Rewatching VEEP

Once in a while, out of tiredness or sheer frustration, I switch on the first episode of Veep to put things right. It is, of course, absolute perfection, all 29 minutes of it. But then I know, two or three jokes into this thing: I have to watch the whole series yet again. From start to finish, from pilot to finale. All seven seasons of it. 

Which is what I have just done, all the way down to that unforgettable final footage that so beautifully brings the show full circle. Needless to say, I enjoyed it as much as ever (how many times have I done this now - five, six?). Except that this time there was one significant thing that was different. Because in the past, you see, I used to root for Selina Meyer. That's right. All through those five or six times that I had watched Veep previously, I could see what a monster she was becoming and yet through the thick and through the thin - I just wanted her to win. However many fuck-ups and betrayals, however much backstabbing and hypocrisy it took, I just wanted her to pull it off. 

Well, not this time. And it is not even because I have lost all my sense of humour all of a sudden (if anything, this time I chuckled and snickered and guffawed more than ever; that croissant joke is still one of the best things ever). It is because this latest rewatch took that old "hitting too close to home" cliché to a whole new level. I can probably even pinpoint the exact moment that it happened: when during her campaign Selina Meyer sits in her office and decides who she holds the biggest grudge against and who will fall first the moment she becomes president. And all of a sudden, I could no longer get the image of that revengeful little clown who is currently running the US out of my head.

But so much has changed. A few days ago I watched the interview with the Veep cast that was recorded during Trump's first term, and at the start of the talk all of the actors and creators of the series could not stop talking about how much they despised him. Again, that was a different time. In fact, not voicing your contempt back in 2019 or so would have appeared embarrassing. These days, most people just refuse to say anything. Interviewers don't ask the questions, artists do not give the answers. Few are willing to run the risk of alienating a huge portion of the audience. Bruce Springsteen has recently expressed his disdain for the orange cookie monster and see what fucking happened: his concert was cancelled due to the outrage of some of his supporters. Many of whom, obviously, do not go out without their red caps.

This is all too easy to explain, of course. In these times when the levels of human intelligence are falling and populism is on the rise, Trump has his support. That the guy's vocabulary is maybe a hundred words and he has no idea what he is talking about half the time, is irrelevant. He has charisma (of the lowest kind), he has the appeal. In the current climate, if the cast of the Veep gave an interview like that, we would not get such unanimity. In fact, we might just get nothing (which, admittedly, is better than the disingenuous mental gymnastics currently practiced by the likes of Douglas Murray, Ben Shapiro, Jordan Peterson et al). 

So coming back to where we started... I love Veep as much as ever (still in my top 5 favourite TV shows of all time). It is so good, in fact, that the monster it created has started to mess up with the reality a little too much. 

"Letters To Ordinary Outsiders" by Comet Gain

Comet Gain have always been a special band. I first heard them around fifteen years ago, and I believe it was "Some Of Us Don't Want To Be Saved" that sealed the deal for me. I simply refused to believe that obscurity could be this glorious, but there it was: the anthemic melody, the yearning and the desperation of David Christian's voice. I was hooked, and over the years I would listen to "Long After Tonite's Candles Are Blown" every summer morning in 2014 as I would be walking through the streets of Rome. I would make it a habit to listen to the adrenaline rush of "Just One More Summer Before I Go" at the end of May. And I sure as hell would often find myself singing "Movies" to myself at various points in my life (is there a chorus more infectious than that one?).

There are currently six ratings for the band's new album, Letters To Ordinary Outsiders (the most Comet Gain album title imaginable), on the RateYourMusic website. Not even reviews - ratings. Which is a shame, because it is another great addition to their catalogue that now encompasses 30 years. Literate, romantic, wistful indie rock music, tuneful to the point of delirium. 

Very little distinguishes this album from their previous LP, Fireraisers Forever! (2019), or from most of their work prior to that. David Christian says this is more pop and accessible but you would have to take it with a grain of salt. Comet Gain have very rarely been inaccessible (despite the dodgy sound quality on those early records and a number of self-consciously abrasive pieces like "The Punk Got Fucked"). Even when they tried to rock out (think of all that distortion on Howl Of The Lonely Crowd), there was always something inherently sweet about them. And it terms of the actual sound, Letters is as warm and and charming as Paperback Ghosts. 

There is no point in talking about individual songs. To a casual listener they would all sound either poor or amazing. Since I would definitely go for the latter, I find endless charm in this latest batch of melodies that manage to sound like twee pop without being twee. There are some timely female vocals. A couple of heady anthems. A little rock and roll. Even some fairly unexpected sonic jam towards the end of "Threads!". Essentially, though, there are twelve great songs with some of the best melodies you will hear all year. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing ground-breaking - just beautiful music all around. 

Letters To Ordinary Outsiders is not Comet Gain's best album (What is the best Comet Gain album, though? My pick would probably be City Fallen Leaves but they have been really consistent since 2002's Réalistes), but what a lovely reminder that some of the best things in life exist entirely out of time. Sometimes I think that might be the only way to be truly timeless. 

Album of the Month: STRAWBERRIES by Robert Forster

I have to confess that the moment that I heard the first single from the album ("Strawberries", released in early March), I was extremely underwhelmed. It was a decent Lovin' Spoonful pastiche, charming and inoffensive, but was it not just a piece of prime good-time filler? Did Karin (Robert's wife and also musician in her own right) not overdo the playfulness bit with her vocal performance? (And just to make sure: I'm a huge Lovin' Spoonful fan, and could extol the virtues of songs like "Coconut Grove" for days on end.) 

My apprehension, though, was crushed seconds after the first riff of "Tell It Back To Me" started playing. Christ what a relief. And what an absolute classic of an opening song. Forster has always been so good at them, especially of late: "Crazy Jane On A Judgement Day". "If It Rains". "Learn To Burn". "She's A Fighter". And "Tell It Back To Me" is among his very best. It is a narrative song (one of several), with an optimistic lyrical twist, timeless vocal melody and blissful guitar hookline. 

The second song, "Good To Cry" is an effective rock'n'roll throwback that he still likes to do on occasion (think "121" from Calling From A Country Phone), but to be honest songs like that are not the reason why I love the man. It is the charismatic lyricism ('they made love quickly once, they made love slowly twice') and the tough, intelligent melodicism that does it, and it can all be found on the eight-minute epic "Breakfast On A Train" which is the centrepiece of this album and also the longest song he has ever done. The whole thing flows quite masterfully, with tension and intrigue bubbling underneath. 

In a recent video interview Forster mentioned that it had always been a dream of his, to make his own eight song album (think of something as stylish and pure as Astral Weeks and Marquee Moon). And it is a beautiful idea, beautifully realised. Strawberries is split evenly, with four songs on each side. The second one features the upbeat "All Of The Time" (think of "Learn To Burn" from 2015, but with shades of Leonard Cohen in the vocal melody), the wistful piano-based "Such A Shame", the stark, striking ballad "Foolish I Know" (with a surprising lyrical twist) and the free-flowing "Diamonds" that starts with a "For What It's Worth"-like guitar hook and erupts at the end with a great saxophone-led explosion. 

All through the album, he is backed by what he calls his 'Swedish band'. They are fantastic, and they also going to perform with him during the European tour later this year. But coming back to Strawberries for a second... It is not his strongest album (I would go for The Evangelist or Danger In The Past), but his melodies and his lyrics still sparkle. Plus, the album features what may well be the best use of the word "fuck" in a song in recent memory.

 

May Round-Up

It would be hard for me now to explain what a shock to the senses The Seer was 13 years ago. I remember playing "Lunacy" to my Celtic folk-loving sister back in 2012, and even she was impressed. The sound was brutal, hypnotic, truly monumental. And according to Michael Gira, the two-hour-long Birthing is supposed to be the end of that run. From the minimalist cover to the gruesome drama of the first few seconds of "The Merge", this is of course classic Swans. The final "(Rope) Away", where Gira recounts the name of friends who have passed away over the years, could be the most moving thing the man has ever done. No, this is not as good as The Seer, but then very few things are. Birthing is a fitting finale.

I have probably said or written a lot of negative things about The National over the years, but the odd thing is that I quite enjoy Matt Berninger's solo stuff. Serpentine Prison in particular helped me get through the harrowing events of 2020. Back in October and November that year, I probably played that album every day. Get Sunk is not as good - but only because it lacks the killer songs like "One More Second" and especially "Loved So Little". The overall feel is much the same, though, that of sentimental chamber pop introspection in a late night cocktail bar.

Peter Doherty's latest is not among his best, and I must have heard everything the man has ever done - be that as part of The Libertines, Babyshambles or in his solo career. The latter has generally been rather low-key and inessential, but I'm always curious. I still rate him as a great songwriter, and 2022's The Fantasy Life of Poetry & Crime, for example, was an understated and unjustly ignored gem. Not so much Felt Better Alive, though, which is charming but also extremely throwawayish in nature. In between the minor delights "Calvados" and "Empty Room", there are a lot of decent folk tunes you will forget as soon as they stop playing. 

Since I have already talked about Arcade Fire's new album, Pink Elephant (rather unjustly slammed, I should say, but then try writing about it and not slamming it - full review here), so let's talk about the comeback of Stereolab instead. While it would be true to say that I have never been a huge fan, I have utmost respect for albums like Emperor Tomato Ketchup and particularly Dots and Loops (my personal favourite). Their new album, and the first in 15 years, is titled Instant Holograms on Metal Film. It is tasteful, addictive music full of beautiful guitar grooves and electronic undertones. The album won't set the world on fire, but it has a lot of warmth and style and real melodic substance. You just want to get lost in its rich textures. 

Blondshell's new album is getting good reviews from almost everywhere, and it is easy to see why: she plays solid indie rock music with hooks and melodies and attitude. The problem of If You Asked For A Picture is that I still find it all very derivative, and wouldn't pay much attention to these overly familiar power chords if I heard them played in a public place. Consistent, moderately catchy (annoyingly so on "23's a Baby"), but there's just not enough oomph. The last minute of "Change" is great, though.

Ezra Furman remains an excellent songwriter, but I just can't get excited about Goodbye Small Head to the extent that I was excited about Twelve Nudes or those brilliantly unhinged Harpoons albums. I am still a fan, though, and the strings-drenched screamer "Jump Out" and the gorgeous ballad "Veil Song" are worthy of Furman's previous work. I just need a little more catharsis, I guess. 

There's certainly some catharsis on the new LP by Sparks, but out of all their 21st century output and excluding the soundtracks, I would only rate Balls and A Steady Drip, Drip, Drip as less interesting. I could of course come up with some clever reasons for that (and mention the messy production, which I actually don't have a problem with), but I guess it is quite straightforward: the songs are slightly less good. I mean, doesn't "My Devotion" have a little too much cheese in its melody (and lyrics)? Still, the highlights are numerous ("Hit Me, Baby", "I-405 Rules", "Drowned In A Sea Of Tears", "Love Have Mercy"), and even the silly and repetitive "JanSport Backpack" features some beautiful sections. MAD! is excellent, mind you, just a little below their lofty standards. 

Finally, I've always been all for loving These New Puritans, but their brand of intellectual art rock has never really grabbed me. Crooked Wing is a good album but I just can't find enough substance here. Sorry, but Talk Talk they are not. 

Songs of the month:

"Tell It Back To Me" by Robert Forster

"Drowned In A Sea Of Tears" by Sparks

"Aerial Troubles" by Stereolab

"Veil Song" by Ezra Furman

"The Pink Floyd Research Group" by Luke Haines & Peter Buck

"Got To Have Love" by Pulp

"Empty Room" by Peter Doherty

"Bonnet Of Pins" by Matt Berninger

"Disintegrate" by Suede

"Change" by Blondshell

Its own category: "(Rope) Away" by Swans

"Tell It Back to Me" by Robert Forster

Nobody can do a classic opening song quite as well as Robert Forster does them. "Baby Stones". "If It Rains". "Crazy Jane On A Judgement Day". I will have a lot more to say about this new Robert Forster in a week or so, but for now I'll just say that "Tell It Back To Me" is one of his best ever. It is intense, intelligent, endlessly tuneful. From the melody to the lyrics, it is just about everything I have ever loved about the man. 

Pink Elephant

The tragedy of the new Arcade Fire album is that it is honestly quite okay. And it is the bleakest, most indifferent 'quite okay' I can think of. Pink Elephant is the kind of record you make when you feel like you have composed forty minutes of music. It is not the kind of record you make when you have something to say.

So how did we get here? Because it all started with a bang, back in 2004, and the bang was so loud that the reverberations are still audible. Fickle fans be damned; Funeral is one of the greatest albums that have been released this century. From there, we got Neon Bible which saw them eschew a little bit of their charisma in favour of a few Springsteen-like anthems. Still, a great album. The Suburbs was magnificent; a double album that was Arcade Fire at their most sprawling and expansive, with the rather anaemic "Wasted Hours" being its only piece of filler. Reflektor was messy and unwieldy but the ambition and the songwriting pulled it through. 

For all its patchy brilliance, Reflektor spelled trouble. There was a sense that Win Butler and company got a little too high on public and critical adoration and proclaimed themselves invincible. Well, they were not, hence the aftermath of Everything Now. I would still say it was not a worthless album, and both "Put Your Money On Me" and "We Don't Deserve Love" were excellent and I even had time for the clumsy little pop number "Peter Pan", but Christ what a career suicide it was. Everything Now was an artistic disaster, and most of the songs ended up being both banal and overwrought. Clearly the band got lost, and tried to fix the universal dismissal, if not downright hate, by releasing the consolatory WE that saw them go back to the roots with semi-successful results. "The Lightning", for instance, was great, but WE is an album that I never feel like going back to. Because I had heard it all before - but much better.

And so now, more than 20 years after Funeral, we are treated to Pink Elephant, that bloodlessly decent indie rock album that back in 2004 would have sounded like a nightmare or a bad joke. The problem is that there is no ambition to it, no sense of urgency or purpose. While Everything Now was clearly a failure, at the very least it was an ambitious failure. Pink Elephant is... just there. That said, other than the clunky "Alien Nation", there is nothing to actively dislike about the album. "Circle Of Trust" is catchy (if overlong), the title song features a decent (if terribly diluted) melody and "Year Of The Snake" is a powerful mood piece (by far the best thing on the album). Perhaps Arcade Fire just need to be ambitious, loud and anthemic to succeed. Without any of those qualities, the pink on the cover looks like a small drop of blood dissolved in big tank of water.

And I do not even want to talk about the sex scandal that Win Butler has been involved in (and which, quite annoyingly, made many people revise history and say Funeral and The Suburbs were not all that good to begin with). All I'm talking about here is creativity and artistic merit, which are in such short supply by this point that I do not see them digging themselves out of this hole. Really, the tragedy of Arcade Fire is that it feels like they will not make a great album ever again.

"Maxine's Parlour": perfect pop song

I asked Chat GPT the other day to give me some negative feedback. I actually fed it huge chunks of my writings from this blog and specifically requested harsh criticism. In the midst of the sea of bullshit that AI is known for, two things stood out: 1) I use too many personal anecdotes and 2) some of my references are too niche. 

Valid points. My own experience, though, remains the best way for me to establish the emotional connection with the work of art as well as the audience. Personality comes through the writing style as well as the stories we tell. These are not diary entries and nor are they magazine articles, but I would like to think there is a balance there. The second point is tricky in the sense that it is absolutely true and yet there is not much I can do about it. In the end, you write the sort of pieces that you yourself would like to read, and niche references as well as obscure subject matters have always intrigued me. I hate instructions and overstatements and I believe in the effort from both the creator and the beholder. 

Which is all a somewhat fitting setup to talk about a piece of music very few have heard. 

I have always been searching for the perfect pop song. For reasons too numerous to name, the focus of my attention has mostly been the 1960s. "(Do I Figure) In Your Life". "Different Drum" "Sunny Goodge Street". "Care of Cell 44". "Walk Away Renee". Countless others. This is, of course, not about the final result but, rather, about the process of searching. Because there are few things as rewarding as hearing that crackling sound of an old recording and getting something magical out of the muffled sound of your speakers. Which is exactly what happened when I heard the original version of "Maxine's Parlour" a few weeks ago. 

Interestingly, I knew this song from way before. There is a rare BBC session by Honeybus where they played this song along with a few other pop gems like "Françoise" (one of those slight masterpieces Peter Dello was so very good at) and John Phillips' "Like An Old Time Movie" (one of those lengthy and verbose choruses that actually work). In the version by Honeybus, "Maxine's Parlour" seemed like a delightful little pop song that I thought was actually written by the band. Years later, as I was reading the song credits from a Honeybus compilation, I realised that the song was actually composed by one William Fay. Moreover, the song was released as a 1968 single by a completely forgotten band with one of the worst names in existence: The Crocheted Doughnut Ring. And it was a great single, too (their sole one), except that I also realised who William Fay was.

William Fay was none other than Bill Fay, the sadly overlooked English singer-songwriter who recorded two excellent but obscure albums in the early 70s and was then rediscovered about forty (!) years later, at which point he released a handful of sweetly melodic, introspective albums that I have reviewed for my blog (Life Is People and Who Is The Sender? are especially good). Moreover, 2004 saw the release of the compilation From the Bottom of an Old Grandfather Clock that collected 25 demos and outtakes from Fay's largely unknown career in the late 60s. One of those songs was, naturally, "Maxine's Parlour", and it was utter perfection.

Now the sound quality is not great, but I have always believed that a good song will come through. And it does, and how. All that melodicism, all that yearning packed within three minutes of soaring wistfulness that reaches absolute catharsis with the unlikely slide guitar that romps through the background. The harpsichord could make it too precious and cute, but the melody is just too timeless to be hampered by the muffled noises and dodgy tape hisses - never mind the harpsichord!

I think it is telling that Dan Bejar (of Destroyer and New Pornographers) recognises that genius of that song and has performed it live a few times. Bejar, whose latest albums feature songwriting that I would call unfocused and even meandering, does know his way around a great melody. Records like Streethawk: A Seduction are simply dripping with classic tunes.

So there you have it, an article full of personal anecdotes and obscure references. Most importantly, though, it is about "Maxine's Parlour". The perfect pop song.

April Round-Up

If I come off as a hater each time when Bon Iver releases an album, don't think twice. When it comes to the music of Bon Iver, I am a hater. There are probably millions of people who will tell you that the guy has saved their life or something, but that's not me. I once wrote this piece about Bon Iver, and I'm not sure I have anything new to say here. Sable, fable is just as insipid and formulaic as ever. And if I can salvage something from the decent folk tune "Things Behind Things Behind Things" (closest in style to his first album), the second side is a total fucking disaster. Autotune, annoying falsetto and a bunch of primitive melodies that are simply no good at all. And what on Earth is with the cartoonish voice in "Walk Home"? Is that supposed to be some sort of catharsis? Because to my ears it just sounds sickening. 

I actually never cared too much for Viagra Boys and never get the urge to relisten to any of their past albums, but I really enjoyed their new LP. Viagr Aboys is ridiculous dance-punk that sounds a little like a cross between Franz Ferdinand and Captain Beefheart. Some crazy lyrics ("Uno II"), some great melodies ("Pyramid of Health") and even a couple of oddly 'normal' ballads at the end of each side. "Medicine for Horses" is very reminiscent of Arcade Fire and "River King" might actually drive you to tears. 

Sadly, I'm afraid to report that Mike Scott hasn't recorded a good album since the excellent Modern Blues from 2015. This new concept album by The Waterboys about Hollywood titled Life, Death and Dennis Hopper is an interesting idea but that's about it. There is an endless list of songs here, all of them rather short (some are instrumentals, some are interludes), many in different styles (blues, country, folk, even punk) but other than the subdued power ballad "I Don't Know How I Made It", there is not a single song here that I would care to hear again. I don't mind passion projects, I just can't accept this amount of middling songwriting.

Nothing says middle age like these latest albums by Craig Finn (whether solo or as part of Hold Steady). Always Been (God what a nondescript album title) is your classic Craig Finn fare with big heartland melodies and lyrics that balance between drama and understatement. "Luke & Leanna" is the perfect example of what I'm talking about; the melody is catchy and uplifting and the lyrics will make you break down during the next therapy session. I used to find him monotonous, but now I just simply enjoy the songs. 

Finally, now that the dust and the hype have settled, I can repeat that Forever Howlong by Black Country, New Road is an excellent album that keeps getting better with time. Each new listen reveals just how much craft and care (and overthinking, sometimes) went into these songs. Full review.

Songs of the month:

"Spike Island" by Pulp

"Drowned In A Sea Of Tears" by Sparks

"Ballad Of The Last Payphone" by The New Pornographers

"Two Horses" by Black Country, New Road

"Pyramid Of Health" by Viagra Boys

"Luke & Leanna" by Craig Finn

"I Don't Know How I Made It" by The Waterboys

"Chambermaid" by Suzanne Vega (I know, I know, but still)

On Mulholland Drive. Again.

Every time that I hear that ominous hum and step into the world of Mulholland Drive, my heart stops. Or, rather, it expands, and fills me with a rather complex feeling of warmth, dread and confusion. It is every shade of the original meaning of the word 'awesome' rolled into one perfect cinematic experience, and after all these years I still cannot get over it.

Mulholland Drive is my favourite film of all time, and this time in Warsaw, I finally got the chance to see it on the big screen. Besides the sheer joy of watching the film for the umpteenth time, I was genuinely excited about sharing this experience with those who have never seen Mulholland Drive before. I envy them. In their presence, I feel like a smoking addict who has to abstain but who can still sniff nicotine off the cigarettes of other people. I feel like a Belarusian who cannot go back but who leans closer to those who hold tickets for tomorrow.

The cinema in central Warsaw was not packed but it did not need to be. This was a special one-off screening very late in the evening, on Easter Monday, that was not heavily advertised. Which means that everyone who came simply had to be there. They gasped, they gulped, they held their breath. Every step of the way there was a sense that I knew exactly what they were going through: the thrill, the bewilderment, the inexplicable catharsis. I fed off their energy.

Not that I needed that to enjoy Mulholland Drive, of course. The world of David Lynch is so multi-dimensional you can always discover a new turn or a passage you have never seen before. The song from the Silencio club will get a new undertone. The close-up in apartment 17 will appear more shocking. The nightmare recounted in Winkie's diner will acquire a new meaning. This time, for instance, I was more impressed than ever by the clarity of Lynch's vision and how tight that surreal and seemingly confusing world really is. For every loose end disappears and every key finds its lock. Like I have always said: if you do not understand Inland Empire, it is okay. That film is not even entirely gettable, other than on a purely intuitive level. Saying that about Mulholland Drive, however, betrays a certain lack of attention.

So it was a little less dread and confusion this time, and a lot more warmth. Because even at his most shocking and brutal (it was just as brutal for the actors, too, and I remember an interview with Naomi Watts where she spoke about her frustration while the famous couch scene was being shot), you get the feeling that there is always good around the corner, not just evil. It is always there, an inherent part in David Lynch's films. And whether it is present in reality or in a dream is somewhat immaterial - because when it comes to Lynch, those two realms are of absolutely equal importance. 

"Forever Howlong" by Black Country, New Road

First of all, why do I even care? I care because over the past three years I have come to view Ants From Up There as something of a modern-day classic. Normally, it takes a little longer for that word to sink in and take shape, and yet every time I put this album on, it just keeps astounding me with its melodic intensity and Isaac Wood's mystique. Ants From Up There is nervy, rich and expansive. It is like Funeral for the 2020s. 

The live album of all new material in 2023 proved that there was, indeed, life after Isaac Wood, and I even went to see them during the European tour later that year. In a rather small club in Warsaw (certainly smaller than their current stock would suggest), they were both charming and brilliant. They refused to play anything from the first two albums, which I thought was commendable, but they did perform a few songs from their much anticipated third studio album. The new material sounded great, and I still can't forget the emotional outburst of a Polish guy standing next to me: "Your new album is going to be fire!"

And now, a year and a half later, the new album is here. It is titled Forever Howlong, and you either hate it or love it to death. 

Another incentive for this review was a snide dismissal of the album I have recently come across on the Internet. Two words, in fact, that were supposed to encapsulate everything that is wrong with Forever Howlong.  'Whimsical and convoluted'. Because, oddly, I concur. It is both incisive and absolutely true. The problem is - I still think this is a great album  and the second best thing they have ever done.

As it is customary with Black Country, New Road, the album requires multiple listens. Which I guess is a very generic thing to say but this, in fact, is where the 'convoluted' bit comes into play. Because the melodies are certainly there. Rather conventional showtime styled tunes crop up in songs like "Salem Sisters" and "The Big Spin" but it is as if they are genuinely frightened of being too accessible, too on the nose, and thus they keep twisting and bending those melodies and overriding them with new ones. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, because these guys know their way around a good vocal hookline. As a matter of fact, I was singing the somewhat throwawayish "The Big Spin" to myself earlier today. Not the full thing, mind you, but a few of those unforgettable snippets.

Alternatively, Forever Howlong can be described as progressive folk for people suffering from attention deficiency. It is fragmented and, indeed, convoluted. It is filled with the sounds of a recorder and features lyrics about apple pies and gut microbiomes. That is to say, it is very whimsical. At first, I could even understand the disappointment, it is just that the intriguing songcraft and excellent musicianship always made me come back for me.  

With that said, even after five or six listens I still do not get the title song. To my ears, it features no melody whatsoever at all and is basically just five endless minutes of cutesy cuteness (chop it off, and you get a perfectly serviceable single album). Also, I do miss the voice of the saxophone guy who, as it transpires, was originally supposed to sing "Salem Sisters". I have nothing against the three ladies who perform on Forever Howlong, but the vocal diversity of Live At Bush Hall was a great touch. Finally, there is a sense that the production is a little overwrought and deprives these songs of a certain air that made them so appealing in the live setting. 

But those complaints are, in fact, minor quibbles, because Forever Howlong just gets better with every listen. The details keep piling on, and I am not only talking about the four six-minute epics which dominate this album (one of them is, of course, titled "Socks" - clearly they are not above painting a big target on their backs (just look at that cover)). Shorter songs like "Goodbye (Don't Tell Me)" and "Happy Birthday" are all intricately played and intricately composed. Even the ballad "Mary" which may at first appear somewhat uneventful features a complex melody that you might just start singing along to. Out of the epics, my favourite is probably the gorgeous and protean "Two Horses" that masterfully transitions from sweet lyricism to the beautiful and ever-intensifying galloping rhythm (the one that comes after the majestic 'night and day' vocal hook).

Do they always deliver? Is the pay off always worth it? Is there orgasm after foreplay and endless teasing? Having lived with this album for almost a week now, I would say yes. Ants From Up There was a more cohesive and concerted statement and thus hit me harder, but the sheer amount of ideas they managed to cram into this album is still very impressive. Forever Howlong is flawed. It is, yes, whimsical and convoluted. But what a special and supremely talented band they are. I can't wait to see what they do next.

Great albums: HEARTWORM by Whipping Boy

Each time that I listen to this album it creates a lump in my throat so fucking big it threatens to rip me apart. Heartworm (what a horrible word, really, yet can you think of a more fitting title?) just keeps going through my life, soundtracking various moments and situations and wreaking beautiful havoc. I first heard this album around fifteen years ago, and I do not think there has ever been a point when it hasn't spoken to me or hasn't filled me with a new degree of affection.

Heartworm is somewhat unique in the sense that nothing in the group's previous work pointed to it. Submarine, their debut, was bog-standard shoegaze album that did not distinguish itself by anything. You could speak about those early records by Pulp, too, yet even those had some very good material on them. You could bring up The Wrens, of course, but their two 90s showed promise. Whereas the conviction and the sheer towering quality of Heartworm came completely out of nowhere. 

Quite simply, you can throw a dart into that track list and tell me this is your favourite song on the album. I will believe you. That side A by itself annihilates most albums that got critical and public acclaim in the 90s. Each song is filled with personality, intensity, catharsis. "Tripped", for instance, just doesn't stop building up and delivering. The single "We Don't Need Nobody Else" would be a timeless classic even without that middle-eight but with it, it becomes phenomenal. And how about the ending of "The Honeymoon Is Over" where each repetition just grows and grows in intensity?

Side B, though, is just as good, and there will be days when I could tell you that "Users" is their best song, to only be disproven yet again by the Dublin Symphony Orchestra creating that relentless power that is woven into the magnificent "Fiction". Or else the more lyrical, subdued magic of the strings-drenched "Personality" which could really be the best ballad-type song on the album were it not for the closing "Morning Rise" that brings the whole thing to a beautiful melodic close.  

The lyrics, too, are some of the greatest I've heard on a rock album. Real drama, and pain, and anguish, and even occasional moments of disarming romance. Some of the more acerbic gems can be found in "We Don't Need Nobody Else" (I just have to quote this part: "They built portholes for Bono, so he could gaze / Out across the bay and sing about mountains / Maybe.") "The Honeymoon Is Over" is a devastating update of Chet Baker's "The Thrill Is Gone", and the blistering lyrics of "When We Were Young" need to be posted in their hair-raising entirety (because they are that good):

"When we were young nobody died
And nobody got older
The toughest kid in the street
Could always be bought over
And the first time that you loved
You had all your life to live
At least that's what you said

The first time you got drunk
You drank pernod and dry cider
Smashed a window in as the police came round the corner
You didn't have no time to run
And your dad stood up for you
As the judge said you're a fool

Babies, sex and flagons, shifting women, getting stoned
Robbing cars, bars and pubs, rubber johnnies, poems
Starsky and Hutch gave good TV
And Starsky looked like me

The first time that you stole
You stole rubber lips and tenners
Bought a radio then ran away for ever
Never felt so good, never felt so good with you

When we were young we had no fear
Of love nor sex nor warnings
Everyone was hanging out, everyone was sorted
When we were young nobody knew
Who you were or what you'd do
Nobody had a past that catches up on you

Babies, sex and flagons, shifting women, getting stoned
Robbing cars, bars and pubs, rubber johnnies, poems
Starsky and Hutch gave good TV
And Starsky looked like me

With a start he was awoken
From the middle of a dream
He's making movies in his head
That never will be seen
He's holding Oscars in his hands
And kissing beauty queens
What might have been
What might have been
When we were young"

Heartworm is so accomplished and powerful, it actually broke the group. On the one hand, the sales were not good enough, and the album sank into obscurity and became a cult classic. On the other hand, where could they go from here? (Actually, I'm also a big fan of their posthumously released third album, even if it is more of a collection of songs rather than a cohesive statement like Heartworm). 

In truth, I don't even need to listen to this record anymore to know exactly, second by second, how it will go. That sad, lonesome violin playing a vaguely Irish tune at the start, and then that deceptively tired rhythm and Fearghal McKee powerful voice... I know it so well I can play it all in my head. And yet a moment comes and I cannot resist. I press play and the whole thing blows me away for a millionth time.

"Жыццё ў дванаццаці апавяданнях"

Невялікае паведамленне. Выйшла нарэшце мая першая кніга, "Жыццё ў дванаццаці апавяданнях", якую можна набыць у электронным фармаце. Дарэчы, кніга выйшла яшчэ ў мінулым годзе, але ў продажы з'явілася толькі цяпер. Таму запрашаю на старонку выдавецтва (у Беларусі праз VPN): 

https://knihauka.com/pravalocki

Гэтая кніга месціць дванаццаць аповедаў, якія можна разглядаць як асобныя творы, але якія адначасова цесна звязаныя паміж сабой. Сувязь гэтая - жыццё беларускага мастака, якое праходзіць праз розных людзей, розныя падзеі і нават розныя кантыненты. Храналогія пазначана ў назвах апавяданняў: 1979, 1996, 2017... Апошні, дарэчы, пазначаны як 20..., бо невымоўнае зло можа здарыцца ў любы момант. Так мне падавалася, калі я пісаў "Вялікі шум", і так мне падаецца і сёння.  

P.S. І яшчэ кароткі анонс. Цягам года (спадзяюся, у першай яго палове) выйдзе мая другая кніга, "Цягнік да Познані". Гэта будзе ўжо іншае выдавецтва, і гэтым разам кніга будзе як электронная, так і папяровая. Пазней напішу крыху падрабязней. 

Peter Perrett in Madrid, 02.03

There are not too many things in the world that can beat the sheer adrenaline rush that runs into your head the moment that chugging guitar rhythm spells the beginning of "Another Girl, Another Planet". But if something can, it is Peter Perrett doing it live. 

I always knew I would have to be there. There was no way I would be scared away by the scandalous weather in Madrid (incessant rain, for days upon days) and avoid seeing Peter Perrett live on what may well be his final tour. There were just too many reasons for me to be there, really, not least because The Cleansing could be his greatest album ever and because ten years ago I was in this very city falling in love with his voice and the Only Ones' first album for the first time in my life.

After a brief warm-up performance by Jamie Perrett (he is really good, and has clearly inherited some of his father's melodic sensibilities), he appeared on the stage in the black baggy trousers and the black baggy T-shirt and the inevitable black glasses. This was a moment of pure electric shock. Not simply because he is one of my biggest music heroes but because even now, at the age of 72, he just looks so cool. At that point, and just as the band (which featured no less than two of Peter's sons) was about to lash into "I Wanna Go With Dignity", a man in front of me collapsed on the floor. Thank God, the recovery was quick and almost magical, and there was something both disturbing and oddly fitting about the whole scene.

And then it started, the hook-laden onslaught of some of the most raggedly melodic songs in existence. Once, remember, Peter Perrett wrote a song in which he brought together a wet dream and alien abduction and made it an absolute classic. While the song in question ("Woke Up Sticky") was not performed this Sunday night, the setlist was unimpeachable. Clearly his voice is more or less shot at this point. In fact, as he introduced "Heavenly Day" (I will reiterate: the song is every bit as good as Lou Reed's "Perfect Day"), he warned that it was going to test his vocal range. But it was all fine in the end. The cracked vulnerability was there, and I could not hold back the tears. 

The songs ranged from early Only Ones' classics ("The Beast", "Flaming Torch") to his latest album (besides the anthemic "Fountain Of You", he also did the amazing "Mixed Up Confucius" that had me screaming the lyrics at the top of my lungs). The band was good, too, and the flashy histrionics of Jamie Perrett would have been too flashy had it not been for the brilliance of his playing. He did not quite nail the solo of "Another Girl, Another Planet", I'm afraid, but everything else was a fucking hoot. 

Just two songs for an encore (with every drop savoured and treasured, of course), and that was that. A brief goodbye, and the long aftertaste of one of the best, most emotional concerts I had ever witnessed. Even the rain stopped for a little while, for the first time in days. 

 

February Round-Up

I'm actually writing this on the plane, so the writing may appear shaky and somewhat sketchy. Even dismissive. But then again... maybe that was the nature of this month?..

A Guided by Voices kind of month. Universe Room was everything you need to know about Robert Pollard's songwriting circa 2025. A decent lo-fi indie rock fare with a few flashes of brilliance. "The Great Man" in particular is a highlight and well worthy of your imaginary Guided by Voices compilation. A couple of lovely ballads, too. None of which could mask the fact that if you never cared in the first place, there is no reason why you should start doing so now. 

Apparently, House Of All are now going to follow the Fall work-rate and release one album per year. A noble aim no doubt, but after the excellent debut album from 2023, they have been relatively disappointing. House of All Souls is probably better than the previous one, but other than the driving opener "The Devil's House" and the slightly more downbeat last two songs, this lacks the oomph of their first album. I like the style, I just need better songs. 

The Murder Capital are now in danger of never realising their true potential. Blindness sports a great cover and three excellent singles ("Words Lost Meaning" is almost Whipping Boy-worthy) and lots of mid-tempo songs that blend together without leaving much of an impression. Make no mistake, Blindness is rather good, but my feeling is that they have an Irish classic in them. A Heartworm, perhaps. Well, maybe not that, but something a little more consistent. 

I'm still not quite sure about Squid. I found the edgy, tastefully disjointed post-rock of their previous album very intriguing, but Cowards lacks a bit in the songwriting department. The final three song punch almost saves it, but not quite. 

The Delines are doing great things, as ever, with their nocturnal vibes, soulful lyricism and excellent musicianship. Mr. Luck & Ms. Doom is yet another winner in their catalogue. The first side feels like a brilliant mood-setter, and the second side is absolutely phenomenal. The vocal hook of "Don't Miss Your Buss Lorraine"? The lilting piano line in "The Haunting Thoughts"? The unforgettable middle-eight of "JP and Me"? The classy groove of "Nancy & The Pensacola Pimp" bubbling with lyrical tension? The entirety of "Maureen's Gone Missing"? One of the albums of the year, surely. 

I understand that Sam Fender is now one of Britain's greatest music hopes, but I'm afraid I just do not hear it. People Watching is no different from his two previous albums. It sounds like a cross between The Killers and Bruce Springsteen, but lacks the edge of either. And The Killers never had too much edge to begin with. 

God knows what Nicky Wire and James Dean Bradfield are doing to their legacy with these late period Manic Street Preachers albums. Critical Thinking is just dull. It is dull when they are trying to do something different (like with the opener) and it is dull when they are being conservative (which is most of this album). I don't get it. Nicky Wire released a brilliant solo album two years ago, and now we are back to this. Bizarre. 

Songs of the month:

"Maureen's Gone Missing" by The Delines

"The Great Man" by Guided by Voices

"It's Amazing To Be Young" by Fontaines DC

"Words Lost Meaning" by The Murder Capital

"Hydroplaning Off the Edge of the World" by Destroyer

"Tipu House" by Jethro Tull

"Born At Dawn And Dead At Sunset" by House of All

Three films. Thumbs up.

First, I would just like to mention two that did not make this list. One is Lee, which apparently many people were too cool to appreciate. Various critics have called it too conservative or else boringly conventional, but I beg to differ. I loved this film. I loved the subject matter (and have long been interested in Lee Miller's work) and thought Kate Winslet gave one of her best ever performances (which does say something). Plus, how could you ever resist that ending? 

Also, not because it is a masterpiece or anything like that, but simply because the reviews were undeservedly cruel, I would just like to say a few good words about Slingshot. It is a harrowing sci-fi film about a mission to Saturn's moon that kept me on edge all the way through. Casey Affleck really is one of the finest actors of his generation.

The Brutalist / dir. by Brady Corbet

I'm sorry for the obvious pun, but this was indeed rather brutal. Despite the short 15-minute intermission, the length of the film (three and a half hours) was definitely a challenge. That said, I left the cinema completely overwhelmed by Brady Corbet's cinematic language. That of nervous half-truths, horrible hints, half-closed doors and devastating understatements. Each and every scene in the film, every conversation, is imbued with the director's unique voice. 

First time that it unsettled me was back in 2015, when I saw his powerful debut The Childhood of a Leader. With Scott Walker's pounding, unnerving score, that film felt like it was speaking a different language. Scott Walker is now long dead, of course (The Brutalist is actually dedicated to him), but the score still retains those grandiose qualities. It certainly goes well with the brutalist architecture that is at the heart of this story. The Brutalist explores many themes, from immigration to Holocaust to the difficult relationship between the artist and the moneyman. The scenes are memorable, expansive, like huge slabs of Italian marble.

As for Adrien Brody, he is of course brilliant. His face is this rich Pollock's painting of pain and anguish and tortured inspiration. If they give the Oscar to Timothée Chalamet, that's a fucking scandal.

A Real Pain / dir. by Jesse Eisenberg

I thought this would be a pleasant little trifle but A Real Pain turned out to be one of my films of the year. I have since watched it two times, and my love for it has not dwindled one bit.

Two American cousins undertake a trip to Poland (the film is lovingly shot, clearly Eisenberg admires the country - he has even applied for Polish citizenship) in order to explore their past. Their Polish grandmother had recently died and left them some money for just such heritage trip. In the process, we get caught up in the strained relationship between the two main characters. I do not think it would be a stretch to say that Jesse Eisenberg plays Jesse Eisenberg and Kieran Culkin plays Kieran Culkin. Which is not meant as a criticism. As a matter of fact, I could watch them for days talking on that roof in Lublin.

The film has some powerful and incisive things to say about the past and the Jewish experience (basically, Culkin and Eisenberg play two sides of a Jewish personality - one successful and well-off and the other lives with a packed suitcase by the door). There is one scene in Warsaw that some of our more conservative Polish comrades could find problematic, but I personally had tears in my eyes all the way through. Either from crying or laughing too hard.

The Seed of the Sacred Fig / dir. by Mohammad Rasoulof 

Even though I'm hardly an expert on Iranian cinema, I love what I have seen. Abbas Kiarostami has become one of my favourite filmmakers, and I remember being very impressed by A Separation a decade or so ago. 

Which is to say, it was not surprising that I ended up loving The Seed of the Sacred Fig so much. And also, being a Belarusian, how could I not? The film deals with a family living amid the recent Iranian protests in Tehran. The main character is given a high-profile job of an investigating judge which basically forces him to condemn innocent people to prison sentences and death penalties. This certainly takes its toll, and this is compounded by the fact that at some point the gun he was given at work disappears. The final third of the film will have you on the edge of your set.

It is impossible to speak about this film without mentioning that the film was shot in secret, and later the director had to flee the country on foot, and the main actress was sentenced to flogging. A hackneyed truth, of course, but still: the disgusting regime will fall, and I do not believe that anyone who has seen this film will ever forget it.

Three films. Thumbs down.

It is quite hard to watch a bad film these days. Not because there is a lack of them (far from it), but rather because it has become too easy to pick and choose your way and sort out the dreck after reading reviews, watching trailers and perusing critical ratings. There is a lot to be said for random cinema-going, but since I do not have enough time for that, these are probably the only three flat out bad films I saw in 2024 (which means it is entirely possible that Coppola's Megalopolis in not on this list simply because I chose to avoid it).

Drive-Away Dolls / dir. by Ethan Coen

It is, indeed, very sad that a Coen brother was involved in this. Namely, Ethan Coen, who directed this train-wreck of a road comedy about two lesbians who by sheer accident come to possess some important cargo. The cast is good, and from a certain angle it does have a feel of an oddball Coen brothers film. It is when you look closer that you see that this is just silly fluff that has none of the substance and the density of something like Raising Arizona. Besides, Margaret Qualley keeps doing this preposterous southern accent that comes off as a bad gimmick gone horribly wrong.

The film is bizarrely short (under 90 minutes) but it was a true slog to watch it until the end. There are maybe two jokes in the whole thing that land, everything else feels misguided and pointlessly vulgar. 

Hit Man / dir. by Richard Linklater

There were two films about hit men that I watched in 2024. One was called The Killer, starred Michael Fassbender, and was genuinely good. Chilling, powerful, understated. The other was the action comedy Hit Man which I switched off fifteen minutes before the end. 

I guess I simply do not get Glen Powell. He seems to be this hot new star who just appears bland to me. In Richard Linklater's latest, he plays a psychology professor turned undercover police officer whose job is to pose as a hit man to save a girl he loves. The premise is not even too bad but God this is such superficial nonsense that I spent one half of the film rolling my eyes and the other half thinking why am I doing this to myself? In the end, after no longer being able to endure the cheesy chemistry between the two main characters, I put myself out of misery. This was contrived and unfunny, and I'm a moderate Linklater fan.

Gladiator II / dir. by Ridley Scott

I was an impressionable teenager when the first part came out, and I loved it to bits. It may have been something more than that, in fact. An obsession. I was obsessed with the music, with Russell Crowe's voice, with Joaquin Phoenix's pettiness. Everything about it hit me where it was supposed to, and over the years I still tried to follow the crazy rumours of a possibly sequel supposedly written by Nick Cave (?), supposedly about Maximus in afterlife. 

Having watched the bullshit cash-grab that is Gladiator II, I guess they should have gone for Nick Cave's script. Gladiator II is way more silly and ridiculous than anyone's idea of an afterlife. It is, basically, just a series of admittedly effective fight scenes, laughable plot twists and characters repeating the 'Rome was a dream' phrase that is rendered completely meaningless by the end. Gladiator II is entirely devoid of emotional substance (it is impossible to care for Lucius, and it is not even a knock on Paul Mescal), and it only stirs something inside when the images and the music of the original film make their appearance.

Some people complained about the idea of sharks in the Colosseum. God, if that was the biggest problem...

Dylan: 10 best songs

It was with a very heavy heart that I went to see A Complete Unknown the other day. Two minutes in, though, and I was just happy to be there. I left the cinema with a spring in my step and the sound of about a dozen Dylan's songs playing in my head at the same time. 

That's right. I liked the film despite the fact that I'm still not convinced by Timothée Chalamet (I thought that his portrayal of Dylan was somewhat depthless and that he probably overdid that nasal thing), despite the fact that they did not do justice to Suze Rotolo (who was reduced to a Hollywood trope), despite the fact that towards the end of the film they seriously tinkered with history (a work of fiction is just that, though: a work of fiction) and despite the fact that I'm Not There still is the greatest Dylan film ever. 

What's important is that I found the whole experience so emotional I could barely hold back my tears during some of the performances (kudos to Chalamet for learning to sing and play all of those songs). I would even watch it all over again, at some point, even if I'm still not sure if that is because the film is great or simply because I love the songs so damn much. 

Speaking of which. I used to play this game back in the day: 10 best Dylan songs. There is of course no way you can ever hope to make a list like that without hating yourself or regretting those great choices you had to forego. But still. 10 best Dylan songs. As ever, the golden rule remains the same: not more than one song per album. 

Oh and as a bonus: I will attach my favourite lyric / verse from each song. Because, after all, this is Bob Dylan.

10. "Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again" (1966)

Dylan was in such an imperious form in 1965/1966 that almost any song from Highway 61 Revisited or Blonde On Blonde would do. "Stuck Inside Of Mobile" is infectious and intoxicating and could go on for a million more verses for all I care. 

Grandpa died last week
And now he’s buried in the rocks
But everybody still talks about
How badly they were shocked
But me, I expected it to happen
I knew he’d lost control
When he built a fire on Main Street
And shot it full of holes

9. "Blind Willie McTell" (1983)

That Dylan recorded this during the Infidels sessions and chose not to include it on the actual album is surely one of the biggest mysteries of the man's career. (For the record, Infidels is not as bad as they tell you.) "Blind Willie McTell" is a timeless folk classic that was released a decade later, as part of the third Bootleg Series collection.

Well, I heard that hoot owl singing
As they were taking down the tents
The stars above the barren trees
Were his only audience
Them charcoal gypsy maidens
Can strut their feathers well
And I can tell you one thing
Nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

8. "Love Sick" (1997)

Back in 1997, I did not even know that Bob Dylan existed. And yet I can probably imagine what a pleasant shock Time Out Of Mind was for people. After years of treading water, after a string of misguided albums and a couple of LPs covering folk standards, Dylan released a true stone cold classic. "Love Sick" is murky, minimalist and absolutely devastating.

I see lovers in the meadow
I see silhouettes in the window
I watch them ’til they’re gone and they leave me hanging on
To a shadow

7. "Changing Of The Guards" (1978)

I've been addicted to this song for far too long to omit it from this list. The strangely underappreciated Street Legal has other good songs ("Señor", "Is Your Love In Vain") but God do I love this one. Yes, with that booming production, those backing vocalists, that saxophone. The groove is endlessly ecstatic, and the imagery of the lyrics is awe-inspiring.

Gentlemen, he said
I don’t need your organization, I’ve shined your shoes
I’ve moved your mountains and marked your cards
But Eden is burning, either brace yourself for elimination
Or else your hearts must have the courage for the changing of the guards

6. "Love Minus Zero / No Limit" (1965)

I would look with suspicion at anyone who doesn't think "Love Minus Zero / No Limit" is one of Dylan's very best ballads. 

In the dime stores and bus stations
People talk of situations
Read books, repeat quotations
Draw conclusions on the wall
Some speak of the future
My love she speaks softly
She knows there’s no success like failure
And that failure’s no success at all

5. "Tangled Up In Blue" (1975)

Famously, George Harrison was a fan of this one. And who wouldn't be? I personally love Planet Waves, New Morning and even Selfportrait (remember, Dylan was massacred for that one), but it was Blood On The Tracks that restored everyone's faith in Dylan back in the day. Quite simply, "Tangled Up In Blue" is a masterpiece both lyrically and melodically.  

I lived with them on Montague Street
In a basement down the stairs
There was music in the cafés at night
And revolution in the air
Then he started into dealing with slaves
And something inside of him died
She had to sell everything she owned
And froze up inside

4. "Hurricane" (1975; live version from The Rolling Thunder Revue)

Dylan saw the violinist Scarlet Rivera playing in the street and thought she just had to be in his live band. And what a revelation she turned out to be. This political epic would be an undisputed highlight of next year's Desire, but Rivera absolutely tears it on this live version that can be found on the Live 1975 bootleg (which no person with even a passing interest in Dylan should be without). My head starts spinning when I just think about this performance.

Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell

3. "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" (1963)

This was very effectively done in the new film. As Dylan is recording the song, a studio engineer asks: "Who wrote this?" Dylan's manager gives the laconic reply: "He did". More than 60 years on, it is still mind-blowing that someone could put their pen to paper and just do it. 

Still I wish there was somethin’ you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin’ anyway
So don’t think twice, it’s all right

2. "Ballad Of A Thin Man" (1965)

I used to have a theory that even a Dylan hater would love this song. And I've actually known a couple of people who proved me right. I can't think of another song in which every lyrical line, every bang on the piano makes my spine tingle and brings on a new wave of goosebumps.

You raise up your head
And you ask, “Is this where it is?”
And somebody points to you and says
“It’s his”
And you say, “What’s mine?”
And somebody else says, “Where what is?”
And you say, “Oh my God
Am I here all alone?”

1. "She's Your Lover Now" (1966)

And yet I choose this one today, the Blonde On Blonde outtake (partly reminiscent of "One Of Us Must Know") that was first released in 1991. I don't even know why. I just remember that back when I heard it for the first time, I began to laugh uncontrollably. My stomach and my chest were actually contorting with nervous, stifled giggling. It has only happened a few times in my life. Some of James James' short stories did it. "Astronomy Domine" did it. Joaquin Phoenix's acting in The Master did it. Dylan did it with "She's Your Lover Now". I guess this is just my physiological reaction to what is commonly referred to as 'genius'. 

P.S. Plus, the abrupt ending is genuinely hilarious.

Yes, you, you just sit around and ask for ashtrays, can’t you reach?..

Marianne Faithfull; a few words

I've always suspected that there will come a time when I finally understand what Lawrence meant in one of his most famous songs: 'all the people I like are those that are dead'. And while it has not yet come to that, mercifully, it still feels like time is beginning to move a little too fast. This January, it has been cruel and unforgiving. First my favourite filmmaker, and now this. 

Marianne Faithfull always had that presence. I guess I could describe it as this effortless charisma that filled every inch of the image or the screen every time that I saw her. She filled the records and the speakers, too, with a voice that had the charm and the sort of playful wisdom that always felt so uniquely hers. 

Also, unlike a million other pretty faces from the 60s, the ones that swirled around that glorious decade of madness and beautiful excess, she had substance. And that is not just "Sister Morphine" that she had once co-written with Mick Jagger. Albums like Broken English, Give My Love To London and Negative Capability (her late-period Renaissance was remarkable) are these rough, self-contained jewels that demand your absolute attention. 

Presence and substance - when you encounter those two things in one person, hold on to that person until the very end. 

And then she always had impeccable taste. The record that gets played in my house most often is a collection of Marianne Faithfull's live performances titled The Montreux Years. It features, among other things, songs from artists such as Van Morrison, Neko Case, Leonard Cohen and John Lennon. Her choice of material was nothing short of perfect, and it always felt as if the likes of Morrison and Cohen wrote those songs specifically for her to sing. She kept that taste until the very end, and that is regardless of where you looked: her Paris apartment or her last spoken-word collaboration with Warren Ellis. 

Certainly she was beautiful, one of the most beautiful people you could ever see. A beauty that so effortlessly transcended the physical form as well as that long-gone decade that branded her Jagger's muse and yet another sex symbol. 

She had presence, substance, taste, beauty. Very few people in the world can beat that. So few, in fact, that I'm not even too sure that they still exist.

January Round-Up

With the exception of last year, when Bill Ryder-Jones released the masterful Iechyd Da, January is mostly dull, dry and uneventful. Which is, regrettably, more or less exactly what could be said about the latest Franz Ferdinand album. The Human Fear starts well, with the frankly rather enthusiastic "Audacious" single that could stand up to their early work. It is all donwhill after that, however. I still think there is a decent songwriter in there somewhere, but a few flashes aside (the riff of "The Birds", "Night or Day") - this is like their first three albums castrated and diluted with water.

If a career can contain only one masterpiece, then Tunng have already made it. It was 2020's Tunng Presents... Dead Club, their richest and most tuneful set of songs ever, and an album which managed to soundtrack that awful year for me. This year's Love You All Over Again is things going back to normal: lovely electronic folk pop with melodies that float around you rather than knock you down. Still, the one-two punch that opens this album is brilliant; and even despite some blatant filler ("Sixes"), I still find myself going back to this time and time again. For comfort, yes, but also for the melodies.

Ethel Cain has made quite a name for herself with her long-winded Christian slowcore that frankly just bores me to death. Perverts, her new EP (that runs for nearly 90 minutes, I'm obliged to say), deals with all kinds of human perversions that she sets to a bunch of dreamy, vaguely menacing ambient drones that go absolutely nowhere.

I honestly do believe that even at this late point in their career Mogwai can still come up with engaging music. The Bad Fire has some pleasantly dreamy grooves ("Pale Vegan Hip Pain") and intense crescendos ("If You Find This World Bad, You Should See Some Of The Others") to keep me interested. A good album. One, though, that won't make a fan out of you. Also, the closing "Fact Boy" sounds just like Sigur Rós. 

Finally, I have never cared for Ringo Starr's solo career, and the cursory listen to Look Up did not provide any interesting revelations. Decent, well-produced country music whose edge is so thin it is barely worth talking about. "Don't Pass Me By" would be a highlight on this collection, and "Don't Pass Me By" is not even a very good song (by far the weakest piece on The White Album, and that album features "The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill").

Songs of the month:

Tunng - "Everything Else"

Franz Ferdinand - "Audacious"

Mogwai - "Lion Rumpus"

Black Country, New Road - "Besties"

Viagra Boys - "Man Made Of Meat"

Three films of 2023

I feel like I do not have it in me to write an obituary. I will only say that we will now be living in a world where a new David Lynch film is an impossibility. And that is a sad and pathetic world. Grey and increasingly more hopeless, and made even worse by two psychopathic clowns, Trump and Musk, who are about to compound the overwhelming misery. Oh how appropriate that scream at the end of the third season of Twin Peaks really is.

As for this piece, it is to do with three 2023 films that were released in the cinemas in 2024. When I do my annual write-up on cinema, in about a month or so, I will only focus on last year. In which case these three will be missed, and they deserve so much better. 

The Beast (2023) dir. by Bertrand Bonello / France

There are bits and pieces of Henry James's great little novella The Beast In The Jungle behind this - but this is still very much its own thing. The Beast is this beautiful mindfuck of a film, with a plot that moves from distant to recent past to frankly rather disturbing future in a grotesque and at first somewhat confusing manner. After some time, though, it all falls into place, and when you understand what is going on here, the whole thing becomes very tight and impressive. 

In the future, everything is controlled by AI and people's emotions are surplus to requirements. However, humans can undergo a certain 'cleansing' procedure to rid themselves of real feelings. Which is exactly what the character of Léa Seydoux is trying to do. The setting moves from early 20th century France to 2014 Los Angeles to 2044 Paris, and we go through some vaguely familiar scenes - the very last one being absolutely devastating, and quite Lynchean in its own surreal way. 

La Chimera (2023) dir. by Alice Rohrwacher / Italy

Like The Beast, this felt to me like a total left-field masterpiece. Only this film has none of the slickness of the The Beast. It is set in Italy in the 1980s and tells of a group of looters who dig out Etruscan treasures and sell them to collectors. The main part is played by Josh O'Connor (who was great in both Challengers and Lee), and he is absolutely phenomenal here - but I was also really impressed by the Brazilian actress Carol Duarte who gives one of the most charming and natural performances I've ever seen.

It is a very arthouse sort of film, but La Chimera gives that word a good name. Because for all its playful eccentricities (the scenes where Josh O'Connor's character finds the treasures are truly bizarre), the film has real emotional depth. The last scenes in particular are some of the most powerful cinema in recent memory.

Perfect Days (2023) dir. by Wim Wenders / Japan

Back in the old days, one of my pet peeves was people telling me that Wings Of Desire was the greatest film of all time. I used to fight each and every one of those people. Much has changed since then and I have softened to it a little (that said, I still find it vastly overrated) - but it is only now, with Perfect Days, that I can safely state that Wim Wenders has finally made his masterpiece. 

Not Wings Of Desire, not Paris, Texas - but this, a meditative, almost wordless film about a Japanese toilet cleaner in Tokyo whose daily life we witness over the course of several days. It is a mesmerising film, and it felt so great, and so calming, to be part of the experience of watching it after a long working day in a half-empty Polish cinema. Wenders forged something timeless out of routine (Kōji Yakusho is hypnotic in his role, and especially in that memorable close-up at the very end), and did it so well that Lou Reed's song is merely an afterthought.

Book review: STREET-LEVEL SUPERSTAR by Will Hodgkinson

Lawrence is the sort of man who believes The Mother And The Whore is the greatest film ever made. Now you may have heard of people who express that opinion, you may even come across a few of them in real life, but deep down you will always question their honesty. As this brilliant book by Will Hodgkinson demonstrates, Lawrence is an authentic character. His oddness is genuine, and so are his opinions. Lawrence truly loves The Mother And The Whore like no other film. He also believes Vic Godard is the greatest living songwriter. Oh and liquorice candy is the best food in the world.

One of the undeniable achievements of this biography is that you do not even have to be a Lawrence fan to be completely engrossed by the narrative. That I personally happen to love the man's music (Felt's Forever Breathes The Lonely Word, Denim's two studio albums and Go-Kart Mozart's On The Hot Dog Streets are all classics in my eyes) is a nice bonus, but really - you can't help but be fascinated by this strange, enigmatic artist who never washes his jeans, carries a WH Smith bag with him wherever he goes, drinks milky tea and dreams of writing the greatest pop song of all time. Bizarrely, we can all relate. No, seriously, we can. 

The best books start in a way that can be described as inevitable. In Street-Level Superstar: A Year With Lawrence (published in 2024), we meet Lawrence in a Jewish district in London looking for a place to pee and talking about the exquisite, shimmering music from Felt's debut album. What a way to begin. From then on, Hodgkinson creates a fascinating portrait of a flawed, insecure, genuinely odd and talented man who has spent his career striving to break into stardom. As a matter of fact, Lawrence's relationship with fame is the central theme of the book. It is always there, peering from the corner, bubbling underneath every chapter and every sentence. Yes, the "Summer Smash" debacle is definitely mentioned (Lawrence wrote this potential hit single in 1997, it got great notices but was swiftly shelved due to Diana's death - this was the start of Lawrence's darkest years), but the frustration runs a lot deeper and the conclusion that Hodgkinson reaches towards the end is as bittersweet as it is inevitable.

Street-Level Superstar is not even an especially complimentary portrait. If anything, Lawrence is depicted as a difficult, exasperating man. Intriguing, too, but someone you would rather appreciate from a distance (Lawrence's preferred way of dealing with the world). He has a knack for driving other people insane (John Leckie lost it during the recording sessions for Back In Denim) and he seems to have a somewhat unhealthy relationship with money (embittered ex-girlfriend Michaela: "He loved rich people. They didn't even have to do anything for him to love them"). He is erratic and unreliable. "I was under no illusion", writes Hodgkinson in the final chapter of this biography. "His was not a life for any sane person to aspire". Throughout the book, Lawrence is full of painful self-deprecation but also pride in what he has achieved artistically. "When I was young", he says at some point, "I wanted to live in a matchbox". And this from someone who has spent most of his life pursuing the loftiest ambitions. 

Basically, the book gives us one year spent in the company of Lawrence. During this year, we walk with Lawrence through London (and Birmingham, briefly - his hometown), attend his gig at Glastonbury and even the recording session for his latest world smash (titled "Deliveroo Delivery", how else?). And in the background, Will Hodgkinson goes through the man's entire life, from difficult childhood (in an area he hated, with parents he hated) to periods of frenzied creativity to rare friends (Pete Astor, Bobby Gillespie) to estranged girlfriends (both real and imaginary) to years of homelessness and obscurity to the 'grand' unveiling of his giant marble bust in a London gallery. It is quite an incredible story, and Hodgkinson succeeds in bringing the man alive, to the extent that you will be sad to let Lawrence go by the end of it. With his big shopping bag, his famous cap and his diluted tea (two thirds tea, one third milk) bought from Costa Coffee. 

The writing is excellent all the way through, Hodgkinson's style is both humorous and poetic. "It was a glorious day in the city, one of those sunlit afternoons when being alive seems like a great idea. A perfect day, then, to go clothes shopping with Lawrence" (actually, a lot of space in the book is given to Lawrence's dressing style, the kind that puts shop assistants on guard). Or take this paragraph, for instance: "Not only did he never appear to eat anything, he rarely drank water either. The only sustenance appeared to come from the milky tea he liked to buy from Costa Coffee towards the end of our long walks. I, on the other hand, was a mere human, in need of water at the very least". Or when he writes about his personal favourite album On The Hot Dog Streets that opens with "Lawrence Takes Over". Hodgkinson calls the song "poignant because the chances of his taking over were by then as likely as his getting stuck into a cheese fondue". 

Interestingly, towards the end of the book I started to see certain similarities between Lawrence and Mark E. Smith (who initially was quite generous towards Felt). On the face of it, he also tries to be an authoritarian band leader, stingy with money and unwilling to share writing credits. He also writes all the lyrics and does not play any instruments (you could, in fact, paraphrase the famous quote from Smith and say a Lawrence band is Lawrence "and your granny on bongos"). He also gives crazy instructions to his band members. Like he once told the bassist not to play the A-string and the keyboard player to avoid pressing the black keys. But herein lies that crucial difference. The keyboard player never stopped pressing the black keys, and the bassist kept hitting the A-string (he even suggests, half-jokingly, that Lawrence has no idea where the actual A-string is located). 

But despite the failed guidelines, it was all very amiable on the car ride back to London. No bitterness, no threats. He was his usual Lawrence, drinking milky tea, avoiding small talk and writing that elusive hit single in his head. He even approved the draft copy of his biography without any major corrections. As Will Hodgkinson puts it at the very end of the book:

"Lawrence was something else entirely.

Lawrence was a street-level superstar".