It has been a great month, musically. And yet I always knew that it would end with me listening to Grian Chatten's Chaos For The Fly on June 30 and succumbing to the inevitable truth: this is, far and away, the best album of the month. Despite its B-movie cover, despite the fact that Grian Chatten was not even supposed to released a solo album in the first place... Because the songs are that good.
Grian Chatten is the vocalist of Fontaines D.C., the Irish band known for consistency and distinctive musical style (literate post-punk with substance and personality). Strictly speaking, there is no great need for a vocalist in a successful band to take a detour. And yet, as the legend goes (it is a bit too early for legends, I guess, but time goes differently Dublin), Grian was walking by the sea at some point last year and this album came to him in one giant wave. The whole of it actually, down to the arrangements and vocal melodies. Still, however it happened, one thing is clear: we should be thankful to the Irish Sea.
Chaos For The Fly is not a flashy album, it is personal and a little claustrophobic in places. The second single "Fairlies" could actually be described as downright depressing (with lyrical gems like "till you are twisted and you are shining like a varicose vein") - except for the lush, soaring arrangements that culminate in a beautiful outburst of violins and guts. The album is, in fact, very beautifully produced. It manages to be both raw and delicate, with piano, subtle orchestration, synths, sax, guitars and everything else deployed sparingly, with taste and restraint.
Fontaines D.C. are more overpowering - but this goes for a deeper feeling. At no expense of melodies, either, which are uniformly heartfelt and well-written. There is a Leonard Cohen edge to "The Score", the jolly folk-ish charm to "Salt Throwers Off A Truck", the timeless anthemic quality to "All Of The People", the engaging spareness to "East Coast Bed".
The album is not perfect (the aforementioned "East Coast Bed", for instance, does not have a convincing melody), but I might just like it more than anything Fontaines D.C. have released thus far. Fontaines D.C. tend to go for your head, and Chaos For The Fly goes straight for the heart. It is a lonesome and anxious heart (it is, after all, a season for pain), but thet makes the experience all the more genuine and authentic. Final thought: the last minute of the closing song is a stroke of genius - I wonder if that, too, came from the Irish Sea. Because I could not possibly love it any more than I already do.
Protomartyr's latest album, Formal Growth In The Desert (★★★★), got me on third listen. Initially, this was the same good, worthy post-punk they have been churning out for a decade. And then that all-important third listen happened, and "Make Way" stunned me. All of a sudden, I saw the clarity and the subtlety I had been missing previously. The sound is monumental, and the emotional cracks are starting to appear. There is some strong melodic substance here, and they might just move you to tears towards the end of the epic closer "Rain Garden".
Noel Gallagher has never moved me to tears, despite the sincerity (which you cannot really take away from him). His other band's new album Council Skies (★★★½) features his strongest set of songs in years, and while the anthemic "Easy Now" clearly towers above the rest, there aren't any major embarrassments either (despite the title "Love Is A Rich Man" and the fact that he ripped off the horn section of "Got To Get Your Into My Life" on the last song). But coming back to "Easy Now" for a second - wouldn't even the most cynical of us want to hear it sung by his brother?..
Another album I liked rather than loved this month was Foo Fighters' But Here We Are (★★★½). I dread to say that this was the first time I actually liked a Foo Fighters album, but I am close to it. Could be the death of the drummer Taylor Hawkins, could be Dave Grohl realising he had to redeem himself for decades of terrible music, but this is alternative rock with good songwriting. "Under You" is power pop worthy of Cheap Trick, and "The Teacher" is ten minutes of guts and attitude with not a second wasted. They do get generic in quite a few places, but nobody had any right to expect such a good album from Foo Fighters in 2023.
As a short breather, I should mention that the modern classical album from Rob Grant is a very lovely affair. Lost At Sea (★★★) has a little orchestration, a little Lana del Rey (Rob's daughter, incidentally), a little ambience, and a lot of ethereal notes on the piano. Highly recommended as background music for writing as well as for some modestly transcendental listening experience.
If there is anything that unites Baxter Dury and Martin Amis (of whom I am thinking a lot these days), it is that they are those rare examples of artists whose oeuvre has transcended the work of their celebrated fathers. Baxter's new album, I Thought I Was Better Than You (★★★★), is a slight letdown in a career full of highlights, but it is still an accomplished LP bristling with spoken word charisma and lyrical and musical wit. I Thought I Was Better Than You is his most autobiographical work to date (not counting his brilliant memoir Chaise-Longue). It is typically short, merely 27 minutes in all, and while I do have some small issues (for instance, why does he need that cheap autotune in "Celebrate Me" and in a couple of other songs? and also, why does he have to sabotage the beautiful melody in "Sincere"?), the classics are plentiful: "Aylesbury Boy", "Crowded Rooms", "Glows", others. A great album, just a slighter one.
Another great short album which I loved this month was RVG's Brain Worms (★★★★). A little Ezra Furman, a little New Zealand jangle pop, but mostly tastefully ferocious indie rock with an attitude and great tunes. Clearly there are lots of great songs (and ideas) on Christine and the Queens' new album Paranoïa, Angels, True Love (★★★½). A triple album, actually, which makes for a sprawling, messy art pop LP that is frustrating, brilliant and gloriously ambitious. Some of it falls flat ("Shine", "I Feel Like An Angel"), some of it is triumphant ("Track 10", second part of "Lick The Light Out") - but such is the nature of most triple albums. Pachelbel, Madonna, French singing, self-indulgence, style... It's all in here.
Another breather worth mentioning is Rufus Wainwright's Folkocracy (★★★), which is Rufus and friends singing some of his favourite folk songs. It is all good and quite tasteful, of course, even if none of it is really an essential listen. Having said that, I will never tire of listening to "Wild Mountain Thyme" (nothing, though, will ever be as good as this version).
Whereas Squid used to induce a terrible headache, these days I just find them a little overrated. Their second LP, O Monolith (★★★½), is an awfully exciting album that is all over the place stylistically and texturally, but that offers a number of brilliant ideas in each of the eight songs. A jazz trumpet here and a fingerpicking pastoral delight there and then a monstrous post-punk groove here and some Kid A-styled ambience there, etc. Complexity and catharsis abound - even if this is still not especially satisfying melodically.
While I find the idea of rating Sigur Rós completely nonsensical, ÁTTA (★★★½) is, of course, utterly blissful. Vaguely euphoric, self-consciously gorgeous soundscapes that could completely pass you by on one listen but then seem like an epiphany on another. If you want your soundscapes less euphoric and a great deal more doom-laden, then Michael Gira is not done yet (nor, according to his latest interviews, is he planning to be any time soon). The Beggar (★★★★) is colossal and exhausting. Also, it is distinguished from his recent trilogy by acoustic strumming and a softer Angels of Light edge to it. I do appreciate the gruesome and diverse 44-minute "The Beggar Lover (Three)", but it is the beautiful transcendence of "No More Of This" that ultimately wins me over.
Jim Bob is continuing to release good music, and Thanks for Reaching Out (★★★★) is a fine addition to his recent resurgence. It is quite simple, really: if you like Jim Bob, you will like this album. Acerbic lyrical wit, sharp melodicism and a terrific sax solo in "goesaroundcomesaround". You won't find a much better song this year than the two-minute pop confection titled (obviously) "This Is End Times". Just a talented songwriter doing his thing. Excellent little album that the world won't care about.
Finally, Lloyd Cole's On Pain (★★★½) is a record in which I have found lots of comfort this month. I didn't have any high expectations for the album, having never been too much of a Commotions fan in the first place, but On Pain worked its way into me like the best medicine. Hardly a classic, but this is synth-pop tinged singer-songwriter music with depth, style and a care for melody.
Songs of the Month:
Swans - "No More Of This"
Baxter Dury - "Crowded Rooms"
Grian Chatten - "Last Time Every Time Forever"
PJ Harvey - "I Inside The Old I Dying"
Lucinda Williams - "Jukebox"
Jim Bob - "goesaroundcomesaround"
Protomartyr - "Make Way"
RVG - "Midnight Sun"
Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - "Easy Now" (imagine this sung by Liam)
Albert Hammond Jr. - "Caught By Night" (imagine this sung by Julian)
I have always been scared of Marlon Brando. From On the Waterfront and all the way to The Island of Dr. Moreau, I have found his screen presence genuinely unsettling. There was that Kubrick stare in his eyes, only more subtle and unnerving. There were gestures and intonations that resulted in physical dread bubbling under my skin. And I do not believe there has ever been a performance that unsettled me as much as Marlon Brando playing Stanley Kowalski in Elia Kazan's screen adaptation of A Streetcar Named Desire. It was a performance that left me traumatised for months. Remind me of it today, on a warm summer's day, and I will shiver.
But maybe it is all about the brilliance of Tennessee Williams's play, a play so viciously well-written, a play of such visceral power and intensity that all the pieces just fall into place, automatically, because there is nowhere else for them to fall? Sinister jazz writes itself and the haunted look on the face of Blanche DuBois is birthed by the written word? No, I believe not. A Streetcar Named Desire is a challenging masterpiece where both words are of equal importance.
Buying tickets to the production of the play at Ochota Theater in Warsaw was one of the easiest decisions of my life. The language did not intimidate me: you only have to know the story, and the rest will slap you across the face. It is a physical play, and its emotions are universal.
Ochota Theater is a small venue in Old Ochota, perfect for an intimate performance after another sultry day in the heart of the city. The theatre was set up shortly before the war, and aside from a few brief periods of inactivity, it has been consistently involved in the art life of Warsaw. It is, like I say, a small theatre and an intimate space. They greet you and about 50 other people (the tickets have been sold out for weeks) at the entrance and ask to wait until 7 pm. Later, they lead you upstairs where you are warned against switching on your phone and taking seats with red ribbons on them. The anticipation is palpable, and there is a distinct sense of something different happening as we enter the relatively small rectangular room with chairs forming a broken semi-circle.
We take our seats (black and unnumbered), in silence and in apprehension, and I notice that the chair next to mine has that mysterious red ribbon running across it. The place is then taken by a young woman in plain clothes. Seconds later, a man appears to greet us and to ask certain people in the room to get up and to put on theatrical costumes. At which point the young woman to my left gets up, and together with four other people walks to the end of the room to get dressed. It will soon transpire that the young woman is Blanche DuBois. In the meantime, we watch the actors get dressed.
The fifth man, the host, will appear as an actor and a narrator many times throughout the night. Currently, he is telling us that we are in New Orleans, in a shabby working-class flat, and there is a cheap smell of bananas and cigarettes. Do we sense it? Oh yes, we do. Despite the fact that this is Warsaw, the language is Polish, the decorations are scant (a sofa, a fridge and a boxing arcade machine) and the only whiff of New Orleans is the sound of muffled jazz breaking through the invisible speakers. But the stage is set, even if the rumbling ghost of the streetcar is never really there.
The stage is set, and we are plunged full-on into the troubled world of Blanche DuBois coming back to her sister sharing the flat with her wild brute of a husband, Stanley Kowalski. The conditions are squalid and the prospects are dim. It is a hell-hole, basically, with no saving graces except for the existence of Stanley's friend and Blanche's awkward admirer Mitch. It is a tragic story of broken dreams, secrets and delusions. But mostly - about brutal past catching up on you with the graceless abandon of a serial rapist. However, I would argue that Tennessee Williams's play is really about the four complex characters whose guts are spattered out on the floor, gruesomely, right in front of you (incidentally, by the end of the night the stage was dirty with water, beer, whipped cream, whiskey and spit).
So how does this Polish night hold up, after millions of other adaptations - good and bad, loose and faithful, on stage and on TV? Incredibly well, I would say. The stage does not exist, and not simply because of that opening trick and sporadic conversations with the audience. No, the reason is much more simple than that: the stage does not exist quite literally. You are on the same level as the actors, and you get to feel the vibrations their feet create on the floorboards, the air they breathe out, the water they use to wash their hair (the shower, which is quite important in the play, stands in the corner of the 'stage'). It is a fascinating experience that goes beyond gimmicks and attempts at being 'clever' and 'different'. No, with A Streetcar Named Desire you can be neither clever (you will not outdo the actual play) nor different (not with the amount of adaptations the play has undergone).
I loved the way they employed the narrator, the fifth character, the man who is both 'us' and 'them'. He gives us the time and the day and he even has the audacity to tell us, at the very end, that there is a scene missing but that we should pretend the scene is actually there (and it is a vital scene, too, but they make it work in your imagination rather than in front of your eyes). The music is powerful (from The Drifters to David Bowie to Edith Piaf), as is the intriguing blend of modernity and the past. And then, of course, there are the performances: physical, emotional, dynamic. Stanley in particular is that dreaded mixture of insecurity and evil. You want to bring him beer, you try to avoid his stare. Is he in the same league with Marlon Brando? No one is, but this performance was all I ever wanted from an actor playing Stanley Kowalski. And then Blanche, too, won me over in the end - even if for a good half of the play I was missing the self-loving detachment of Vivien Leigh. However, it did come through, later, and I was moved to tears in one of the final scenes.
The connection to Poland is, of course, tenuous at best - but equally, it is hard to ignore the fact that Stanley Kowalski is of Polish descent (even if he does scream like a madman that he was born in the US and that he was not a 'fucking Polack'). To me, it made the idea of seeing the play in Warsaw absolutely essential as it somehow brought the story ever so closer to its burning core (even if just nominally). To me, it made it possible to tolerate the complete lack of a streetcar during this particular adaptation of the play (stage direction by Małgorzata Bogajewska). Because, and I cannot fail to see that as I step outside Ochota Theater into another sultry evening two hours later, the trams are all over the place. They are loud, and rattling, and the powerful vibrations penetrate every cell of my body.
There are few things in the world more intriguing than lost tapes. Lost books, lost photographs, lost anything. When Vivian Maier's archive was discovered in 2007, a whole new world emerged. When John Coltrane's lost album Both Directions At Once resurfaced in 2018, I may have spent more time with it than I have ever spent listening to Giant Steps. But even on a much smaller scale, is it not fascinating to explore something that, quite possibly, was never supposed to be found in the first place?
Say, a little known jazz band recorded an album back in mid-80s. The said jazz band used to play in London bars and even got a break when they were included on the CBS jazz compilation titled Get Wise! (this was in 1986). They even went on to record a bunch of demos, which is were this whole lost tapes business becomes relevant. The demos were cut, to then get lost, to then be found by accident, to then be rerecorded and ultimately released in 2023.
That is, roughly, the story behind these lost tapes by Danger Zone. They have been released this year as four separate EPs (you can find them all on their bandcamp page), under four different titles. The very first song, "(I've Got A) Weight On My Mind", sets the scene perfectly: it feels timeless, old-fashioned, oddly captivating. With bass either purring or pulsating, with spluttering sound of relentless harmonica, with subtle yet insistent percussion and Vicky Rayner's vocals that manage to sound both emotive and tough, they do make you yearn for a small bar in Soho with dim lights and green olives at the bottom of cocktail glasses. This is snappy jazz for the coolest of cats.
The arrangements are moody and nervy, too, but in an entirely wholesome way. Richard Earls's songs sound both sophisticated and out of time (even the names of songs look like they belong in a different era), but they are never above being accessible and honestly rather catchy ("King Of The Fools" qualifies). Even if the whole thing feels like a precious old curio that mostly teases rather than gives you the full thing. But then again, what is a full thing?..
When I think of that name, Danger Zone, the first thing that comes to mind or, rather, my imagination, is some left-field sci-fi TV show from the late 80s or early 90s (do not Google it, it never happened). Something that could exist but never quite came to be. This obscure jazz band from London did happen back in the 80s, and achieved some modest success, and these lost tapes are entirely real. They provide an intriguing glimpse into the past, and that is always a rare treat.
У фільме "II" Улады Сяньковай амаль няма мабільных тэлефонаў. А калі яны і з'яўляюцца, то мімаходам, і выконваюць выключна дэкаратыўную функцыю. Ніхто не гуляе пад партай, ніхто не здымае булінг, ніхто не аблягчае час чакання ў школьным калідоры. У нейкі момант мне нават падалося, што я трапіў у дзевяностыя ці пачатак нулявых, у тыя змрочныя часы, якія зафіксавала аднойчы Валерыя Гай Германіка. У тыя часы, калі падлеткі курылі і займаліся сэксам.
Але ж мабільныя тэлефоны дрэнна ўжываюцца з сэксам (можа, аднойчы нехта зробіць навуковае даследаванне), і таму цалкам зразумела, што падлеткі ў гэтым фільме выглядаюць крыху старамодна. Бо фільм пра сэкс і пра сэксуальнасць.
"II" - гэта сучаснае беларускае ігравое кіно. Калі казаць шчыра, то рэдкая з'ява, якую хочацца ведаць і крыху пераацэньваць. Наста - дзяўчына са стрыжнем, які паўстае ў поўны рост у самай першай сцэне фільма. Дарэчы, выдатнай. Сяброўка робіць тэст на цяжарнасць (на ўроку ангельскай мове, калі ж яшчэ?), і гэта заўважае завуч школы. Сяброўка паспешліва кладзе бумажку ў рот, але завуч просіць выплюнуць і аддаць ёй. Наста адзіная, хто кідае выклік гэтай добра знаёмай кожнаму з нас жанчыне, якая не мае пачуцця гумару, але якая ўвасабляе ўсю праведнасць педагагічнага працэсу. У нейкі момант завуч хоча выгнаць Насту з аўдыторыі, але аднекуль з'яўляецца малады настаўнік ангельскай мове, які вырашае сітуацыю. Сцэна сапраўды выдатная, бо добра задае тон фільму, а таксама стварае няяснае напружанне, сэнс якога мы зразумеем толькі пазней.
Акрамя сяброўкі (якая шмат размаўляе пра сэкс і праводзіць палову фільма ў пацалунках са сваім хлопцам), у Насты ёсць таксама і лепшы сябар Саша. Саша - гей, над якім здзекуюцца ў школе, з якім Наста ходзіць у кіно, якога яна абараняе ад нападак, і з якім ездзіць на электрычцы да рэпетытара польскай мовы. Жыццё Насты адбываецца ў правінцыйным беларускім горадзе, які не патрабуе ніякай назвы ці асаблівага вылучэння. Ён проста фон, абалонка для жыцця некалькіх беларускіх падлеткаў.
Інтэр'еры, як і твары, вельмі пазнавальныя. Таксама як і мільён дэталяў, якія цалкам адпавядаюць рэчаіснасці (ці маім успамінам пра яе). Але ж я сапраўды пазнаю гэтых настаўнікаў з іх размовамі пра карысныя лекавыя травы, гэтыя дакорлівыя позіркі ў аптэцы, а таксама дэпрэсіўную плітку ў ваннай. У гісторыі, тым часам, робіцца моцны выбух, які (на час ці назаўсёды) зменіць кожнага персанажа. Гэта цалкам непрадказальны паварот, магчымасць якога можна было прадчуваць толькі праз ледзь чутныя намёкі, якія прыадкрываюць нябачныя трэшчыны ў брані галоўнай гераіні. Дарэчы, менавіта ў гэты момант робіцца цалкам зразумелым сэнс назвы фільма.
Больш за ўсё гэта кіно кранае сваім апошнім актам, які імкнецца вырашыць, ці хаця б растлумачыць, наступствы гэтага выбуху. Сярод апошніх эпізодаў вылучаецца, напрыклад, сцэна размовы маці са сваім сынам, калі яна хоча запытаць, але не можа, а ён можа растлумачыць, але не хоча. Падаецца, што ў гэтай сцэне (напрыканцы якой хочацца смяяцца самым чорным смехам) змяшчаецца ўся квінтэссэнцыя канфлікта не толькі паміж пакаленнямі, але і ўнутры яго. Бо разуменне, гэтая незагойная мэта кожнага чалавека, з'яўляецца толькі ў самым апошнім кадры - змацоўваным кароткім жэстам і гукам цягніка.
Фільм кароткі, і гэта дазваляе яму трымаць у напружанні на працягу ўсіх 60 хвілін. Маладыя акцёры іграюць добра, амаль не перабольшваюць, а ў нейкія моманты нават дасягаюць сцэн прыгожай недагаворанасці. Так, ёсць моманты, калі я пачынаю думаць пра важнасць фільма больш (сучасны беларускі фільм, кіно пра падлеткавую сэксуальнасць у сучаснай Беларусі), чым я думаю пра яго мастацкую вартасць. І так, некаторыя рысы занадта грубыя, а некаторыя сцэны пакутуюць ад абагульненняў, але і праз некалькі дзён фільм застаецца са мной. Бо Улада Сянькова стварае пераканаўчы свет, абстрактны, але цалкам верагодны, і персанажы ў яе жывыя і маюць колер і пах. Нават калі і не ўжываюць мабільных тэлефонаў.
The viral video shot by an American tourist in Warsaw underground provided a striking image: rows upon rows of Polish commuters reading books. Poles really do read a lot, and, oddly enough, they mostly favour paper books. At the end of April, in Białystok, there was a book fair that impressed me with the sheer multitudes of kids begging their parents to buy them something to read. There is an old Polish gentleman buying Belarusian books in Białystok, there are scores of Polish teenagers with dramatic haircuts haunting the bookshelves at your nearest Empik. There is, too, a young man walking his dog in Sue Ryder Park with a large paper book firmly in his hand. He is actually walking his big Labrador - but he is not letting go of the fascinating plot.
The international book fair in Warsaw at the end of May is just as impressive - except that in Warsaw you tend to take everything for granted. It is supposed to be gargantuan and it just has to be held in and around the Palace of Culture and Science. I come soon after the opening, and the sheer scope of this thing is frankly bewildering. And just as ever, I become broke in a matter of seconds. Books have truly achieved a cult status in Poland.
Jassmine is the jazz club of Poland. Coming here is just as essential (and, quite frankly, inevitable) as booking a table at Birdland in New York. Things happen here, and on May 7, Piotr Matusik Trio were playing music from the Independence LP (2020). While that album is excellent in its own right, their brand of ECM jazz thrives in a live setting. The concert was a blast from beginning to end, the solos were engaging, and the audience were transfixed. Much to the annoyance of the waiters who did not nearly get enough orders. My Old-Fashioned was all but forgotten on the little square table, behind my back, the moment that the 12-minute opener "Longing" started playing. A shame, because they make good cocktails at Jassmine.
It is always great to discover Belarusian places in Warsaw, and the best discovery since Culture Cafe (slightly overpraised, but still good) was a place called Soulmates hidden in the midst of the disturbingly enormous Marshal Edward Rydz-Śmigły Park. Located by a skate park and opened by people who used to own a Minsk establishment called Soul Kitchen (for the record, Soul Kitchen is a brilliant Warsaw restaurant), Soulmates specialises in pastry. I have been here five times now, and I have never left disappointed. And with a freewheeling terrace like that, how could they disappoint? Bonus points for offering some of the most adventurous herbal teas in the city. Truly a place to return to, unlike the country we have all escaped from.
Finally, it is wonderful news that they have now allowed dogs into Ujazdowski Park. High-brow and trim, it only had one thing keeping it from being my favourite park in Warsaw. A certain roughness, a certain spontaneity. Well, they certainly have that now.
