Album of the Month: MERCY by John Cale

I came a long way with this album. Because it did not start all that good for Mercy and me. In fact, it started as badly as it did with Shifty Adventures In Nookie World and M:FANS. Only this time it did not just end there (for the record, I still find Shifty Adventures underwhelming and M:FANS downright terrible). For reasons I cannot quite explain, Mercy turned out to be a grower and Cale's most musically satisfying work in 20 years. 

Mercy is an engrossing experience. The album is dominated by cinematic, narcotic, lush grooves that put ideas into your head. If you let Mercy get its hooks into you, it will keep revealing itself with every listen. It will envelope you, it will shed its 'difficult' skin to disclose something welcoming and even accessible. "Time Stands Still", for instance, has a pastoral melody that, with a slightly different arrangement, could easily find its way onto Paris 1919. And while some of it is just difficult ("Marilyn Monroe's Legs"), there are some undeniable tunes featuring hooks both vocal and instrumental ("Everlasting Days"). 

There are quite a few collaborations here, and they mostly work. I am especially partial to "Story Of Blood" (featuring Weyes Blood) that opens with a beautiful piano theme and then transitions into this lengthy dreamscape that stays hypnotic all the way through. Then there is "The Legal Status Of Ice" with Fat White Family that is operatic, robotic and at some point absolutely euphoric. There is also the relative respite by way of the collaboration with Tei Shi ("I Know You Are Happy") which is almost catchy and radio-friendly and fit for your soulful sunshine radio. 

I am not going to say that John Cale is relevant (then again, who or what is relevant these days?) but what an expansive, bold, inspired work Mercy is. When you get to the exhausting closer titled "Out Your Window" with the desperate, beautiful chant at its heart, you feel properly entertained. Or should I say challenged? Whatever it is, Mercy is an experience. 

Rating: ★★★★

January Round-Up

"The last wheel has come off the dog", said an anonymous commenter somewhere on the Internet following the release of Belle & Sebastian's new album. A beautiful comment but I do not quite agree with the sentiment. Late Developers (★★★½), the surprise new album, is actually a very good late period Belle & Sebastian LP (same as last year's A Bit Of Previous). It is patchy, granted, but occasional brilliance ("When The Cynics Stare Back From The Wall") trumps the odd misstep ("I Don't Know What You See In Me", which is frankly embarrassing). Stuart Murdoch still has the songwriting edge. Oddly, it is the taste I'm starting to get concerned about.

Iggy Pop's taste has long been an issue, and Every Loser (★★½) is part self-parody and part uninspired dreck ("Neo Punk"? Jesus). Still, his personality saves him on a few occasions, and the folk-ish and ultra-serious "Morning Show" has him put that unmistakable croon to good use. In Robert Pollard's case, though, it is hard to say what is self-parody and what is not. The strangely titled La La Land (★★★) is a run-of-the-mill recent Guided By Voices album which, a few obligatory highlights aside, I do not have much use for. 

Another artist living very much in their own world is Lawrence. Mozart Estate is his latest moniker, the fourth one. The music, though, is Go-Kart Mozart all over again: cheap, sardonic, self-pitying, brilliant. Pop-Up! Ker-Ching! And The Possibilities Of Modern Shopping (★★★★) bristles with wit and screwball charm. There is an ode to the Poundland store chain, the obnoxious brilliance of "Vanilla Gorilla", the childish whimsy of "Pink And The Purple". As ever, the line between tacky keyboards and God-like genius is very thin. 

Speaking of it, I am afraid that Ireland-based Murder Capital just do not have that. They are often compared to Fontaines D.C. but, again, nothing on Gigi's Recovery (★★★) goes beyond 'worthy post-punk sound, next please'. There may be potential but the album severely lacks in catharsis. And when I say catharsis, I mean something like "Long Live The Strange" on Gaz Coombes's Turn The Car Around (★★★½). That monster groove is pure fire, and it might end up as one of the best things I will hear all year. Turn The Car Around is the fourth album from Supergrass' man, and while nothing approaches that moment of genius (though the title song comes close), the album's brand of neo-psychedelic power pop is lush, rich and soulful. 

Finally, the latest album from the extremely prolific James Yorkston, the collaboration with Nina Persson and The Second Hand Orchestra is yet another tasteful folk-pop affair. The Great White Sea Eagle (★★★½) is slow and meditative but it has substance and moments of truly transcendent beauty (like "Keeping Up With The Grandchildren, Yeah"). 

            

Songs of the month:

Gaz Coombes - "Long Live The Strange"

Mozart Estate - "When The Harridans Came To Call"

Belle & Sebastian - "When The Cynics Stare Back From The Wall"

Iggy Pop - "Morning Show"

James Yorkston, Nina Persson & The Second Hand Orchestra - "A Heavy Skeleton Lifts A Heavy Wing"

Guided By Voices - "Queen Of Spaces"

         

Tom Verlaine, 1949-2023

I know exactly what Robert Forster meant in that line in "When She Sang About Angels"... Basically, if there is a rock star I have ever wanted to be, the name is Tom Verlaine. Not that he ever was a rock star. Which, in a way, is the whole point of my sentiment.

Adventure was the album I listened to the most in 2022, and it was a revelation to discover that I loved it almost as much as Marquee Moon. That understated passion, that burning brilliance. Here is the last song from the album, "The Dream's Dream". The haunting ending stings like nothing else. Rest in peace.

My Cultural Lowlights: HIS GIRL FRIDAY

His Girl Friday (1940) is a 'classic' picture that often appears on all those lists of the greatest films of Hollywood's Golden Age. Worse, His Girl Friday is considered to be one of the greatest films of all time. I find this to be obscenely wrong on so many levels that this article is almost going to write itself.

On the face of it, His Girl Friday has everything going for it: Howard Hawks's direction, 1928's play as its source material, intriguing subject matter, Cary Grant in his prime. Moreover, the film opens with a great scene that should at the very least offer some promising screwball shenanigans in the vein of The Awful Truth (which this film very much recalls, down to the part of Ralph Bellamy who once again plays a loveable ninny). Instead, His Girl Friday goes nowhere. In fact, it goes nowhere with such aplomb and nauseating conviction that it quickly becomes obnoxious.

I have never really bought into the idea that you need likeable characters to appreciate a work of art. However, when the only decent human being in the entire film (Bruce Baldwin, played by Ralph Bellamy) is the one you openly deride and humiliate, there is something seriously wrong with the whole thing. Even if, as I have mentioned previously, the film does not start badly. Hildy Johnson (played by Rosalind Russell) confronts her newspaper boss and ex-partner (Cary Grant) saying she wants to step down as a reporter and lead a quieter life with her soon-to-be husband named Bruce Baldwin. Being the ingenious son of a bitch that he is, the said boss will do everything in his power to prevent this from happening. Once again, if that sounds too much like The Awful Truth all over again, that is because the premise is basically the same. However, where The Awful Truth had heart, His Girl Friday is an empty exercise in tedious cynicism. If the film has any heart at all, it is corrupt and rotten.

Technically, His Girl Friday is impeccable. As a matter of fact, the film set the record for the amount of words spoken within a minute (or some such nonsense). This of course is commendable but what does this have to do with anything, really? Behind the pace and the technicality, the film amounts to very little. Everyone who is crooked and cruel, wins. Everyone else is a fool. If the filmmakers wanted to express the idea that the world of journalism is cynical and wild, why make it so one-dimensional? Why not show someone who at the very least tries to go against it? Also, it does not help that neither Cary Grant nor Rosalind Russell excel at their roles. But then again, perhaps, there was nothing to excel at. The characters lack any depth and you do not really care for any of them as they mostly resemble cardboard cutouts whose entire purpose is to shout a million words in a second.

The plot? Surprisingly weak and heavy-handed. The line with Earl Williams, a bookkeeper about to be persecuted, is like an afterthought that the director wanted to get rid of as quickly as possible. You almost have to wince at how carelessly they treat the episodes with him. Earl's girlfriend jumps from the window, and nobody gives a damn as to what happened to her. It is that kind of film. One that believes (or, rather, knows) that it is very clever and one that ends up shallow and perfunctory. His Girl Friday... Too careless to possess any semblance of heart and warmth. Too unfunny to be truly cynical.

Overview: HONEYBUS

There is nothing obscure about the 60s. Everything has been discovered and rediscovered, remastered, reevaluated and repackaged. But all the same. I have been thinking about Honeybus quite a lot lately. I have been thinking about Peter Dello and Colin Hare and Ray Cane and some of the greatest and, well, underappreciated songs of the 60s. I have been thinking, too, about how I got to know them in the first place. I first heard Honeybus on an old, crackling 10-inch vinyl record, and the friend from Northern England who played them to me introduced the song by simply saying: "This is a classic single from the 60s". 

The song was "(Do I Figure) In Your Life" and it just sounded God-like. The strings, the subtle yet soaring melody, the vocal delivery that made me swoon with delight... The way Pete Dello intones 'wild people' - all these years later, I still can't get over it.

What I discovered later was that there was more. In late 60s, the band came up with a string of classic but blatantly unfashionable singles that rival anything else released at the time. In addition to the aforementioned "(Do I Figure) In Your Life", Pete Dello and company wrote such aural delights as "I Can't Let Maggie Go" (surely one of the most infectious melodies ever written), "She Sold Blackpool Rock" (those strings are criminally gorgeous) and "Would You Believe" (B-side, but what a tune). 

Honeybus was a silly name, and there was nothing about the band's aesthetics to suggest popularity. By 1967, their singles sounded outdated and the band showed little in terms of creative evolution. What they had in spades, though, was the ability to pen a timeless tune. Peter Dello was the primary songwriter but, as it often happened in the 60s (think of Chris Hillman, for instance), it did not take long for other band members to discover their dormant song-crafting talents. In fact, Peter Dello was not even involved in writing what ended up being the band's only full-length LP, Story (★★★★). The album was all Colin Hare and Ray Cane, and there was no reason for it to be as good as it was. However, effortless pop songs like "He Was Columbus", "How Long", "She's Out There" and "I Remember Caroline" are enough to place Story alongside baroque pop classics like Walk Away Renée / Pretty Ballerina. 

But, again, there was more. In 1971, both Peter Dello and Colin Hare released solo albums. And while Colin's March Hare (★★★½) was patchy countryfied folk pop with a few knockout ballads ("Bloodshot Eyes", "Find Me"), it is Peter Dello's Into Your Ears (★★★★½) that remains an exquisite, low-key masterpiece of baroque-styled pop. Sometimes upbeat, sometimes less so - but always infused with that swoonsome optimism of Dello's voice. Whimsical and effortless, Into Your Ears would appear light were it not for the songwriting depth that can be found everywhere on the album, from the astonishing harpsichord-driven "On A Time Said Sylvie" to the seemingly throwaway-ish putdown of music industry titled "Good Song". 

And still there was more, for in 1972 there was supposed to be the second LP called Recital (★★★★). Despite the survival of promo copies, the album had never been officially released until 2018. Dominated by songs by Ray Cane and Peter Dello (classics include the toe-tapping "Baroque 'n' Roll Star", the plaintive "Be Thou By My Side" and the strings-laden "For You"), Recital would not have made them famous. Nobody needed that album in the year of Roxy Music and David Bowie. But hearing it now, 50 years later, is a joyous experience, simply because enough time has passed for us to abandon historical contexts and take this music for it was: timeless and utterly beautiful.

Honeybus disbanded soon afterwards, and a few half-hearted reunions notwithstanding, there has been no new material. Colin Hare is still releasing records today, and Peter Dello is teaching music somewhere in England. We are left, however, with a striking body of work (comprehensively covered by the compilation She Flies Like A Bird: The Anthology) that keeps yielding undiscovered gems. "Françoise", "Caterina", "Texas Gold"... These are just some of the songs that, in a parallel universe, could have been released on 10-inch vinyl so that years later, in a house in Northern England, my friend could introduce them with the words that I once so longed to hear: "This is a classic single from the 60s". 

Кніга. "ПА ШТО ІДЗЕШ, ВОЎЧА?" (2020) / Ева Вежнавец.

Калі Рына, галоўная гераіня кнігі, выходзіць з аўтобуса і крочыць да роднай вёскі, уздоўж пустэчы, леса і тхлані, я пазнаю краявід і адчуваю пах прыцемак і вечаровых дрэваў. Ды і цяжка было б уявіць беларускага чытача, асабліва ў цяперашнія часы буйной эміграцыі, які б нутром і скурай не адчуваў гэтага вяртання. Рына вяртаецца не толькі дадому, не толькі ў сваё мінулае, але і ў трагічнае мінулае краіны дваццатага стагоддзя. 

Рына вяртаецца з Германіі ў родную вёску. Чаму? Адказ кароткі, дасціпны і цалкам зразумелы: "Жыццё звужаецца, і трэба вяртацца дахаты". Рына пакутуе ад алкагалізму (ды не, не пакутуе - атрымлівае асалоду, шукае сэнс), і ў самым пачатку мы бачым яе ў жаночай прыбіральні з бутэлькай таннага віна. Гэта яркі вобраз, прыгожы ў сваёй брыдкай бездакорнасці. Дарэчы, на працягу ўсіх гэтых зманліва кароткіх 140 старонак Ева Вежнавец стварае моцныя вобразы, і кожную сцэну рамана адчуваеш не толькі візуальна, але і на нейкім фізіялагічным узроўні. Густая, насычаная проза, якая паходзіць з дзіцячых успамінаў, падсвядомасці і жудаснага мінулага.

Раман ахоплівае сто гадоў, з 1912 па 2012. Менавіта столькі пражыла бабуля Рыны, развітанне з якой хутка ператвараецца ў бясконцыя, бязлітасныя карункі мінулага. Што яшчэ чакае Рыну дома? Змрочны погляд бацькоў і падвыпіўшая дзяўчына з вёскі, якая хоча паведаць Рыне нешта важнае. Але перш, чым яна паспее гэта зрабіць, трэба нанова перажыць мінулае. Бабуля Рыны - Дарошка, Дарфейка, шаптуха, вядзьмарка - хутка становіцца другой цэнтральнай фігурай кнігі. Менавіта праз яе мы адчуваем крывавы подых дваццатага стагоддзя. Забойства габрэяў, раскулачванне, немцы і паліцаі, партызаны, "тры каласкі" і гэтак далей. Бясконцыя цыклы чалавечай трагедыі, якія хватаюць за пяткі і цягнуць назад, у няўмольную багну мінулага. 

Якое, дарэчы, жыве і добра сябе пачувае. Калі Вежнавец піша пра ўсе гэтыя скрадзеныя швейныя машынкі, то перад вачыма паўстае ўжо не першая палова дваццатага стагоддзя, але і ўсё тое, што адбываецца сёння, з намі і каля нас. Мы пазнаём сучаснасць і мы пазнаём мінулае. Так, я памятаю, як апускаўся той самы ліпеньскі вечар, пра які піша Вежнавец. Памятаю, як у дзедавай хаце збіраліся суседзі, каб увесь вечар маўкліва і бездыханна глядзець тэлевізар. У гэтых апісаннях, асабістых, а часам нават інтымных (ёсць вельмі моцны і прыгожы эпізод, калі Рына сыходзіць з дому праз першую менструальную кроў, якая падаецца ёй ракам), адчуваецца прысутнасць самой аўтаркі. Гэта яна вяртаецца дахаты, яна адчувае подых ваўкоў, яна ў чарговы раз перажывае жыццё сваіх продкаў.  

Дарэчы, пра ваўкоў. Ёсць такія назвы... Воўк, які паўстае на вокладцы кнігі, так ніколі і на з'яўляецца на працягу апавядання, але менавіта ў гэтым яго пачварная моц, яго вусцішная хватка. Ён паходзіць са шматлікіх беларускіх казак і прымавак, і ён не толькі дадае адмыслова беларускі каларыт знакамітаму біблейскаму "Domine quo vadis?" Ён існуе як нешта непазбежнае, як тая канстанта, якая нябачна кіруе жыццём. А калі не кіруе, дык назірае. А калі не назірае, дык увесь час прысутнічае ў нашай падсвядомасці.

У нядаўнім інтэрв'ю Вежнавец казала, што раман гэты спачатку займаў 500 старонак, і ўжо потым яна вырашыла скараціць яго амаль утрая. У абсалютнай большасці выпадкаў такое рашэнне падалося б мне выдатным. "У пісьменстве трэба забіваць сваіх каханых", як некалі Уільям Фолкнер завяшчаў пісьменнікам, якія баяцца выкінуць з кнігі любімыя словы і нават сюжэтныя лініі. Дарэчы, я ўжо шмат разоў пісаў пра тое, што люблю кароткія раманы. Але ж гэтым разам большы памер кнігі быў бы цалкам апраўданы і пазволіў бы зрабіць фінал кнігі больш эмацыйным і меней скомканым. (Удакладню, што рэч ідзе не пра эпілог; эпілог у рамане нагадвае сем труб з "Кнігі Апакаліпсіса" і пакідае вельмі моцнае ўражанне.) 

Раман "Па што ідзеш, воўча?" - гэта важны твор для сучаснай беларускай літаратуры, і гэтым разам немагчыма аспрэчваць прэмію Ежы Гедройца, якую Ева Вежнавец атрымала два гады таму. Раман адначасова змрочны і прывабны, вусцішны і чароўны. Ён пакідае пасля сябе горкі смак, але смак гэты настолькі родны і непазбежны, што нам застаецца толькі прыняць яго і палюбіць. Раман робіць шмат сумных высноў ("Горшай хваробы, чым чалавек, няма на свеце"), але мне падаецца, што ў пераемнасці пакаленняў ёсць пэўны аптымізм. Так, ёсць шматлікія хваробы, якімі прыйдзецца перахварэць, але захоўваецца па-ранейшаму і надзея, што перахварэўшы ў чарговы раз, мы адчуем нарэшце, як яны знікнуць назаўжды. Калі б, канешне, у свеце існавала нешта падобнае да завяршэння.