Album of the Month: ALL THE KIDS ARE SUPER BUMMED OUT by Luke Haines & Peter Buck

It is always great to pinpoint the precise moment in time. And I know the moment I realised this was Luke Haines's greatest album in years (since 2009, if you want the details). It was when that haunting piano line first kicked in during "Minimalist House Burns Down". Either that, or when Luke intoned in that unmistakable sneery half-whisper: 'Swedish jazz... no one gives a shit'. 

These days, I am not especially intrigued by double albums, and when I discovered that Luke Haines once again teamed up with Peter Buck for a 17-song LP with that album name and with psychedelic song titles like "The British Army on LSD", "The Skies Are Full Of Insane Machines" and, well, "Psychedelic Sitar Casual", I had every right to be apprehensive. I expected a racket. Worse, I expected a mess. My bad. Because with Luke Haines, whatever the racket, you are always getting the songs. 

Seventeen of them, too. The hight-octane beginning is supposed to blow you away, and it will (I recommend headphones). My personal favourite is the propulsive, enormous-sounding "The Skies Are Full Of Insane Machines" that is drenched in Peter Buck's terrific guitar tones and features a stellar anthemic melody from Luke Haines. I am also partial to the single "Won't Even Get Out Of Bed" that has the leisurely tempo in the vein of "Married To A Lazy Lover" - but the effect here is much warmer, less sinister. Each song has something to offer here - both lyrically and instrumentally. 'God is doing the handjob' is one hell of a line, and that guitar break in "Commies Are Coming" is criminally short. 

To me, the album reaches its peak with three songs in the middle. "When I Met God" opens with acoustic guitar strumming reminiscent of "Sister Morphine". Then come a giant wave of feedback, a killer vocal melody and lyrics you will not forget. The aforementioned "Minimalist House Burns Down" is just fucking unbelievable. And then "Exit Space (All The Kids Are Super Bummed Out)" is a seven-minute progressive rock freak-out featuring a choir, a saxophone and a monkey laughing. It is a classic, of course. In fact, the only problem with it is that it makes the rest of the album feel like a bit of an afterthought. A shame, because we are still in for six excellent pop songs from Mr. Haines. The sweet and dreamy "Waiting For The UFOs" in particular is a beautiful closer. 

Really, if it takes Peter Buck on the guitar to bring out the best in Luke Haines, then so be it. All The Kids Are Super Bummed Out is a sprawling double LP that has something for everyone. Tons of personality, colourful guitar racket, kazoo. And an album of the year if there ever was one.

October Round-Up

For a man who has once called John Lennon a cunt, Todd Rundgren has not written too many great songs. An excellent producer, yes, but also a man without identity. I know people who swear blind that A Wizard / A True Star is a masterpiece but personally I find it both patchy and bland. Space Force (★★½), his new album, is an odd affair that features collaborations with artists ranging from Rivers Cuomo to Steve Vai. It is a diverse collection and certainly has its moments ("Someday" with Davey Lane) - but it is still patchy. And still bland. 

Speaking of cunts, I quite like this phase that Alex Turner is going through these days. The late-night crooner music of The Car (★★★½) is Turner disappearing further down the rabbit hole of the smooth, lightly orchestrated vibes of Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino. This time, a few majestic highlights aside, there is just not enough substance. 'I can't for the life of me remember how they go', he sings at some point, and that is also me and some of the melodies from this album. 

Another album I found a little blander than necessary was Direction of the Heart (★★★) by Simple Minds. I am not saying I was expecting another "Someone Somewhere", and there are some terrific synth-pop throwbacks here (most notably "Human Traffic" with Russell Mael), but many of these hooks fall flat. Which of course does not happen on Paul Heaton's latest. N.K-Pop (★★★½) conjures up the fond memories of the best songs from The Beautiful South. Uplifting, cynical, playful - and you will not find a bouncier melody as a backdrop to someone singing about a dead mother. 

Still, by far the most entertaining album of the month came from John Moore. I loved his first LP earlier this year and the second one (who does he think he is? Robert Pollard?) is pure rock and roll joy. 56 (★★★½) is lyrically and musically infectious (the story of Elvis Presley's secret visit to London is especially good), and the closing "Positive For Cocaine" is one of my songs of the year. Speaking of songs of the year, Peter Astor had a couple this month ("Time On Earth" and "English Weather" both qualify), but while the man's taste is impeccable and Time On Earth (★★★½) is another fine addition to his catalogue, there was something missing in some of these songs. Something timeless, something you could once hear in songs like "Almost Falling In Love" and "Tiny Town". I still believe Songbox is his masterpiece. 

Some more fine English gentlemen have released their albums this October. Among them Robyn Hitchcock, whose self-titled 2017 album was supposed to be his last. Then, however, the lockdown happened, and he was in mood to write another LP. Shufflemania! (★★★★) is your classic Robyn Hitchcock album, timeless ("One Day (It's Being Scheduled)") and deliciously silly (title song). Mostly both. Finally, I was happy to listen to David Westlake's My Beautiful England (★★★½) album. 14 short songs filled with numerous reference points and that sharp and insidious melodicism that has not changed much since the times of The Servants. Ultimately, a beautiful paean to his country. I would like to use this opportunity and recommend his unjustly forgotten Play Dusty For Me from 2010 as a subtle, transcendental experience.

When I think of transcendental, Alela Diane always comes to mind. Alela is one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary folk music. Actually, if it were not for the sheer brilliance of Luke Haines's latest, Looking Glass (★★★★) would be my album of the month. She is special. With that rich voice, that knack of writing a striking, haunting melody, Alela Diane has no peers. "Dream a River" will leave you speechless. Another folk album I liked this month was Sorrows Away (★★★½) by The Unthanks. This is a more traditional take on folk music and few do it better than them. A very consistent LP that builds up and fades away with an absolutely gorgeous harmonious chant during the second half of the closing title song. 

Gorgeous harmonies were not something I was expecting from Dry Cleaning, the latest critical darlings of British music press. I was not a big fan of their debut, and Stumpwork (★★★) is little better. It is slightly more coherent and melodic, but this sparse, spoken word take on post-punk is more 'interesting' than 'good'. I am afraid that they have charisma but they do not have the songs. If you want both, I would point you in the direction of Benjamin Clementine. Benjamin's debut album At Least For Now won the Mercury Prize in 2015 and has not buried Benjamin under its weight. His impressionistic pop music is as soulful and imaginative as ever. And I Have Been (★★★★) is uncharacteristically short but it still finds time for a six-minute piano instrumental inspired by Erik Satie. Stylish music. The only downside is that this LP (in fact, the first part of a two-album project) might be his last.

Sadly, I wish Archers of Loaf had not decided to write a follow-up to their brilliant White Trash Heroes (1998) that was supposed to be their final statement. Reason In Decline (★★★) is a decent comeback, and it has some powerful guitar-rock urgency but much of it still sounds a little generic and underwhelming. Very much like the title of Will Sheff's debut album. Nothing Special (★★★★) sounds humble to a fault. However, ever since I first heard "John Allyn Smith Sails" (Christ what a song, down to its inspired "Sloop John B." ending) I have never missed a new Okkervil River album. Most of them have been disappointing - but Nothing Special is different. Like Yawn in 2018, like Serpentine Prison in 2020, Nothing Special is moody and strangely cathartic. A very special autumnal album, an album to live with. 

The Cure in Kraków, 20.10

The ageless, ageing Robert Smith. Over time, he has turned into a big old softie. He puts his hands on the chest in a humble gesture of gratitude. He walks around the stage at the start and at the end of the show, saying thank you to each fan who dares to establish the eye contact. He does small talk between songs - saying irreverent things that seem to genuinely amuse him. He even cracks a silly joke about trying to speak Polish. He no longer pretends that this is the last album by The Cure. The last tour. The last everything. Moreover, he actually says after the inevitable encore capped off with "Boys Don't Cry" that he will return to Kraków. Like I say - a softie. 

And yet when that voice bursts out halfway into the opener "Alone", it is like we are still in the early 80s and he still means it. All that anguish, all that yearning. I guess he does still mean it. Which is to say - these days, Robert Smith is in imperious form.

photo by Tomasz Stańczak

Indeed, it would be hard to find a person who has been unimpressed by a live show from The Cure. The soundscape which they create is so monumental and so engrossing that you are effectively eaten alive like the unfortunate narrator of "Lullaby" (which is performed with the aplomb that it deserves). A friend of mine who has never been a fan once told me that he accidentally caught them live at the Leeds Festival ten years ago and was left speechless by the sheer power of the sound. Even more amusingly, his twelve-year-old daughter whose love for rock music at the time did not stretch beyond "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers, was equally dazzled. And so despite the steep price and the fact that I had to travel to another city on a week day, I could not afford to miss the concert.

Oh but it is a grand occasion. A relatively big opening act (The Twilight Sad - competent but lacking identity), a string of somber e-mails notifying you of the exact time and zero tolerance for electronic tickets. So that even before you actually get there and walk through a dozen checks on the way to your seat, you know you are in for the show of your life. 

That it is not could hardly be blamed on the performance. The band gave it all, and every little detail that makes The Cure so great live was in place. The long, intense build-ups. The majestic wall of sound. Robert Smith's charisma. The restrained yet captivating stage antics (everyone was somewhat static except for the bassist who was crawling about like a drunk spider). The musicianship. The voice. No, my complaints are very personal and could be deemed improper by any other member of the audience. Still, I have to say this: beyond the inescapable "Just Like Heaven", the band played nothing from Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me (which, let us be clear on this, is The Cure's greatest album). The sharp, clever songwriting of that LP was eschewed and, instead, Robert Smith favoured more sprawling, epic compositions of Disintegration. Which is understandable in view of its critical and commercial success, but I have never been bowled over by its somewhat meandering nature.   

Still, this is of course merely a matter of personal taste, and there could also be people equally let down by the surprising underrepresentation of Pornography. Because you cannot really go wrong with a vast catalogue like that, and both "A Forest" and "Play For Today" chug along in a hypnotic fashion, "A Night Like This" is a timeless classic, and "Close To Me" is, well, "Close To Me" (that is to say, one of the greatest songs ever written). They play the latter during the final encore, together with "The Walk" and "Friday I'm In Love" and all those songs that Robert Smith plays with an odd mixture of gusto and total indifference. But he is a softie, we have established that already, so he has to give people what they want. Most importantly, however, is that he debuts a few songs from The Cure's mythical new album (which, according to Smith, should have been released days, months, years ago). I will not say much about them, everything The Cure do live sounds great, but there is no question that "And Nothing Is Forever" is one of the most beautiful songs Robert Smith has ever done. 

Kraków is a city of smells. Everything has its own distinct smell here, from autumn leaves to restaurant food to dapple grey horses prancing around Main Square. In the end, the smell becomes so immense that I take off my headphones (playing Wish, inevitably) to give myself to it entirely. They will lead you anywhere, those smells. To Jewish cafes, to record shops, to cemeteries. And then, obviously enough, they will lead you, by way of black leather and thick hair spray, to the Tauron Arena at the edge of the city. Because no offence to dapple grey horses and to the stunning streets of Kraków sugar coated in the golden foliage - but this is why you are here tonight. To see The Cure and the ageless, ageing Robert Smith.

Polish Diary. Купалаўцы ў Варшаве.

Я ішоў на варшаўскую прэм'еру Купалаўцаў з цяжкім пачуццём у сэрцы і адной толькі думкай: пазнаю ці не? Углядзеўшыся ў родныя твары, ці знайду Манаева, Белахвосцік, Гарбуза? Ці пазнаю? Ці ёсць там яны яшчэ? Ці не засталіся ў Кіеве? Ці не з'ехалі ў Канаду? Справа ў тым, што я не бачыў іх, здавалася, паўвека. Калі не лічыць спарадычных пастановак з анлайн-каналу Купалаўцаў, то апошнім разам я бачыў іх тры гады таму, калі на Малой сцэне давалі "Радзіва Прудок", а бліскучы Іван Трус гуляў сам-адзін усю набокаўскую "Камеру абскуру". Калі ж казаць пра тое, што адбывалася па-за сцэнай, то ў апошні раз я бачыў іх каля Купалаўскага тэатру восенню 2020 году. У той дзень амаль кожны з іх выйшаў да дзвярэй тэатру, каб падтрымаць Паўла Латушку.  

І амаль ўсе яны выйшлі на сцэну напрыканцы прошлага тыдня, калі ў Польскім тэатры гулялі новую пастаноўку Міхаіла Пінігіна. Яны выйшлі на драўляны памост, Манаеў прамовіў першыя словы па-польску (і апошнія, далей усё было выключна па-беларуску), і нешта ў сэрцы ні то абарвалося, ні то ўспыхнула. Хутчэй за ўсе, два гэтыя працэсы адбыліся адначасова. Так, я пазнаў іх - нават тых, каго не ведаў раней. 

На самой справе, эмоцыі пачалі грукацца да мяне яшчэ звонку, дзе было чуваць беларускую мову, і дзе пры добрай фантазіі можна было ўявіць, што гэта не вуліца Казіміра Карася, а так добра знаёмы кут Аляксандраўскага скверу. Ды і ўнутры, асабліва ў вялікай залі тэатра, можна было адчуць камерны подых Купалаўскага. І сапраўды: нават вялікая зала, дзе адбывалася прэм'ера, не ўражвае сваім памерам і стварае інтымную атмасферу ўлюбёнай залі ў цэнтры Мінска. Тым часам, вакол цябе па-ранейшаму гучаць беларускія словы, і толькі немаладая дама, станістая і стылёвая, прабіраецца да свайго месца са звыклым польскім przepraszam. Дарэчы, я думаю пра яе даволі шмат на працягу спектаклю. Здаецца, яна прышла сюды дзеля вершаў Міцкевіча, і мяне ўвесь час непакоіць пытанне, ці разумее яна беларускую мову.

Бо гулялі вершы Адама Міцкевіча ў беларускім перакладзе. Назва праграмы "Рамантыка", і гэта даволі эфектнае спалучэнне паэзіі ды акторскай гульні. Акторы прамаўляюць радкі, якія ў гэтый жа час гуляюць на сцэне. Вершы не заўсёды звязаныя паміж сабой, але тым не менш яны ствараюць наратыў, які робіцца суцэльным за кошт сваёй шчырасці і праніклівасці інтанацый. Усе гэтыя інтанацыі добра знаёмыя і счытваюцца на нейкім амаль фізіялагічным узроўні. Цікава тое, што на пачатку спектакля меліся невялікія праблемы з гукам, і некаторыя словы не было чуваць зусім - але ж я цалкам разумеў іх. Нават ня ведаючы вершаў Міцкевіча, я адчуваў радкі праз позірк актораў і мінімалістычныя пінігінскія дэкарацыі.

Калі казаць пра дамінуючыя эмоціі, то атмасфера "Рамантыкі" не толькі рамантычная, але і жудасная. Містычная сутнасць паэтычнага таленту Міцкевіча праглядваецца тут паўсюль. Так, лепшай і самай насычанай інсцэніроўкай была трагічная гісторыя пра двух братоў, якія (не ведаючы таго) закахаліся ў дзяўчыну, забіўшую іх брата. Гэта амаль шэкспіраўская гісторыя пра каханне, зайздрасць і здраду, і яна передадзена ў страшэнных дэталях. Калі ў нейкі момант на сцэне з'яўляецца здань з закрытым тварам і ў жалезных даспехах, то гэта нагадвае эпізод з сапраўднага начнога кашмару. Але ж амаль ва ўсім праступае містычная рамантыка Міцкевіча, складаная і шматслойная, якая падаецца як праблемай, так і вырашэннем усіх праблем. Прысутнічае на сцэне і гумар, які з'яўляецца ў жорсткім выглядзе і даволі рэдка, але добра зніжае непрыкметны градус напружанасці, выкліканы блеклай атмасферай і эмігранцкімі ўспамінамі. 

Напружанасць дасягае крытычнай кропкі ў заключных словах апошняй часткі, якія б'юць мацней за ўсё. Калі адзін з герояў кажа пра тое, што вера і пачуццё заўсёды пераадольваюць бессардэчную мудрасць, то гэта падаецца сапраўднай кульмінацыяй вечару. За ёю ўжо слёзы (прычым слёзы ўсіх, ад актораў да гледачоў), узнятыя рукі ды такія знаёмыя два словы - якія аб'ядноўваюць усіх нас і дзеля якіх мы, падаецца, і завіталі ў Польскі тэатр. Яркія, гучныя вобразы Міцкевіча застаюцца са мной яшчэ доўгі час - але ж нічога не параўнаць з тымі апошнімі некалькімі хвілінамі, цяжкімі, эмацыйнымі, існуючымі дзякуючы тым самым веры і пачуццю. Тым, якія нельга апрануць у які-небудзь язык, ці то польскі, ці то беларускі. Дарэчы, польская дама, як і мы, стаяла побач з намі і прагна чакала кожнае чарговае з'яўленне купалаўцаў на біс.

І некалькі словаў пра назву. Спачатку яна падавалася мне досыць аднабокай і недастаткова глыбокай. "Рамантыка"? І гэта пры ўсім трагічным і няпростым, што адбываецца на сцэне? Але гэта было спачатку. На шляху дадому я ўжо добра разумеў, што гэтая назва ідэальна пасуе спектаклю. Бо рамантыка бывае рознай. І ў эмігрантаў яна свая, складаная і шматпавярховая. Яна месціць у сабе каханне, містыку, трагедыю і крыху чорнага гумару.

Three albums. Slint, Polvo, Stern.

Math-rock is a genre that sounds more dangerous than it really is. Back when I knew nothing about it, I thought of metallic sheen and people in black drinking blood during live shows. It was when I heard Polvo for the first time that I realised what math-rock stood for: musicians playing their instruments in an elaborate manner, with mathematical accuracy. If that sounds dull, it should not. 

But I do really have little patience for what passes for math-rock these days. Once in a while, YouTube throws up high-quality videos of smug-looking people performing their songs with immaculate technical precision (Polyphia, anyone?). The problem with these bands is that they are awful. They cannot write songs. So however brilliant their skills are, they do not impress me.

These three albums do. To me, they represent some of the absolute best music in the math-rock genre. 

Slint. Spiderland (1991).

This album is legendary, which makes it all the more strange that it took me years to finally hear it. As a matter of fact, it took an interview with David Pajo and company in a recent issue of Uncut to make me put on a pair of large headphones and listen to Spiderland in all its cryptic, ecstatic, spoken word glory. 

It is an incredible experience that hits as hard as it probably did thirty years ago. Having spent a few years in the garage honing their technique (and releasing the not-quite-as-bad-as-they-tell-you Tweez in 1989), Slint put out their masterpiece in the year of grunge and Nevermind. However, there is little Nirvana about it beyond a couple of screaming sections in "Nosferatu Man". Mostly, it is a very intricate, well thought-through 40 minutes of slow-burning emotional intensity and ominous guitar arpeggios that sound both hypnotic and utterly beautiful. 

The album builds up and breaks down all over the place, and yet it never fails to impress. It may be a difficult listen, granted, but equally - nobody can deny the gorgeous guitar line in "Washer" or Pajo's unforgettable outburst at the end of "Good Morning, Captain". A timeless album. 

Polvo. In Prism (2009).

I sometimes think Polvo are the greatest band of all time. And then, when I forget that, it only takes me one minute of "Right The Relation" to put me right. 

Throughout their career, Polvo (have) released six albums and a few EPs of such mind-blowing math-rock brilliance that picking In Prism as their best may seem like a choice completely arbitrary - if not, in fact, nonsensical. But I stand by it. Because however much I love Celebrate The New Dark Age and Exploded Drawing, it was the absolute fucking insanity of "Beggar's Bowl" that got me here. Listen to those wild time signatures right now, listen to every little trick those guitars are doing - and you will never be the same. Truly there is no better introduction to math-rock than this. 

Besides the unimpeachable instrumentation, they are also great songwriters. The mystical, protean "Lucia" (which does indeed start a little like "Achilles Last Stand") goes from gorgeous balladry to high-intensity rocker with effortless skill, and the closing epic "A Link In The Chain" is just as good. This underappreciated masterwork is due wider recognition - along with the rest of Polvo's back catalogue.  

Marnie Stern. The Chronicles of Marnia (2013).

If there was a way I could describe my 2013 to anyone, I would just ask them to play The Chronicles of Marnia in its entirety. From the wild and whimsical chant of Marnie Stern at the start of "Year Of The Glad" and all way to the euphoric fade-out at the end of "Hell Yes". 

Okay, for those who do not know. Marnie Stern is a singer-songwriter from New York whose guitar-playing is so good you will want to see her live just to prove that this is, indeed, possible. The one criticism you could sometimes see levelled at her was that her songwriting did not always catch up with her mercurial skills as a guitarist. Well, if there even was such a thing, you could not really raise that complaint in the face of tunes such as "Noonan", "Proof Of Life" and especially "Nothing Is Easy". This math-rock comes with style and with charm, I still cannot believe she has not released anything since.

On her guitar, Marnie shreds and swirls and tears, but Jesus Christ that "Nothing Is Easy" song is good. I could probably write a book about it and still not express the full extent of my admiration for everything that is happening there. The way it playfully goes from one jaw-dropping hook to another (vocal, melodic, instrumental, lyrical, whatever) is like a children's kaleidoscope gone mad.  

In fact, I will post it here so that more people will marvel at this classic. That, and the immortal line "You don't need a sledgehammer to walk in my shoes".