was the absolute fucking insanity of "Beggar's Bowl" that got me here. Listen to those wild time signatures right now, listen to every little trick those guitars are doing - and you will never be the same. Truly there is no better introduction to math-rock than this. 

Besides the unimpeachable instrumentation, they are also great songwriters. The mystical, protean "Lucia" (which does indeed start a little like "Achilles Last Stand") goes from gorgeous balladry to high-intensity rocker with effortless skill, and the closing epic "A Link In The Chain" is just as good. This underappreciated masterwork is due wider recognition - along with the rest of Polvo's back catalogue.  

Marnie Stern. The Chronicles of Marnia (2013).

If there was a way I could describe my 2013 to anyone, I would just ask them to play The Chronicles of Marnia in its entirety. From the wild and whimsical chant of Marnie Stern at the start of "Year Of The Glad" and all way to the euphoric fade-out at the end of "Hell Yes". 

Okay, for those who do not know. Marnie Stern is a singer-songwriter from New York whose guitar-playing is so good you will want to see her live just to prove that this is, indeed, possible. The one criticism you could sometimes see levelled at her was that her songwriting did not always catch up with her mercurial skills as a guitarist. Well, if there even was such a thing, you could not really raise that complaint in the face of tunes such as "Noonan", "Proof Of Life" and especially "Nothing Is Easy". This math-rock comes with style and with charm, I still cannot believe she has not released anything since.

On her guitar, Marnie shreds and swirls and tears, but Jesus Christ that "Nothing Is Easy" song is good. I could probably write a book about it and still not express the full extent of my admiration for everything that is happening there. The way it playfully goes from one jaw-dropping hook to another (vocal, melodic, instrumental, lyrical, whatever) is like a children's kaleidoscope gone mad.  

In fact, I will post it here so that more people will marvel at this classic. That, and the immortal line "You don't need a sledgehammer to walk in my shoes". 

Album of the Month: WHEN THE WIND FORGETS YOUR NAME by Built to Spill

Boise, Idaho, has given us two great artists. David Lynch is a transformative figure, a true visionary and one of the key figures of modern cinema. Doug Martsch, on the other hand, is a relatively small phenomenon in the grand scheme of things. The founder of indie-rock outfit Built to Spill (an odd name, and such an unfortunate abbreviation), a band who have been around for 30 years and who only have cult following and critical adoration to show for it. A band who have never really set the world on fire - except with that epic 20-minute version of "Cortez the Killer".

Having said that, all the good people know the two facts: Built to Spill are phenomenal live, and Perfect From Now On and Keep It Like A Secret contain some of the greatest songs of the 90s. Played to distorted perfection, sung in that unmistakable voice of emotional whimsy that should evoke Wayne Coyne and Jonathan Donahue. God knows I love that voice, even if I do understand how it can be an acquired taste. My advice would be to bear with it. Because the songs are good. 

The new album features Martsch's first original material since Untethered Moon (2015). In between, there was a competent but unexciting album of Daniel Johnston's covers and nothing else. Which makes When The Wind Forgets Your Name a sort of comeback. And, to dispel any doubts and apprehensions, these are some of Doug Martsch's sharpest songs in years. 

Interestingly, the stellar guitar work that Doug Martsch is famous for is not especially conspicuous on this album. Obviously the playing is great all the way through, ragged and charming, it is just that the focus is on the songwriting. The opener "Gonna Lose" is two and a half minutes of propulsive melodic outburst. And then... "Fool's Gold" is timeless, "Understood" is bouncy, "Elements" is heartbreaking. Only "Rocksteady", the slack side closer, is a little too pedestrian and does not really get its hooks into you until the last minute or so. The second side is more of the same - but a little more expansive, and the guitar plays a bigger role in the proceedings - not least in the closing "Comes A Day" which is every bit as epic and breathtaking as "Broken Chairs" from Keep It Like A Secret. Those last few minutes of Doug's tasteful guitar racket could continue for a couple of hours and never lose me for a second.

When The Wind Forgets Your Name is a quiet, low-key triumph for Built to Spill. It is not something you have not heard before. This is the usual deal from Doug Martsch - but if the usual deal is superior indie-rock with undeniable melodic sensibilities and masterful guitar playing, I will take it. A welcome comeback. Shame about the cover, though. 

September Round-Up

These days, Buzzcocks are Steve Diggle and a couple of blokes. It was foolish to expect anything from their new album in 2022 - but Sonics In The Soul (★★★½) is a pleasant surprise. Do not come here expecting "What Do I Get?" or "Orgasm Addict", and you will be rewarded with the infectious charm of downtempo rock songs like "You've Changed Everything Now" and "Nothingless World". An even stronger comeback, however, came by way of House Of Love whose latest LP, A State of Grace (★★★½), is solid all the way through. Twelve jangly, driving rock songs with real hooks. Best of all is the insidious, sinister "Sweet Loser" that opens the album. 

Still, there is nothing quite like the resurgence of Afghan Whigs whose three recent albums (four, if you count Greg Dulli's Random Desire - which you should) are easily their best work ever. How Do You Burn? (★★★★) may not be as strong as 2014's Do To The Beast but what a well-written set of blistering rockers and slow-burning ballads. "Please, Baby, Please" is achingly pretty and that build-up of "Take Me There" is one of the most incredible things I've heard this month. Just clever songwriting all around.

Another incredible thing is how Tim Burgess recorded 90 minutes of music and had so little to say. Typical Music (★★★) features a whopping 22 songs that may all be good but that never, not even for a second, fail to remind you why The Charlatans were one of the most anemic bands of the 90s. Rather, I would pick The Pink Album (★★★½) by Unloved as my double album of the month. Again, 22 songs (including a guest appearance from Jarvis Cocker) - but this time infused with great vibes and real personality. Soulful, mysterious stuff that evokes the nocturnal atmosphere of the Roadhouse bar in Twin Peaks. I wanted to give it a higher rating but this is a little too self-indulgent. 

Suede just keep coming back, and you will not hear me complain. Autofiction (★★★½) has a classic opener, the soaring "She Still Leads Me On", and while nothing else comes close to that anthemic chorus, Brett Anderson is in top form and this is another fine addition to their storied back catalogue. Speaking of back catalogues, how about Pixies? Is Frank Black pissing all over those late 80s / early 90s classics? I do not quite believe he is, but Doggerel (★★★) does not convince. It is catchy and likeable - but remember how Black used to write those genius pop melodies with a sick twist? Well, the melodies have gotten a little too obvious and the twist has lost most of its edge. 

The only edge on the new album by Yeah Yeah Yeahs that I can find is those irresistible booming synths that burst through the speakers now and then and make you think that Cool It Down (★★★) is better than it really is. It is not. A good album, and I admire the short length, but it does not feel like the band had a lot to say here. Karen O can sing, granted, but we knew that already. Finally, Björk's unexpected new album Fossora (n/a) is her best since Vespertine. I have never been a big fan - but I found this album not just ugly, dissonant and cold, but also endlessly intriguing and (sometimes) emotionally powerful. "Ovule" and "Allow" are the highlights. I still refuse to rate her, though. Sorry.

P.S. I'm always left frustrated by Lambchop's albums. Understatement can sometimes be overwhelming. 

Kiwi Jr. in Eindhoven, 24.09

My first question at the club is always the same: are these people completely random? Have they not just wandered here by chance, on a rainy Saturday night? Because I often think they have. They do not care about Toronto or that sweet middle-eight. They are here for the experience. For the vibe. For the power chord that will slap them across the face. The rock critic. The drug addict. The punk. It does not really matter who you are in a club. 

And it certainly does not matter in Stroomhuis, a small music venue in Eindhoven. It is a lovely, ramshackle club with a small bar and gaudy drawings of skeletons on the walls. It is a lonesome building in the centre of the Dutch city, and it looks like a place haunted by the ghosts of unsung rock and roll heroes. I can almost smell these ghosts in the abrasive chords of the Dutch band Real Farmer who are the opening act tonight. They dress casually (almost excessively so), they bring to mind either Fugazi or The Fall, and there is something bittersweet about their performance. They are good - but you are distracted, you keep thinking about those ghosts.

The first thing you notice about Kiwi Jr. is the glasses on the face of the singer. They are not especially fashionable glasses, but then nothing is in Stroomhuis tonight. Kiwi Jr. (whose latest album, Chopper, is a record of the year) play beautifully crafted songs that do not translate well to club performances. The melodies shine through, but you have to be a fan to be bowled over. Like those two men in front of me who go insane when the band start playing "Salary Man". Me? I go insane when the keyboard riff of "Unspeakable Things" rushes in. And that is two seconds into the show.

I am enjoying this, down to the awkward silences between songs and the timid joke about bicycles (no one here cares for bicycle jokes anymore). They can play. The guitar solo at the end of "Cooler Returns" is recreated with absurd efficiency, and "Downtown Area Blues" sounds powerful and is every bit the perfect closer for a club concert. Still, I would argue that the entire charisma of Kiwi Jr. lies in the tunes and not in the personalities which never really ignite during the one-hour set. They never grow into the dysfunctional setting of Stroomhuis, but at some point at the end of the show the melodic genius of "Waiting In Line" does get through to the beery Dutch hearts. Me? I just think they write some of the best songs in the world.

What I hate about clubs is how they start playing music the moment the band steps off the stage. Somehow, it cheapens the effect, renders everything meaningless and mundane. Perhaps it is, but that makes me think about Kiwi Jr. and how they failed to fit in. Their songs are timeless, timeless and out of time, and the little Dutch club could never accommodate that. Not in a million years. And so Kiwi Jr... They will not be returning here as ghosts, either. Quite simply, they are too good for that. 

Polish Diary. Antykwariat Grochowski.

* I want to preface this by saying that Javier Marias died a few days ago, and it's a death that hurts. His prose was original, charismatic, lyrical and spoke to me in a very intimate way. A Heart So White, Tomorrow In The Battle Think Of Me and especially The Infatuations (I was actually addicted to that novel) are all essential reading. Powerful, quietly devastating books. Truly one of the most important writers in my life. Rest in peace.

Grochów is not the most spectacular district in Warsaw. It is moody and it may let you down after the ramshackle charm of Praga-South. That is, however, if you make two mistakes: come here at a time when the trees are not in full bloom and choose to forego the famous Antykwariat Grochowski. Green trees bring the monotonous architecture alive and even the local parks acquire the edge they normally lack. And then, of course, there is the bookshop. The bookshop that is, let's face it, the sole reason why you are here.

Antykwariat Grochowski is actually two separate shops. The first one is devoted to books in the Polish language, and the second one is a bizarre and bewitching blend of every single thing on earth: oil paintings, pre-war posters, foreign books, vinyl records, vintage coats, obscure magazines, china dolls, etc. Outside, in Kickiego street, you are greeted by the sight of several rows of cardboard boxes filled to the brim with cheap paperbacks. Browsing through them is a vaguely familiar pair you are likely to meet in various parts of Warsaw: a middle-aged woman and a dog. They are both inspecting the offers thoroughly, and with the kind of tranquil precision that makes you feel at home before you even enter the door. 

The smell of books is overpowering: that unmistakable scent of dust and vanilla. The books are everywhere, and I do mean everywhere. They are on the shelves, on the floor, hanging from the ceiling. It appears that the whole shop is constructed from books: walls, bookcases, even the desk that is occupied by a bespectacled lady in her 50s, sitting there in complete concentration, in dim light, reading. The books in this shop are all in Polish, and I feel sorry that I do not know the language well enough to read everything displayed in this crooked maze of a shop. Detective stories, autobiographies, historical novels, cook books from the 60s... I ask the lady about the English books, and she is visibly confused by the unfortunate distraction in the form of me. That would be the next door, she explains, in another part of the shop. 

So there is another part, and it is, indeed, the reason why I am here. I go down the stairs, and I find myself in the underground Moria of bookshops. This part is actually bigger, spacier, and one can finally distinguish the shelves from the books. Which is not to say that these shelves are not heaving from music, literature, art. They most definitely are, and the smell is much the same. Only richer, denser, more intoxicating. Quite simply, you can find just about anything - even if the best way to come here is in a blindfold, without any prior wish lists and preferences. That way, you may just find something you had always been missing, quite unknowingly, like that battered old anthology of Polish films of 1964, a poster of Zbigniew Namysłowski's jazz concert from August 1973 or a German compilation of Blood, Sweat & Tears on vinyl (my case). 

Their collection of American jazz is impressive, as are the stacks of black and white magazines from the Golden age of Polish cinema. The section with books is equally arcane and extensive, and you might just come across a hefty volume on Italian mushrooms or else on sports cars in Łódź in the second part of the 80s. The English language sections is relatively limited, but you you will find the first edition of The Adventures of Augie March in between the tedious paperbacks of Catherine Cookson. When after all that search and browsing you get to the counter, it has been hours and you have lost all sense of time. 

Outside, it could be night and it could be the breaking of dawn. That you go out and the trees are still green is a pleasant bonus. One, however, that you no longer need. The monotonous architecture of the Grochów district finally gets to you. 

Three books. Allen, Polanski, Lynch.

These three autobiographies have come my way over the last few months. Interestingly, they have all been published quite recently (or republished, in the case of Roman Polanski) and they have all been written by three of my favourite filmmakers. Not necessarily great writers - but with lives like that, would you care?

Woody Allen. Apropos of Nothing (2020).

While it is certainly an entertaining memoir, it is hard not to deplore the fact that Woody Allen spends a good half of this book discussing the sexual abuse allegations. Obviously he has to defend himself (against snowflake publishers, against fickle film stars, against his son and his ex-wife) - but what a waste. He could have been telling us a million stories - instead, he never even gets into the details of his encounter with Simone de Beauvoir. Brilliant observations (like the one where he tells us that Naomi Watts has the 'sexiest two upper teeth in the world') are in short supply, too. Instead, he has to justify himself for things of which he had been acquitted ages ago. Instead, it is what Alan Dershowitz once called 'guilt by accusation'. 

The memoir is full of humility - to a fault. Woody Allen's life has been fascinating, and yet he writes about it in such an 'ah well' manner that you might think he is not the one responsible for dozens of classic American movies. There comes a point in reading Apropos of Nothing when you realise that he dedicates a little over one page to brilliant films like Blue Jasmine and Sweet & Lowdown. It certainly points to a rich and eventful career (where Cate Blanchett is just another great actor) but it also points to a reader being left in the snow. Because, inevitably, you will want more. 

So all the more reason to cherish those first pages where Allen speaks about his early career in comedy and his biggest inspirations. Bob Hope (for whom Allen ended up writing) is a hero, and the way he talks about his admiration for Mort Sahl is pure joy to read. It is a little overwhelming, however, and you might have to watch yourself. Otherwise, you could drown in the sea of names that Allen brings up rather casually - but which are all there for a reason. Thankfully, a lot of space is devoted to Diane Keaton, and the story of Mary Bancroft is a pleasant and somewhat disturbing one-page digression which could easily make it into a Woody Allen film. Really, his plots are everywhere, and with a biography this intense and with a sense of humour this natural you should not wonder where he got all those plots.

There are no special revelations about his films or his actors - but those small details and observations which he throws around so effortlessly are well worthy of your time. He explains why Interiors failed, for instance (no rehearsal), or that there is a scene in Radio Days taken from life (mother running with a knife) or that he considers Husbands and Wives to be his greatest film (there are days when I agree). 

"Attack the day!" he writes at one point, and you know this is exactly what he has been doing all his life. Be that his films, his writings or his clarinet. In this book, he tries so hard to make his life seem ordinary, and it is an admirable attempt - but he fails miserably. It is not an ordinary life. There is, for instance, a story involving Roman Polanski - and the story is more incredible than any of Woody Allen's most insane plots.

Favourite quote: "Judy Davis and I still don't speak, but now it's in Italian". 

Roman Polanski. Roman (1984 / 2017).

Roman is a very frank book. But then, in 1984, nothing else would have done. With a life like that, Polanski had to say it all. And he did. On the way to absolute frankness, Polanski takes no prisoners. So from peeing in bed as a child to the brutal murder of Sharon Tate to the detailed description of the notorious sexual encounter in Jack Nicholson's house, you get to know everything. For better or for worse, Roman Polanski's life is one hell of a ride through immense talent and moral ambiguity. 

It actually took me almost two months to read this book. I read it in Polish and that was something I chose to do on purpose. The Polish language puts an oddly melancholic spin on these events, and it makes Polanski's return to Krakow at the end of the book all the more poignant and memorable. 

In war-torn Poland of his childhood, life was rough and miserable but it was also a period of great obsessions (looking for celluloid in dumpsters, the failed plan to escape to France in a poky bathroom of a Polish train) and of great imagination (the story of a lamp which he believed to be a lie detector is my personal favourite). And all the while, you can spot those small instances that point to the future. While hiding in Warsaw, he saw an abandoned dog on a balcony - with soldiers silently marching by. It is such a beautiful, such an impossibly sad cinematic moment. These days, you read Polanski's autobiography and you think it was all just a string of coincidences - him meeting the right people at the right time. But in the end - that is what makes up a life, all those friendships and affairs and chance encounters. Polanski never shies away from the fact.

Still, there may have been luck - but there was also talent. He covers those early student films in great detail, and it is fascinating to watch them now and witness the dark edge and the moral unease that would later be seen in full bloom. And then there are stories, millions of them. In telling these stories, Polanski pulls no punches. The girl in Knife in the Water 'could not act' (in fact, some stories about her are downright cruel), Catherine Deneuve was 'difficult' (and refused to be shot naked) and Jack Nicholson's TV set got broken by Polanski while making Chinatown (ever an NBA fan, Nicholson could not miss a Lakers game). There was an actor who hated Germans, another who did not want to do a sex scene and Frank Sinatra was a cold-blooded bastard. Really, what a life.

There is great love, too. The pages devoted to Sharon Tate are genuinely emotional, and the way a strangely superstitious Polanski describes their last goodbye is truly heartbreaking. The friendship with Krzysztof Komeda is handled with equal fondness and warmth, and one of my favourite stories in the book involves Komeda's unlikely arrest in California for riding the motorcycle too slow. Also, Roman is full of Polanski's dark humour, and the LSD experience with a girl in London (a word of warning: there are many girls in this book) is both hilarious and disturbing. And then, of course, there is a lot on the movies - the good ones, the bad ones, the ugly ones. It was certainly interesting to find out the thinking behind What? and the origins of making Tess. 

And then, at the very end, Polanski comes back to Poland and says a few important words about Solidarity and the biggest vices of Polish people (alcohol and religion, basically). But you believe him - if only for the reason that here is a man who knew everything about his own vices and who never really tried to hide them. 

Favourite quote: "Critics always preferred my previous film". 

David Lynch. Room To Dream (2018).

You would not expect a straight-up autobiography of David Lynch, would you? 

The book is divided into 16 chapters, and each chapter is written twice. First time it is written by journalist Kristine McKenna and then it is written by David Lynch after reading McKenna's 'factual' version. It is a wonderfully entertaining approach - even if it can occasionally be a little frustrating. Because Lynch chooses to comment on whatever the hell he wants, and while it is always worthwhile, he sometimes misses things you most want to hear. For instance, we never get to find out why Michael Ontkean did not appear in the third season of Twin Peaks...

Each one of these 16 chapters deals with a specific period of Lynch's life. We start with a small American town in the 50s and everything that comes with it: Boise is romantic, dreary, utterly provincial. And, as one of his old friends claims, when Lynch left it - it was like music stopped, like 'someone unscrewed a lightbulb'. This will be a common pattern throughout the book. People love David Lynch, and it goes beyond hero worshipping. David Lynch has this presence, this charisma, this charm. He is the sort of guy who will look into the eyes of someone who brought him coffee on a busy film set and say thank you. Meaningfully, with eyes fully fixed on that person. Actors, crew members, friends and even ex-wives all speak of Lynch with great fondness. "He could get you to do anything, and he’d do it in the nicest way". As a matter of fact, there was just one person who disliked David Lynch, and that was Anthony Hopkins who was famously sulky and morose during the filming of Elephant Man. Lynch bears no grudges - and besides, there was a letter of apology many years later.

I guess there is always an episode in every person's biography which fully encapsulates the essence of said person. In Lynch's case, it could well be that moment in his early life when he was making a painting and all of a sudden a moth got stuck in the paint. He did not want to take it out. Death and art - he loved the combination. Weirdly, he saw light in it. And so out of little paid jobs and out of poky art studios there came a fully-formed artist motivated by nothing but his vision. You do not make a debut like Eraserhead driven by money or potential fame. But also there was humility. "Is this art? My film?" he asked someone after the release of Eraserhead. And he was not being coquettish either. Beyond that vision, everything else is immaterial.

For fans of Lynch (and the author of these lines certainly qualifies), this book is endlessly entertaining. He wanted to drill a hole in an actor's cheek for Dune. He was laughing while doing those gruesome sex scenes in Blue Velvet. Best of all, however, are the directions he gave to his actors. "Think about ghosts", he would tell someone while shooting a scene that has nothing to do with ghosts. My favourite episode involves Mädchen Amick (Shelly Johnson in Twin Peaks) who was not coping with an emotional scene and was growing frustrated because of it. At some point Lynch came up to her, looked her in the eyes, put his arm on her shoulder and sighed. And all of a sudden - she knew how to do the scene. You could say that is silly, or you could say it is magic. With David Lynch, it is probably both. 

Lynch writes in simple, almost deliberately simple sentences. He uses expressions like 'beyond the beyond' and 'peachy keen'. He is, after all, a guy who made The Straight Story (it is hilarious that David Cronenberg was the head of the Cannes jury that year, and he probably hated that film; interestingly, when Lynch was presiding of the Cannes jury, Polanski won with The Pianist). And while the book is full of incisive observations ("You die two deaths if you sell out and fail and just once if you fail"), it is the simplicity, the rawness that strikes you the most. Ultimately, what Lynch shows in this book is that all you ever needed, as an artist, is a room to dream.

Favourite quote: "Always be present".