Album of the Month: IT'S HELL OUT THERE by John Moore

This album was released on July 5. For a brief rundown of August albums, see below.


For my money, John Moore's run of five albums this century has been nothing short of immaculate. Half Awake was the perfect Black Box Recorder hangover. Lo-Fi Lullabies and Floral Tributes were hopelessly beautiful. Knickerbrocker Glory was freewheeling and musically accomplished. Finally, John's latest album, It's Hell Out There, unfurls like a complex psychological thriller. I cannot think of too many artists with a run as good as that.

And still it was with a certain sense of dread that I approached this record. The cover picture was unsettling and the album title did not leave much to the imagination. And indeed, It's Hell Out There starts in a cold, claustrophobic manner. The title song is a memorable acoustic riff carrying the sound of smooth paranoia that should nonetheless hit quite close to him. The imagery is evocative and the references are desperately recognisable. "Billy Fury Way" ('you’re going to lose your life today down on Billy Fury Way...') is darker still, and the atmosphere is unnerving. These two songs make up one hell of a start, and I do mean hell.

Then, however, the album suddenly grows more upbeat, as evidenced on both the bouncy "The North Sea Fisherman" and the anthemic "Fantic Dreams (Of Sweet Sixteen)". The latter is particularly good, capturing all of that youthful vigour and recklessness and madness. "If The Beatles Had Never Existed", with its tastefully deranged "I Am The Walrus" noises in the background, is a couple of light years better than a certain Danny Boyle creation. "October Rose" is a classic John Moore ballad that suddenly transforms into a propulsive rocker right in the middle, and the piano-based "(Life Is A Fucking) Fiasco" has the most elaborate instrumentation on the album. Lyrically, it manages to straddle the line between catharsis and despair, and the melody is inspirational.

The laidback "Oh Baby, What Have You Done?" is the sort of intimate, tortured song I could almost imagine on a John Moore album from 2014, and God knows I do not mind that at all. The tune, though, has more light to it, and the Trump line cannot be denied, or argued with. Finally, "No One Listens To Music Anymore" is filled with rock'n'roll allusions and love for the lost art of, well, listening to music. An art that should not really be lost on anyone who listens to this album.

I would not call It's Hell Out There a difficult record, but - with its 50-plus-minute running time - it certainly is a challenging listen. Deeply rewarding, too, as some of John's best songwriting is on here. It is a very personal record, the only kind that he makes. It is raw and intense, very much like the album cover that I have grown to like quite a bit after some time spent with the music. 


AUGUST RUNDOWN 

Ezra Furman's Twelve Nudes is brilliant glam-rock insanity and very much a five-star LP, Nérija's Blume is exciting jazz from London and Thrashing Thru The Passion is the first Hold Steady album that I like (am I getting old?). Oh and of course: Lana del Rey has released the same fucking album for the fifth time. 

My Cultural Lowlights: BON IVER

Years ago, somewhere in England, a good friend of mine advised me to use the word 'hate' more sparingly. Do not use it too often, he told me as we were sitting in his Gateshead kitchen drinking Yorkshire tea. Apply it with care. It's a very strong word, he explained to the Russian-speaking teenager who was at the time 'hating' just about everything. As a teenager would. My opinions on music were particularly vicious: 'Nirvana can't write melodies', 'Radiohead are bloodless', 'U2 are unbearable' and 'Queen are the worst band of all time'. And these were just some of the bands that I 'hated'. 

Now of course things have changed, and my views have evolved (or devolved, depending on your point of view). I try to use the word 'hate' sparingly (there is a lot to be said for late-night advice given to impressionable 15-year-old teenagers), and I can safely claim that Nirvana could write melodies and Jazz is a very good album indeed. Still, I subscribe to Christopher Hitchens's idea that the feeling of hate can be a force for good, and a perfect reason to get out of bed in the morning. But enough of that, let's talk about Bon Iver.

Because I hate Bon Iver. With passion. One glance at the tracklist of Justin Vernon's latest albums makes me want to strangle every fucker who was involved in the 'creative' process. One snippet of Bon Iver's 'music' (I use the term loosely - Bon Iver's music is pretentious faffing around that is supposed to distract you from the fact that the guy can't write a tune to save his life) makes me question the sanity of those who say they like this kind of stuff. And the voice? That goddamn falsetto which seems to bring every hipster and paid critic to the verge of orgasm? No, I do, truly and sincerely, hate Bon Iver. There is just no vocabulary esoteric enough to express this idea any better than that.

For instance, look at the tracklist from Bon Iver's 2016 album 22, a Million and tell me what you think.

1. "22 (OVER S∞∞N)"
2. "10 d E A T h b R E a s T ⚄ ⚄"
3. "715 - CR∑∑KS"
4. "33 "GOD""
5. "29 #Strafford APTS"
6. "666 ʇ"
7. "21 M◊◊N WATER"
8. "8 (circle)"
9. "____45_____"
10. "00000 Million" 

You have to be a human being totally devoid of self-irony to come up with this, and you have to be a truly humourless human being to be taken in by this bullshit. 

But so many people are taken in by this bullshit, to the extent that you could think there is a global conspiracy involved. Because while I can believe that some people might be stoned/heartbroken enough to appreciate the whiny folk that Bon Iver's debut was made of (plus, there was an intriguing story to go with the music: a lonesome guy with an acoustic guitar, somewhere in a cabin in the woods of Wisconsin), there is just no way you can view his subsequent albums as serious artistic statements. Chopped-up, autotuned, pretentious and ultimately empty posturing by a guy who can't sustain a decent melody over the course of two fucking minutes. And when he does manage that, on a very rare occasion, the melody is as bland as Justin's normal speaking voice.

The odd part is that back when Vernon's first LP, For Emma, Forever Ago, came out, I was actively supporting it. But then emotionally I was going through a very difficult time in those days, and a cabin in the north-central US did sound positively cathartic. Once I got better, however, For Emma revealed itself to be just plain dull. Which brings me to this final thought: I hope that all these hapless people (critics included) are simply too gullible to see through the primitive tricks. They are just going through hard times, these hapless people, and in a few months they will get over it and finally realise that Bon Iver's music has no substance whatsoever. That they were taken in by this bearded charlatan who was fucking with them all along. And everyone will open their eyes and ears and just laugh out loud and think this guy does not even deserve anyone's hate. 

But until that day comes... I hate Bon Iver. 

My Cultural Highlights: THE FLAMING STARS

A true Italian will never advertise a beautiful family restaurant hidden behind the noise and the walls of the main Piazza. They will want to have it all to themselves, for who needs bulky rucksacks on the floor and sprawling maps on the tables? Who needs a waiter explaining to you that they have run out of your favourite red wine or the best tuna in town? It's not selfish. At worst, it's practical.  

Similarly, there are favourite bands you do not tell other people about. These are not necessarily the favourite bands, but for whatever reason you have given yourself this exclusive right to their music and you have no desire to share. Maybe you discovered them at a particular time in life. And maybe the memories are just overpowering.

For me, it is The Flaming Stars, and the only reason why I'm writing about them now, about ten years after discovering them, is that The Flaming Stars are no more. Completely by chance, I decided to go to their official website the other day in order to check on the recording sessions for the new album, and was shocked to discover that "After 25 years, 41 record releases, 8 John Peel Sessions and shows on 3 continents The Flaming Stars have decided to call it a night. As the song says: “Here's to you, wherever you are” for your support over the years… From Max, Mark, Paul, Huck & Joe". This was dated July 29, and this was tragic. 

I have never been to any of their concerts (apparently, they were magnificent live), and I only stumbled into that garage world of classy, oversized suits three or four years after the release of their final record (as it happens). But somehow they have always been this constant presence in my mind as well as on my vinyl record player (after all, is there a band better suited for a vinyl record player?). Over the recent years, there have been hints and rumours that they are working on a new album, that there is a clear promise of another "Alfredo Garcia" and another "Senator McCarthy", but this is not happening anymore. And it is liberating in one sense and one sense only: finally, I can write about them.

The Flaming Stars were a garage band with style. To understand the visual image, look no further than the cover of their first LP, Songs From The Bar Room Floor (which included the immortal "Bring Me The Rest Of Alfredo Garcia"). To get the idea of the music, well, you've got seven albums of rock'n'roll perfection. This was just seriously beautiful music, and I do mean beautiful. For even when they went for noisy (and, being a garage band, they did that a lot), they somehow managed to make it sophisticated in the way that could only be achieved by a man in a suit and a tie. You listen to something like "Stranger On The Fifth Floor" (one of the greatest songs of all time) off Named and Shamed, and this noise is downright gorgeous. 

For a bit of a rougher edge, I'd suggest listening to Gallon Drunk, a band Max Décharné used to drum for (interestingly, his drumming credits also include the late great Nikki Sudden). Here, with The Flaming Stars, he was the lead singer and the principal songwriter. His voice gives that nocturnal vibe that made the band sound a lot more soulful and emotional than the constraints of the genre would generally allow. But then the constraints of the genre were never an issue with The Flaming Stars. They sounded unique. You could give me a million reference points that would include anyone from Nick Cave to Gene Vincent to Lloyd Cole, but all that would fall miserably short of defining the sound which they created. 

And the image was so complete, from the record covers to the song titles to the actual music. Stare for a few seconds at the 50s pin-up girl against the backdrop of the Western hero face from Sell Your Soul To The Flaming Stars, and the driving rush of "The Street That Never Closes" is exactly what you might hear. Memorable, atmospheric garage rock with great depth and a soulful edge. Truly, there will not be anyone quite like The Flaming Stars in any given future world I can imagine. Somehow, they created music that existed outside these times, so there is some great irony to the fact that Wikipedia still begins its article in that obsolete and pleasantly old-fashioned way: "The Flaming Stars are [sic] an English underground garage punk band". 

travelling note (cix)

The best way to prolong a trip is to keep reading a book you first opened in a different city, a million miles away from home.

Скетчи про Минск. Хамство.

Я равнодушен к Сергею Довлатову, однако его определение хамства совершенно гениально: "Хамство есть не что иное, как грубость, наглость, нахальство, вместе взятые, но при этом - умноженные на безнаказанность". Особенно гениальным это определение кажется оттого, что Набокову так и не дался перевод этого слова на английский язык. Довлатов смог объяснить хамство после десяти лет жизни в иммиграции. Когда все вдруг стало на свои места (в Нью-Йорке все вообще имеет свойство становиться на свои места), и он так точно определил, что здесь, в Бруклине или на Манхэттене, тебя могут ограбить или застрелить, но никогда перед твоим носом не хлопнут дверью. 

Хамство - это особенное советское/постсоветское явление, и я больше нигде его не встречал. Я видел наглость и грубость, однако я не видел хамства.

Помню, что еще в детстве, когда мама приводила меня в Национальный художественный музей в Минске, я никак не мог понять поведения этой тучной и вечно недовольной дамы, что продавала билеты. В то время я, возможно, еще не знал этого слова, однако встречные интонации не оставляли места для воображения. Она никогда не смотрела тебе в глаза, она отвечала стиснув зубы, она недовольно вздыхала и морщилась, давая понять, что так она будет вести себя завтра и послезавтра, и вообще до тех пор, пока будет работать здесь. Пожалуй, самым удивительным для меня было то, что все это происходило в главном музее страны, где ты по наивности ожидал другого отношения.

Когда недавно я сказал одному человеку, что самое хамское отношение в Минске можно встретить в кассе Национального музея, он полностью со мной согласился. Он сказал, что даже пытался жаловаться, но вот в чем проблема: единственным оружием против хамства является хамство в ответ. Есть, конечно, еще острый комментарий, острая фраза, однако момент длится секунду, и здесь вступает в силу этот проклятый l'esprit d'escalier. 

Пару месяцев назад я был в Ботаническом саду. Приехал ровно за минуту до закрытия кассы, и дама с недовольным лицом сообщила мне, что уже поздно, и что рабочий день закончился, и "что вы все ходите". Когда я указал ей на ее же часы, на которых было '6:59', она закатила глаза и стала возмущаться, что приходить нужно заранее (и это при том, что перед ней было написано, что касса работает до 7). В этот момент мои нервы уже не выдержали, и, как учат психологи, я сказал ей все, что о ней думаю. Удивительным образом, она тут же приняла деньги и выдала билеты. А через пять секунд я уже слышал за своей спиной, как она хамит мужчине, который пытался попасть в сад к жене и детям. Вот эта абсолютная безнаказанность, вот о ней как раз и писал Довлатов.

Разумеется, ты недоволен. Ты раздражен, что был вынужден пойти на это. И пусть ты сделал все, чтобы не опуститься до уровня банальной грубости, твои слова вышли далеко за пределы обычного разговора с кассиром Ботанического сада. 

Все вокруг полнится, все обрастает хамством, и лучше всего замечаешь это в те дни, когда возвращаешься из долгого путешествия. Живешь как будто поверх всего этого кошмара, существуешь вне радиусов и диаметров провинциального города Минска. А затем приходишь в Национальный музей и видишь, что тучной дамы больше нет, а есть молодая женщина лет тридцати, которая, впрочем, тут же оказывается той самой тучной дамой из твоего детства.