Album of the Month: I INSIDE THE OLD YEAR DYING by PJ Harvey

No two PJ Harvey albums sound alike. You could be tricked into thinking that PJ Harvey does it on purpose - try on new genres and styles. However, I have long come to realise that this is not, in fact, the case. Because all that matters is that she is an artist, plain and simple. A consummate artist, an artist through and through.

At this point in her evolution, we find herself exploring the woods of Dorset. I Inside The Old Year Dying is a collection of songs based on her 12 poems taken from the book "Orlam" (written in mildly impenetrable Dorset vernacular). The lyrics are fascinating, or the bits and pieces that you could actually discern in that wild forest of evocative imagery and unexpected references to Elvis Presley and William Shakespeare. The key is not to get scared but, rather, try to immerse into the experience as it unfolds before you. 

In its essence, I Inside The Old Year Dying is a folk album with certain post-rock elements woven into it. It could sometimes sound uninviting, and even challenging, but further listens reveal beautiful and nuanced songwriting. Alongside melodies that welcome you ("A Child's Question, August", title song), there are less immediate pieces that get off on haunting vocals, sparse atmosphere, unsettling instrumentation and thus require your undivided attention ("Prayer At The Gate", "All Souls"). The album is an intriguing and inspiring listen, but also an anxious and uncomfortable one. It is, perhaps, everything that art should be.

Oddly, in her book of illustrations from around the time when she released Let England Shake, she drew a group of characters standing at the exact same spot at different periods of time. Oddly, because you could not think of an idea further removed from the true essence of this particular artist. PJ Harvey never stands still. Against the backdrop of her protean career, it is the time that seems heavy-footed and slow. 

July Round-Up

What?!? How... I need to lie down. I have just listened to the new album by Guided by Voices, and it is incredible. I would go as far as to say that this is Robert Pollard's greatest set of songs since Bears for Lunch (2012). Which may seem like very little time in your world, but in the world of Robert Pollard that is over 20 albums. What it is that makes Welshpool Frillies so good is hard to point out, but it is as if this time, randomly or on purpose, Pollard chose to stay inspired and focused all the way through. Fifteen songs, and most of them are ragged little indie rock masterworks. "Why Won't You Kiss Me", for instance, is one of the greatest songs ever written. 

Another major surprise was ANOHNI's My Back Was A Bridge For You To Cross. Not because Anohni Hegarty was not capable (I Am A Bird Now is still every bit as good as it was in 2005), but because he hasn't done anything of note in years. 2016's Hopelessness, for instance, sounded disjointed and gave me a headache. This new LP, however, finds him in imperious form. The vocal performances are powerful, and the songs are well-written. All of a sudden, we get excellent soulful melodies and clever arrangements. Even the brief guitar freakout "Go Ahead" is a blast.

Blur are back, and they are all mature and deadly serious. The Ballad Of Darren is mostly made up of laidback, downtempo vibes that could on occasion resemble the latest exploits by Alex Turner. That said, I do not really mind Blur's ballads; it is the likes of "The Universal", "End Of A Century" and "Blue Jeans" that made me fall in love with the band back in the day. The only song that could really be described as 'upbeat' is the second single, the "Parklife"-styled "St. Charles Square" (first lyric: 'I fucked up') - the rest is a much more relaxed and introspective affair with "The Narcissist", "Barbaric" and the closing "The Heights" being the strongest highlights. I believe it is no big surprise that Albarn and Coxon can still concoct a great pop song. Just do not expect them to be 24 again and sing about the rubbishness of modern life.

There are two things that Kevin Rowland's gets terribly wrong on the Dexys' new album. First, the remarkably tasteless cover. Second, the cringe-fest that is "Goddess Rules". The song has an addictive synth groove but its sexual masochism does not really go anywhere. However, the rest of The Feminine Divine is excellent, with Kevin Rowlands at his soulful best. The more experimental stuff works well, too, with "Coming Home" being a successful attempt at disco and the title song channelling Aidan Moffat and Arab Strap. Finally, the two ballads that finish the album provide that unmistakable vulnerability Kevin Rowland has always been so good at. A fine effort. 

Songs of the month:

Guided by Voices - "Why Won't You Kiss Me"

ANOHNI - "Rest"

PJ Harvey - "A Noiseless Noise"

The Menzingers - "There's No Place In The World For Me"

Blur - "Barbaric"

Dexys - "The One That Loves You"

Three TV series. Succession, Black Mirror, Mrs. Maisel.

Truth be told, I have only watched three this year.

Succession (season 4)

Judging by the incessant coverage, there was a point in April when Succession became more than just a TV show. It became a phenomenon, and in a perverted way it was interesting to be part of that craze. Because I have been there from the start, and I do not believe there has been a moment when I did not think that Succession was one of the very best. Or else that there is a better TV writer than Jesse Armstrong.

After all, think of another writer has has been responsible for two different TV shows of such immense quality. David Lynch has one. Matthew Weiner has one. Most have none. Jesse Armstrong has Peep Show and Succession. 

The final season of Succession was, of course, immaculate, nail-biting, viciously well-written. I watched it religiously, every Monday night, and then I rewatched it the next day so as not miss anything in this family saga of the super-rich and the super-entitled. I wanted them all to fail and, bizarrely, I wanted some of them to succeed. You laughed, but the laughter became much more nervous, and uncomfortable, towards the end. And it ended the only way it could, really - even if your had thought it would end differently. Even if you wanted it to end differently... That final shot, now famous and soon legendary, was inevitable. Which is a testament to the greatness of Succession.

Black Mirror (season 6)

Received wisdom has had it for a while that Black Mirror lost its way years ago. For me, the biggest cracks started to appear during season 4 which mixed the good, the bad, and the ugly (last three episodes of that season are precisely that). And still I kept watching, because of Charlie Brooker's insane imagination that could still produce a stellar episode. 

I believe the problem is that Black Mirror used to have that seemingly effortless ability to shock. The pig shocked you. The metal bees shocked you. Even the social ratings shocked you. However, in a world as blasé and desensitised as ours, there is precious little to get shocked about. Not even Charlie Brooker's imagination can make us close our eyes in trepidation or disgust.

Which is not the end of the world, really, and the new season works quite well when Black Mirror does not try to go over the top. When it does (the second part of "Joan Is Awful", the entirety of "Mazey Day"), it just appears silly and crude. Oddly, my favourite episode is the rather straightforward countryside horror "Loch Henry" whose links to technology (the main focus of Black Mirror lest we forget) are tenuous at best yet whose plot is well-conceived and whose resolution is gruesomely satisfying. Overall, the season was deeply flawed, and I am afraid I would not mind if this was the end. 

The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (season 5)

As I have said previously, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel more or less jumped the shark with season 4 (uninspired jokes, meandering story-telling) and I thought I would never get back to it. However, on learning that this year's season would be the final one, I thought I had to do it - if only to pay tribute to the great beginnings. 

Clearly the creators of the show chose to go with a bang, and season 5 turned out to be so much more than just a tired showcase for pretty 50s-styled dresses, Jewish humour and feminist tropes. It is all in there, of course, but on top of that you get plot development, interesting foreshadowing and stand-up jokes that are actually good (the climactic sequence was wonderfully executed). 

This was a truly feel-good finale, and I found myself once again falling in love with the period and these people who are silly, inconsequential but totally charming. I admit to being a little upset at what they did to Lenny Bruce, but the final flashback scene with him was so brilliant that everything was forgiven. Everything - including that blasted fourth season that almost deprived me of Susie Myerson's scintillating chemistry with producer Mike Carr ("You are a sick fuck, Mike"). 

Кніга. "СВІННІ" (2023) / Аляксандр Чарнуха.

Адна з главаў кнігі Аляксандра Чарнухі пачынаецца з апісання помніка Леніну. Нічога асаблівага, такія Леніны жывуць пад сонцам і птушкамі ў кожным населеным пункце Беларусі, але ў нейкі момант аўтар стварае метафару чырвонага правадыра, які сыходзіць з пастамента і пачынае рухацца па вуліцах горада. Гэта быў той момант у кнізе (дарэчы, адзіны), калі ўнутры нешта зварухнулася, і нават сэрца пачало біцца хутчэй - бо стварылася ўражанне, што ў рамане сапраўды адбудзецца нешта вартае ўвагі. Хай бы ўжо Уладзімір Ільіч ажыў ды пайшоў каменнай хадой па вуліцах. Хай бы перастраляў усіх. Хай бы зрабіўся трансгендарам. Хай бы апынуўся марсіянінам. Хай бы наўпрост хадзіў ды картава жадаў кожнаму добрага дня. Але ж не, Ленін застаўся стаяць. Нічога не адбылося. Усяго толькі метафара.

У мяне сапраўды ёсць адчуванне, кволае і не зусім надзейнае, што недзе ў нетрах рамана "Свінні" схавана цалкам сабе добрае апавяданне-фарс пра марнае і бессэнсоўнае жыццё беларускага чыноўніцтва. Калі ўзяць даволі перспектыўную першую главу, інфернальную канцоўку і нешта з сярэдзіны, то можна ўявіць кароткі сатырычны твор, які можа заставіць чытача смяяца скрозь боль і агіду. Але ж ёсць пэўная праблема, калі ўжо на трэцяй главе разумееш, што аўтар нічога табе не скажа на працягу двухсотпяцідзесяці старонак рамана. 

Насамрэч, у гэтым месцы я павінен быў бы распавесці пра сюжэт кнігі, пра фабулу і галоўных персанажаў... Зрабіць гэта цяжка, бо падаецца, што раман існуе толькі для таго, каб аўтар уключыў кожны штамп і крынж палітычнага жыцця сучаснай Беларусі (сінія пальцы, жахлівыя дзевяностыя, масандра). Але ж добра. Некалькі словаў пра сюжэт, які сохне і памірае на кожный старонцы "Свіней". Перад намі гарадскі пасёлак Грудзева (дарэчы, геаграфічныя назвы ў кнізе гаворачыя: Качанава, Каранікі...) і яго жыхары. Рэдактар газеты і яе журналісты, галоўны ідэолаг, глава адміністрацыі і г.д. У суседнім пасёлку масава паміраюць свінні, і ўлады пачынаюць думаць пра тое, як падаць гэтую навіну людзям. Сярод іншага, прапаноўваецца растлумачыць трагічные здарэнне нашэсцем іншапланецянаў... Здавалася б - не так усё безнадзейна. Так, але ж аўтар нічога не робіць з гэтай ідэяй. А потым нічога не робіць з ідэяй народнай нездаволенасці. І так да самага канца ў кнізе нічога не адбываецца, адзін нудны рэпартаж за другім (я ведаю, што аўтар працаваў некалі журналістам у Беларусі, але мяне гэта зараз не цікавіць, бо пішу я пра яго раман). 

Калі казаць шчыра, я вельмі хацеў, каб яны сапраўды з'явіліся тут, гэтыя іншапланецяне. Бо раман цалкам складаецца з плоскіх персанажаў, зробленых з таннага кардону і размаўляючых на аднолькавай трасянцы. 

І тут, канешне, паўстае спрадвечнае пытанне: а што, калі яны насамрэч такія, кардонныя і аднамерныя? Чаму б не паказаць іх такімі, якія яны ёсць? Зразумела, але ў чым тады мастацтва? У чым вартасць кнігі? Па сутнасці, нам прапаноўваецца корпацца ў дзярме, бясконца разглядаць тупасць беларускіх чыноўнікаў і час ад часу казаць "так, памятаю, было і такое". Сатыра? Ну, добра, сатыра, але ці павінна яна быць настолькі прымітыўнай? Ці павінна яна апускацца да ўзроўню тых самых Качанавых ды Каранікаў? Чаму не робіць гэтага, напрыклад, Артур Клінаў у сваім рамане "Локісаў", які робіць сатыру з густам і добрым сюжэтам? Клінаў паказвае, што каб высмеяць і выкрыць правінцыйнае ўбоста, патрэбны кантраст, кантэкст, кантрапункт. Яго галоўны персанаж - гэта цалкам адэкватны чалавек, які трапляе ў свет местачковага вар'яцтва. І раптам ты смяешся і суперажываеш, чытаеш і не можаш спыніцца. Бо апынаешся ў свеце сапраўднай літаратуры. 

Альбо возьмем, напрыклад, Андрэя Мрыя. Ва ўступным слове перакладчык кнігі Алесь Плотка (першапачаткова "Свінні" былі напісаны на расейскай мове) распавядае, што гэта першы сапраўды сатырычны беларускі раман з часоў "Запісак Самсона Самасуя". Ну, добра. Але ж нават Самасуй, цалкам камедыйны персанаж, быў вартым суперажывання. Па-другое, у кнізе Мрыя было шмат маленькіх, але сапраўдных сюжэтаў, якія мелі пачатак і заканчэнне. Па-трэцяе, містыка савецкага кантэкста. Так, гумар "Запісак Самсона Самасуя" наўрад ці ўразіць сучаснага чытача - але ж ці прысутнічае гумар у кнізе Аляксандра Чарнухі? 

Бо гумар - гэта безумоўна тое, што магло б выратаваць раман "Свінні". Гумар акупляе нават самую дрэнную сатыру. Але ж тут зноў праблема. І калі стабіліе - гэта цікавы наваяз (спалучэнне "стабільнасці" і "ізабілія"), то ў пераважнай большасці выпадкаў гумар тут паўстае у сумным становішчы. Узровень прыкладна такі: важны госць з Менску замаўляе ў мясцовым кафэ воду з лімонам, а яму прыносяць асобна бутэльку вады і парэзаны лімон... Калі мы адыдзем ад гумару (бо вельмі б хацелася адысці ад гумару) і паразмаўляем пра літаратурныя якасці кнігі, то тут сапраўдны жах. Дрэнныя моўныя клішэ (трохпавярховы мат, жоўтая майка лідзера, на ўсю іванаўскую, цыцэронаўскае красамоўства - гэта не словы персанажаў, гэта словы аўтара) і недарэчныя параўнанні (аднекуль з'яўляецца A Hard Day's Night "Бітлз", які выпальвае дзірку ў старонцы рамана; лепш ужо нешта заплесневелае накшталт "яна глядзела як Ленін на буржуазію"). Метафара пра беларускую правінцыю, схаваную за сайдынгам, гэта, бадай, лепшае, што ёсць у "Свіннях", і метафару гэту мы бачым у першай главе кнігі. 

Тонкасці тут няма. Няма таксама зместу і густу. Замест гэтага ёсць трасянка, якая мхом пакрывае кожную старонку кнігі. Мільён аднолькавых дыялогаў на трасянцы, якія цяжка чытаць і якія хаваюць крохкія, пункцірныя лініі сюжэту (нехта памірае? нехта працягвае жыць?). Так, што ў пэўны момант пачынаеш думаць, што ёсць тут не толькі трасянка мовы, але і трасянка думкі. Я пагаджуся, што раман "Свінні" дэманструе бяздарнае жыццё беларускіх чыноўнікаў - але ж ці гэта апраўдвае бяздарную кнігу?

Polish notes (June '23)

"SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT!!!"

These are the words shouted by someone in the Warsaw club Niebo during the Built To Spill gig at the end of June. Polish humour can be a force for good, and even the emotionless Doug Martsch bursts into a genuine smile... The concert is, of course, excellent, with just the right amount of melodies and guitar solos to keep things going. Yes, his voice is getting weaker now, and the setlist does not feature "Broken Chairs" (a crime, obviously), but when another member in the audience screams "You are my favourite Doug!", I find it difficult to disagree. Not with this version of the immortal "I Would Hurt A Fly".

Beer Station is the place in Warsaw to have a late-night political conversation about the current state of affairs across the Eastern border. Two former students took me to this Belarusian pub in Lwowska Street, and despite the godawful cocktail that almost made me lose faith in humanity (as well as in the future of this particular establishment), I found the experience strangely rewarding. It is, in the end, all about the conversations as well as a Belarusian musician named Takindang playing a charming little folk set late after dark. 

Jassmine is closing for the summer and Wojtek Mazolewski's electrifying gig was just about as fine a parting gift as we could get. It was a diverse set that veered from blues to rock to jazz to soul, and while not everything worked, the musicianship was astonishing. When the audience screamed (and they screamed a lot), you felt they were screaming your guts out. Which is to say, I see why he is so beloved here, in a country that has always valued taste and a sense of wild restraint.  

There are actually two Ochota theatres in Warsaw. One is called Och-Teatr and features a wonderful stage adaptation of "Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?" in its extensive programme while the other one is actually called Ochota Teatr and is more of an intimate, left-field venue. Established shortly before the Second World War, it has been active for nearly 100 years now. Since it is only a couple of minutes from the place where I live, it was only a matter of time before I got to see their take on "A Streetcar Named Desire". And it was all I ever wanted from theatre: visceral, emotional, experimental and utterly gripping (my full review is here). After all, there was always a reason why Stella's husband was of Polish descent.  

Two girls are playing this irresistible literary game while sitting on the floor of an English bookstore in Puławska Street. The bookstore is called The Books (no points for originality), and the game is them picking up a random book and reading out the first and the last sentences. It is a great game, and I love hearing their laughter as I trudge through the wonderfully cramped space of my favourite bookstore in the city. There is a recent Rushdie, a forgotten Updike, a surprising Banville, and there is also your last chance ever to get into Neil Gaiman. 

Afterwards, step into the underrated Arkadia Park which manages to be both opulent and somewhat reticent. Find a bench by the water, and you might just see something that nobody else can see.