La Femme: rundown

It is always interesting to write about bands like La Femme. Flawed bands. Bands with flashes of genius but wildly inconsistent. Bands which were once good but have lost their way for one reason or another. La Femme, the French band from Biarritz, fit into that mould perfectly. They can (could?) write a timeless classic. They can also record misguided albums like Teatro Lucido and Paris-Hawaï. They are many things, and they certainly add an intriguing French twist to the world of music.

Their first album, the perfectly titled Psycho Tropical Berlin (2013), was released three years after the band had been formed by guitarist Sacha Got and keyboard player Marlon Magnée. The title and the cover should tell you what to expect. You will get drunk on this album in no time at all. Psycho Tropical Berlin is an intoxicating mixture of surf music, indie pop, psychedelia, krautrock all imbued with the inescapable yé-yé overtones. It is all quite brilliant, really. They are all over the place but they are also great songwriters. "La Femme" features a terrific melody, sort of shiny French pop, only darker, slightly more sinister. "Sur la planche" was their signature single, the perfect marriage of synthpop and motorik beat. Other favourites include the endlessly tuneful "Saisis la corde" and "La femme ressort" as well as the short and sweet "Si un jour" that is like France Gall and Suicide rolled into one. Psycho Tropical Berlin remains La Femme's best, most consistent album.

That said, Mystère (2016), their second LP, comes very close. With the cover that leaves no room for imagination as well as the running time overkill, the only thing you could accuse them of was excess. The album goes on for over 70 minutes, and while each of these 16 songs has something to offer, a little editing would have been welcome (there is no reason, for instance, why "Vagues" should go on for 13 minutes). But damn it. "Le vide est ton nouveau prénom" is a folk tune for the ages. "Où va le monde" is so infectious it should be banned. "Tatiana" would have you dancing like a wild robot. And "Elle ne t'aime pas" starts like a Pink Floyd epic ("Echoes"?) and sweetly grooves you into complete submission. What a band, one could say.

Paradigmes (2021) is a good album but it also marks the point where things start to fall apart. I mentioned in the previous paragraph that every song on Mystère had something to offer (some more, some less). Well, here the good sits side by side with the bland, and while I enjoy the lush playfulness of the title song, "Cool Colorado" is all style and little substance (even those usually irresistible French 'pa-pa-pa's' sound forced and uninteresting here). And then it goes on like this. "Nouvelle-Orléans" and "Pasadena" are insanely good pop songs but stuff like "Disconnexion" and "Foreigner" just sounds uneventful. It is almost as if they sometimes try to replace substance with sonic kitsch and lyrical seediness. Paradigmes remains a frustrating listen, but there is enough good material here to make it worth your while. 

Generally, La Femme took a few years between albums, so it was a bit of a surprise that merely a year after Paradigmes the band released Teatro lucido (2022). As the title attests, this is a Latin-influenced album sung in Spanish. My big profound statement would be something along these lines: the sound is rich but the songs are weak. Teatro lucido is a grotesque mess, and not a very entertaining one at that. A couple of lovely ballads ("Tren de la vida", for example) can not save it, either. Then, one more year later, came an even more perplexing record. Paris-Hawaï (2023) is another revealing title. This time, we are into Hawaiian-flavoured ambient pop that has shreds of glorious past but try as I might I simply can't get too excited about songs like "Les fantômes des femmes". It is pretty, I guess, but the melody is too plain and monotonous to get us anywhere. Paris-Hawaï is languid, lazy, watered down and utterly forgettable.  

And now we get Rock Machine (oddly, Wikipedia says this is their fourth album - which is interesting; perhaps Teatro lucido and Paris-Hawaï did not happen, after all). La Femme had songs in the English language in the past, but this time they are serious about it: Rock Machine is sung almost entirely in English. Knowing the French even a little (I have just come back from Lyon, incidentally), you can guess that this idea will not go down well in their country. "Ciao Paris!", too. Still, the language would not matter if the songs were great. And, a few relative successes notwithstanding ("Waiting In The Dark", for instance, is another one of those signature timeless melodies), the band sound tired and uninspired. The remnants of La Femme's identity are still there, but this time the wine seems diluted and does not make you drunk anymore. As a matter of fact, I barely even feel tipsy. 

Album of the Month: CHRISTIAN & MAURO by Blixa Bargeld & Teho Teardo

The magic must be in the unlikely combination of German restraint and Italian expression. It is hard to describe, but the whole thing sounds eerie and lush, detached and yet somehow strangely comforting. Blixa Bargeld recites his oblique yet memorable lines in German, Italian and English, while Teho Teardo's classical violin does dramatic runs that transition effortlessly from avant-garde to baroque prettiness. The result is beautiful, imaginative and deeply strange.

There is coldness to their music, but there is also playfulness. They inhabit these songs ever so comfortably. When Blixa half-whispers "Bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao..." at some point in the bizarre and hilarious "Bisogna Morire" (which you will end up singing along to before the end of the first listen), you sense the absolute joy of the recording process. 

There is great expression, but there is also restraint. In terms of individual songs, my favourites are the melodic 'chamber pop' of "Dear Carlo" and "I Shall Sleep Again" which are as good as anything on their masterpiece Still Smiling LP. There is nothing on Christian & Mauro (incidentally, Blixa's and Teho's Christian names) that touches the sheer otherworldliness of "Ulgae" off Nerissimo, but this is still very much a singular experience. It creates images in your head, and new sensations that you simply will not get anywhere else. 

So much so that I'm willing to forgive the slightly weaker second half, which, nevertheless, features more originality than I have heard anywhere else this month. And all the while, there is a sense of uniqueness that permeates the whole album, this unforgettable interplay of words and music, strangeness and appeal, expression and restraint.

October Round-Up

Black Francis keeps trying. He is trying really hard. Sadly, something essential just isn't there. Some vital chord, a subversive twist. These post-reunion albums (which already outnumber Pixies' classic four) bring no sense of resolution. The Night The Zombies Came, for instance, has the catchy melodies and the vocal hooks, but still comes off as a middling Frank Black solo album. "Chicken" is interesting and "Motoroller" is infectious, but much of it lands between the obvious and the vaguely intriguing.

Oddly, I enjoy these albums by The Smile a lot more than anything Thom Yorke-related since 2007. It is especially odd because they have now released three albums in three years (this is their second in 2024), and this sudden prolificacy is somewhat mystifying. But, and I'm as surprised as the next person, Cutouts could be the best of the three. It is loose but the inner dynamics pull you in. Not everything works equally well, but even something as flimsy and sparse as "Don't Get Me Started" lures me with its tasteful understatement. Plus, whatever the hell "Zero Sum" is, its funky urgency is absolutely delightful.

La Femme require their own article (coming soon), but for now let's just say that Rock Machine is a slight, if ever so slight, return to form. Tragically, they have made the full transition to the English language, and even recorded a song titled "Ciao Paris!" With the path now clear to a complete loss of identity, they are only saved by the increasingly erratic pop sensibilities that are not yet completely gone.  

The first solo album by Geordie Greep is adventurous and inventive and fascinating and intense and everything else all at once, and while I admire the scope and the talent, I simply do not enjoy these songs all that much. The New Sound is a bit like black midi, Greep's previous band, only more unhinged and extremely Latin-flavoured. A little like Steely Dan on steroids (the man's voice resembles Donald Fagen's). I respect the hell out of this artsy and brainy record, it is just that I do not love any of it. 

The Indelicates have returned after a seven-year hiatus with a satirical concept album titled Avenue QAnon. Show tunes, rockabilly, piano balladry, rock anthems, even a little reggae - it is all in here, in this cleverly constructed takedown of conspiracy theorists and 4chan pornographers (the lyrics are a little too on the nose sometimes, but they are still great fun). The melodies do not reach the heights of David Koresh Superstar and Songs For Swinging Lovers (both are near-classics in my eyes), and the piano ballad "A Song For Roseanne" is a little bland and "We Are The Carbon They Want To Reduce" survives on pretty much one groove, but Avenue QAnon is a great little LP that deserves to be heard by many people. The infectious melodic twists of "Hotwheels" are worth of the price of admission all on their own.

The Hard Quartet is something of a supergroup made up of Stephen Malkmus, Matt Sweeney, Emmett Kelly and Jim White, and if not for a cunning surprise by a certain German/Italian duo, their debut would be my album of the month. Quite simply, The Hard Quartet is the best Stephen Malkmus-related album since the days of Pavement. Fifteen songs of superior indie rock, sometimes informed by punk ("Chrome Mess", "Renegade") and sometimes alt country ("Our Hometown Boy", "Six Dead Rats"). Hooks, distortion, beauty. "Action For Military Boys" goes from Pavement-like slacker rock to Libertines-style anthemic glory in such an effortless manner that I just surrender in complete admiration.  

Songs of the Month:

"Renegade" - The Hard Quartet

"Fountain of You" - Peter Perrett

"I Shall Sleep Again" - Blixa Bargeld & Teho Teardo 

"A Fragile Thing" - The Cure

"Wandering In The Wild" - Cold Specks

"Waiting in the Dark" - La Femme

"Little Bobby" - The Indelicates

"Next Big Thing" - Du Blonde

"Instant Psalm" - The Smile

"Chicken" - Pixies

On Syd Barrett

I stopped using the word 'genius' a long time ago. Once in a while I may still slip it into the odd sentence but it would never be about a person. Rather, it would be about a song, a plot device or an especially good scene from a film. Basically, an artist can produce a genius painting without being a genius him- or herself. I think the problem that I have is that the word 'genius' presupposes a certain purity that is simply nowhere to be found. It is all too diluted and tampered with. And yet there are moments in my life when I come back to the music of Syd Barrett and the dim, broken light of the word 'genius' starts to shine again. It just becomes overwhelming, and for a while there is no other art that I can accept. 

It still gives me chills, that brilliantly unnerving fact that back in 2003, when I was in England for the first time, Syd Barrett was alive. Apparently content, if not actually happy (that is, according to his sister Rosemary), he could sometimes be spotted in the streets of Cambridge, lost and barely recognisable from the old days, with a desolate stare and a paper bag filled with groceries. Tim, a friend of mine, kept saying that Syd Barrett had to leave Pink Floyd in 1968, that he was no longer compos mentis and that there was nothing else for his bandmates to do. While I was having none of it. They pushed him out, I reasoned. They forced him out of his own band. Obviously, I did not know the full story back then, I did not know about the mind-altering effects of acid and just how much he took, but I knew what I loved. It was called The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn, and it had gripped me like nothing else. 

He would die three years later, in July, during my second stay in Gateshead. By then, I had read and reread the full lyrics of Syd Barrett's songs and learnt them by heart. There was a certain sentimentality about them, a certain childish magic that I could relate to. And there was one song in particular for which I developed a strange fascination. It was called "Scream Thy Last Scream" and I could not find its recording anywhere (members of Pink Floyd had blocked its release for many years). So instead, I came from school one day, took my sister's guitar and tried to set those lyrics to my own melody. Happy with the results, I even recorded it on a dictaphone. Many years later, when I finally heard "Vegetable Man" and "Scream Thy Last Scream", I was quite disturbed to realise that a small part of my largely hopeless melody for the latter was eerily similar to what Syd Barrett wrote in 1967. It was one of his last songs for the band that would in a few months cut him off and terminate his contract. Interestingly, none of subsequent revelations, documentaries, interviews and books (of which A Very Irregular Head and Random Precision are absolute must-reads) would make me see the break-up in a different light from how I felt more than 20 years ago. There is something truly horrifying about Rosemary's words that in later years, when he was living in his messy, half-empty house in Cambridge, suffering from diabetes and severe mental issues, the very name of Roger Waters would send Syd into a fit of rage. 

I sometimes go back to that summer of 2003 and think about this chance that I had. I could ask Tim to drive me to Cambridge where I could perhaps come across Syd Barrett in the street or even knock on the door of his house. But then again - what next? Robyn Hitchcock has once described his own experience of undertaking a similar pilgrimage and being stopped at the door by Syd's mother or sister. "Oh he is not at home, he is in London". Nervous, pink with anxiety, Hitchcock felt a great relief and was happy to leave Cambridge without ever meeting his hero. 

And it was actually Robyn Hitchcock who, I believe, gave the best explanation of what happened to this incredible, singularly gifted man of twenty-four years old. That generally speaking, all artists dilute their talent. That there are these tubes filled with paint, and they squeeze the paint out a little and smear it thinly over a canvas or a page. Syd Barrett was different in that in those couple of years he squeezed it all out very quickly, in one go. And those colours were amazing, and glorious, and truly magical, but they could not last. Soon it all ran dry and there was nothing left. 

Peter Jenner, I believe, the manager of Pink Floyd in those early days, would say at some point that he could never listen to either Barrett or The Madcap Laughs. Moreover, he would say that he could never understand the people who did. He actually called the very idea of listening to those albums strange and even 'ghoulish'. While I understand his thinking, I also believe that the sheer light of Syd Barrett's music (tragic though it was during the disjointed sessions for his two solo albums) is such that not listening to it, even in the form of frail, occasionally incoherent outtakes released in 1987, is a big loss and grave mistake. Because this was, in a kind of terrible and perverted way, a part of his world that he shared with us for a brief few years of his music career. It is not for me to judge how inevitable it was, but I have come to believe that it was integral. And we should all be grateful to people like Malcolm Jones, David Gilmour and Richard Wright for making those 1969/1970 recordings even possible.

Besides those timeless early singles and three albums (of which The Piper and The Madcap Laughs are in my personal top ten of all time), I find myself coming back to "Jugband Blues" time and time again. In a somewhat emotional move by the band, they attached Syd's last song for Pink Floyd at the end of A Saucerful Of Secrets. It is a harrowing and very pure expression of the artist's state of mind, impossibly sad and yet one of Syd Barrett's best creations. There is nothing tampered or diluted about what is expressed here, the song comes at you full-on, with gut-punching lyrics and inescapable melodies. It is both unbearable and irresistible. Sometimes, though, it is too hard for me to listen to it, almost as hard as watching the closing few seconds of this video, the last that were recorded with him in the band:

Robyn Hitchcock in Brighton, 11.09

One of the sights from this show I will not forget is an expression of utter bewilderment on the face of a young girl sitting at one of the front tables. At that point, Robyn Hitchcock was playing "My Wife and My Dead Wife", an oddly irresistible story of a man who lives in the company of two wives, one dead and one alive. 

My wife lies down on the beach, she's sucking a peach 

She's out of reach

Of the waves that crash on the sand where my dead wife stands 

Holding my hand

Those lyrics are as clever and disturbing as they were 40 years ago, and it must have been a treat to hear them for the first time. But then again, it was a real treat for me, too, and I have heard them a hundred times. Robyn Hitchcock does not play it every night (his setlists are remarkably diverse), but the 1985 song remains an enduring classic in a vast catalogue of amazing consistency and whimsical brilliance. 

Along with Robert Forster, Luke Haines and a few others, Robyn Hitchcock is one of my all-time favourite songwriters. The first time I heard his song (I believe it was "Executioner" from Eye), I genuinely could not believe I had never heard this music before. It was confident, charismatic, idiosyncratic and oddly appealing. I have since heard everything else in his discography, and this feeling has only become stronger: how could this be so obscure? After all, The Soft Boys' Underwater Moonlight is one of the greatest albums of all time, and so are Fegmania!, Eye and I Often Dream Of Trains. The answer, inevitably, is what Stephen Pastel once said: "In the end, you become as big as you are meant to be". Or, alternatively, Robyn Hitchcock has never truly desired fame.

In Brighton, at the Komedia club, he does a long set divided into two parts. We start with the wistful "September Cones" (originally on You & Oblivion, a great compilation of demos and outtakes) and end with a brief encore featuring "See Emily Play" and "Waterloo Sunset" (both taken from his new album of 1967 classics that once inspired him). In between, it is what you have come to expect: sex, cheese, insects and death (well, he scales back on sex a little). Plus, the man is genuinely, effortlessly funny with his onstage ramblings and droll English humour. The best joke of the night was perhaps to do with two ways of looking at things. There are two groups of people in the world, optimists and pessimists. Some think The Beatles are half-alive and some that they are half-dead. 

Again, with a catalogue so big, there were bound to be some omissions (I would have wanted "My Favourite Buildings" and "The Man Who Invented Himself"), but you can't fault his choices, either. He did The Soft Boys stuff ("Queen of Eyes", "Tonight"), he did the Egyptians stuff ("My Wife and My Dead Wife", "Madonna of the Wasps"), he did things classic ("Queen Elvis", "Cynthia Mask") and new ("Raymond and the Wires", "The Shuffle Man"). For me, one of the highlights was "Autumn Sunglasses" (from the eponymous 2017 album) whose melodicism came through in style in the intimate live setting. He was eccentric and charming without trying too hard. And he was humble, too, and introduced Syd Barrett's "See Emily Play" as a song written by 'the original Robyn Hitchcock'. 

Interestingly, there were two glasses of water on the small table beside him, and, inevitably, the amount of water was decreasing all the time. I knew he timed it, in the sense that he would finish it off before or after his last song. And yet there was a part of me that hoped against hope that the water would never disappear and he would be playing there for us until the end of times. It would have been amazing, too, and with songs so timeless, such a Robyn Hitchcock thing to do. 

Oasis: worst to best

This post will be my personal contribution to the Oasis reunion. I have decided to relisten to all of their albums to see if my old opinions still stand (spoiler alert: they mostly do). This will be a list in ascending order, from worst to best. 

Also, just to make sure: in the Blur vs. Oasis debate, the correct answer has always been Pulp.

8. Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants (2000)

You know what? This album is not even bad. It is too safe to be bad. Noel Gallagher has always been a somewhat limited songwriter, which means he could never really move beyond the waning lights of Britpop. You may call this post-Britpop (true for the Gallaghers' music after the split), but what it is, essentially, is Oasis going through the motions in a very smooth and boring way. Not exactly terrible (although the title of the album as well as the cover certainly are terrible), just mediocre. 

Best song: "Go Let It Out" (which is not very good either)

7. Heathen Chemistry (2002)

I think Pitchfork gave this album a 1.4 or something. That said, a couple of years earlier they had published that review of Kid A, so who cares anyway? I am not here to defend Heathen Chemistry (it is Oasis by the numbers), but there is more life in it than in the previous album. Songs? Well, I find "Little By Little" to be awfully formulaic, but the sweeping "Stop Crying Your Heart Out" and Liam's tender "Songbird" are both excellent.

Best song: "Songbird"

6. Don't Believe The Truth (2005)

Interestingly, only five out of these eleven songs were written by Noel. He certainly came up with the best ones ("Mucky Fingers", which sounds like "I'm Waiting For The Man" by The Velvet Underground; "Lyla", which sounds like "Street Fighting Man" by The Rolling Stones; "The Importance Of Being Idle", which sounds like "Sunny Afternoon" by The Kinks; "Part Of The Queue", which sounds like "Golden Brown" by The Stranglers; and "Let There Be Love", which is a grand old John Lennon ballad cloaked in "Retrovertigo" by Mr Bungle), but the contributions from the other band members do bring a little variety, and some breathing space. Overall the band sounds fresh and engaged. Don't Believe The Truth is an awfully derivative album, but a very enjoyable one, too.

Best song: "The Importance Of Being Idle"

5. Be Here Now (1997)

I need to get this off my chest: saying those first two albums are all-time classics and Be Here Now is dog's dinner makes little sense to me. Yes, so this album is dog's dinner and, in fact, it should be the dictionary definition of a 'fucking mess'. Yes, the production was probably overseen by a drug dealer. Yes, each song goes on for a million years. But - and I will die on this hill - in terms of actual songwriting, there is no seismic dip in quality. It is just that it was all amplified, blown up, pushed to the limit. Essentially, though, "Don't Go Away" is hardly all that much worse than "Wonderwall", and "All Around The World" is not far behind "Champagne Supernova".

Best song: "Don't Go Away"

4. Dig Out Your Soul (2008)

I remember how I was in England in 2008 and Dig Out Your Soul was released. There was an Alan McGee article about the album in which he compared it to Beggars Banquet. "Oh for fuck's sake", I thought, and forgot all about it. When I finally did hear Dig Out Your Soul, a couple of years later, I was surprised by how much I actually enjoyed this album. "Bag It Up" was a brilliant opener. "I'm Outta Time" and "Falling Down" were both classic singles. "(Get Off Your) High Horse Lady" was jangly and murky, and Noel's successful attempt at being adventurous. Yes, so the album is let down towards the end by democracy, with Gem Archer and Andy Bell both contributing very unremarkable rockers. Still, Liam's "Soldier On" is a good closer, and that initial seven-song run simply cannot be denied.  

Best song: "(Get Off Your) High Horse Lady"

3. Definitely Maybe (1994)

"Rock 'n' Roll Star" is not a very good song but it is a terrific opener. Which is what you need to know about this album: it is all swagger, no subtlety. The production is a mess, the arrangements lack any sort of nuance - but all the same; there was something about them right from the start: the relentlessness, the oomph. Noel's songwriting was not especially plodding at the time (as a matter of fact, "Shakermaker" is the only song with no saving graces). The classics were, of course, "Live Forever", "Supersonic" and "Slide Away", but the dirty groove of "Columbia"? The middle-eight of "Up In The Sky"? The surprising understatement of "Married With Children"? Good stuff. Not as good as Noel and Liam think, but I still enjoy it after all these years. 

Best song:  "Slide Away"

2. (What's The Story) Morning Glory (1995)

I have always hated that album title. Why so long? Why the parentheses? Why the corny rhyme? That said, the songs are mostly good. Morning Glory is catchy, glorious onslaught of Cheap Trick and nods to The Beatles so low Noel is basically touching the ground with his forehead. Not everything is equally great, and after all these years I'm still not convinced by "Roll With It" or the title song (despite some mild creativity in the arrangement). All the same; criticising "Wonderwall" at this point seems to me as pointless as criticising "Yesterday" or "Hotel California". Most importantly, though, that song number four is such a timeless classic that it lifts this album above the debut all by itself.  

Best song: well, what do you think?

1. The Masterplan (1998)

There has to be something seriously wrong with a band when a collection of B-sides is this much better than regular studio albums. The Masterplan is, of course, a compilation but I'm willing to make it my number one just to underscore the inadequacy of their artistic choices. It is no masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination, but throw away the pointless instrumental "The Swamp Song" and the equally pointless Beatles cover, and you get a near-perfect collection of 90s Britpop. "Underneath The Sky"? "Talk Tonight"? "Rockin' Chair"? "Half The World Away"? "The Masterplan"? I get excited by simply typing those titles.

Best song: "Rockin' Chair"

Album of the Month: WILD GOD by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

The album enters your speakers mid-song. There is no introduction or extended build-up. "Song Of The Lake" swirls triumphantly into the room and you wonder where the hell it has been all your life. Because after a decade of grief and suffering, trauma and death, Wild God is Nick Cave's LIFE album. Or, as someone on the Internet has commented, "Nick's so fucking back that I'm not sure anyone's ever been as back as him".

Wild God is not exactly straightforward but it does not hide under any pretense. It is filled with joyous, expressive sound that swallows everything around. Grand orchestration, powerful piano chords, expansive backing vocals... So much so that there is a sense that the album is simply too big to clock in under 45 minutes. It almost feels like it should have been a double or even a triple album. Instead, Wild God is a concerted, life-affirming explosion of pure joy. 

It is a beautifully sequenced, well thought-through album that only puts a foot wrong once, when in the otherwise excellent "O Wow O Wow (How Wonderful She Is)" Warren Ellis chooses to do the disturbing vocoder thing that reminds me of Bon Iver and thus fills my heart with cold dread. The song itself is Cave's heartfelt tribute to the great Anita Lane (whose two solo albums are essential listening as far as I'm concerned) and manages to be both anthemic and understated. 

Wild God is a forward-looking album (and will sound fantastic live) but the past is not entirely behind it. The piano that cuts through "Final Rescue Attempt" is reminiscent of No More Shall We Part. "Cinnamon Horses" is informed by Ghosteen. The album overall has the glorious, freewheeling spirit of Abattoir Blues/Lyre of Orpheus to it. And it is also as entertaining as "White Elephant", with certain songs featuring multiple sections (the title song, for instance, or my current favourite "Conversion"). 

Other than the rather oblique but amusing "Frogs", the lyrics of Wild God are fairly simple. But that is perhaps the whole point. Again, it is a LIFE album. Perhaps the LIFE album, and life is not to be fucked with. Quite simply, it is there to be lived. 

 

August Round-Up

In my review of Skinty Fia I expressed a wish for more nuance and diversity from Fontaines DC. Two years and one excellent solo LP from Grian Chatten later, nuance and diversity are the order of the day. However, there is a trade-off. Romance, great though it is, compromises some of their identity. The start of the title song could be mistaken for Radiohead. There are sections that bring to mind Blur, Slowdive and The Cure. There are even parts of "In A Modern World" that sound like Lana Del Rey (Chatten is a fan, apparently). Add to this an explicit desire to become the biggest band in the world as well as unhealthy expectations created by the rap/punk/indie hybrid "Starburster", and this could be a major disaster. It is not. They are excellent songwriters, and James Joyce is still an influence.  

Magdalena Bay is a band that everyone seems to give a damn about these days, and I, too, gave them a shot. Their new album is getting perfect reviews from all corners, and Imaginal Disk is, essentially, dreamy synth-pop with soulful undertones. While the supposed blissed-out brilliance escapes me (as of now), songs like "Tunnel Vision" do sound very lovely indeed.

I admit there are times when I find Gillian Welch a tad too perfect. For me, the rougher-edged Soul Journey remains her best work. She let it loose a little in 2003, and you got stuff like "One Monkey". Mostly, though, she goes for the transcendental. Woodland, her impeccable new album with David Rawlings (could I just repeat for the umpteenth time how much I adore "The Weekend"?), is, in essence, absolute perfection. From the very first single "Truckload of Sky" to the sparse, serene closer "Howdy Howdy", the album is transcendental country of the highest order that just gets better with every listen. Beautiful songwriting, accessible but not very approachable.

There was a time when I obsessed over Laurie Anderson. First time I heard Big Science, I wrote to my English friends who burned that CD for me and demanded another album exactly like that. Well, sadly there was nothing they could do, and even though I got my hands on Mister Heartbreak and Bright Red and Home Of The Brave, I was missing the chilling electronic novelty of her 1982 debut. Interestingly, with this year's Amelia (the album is about Amelia Earhart, the pioneering American aviator and the first woman to cross the Atlantic) gets us back to the topic of flying. And while nothing here moves me as much as the otherworldly "From The Air", it is a very consistent, and brief, work of modern classical with tasteful chamber orchestration.  

Songs of the Month:

"Bowling de Diano Marina" - Juniore

"Joy" - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

"Green Rubble - Clean Shoots" - Godspeed You! Black Emperor

"TV Star" - Du Blonde

"Bug" - Fontaines DC

"North Country" - Gillian Welch & David Rawlings

"Holy, Holy" - Geordie Greep

"Tunnel Vision" - Magdalena Bay

"Rio's Song" - The Hard Quartet

"Zero Sum" - The Smile

"Crossing The Equator" (feat. ANOHNI) - Laurie Anderson

OFF Festival 2024

I thought I had the best joke in town when I said that we all wanted to see Jarvis Cocker at the OFF Festival this year, but all we ever got was Puuluup and Bar Italia. My sense of victory, however, did not last. The vocalist of Les Savy Fav beat me, quite comprehensively, with the nipple joke. More on that later. 

This year's edition of the legendary Polish festival did not impress with its line-up as much as it did last year, but there is a certain joy to stumbling upon a lesser known artist giving a disturbingly great performance in a small tent at the edge of the festival grounds. There was plenty of it this time - in addition to the usual: rain, smell of weed and the great museums of Katowice. With that said, it was a little heartbreaking to see an older gentleman in front of me in a T-shirt with the full line-up of 2010 on his back. The Flaming Lips, Tindersticks, Art Brut, The Fall, Dinosaur Jr... Oh well. 

Day 1

Who knows, though? Perhaps by 2038 English Teacher will have become a legendary act in their own right... Their early performance on Friday, to a scattered but receptive audience, made me reconsider my indifference to their debut album (This Could Be Texas, 2024). I was willing to write them off as yet another British band who wants to be like Black Country, New Road, but they were genuinely good here. Intense one moment ("Nearly Daffodils"), elegant the next ("You Blister My Pain"), they were charming, confident and quite humble. In fact, I have relistened to the album a few times since last Friday, and it just keeps getting better.

photo from Off Festival's website

Later on, in a tent, and just as the rain was starting to fall, Annahstasia was doing her intimate folk set. The two songs she did from her upcoming EP were nice, if little else. Still, while I do not find her music special in any way, she did create a pleasant, almost spiritual mood with her brooding lyrics and the gently fingerpicked guitar. 

Polish hip-hop is not something that could entice me, but from what I could gather, Łona (Adam Bogumił Zieliński) is something of a legend in this country. His lyrics in particular are widely praised. What drew my attention was the fact that he was playing with the jazz musicians Andrzej Konieczny and Kacper Krupa, and jazz rap is something I do appreciate (I still relisten to Blowout Comb once in a while). They were mostly doing last year's Taxi (also available as an instrumental album), and I found the juxtaposition between atmospheric jazz and shouty rapping quite engaging. 

Did I say English Teacher were confident, charming and humble? Well, Bar Italia were all that without the 'charming' and the 'humble' bits. A certain arrogance is healthy, no doubt, but then you must have the music to back it up. I know they are getting quite popular, and receiving a lot of coverage and rave reviews (not from Jarvis Cocker, though, who does not rate them), but their noisy indie rock just sounds like a racket and the hooks and the melodies simply drown in the sea of monotony and power chords. 

Finally, at midnight (when else?), Imperial Triumphant were playing. This concert was worth attending for two reasons: for the experience and because I never really cared for Future Islands who were at that time playing on the central stage. It was thrilling to see the masked avant-garde metal band from New York performing in the pouring rain of southern Poland. I really enjoyed the jazzy interludes which, nonetheless, always gave way to the lead vocalist growling wickedly into the microphone. It was quite an experience, if nothing else. 

Day 2

Best things in life happen on Saturdays. Klawo, a jazz six-piece from Gdańsk, kicked things off on the central stage. They dazzled without being overbearing, which is something I appreciate in jazz. To me, the highlight of the set was the brief, vibraphone-led, sweetly sung "I Feel Something" which exploded quite beautifully towards the end. 

A little further away, on the experimental stage, the Estonian duo Puuluup were doing avant-folk using contraptions called talharpa (the sound is not unlike something you could get out of a pleasantly distorted violin). Catchy, whimsical, inessential and with some funny self-deprecating banter between songs. 

Mostly, though, I was here for Baxter Dury. Interestingly, the man was so hyped up (cocaine?) that even his band members were a little shocked. Mad dancing was in full display. When I saw him in Berlin last year, he slowly built himself up into this total frenzy of dancing and screaming. This time, he was that way from the start, from the very first chords of "Leak At The Disco". And it was one hell of a show. He played his best songs, including three from his latest album, and he was shouting 'we love you Poland' at the end like he really meant it. A great songwriter and an entertaining performer. All you could ever wish for at the festival. 

photo from Off Festival's website

Did I just say entertaining? Next up was art punk band from Brooklyn called Les Savy Fav, and this was one of the highest points of this year's OFF Festival. Basically, what we got was the vocalist Tim Harrington (who looks a little like the bearded man from a Gentle Giant album cover) stripping to his underpants and walking among the crowd while the band was playing tight, high-octane rock music without paying any attention to whatever was going on around. Harrington himself was a hoot, talking incessantly in between songs; at one point, he brought up the Polish language (sounds like an English person swearing), at another, he asked the audience if they knew the word 'nippy' and then said that actually, it was not nippy but nipply outside (true on both counts) and in fact, at least one of the band members had three nipples. I don't know, the whole show was intoxicating, and filled with great songs that span the band's entire career. 

Finally, Saturday was brought to an effective close by Grace Jones. She started with her brilliant take on the Bowie/Iggy Pop classic "Nightclubbing" and then she was by turns salacious, majestic, totally irresistible. She played a half of Nightclubbing LP and other classics ("Private Life" and "My Jamaican Guy" were incredible). The extended ending was her doing a hula hoop for ten minutes while performing "Slave To The Rhythm". A night to remember, obviously.

And another OFF Festival that delivered the goods, even if sometimes against all odds and with the rain pissing down all over the tent camp.

Five pop albums of 2024

These may or may not be the five biggest pop albums of 2024. Last month, I took the time to listen to all of them and these are my thoughts.

Charli XCX - Brat

This album is a perfect soundtrack to the world falling apart while you are sitting on your terrace drinking Red Bulls. Charli XCX's new album is, of course, a statement. This is largely nostalgic club music, done with style and great conviction. Not my kind of thing, but I do admire the gutsy inventiveness that runs through this thing. She throws so many ideas into the songs that they may on occasion sound quite messy ("Von Dutch", "Club Classics"). Still, the criminally catchy stuff like "B2B" or the opener "360" more than makes up for it. Extra points for the piano break in "Mean Girls". 

Billie Eilish - Hit Me Hard And Soft 

I'm sorry, but this is just boring. Forty three fucking minutes of a listless female voice whispering something or other. Call it subtle and sophisticated if you want to, I just find it bloodless. Side B is slightly more interesting, but not by much. Funnily enough, the most memorable moment on the whole album comes by way of Billie intoning the goddamn 'birds of feather flock together' cliche. Jesus Christ. 

Dua Lipa - Radical Optimism

As far as I'm concerned, this is harmless pop music. Nothing sticks out in particular, nothing is terrible. She has a voice, I guess, and these songs have hooks. Decent, derivative dance pop. I have definitely heard worse, but I do not get the adoration. 

Beyoncé - Cowboy Carter

This album has 27 songs on it. WHY?!? Why in God's name? This album is full of filler and what is not filler is hardly all that great either. Just your glorified country album done with aplomb, schtick and a lot of money. Not bad or anything, and occasionally quite worthy of your time, but there is nothing here that justifies the unbearable fawning from critics. Eighty (!) minutes, too. 

Taylor Swift - The Tortured Poets Department

I wonder what will happen when she takes her show to Warsaw this weekend. Increase the rate of the zloty? Cause an earthquake? Legalise abortion? Hard to say. The fact remains that what looked like a stylish advert for lingerie turned out to be a cover of a new Taylor Swift album. It features a million songs and 95% of them sound like self-parody. Still, she is a pop machine and the algorithm is still working (if you are into this kind of thing). She mentions Dylan Thomas and says 'fuck' a couple of times, but this is way too derivative to sustain my interest all the way through. 

Фільм. "БЕЛАРУСКІ ПСІХАПАТ" (2015) / Мікіта Лаўрэцкі.

Цікава, што пэўны час пасля прагляду фільма я думаў пра слова "беларускі" ў яго назве. Бо што робіць Дзіму, хлопца без пачуцця гумару, з бліскаўкамі на скронях і жаданнем дэманстраваць незнаёмым людзям свае "геніяльныя" турыстычныя фота з Мальты, што робіць яго не проста псіхапатам, а менавіта беларускім псіхапатам? Бо ніхто ж, напэўна, не будзе адмаўляць знарочыстую амерыканскасць Патрыка Бэйтмана з рамана Брэта Істэна Эліса. Але што робіць псіхапата Дзіму з дэбютнага фільма Мікіты Лаўрэцкага беларускім? Мне падаецца, што гэта не пустое пытанне.

Думаю, што кожны, хто хоць нешта ведае пра сучаснае беларускае кіно, чуў імя Мікіты Лаўрэцкага. Ён стварае незалежныя, нізкабюджэтныя фільмы ў жанры "мамблкора" (калі ў двух словах, то гэта калі крыху дрыжыць камера і маладыя людзі шмат размаўляюць паміж сабой), і кожны з іх можна паглядзець на яго YouTube-канале. Мікітавы фільмы дэманструюцца на міжнародных фестывалях, а калі казаць пра яго паўнаметражны дэбют ("Беларускі псіхапат"), то ў 2015 годзе ён стаў лепшым ігравым фільмам у нацыянальным конкурсе "Лістапада". Інакш кажучы, прагляд яго стужак быў толькі пытаннем часу.

Не адмаўляю, што я абраў менавіта гэты фільм з-за яго назвы. "Беларускі псіхапат" - не абы-якое словазлучэнне. Яно мае вагу, пэўны мастацка-гістарычны багаж, і я адразу ж зразумеў, што нават калі будзе дрэннае кіно жахлівай якасці, пра яго ўсё роўна будзе цікава пагаварыць.

Але ж я не мог адарвацца. "Беларускі псіхапат" наўрад ці зробіцца сапраўднай падзеяй у вашым жыцці, але кіно гэта так утульна існуе ў сваім добра акрэсленым свеце, у сваёй сыраватай чорна-белай бурбалцы, што нельга не адчуць эмацыянальнае напружанне таго, што адбываецца на экране. Бо героі ў фільме цалкам зразумелыя, і нічога тут не адбываецца без мэты. І кормяць катоў тут не проста так, і словы падбіраюць далёка не выпадкова. Пасля прагляду фільма ўважлівы глядач успомніць і тыя словы, і тых катоў. Пра ігру актораў у такім жанры казаць цяжка, але няёмкасць ад плоскіх інтанацый Дзімы (дарэчы, ролю іграе сам Лаўрэцкі) прабірае да касцей. І хочацца ці тое смяяцца, ці тое закрыць вушы.

Сюжэт фільма не пакідае шмат месца для фантазіі. Тры дзяўчыны вырашаюць паехаць на дачу, дзе хлопец Дзіма (ледзьве знаёмы адной з іх) святкуе дзень нараджэння з двумя сябрамі. Гэта класічны пачатак для трылера ці фільма жахаў, і ў гледача не павінна быць аніякіх ілюзій. Але ж яны ўсё роўна з'яўляюцца, тыя ілюзіі, бо ты добра пазнаеш і людзей, і іх размовы. Нават псіхапат Дзіма, які адзіны за сталом есць гэты моташлівы торт, упускае цябе ў сваю прастору (але ж гэта вельмі цесная прастора, і змяшчаецца ў маленькім ванным пакоі, дзе за некалькі секунд адбываецца хічкокаўская і, бадай, самая кінематаграфічная сцэна ў фільме). Так, што пэўны час ты існуеш у даволі няёмкім, але цалкам небяспечным вымярэнні "Беларускага псіхапата". 

І вось тут, як мне падаецца, хаваецца поспех фільма. Ён ў тым, як добра Лаўрэцкі гуляе з танальнасцю. Бо менавіта тут крыецца змрочная, крыху таямнічая эфектыўнасць трэцяга акту - які ты павінен быў чакаць, але з нейкай прычыны чакаць перастаў. Бо, напэўна, паглядзеў у простыя, шчырыя вочы псіхапата і паверыў. Можа, і цяпер я думаю пра гэта і баюся ўчытаць у твор неіснуючыя ў ім сэнсы, можа тут і хаваецца таямніца слова "беларускі", якое пазначана ў назве фільма?..

Book review: PROPHET SONG by Paul Lynch

By the end of this book, I was pacing up and down the room like a madman. High-strung and red in the face, I was very much on my feet wading through the dense ending hoping for an impossible ray of light. This does not happen to me too often. Come to think of it, last time that I could not remain seated while reading a book was ages ago, back when I was breezing through Kafka's Metamorphosis. 

This book is, indeed, a very intense read. So intense, in fact, that it took me a couple of weeks to finish it. A few chapters at once was all I could stomach in the face of the present tense (the entire book is written that way) as well as the relentless onslaught of the plot. 

Paul Lynch's novel won the Booker Prize in 2003, and for a good reason. The book presents a harrowing picture of Ireland becoming a totalitarian state. We are never quite explained how this came about, but the whole point is that maybe we do not need to. Such things happen, people turn into animals in no time at all ("The man has been trained for the rules of the game but the game has been changed so what now is the man", Lynch writes quite early in the book), and all of a sudden you are caught up in the commonplace cruelty and indifference. This is infuriating, disgusting stuff - all the more so because it is very familiar. People of modern-day Belarus will find a lot to relate to here.

The present tense is important as it provides this gruesome engine to the proceedings. We do not see the family of Larry and Molly Stack dealing with the oncoming storm. Instead, we see them right in the midst of it, when all you can do, really, is to adapt. You can put on a brave face, you can join the uprising, but there is only so much that you can change with four children, a father with dementia and the brutal police force (the Garda) knocking on your door on an ordinary Monday evening in the centre of Dublin. Soon the borders will be closed, the food will be rationed and your teenage son will be conscripted and forced to join the army.

The book is written at a desperate pace, but with dashes of beautiful, almost serene poetry ("Molly lifts her face from the screen and meets her mother with a look of clear water"). This poetry, however, cannot shield you from the destination that the book is taking you to. As Molly is trying to make sense of what is going on around her ("coaxing future out of nothingness" is one of Lynch's most brilliant turns of phrases here), she arrives at that very ending that had me walking around the room with the book in my hands. The ending that would seem disingenuous and even manipulative were it not also completely inevitable. Because, really, it could be anyone. Anyone at all. 

Three TV shows: Ripley, The Dry, Fallout

Ripley, mini-series (2024)

The genius of Patricia Highsmith's original idea is so inescapable that it is no surprise the first book has spawned no less than three screen adaptations. Purple Noon (1960) with Alain Delon, The Talented Mr Ripley (1999) with Matt Damon and now the mini-series Ripley with Andrew Scott. With the first two adaptations being so iconic, did we really need a new one? 

Strangely, we did. With its discomforting black-and-white aesthetics (at times, Ripley feels like Tarkovsky filming Kafka), the TV series sucks you in from the very beginning. And when the squalor of a tiny New York apartment gives way to the splendour of Italy, the magic hypnotism is complete. Ripley goes on for eight hour-long episodes, which allows the director Steven Zaillian to really delve into the details (the boat scene in particular is truly mortifying, and takes a full episode).  

Andrew Scott is brilliant, and so is Dakota Fanning as Marge Sherwood. Lacking that sinister spark, Matt Damon never really worked for me, and neither did Gwyneth Paltrow who looked plain and depthless in the 1999 adaptation. With the young Greenleaf, it is a little bit trickier as Jude Law was the perfect Dickie (for all my love for Johnny Flynn, he never stood a chance). Finally, while Eliot Sumner (Sting's child, incidentally) does an intriguing turn as Dickie's friend Freddie Miles, it is quite impossible to improve on Philip Seymour Hoffman. 

Getting back to Andrew Scott, neither Delon nor Damon went this deep into the harrowing psyche of Tom Ripley, one of literature's greatest con-men, but also someone who disgusts and fascinates in equal measure. "I offered you my friendship and asked for nothing in return". 

The Dry, Season 2 (2024)

The Dry is an Irish TV show, half-comedy and half-drama, which is set in modern-day Dublin and deals with a young woman named Shiv Sheridan and one truly dysfunctional family. Alcohol, Dublin, a little bit of art. In other words, what is not to like?

The whole thing is somewhat predictable but also great fun. In Season 1, a young artist (played by Roisin Gallagher) comes back from London to deal with her issues (mostly alcohol addiction and proclivity for bad romance). Instead, the issues become ever more evident as she returns, essentially, to the very place that caused all those problems in the first place. In her broken, largely unsupportive family, however, no one gets spared. This second season, out this year, is more of the same: awkward relationships, wine hidden in the toilet bowl, old flames and quite a bit of black humour.

One thing I have to add: I really do not like these Fleabag comparisons. Whereas Fleabag tried too hard and felt contrived, The Dry seems effortless and quite charming. A real joy to watch.

Fallout, Season 1 (2024)

Fallout is without a doubt this year's most acclaimed TV show. I felt a little apprehensive going into this as I have no concept of the computer game this is based on. All I knew, and this you could easily get from the title, is that Fallout is about the state of the world following some major nuclear disaster. 

I was rather annoyed at first. This whole aesthetic of combining brutal violence (and it is quite brutal, almost comically so) with the charming innocence of the Ink Spots and Billie Holiday grew stale in no time at all. I mean, how long can you look at chunks of human flesh flying around to the music of Bob Crosby?.. And yet the makers of Fallout stuck with it, up to that very point where you just had to accept the sheer grotesqueness of the whole thing (through gritted teeth, in my case). 

And now, having watched the full season, I will say that the most fascinating aspect of Fallout is how it manages to straddle that fine line between the silliness and the gore. For that is exactly what they do here. And, in a way, it becomes quite absorbing. I never cared for the characters, Fallout does not really pull you in emotionally, but the sheer stretch of the imagination is overwhelming. Plus, all the narrative hooks are carefully placed and you are ever looking forward to whatever comes next. 

Fallout succeeds in creating its own world, a world which is deranged and quite unique at the same time. And this, come to think of it, is the sought-after apex in all of art. So that when the second season is released (as inevitably it will be), I'm going back into this. Who knows, there may be humans in there after all. 

Album of the Month: AS IT EVER WAS, SO IT WILL BE AGAIN by The Decemberists

Pop artists saying things. In most cases, this should either be outlawed or completely ignored. People as different as Paul Weller, Dua Lipa and Efrim Menuck all repeating the same 'Free Palestine!' inanity without realising that in the current climate this is akin to supporting a death cult (namely, Hamas) whose ultimate goal is to destroy a whole nation (namely, Jews). Thank God for Johnny Greenwood. 

While Colin Meloy of The Decemberists had nothing to say on the war between Israel and Hamas (which is for the better), he went for an easy target. While answering a question of who he would like to collaborate with, he mentioned Morrissey and offered this piece of cowardly bullshit: "It would not [be great] culturally to work with him now for the damage that he’s done to his own reputation. And, maybe I shouldn’t want to, I think maybe he would be an unpleasant person to work with. So I’m of two minds about it." I mean, what the fuck. 

Still, there is a certain joy to the fact that As It Ever Was, So It Will Be Again (a very consolatory title, no doubt) is Colin Meloy's best work in at least fifteen years. The record proves, yet again, what I have always believed to be true: artist and their art are not one and the same. 

And so Colin Meloy got it right: this is one of the Decemberists' greatest albums. Not least because, being a double LP, it is extremely representative. Essentially, you get four sides that display the full skill set of Meloy the songwriter. There are upbeat chamber pop numbers (mostly side one) and charming folk ballads (mostly side two) with a little bit of country-ish and experimental stuff thrown in for good measure. There is even a side-long folk-prog epic that brings the whole thing to a brilliant, and very effective, end. There are no particular letdowns here. Colin Meloy's voice has not changed (still boyish, still engaging) and he can still write an unforgettable pop hook.

The Decemberists are the sort of band you get tired of after some time. When you first discover them, they sound like the best thing in the world (it is hard not to get lost in albums such as Picaresque and Castaways and Cutouts). Then, at some point, the formula starts to get a bit grating and you stop. To come back later on, for small chunks of indie folk / chamber pop pleasure that Colin Meloy is so very good at. Which is all to say... I really do not know whether this time the album is really as good as all that or I am just feeling sentimental. 

June Round-Up

I believe that the world is a much better place because there is Warren Ellis in it. The man is a treasure (even if it transpired that he did not, in fact, cook those eels in 20,000 Days on Earth - what a letdown!), and this latest album with his instrumental trio Dirty Three features some of the band's best work. Love Changes Everything is such a beautiful racket. It is long-winded and psychedelic but it has moments of true catharsis, whether by way of guitar, piano or violin (duh!).

Eels Time! is all right, as far as these post-2005 Eels albums go (it's been almost 20 years since Blinking Lights, which is not very encouraging). The album title is rather good, the exclamation providing a lovely hint at self-irony. Overall, some lovely melodies scattered about the place ("We Won't See Her Like Again", "Haunted Hero"). Inessential and somewhat bloodless, but quite pleasant while it's on.

The cover of the new Linda Thompson album is so unabashedly comical that I could not believe it at first. Then I saw the title: Proxy Music. The idea is that Linda Thompson (who is suffering from spasmodic dysphonia which does not allow her to sing) invited friends and family to sing and play on a bunch of her new songs. Among them: her former husband Richard, her children Kami and Teddy, Martha and Rufus Wainwright, Richard Grant (whose brand of autotuned art pop I find completely unlistenable, but who returns here to the gorgeous vocals of Queen of Denmark and The Czars), the Unthanks, Eliza Carthy and others. A stellar cast, really, but it only works because the songs are terrific. It is a diverse and tuneful set, steeped in folk music and benefiting from multiple voices taking part in the proceedings. 

I have always loved the idea of John Cale doing pop music. Sadly, the potential has not been realised to the full. Surely the man who has given us "Gideon's Bible", "Mr Wilson" and the entirety of Paris 1919 (still in my top 10 of all time) could do more than, say, his synth-pop collaboration with Brian Eno titled Wrong Way Up (an LP that managed to be both half-baked and overcooked at the same time). His new album POPtical Illusion is not all that, either. It is pop, maybe, but filtered through murky layers of artsiness, psychedelia and hip-hop. There are interesting moments, like the lush and slightly deranged beat of "Company Commander", and it is always an intriguing listen, but pop is still very much an illusion here. Still, I am happy he is on such a creative roll at the age of 82.

Regrettably, this latest album by Guided by Voices, the first this year, is one of Pollard's weakest. It is not exactly bad, he never falls lower than a certain level, but the songwriting feels sloppier and more uneven than ever. To my ears, the opening proggy mini-epic "Show Me The Castle" sounds so disjointed it basically falls apart at some point. Parts are okay (like "Dear Onion", surely a hint at the White Album), but overall Strut Of Kings sounds uninspired and... somewhat unnecessary. 

Also, Fontaines DC have managed to right the ship a little with the new single "Favourite". A beautiful, dreamy indie-pop creation that rolls along like The Cure at their poppiest. Looking forward to that new album, obviously. But, again, I have to ask: what on Earth has happened to their covers?!

Songs of the month:

"Favourite" - Fontaines DC

"Love Changes Everything II" - Dirty Three

"Burial Ground" - The Decemberists

"The Solitary Traveller" - Linda Thompson

"There Will Be No River" - John Cale

"No More Apocalypse Father" - We Are Winter's Blue And Radiant Children

Кніга. "ВОСЕНЬ У ВІЛЬНІ" (2019) / Вінцэсь Мудроў.

Калі б не раптоўнае з'яўленне смартфона ў кароткім апавяданні "Дзед і ўнук", то год выдання гэтай кнігі выклікаў бы пэўнае непаразуменне. 2019 год, амаль што наш час (нягледзячы на тое, што кавід, беларуская рэвалюцыя і вайна ва Ўкраіне зрабілі 2019 год неяк непрыстойна далёкім). Але ж усё, кожны сказ, кожнае слова ў зборніку "Восень у Вільні" гучыць крыху старамодна і распавядае пра мінулае. Часам нават старажытнае. Можна сказаць, што калі б не смартфон, у якім бясконца сядзіць той унук, то самае сучаснае слова у кнізе Вінцэся Мудрова - гэта, напэўна, "Пазняк".

На самой справе, ніякай таямніцы тут няма. Пяць гадоў таму кніга была выдана ў якасці ўзнагароды за трэцяе месца ў Прэміі Ежы Гедройца (за раман "Забойца анёлаў"). "Восень у Вільні" - гэта зборнік з дзесяці невялікіх апавяданняў, сярод якіх ёсць адна выдатная аповесць пра Заходнюю Беларусь і некалькі добрых прымераў лёгкай і утульнай шукшынскай прозы.

Заўсёды цікава пабачыць, як аўтар ставіцца да звышнатуральнага. Ёсць пісьменнікі, якія прымаюць яго і нават пускаюць на старонкі сваіх кніг. Ёсць тыя, хто цалкам яго ігнаруе. Даволі адметна, што кніга "Восень у Вільні" пачынаецца з двух апавяданняў, дзе звышнатуральнае не столькі паўстае ў поўны рост, колькі хаваецца за шырмай ды падглядае. І калі ў дзіўнай гогалеўскай містэрыі пра расейскага фабрыканта Лапахіна фінал падаецца разгубленым і безвыніковым, то напрыканцы "Сюжэта" звышнатуральнае добра фліртуе з уяўленнем чытача.

"Сюжэт", дарэчы, паказальны аповед у тым сэнсе, што ў ім мы адразу ж бачым і літаратуру і алкаголь, якія шмат разоў яшчэ будуць паўставаць на працягу кнігі. "Восень у Вільні" поўніцца забытымі паэтамі і празаікамі-няўдачнікамі, якія перажываюць крызіс і знаходзяць выйсце ў танным віне. Пісьменніцтва падаецца тут цяжкай і няўдзячнай справай - але і не без рамантыкі, пэўнай прывабнасці і нават магіі.

І тым не менш галоўнае, што ёсць у гэтай кнізе, і чаму яе трэба чытаць - гэта, канешне, цэнтральная аповесць (цяжка прыдумаць назву больш прыгожую, чым "Восень у Вільні"). У ёй, праз вочы маленькага беларускага хлопчыка, Вінцэсь Мудроў распавядае пра тое, што адбывалася ў Вільні падчас Другой сусветнай вайны. Як тут уладарылі спачатку палякі, потым бальшавікі, а потым літоўцы (не цяжка здагадацца, якую ўладу беларусы ненавідзілі больш). Хлопчык з бацькамі праходзяць праз шматлікія выпрабаванні, галоўнае з якіх нават не немцы, а прыход Чырвонай арміі. "Войска тое, аднак, не чырвонае, а шэрае", як апісвае той дзень хлопчык. (Момант, які нагадаў мне старонкі з кнігі "Ніколі болей" пра рэпрэсіі ў Заходняй Беларусі. На старонках тых распавядалася пра іншага хлопчыка, які выйшаў да салдата Чырвонай арміі і павітаўся з ім: "Добры дзень, таварыш!" На што атрымаў хуткі адказ: "Тамбоўскі воўк табе таварыш".) Тут ёсць і маленькія перамогі і вялікія трагедыі, і ўсё гэта насычана прыгожай, пахучай беларускай мовай. Толькі канцоўка, на жаль, падалася мне паспешнай і крыху абрывістай. 

Ёсць, канешне, у кнізе і сучаснасць, якая паказваецца збольшага праз палітыку. Так, ёсць чорны гумар і сумна знаёмы кожнаму з нас цырк з выбарамі ў апавяданні "Песні ранняй вясны" (малады настаўнік павінен забяспечыць абсалютную яўку ў маленькай беларускай вёсцы - што можа пайсці не так?..). Ёсць сумная канцоўка ў фінальным "Перфомансе". Ну і ёсць, канешне, дэпрэсіўныя, але не безнадзейныя 90-я ў апавяданні "Рыбалка ў бычках". Менавіта тут і з'яўляецца ў пэўны момант гэтае пытанне, на якое дагэтуль няма добрага адказу: "Ну, як там Пазняк?" Пытанне, якое, безумоўна звязвае мінулае і сучаснае. І якое наводзіць на непазбежнае параўнанне, сутнасць якога прыкладна такая: дэпрэсія захавалася, а вось з надзеяй стала значна горш. 

How music tells you that you are getting older

Back in 2013, I read an interview with Mark Kozelek in which he spoke about his live concerts being filled with middle-aged people in tennis shoes. This had a tragic ring to it. Back then I believed this to be a likely destination: middle age, tennis shoes, a concert by an ageing indie singer-songwriter. I pictured myself as part of that dire crowd, and I felt a cold pang in my heart. Because I knew there was more to it than simply accepting, as I did at some point, that Nevermind and OK Computer were, in fact, rather good albums. No, there must be a bigger price you have to pay.

How, though, can you tell that the cracks are starting to appear and you really are getting older? What does music have to say about that?

Joni Mitchell. What used to sound like meandering, tuneless pleasantness, starts to acquire a certain shape. This may, indeed, be a shape of an Impressionist painting - but for the first time in your life you are willing to move beyond "Big Yellow Taxi" and that pretty Christmas song and get lost in the freewheeling style of albums like Hejira and For The Roses. Not so much exciting - as calm, vaguely seductive, wise. Not so much Mingus, though, her LP from 1979 that made jazz sound like boring adult contemporary. Not that. You are getting older, but you still have your self-respect to hold on to.

Peter Gabriel, too. In the past, you were more into people like Roger Waters - the edgy rock philosophers, the uncomfortable ones. These days, you listen to a song like "Live And Let Live" and the universalist lyricism gets to you. One should really dismiss it as bullshit (in the times of Israel and Palestine, in the times of Ukraine) but, oddly, you hang on to the old platitudes that no longer appear as such.

You start hating Eurovision. Back in the day, you were charmed by it, albeit ironically. You bought Italian wine and Swedish beer. You cooked Spanish meatballs and baked Polish desserts. You prepared a sheet of paper where you rated each song, however awful and hopeless, out of ten. You gave a 7 to Albania, a 4 to Portugal and a 0 to Belarus. Today, the very word makes you wince. You can no longer love it ironically. Non-ironically, it was always unpalatable. 

The Hold Steady. All of a sudden, you start to understand why middle-aged rock critics love them so much. Why they give glowing reviews to Craig Finn's non-musical vocals and earnest swagger... Ten years ago, I would not have batted an eyelid listening to a song like "Sixers". These days, I am almost moved to tears by the story that is too bitter, beautifully concise and way too recognisable. Worse than that. The idea of playing "Stay Positive" first thing in the morning no longer seems cheap and off-putting.

You start to believe that Steely Dan are legitimately one of the greatest bands ever. Face it, you have always had that suspicion, but you could not run too far with it. Can't Buy A Thrill and Pretzel Logic - you fell in love with those long ago, but Aja had always seemed a step too far. Well, not anymore. You like Aja now. Oh you fucking love that album. There are times when you can even take on "Peg", never mind "Black Cow". And, on the horizon, there is still the dim and not too pleasing prospect of Gaucho. Could that be done, ever? I do not know. I still have not cracked that one.

All that said, you still cannot stand solo Sting... There are things that even an older age cannot fix. And as for Mark Kozelek, the guy has been cancelled, so I stand no chance of buying a pair of tennis shoes and seeing him live. Society took care of that. Besides, although I still like his music, I never really wanted to see a Mark Kozelek show in the first place. And also, tennis shoes make my left knee hurt. 

Album of the Month: FIVE WAYS TO SAY GOODBYE by Mick Harvey

Mick Harvey is one of the unsung rock heroes of our time. Not just for the work he did with Nick Cave (I still shudder at saying this in the past tense) - but for the excellent production and instrumental work he has provided for other artists, from PJ Harvey to Robert Forster. For his solo career, too. For the masterful interpretation of Serge Gainsbourg's music. For the rare but precious moments of singer-songwriter brilliance that have led to underrated albums like Two of Diamonds and Sketches from the Book of the Dead. 

That said, I could probably make a good point that Beth Gibbons's Lives Outgrown is, inevitably, the best album of the month. Or could I?..

Five Ways To Say Goodbye was such a low-key release that I almost missed it (as I have done multiple times with some of his earlier work). So much so that its appearance on Spotify was a bit of an afterthought, and I first heard it in the impenetrable jungle that is Bandcamp. 

While the album consists of just four original compositions, they merge so seamlessly with his interpretations of other people's work that you start to understand why Harvey has never trusted the word 'cover'. Truly, guessing which songs on Five Ways To Say Goodbye were self-penned and which were written by other artists would not be easy. A certain sombre, pensive atmosphere permeates the album and makes everything his own. 

The string arrangements are beautiful (soaring in "Alone With The Stars", chilling in "A Suitcase in Berlin" - an ode to Berlin first recorded by Marlene Dietrich in the 1950s) and the melodies are sung in that delicate voice that makes the material extra subtle and majestic. The one time when he rocks out is when he does Dave McComb's "Setting You Free" (this would be a good place to recommend McComb's passionate, masterful Love Of Will album) - he does it with conviction and a certain roughness that the song requires. Still, my favourite piece on this extremely even LP would have to be Harvey's take on Ed Kuepper's "Demolition". It is gorgeous beyond all reason (it makes me think of The Paradise Motel's version of "Drive"), and the way he roughs up the ending while retaining the aural bliss of that chorus is a truly special moment. 

A great, great album that deserves to be cherished - or at the very least heard by more people. And to go full circle with this review... I remember how I first found out that Mick Harvey had a solo career. It was while reading a British music magazine that features a brief review of his Australian Rules soundtrack. It was a glowing four-star piece that concluded with something like "the sooner he leaves that one-trick charlatan Cave, the better". That is taking things way too far, obviously, but Mick Harvey solo work deserves a lot more recognition than it has received over the years.  

May Round-Up

Paul Weller has written some of my favourite songs of all time ("Going Underground", "The Bitterest Pill"). Sadly, none of his solo albums have even come close. They have all been... fine, I guess, but there is an uncomfortable sense that each time he succeeds, he just sounds like someone else. That said, 66 is one of his stronger albums - with the soulful, elegant waltz of "My Best Friend's Coat" and the timeless melody of the opening "Ship Of Fools" being especially noteworthy. A subdued, introspective affair with one point of interest: the verses of "Flying Fish" sound like "The Winner Takes It All" by ABBA. 

Times being what they are, Camera Obscura should be huge. With their lightweight, twee-tinged pop, they provide the perfect escape from the current state of things. Just consider that album cover for a second. Look To The East, Look To The West is all lovely and cute, but very little sticks beyond the breezy chorus of "We're Going To Make It In A Man's World". Melodies should have a little more meat to them. Unassuming and inoffensive. Six out of ten (on a good day).

I have similar feelings towards Jessica Pratt's new album, but there is a certain mystery to her, something pleasant yet elusive. Here In The Pitch is a decidedly retro affair. Think of the early 60s, of folk pop so subtle it almost slips through your fingers. Good stuff but I'm afraid I need a little more edge in this kind of music. 

Lives Outgrown is Beth Gibbons's first album in a million years (22, to be exact - her last LP was 2002's Out Of Season with Rustin Man), and it is just as good as you hoped it would be. Subtle and undeniably powerful. These shapeless folk songs are not particularly immediate but further listens are rewarding. The tunes may not reach the autumnal heights of Out Of Season, but you can't deny the voice and a certain profound tension which cuts through the album. 

Arab Strap are reliably brilliant. This new album I'm totally fine with it 👍 don't give a fuck anymore 👍 is seedy, dark, strangely hypnotic. Sometimes uncomfortable but then they bang you on the head with a huge chorus. Sometimes too disco-ish and straightforward but then they knock you down, beautifully, with that unsettling Scottish whisper. Great stuff. 

Did I really love Lousy With Sylvianbriar and give it a 10 out of 10 back in 2013 or something? Because I have no idea what Kevin Barnes is doing these days. This latest of Montreal album, Lady On The Cusp, is a fluffy slab of nothing. The man has lost it to the extent where you would be excused to think that he never really had it in the first place. Whimsical, psychedelic? Maybe. Mostly, though, just bloodless and dull.  

Finally, Steve Albini went out with a bang. Shellac's last LP, To All Trains, is a rough post-punk explosion of noise and energy. It is not pretty but it never tries to be. And, at 28 minutes, it is criminal to avoid this premature goodbye.

Songs of the month:

"Dreg Queen" - Arab Strap

"Demolition" - Mick Harvey 

"Frogs" - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

"Beyond The Sun" - Beth Gibbons

"Ship Of Fools" - Paul Weller

"Claw Machine" - Sloppy Jane

Best Synthpop Songs of the 80s

Whenever someone brings up the 1980s, there is always talk of 'the worst decade ever'. I could never get it. Kate Bush? The Triffids? The Go-Betweens? The Fall? What are you talking about? If you don't measure music by whatever Paul McCartney and Eric Clapton were doing in mid-80s, you are fine. 

The Rolling Stones did not suck in the 1980s, and synths and drum machines did not ruin music. With that in mind, here is a list of ten best synthpop songs of that much maligned decade. Obviously many classics had to be discarded (for the record, both "Don't You Want Me" and "Take On Me" failed at the final hurdle). 

10. "The Look of Love, Pt.1" by ABC (1982)

From the great debut The Lexicon of Love. I could of course choose "Poison Arrow" but it is this song that has always wowed me with its slick production and immaculate backing vocals. With not a second wasted, this is an absolute classic.

9. "Girls On Film" by Duran Duran (1981)

I have expressed my love for the MTV live performance of this song far too many times now. The song appeared on the band's honestly-quite-good self-titled debut LP. "Girls On Film" is the sort of 80s dance pop you would not be ashamed to dance to. 

8. "Like A Prayer" by Madonna (1989)

Well, I'm not so stupid as to deny the total genius of this song. Madonna had enough great singles in the 80s, but this was it. This was the one. 

7. "Opportunities (Let's Make Lots of Money") by Pet Shop Boys (1986)

I wish I could like Pet Shop Boys more than I do - sadly, each time I try to get into them, I end up liking the odd song rather than a whole album. "Opportunities" was, of course, synthpop par excellence. Choruses did not get much better than this in the 80s. Or ever.

6. "All You Ever Think About Is Sex" by Sparks (1983)

In Outer Space is one of Sparks' most underrated albums. "Please, Baby, Please", "Rockin' Girls" and "Dance Godammit" are all incredible, but it is the dumb-yet-oh-so-smart "All You Ever Think About Is Sex" that I have always loved the best. The lyrics from the opening verse are absolute Mael perfection. Sparks would get quite bad in the 80s but the fall did not happen here.

5. "Bizarre Love Triangle" by New Order (1986)

 

Can you think of a more perfect synthpop song?.. New Order had to be on this list, and while you may love your "Blue Monday" or "The Perfect Kiss", it is "Bizarre Love Triangle" that I consider their peak. The song is subtle and exhilarating at the same time. 

4. "Party Fears Two" by The Associates (1982) 

 

While the bizarre, wonderful "Tell Me Easter's On Friday" may be my favourite song by The Associates (and one of my favourite songs ever), "Party Fears Two" was their classic synthpop single. It was grandiose and epic and the detached vocals of Billy MacKenzie made it a typically otherworldly experience.  

3. "Say Hello, Wave Goodbye" by Soft Cell (1981)

I'd put the whole Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret album here if I could (surely the best pure synthpop album of all time), but if I had to choose one song I would probably go for this closing ballad which has a spellbinding melody and one of Marc Almond's most powerful vocal performances ever. 

2. "Living In Another World" by Talk Talk (1986)

So much for 1985 and 1986 being the worst years in music history. The Colour Of Spring was the album where Talk Talk began their transformation from just a synthpop band into post rock geniuses. "Living In Another World" goes on for seven minutes and remains completely captivating all the way through. And the details? The details are exquisite. That infectious harmonica break? Those subdued guitar bursts? Mark Hollis's subtle vocal intonations? Utter brilliance.

1. "Someone Somewhere (In Summertime)" by Simple Minds (1982)

I will be honest here: it is impossible for me to hear those 25 seconds at the start and not conclude that there is simply no competition here. This is the best song from the 80s. That synth line just kills me. And it certainly helps that the rest of the song is just as perfect. "Someone Somewhere" is a song that manages to be both ecstatic and impossibly sad at the same time.