Album of the Month: HOUSE OF ALL by House of All

When it comes to writing reviews, I do not have too many rules that I have to follow. I do not let bad production overshadow the quality of songwriting, and there is no particular number of listens that I need to give to an album to be able to make a more or less objective assessment (could sometimes be one but could often be seven). Still, there are two things which seem important to me. First, each work of art should be treated on its own terms. Second, and I know how controversial this is going to sound, a good album is a good album.

Which is all to say - I do not give a damn what Mark E. Smith's sisters think. And I most certainly do not care whether fans of The Fall find the release of this album offensive or in bad taste. The Fall could well be my favourite band of all time, and I am not offended that five of its former members decided to record a new album of original music. 

The said members were all part of The Fall at various points of the band's extensive run. Still, it is the presence of Steve Hanley that made me excited in the first place. Not just because Steve Hanley wrote what I consider to be one of the two or three greatest rock autobiographies of all time (The Big Midweek: Life Inside The Fall really is as good as all that), but because for decades (decades are centuries in The Fall) his bass guitar defined the sound of Mark E. Smith's band. As a matter of fact, Smith knew this better than anyone and up until the final break-up in the late 90s kept asking Hanley to come back. 

And now Steve Hanley's bass is all over House of All, along with Pete Greenway's sharp guitar lines, pounding drums courtesy of Paul Hanley and Simon Wolstencroft as well as the distinctive voice of Martin Bramah. The musicianship here is terrific, and while the influence of The Fall is transparent (obliquely charismatic lyrics, repetitive grooves, spoken word singing), none of it sounds like a parody. Quite simply, the five men spent too much time in that brilliant and deranged institution (The Fall) to be left unscarred. So the influence is there, the effects are palpable, but in the end it is all about the songs. And the songs are excellent. 

As soon as I hear the powerful bassline at the beginning of "Ayenbite", I know I am not going to be disappointed. All they need to do is to settle into a good groove, and they do that effortlessly. After the pleasantly wistful "But Wilful I Am", we arrive at the magnetic minimalism of "Dominus Ruinea" and the enigmatic and ominous-sounding "Harlequin Duke" (I have to say: that title does remind me of Genesis). The second side opens with the classic repetitive pop of "Magic Sound" (whose chorus will stay with you for days), then continues with the beautifully titled "Minerva Disrobed" which is propelled by a classic guitar groove coupled with a memorable keyboard line. After the relentless "There's More", we finish with the ageless pop-rocker "Turning Of The Years" which could well be my favourite song on the album.

There is a lot of personality in these songs, and personality is not something you can get cheap. They just have it. I do not view this album as disrespectful or unnecessary - I view it as a great collection of songs from five musicians who have something to say. That this 'something' happens to be 'a lot', is hardly surprising. Having said that, the "Harlequin Duke" bassline alone is worth the admission price. And yes, I do hope there is more. 

Rating: ★★★★

April Round-Up

In a somewhat shocking twist of events, Matt Berninger's solo album from 2020 (Serpentine Prison) has become a very special record for me. Shocking, because I had spent a big part of my life convinced that The National is one of the least interesting bands in the world. Judging by their latest, however, I was right all along. First Two Pages of Frankenstein (★★★) is sort of well-written and sort of crushingly boring. The usual stories of melancholy and heartache sugar-coated in vaguely catchy melodies. Side A is mostly good, side B is inoffensive in a bad way. 

I did not care for Jethro Tull's latest comeback, RökFlöte (★★★), either. Again, there is nothing bad about any of it, and Ian Anderson can still play the flute and the acoustic melodies do come through on occasion, but the urgency of The Zealot Gene is all gone. For die-hard fans only (which, I guess, covers Jethro Tull's entire fanbase). 

The most anticipated comeback, however, was that of Patrick Wolf. There was a certain period in my life when I was downright obsessed with Patrick Wolf's music, and his sudden disappearance following the unabashedly poppy album Lupercalia and the compilation Sundark and Riverlight was both inexplicable and frustrating. Now that some of those internal demons have been apprehended, there is a new EP titled The Night Safari (★★★½). It is slightly meandering in places, but the magic is definitely there. Patrick's voice retains that mixture of romance and intensity, and the melodies are still intriguing. The cleverly arranged "Nowhere Game" and the pleasingly optimistic "Enter The Day" are the standouts, and ultimately it is like these ten years never even happened. 

Another excellent EP was released by Gabi Garbutt. The Creation of Birds (★★★½) opens with the somewhat misleading collaboration with Du Blonde, the upbeat and timeless lead-off single "Panic", and then settles into a much more introspective set of songs. Thankfully, her midtempo material is beautiful indie rock with personality. Which is not something I have managed to discern in the critically acclaimed Blondshell album (★★★). I admire the brevity, some of these songs are fairly well-written ("Olympus" is undeniable - and reminds me a little of Sheryl Crow at her 90s best), and the guitar sounds wonderful throughout, but I have not discovered too many reasons to care. 

But I do absolutely care for Tiny Ruins' new album, Celebration (★★★★). Masterful songwriting from New Zealand, with beautiful instrumentation and a voice that has depth and incredible youthful elegance. Celebration effortlessly sets itself apart from a million indie-folk bands by being so beautifully out of time. There is charisma in each guitar lick and vocal undertone. 

It is hard to say if many people still care, but The Damned have just released their best album in nearly four decades. Darkadelic (★★★½) is a bit of a mess, but this is entertaining, professional mess. The Damned play tough punk rock diluted by psychedelic pop and gothic leanings. They also have a tendency to break a song up in the middle and go for circus laughter or rumble of thunder, and I have always had a soft spot for a middle eight (however bizarre this middle eight may be). 

There is a certain point at which the magic of Susanne Sundfør's new album started to get through to me. It was the piano part of the wondrous "Rūnā" followed by the blissful angelic humming and singing. Obviously it is not the only highlight here ("Alyosha" is gorgeous beyond reason), but if there is anything wrong with Blómi (★★★½), it is that the sense of catharsis is not permanent. Which can be a little frustrating. All the same, an album to rediscover and get lost in. Norwegian soundscapes, conventional beauty, avant-garde spoken word piece in German, heavenly voice and even a bizarre Ramones reference. The rating is largely immaterial - what I know for certain at the moment is that the cover is stunning. 

Songs of the Month:

Susanne Sundfør - "Alyosha"

House Of All - "Turning Of The Years"

PJ Harvey - "A Child's Question, August"

Tiny Ruins - "The Crab / Waterbaby"

Patrick Wolf - "Enter The Day"

The Damned - "You're Gonna Realise"

Bloodshell - "Olympus"

Polish Diary. "The Shadow Of The Sun" by Ryszard Kapuściński.

Like Sergiusz Piasecki, Ferdynand Ruszczyc and many others, Ryszard Kapuściński is one of those prominent Poles whose Belarusian roots are largely disregarded. However, while Piasecki favoured Belarusian settings for his criminal shenanigans of the 20s and Ruszczyc grew up and came of age in Minsk, Kapuściński's association with Belarus is nebulous in the extreme. What is there, really? A school, a two-storied building in Pinsk (which was a Polish city back in the 30s) and little else. Still, there was an odd satisfaction in the fact that my very first book by this great author and journalist was a Belarusian edition. 

The book, Black Tree ("Чорнае дрэва"), is a translation of the 1998 collection of essays titled The Shadow Of The Sun: My African Life. As is seen from the title, the book deals with Kapuściński's extensive experience of Africa from 1950s onwards. Some of the most exciting, violent and transformative decades in that continent's history when countries like Uganda, Eritrea, Rwanda and many others were ravaged by civil wars, bloodthirsty warlords and violent struggles for independence. Horrible, horrifying times - and yet these were the times that begged for the best journalists and reporters. One of those reporters was, of course, Ryszard Kapuściński who found himself at the very heart of African revolution. Kapuściński was a little known Polish journalist back then who really wanted to be inside that particular coalmine. In one of the very first stories here Kapuściński, poor but well-connected, is someone who belongs. A person who is willing to do anything to get onto a plane that will take him to another hot spot.

It is important to note that hot spots are, indeed, hot. Literally hot. Scorching hot, sizzling, blood-meltingly hot. In Africa, Kapuściński writes, you are constantly "moving towards the sun". "Heat stops blood-flow". "Human life relies on shade". These are just a few descriptions of what it feels like to be in an African town, the sort of place that should make people in Kapuściński's homeland happy that Polish weather can be so gruesome and so full of rain.

Kapuściński knows Africa, he understands it - and in order to get to the bottom of the continent and its people (inasmuch as that is actually possible), he never shies away from living in the poorest district (in a decrepit apartment which is constantly robbed), from eating with locals (which involves sitting in a circle in a shady room and eating rice with your bare hands), from taking treacherous journeys across the desert (which could easily result in sudden death from dehydration). He goes for the heart of Africa, and Africa pays him back. In these pages, you can actually witness Kapuściński's evolution as one of the all-time great reporters. His eye for the detail is astonishing, his storytelling is hair-raising. When he writes that "the trembling of malaria-stricken bodies was the only movement in the street", he horrifies and transfixes you. 

He goes for the heart of Africa, and Africa reveals its visceral self. In these twenty-nine essays, sketches, lectures, articles, reports, Kapuściński presents a three-dimensional image of the continent in all its true essence. Heat, malaria, thirst, snakes, crime, poverty - but also people whose primordial depth and intense simplicity are equally shocking and fascinating. Once again, Kapuściński gets really close to them as he discovers their complex religiosity and their peculiar sense of time (which is a lot more adventurous than whatever comes out of our watches and clocks). He untangles, or at the very least tries to, the complexities of the obscene ethnocides in Rwanda, and he explains how a simple hole in the ground could become a new hub of life. There are dozens of stories here, and every single one of them is worth hearing. 

The Shadow Of The Sun is, essentially, great literature. One could treat these essays as short stories, and they will work on that level as well. There is brilliant symbolism here (the black tree being the essential one), there is great tension (the fight with cobra is worthy of any thriller), masterful descriptions (Kapuściński truly captures the briskness of African sunset) and there is the ultimate deus ex machina at the very end of the book. When the elephant appears and scares everyone around, some see the animal as merely an elephant and some, well... there are those who see it as something a lot bigger than that. 

My Cultural Lowlights: SING TO GOD by Cardiacs

There are two primary issues with this album. Number one. There is a growing circle of people who treat this album as the second coming of Jesus Christ. Number two. This album is not very good. Some things can never be reconciled.

The cult status that this album has achieved over the years is something to behold, and when you look at the sheer scope of this thing, you get it. You understand. 90 minutes of music, 22 songs that spring from one idea to another at head-spinning velocity - all this from a band which could never break through but whose leader's fractured songwriting style has begun to be associated with unrecognised genius.

Interestingly, once every two years or so I try to get into Sing To God by Cardiacs (1996), and each time the Headache sets in. The Headache comes at different points - sometimes it is there from the very beginning and sometimes it hits me at some point during "Dog-Like Sparky". But inevitably it comes, and Sing To God becomes a chore to sit through. Let me try to describe it for you: what you get here is a mess. A chaotic onslaught of snippets and half-melodies that come at you like a flood. There are moments when you think you are hearing a soaring hook worth keeping ("Bellyeye" shows promise), but fear not: in a second or two, the said hook will be washed away by cartoonish vocals, keyboard sounds and yet another wave of disjointed nonsense. So that you will be left wondering: was the soaring hook really as good as all that? Maybe these half-melodies would never stand a chance if you gave them some air to breathe?

Because there is no air on this album. It is suffocating, it is intoxicating in the worst way possible. If that is Tim Smith's writing style, then so be it, but I vehemently disagree with that style (and I downright protest against the vocals). If anything, it just feels fraudulent and unfocused. It is as if a man spent his whole life listening to music (all kinds of it: punk, music hall, progressive rock, Britpop, etc.) and was then asked to cram it all into a double album. For us to untangle and make sense of. Which could sound intriguing in theory, but in practice this is Olivier Messiaen having a desperately unfunny go at pop music. 

I guess if you surrender to the cult, you will hear the utter genius of the honestly rather good "Dirty Boy" but at halfway point I start losing my mind and that awful cover is beginning to really get under my skin.

Кніга. "АПОШНЯЯ КНІГА ПАНА А." (2020) / Альгерд Бахарэвіч.

Дзіўна і цікава пісаць на беларускай мове - асабліва калі не рабіў гэтага палову жыцця. Шмат чаго адкрываеш у сабе, шмат што пужае і здзіўляе, шмат з чым даводзіцца мірыцца. Некаторыя думкі, пра якія хацелася б распавесці па-ангельску ці па-расейску, на беларускай мове не хочацца нават згадваць. Думкі тыя па-ранейшаму існуюць, яны лунаюць перад вачыма і корпаюцца ў галаве, але раптам змяняюць колер і пах. Падаюцца іншымі, нейкімі больш сапраўднымі ці наадварот - звышнатуральнымі. 

А бывае так, што думкі тыя робяць цябе экстрэмістам. Так, пісаць пра гэтую кнігу я вырашыў яшчэ ў снежні, калі атрымаў "Пана А." як калядны падарунак. І вось не прайшло і трох месяцаў, як "Апошняя кніга пана А." зрабілася экстрэмісцкай літаратурай. Зрабілася, вядома, не самастойна. Нейкія шэрыя людзі ў доўгіх шэрых паліто, без пачуцця гумару і густу, прызналі раман небяспечным для краіны (калі тое, што яны пабудавалі, магчыма назваць краінай). Тое, што такім чынам яны прыцягнулі да кнігі больш увагі, відавочна і бясспрэчна, але мяне зараз цікавіць не гэта. Я пра тое, што думка беларуская месціць столькі моцы і таемнай энергіі, што трашчаць ад яе не толькі муры, але і дзяржаўная ідэалогія.  

Альгерд Бахарэвіч падаецца мне самым істотным і цікавым з таго, што адбываецца ў сучаснай беларускай літаратуры. Прычым прыцягвае мяне перш за ўсё тая рашучая самаупэўненасць, з якой ён піша. Ёсць тут нейкая ўнутраная моц, нейкая гуллівая ўсмешка сапраўднага майстра. Ён ведае, што робіць. Гэта першае. Па-другое, ён ведае, што робіць гэта добра. Але здзяйсняе Бахарэвіч і трэці крок, той самы рызыкоўны, самы важны крок пісьменніка. Цяжка растлумачыць той крок - хіба што апошнія радкі "Плошчы Перамогі" могуць праліць крыху святла на мае словы. Бахарэвіч піша так, нібыта можа рабіць у літаратуры абсалютна ўсё, што захоча, і атрымлівае асалоду ад таго, што літаратура дае яму гэтыя крылы. 

"Апошняя кніга пана А.", дарэчы, менавіта пра гэта. Пра крылы. 

Кніга распавядае пра пісьменніка, які вінен багатаму купцу вялікую суму грошай. Калі я кажу "купец", я сапраўды маю на ўвазе "купца". Свет раману крыху казачны, ён не мае геаграфічных назваў і часу. Ён існуе па сваіх законах і правілах, і гэтым крыху нагадвае магічны рэалізм Маркеса. Каб аддаць доўг, купец запрашае аўтара (ці Аўтара) да сябе, дзе цягам месяца апошні павінен будзе кожны вечар чытаць новае апавяданне. Слухаць яго будуць сям'я купца, а таксама ягоныя слугі. Такім чынам, кніга змяшчае трыццаць апавяданняў, якія на першы погляд ніяк паміж сабой не звязаны. Хутка, аднак, чытач пачынае разумець, што гэта зманлівае пачуццё. Што на самой справе апавяданні звязаны гэтымі людзьмі, гэтым домам, а таксама тым, што адбываецца звонку (а там заўсёды нешта адбываецца). 

Спачатку я атрымліваю асалоду ад аповедаў аўтара, але хутка мяне пачынаюць цікавіць гэтыя людзі, а таксама іх казачна-змрочнае існаванне. Усё гэта трохі нагадвае сон - але, магчыма, такімі і павінны быць казкі. Бахарэвіч, дарэчы, умее іх пісаць. "Плошча Перамогі" - гэта таксама казка, як і пэўныя часткі "Сабак Эўропы". Казкі для дарослых, якія захавалі здольнасць да адкрыцця і самаіроніі.

Дом з "Апошняй кнігі пана А." з'яўляецца ўвасабленнем галавы пісьменніка, дзе і павінны знаходзіцца ўсе гэтыя людзі. Усе тыя апхетыпы, якіх малюе Бахарэвіч, ад музы да лісліўца і зайздросніка. Але перш за ўсё гэтая кніга - сапраўдная ода мастацтву, ода пісьменніцтву (маладыя аўтару знойдуць тут шмат карысных парад), ода фантазіі. Апошняя сапраўды жыве на кожнай старонцы кнігі - расчыняе дзверы і адкрывае новыя вымярэнні. Менавіта яна дазваляе аўтару пісаць усе гэтыя апавяданні, якія, дарэчы, можна з лёгкасцю разглядаць як незалежныя творы са сваёй фабулай ды развязкай. Ёсць у іх гумар ("час усё лечыць, асабліва камэнданцкі"), ёсць і цудоўная метафары ды параўнанні ("вясна сьпявала і грымела трамваямі і навальніцамі"). Ёсць удалыя творы, ёсць меней удалыя. Ёсць тое, што нагадвае готыку По, а ёсць тое, што дыхае фантастыкай Брэдберы. Ёсць нават тое, што ў часы безгустоўя і дыктатуры можа сысці за экстрэмізм (напрыклад, апавяданне "Чалавек Раман Бурак" пра забойства нейкага Лідэра Нацыі). 

Не буду пісаць пра свае любімыя апавяданні, іх шмат ("Дзядуля", напрыклад, ці "Мёртвыя ў душы"), але прывяду радкі, якія трапна дэманструюць талент Бахарэвіча. Водбліск той усмешкі сапраўднага майстра, пра якую я распавядаў раней. Гэта радкі з апавядання "Кіно не для ўсіх", якое нагадала мне стары фільм Вудзі Алена сярэдзіны 80-х. У іх Бахарэвіч піша пра рэўнасць: "Рэўнасьць была спачатку ціхая, нібы нехта выпадкова закрануў струну на гітары ў цёмным пакоі. Але потым адгукнуліся іншыя струны, пагрозьліва загудзеў бас. Зазьвінелі талеркі. Рэўнасьць мацнела". У нечым набокаўскія радкі, пранізлівыя і прыгожыя. Дакладныя.

Аднойчы, калі Джойс быў у гасцях, яго папрасілі распавесці пра некаторыя кнігі на кніжнай паліцы і паставіць адзнаку кожнаму аўтару. Што ён і зрабіў. Ён глядзеў на назвы кніг і распавядаў, што думае пра тых пісьменнікаў. Нехта атрымліваў добрую адзнаку, а нехта Z- (дарэчы, Д.Г. Лоурэнс). Я прыгадаў гэтую гісторыю нядаўна, калі чытаў "Гамбурскі рахунак Бахарэвіча". Моц перакананняў гэтага беларускага пісьменніка сапраўды ўражвае, але яшчэ больш мяне ўражвае тое, што яна адчуваецца таксама і ў яго мастацкіх творах. "Апошняя кніга пана А." напісана чалавекам, які добра ведае, што варта A+, а што варта Z-. І гэта здольнасць, якую немагчыма пераацаніць.