2023: Top Ten

I no longer want to pass any judgement. Each year is exactly like The Fall as described by John Peel: always different, always the same. 

10. Marnie Stern - The Comeback Kid

To me, Marnie Stern's comeback was one of the nicest surprises of the year. The album clocks in at 28 minutes, with not a second wasted. The melodies are mercurial and hook-filled, and when the whole thing is over, you want to play it all over again. Math-rock is mostly about the details, and the details here are absolutely euphoric.

Best song: "Nested"

9. Robert Forster - The Candle And The Flame

There is a heavy and emotional story behind this album, and the music is informed by it. However, even if you come here without any background knowledge, you will be struck by the intelligent, introspective songwriting filled with personality and wit. A couple of uneventful country-tinged ballads aside, this is quite brilliant.

Best song: "The Roads"

8. Baxter Dury - I Thought I Was Better Than You

If I am slightly disappointed with this album, it is only because I hold Baxter Dury in very high esteem. The excellently titled I Thought I Was Better Than You is merely 27 minutes long, and a couple of artistic choices are suspect, but he is such a good songwriter that he can thrill with so little. The melodies are as sharp as ever.

Best song: "Aylesbury Boy"

7. ANOHNI - My Back Was A Bridge For You To Cross

I had not enjoyed an Anthony Hegarty album as much as this since I Am A Bird Now (2005). This new LP is not trying to be difficult (the way Hopelessness tried to do, even with its cover). Instead, the sound is soulful, powerful and appealing without compromising on the personality.

Best song: "Rest"

6. Black Country, New Road - Live At Bush Hall

If anything, the BC,NR concert I attended this autumn made me appreciate the album even more. Because behind the whimsical vocals and eccentric chord changes, there are great musicians who know exactly where their strengths lie. Recorded live following the sudden departure of their vocalist/lyricist, Live At Bush Hall featured new material that could break your heart without giving you any idea why.

Best song: "Dancers"

5. Sparks - The Girl Is Crying In Her Latte

With a tacky cover and the previous album being somewhat of a disappointment, I was apprehensive. But I needn't have been: The Girl Is Crying In Her Latte is one of their best this century. It is diverse, witty, wildly melodic and has more things to say, artistically and creatively, than almost anyone around. Plus, "It's Sunny Today" is a charming update of Lou Reed's immortal "Perfect Day".

Best song: "Take Me For A Ride" 

4. PJ Harvey - I Inside The Old Year Dying

This should be taken as an album, not merely a collection of songs. Inspired by a poem she had written in Dorset's archaic dialect, I Inside The Old Year Dying is dark, folk-ish and unsettling. Would be impenetrable, too (what with those lyrics), were it not infused with her songwriting sensibilities. PJ's proclivity for artistic rebirth is unmatched by anyone.

Best song: "I Inside The Old I Dying"

3. Nicky Wire - Intimism

This was another pleasant surprise. Nicky Wire had hardly been known as a great songwriter (as evidenced by a quick comparison between James Dean Bradfield's and Wire's first solo albums), but this was terrific. Anthemic, clever, lush, catchy songs featuring uplifting lyrics and an unexpected dig at socialism. A joy, really.

Best song: "White Musk"  

2. Peter Gabriel - i/o

I may be growing old after all, I do not know, but Peter Gabriel's first album of all-new material in 20 years has almost topped this list. With 12 songs put out monthly over the course of 2023, i/o was finally released on the 1st of December. He had trinkled with it a lot, obviously, but it was almost worth it. A vast and serious album, with big choruses, elaborate arrangements and messages that seem too wise for our times.

Best song: "Four Kinds Of Horses"

1. Grian Chatten - Chaos For The Fly

I will have to repeat what I said back in June: as soon as I heard that Grian Chatten (of Fontaines D.C.) composed the entirety of this LP while walking on the beach once, staring at the Irish Sea, I knew this would be my album of the year. And it is. Chaos For The Fly is both raw and lush, its lyrics hit very hard (isn't "All Of The People" a bit too much, though?) and its melodic substance grips you and never lets go. 

Best song: "Fairlies"

***

Song of the Year.

Head says "Four Kinds Of Horses" by Peter Gabriel. Heart says it's "Kałychanka" by Lavon Volski, and it is heart I'm going for this year. 

Child's Christmas in Wales

One part of me wants to post the unfading "Fairytale of New York", especially the year that Shane MacGowan has passed away. Another part of me wants to post "This Is End Times" by Jim Bob for reasons that are just as obvious. But - no, we need to stray away from the obvious once in a while. This year, it will be "Child's Christmas in Wales" by John Cale, a song whose sound has always encapsulated the atmosphere of Christmas for me. Pastoral, delightful, warm. Even if the lyrics are not really festive at all... Merry Christmas!

Фільмы. СМЕЦЦЕВАЯ ГАЛАВА, КОТКА, ДЗЁННІК АНАСТАСІІ / 2022

Я разумею жаданне пайсці ў Прада ці ў Нацыянальную галерэю Лондана. Я разумею, калі жаданне гэтае лунае ўвесь час над галавой і перакрывае ўсё астатнее. Але ж які сэнс у працах старых майстроў, калі не з'яўляецца гэтай хваравітай, крыху вычварэнскай прагі да новага? Да музея ці невялічкай галерэі сучаснага мастацтва, з карцінамі без назваў, з відэазапісамі, дзе нічога не адбываецца, з інсталяцыямі, якія хочацца схаваць ад дзяцей? Мне падаецца, што гэтая прага мусіць быць, гэтае памкненне, гэты інтарэс. 

Так, яшчэ ў Менску я хадзіў на ранішнія сеансы "Лістапада", дзе дэманстравалі змрочныя дакументальныя стужкі, якія ніхто і ніколі ўжо не пабачыць. На Адэскім фестывалі я ўвесь тыдзень праводзіў у кінатэатрах і бачыў як безумоўна вялікае, так і зусім недарэчнае. Так адбывалася і на Варшаўскім кінафестывалі, дзе эксперымент суіснаваў з вялікай польскай традыцыяй. Я наогул люблю кінафестывалі, якімі б нязначнымі і малавядомымі яны не былі. Фестываль "Паўночнае ззянне" наўрад ці можна назваць малавядомым, але гэта ўсё ж падзея, ад якой чакаеш не столькі вялікіх кінастужак, колькі дзіўных цудаў. А таксама эксперыментаў і поўных правалаў. Тое, дарэчы, я і атрымаў. 

"Паўночнае ззянне" праходзіла для мяне ў фармаце анлайн, і пачалося са скандынаўскіх кароткаметражак. Сентыментальны чорна гумар дацкага Авантурыста, эфектнае расшчапленне часу напрыканцы фінскага Тууліккі... Адчуўшы пах крыві, я пачаў у нейкі момант шукаць цудаў і ў беларускіх фільмах, якія таксама дэманстраваліся ў межах кінафестывалю. Вось тры з іх.

"СМЕЦЦЕВАЯ ГАЛАВА" (2022) / Юрый Сямашка

Аднойчы, калі я вучыўся яшчэ ва ўніверсітэце і пісаў дыпломную працу па Тэатру Абсурда, я знайшоў забытую беларускую п'есу Ігара Сідарука "Галава". У гэтай п'есе былі паказаны асноўныя беларускія архетыпы, але галоўным персанажам была ўсё ж Галава, статычная і маўклівая, якая ўвесь час знаходзілася на сцэне (была пры гэтым папяровай, драўлянай і потым жалезнай), уплывала на жыццё беларусаў і вызывала страх у кожнага, хто знаходзіўся каля яе. 

Смеццевая галава, чорна-белы манафільм беларускага рэжысёра Юрыя Сямашкі, была для мяне своеасаблівым вяртаннем да старой п'есы Сідарука (пра якую, дарэчы, мне распавёў некалі Пятро Васючэнка). Галоўны герой, самотны смяцяр з Менску, знаходзіць аднойчы галаву, якая можа размаўляць. Смяцяр жыве ў дэпрэсіўнай хрушчоўцы, з сабакам па клічцы Прохар, і вось у нейкі момант у яго жыцці з'яўляецца смеццевая галава, якая выконвае пажаданні (калі яны ёсць). 

Фільм Юрыя Сямашкі, які паўстае тут таксама як аператар і адзіны актор, гэта менавіта тое, чаго я чакаю ад добрага фестывальнага эксперымента: шчырая прага да кіно, якая прадзіраецца скрозь маленькі бюджэт і захапленне раннім Лінчам. Гэта шурпата і няроўна, але гэта харызматычна, і гэта застаецца ў памяці.

КОТКА (2022) / Ната Карнеева

Яшчэ адзін беларускі фільм з праграмы фестываля - гэта вельмі кароткая і мінімалістычная стужка Котка. Фільм доўжыцца ўсяго 12 хвілін, вялікая частка з каторых - какаінавы трып. 

Усё пачынаецца з прыгожых планаў на будучыню. Гераіня дэманструе маладому чалавеку (мужу?) прататып дома, у якім яны будуць жыць. У голасе надзея і пяшчота. Потым адбываецца той самы трып, які доўжыцца вечнасць. Потым будучыня, якая нагадвае па змрочнай, непрагляднай атмасферы апошні фільм Андрэя Звягінцава. Усё ў фільме грунтуецца на недаказанасці, якая, на жаль, хавае звышпрадказальную гісторыю. 

"ДЗЁННІК АНАСТАСІІ" (2022) / Максім Буйніцкі

Шчыра кажучы, больш за ўсё ў гэтым годзе мяне цікавілі фільмы па-за межамі палітыкі. Бо палітыка, асабліва сённяшняя, не дазваляе аб'ектыўна ацэньваць творчасць. Бачачы яе, усюдыісную і непазбежную, хочацца расчуліцца і дараваць усё. І тым не менш, бывае (нават сёння), што яна ўсяго толькі фон, які падкрэслівае нешта важнае і спрадвечнае.

Дакументальны фільм Дзённік Анастасіі распавядае пра беларускую мастачку Анастасію Рыдлеўскую, якая была вымушана з'ехаць з Беларусі ў Гданьск. Палітыка тут - фон, які мігціць за шыбамі і раз за разам выпучвае сваю жудасную галаву, але палітыка - гэта яшчэ і тое, што мастачка мусіць пераадолець, каб захаваць сябе і свой талант. Але, на жаль, не толькі палітыку, бо тут і схільнасць да самагубства, нанясенне сабе шкоды і псіхічныя праблемы. А яшчэ - адданасць і любоў яе мужа, які захоўвае малюнкі і выявы Анастасіі на сваёй скуры.

Анастасія - гэта, канешне, сімвал беларускай рэчаіснасці. Беларускай эміграцыі, унутранай і знешняй. І яшчэ яна сімвал сённяшняга беларускага мастацтва. Шчырага і сапраўднага, якое прадзіраецца скрозь траўму і боль... Так цяжка, і так захапляльна, глядзець у яе вочы. 

Polish notes (November '23)

Graveyards of Poland... While I may never again experience anything quite like the spiritual dread I felt at Krakow's Rakowicki cemetery earlier this year, Stare Powązki in Warsaw is the place to go to at the start of November. The old cemetery was established in 1790 and is home to over a million graves (Krzysztof Kieślowski, Anna Bilińska and Chopin's parents are all buried here). It is a cold autumn evening with countless lanterns giving off warmth and red light. Everyone around is looking for a grave or talking about the dead, and even small kids are carrying flowers. A young violinist is playing Polonez Ogińskiego and there is a great sense of solemn beauty and calm about the place. The lanterns smell of wax and warm lemon, and I see people walking slowly through The Avenue of the Distinguished as well as the dimmest and the narrowest of alleys. It is essential to be here on the first of November to start to understand these people... Truly there is nothing like All Saints' Day in Poland. 

In the second half of November, there was a two-day art exhibition at Hali EXPO XXI. Warszawskie Targi Sztuki. Not simply an art exhibition but also a sale. Over a hundred art galleries from all over the country brought their best paintings in order to sell them at an attractive price (not too attractive, as we soon find out). There is a lot of diversity ranging from grotesque modern art to Polish classics to a huge area taken up by wooden statues that all resemble Alberto Giacometti. It was a great experience - mostly, though, I'm left with an image of an elderly man in a vintage green coat whispering to his wife as we walk past them: "Nie wiem, nie wiem...".

No one goes through life unscathed, and I guess this is my turn. The central Warsaw Urząd in Marszałkowska is not a welcoming place and yet you have to be here to have any chance at all, to prove something, to make a stand. The place is full of people in long gray coats, and they invariably resemble a famous Japanese anime character in an impenetrable white mask. Only there are lots of them here, and they all sit on chairs or stand along the walls - with lowered eyes, sucked in by the bureaucratic vortex, waiting for their number. At some point, there is a sound, unpleasant but oddly inspiring in the given circumstances, a number appears on the screen and another figure pulls their head out of the invisible hood, awkwardly pushes the chair they were sitting on, takes off the white mask and runs to their window. At the window, it could mean a failure or a happy end. Mostly, though, it means nothing. 

It was something of an odd experience - to be seeing the 50th movie by Woody Allen in French (the original language of the film) with Polish subtitles. But there is a true sense of event, not least because this is likely to be his final work. It is a fine little film, a cross between Scoop and Match Point, and its existence might have been predicted by the final scene of Hollywood Ending. There are not too many people in the cinema, so thankfully no one will find out that my French is even worse than my Polish. 

I love Polish trams, and when I build my route around Warsaw, I often neglect subway and buses. Somehow, trams seem to be the way to go around the city. There are many interesting characters here who demand to be written about, and you can often see them in one of the four incarnations of Warsaw trams. The modern ones, smooth and slick, that you want to be on when you are late. The older ones, divided into two parts, that have a slight whiff of Soviet past. The very old ones, with uncomfortable plastic seats, that you hop on when you do not care too much about your destination. And, finally, the ancient ones, the ones that only appear on holidays and with a steering mechanism that, miraculously, does not transport you to the start of the 20th century.

Shane MacGowan (1957-2023)

"Which song would you like to be played at your funeral?" Or, if you are a little more cynical, "Which song would you like to hear at your funeral?"

I guess we have all played this game. My answer has been different at various points of my life, but at the age of 25 or thereabouts I finally settled on the answer: "A Rainy Night In Soho" by The Pogues. It had that wistful melancholia that would not depress the mourners to death. It had that certain something that only Shane MacGowan could conjure. That breathtaking epiphany which only a drunk Irish poet could make real. 

Oh I do remember how I first came across The Pogues: in an old-fashioned house in the North of England, on a record shelf, in-between The Proclaimers and Simon & Garfunkel. All of a sudden, a timid, toothless smile of Shane MacGowan. On a whim, I chose to play "Sally MacLennane", and was blown to pieces within seconds. This was not quite "Bridge Over Troubled Water" or "Letter From America". This was fucking primordial, and ruthlessly poetic, and full of great energy I had never experienced before. 

And I would love him forever. At Christmas I would never get sick of the NYPD choir or the ringing bells. During one of the most brilliant episodes of The Wire, I would be charmed by a sudden but very appropriate climax of "The Body of an American". During my fascination with Irish literature, The Pogues would be the soundtrack. After University classes, I would come home and dance across the room to "If I Should Fall From Grace With God". And then, while playing that funeral game, I would always know what to say. "A Rainy Night In Soho", obviously, by Shane MacGowan. 

Later on, there would be plastic punks and cheap imitators - but he was the only one. The original one. The poet, the songwriter. Rest in peace. 

November Round-Up

It would be in bad taste to ignore 'the last' song by The Beatles that came out at the start of the month. Of course, even saying this phrase is silly and by this point the whole idea sounds like Paul McCartney's vanity project. Famously recorded by Lennon as a demo in the late 70s and hated by George Harrison (who refused to work on it for the third part of the Anthology series), it has finally come alive due to McCartney's dedication and the ability of AI to separate the voice from the piano. And... everything that needs to be said about it is that "Now And Then" is a bloody good song, touching and magical in that effortless way that only John Lennon could pull off. I rate it above "Free As A Bird" but a little below "Real Love". 

Charles Bissell has finally released his first new single from the upcoming album. "Old Death" came under the Car Colors moniker, and at this point, there are so many thoughts in my head that I do not even know what to say. After all, it has been 20 years of snippets and false hopes... So what do we have here? Almost exactly what you would expect: a meticulous indie rock concoction that feels a lot like Meadowlands on steroids. It sounds emotional, euphoric and tinkered with to absolute death. To the point where there is barely any breathing space left. To the point where there is no warmth and I grope desperately for a discernible tune. I have listened to this for a dozen times now over the last week, and the song's melodic substance still eludes me. I do enjoy the intensity as well as all those bells and whistles and horns, but mostly I just wish things had worked out differently for the Wrens. Still, good to have him back. The b-sides are very lovely.

The comeback I had been looking forward to the most, however, was Marnie Stern's first album in 10 years. And The Comeback Kid is all I ever wanted from her: intricate, intensely tuneful math rock. The melodies twist and turn and sometimes wriggle ecstatically out of your hands - so that you want to hear them again and again, just to capture the brilliance that proves elusive and endlessly intriguing. "Believing And Seeing", Nested", "Earth Eater"... The tricks she does with her guitar are pure magic, still. For me, a top ten album from 2023. 

Guided By Voices' third album this year, Nowhere To Go But Up, features an untypical cover but a sound you instantly recognise. I would say this is their second best from 2023, slightly behind Welshpool Frillies but ahead of La La Land. What distinguishes this particular LP is a very wholesome, consistent sound that brings to mind some of their albums from the early 2000s. Basically, power pop with a thrilling indie-rock edge. If you have any time for Robert Pollard, you will love this. 

Since I have given at least ten years of my life to The Theatre of the Absurd and Samuel Beckett in particular, I could not miss the new album by Madness. Theatre of the Absurd Presents C'est La Vie is a concept album full of music hall, convivial atmosphere and melodies that sometimes feel like second-rate Kinks. Good, but never quite convincing. A little laboured. The opening title song is magnificent, and there are scattered bits and pieces that I enjoy, but overall I need a little more subtlety. 

Ever since I heard A Larum (still in my heavy rotation), Johnny Flynn has been special to me. His voice and his folk melodies seem timeless, but there is a fear that his latest collaboration with Robert Macfarlane will disappear completely unnoticed. A shame, because The Moon Also Rises is one of his best. The songwriting is clever, whether he does upbeat stuff ("Uncanny Valley"), ballads ("Song With No Name", "Year-Long Winter") or folk anthems ("River, Mountain and Love"). This is folk music with charm and meat on its bones. 

Songs of the month:

Marnie Stern - "Nested"

The Beatles - "Now And Then"

Bill Ryder-Jones - "If Tomorrow Starts Without Me"

Johnny Flynn - "Song With No Name"

Madness - "Theatre of the Absurd"

Guided by Voices - "The Race Is On, The King Is Dead"

Альбом. "ЭМІГРАНТЫ" (2023) / Лявон Вольскі.

Часам я забываю пра Лявона Вольскага. Уключаю адзін з яго апошніх альбомаў, грузных і непаваротлівых, і хутка забываю. Бываюць там і натхнёныя песні кшталту "Палону" і "Майго кахання", але збольшага я сумую па лёгкасці. Быццам бы слухаючы тыя альбомы, я адчуваю не толькі музыку, але таксама і намаганні і творчыя пакуты, праз якія яны нараджаліся. Хутка я губляю інтарэс, пакуль аднойчы не чую тую добра знаёмую мелодыю, простую і бясспрэчную, якая нібыта гучыць па-за часам. Гэтым разам я пачуў "Калыханку", разрыдаўся і, вядома, вырашыў дачакацца новага альбома.

Ёсць дзве сутнасці Лявона Вольскага, гуллівая і сур'ёзная, лёгкая і цяжкая (а таксама "цяжкая"). Яны амаль ніколі не існуюць асобна (хіба што за выключэннем Крамбамбулі, але і там селядцы неяк ужываліся з абсэнтам), і за ўвесь гэты час я ўжо паспеў зразумець, што лепшы Вольскі - гэта роўнае спалучэнне дзвюх гэтых сутнасцей. Калі ёсць гэты парытэт, то адчуваецца менш перакосу, і неяк лягчэй прымірыцца з непаслядоўнай якасцю яго песень. Эмігранты, якія выйшлі ў сярэдзіне верасня, - гэта своеасаблівае вяртанне да канцэптуальнай эстэтыкі Народнага альбома. А яшчэ: запал, эклектыка, шаленства і некалькі выдатных песень.

На жаль, кожнае слова і кожны акорд альбома, усё шаленства і ўвесь той запал... усё прасякнута болем і смуткам. Эмігранты - гэта, канешне, пра нас. Пра тых, хто з'ехаў, і нават пра тых, хто застаўся. Бо так ці інакш, усе мы ў эміграцыі. Краіна скрадзеная, краіна, як пелі адойчы Ulis, у кратах. Мяркую, што чалавек, які слухае кранальны тэкст "Калядаў у Менску" у Варшаве ці ў Нью-Ёрку, адчувае прыкладна тое ж самае, што і чалавек, які слухае гэты тэкст у сённяшняй сталіцы Беларусі. Усе яны хочуць вярнуцца ў Менск на наступныя Каляды. Эмігранты - гэта канцэптуальнае выказванне пра страту і немагчымасць вярнуцца.

Альбом складаецца з дваццаці адной песні і пятнаццаці кароткіх дыялогаў/замалёвак пра жыццё ў эміграцыі, што робіць уражанне сапраўднага падарожжа. Падарожжа гэта няпростае, бо тут і пошукі кватэры, і бясконцыя пераезды, і незагойныя раны, і прыступы настальгіі. Вольскі стварае ўражлівы і часам захапляльны габелен з берлінаў, каліфорній і польскіх касцёлаў, і ўсё гэта пранізана нястрыманай і разбэшчанай музычнай эклектыкай. Ёсць ска, ёсць поп-панк, ёсць бардаўскія балады, ёсць дваравыя песні, ёсць жартаўлівыя мелодыі, якія ўступаюць у крывавы двубой з тваім разуменнем добрага густу.  

Шмат што ў альбоме падаецца мне другасным і слабым, шмат што проста прабягае міма. Мяне зусім не цікавіць той Вольскі, які запісвае песні кшталту "Не сумнявайся", але, як я пісаў вышэй, гэта своасаблівая плата за тое, каб пачуць "Беларускую траўму", "Куды і калі" ці тыя самыя "Каляды ў Менску". Бо хоць Вольскаму і бракую крыху творчага фільтра, калі ён трапляе, то трапляе так, як ніводзін іншы музыка ў Беларусі.  

Вяртаючыся ж да "Калыханкі", то мне падаецца, што гэта яго новыя простыя словы. І тым і гэтым разам яны былі напісаныя іншым чалавекам (Міхалам Анемпадыставым і Аляксандрам Лукашуком), але робяцца сапраўды няўміручымі дзякуючы кранальнай, бездакорнай мелодыі Вольскага. Такой, што ўвесь час пытаешся ў самога сябе: няўжо ніхто дагэтуль не напісаў яе?..

PJ Harvey in Warsaw, 25.10

It is worth remembering your first experience of a music club. Mine was about 20 years ago, and the Soho club named after a Van Morrison song is now long defunct. There is a possessed vocalist of an electronic trio screaming something about wooden toys. There is an indie band I came to see creating such an ungodly racket that I can hardly tell the drums from the bass guitar. I walk out of the club late at night, bruised and traumatised, gasping for air. A first experience like that was bound to haunt me again and again... Which is why there would be greatness and great beauty, but mostly there would be an atmosphere of restlessness and distortion. Chaos, basically.

With PJ Harvey, it is different from the very beginning. First, there is no random playlist before the concert, featuring "Sweet Child Of Mine" and "Stayin' Alive". Instead, there is that subtle crackling sound meant to create a mood. Second, the moment she enters the stage everything else shrivels and dies and a certain chamber atmosphere is established in the club. It will be sustained until the end, regardless of whether she will be playing "Dress", "White Chalk" or something from her latest album. 

Each song is like a theatrical performance. She does a pantomime, she moves around the stage with dignity and precision, and I am in tears before she even starts singing. The set is divided into two parts. Part one is the first album in its entirety, with songs separated by the sounds of birds chirping, branches crackling, bells chiming and children screaming in the distance. Also, there is Polly walking to different parts of the stage, looking pensively, staring intently, getting into the mood of the next song. A lot of thought went into this show, and it pays off: the album comes alive in the chamber atmosphere of Palladium, gains in weight and loses none of its unnerving beauty and uneasy dreaminess. Her vocals are powerful, and even the quieter songs exude great charisma.

Then there is a brief intermission when the other band members do an effective rendition of "The Colour of the Earth" (with the claps so irresistible the audience joins in). Following that, there are the jingoistic horns and the strumming rush of "The Glorious Land" which is one of the most emotional moments of the already emotional show. "Angelene", "Man-Size", "To Bring You My Love" - with a catalogue as vast and diverse as that, choosing what to play could not be easy. Oddly, there is nothing from the acclaimed Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea... But since to me that album has always meant a sudden loss of identity, I do not complain. 

She knows exactly what she is doing, and you accept the show on her terms. PJ Harvey's world inhabits the Polish club, like it inhabits her albums (whichever genre and style she chooses to go for) and any live performance she has ever done. For once, the distortion is controlled, the chaos is tamed and the noise turns, well, noiseless. "White Chalk" she does as an encore leaves me breathless, and then it is all over. We are back to the crackling noise coming from the giant speakers.

Polish notes (September-October '23)

There is a place in Warsaw that genuinely scares me. It is located behind Ujazdowski park, between the Embassy of France and the Embassy of Germany. It is not even a place, really, just a spot. An object. An installation. A telephone booth. It is white in colour and in order to reach it you need to walk on the wooden footpath platform that leads you over the green lawn. The actual door to the booth is quite rigid and it takes an effort to get it open. Once inside, there is a heavy thud and an odd feeling of anxiety that intensifies as you pick up the receiver and hear the whooshing sound of wind. Then you notice a memorial book, and some strange dots of instinct and imagination start to connect. I have once dreamed this place up, I have seen it in several of my nightmares. The idea comes from Japan, from a man who had built a phone booth just like that in order to talk to his dead cousin. It is with a heavy heart that I put down the receiver and leave the telephone booth. Not because there is no one. But, rather, because there are too many, and the wind is not loud enough.

In Mochnackiego St., in the centre of Old Ochota, lies the best cafe in Warsaw. It is called La Buvette and it was opened a few years ago by a French immigrant from Alsace. The man looks like a less glamorous Johnny Depp and you can often see him in the cafe cutting bread or talking to someone about Strasbourg. The menu is brief but to the point: French wine, warm tartines (for which we are willing to come every day), cheese, baguettes and ham. The place offers authentic snails and even desserts, but that is not why you are here in late September. You come because the evenings are already cool, but you still want to sit on the small terrace surrounded by historical architecture of Kolonia Lubeckiego. Because all you want to do in autumn is to defy autumn. La Buvette is one of the best kept secrets of Warsaw, and the ideal place to do it.  

Saska Kępa is special. While I will never prefer it to Kolonia Lubeckiego, it is an absolute thrill to come here on a warm Sunday in early October. Interestingly, there is little to no striking architecture here. As you walk away from the National Stadium and Rondo Washyngtona and enter Francuska St. with its small cafes, hanging umbrellas and broad terraces, you notice square-shaped houses that strongly resemble one another. They should look dull but they don't. Infused with the bohemian past of the area, they appear substantial rather than bland. Besides, there is a man nearby carrying a huge painting. A plaque with the name of a local artist. Two young men shooting black and white photos. There are streets stretching in different directions away from Francuska St., and they reveal local wonders. Saska Kępa looks like a world unto itself - but a generous world, ready to host you on any given Sunday in the middle of Indian Summer.

While I missed the Warsaw Film Festival due to a sudden vacation, there was still time for the ultimate cinema experience of watching the three and a half hours of Scorsese's latest film. Four, in fact, as apparently there is nothing that can make Polish cinemas cut back on trailers and advertisements. Still, the film could go on for a couple of more hours for all I care as the quiet acting of Lily Gladstone gripped me like nothing else in recent memory.  

On Halloween, there is a knock on the door, and it catches me off-guard. Because I am not thinking about the kids. I am not thinking about anything as I open the door and see the six of them - in elaborate make-up, dressed as witches. "Cukierek albo psikus!" And oh my God, I'm not prepared. I have nothing, and they are waiting with a sinister kind of patience. I tell them to hang on for a minute, return to the apartment and grope for cupboards seeking desperately - seeking anything that remotely resembles sweets. Nothing! Will apples do? Black tea? Avocado? In the end, there is a cautious sigh of relief as my fingers detect a cardboard box at the back of a top shelf. Belarusian sweets, two years old, abandoned and probably stale. But they are my only hope - and soon I reemerge from behind the door and hand them over to the little witches. There is an uncomfortable pause. Apparently, they had been expecting something else. Still, they take the box, mutter their collective gratitude and vanish on the dark landing. Halloween is big in Poland. I have to remember it next year.

The Central Station in Warsaw is a lonesome place. Or it can be when the evening settles down, crowds disappear and you wait for someone. My old professor of English Literature emerges from behind a faceless railway bakery and we embrace and try to cram a million words into a brief meeting. There is so much to say, in English, in Belarusian, in Russian and even in Polish, before his train to Poznań and before the station is switched off (because it has to be switched off, at some point), that we often say nothing. "Do not come back to Belarus", he insists before we say our goodbyes. "Do not even think about coming back". The Central Station, meanwhile, is empty but never entirely dark.

October Round-Up

This month, The Rolling Stones have released their latest 'best since Some Girls' album. Except it is different this time, because with Jagger and Richards getting close to the age of a resilient Galápagos tortoise and with the final song being a cover of Muddy Waters' "Rolling Stone Blues", Hackney Diamonds must really be their last LP. Much has been made of the awful cover as well as Andrew Watt's crass production (this Quietus article is masterful), but listen to the actual songs. Even the much-maligned "Angry" single has a decent vocal hookline. Elsewhere, the Charles Watts featuring "Mess It Up" and the obligatory Keith Richards ballad ("Tell Me Straight") are the highlights. Not their best since Some Girls, obviously, but fuck the naysayers - this is a good album.

Another unexpected comeback album was released by Crime & The City Solution. The Killer has come ten years after the excellent American Twilight. It is not nearly as good, sadly, as the songwriting feels a little forced and disjointed. Still, there is always something intriguing about the edges of their dark, uncomfortable post-rock. As for The Menzingers, I am now convinced they will never be able to approach the songwriting peak that was On The Impossible Past (2012). Some Of It Was True is fine, I guess, but this is The Menzingers by numbers, and only "There's No Place In This World For Me" has any spark to it. 

October has seen the release of two songs called "Run Run Run". One was The Feelies' cover of the Lou Reed song and appeared on the album Some Kinda Love featuring live performances of The Velvet Underground classics. It is a delightful little exercise, and The Feelies do it with effortless energy. The other "Run Run Run" (God, is there a more abused song title in rock'n'roll?) came by way of The Libertines who are releasing their new album in March next year. I would not go as far as to say that Carl Barât has lost it (still, when was the last time he came up with an inspired tune?), but this first single has the driest chorus ever heard on a Libertines release. 

Occasionally I find the critical reverence for Sufjan Stevens a little grating, but Javelin is very lovely indeed. Monotonous, samey, a little predictable - but has the inherent charm that breaks the defences. "Will Anybody Ever Love Me?" is a strikingly beautiful ballad with a chord progression that is extremely recognisable yet still irresistible. However, a much more special album for me was Mary Lattimore's Goodbye, Hotel Arkada which revealed a new layer with each listen. The inventive minimalism of these soundscapes feels endlessly intriguing. 

Ttrruuces caught my attention in Berlin last month with their tunes and their on-stage confidence - but how do they fare in studio? Well, they are good, and Jjuuiices is a decent follow-up to their 2020 debut, but while it is diverse and catchy and brilliantly irreverent, the album is seriously lacking in signature songs like "The Disco", "Bad Kids" and "Sensations of Cool".

Finally, the biggest news of October came from Charles Bissell. Apparently, The Wrens are dead and the man's new project is called Car Colors. The new album is going to be released next year (inevitable now), and the first single is coming out on the 17th of November. Buckle up, the twenty year wait is almost over...  

Black Country, New Road in Warsaw, 23.10

At some point, "Like A Prayer" by Madonna stops playing and the stage grows dim. The audience, and there are many of us on a Monday night in Club Niebo in the centre of Warsaw, becomes very hushed and very vocal all at the some time. This is a classic moment, one we have witnessed a thousand times before. What we absolutely do not expect is to then hear the relentless Eastern riff of "Kashmir". The audience goes 'huh?' and then the music of Led Zeppelin erupts in those theatrical blasts which, among other things, mark the arrival of the musicians. It is a great moment, as clever and unpredictable as it is absolutely hysterical. 

                        photo by Amanda M Hatfield

This is not the only surprise of the show, either. Because as soon as the band rips into the inevitable "Up Song", the audience goes insane. All of a sudden, most of the people start jumping up and down with the sort of passionate vigour I last saw at a Menzingers gig in Dublin more than ten years ago. In fact, this will happen several times during the show, and at some point Charlie Wayne (the drummer) will admit that they had never seen this much movement at their concerts. Polish audience certainly have their own way of doing things. Last year, in Gdańsk, I witnessed them push Nick Cave into performing "The Weeping Song" for the first time during the tour. 

Or maybe it is Black Country, New Road themselves that make the audience go wild? One of the greatest, most powerful and inventive rock bands currently in business. Who lost their vocalist and lyricist last year soon after the release of Ants From Up There (an album destined to be considered a perennial classic in years to come) but who refused to give up. "Look at what we did together, BC,NR friends forever...". They mean it, too.

The songs they do in Warsaw are the same songs they have been doing live since last year. They do not touch the two acclaimed LPs from 2021 and 2022 and instead, rely on songs composed after the sudden departure of Isaac Wood. Basically, what we are getting is this year's Live at Bush Hall with three new songs plus a short improvisation between the "Dancers" and the reprise of "Up Song". But these are incredible songs played with the kind of gusto and charm the band is known for. The musicianship is breathtaking, and the interplay of the violin, the saxophone, the drums, the pianos and the guitars is this never-ending orgasm of crescendos and creative twists. They know what catharsis means. Their songs are nervy but full of substance. 

Of the older material (well, relatively - Live at Bush Hall was released in February this year), I would say the extended piano-based "Turbines / Pigs" is a highlight, beautifully exploring as it does rises and falls, multiple melodies and moods. Of the newer material, both "For The Cold Country" and "Nancy Tries To Take The Night" sound like some of their best and most adventurous work yet. 'Your new album will be fire!' screams someone from the crowd, loudly and with a deliberately bad English accent. They smile, awkwardly, but there is no escaping the fact that it will be exactly that. Because they have the taste and the chops. 

What makes Black Country, New Road so special? What is the source of all this greatness, precisely? Many things. It is the musicianship. The cooky lyrics that have this odd way of speaking to you. The emotional substance (the bassist Tyler Hyde goes teary-eyed as the Polish crowd starts chanting 'BC,NR!' towards the end of the concert). But mostly, and I feel very strongly about this, it is the actual songs. Complex yet appealing. Ecstatic one moment, subdued the next. Adventurous and laden with hooks. After all, how can you leave the show without singing that line of "Dancers"? Or even the long and twisted chorus of "Across the Pond Friend" where the complexity is dwarfed so beautifully by charm?

They leave the stage to the sounds of "Kashmir", and we go full circle. This is a very special band.

Кніга. "РАЙЦЭНТР" (2020) / Таня Скарынкіна.

З таго самага моманту, калі я даведаўся пра існаванне гэтай кнігі, я шукаў магчымасць яе знайсці. На паперы, у электроннай версіі, як заўгодна. Але тут, у Варшаве, яе не было. Не было, здавалася, ва ўсёй Польшчы. Тым не менш, я працягваў шукаць. Дзеля гэтай кнігі я паехаў, напрыклад, на кніжную выставу ў Беласток. Быў цёплы канец красавіка, Беласток звыкла нагадваў Гродна, і я ведаў, што мне пашанцуе. "Таня?" запытаў я. "Скарынкіна?" Але ж, вядома, ніякага "Райцэнтра" тут не было. Былі Бахарэвіч і Вежнавец, Пясецкі і Кульбак. Падавалася, што Таня Скарынкіна - гэта цалкам выдуманы персанаж. Як, дарэчы, і яе кніга. 

Тым часам, ідэя-фікс перарасла ў апантанасць, і ва ўсёй беларускай літаратуры мяне вабіў ужо адзін толькі твор. Было б цікава вывучыць прыроду гэтых дакучлівых ідэй, гэтай прымхлівай апантанасці, бо яна здараецца са мной усё часцей. Праблема вырашылася хутка і банальна, як заўсёды. У нейкі момант я зайшоў у інтэрнэт і пабачыў, што "Райцэнтр" Тані Скарынкінай можна набыць каля нашага дома ў Менску. Што і зрабіла мая сястра на наступны ж дзень. А ўжо праз тыдзень я трымаў у руках запаветную кнігу ў невыразнай сіняй вокладцы.  

"Райцэнтр" быў надрукаваны ў выдавецтве Пфляўмбаўм у 2020 годзе. Кніга атрымала другую прэмію Ежы Гедройца, саступіўшы непазбежнай аповесці Евы Вежнавец (пра якую гаворка ішла ў студзені), але абышоўшы выдатнага "Локісава" Артура Клінава і "Жэтон не метро" Андрэя Федарэнкі. "Райцэнтр" - надзвычайна простая кніга. Па сутнасці, гэта зборнік эсэ/рэпартажаў пра родны горад аўтаркі. Ёсць тут, канешне, і Менск, і Варшава, і нават Партугалія, але так ці інакш сюжэты гэтых маленькіх твораў заўсёды вяртаюцца ў Смаргонь. З добрым гумарам, з чароўнай трасянкай - у горад, дзе хочацца быць.

Бо шмат што можна знайсці ў невялікім горадзе на захадзе Беларусі. Па сутнасці, у ім нічога не адбываецца, але Таня Скарынкіна паўстае чалавекам, які можа напісаць верш пра будзённы позірк у краме і правесці ланцужок ад суседа па Вілейскай вуліцы да Холдэна Колфілда. Праз старыя фота, успаміны, нататкі і дыктафон Скарынкіна стварае кантраст, перад якім немагчыма ўстаяць. Бо тут і выпадковая сустрэча з Мулявіным, і квартэра ад Шамякіна і падабенства паміж старым фотаздымкам і карцінай Ганса Гальбэйна. Тут - гэта ў яе дома, у Смаргоні. 

Прыкмета добрага пісьменніка - гэта не толькі ўменне заўважыць Бога на панурай вуліцы і на аўтобусным прыпынку. Прыкмета добрага пісьменніка - гэта яшчэ і здольнасць прыгожа пісаць пра ежу. Аўтарка робіць гэта ў эсэ "Абараны, балваны, сліжыкі, чарнушкі", якое прасякнута шчырай любоўю да традыцыйных беларускіх страў на Куццю. Адчуваецца пах і нават смак. Але ж амплітуда інтарэсаў даволі вялікая, і ёсць тут і кіно, і насякомыя, і пятлісты аповед пра прагу паліць. Дарэчы, такім паўстае кожнае эсэ "Райцэнтра", развілістым і разгалінаваным. Гісторыя, як тая плынь, шукае і знаходзіць новыя напрамкі, але заўсёды вяртаецца да свайго пачатку. Гэта, дарэчы, тая мастацкая таямніца, пра якую неаднаразова піша і сама аўтарка.

У нейкі момант пачынаеш заўважаць, як шмат Скарынкіна ахоплівае ў гэтай кнізе. З гісторыі, з традыцый, з простых жыццёвых акалічнасцей. Яе стыль просты, але дакладны і непасрэдны. Прыстунічаюць і нерв, і гумар, і пэўная эмацыйнасць. Так, як і у кожным аповедзе сяброў, суседзей і сваякоў, кожны з каторых з вялікай ахвотай распавядае пра маленькія і вялікія гісторыі свайго жыцця. Якія, можа, і не заўсёды адпавядаюць рэчаіснасці, але якія нічога ад гэтага не губляюць. Адчуваецца, што цікаўнасць Скарынкінай шчырая, яна ўмее слухаць і знаходзіць сувязь паміж новым і старым, сучасным і мінулым. Так, што сумная безэмацыйнасць водкладкі толькі падкрэслівае мастацкую вынаходлівасць зместу.  

"Не хапае кіношнасці ў правінцыйным жыцці", піша Таня Скарынкіна ў эсэ "Жыццё і смерць казурак". Сваімі адсылкамі і цытатамі, сувязямі і ланцужкамі, яна стварае дзіўны свет, які існуе на мяжы рэальнасці і міфа. І галоўнае ў ім тое, што ў гэтым свеце, гэтым райцэнтры, хочацца быць. Ён прыцягвае нечаканым кіношным святлом і гэтай самай чароўнай правінцыйнасцю. Напэўна, з гэтай прычыны я так хацеў яго знайсці - у тым месцы, дзе яго, здавалася б, і не павінна было існаваць. Але ён тут ёсць, і быў, напэўна, увесь час. Ну і потым... "Райцэнтр" - гэта яшчэ і калекцыя цікавых гісторый.

Baxter Dury in Berlin, 29.09

Berlin may be the place to see Baxter Dury perform live. (It is a toss-up between Berlin and Paris, but I am currently leaning towards the former.) It is a city of heartache and bombast, intense disco and total alienation, sophistication and wild excesses. It is a city of many moods and complex history, and it is a place where Baxter Dury feels right at home. As he himself swears and confesses, breathes out and screams (quite orgasmically, no doubt), it is the only city that matters. And I guess this is true. When you are in Berlin, there is only Berlin. 

As I approach Columbia Theater later in the evening (there is a distinctly old-fashioned sign that I shoot in faded black and white), I notice a long queue of kids aged from 18 to 20. They all look different and yet completely the same: black T-shirts, dyed hair, New Balance sneakers. I admire their discipline and their patience, and I have a very hard time imagining that they have all come here to see Baxter Dury. They have not. As it happens, they are queueing up to get into the nearby building (Columbiahalle) for a concert of their own. 

There is no queue to the actual Columbia Theater. Even though the tickets have been sold out a while ago and the doors have stood open for half an hour. Also, those who have come to Dury's show are, ostensibly, not 18 to 20. They are middle-aged and mostly middle class, and this is their fuck-it moment, their freak-out night. Short leather skirts for women and Pretenders T-shirts for men (beers for everyone). Well, they get into it straight away, long before Baxter Dury hits the stage. 

Quite honestly, I get into it, too, as the opening act is genuinely, irresistibly good. The band is called Ttrruuces, and they sound a lot better than their name. They play a rough mix of discoed-up indie pop that comes with charisma and strong hooks. They look confident, too, and their songs have titles like "STFU" and "Sensations of Cool". The singer is so full of swagger that we all just throw our hands up in the air and admire the cheek. At one point she asks the German crowd to cancel her, and at another shouts 'Meet your new favourite band!" Well, they are not quite there yet (not with Baxter Dury performing later tonight), but they certainly have the tunes to back it all up. "Disco" is a certified banger, and "Sensations of Cool" is one of the best pop songs I've heard in a while. 

Half an hour later, Ttrruuces join us in the audience and get humbled, so charmingly and with such suave professionalism, by Mr. Dury. He arrives on stage after the elegantly dressed young bassist ('the prettiest, the most talented of us', as Baxter claims towards the end of the show), the keyboard player / backing singer in a striking bearskin hat (she looks so French that everything else that happens in Columbia Theater feels like some sort of barbarism) and the big drumming guy who will keep the perfect beat all through the night. Baxter Dury's sartorial sense is impeccable, obviously, and coupled with his expressive moves (which will get very expressive at some point), it creates a unique atmosphere that presents him as this off-kilter poet, both sensitive and low-key thuggish.

The first song he does is "Leak at the Disco", and it remains one of his greatest songwriting achievements: subtle, mysterious and utterly gripping. It is a perfect introduction, and the audience goes crazy as the intensity increases and the song breaks into its anthemic final act. Throughout the night, he will be choosing songs from nearly all of his albums (favouring his latest LP, obviously). There will be elegant, introspective stuff ("Happy Soup", "Palm Tree"), and there will be more harder-edged songs from the second part of his discography ("Slumlord", "Leon"). Berlin crowd will go insane during the relentless groove of "Miami" and will be genuinely moved during the closing, inevitable "Prince of Tears". Baxter Dury is big in Germany.

He leaves us after an hour and a half, with the intense and club-like "These Are My Friends" that could seem too straight in the face and just too fucking much - but not after a night like this. Because, and he repeats it again and again, this is Berlin and we are his friends. And there is no questioning his words. Outside, meanwhile, the kids are nowhere to be seen. Instead, there are lots of disorganised middle-aged couples, tastefully drunk and buzzing with joyful abandon. 

September Round-Up

Too late to be a Slowdive fan now. Too fucking late, and the fault is all mine. I came too late to the party, and despite the undeniable woozy charms of Souvlaki and the shoegaze brilliance of early stuff like "Avalyn II", I feel a little out of place in a world inhabited by Slowdive-loving people. everything is alive is a fine album that exists in a lovely space between shoegaze and dream pop, but catharsis is in short supply. Still, I enjoy the album, not least because I saw them perform a few of these songs at a Polish festival two months ago. They were inspired live, a little more so than in the studio.

Why is it that The National bore me to tears, and Matt Berninger's solo album from 2020 remains such a low-key triumph of bittersweet melancholia? A mystery. On the 18th of September (that is, ostensibly not on a Friday), The National released their second LP of the year. One would have been enough, but apparently it was always going to be a two-album project. Is Laugh Track any better than Two Pages of Frankenstein? Marginally, I guess, but overall this is the same old mellow, watered-down, vaguely melodic indie rock that teases but rarely delivers. I appreciate it that they try to shake things up with the closing 8-minute "Smoke Detector", and it definitely threatens to be something, but what it ultimately ends up being is a frustrating post-punk understatement. 

As for Teenage Fanclub, my expectations are so low these days that I almost count Nothing Lasts Forever as a tepid success. Overall, you know what you are going to get: three songs with the word 'light' in them and power-pop melodies which barely have any power to them. The songs are good, catchy and well-written, but also very anaemic and formulaic. That said, I might imagine a Teenage Fanclub compilation with the sweet-pounding "Self-Sedation". The title of that song, though, is painfully truthful. 

I have always been intrigued by the otherworldly songwriting of Kristin Hersh, which is both charming and a little spooky. Her latest, Clear Pond Road, is somewhat slight compared to her best work (Hips and Makers from 1994), but stuff like "Dandelion" and "Thank You, Corner Blight" is full of that tasteful, guitar-drenched lushness that has defined her sound. 

Sadly, I still do not understand what it is that I am supposed to find in Mitski. The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We is another critically acclaimed album from this songwriter who writes extremely pretty melodies that all go to very dull places. Take the country-tinged "Heaven", for instance. Lovely as hell, and sounds absolutely amazing (the album is masterfully produced) - but when she intones 'heaven' in the chorus, she sounds beautiful more than she sounds inspired. 

Pretenders are back, and their latest album is called Relentless. These days, Pretenders are Chrissie Hynde, drummer Martin Chambers and a few non-original members who never seem to make any mess of it. Relentless is a good late-period Pretenders album, with that signature guitar sound and a number of melodies worth keeping. Ultimately, the album is saved by Hynde's personality that makes average songs sound good ("Domestic Silence") and good songs sound great ("A Love"). Quite a few ballads here, mind you, so if you do not like her mellower side (I do), you might struggle with the lengthy and slightly over-dramatic closer "I Think About You Daily".

What world are we living in if Will Butler's new album sounds a lot more exciting than Arcade Fire's recent output? But that is indeed the case. Will Butler + Sister Square is a mess, an absolutely unhinged hodgepodge of styles and moods (soulful punk, disco grooves, moody acoustic balladry, minimalist piano freak-outs). But it matters not. This is still the most entertaining record I have heard all month. For the record, Will's two previous solo albums are good, too ("Fine" remains an absolute classic). 

Songs of the month:

Bill Ryder-Jones - "This Can't Go On"

Johnny Flynn & Robert Macfarlane - "Uncanny Valley"

Pretenders - "A Love"

Teenage Fanclub - "Self-Sedation"

Will Butler + Sister Squares - "Arrow Of Time"

Фільм. "Купала" (2020) / Уладзімір Янкоўскі.

Ёсць, напэўна, мільён розных спосабаў акрэсліць розніцу паміж тэатрам і кіно. Тым не менш, лепшае, што я чуў, гучыць прыкладна так. У тэатры можна выйсці на сцэну і сказаць: "Добры дзень, мы - на Марсе". І гэта ўсё. Гледачы зразумеюць, што яны на чырвонай планеце. У кіно гэта немагчыма, бо калі ты захочаш перанесці гісторыю на Марс, спатрэбіцца пабудаваць яго. Альбо, канешне, сесці ў касмічны карабель і паляцець туды з усімі акцёрамі і здымачнай групай.

Мой галоўны закід да фільма "Купала" звязаны з яго звыштэатральнасцю. Мне дэманструюць вугал старога будынка з прыгожай лепкай і кажуць - Пецярбург. Мне паказваюць інтэр'ер вёскі-музея "Азярцо" каля Менска і кажуць - Вязынка, Вілейскі павет. Мне паказваюць яшчэ адзін інтэр'ер таго самага "Азярца" і кажуць - школа, дзе вучыўся Янка Купала. Нягледзячы на тое, што ўяўленне гледача мусіць працаваць увесь час, штучнасць рэплік і бутафорыя дэкарацый пачынае ў нейкі момант замінаць задавальненню ад прагляду стужкі. Калісьці гэтая тэатральная бутафорыя не замінала, напрыклад, "Дзікаму паляванню караля Стаха" (1979), бо ідэальна спалучалася са змрочнай, гатычнай стылістыкай рамана Караткевіча. Тут, на жаль, гэта выглядае не вельмі сур'ёзна і не дазваляе адчуць ані маштабнасць праекта, ані веліч постаці выбітнага беларускага пісьменніка.

Гісторыя ў фільма складаная. Дастаткова сказаць, што здымаўся ён на "Беларусьфільме" пры ўдзеле такіх людзей, як дызайнер і мастак Уладзімір Цэслер. Сёння такое супрацоўніцтва падаецца жартам, шалёнай фантазіяй, але калісьці (да 2020 года, напрыклад), такое сапраўды адбывалася. Магчыма было ўжываць такія словы, як "рэвалюцыя", "палітвязні", "нацыянальнае адраджэнне", "беларуская мова", "знішчаная дзяржаўнасць" і г.д. І я не кажу ўжо нават пра заклік "Жыве Беларусь!", які стварыў аднойчы той самы Янка Купала. Але так, сёння можна толькі высока ўздымаць бровы і нервова глядзець па баках. Сёння ўжо не здзіўляе той факт, што фільм забаранілі хутка пасля прэм'ернага паказу. Быў 2020 год, і рэчаіснасць змянілася. Свет змяніўся. Мінулае змянілася.

Словы і ідэі заўсёды іх пужалі. Вось і цяпер - цяжка нават уявіць той вусцішны жах, які яны, канешне, адчулі падчас кароткай размовы пра тое, што аднойчы Беларусь была часткай... Вялікага Княства Літоўскага.

"Купала" - гэта біяграфічны фільм, які пачынаецца з канца. Кожны беларус ведае трагедыю са школьных часоў: у 1942 годзе, крыху не дажыўшы да 60, Янка Купала ўпаў у лесвічны пралёт дзесятага паверха маскоўскага гатэля. Ніхто так ніколі і не высветліў дакладна, што гэта было, самагубства, няшчасны выпадак альбо НКУС. Не робяць гэтага і стваральнікі фільма, прынамсі не напрамую (замест гэтага, яны прапаноўваюць атмасферны момант з дзвярыма ў нумары паэта - не новы, але моцны і прыгожы мастацкі прыём). "Купала" - гэта аповед пісьменніка сваёй маці, напалову пераказ жыцця, напалову споведзь перад смерцю. 

Дзяцінства, першыя вершы, праца ў "Нашай Ніве", Паўлінка (а таксама "Паўлінка"), Масква і Пецярбург, жаніцьба, ціск з боку чэкістаў. Янка Купала паўстае ідэйным, яле крыху малахольным і не вельмі пераканаўчым прадстаўніком беларускай інтэлігенцыі першай паловы дваццатага стагоддзя. Ці ёсць тут нешта большае за змест школьных падручнікаў? Так, безумоўна, але асабістае жыццё Купалы падаецца схематычным (апошняя сцэна пісьменніка з Паўлінкай анічым не падмацаваная), а размовы з органамі савецкай бяспекі нагадваюць мільён падобных сцэн з іншых фільмаў і кніг. Тым не менш, менавіта апошні акт "Купалы" выклікае найбольшае эмацыйнае напружанне, і гэта не толькі спрадвечная гісторыя пра мастака і сістэму, але і наша рэчаіснасць, якая надае гэтым сцэнам дадатковае, новае вымярэнне. 

Першапачаткова фільм задумваўся як тэлесерыял, і гэта адчуваецца ў нагрувашчванні падзей, якія ў нейкі момант перастаюць свабодна дыхаць і пачынаюць узнікаць самі сабой, як непазбежная працэсія, праз коску. Музыка добрая (ці існуе ў гісторыі мелодыя больш бездакорная і бяспройгрышная, чым "Канон рэ мажор" Пахельбеля?), а рэдкія моманты мастацкай смеласці кажуць пра вялікі патэнцыял (напрыклад, сцэна з мёртвай рыбай перад пачаткам вайны). Ігра акцёраў якасная, хоць і крыху тэатральная (некаторыя персанажы фільма размяўляюць выключна слоганамі), і напрыканцы эмоцыі ўсё ж адольваюць цябе і ты нават перастаеш супраціўляцца... Але што гэта? Фільм? Змрочная эпоха? Жыццё Купалы? Ці жудасная рэчаіснасць 2023 года?

Цяжка сказаць. Добра, што гэты фільм існуе - фільм з добрым сэрцам і добрымі намерамі. Мне хацелася б сказаць - выдатны фільм, яле я не хачу ставіцца да беларускага мастацтва як да кволага пацыента, якога трэба ўвесь час падтрымліваць прыемным словам і літасцівай хлуснёй. Упэўнены, што яно заслугоўвае большага. І ўсё ж "Купалу" варта глядзець, бо гэта важны дакумент нашага часу. Бо ўрок ужо не толькі і не столькі гэты фільм, колькі сумная гісторыя вакол яго стварэння і яго жыцця.

Pete Townshend: worst to best

Pete Townshend was my first music hero, and I do not really know what else to add to it. These are his seven solo albums, ranked. 

7. The Iron Man (1989)

For years, I had been avoiding this album like plague. Slammed by critics and fans alike, it did not exactly pique my curiosity. Late eighties? A musical based on a children's story? Partially sung by people not named Pete Townshend? I cared, but I did not care enough. This time, though, I sat myself down, put my headphones on, gave it a good listen... and did not die. Mind, please, that this is a very British, heavily intoned 'fine' that will probably keep me from returning to this album in the foreseeable future. I count one great song here, the powerful and melodic "Dig" (sung by Roger Daltrey, performed by The Who), and one ridiculous embarrassment, the Nina Simone-sung "Fast Food". The rest of the LP is a listenable collection of show tunes with a watered down edge that bore and amuse and ultimately serve to remind you that Pete Townshend had not yet lost it entirely. Not by that point. 

Best song: "Dig"

6. Psychoderelict (1993)

Yet another concept album, but this one is completely insane. It features twenty-one songs which are demos, odd instrumentals, fully-fledged rock songs and bits of dialogue that seem both distracting and obnoxious. But, again, Pete Townshend had not lost it, and I honestly believe that deep down (that is, underneath the dialogue whose entire purpose is to tell a story you do not care about) some of these songs are really good. "English Boy" has an addictive groove, and Pete's melodic sensibilities shine through songs like "Early Morning Dreams" and "Now And Then". If you do choose to listen to this, my advice would be to get the music-only version (which exists, and which is probably worth your while).  

Best song: "Early Morning Dreams"

5. Who Came First (1972)

Pete Townshend's first solo album is half-baked, slapdash and inessential. But this is Pete Townshend in 1972, between Who's Next and Quadrophenia, so you will want to hear it. Who Came First features demo-quality songs from the notorious Lifehouse project as well as covers, a meandering spiritual folk song with lyrics by Townshend's guru Meher Baba, and even a beautiful country song from Ronnie Lane (see further). A mess, obviously, but a mess from one of the greatest ever songwriters. Highlights include an early version of "Pure And Easy", pretty ballads "Content" and "Sheraton Gibson" and the aforementioned "Evolution" by Ronnie Lane. A good album - but unfocused.  

Best song: "Sheraton Gibson"

4. White City (1985)

Year being 1985, White City could be an affront to good taste. Not so. Instead, it is a very good album that easily beats contemporary efforts by the likes of Paul McCartney, Bob Dylan, Ray Davies, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. While not a classic by any stretch of the imagination, White City puts 80s drums and synthesizers to good use. "Give Blood" is a powerful opener, "Brilliant Blues" is a classic Pete Townshend ballad, "Crashing By Design" is seriously catchy and the title song features some great guitar playing from David Gilmour (who actually co-wrote it). Yes, "I Am Secure" is bland and nondescript, and "Come To Mama" is a bloodless closer, but this is the last essential Pete Townshend-related album. And that has to count for something. 

Best song: "Brilliant Blues"

3. Rough Mix / with Ronnie Lane (1977)

A common mistake when reviewing music is to equate the quality of songs with the fun that the artists had while recording them. Rough Mix, with its stellar cast of musicians (besides Pete Townshend and Ronnie Lane, you get people like Charlie Watts, Eric Clapton and John Entwistle), must have been a hoot to record. It certainly feels that way. But - how about the songs? On the face of it, nothing special: Rough Mix is a very quiet, cozy, rootsy affair. Further listens, however, reveal that it is more than that. Ronnie Lane contributes some of his prettiest folk-pop melodies ever (especially "Annie", which tugs at all my heartstrings) and Pete Townshend offers the catchy "Misunderstood", the heavily orchestrated epic "Street In The City" and the brilliant anthem "Heart To Hang Onto". Yes, there is stuff which was just fun to perform ("My Baby Gives It Away", "Catmelody", title song) - but in this particular case, it only adds to the overall charm.

Best song: "Annie"

2. All The Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes (1982)

Considering that the very same year The Who released the sorry It's Hard affair, we can safely state that Pete Townshend kept his best material for himself. Apparently, All The Best Cowboys... is a concept of sorts, but following musical concepts at that point in the 20th century is completely pointless. Instead, let's focus on the songs. There are eleven of them (ten plus a very pretty interlude), and apart from the somewhat faceless "Stardom In Action" and "Somebody Saved Me" (still good), everything works. The heartfelt ballad "The Sea Refuses No Water", the insanely fast-paced rocker "Communication", the power pop classic "Slit Skirts" (surely one of Townshend's best songs ever). Even "North Country Girl", Pete's unlikely update of the folk perennial, is great. 

Best song: "Slit Skirts"

1. Empty Glass (1980)

Two things I need to clarify first. Number one: I only marginally prefer Empty Glass to Chinese Cowboys. Number two: there is a long-held opinion that The Who's Face Dances from 1981 is crap, and Pete Townshend's Empty Glass is great. Not true. Both are great (as far as I'm concerned, Face Dances is one of the most unjustly maligned albums in rock music). Now on to Empty Glass, which Townshend himself recognises as a classic Who album that never came to be. While I can of course easily imagine Roger Daltrey having a good go at stuff like "Rough Boys" and "A Little Is Enough" (to say nothing of "Jools and Jim", the angry, punkish putdown of bad journalism), I am more than happy to have Pete's gentler, subtler vocal delivery. Besides the aforementioned, classics include the multi-part title song, the shamelessly poppy "Let My Love Open The Door" and the disarmingly charming "Keep On Working". In fact, only a couple of generic (if fun) and over-spiritual (if addictive) moments keep Empty Glass from being worthy of The Who's very best. 

Best song: "A Little Is Enough"

Polish notes (August '23)

As we drive into Łódź late in the evening, on a glum Sunday, Tricky starts playing one of his recent songs. "Take It There" is the perfect soundtrack for the city whose unnerving charm has long become legendary. And it is all true. All of it. The abandoned buildings with punctured eyes, the sinister looks of drunk teenagers, the trams that move in disgusting slow-motion, the dim Sunday shops that look permanently closed. "How far are we from the centre?" I ask a friend. The friend grins: "This is the centre". Indeed. Behind it all, however, there is a rich history of Polish film-making (Wajda, Munk, Kieslowski and Polanski all studied here) that barely even teases your senses. Increasingly, though, as we trudge through the twilight fog, I start to notice the small details: a girl in pink, a red glimmer in an abandoned window, a bizarre similarity between the main square and Piazza San Marco in Venice. The square in Łódź, however, is broken, dismantled, permanently taken apart. David Lynch's favourite city, no less.

Before Łódź, however, there is the OFF Festival in Katowice and a threat of rain. A resourceful young man at the entrance is shouting something about the quality of his ponchos and the impending showers. The ponchos, the young man insists through his roaring mouthpiece, could save our lives. Indeed: the forecast is implacable. Still, it does not prevent desperate festival-goers, Silesians and tourists alike, from getting in. The OFF Festival is one of the biggest festivals in Poland, and this year's line-up is a sizzling proposition. While I have not yet caught on to the brilliance of Jockstrap and King Krule, I am here for Spiritualized and Slowdive. And it is all worth it. The crowd is manageable, and the toilets do not make you lose hope in humanity. Most importantly, though, there is a lot of great music. Via electrifying American gospel, via Brazilian folk from Belarus, via The Strokes' Is This It performed in its entirety by a very capable Polish band, we will all get to see the pixie-like figure of Slowdive's Rachel Goswell who will be as amazed as everyone else: because it will be long after midnight, and the rain will not have started.

The sad thing about Belarusian Kupalauski Theatre is that they do not have a venue of their own. This time, in mid-August, they are performing in an experimental music theatre in the north of Warsaw. Worse, the said theatre is located inside a shopping mall, by a local multiplex cinema. Do we really care, though, as we walk through a very long hall and enter a rather small room filled to the brim with people who look intelligent, hungry and somewhat ill at ease (among them: artists, journalists, book publishers, politicians). We are all here to see the new stage production by this great theatre-in-exile: "Geese-People-Swans" by Alhierd Baharevich. It is, in fact, an adaptation of the second part of Baharevich's celebrated novel Dogs of Europe, and they do it faithfully, with slight changes that seem warranted and to the point (the bizarre sci-fi ending, for instance, is all but gone; the tinkering with dates also works). As the actors walk on to the stage for the final bow, everyone in the room is in tears. Still hungry, still intelligent - but no longer ill at ease. 

The National Museum in Warsaw is currently holding an exhibition of art  which it has acquired over the last couple of years. The room that I am most interested in is, of course, the room with a dozen or so Marc Chagall's painting. This is actually my second time at the exhibition: I am starting to fall in love with Chagall as I get older. All of a sudden, I see great warmth in the colours and elaborate child-like lines. The highlight, to me, is My Life Between Vitebsk and Paris from 1954. In the center of the picture, in the hands of those unfading lovers of Chagall (one of whom has the eyes of the artist, inevitably), there is a bouquet of flowers dividing the canvas into two halves. Above, there is Paris with its breathtaking rooftops and the obligatory steel tower. Below, there is Vitebsk, which I have never been to, but which I recognise at a glance.

Bielany, while not exactly the most mind-blowing district in Warsaw, is still worth a visit. Old Bielany in particular has two streets that are among my favourite places in the city: Płatnicza and Kleczewska. Quaint old architecture, cobblestoned road, gas lanterns, rose gardens and a bakery called Dej (one of the best in Warsaw). 

Album of the Month (sort of): INTIMISM by Nicky Wire

Since I do not really feel like reviewing anything released this month (PiL's album was merely decent, Neil Young's LP was an archival release and The Hives still suck), we should absolutely talk about the new album by Nicky Wire that came out in July.   

Apparently, Nicky Wire is a different person these days. He is full of love and warmth and simple human happiness. He is not calling Glastonbury a 'shithole' and does not want to convert you to socialism anymore. He has let it all go, and all of a sudden, he has some of this year's best melodies to share. Which, in a somewhat odd twist, he has chosen to release very quietly, back in early July, via Bandcamp. 

To give you an idea of just how strong the songwriting on INTIMISM is, let me point you towards the biggest lyrical line of the album. The said lyric seems clumsy on paper and comes during the chorus of "Keeper of the Flame". It goes like this:

I'm not a socialist anymore
The social bit leaves me cold.

The sense of these words notwithstanding (not entirely truthful, according to the man himself), Nicky Wire makes the line sing. It sounds infectious, anthemic and unapologetically well-written. This is the imperious form that Nicky Wire is in on this album. And I have never even been underwhelmed by I Killed The Zeitgeist, his first solo album from 2006. 

The album features twelve new songs, two of which are tasteful free jazz freak-outs and ten are instant indie-rock classics. The former have titles "Migrane No.1" and "Migraine No.2" and display Nicky's fascination with Ornette Coleman. The latter are somewhat confusing in their consistent brilliance. They sound like a man repressed for years was finally able to exorcise his demons, and said demons turned out to be irresistible pop creations (not unlike what happened to his musical partner James Dean Bradfield in 2006). I do not believe there is any point in talking about individual songs as there are no particular dips in quality. However, the best moments include the lush piano section at the end of "You Wear Your Broken Heart Like A Dress", the soaring, strings-drenched chorus of "A Perfect Place To Grow" and the blissful entirety of "White Musk".

Imagine a full album of songs as good as "Break My Heart Slowly". This is what you get here, only the sound if fuller, the production is more elaborate and the performances contain a lot more oomph and conviction. I hear there is a new Manic Street Preachers album on the way... If this is what we will have to deal with, count me in.