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.