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 ten greatest albums the world has seen 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 I thought "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 it is also an album that I never feel like going back to. Because I had heard it all before - and 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 was 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.