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.