Conclave

You know that feeling when someone's hand is rummaging inside your backpack? It does not even matter whether you know whose hand that is. Your enemy's or your best friend's. What matters is this great sense of discomfort that ties a painful knot inside your stomach. You feel powerless, cheated, compromised. 

Which is exactly the sense I got when I watched films like Breaking The Waves or Dogville all those years ago. One way of looking at it would be to say Lars von Trier is a masterful director who can really get into you. I would argue, however, that the sour taste goes way beyond that. Because I do not actually mind the sense of discomfort when it comes to art (after all, there is nothing especially comforting about the image of Leopold Bloom ogling girls on the beach), it is manipulation that I find so jarring.  

Von Trier is not even the worst culprit. The Danish director is hardly idealogical (as he himself would be the first to admit), he is only there to manipulate your senses. Which, let's admit, is hardly a criminal act. To some extent, most art does that in order to exert impact on its readers and viewers. It is just that von Trier mutilates a duck for you to get there. Whether he does that figuratively or physically is an entirely different matter; the problem is that it all results in a certain lack of sincerity that has little to do with great art. Still, it is somehow much, much worse when art goes after your politics. Like Conclave, for example.  

And God do I hate to say that. Because I was really enjoying the meticulously constructed tension right until that unpredictable final act. An act so unpredictable as to be completely and utterly predictable.

The film is based on Robert Harris's 2017 eponymous novel about the death of a Pope and a rather lengthy election of a new one. This could sound impossibly dull, except that the devil is, of course, in the details. Actors like Ralph Fiennes and Stanley Tucci really stick their teeth into the material, and right away you are caught in the little games that everyone seems to be playing here. The sheer amount of plotting and scheming is quite impressive, and it is intriguing to get behind the scenes of a world so famously cloaked from the rest of us. Especially when you add to it the lush cinematography (the scene with umbrellas is immediately iconic), the unsettling music and the silent and mysterious figure of Isabella Rossellini. 

That there is so much dirt and backstabbing in the world of organised religion is hardly surprising. That there are different factions within the Catholic church is equally credible. That the whole thing is teeming with scandal is common knowledge. The film deals with these matters very skilfully (the more I think about that script, the more Machiavellian it gets), and I actually enjoyed those brief yet insistent moments of the outside world encroaching upon the intimate proceedings. However, when the final act finally started, I actually began to whisper to myself, prayer-fashion, begging for them not to go there. But they did, full-on. 

It is not even about my politics, really. Or anyone else's, for that matter. Being an immigrant, I hated the image of that girl on the balcony at the end of Knives Out. And being an atheist, I equally hated the cheap resolution that Conclave finally settles into. Still, I am not going to spoil it for anyone. Because I believe the film is worthy of being seen (worthy of an Oscar for Ralph Fiennes, too) - if only to witness how badly it all falls apart at the end. With what manipulative twist. With what religious abandon. 

Album of the Month: THE CLEANSING by Peter Perrett

Short review: this album features 20 songs and each one is amazing. 

Long review: see below.

Peter Perrett is one of my biggest musical heroes. I remember how I first listened to "The Whole Of The Law" and thought I would never hear a voice as soulful and beautiful as that again. I remember how I spent several years of my life convinced that "Falling" is the greatest song ever written (is it not, though?). I remember how once in Madrid, around ten years ago, I had a bet with myself: by the end of the night, before I get back to my hotel, I'm going to come up with ten short stories all bearing titles of The Only Ones's 1978 debut. And, for the record, I did. (Imagine crowbarring plots into titles like "No Peace For The Wicked" and "Another Girl, Another Planet". To this day, I dread to reread the finished stories.)

Which is all to say: I have this odd personal connection with Peter Perrett, and it certainly helps that he is a fantastic songwriter who at the age of 72 and after years of heroin addiction, can release a double album as good as this. 

Quite frankly, I loved the album so much on my first listen that for a while I was afraid to listen to it again. What if it doesn't hold up? What if this vulnerable power-pop fails on closer inspection? But no. The more I listened to the album, the more impressed I was. True, Peter Perrett has been having something of a resurgence lately (this is his third album in seven years), and the man has always been about quality rather than quantity (The Cleansing is only his eighth studio album as a frontman or a solo artist). But still I was not prepared for this. 'The album is in need of some judicial pruning', a Guardian critic wrote in his otherwise glowing review. Bullshit. There is not a second wasted on the whole thing.

The Cleansing is a work of great confidence and experience. There is a lot of darkness on the album (the haunting, piano-based "All That Time") but also a lot of light ("Fountain Of You" is one of those love anthems he could always do so effortlessly) and even playfulness ("Secret Taliban Wife" is a perfect pop song with a dark lyrical twist). And it is all infused with Perrett's melodic wit that has never really left him. Songs like "Do Not Resuscitate" or "Back In The Hole" will make you wonder if there are too many living artists who are able to wring freshness and charm out of the simplest guitar progressions. Andrew Marr and Bobby Gillespie are famous guests here, but I am especially impressed by the contributions from Fontaines DC's Carlo O'Connell who cowrote three songs and added this beautiful sinister edge to "Kill A Franco Spy" and the aforementioned "All That Time".

But I guess there is no reason to namecheck every song (see the short version of this review). The point is, Peter Perrett has released his quintessential album after 50 years of recording music. Consistent, tuneful, beautifully arranged. And, sadly, it might be his last (as the man himself has hinted on a few occasions). Lyrics of songs like "I Wanna Go With Dignity" certainly point in that direction. 

Next year, he will be doing his brief tour in Europe, and the very last concert will be played at the start of March in Madrid. Sometimes the sheer symbolism of life becomes overwhelming, and I do not think it took me longer than a few seconds to realise that I simply have to be there. Some things just come full circle. The best things in life, perhaps. 'I'll go anywhere if it gets me home', indeed.

November Round-Up

Just how many babies has Robert Smith killed in his life to still have a voice like that?! 

Back in 2008, I was a university student and did not even care for The Cure. 4:13 Dream came and went without leaving much of an impression. Sixteen years have passed, though, and boy do I care now. Ever since I heard the gorgeous, monumental "And Nothing Is Forever" at a concert in 2022, I have been waiting for the announcement that kept being pushed back in that inimitable Robert Smith fashion. So what do we have here?.. Songs Of A Lost World sounds like a warmer, deeper Disintegration, and that is all I ever wanted from The Cure at this point. They won't give me another Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me (live, Smith sleepwalks through his pop songs anyway), but this is a near-masterpiece. Classic build-ups, beautiful tunes, and that fucking voice. Wow. 

Sadly, for every great album this month (and there have been a few), we got something of the 'good but who cares' variety. Kim Deal, for instance, has released her first ever solo album. Nobody Loves You More is full of snappy, neat little songs (the whole thing is over in 35 minutes) but other than the closing, soaring "A Good Time Pushed", the album has diversity but lacks truly signature tunes. Beats Frank Black's latest quite handily, anyway.

Du Blonde's new album is this incessant, slightly obnoxious glam pop of absolutely killer quality. I do miss the underproduced, understated charms of Homecoming, her previous album, but Sniff More Gritty is pretty much impeccable. Clearly songs do not get any catchier than "TV Star" and "Next Big Thing", but her softer side is rather heard-hitting, too (the sweeping ballad "Out of a Million" is almost as good as "After the Show" from 2015). Elsewhere, the pop punk verses of "Solitary Individual" are a little too Green Day for my tastes, but "ICU" is like this great understated hook-line that lasts for almost three minutes and never lets go. Aesthetically I may have questions, and the lyrics do not always work, but God what a great songwriter she is.

Not something I could say about the Mount Eerie guy. He may be a big hit with music critics and RYM fanatics, but his new album that everyone is going crazy about is just this endless lo-fi mess. The man can't hold a tune to save his life and this idea that he should release whatever noise loop or a snippet of a drone or a figment of a primitive folk melody that come into his head is just plain wrong. A Crow Looked at Me was massively overrated, and so is Night Palace. I'm this close to calling him a charlatan and this whole thing a pathetic hoax. Rarely have I seen such egregious disproportion between talent and acclaim. 

Slightly better is the situation with Joshua Tillman (better known as Father John Misty - oh God how I hate that name) who has just released his sixth solo album. Mahashmashana starts off beautifully with a lengthy, sweeping title song that is like a cross between George Harrison and Elton John. The rest of the album is a somewhat frustrating listen, veering from overlong and dull ("Mental Health") to overlong and playfully entertaining ("I Guess Time Just Makes Fools Of Us All"). I find him pretentious but not unbearably so.

I would have totally missed the new Wussy album had it not been for a timely reminder from Spotify. The only problem (or perhaps its biggest asset?) with Cincinnati Ohio is that it is pretty much exactly what you would expect: confident indie Americana drowned in tasteful raggedness and undeniable melodic wit. Little here approaches the highs of Funeral Dress (their best album, still), but rocking songs like "Inhaler" and especially the opening "The Great Divide" are instant classics. I'm a little cooler on the slow-burning ballads, but Wussy's music always gets better with further listens.

Another good, worthy album that I won't be returning to any time soon is Michael Kiwanuka's Small Changes. Smooth, well-produced LP that is all spirituality and soulful vibes. I guess if you liked Michael's past work (I mostly know him through his 2019 breakthrough), you will probably find a lot to relate to here. Sadly, Small Changes feels to me like spirituality without catharsis... Or else a good album that never threatens to be great. 

Finally, it was a sad day back in 2019 when I found out that The Flaming Stars (who on certain days I consider to be the best band in the world) were no more, and I was moved to write this piece. November saw the release of the first Flaming Stars-related album of original material since then. Max Décharné's Night Darkens The Streets LP. Kris Needs of Record Collector has called it the coolest album of 2024, and that's what it is. Literate, stylish, nocturnal music that goes from impossibly beautiful late-night balladry (the vibraphone-based "Doctor Caligari Will See You Now") to toe-tapping rockabilly boogie ("Last Diner On the Last Highway"). Played in its entirety by Max Décharné himself, this is all very much reminiscent of The Flaming Stars at their most vulnerable and stripped down. One of my personal album of the year, easily.   

Songs of the Month:

"Those Places" - Max Décharné

"And Nothing Is Forever" - The Cure

"Kill A Franco Spy" - Peter Perrett

"ICU" - Du Blonde

"The Great Divide" - Wussy

"A Good Time Pushed" - Kim Deal

"Mahashmashana" - Father John Misty

Альбом. "BELAYA POLOSA" (2024) / Molchat Doma.

Я не люблю Depeche Mode.

Калі б кожны раз, калі я казаў гэтыя словы, мне давалі адзін даляр, я б даўно ўжо быў мільянерам. Так часта нехта ў шчырай размове, насычанай добрымі словамі і агульнымі інтарэсамі, пытаўся ў мяне: ці я таксама чакаю новы альбом Depeche Mode? Ці я таксама бываю на іх "жывых" канцэртах? Не, не чакаю і не бываю. Так ужо склалася ў маім жыцці, што я не люблю Depeche Mode. Ніколі не любіў. 

Новы альбом беларускага гурта Molchat Doma (надышоў, напэўна, час пісаць гэтую назву англійскімі літарамі), які з'явіўся у верасні, настолькі нагадвае Depeche Mode (дарэчы, я толькі цяпер заўважыў падабенства назваў), што мне цяжка быць аб'ектыўным. Я разумею, што эстэтыка Molchat Doma заўсёды круцілася вакол васьмідзесятых, але Belaya Polosa (зноў жа, гурт выкарыстоўвае менавіта англійскія літары) - гэта халодны, пульсуючы сінці-поп без аніякай ідэнтычнасці. 

Гурт з'явіўся ў 2017 у Менску, і дастаткова паглядзець на колькасць праслухоўванняў у Spotify (больш за тры мільёны ў месяц) ды іх цяперашняе месца працы (Лос-Анджэлес), каб атрымаць нейкае ўяўленне пра папулярнасць Molchat Doma. Нехта, калі я не памылюся, нават назваў іх самым паспяховым рускамоўным гуртом у свеце. І сапраўды - усё так. Напэўна, гэтая музыка трапляе ў сэрца халодных рамантыкаў, якія сумуюць па Depeche Mode ды савецкай пост-панкаўскай эстэтыцы 80-х гадоў. Я ж зусім не сумую, і кожны раз, калі слухаю Molchat Doma, то выразна адчуваю, што перавага аддаецца менавіта форме, а не зместу. 

Але ж музыка сапраўды якасная. Пэўную эвалюцыю можна прасачыць нават па іх вокладкам. Гэта, дарэчы, ўжо чацвёрты альбом Molchat Doma, і з кожным разам выява дамоў на вокладцы робіцца больш складанай, дэталёвай і распрацаванай. Тое ж і з якасцю гука ды аранжыровак. Пры гэтым згубілася нейкая інтрыга, нейкая тоеснасць, і падабенства да Depeche Mode дайшло да свайго піку.

Тым не менш, як і з ранейшымі альбомамі гурта, ёсць кавалкі і нават цэлыя песні, якія чапляюць мяне больш за іншыя. Што да апошніх, то "Безнадежный вальс" - гэта вельмі своечасовая інструментальная кампазіцыя, элегійная і мінімалістычная, а "Сон" - бадай, самая насычаная песня на альбоме, з добрым дынамізмам і прыгожай, пульсуючай бас-гітарай. А так - толькі асобныя дэталі, якія вуха вылоўлівае з даволі стомнага і аднамернага альбома (напрыклад, гітарная лінія, што з'яўляецца ў песні "Черные цветы", якая так моцна нагадвае Pink Floyd эпохі The Wall). 

Мне падабаецца, што часам яны свядома намагаюцца зрабіць сваю музыку больш цікавай і разнастайнай. Дабаўляюць інструменты, укідваюць крыху новы настрой - але ўсё гэта, на жаль, тоне ў халодным, манатонным гучанні ("Я так устал" - добрая назва для перадапошняй песні, якая цягнецца пяць хвілін і не месціць аніякіх падзей). Апошні альбом Nürnberg, напрыклад, спадабаўся мне больш, і не столькі беларускай мовай, колькі цеплынёй і гумарам. Мне цяжка ўявіць, што Molchat Doma маглі б скончыць альбом песняй кшталту "Пацалунак". А ў тых трох хвілінах, на мой погляд, больш меладычнасці і глыбіні, чым ва ўсім гэтым доўгім і безэмацыйным альбоме.

My latest discoveries: MARIANA ENRIQUEZ

I woke up in a city in the south of Poland, in the middle of the night, and there was someone sitting on the edge of my bed. Someone silent and rather small. A boy. He was looking at me, quite intensely, and I felt a mixture of dread and confusion. It actually took me a little while to recollect the short story "The Neighbor's Courtyard" I had been reading on the train from Warsaw a few hours earlier. Little by little, the night light began to seep through the curtains, the boy on the edge of my bed dissipated, and I realised that this was all Mariana Enriquez. Again. 

It was not the first time that it happened. These episodes would keep coming back to me, and the little person from "The Neighbor's Courtyard" was just one of my visitors. They were mostly children. "The Dirty Kid", the one from "Under The Black Water". The girl that entered "Adela's House". They would all make their presence felt in my apartment, in my hotel, even in the street. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Mariana Enriquez can do adults, too, but then nobody can feel it like the kids. And nobody can creep you out like them, either.

My fascination with South American literature never really stopped, and this time it revealed itself through the short stories of Mariana Enriquez. The Argentinian writer and journalist has published several novels and short story collections in the Spanish language but so far only four of them have made it into English. Initially I was seduced by the title The Dangers Of Smoking In Bed as well as the glowing Kazuo Ishiguro quote on the cover (he is a fan), after which I sought out Things We Lost In The Fire. As I opened the very first short story a few days later, I felt the chill and the tingling that always accompany great literature. Indeed, there is no way you can read the first page of "The Dirty Kid" and not be impressed. Her Buenos Aires is stark, expressive, horribly alive.

Mariana Enriquez's writing style is visceral yet somehow elegant. Her sentences have this palpable, almost physical intensity, and she has the knack for always finding the right metaphor. When she writes things like 'sunken eyes of insomnia and too many cigarettes', it creates an eerie mood that complements the ghost story perfectly ("The Lookout"). Her pacing is quite fast (too fast sometimes, as is the case with some stories from the first collection), but she will always place you right in the midst of things. In The Dangers Of Smoking In Bed (confusingly, this was translated into English later than the subsequent Things We Lost In The Fire), she sometimes gets carried away with the physiological aspect. You always feel, however, that her main priority is to create the appropriate effect, and if she needs a man to defecate in a suburb of Buenos Aires (or Barcelona, for that matter), she will do that. 

And oh this effect. The stories get burned into your psyche like delicious cigarette ends. This stuff stays with you. Her horror is literary and the shock effect is never cheap and always well warranted. It really is quite hard to find a contemporary writer of such conviction and blistering originality. The story "Rambla Triste", for instance, presents a uniquely bizarre, and clinically precise, take on immigration. The writing is so distinctive it almost makes everything else feel half-assed.

As I have mentioned previously, I find the second collection Things We Lost In The Fire to be a more accomplished work. While the quality in The Dangers Of Smoking In Bed is always there, a certain sense of a few of these stories being a little rushed never left me ("The Cart", for example, which feels somewhat confused about its own ending). That said, the masterful "The Well" about the ever-present evils of the past (one of her favourite topics; is there a more brutal and haunting line than 'the pain and the sand between the legs' in the aforementioned "The Lookout"?), is vintage Mariana Enriquez. As for Things We Lost In The Fire (incidentally, better than the Low album of the same name), I found it absolutely faultless. The tropes are often familiar: haunted houses, weird kids, demons, witches, etc. It is what she does with them that counts, however. She filters it all through South American magic realism as well as her boundless imagination and takes them to wholly new places. 

In a rather odd turn of events, I bought one of her books while on vacation in France a short while age. It was a small English bookstore, and the woman behind the counter said she loved my choice and I was going to have a good time reading that book. I thanked her and left. A few days later I decided to search for Mariana Enriquez's images online, and to my utter surprise I realised that she looked exactly like the woman in the English bookstore. Not possible, of course, but having read the book, I am no longer too sure. That it was a ghost would be the simplest, and least disturbing, of all explanations.   

La Femme: rundown

It is always interesting to write about bands like La Femme. Flawed bands. Bands with flashes of genius but wildly inconsistent. Bands which were once good but have lost their way for one reason or another. La Femme, the French band from Biarritz, fit into that mould perfectly. They can (could?) write a timeless classic. They can also record misguided albums like Teatro Lucido and Paris-Hawaï. They are many things, and they certainly add an intriguing French twist to the world of music.

Their first album, the perfectly titled Psycho Tropical Berlin (2013), was released three years after the band had been formed by guitarist Sacha Got and keyboard player Marlon Magnée. The title and the cover should tell you what to expect. You will get drunk on this album in no time at all. Psycho Tropical Berlin is an intoxicating mixture of surf music, indie pop, psychedelia, krautrock all imbued with the inescapable yé-yé overtones. It is all quite brilliant, really. They are all over the place but they are also great songwriters. "La Femme" features a terrific melody, sort of shiny French pop, only darker, slightly more sinister. "Sur la planche" was their signature single, the perfect marriage of synthpop and motorik beat. Other favourites include the endlessly tuneful "Saisis la corde" and "La femme ressort" as well as the short and sweet "Si un jour" that is like France Gall and Suicide rolled into one. Psycho Tropical Berlin remains La Femme's best, most consistent album.

That said, Mystère (2016), their second LP, comes very close. With the cover that leaves no room for imagination as well as the running time overkill, the only thing you could accuse them of was excess. The album goes on for over 70 minutes, and while each of these 16 songs has something to offer, a little editing would have been welcome (there is no reason, for instance, why "Vagues" should go on for 13 minutes). But damn it. "Le vide est ton nouveau prénom" is a folk tune for the ages. "Où va le monde" is so infectious it should be banned. "Tatiana" would have you dancing like a wild robot. And "Elle ne t'aime pas" starts like a Pink Floyd epic ("Echoes"?) and sweetly grooves you into complete submission. What a band, one could say.

Paradigmes (2021) is a good album but it also marks the point where things start to fall apart. I mentioned in the previous paragraph that every song on Mystère had something to offer (some more, some less). Well, here the good sits side by side with the bland, and while I enjoy the lush playfulness of the title song, "Cool Colorado" is all style and little substance (even those usually irresistible French 'pa-pa-pa's' sound forced and uninteresting here). And then it goes on like this. "Nouvelle-Orléans" and "Pasadena" are insanely good pop songs but stuff like "Disconnexion" and "Foreigner" just sounds uneventful. It is almost as if they sometimes try to replace substance with sonic kitsch and lyrical seediness. Paradigmes remains a frustrating listen, but there is enough good material here to make it worth your while. 

Generally, La Femme took a few years between albums, so it was a bit of a surprise that merely a year after Paradigmes the band released Teatro lucido (2022). As the title attests, this is a Latin-influenced album sung in Spanish. My big profound statement would be something along these lines: the sound is rich but the songs are weak. Teatro lucido is a grotesque mess, and not a very entertaining one at that. A couple of lovely ballads ("Tren de la vida", for example) can not save it, either. Then, one more year later, came an even more perplexing record. Paris-Hawaï (2023) is another revealing title. This time, we are into Hawaiian-flavoured ambient pop that has shreds of glorious past but try as I might I simply can't get too excited about songs like "Les fantômes des femmes". It is pretty, I guess, but the melody is too plain and monotonous to get us anywhere. Paris-Hawaï is languid, lazy, watered down and utterly forgettable.  

And now we get Rock Machine (oddly, Wikipedia says this is their fourth album - which is interesting; perhaps Teatro lucido and Paris-Hawaï did not happen, after all). La Femme had songs in the English language in the past, but this time they are serious about it: Rock Machine is sung almost entirely in English. Knowing the French even a little (I have just come back from Lyon, incidentally), you can guess that this idea will not go down well in their country. "Ciao Paris!", too. Still, the language would not matter if the songs were great. And, a few relative successes notwithstanding ("Waiting In The Dark", for instance, is another one of those signature timeless melodies), the band sound tired and uninspired. The remnants of La Femme's identity are still there, but this time the wine seems diluted and does not make you drunk anymore. As a matter of fact, I barely even feel tipsy. 

Album of the Month: CHRISTIAN & MAURO by Blixa Bargeld & Teho Teardo

The magic must be in the unlikely combination of German restraint and Italian expression. It is hard to describe, but the whole thing sounds eerie and lush, detached and yet somehow strangely comforting. Blixa Bargeld recites his oblique yet memorable lines in German, Italian and English, while Teho Teardo's classical cello does dramatic runs that transition effortlessly from avant-garde to baroque prettiness. The result is beautiful, imaginative and deeply strange.

There is coldness to their music, but there is also playfulness. They inhabit these songs ever so comfortably. When Blixa half-whispers "Bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao..." at some point in the bizarre and hilarious "Bisogna Morire" (which you will end up singing along to before the end of the first listen), you sense the absolute joy of the recording process. 

There is great expression, but there is also restraint. In terms of individual songs, my favourites are the melodic 'chamber pop' of "Dear Carlo" and "I Shall Sleep Again" which are as good as anything on their masterpiece Still Smiling LP. There is nothing on Christian & Mauro (incidentally, Blixa's and Teho's Christian names) that touches the sheer otherworldliness of "Ulgae" off Nerissimo, but this is still very much a singular experience. It creates images in your head, and new sensations that you simply will not get anywhere else. 

So much so that I'm willing to forgive the slightly weaker second half, which, nevertheless, features more originality than I have heard anywhere else this month. And all the while, there is a sense of uniqueness that permeates the whole album, this unforgettable interplay of words and music, strangeness and appeal, expression and restraint.

October Round-Up

Black Francis keeps trying. He is trying really hard. Sadly, something essential just isn't there. Some vital chord, a subversive twist. These post-reunion albums (which already outnumber Pixies' classic four) bring no sense of resolution. The Night The Zombies Came, for instance, has the catchy melodies and the vocal hooks, but still comes off as a middling Frank Black solo album. "Chicken" is interesting and "Motoroller" is infectious, but much of it lands between the obvious and the vaguely intriguing.

Oddly, I enjoy these albums by The Smile a lot more than anything Thom Yorke-related since 2007. It is especially odd because they have now released three albums in three years (this is their second in 2024), and this sudden prolificacy is somewhat mystifying. But, and I'm as surprised as the next person, Cutouts could be the best of the three. It is loose but the inner dynamics pull you in. Not everything works equally well, but even something as flimsy and sparse as "Don't Get Me Started" lures me with its tasteful understatement. Plus, whatever the hell "Zero Sum" is, its funky urgency is absolutely delightful.

La Femme require their own article (coming soon), but for now let's just say that Rock Machine is a slight, if ever so slight, return to form. Tragically, they have made the full transition to the English language, and even recorded a song titled "Ciao Paris!" With the path now clear to a complete loss of identity, they are only saved by the increasingly erratic pop sensibilities that are not yet completely gone.  

The first solo album by Geordie Greep is adventurous and inventive and fascinating and intense and everything else all at once, and while I admire the scope and the talent, I simply do not enjoy these songs all that much. The New Sound is a bit like black midi, Greep's previous band, only more unhinged and extremely Latin-flavoured. A little like Steely Dan on steroids (the man's voice resembles Donald Fagen's). I respect the hell out of this artsy and brainy record, it is just that I do not love any of it. 

The Indelicates have returned after a seven-year hiatus with a satirical concept album titled Avenue QAnon. Show tunes, rockabilly, piano balladry, rock anthems, even a little reggae - it is all in here, in this cleverly constructed takedown of conspiracy theorists and 4chan pornographers (the lyrics are a little too on the nose sometimes, but they are still great fun). The melodies do not reach the heights of David Koresh Superstar and Songs For Swinging Lovers (both are near-classics in my eyes), and the piano ballad "A Song For Roseanne" is a little bland and "We Are The Carbon They Want To Reduce" survives on pretty much one groove, but Avenue QAnon is a great little LP that deserves to be heard by many people. The infectious melodic twists of "Hotwheels" are worth of the price of admission all on their own.

The Hard Quartet is something of a supergroup made up of Stephen Malkmus, Matt Sweeney, Emmett Kelly and Jim White, and if not for a cunning surprise by a certain German/Italian duo, their debut would be my album of the month. Quite simply, The Hard Quartet is the best Stephen Malkmus-related album since the days of Pavement. Fifteen songs of superior indie rock, sometimes informed by punk ("Chrome Mess", "Renegade") and sometimes alt country ("Our Hometown Boy", "Six Dead Rats"). Hooks, distortion, beauty. "Action For Military Boys" goes from Pavement-like slacker rock to Libertines-style anthemic glory in such an effortless manner that I just surrender in complete admiration.  

Songs of the Month:

"Renegade" - The Hard Quartet

"Child of Mine" - Laura Marling

"Fountain of You" - Peter Perrett

"I Shall Sleep Again" - Blixa Bargeld & Teho Teardo 

"A Fragile Thing" - The Cure

"Wandering In The Wild" - Cold Specks

"Waiting in the Dark" - La Femme

"Little Bobby" - The Indelicates

"Next Big Thing" - Du Blonde

"Instant Psalm" - The Smile

"Chicken" - Pixies

On Syd Barrett

I stopped using the word 'genius' a long time ago. Once in a while I may still slip it into the odd sentence but it would never be about a person. Rather, it would be about a song, a plot device or an especially good scene from a film. Basically, an artist can produce a genius painting without being a genius him- or herself. I think the problem that I have is that the word 'genius' presupposes a certain purity that is simply nowhere to be found. It is all too diluted and tampered with. And yet there are moments in my life when I come back to the music of Syd Barrett and the dim, broken light of the word 'genius' starts to shine again. It just becomes overwhelming, and for a while there is no other art that I can accept. 

It still gives me chills, that brilliantly unnerving fact that back in 2003, when I was in England for the first time, Syd Barrett was alive. Apparently content, if not actually happy (that is, according to his sister Rosemary), he could sometimes be spotted in the streets of Cambridge, lost and barely recognisable from the old days, with a desolate stare and a paper bag filled with groceries. Tim, a friend of mine, kept saying that Syd Barrett had to leave Pink Floyd in 1968, that he was no longer compos mentis and that there was nothing else for his bandmates to do. While I was having none of it. They pushed him out, I reasoned. They forced him out of his own band. Obviously, I did not know the full story back then, I did not know about the mind-altering effects of acid and just how much he took, but I knew what I loved. It was called The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn, and it had gripped me like nothing else. 

He would die three years later, in July, during my second stay in Gateshead. By then, I had read and reread the full lyrics of Syd Barrett's songs and learnt them by heart. There was a certain sentimentality about them, a certain childish magic that I could relate to. And there was one song in particular for which I developed a strange fascination. It was called "Scream Thy Last Scream" and I could not find its recording anywhere (members of Pink Floyd had blocked its release for many years). So instead, I came from school one day, took my sister's guitar and tried to set those lyrics to my own melody. Happy with the results, I even recorded it on a dictaphone. Many years later, when I finally heard "Vegetable Man" and "Scream Thy Last Scream", I was quite disturbed to realise that a small part of my largely hopeless melody for the latter was eerily similar to what Syd Barrett wrote in 1967. It was one of his last songs for the band that would in a few months cut him off and terminate his contract. Interestingly, none of subsequent revelations, documentaries, interviews and books (of which A Very Irregular Head and Random Precision are absolute must-reads) would make me see the break-up in a different light from how I felt more than 20 years ago. There is something truly horrifying about Rosemary's words that in later years, when he was living in his messy, half-empty house in Cambridge, suffering from diabetes and severe mental issues, the very name of Roger Waters would send Syd into a fit of rage. 

I sometimes go back to that summer of 2003 and think about this chance that I had. I could ask Tim to drive me to Cambridge where I could perhaps come across Syd Barrett in the street or even knock on the door of his house. But then again - what next? Robyn Hitchcock has once described his own experience of undertaking a similar pilgrimage and being stopped at the door by Syd's mother or sister. "Oh he is not at home, he is in London". Nervous, pink with anxiety, Hitchcock felt a great relief and was happy to leave Cambridge without ever meeting his hero. 

And it was actually Robyn Hitchcock who, I believe, gave the best explanation of what happened to this incredible, singularly gifted man of twenty-four years old. That generally speaking, all artists dilute their talent. That there are these tubes filled with paint, and they squeeze the paint out a little and smear it thinly over a canvas or a page. Syd Barrett was different in that in those couple of years he squeezed it all out very quickly, in one go. And those colours were amazing, and glorious, and truly magical, but they could not last. Soon it all ran dry and there was nothing left. 

Peter Jenner, I believe, the manager of Pink Floyd in those early days, would say at some point that he could never listen to either Barrett or The Madcap Laughs. Moreover, he would say that he could never understand the people who did. He actually called the very idea of listening to those albums strange and even 'ghoulish'. While I understand his thinking, I also believe that the sheer light of Syd Barrett's music (tragic though it was during the disjointed sessions for his two solo albums) is such that not listening to it, even in the form of frail, occasionally incoherent outtakes released in 1987, is a big loss and grave mistake. Because this was, in a kind of terrible and perverted way, a part of his world that he shared with us for a brief few years of his music career. It is not for me to judge how inevitable it was, but I have come to believe that it was integral. And we should all be grateful to people like Malcolm Jones, David Gilmour and Richard Wright for making those 1969/1970 recordings even possible.

Besides those timeless early singles and three albums (of which The Piper and The Madcap Laughs are in my personal top ten of all time), I find myself coming back to "Jugband Blues" time and time again. In a somewhat emotional move by the band, they attached Syd's last song for Pink Floyd at the end of A Saucerful Of Secrets. It is a harrowing and very pure expression of the artist's state of mind, impossibly sad and yet one of Syd Barrett's best creations. There is nothing tampered or diluted about what is expressed here, the song comes at you full-on, with gut-punching lyrics and inescapable melodies. It is both unbearable and irresistible. Sometimes, though, it is too hard for me to listen to it, almost as hard as watching the closing few seconds of this video, the last that were recorded with him in the band:

Robyn Hitchcock in Brighton, 11.09

One of the sights from this show I will not forget is an expression of utter bewilderment on the face of a young girl sitting at one of the front tables. At that point, Robyn Hitchcock was playing "My Wife and My Dead Wife", an oddly irresistible story of a man who lives in the company of two wives, one dead and one alive. 

My wife lies down on the beach, she's sucking a peach 

She's out of reach

Of the waves that crash on the sand where my dead wife stands 

Holding my hand

Those lyrics are as clever and disturbing as they were 40 years ago, and it must have been a treat to hear them for the first time. But then again, it was a real treat for me, too, and I have heard them a hundred times. Robyn Hitchcock does not play it every night (his setlists are remarkably diverse), but the 1985 song remains an enduring classic in a vast catalogue of amazing consistency and whimsical brilliance. 

Along with Robert Forster, Luke Haines and a few others, Robyn Hitchcock is one of my all-time favourite songwriters. The first time I heard his song (I believe it was "Executioner" from Eye), I genuinely could not believe I had never heard this music before. It was confident, charismatic, idiosyncratic and oddly appealing. I have since heard everything else in his discography, and this feeling has only become stronger: how could this be so obscure? After all, The Soft Boys' Underwater Moonlight is one of the greatest albums of all time, and so are Fegmania!, Eye and I Often Dream Of Trains. The answer, inevitably, is what Stephen Pastel once said: "In the end, you become as big as you are meant to be". Or, alternatively, Robyn Hitchcock has never truly desired fame.

In Brighton, at the Komedia club, he does a long set divided into two parts. We start with the wistful "September Cones" (originally on You & Oblivion, a great compilation of demos and outtakes) and end with a brief encore featuring "See Emily Play" and "Waterloo Sunset" (both taken from his new album of 1967 classics that once inspired him). In between, it is what you have come to expect: sex, cheese, insects and death (well, he scales back on sex a little). Plus, the man is genuinely, effortlessly funny with his onstage ramblings and droll English humour. The best joke of the night was perhaps to do with two ways of looking at things. There are two groups of people in the world, optimists and pessimists. Some think The Beatles are half-alive and some that they are half-dead. 

Again, with a catalogue so big, there were bound to be some omissions (I would have wanted "My Favourite Buildings" and "The Man Who Invented Himself"), but you can't fault his choices, either. He did The Soft Boys stuff ("Queen of Eyes", "Tonight"), he did the Egyptians stuff ("My Wife and My Dead Wife", "Madonna of the Wasps"), he did things classic ("Queen Elvis", "Cynthia Mask") and new ("Raymond and the Wires", "The Shuffle Man"). For me, one of the highlights was "Autumn Sunglasses" (from the eponymous 2017 album) whose melodicism came through in style in the intimate live setting. He was eccentric and charming without trying too hard. And he was humble, too, and introduced Syd Barrett's "See Emily Play" as a song written by 'the original Robyn Hitchcock'. 

Interestingly, there were two glasses of water on the small table beside him, and, inevitably, the amount of water was decreasing all the time. I knew he timed it, in the sense that he would finish it off before or after his last song. And yet there was a part of me that hoped against hope that the water would never disappear and he would be playing there for us until the end of times. It would have been amazing, too, and with songs so timeless, such a Robyn Hitchcock thing to do. 

Oasis: worst to best

This post will be my personal contribution to the Oasis reunion. I have decided to relisten to all of their albums to see if my old opinions still stand (spoiler alert: they mostly do). This will be a list in ascending order, from worst to best. 

Also, just to make sure: in the Blur vs. Oasis debate, the correct answer has always been Pulp.

8. Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants (2000)

You know what? This album is not even bad. It is too safe to be bad. Noel Gallagher has always been a somewhat limited songwriter, which means he could never really move beyond the waning lights of Britpop. You may call this post-Britpop (true for the Gallaghers' music after the split), but what it is, essentially, is Oasis going through the motions in a very smooth and boring way. Not exactly terrible (although the title of the album as well as the cover certainly are terrible), just mediocre. 

Best song: "Go Let It Out" (which is not very good either)

7. Heathen Chemistry (2002)

I think Pitchfork gave this album a 1.4 or something. That said, a couple of years earlier they had published that review of Kid A, so who cares anyway? I am not here to defend Heathen Chemistry (it is Oasis by the numbers), but there is more life in it than in the previous album. Songs? Well, I find "Little By Little" to be awfully formulaic, but the sweeping "Stop Crying Your Heart Out" and Liam's tender "Songbird" are both excellent.

Best song: "Songbird"

6. Don't Believe The Truth (2005)

Interestingly, only five out of these eleven songs were written by Noel. He certainly came up with the best ones ("Mucky Fingers", which sounds like "I'm Waiting For The Man" by The Velvet Underground; "Lyla", which sounds like "Street Fighting Man" by The Rolling Stones; "The Importance Of Being Idle", which sounds like "Sunny Afternoon" by The Kinks; "Part Of The Queue", which sounds like "Golden Brown" by The Stranglers; and "Let There Be Love", which is a grand old John Lennon ballad cloaked in "Retrovertigo" by Mr Bungle), but the contributions from the other band members do bring a little variety, and some breathing space. Overall the band sounds fresh and engaged. Don't Believe The Truth is an awfully derivative album, but a very enjoyable one, too.

Best song: "The Importance Of Being Idle"

5. Be Here Now (1997)

I need to get this off my chest: saying those first two albums are all-time classics and Be Here Now is dog's dinner makes little sense to me. Yes, so this album is dog's dinner and, in fact, it should be the dictionary definition of a 'fucking mess'. Yes, the production was probably overseen by a drug dealer. Yes, each song goes on for a million years. But - and I will die on this hill - in terms of actual songwriting, there is no seismic dip in quality. It is just that it was all amplified, blown up, pushed to the limit. Essentially, though, "Don't Go Away" is hardly all that much worse than "Wonderwall", and "All Around The World" is not far behind "Champagne Supernova".

Best song: "Don't Go Away"

4. Dig Out Your Soul (2008)

I remember how I was in England in 2008 and Dig Out Your Soul was released. There was an Alan McGee article about the album in which he compared it to Beggars Banquet. "Oh for fuck's sake", I thought, and forgot all about it. When I finally did hear Dig Out Your Soul, a couple of years later, I was surprised by how much I actually enjoyed this album. "Bag It Up" was a brilliant opener. "I'm Outta Time" and "Falling Down" were both classic singles. "(Get Off Your) High Horse Lady" was jangly and murky, and Noel's successful attempt at being adventurous. Yes, so the album is let down towards the end by democracy, with Gem Archer and Andy Bell both contributing very unremarkable rockers. Still, Liam's "Soldier On" is a good closer, and that initial seven-song run simply cannot be denied.  

Best song: "(Get Off Your) High Horse Lady"

3. Definitely Maybe (1994)

"Rock 'n' Roll Star" is not a very good song but it is a terrific opener. Which is what you need to know about this album: it is all swagger, no subtlety. The production is a mess, the arrangements lack any sort of nuance - but all the same; there was something about them right from the start: the relentlessness, the oomph. Noel's songwriting was not especially plodding at the time (as a matter of fact, "Shakermaker" is the only song with no saving graces). The classics were, of course, "Live Forever", "Supersonic" and "Slide Away", but the dirty groove of "Columbia"? The middle-eight of "Up In The Sky"? The surprising understatement of "Married With Children"? Good stuff. Not as good as Noel and Liam think, but I still enjoy it after all these years. 

Best song:  "Slide Away"

2. (What's The Story) Morning Glory (1995)

I have always hated that album title. Why so long? Why the parentheses? Why the corny rhyme? That said, the songs are mostly good. Morning Glory is catchy, glorious onslaught of Cheap Trick and nods to The Beatles so low Noel is basically touching the ground with his forehead. Not everything is equally great, and after all these years I'm still not convinced by "Roll With It" or the title song (despite some mild creativity in the arrangement). All the same; criticising "Wonderwall" at this point seems to me as pointless as criticising "Yesterday" or "Hotel California". Most importantly, though, that song number four is such a timeless classic that it lifts this album above the debut all by itself.  

Best song: well, what do you think?

1. The Masterplan (1998)

There has to be something seriously wrong with a band when a collection of B-sides is this much better than regular studio albums. The Masterplan is, of course, a compilation but I'm willing to make it my number one just to underscore the inadequacy of their artistic choices. It is no masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination, but throw away the pointless instrumental "The Swamp Song" and the equally pointless Beatles cover, and you get a near-perfect collection of 90s Britpop. "Underneath The Sky"? "Talk Tonight"? "Rockin' Chair"? "Half The World Away"? "The Masterplan"? I get excited by simply typing those titles.

Best song: "Rockin' Chair"

Album of the Month: WILD GOD by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

The album enters your speakers mid-song. There is no introduction or extended build-up. "Song Of The Lake" swirls triumphantly into the room and you wonder where the hell it has been all your life. Because after a decade of grief and suffering, trauma and death, Wild God is Nick Cave's LIFE album. Or, as someone on the Internet has commented, "Nick's so fucking back that I'm not sure anyone's ever been as back as him".

Wild God is not exactly straightforward but it does not hide under any pretense. It is filled with joyous, expressive sound that swallows everything around. Grand orchestration, powerful piano chords, expansive backing vocals... So much so that there is a sense that the album is simply too big to clock in under 45 minutes. It almost feels like it should have been a double or even a triple album. Instead, Wild God is a concerted, life-affirming explosion of pure joy. 

It is a beautifully sequenced, well thought-through album that only puts a foot wrong once, when in the otherwise excellent "O Wow O Wow (How Wonderful She Is)" Warren Ellis chooses to do the disturbing vocoder thing that reminds me of Bon Iver and thus fills my heart with cold dread. The song itself is Cave's heartfelt tribute to the great Anita Lane (whose two solo albums are essential listening as far as I'm concerned) and manages to be both anthemic and understated. 

Wild God is a forward-looking album (and will sound fantastic live) but the past is not entirely behind it. The piano that cuts through "Final Rescue Attempt" is reminiscent of No More Shall We Part. "Cinnamon Horses" is informed by Ghosteen. The album overall has the glorious, freewheeling spirit of Abattoir Blues/Lyre of Orpheus to it. And it is also as entertaining as "White Elephant", with certain songs featuring multiple sections (the title song, for instance, or my current favourite "Conversion"). 

Other than the rather oblique but amusing "Frogs", the lyrics of Wild God are fairly simple. But that is perhaps the whole point. Again, it is a LIFE album. Perhaps the LIFE album, and life is not to be fucked with. Quite simply, it is there to be lived. 

 

August Round-Up

In my review of Skinty Fia I expressed a wish for more nuance and diversity from Fontaines DC. Two years and one excellent solo LP from Grian Chatten later, nuance and diversity are the order of the day. However, there is a trade-off. Romance, great though it is, compromises some of their identity. The start of the title song could be mistaken for Radiohead. There are sections that bring to mind Blur, Slowdive and The Cure. There are even parts of "In A Modern World" that sound like Lana Del Rey (Chatten is a fan, apparently). Add to this an explicit desire to become the biggest band in the world as well as unhealthy expectations created by the rap/punk/indie hybrid "Starburster", and this could be a major disaster. It is not. They are excellent songwriters, and James Joyce is still an influence.  

Magdalena Bay is a band that everyone seems to give a damn about these days, and I, too, gave them a shot. Their new album is getting perfect reviews from all corners, and Imaginal Disk is, essentially, dreamy synth-pop with soulful undertones. While the supposed blissed-out brilliance escapes me (as of now), songs like "Tunnel Vision" do sound very lovely indeed.

I admit there are times when I find Gillian Welch a tad too perfect. For me, the rougher-edged Soul Journey remains her best work. She let it loose a little in 2003, and you got stuff like "One Monkey". Mostly, though, she goes for the transcendental. Woodland, her impeccable new album with David Rawlings (could I just repeat for the umpteenth time how much I adore "The Weekend"?), is, in essence, absolute perfection. From the very first single "Truckload of Sky" to the sparse, serene closer "Howdy Howdy", the album is transcendental country of the highest order that just gets better with every listen. Beautiful songwriting, accessible but not very approachable.

There was a time when I obsessed over Laurie Anderson. First time I heard Big Science, I wrote to my English friends who burned that CD for me and demanded another album exactly like that. Well, sadly there was nothing they could do, and even though I got my hands on Mister Heartbreak and Bright Red and Home Of The Brave, I was missing the chilling electronic novelty of her 1982 debut. Interestingly, with this year's Amelia (the album is about Amelia Earhart, the pioneering American aviator and the first woman to cross the Atlantic) gets us back to the topic of flying. And while nothing here moves me as much as the otherworldly "From The Air", it is a very consistent, and brief, work of modern classical with tasteful chamber orchestration.  

Songs of the Month:

"Bowling de Diano Marina" - Juniore

"Joy" - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

"Green Rubble - Clean Shoots" - Godspeed You! Black Emperor

"TV Star" - Du Blonde

"Bug" - Fontaines DC

"North Country" - Gillian Welch & David Rawlings

"Holy, Holy" - Geordie Greep

"Tunnel Vision" - Magdalena Bay

"Rio's Song" - The Hard Quartet

"Zero Sum" - The Smile

"Crossing The Equator" (feat. ANOHNI) - Laurie Anderson

OFF Festival 2024

I thought I had the best joke in town when I said that we all wanted to see Jarvis Cocker at the OFF Festival this year, but all we ever got was Puuluup and Bar Italia. My sense of victory, however, did not last. The vocalist of Les Savy Fav beat me, quite comprehensively, with the nipple joke. More on that later. 

This year's edition of the legendary Polish festival did not impress with its line-up as much as it did last year, but there is a certain joy to stumbling upon a lesser known artist giving a disturbingly great performance in a small tent at the edge of the festival grounds. There was plenty of it this time - in addition to the usual: rain, smell of weed and the great museums of Katowice. With that said, it was a little heartbreaking to see an older gentleman in front of me in a T-shirt with the full line-up of 2010 on his back. The Flaming Lips, Tindersticks, Art Brut, The Fall, Dinosaur Jr... Oh well. 

Day 1

Who knows, though? Perhaps by 2038 English Teacher will have become a legendary act in their own right... Their early performance on Friday, to a scattered but receptive audience, made me reconsider my indifference to their debut album (This Could Be Texas, 2024). I was willing to write them off as yet another British band who wants to be like Black Country, New Road, but they were genuinely good here. Intense one moment ("Nearly Daffodils"), elegant the next ("You Blister My Pain"), they were charming, confident and quite humble. In fact, I have relistened to the album a few times since last Friday, and it just keeps getting better.

photo from Off Festival's website

Later on, in a tent, and just as the rain was starting to fall, Annahstasia was doing her intimate folk set. The two songs she did from her upcoming EP were nice, if little else. Still, while I do not find her music special in any way, she did create a pleasant, almost spiritual mood with her brooding lyrics and the gently fingerpicked guitar. 

Polish hip-hop is not something that could entice me, but from what I could gather, Łona (Adam Bogumił Zieliński) is something of a legend in this country. His lyrics in particular are widely praised. What drew my attention was the fact that he was playing with the jazz musicians Andrzej Konieczny and Kacper Krupa, and jazz rap is something I do appreciate (I still relisten to Blowout Comb once in a while). They were mostly doing last year's Taxi (also available as an instrumental album), and I found the juxtaposition between atmospheric jazz and shouty rapping quite engaging. 

Did I say English Teacher were confident, charming and humble? Well, Bar Italia were all that without the 'charming' and the 'humble' bits. A certain arrogance is healthy, no doubt, but then you must have the music to back it up. I know they are getting quite popular, and receiving a lot of coverage and rave reviews (not from Jarvis Cocker, though, who does not rate them), but their noisy indie rock just sounds like a racket and the hooks and the melodies simply drown in the sea of monotony and power chords. 

Finally, at midnight (when else?), Imperial Triumphant were playing. This concert was worth attending for two reasons: for the experience and because I never really cared for Future Islands who were at that time playing on the central stage. It was thrilling to see the masked avant-garde metal band from New York performing in the pouring rain of southern Poland. I really enjoyed the jazzy interludes which, nonetheless, always gave way to the lead vocalist growling wickedly into the microphone. It was quite an experience, if nothing else. 

Day 2

Best things in life happen on Saturdays. Klawo, a jazz six-piece from Gdańsk, kicked things off on the central stage. They dazzled without being overbearing, which is something I appreciate in jazz. To me, the highlight of the set was the brief, vibraphone-led, sweetly sung "I Feel Something" which exploded quite beautifully towards the end. 

A little further away, on the experimental stage, the Estonian duo Puuluup were doing avant-folk using contraptions called talharpa (the sound is not unlike something you could get out of a pleasantly distorted violin). Catchy, whimsical, inessential and with some funny self-deprecating banter between songs. 

Mostly, though, I was here for Baxter Dury. Interestingly, the man was so hyped up (cocaine?) that even his band members were a little shocked. Mad dancing was in full display. When I saw him in Berlin last year, he slowly built himself up into this total frenzy of dancing and screaming. This time, he was that way from the start, from the very first chords of "Leak At The Disco". And it was one hell of a show. He played his best songs, including three from his latest album, and he was shouting 'we love you Poland' at the end like he really meant it. A great songwriter and an entertaining performer. All you could ever wish for at the festival. 

photo from Off Festival's website

Did I just say entertaining? Next up was art punk band from Brooklyn called Les Savy Fav, and this was one of the highest points of this year's OFF Festival. Basically, what we got was the vocalist Tim Harrington (who looks a little like the bearded man from a Gentle Giant album cover) stripping to his underpants and walking among the crowd while the band was playing tight, high-octane rock music without paying any attention to whatever was going on around. Harrington himself was a hoot, talking incessantly in between songs; at one point, he brought up the Polish language (sounds like an English person swearing), at another, he asked the audience if they knew the word 'nippy' and then said that actually, it was not nippy but nipply outside (true on both counts) and in fact, at least one of the band members had three nipples. I don't know, the whole show was intoxicating, and filled with great songs that span the band's entire career. 

Finally, Saturday was brought to an effective close by Grace Jones. She started with her brilliant take on the Bowie/Iggy Pop classic "Nightclubbing" and then she was by turns salacious, majestic, totally irresistible. She played a half of Nightclubbing LP and other classics ("Private Life" and "My Jamaican Guy" were incredible). The extended ending was her doing a hula hoop for ten minutes while performing "Slave To The Rhythm". A night to remember, obviously.

And another OFF Festival that delivered the goods, even if sometimes against all odds and with the rain pissing down all over the tent camp.

Five pop albums of 2024

These may or may not be the five biggest pop albums of 2024. Last month, I took the time to listen to all of them and these are my thoughts.

Charli XCX - Brat

This album is a perfect soundtrack to the world falling apart while you are sitting on your terrace drinking Red Bulls. Charli XCX's new album is, of course, a statement. This is largely nostalgic club music, done with style and great conviction. Not my kind of thing, but I do admire the gutsy inventiveness that runs through this thing. She throws so many ideas into the songs that they may on occasion sound quite messy ("Von Dutch", "Club Classics"). Still, the criminally catchy stuff like "B2B" or the opener "360" more than makes up for it. Extra points for the piano break in "Mean Girls". 

Billie Eilish - Hit Me Hard And Soft 

I'm sorry, but this is just boring. Forty three fucking minutes of a listless female voice whispering something or other. Call it subtle and sophisticated if you want to, I just find it bloodless. Side B is slightly more interesting, but not by much. Funnily enough, the most memorable moment on the whole album comes by way of Billie intoning the goddamn 'birds of feather flock together' cliche. Jesus Christ. 

Dua Lipa - Radical Optimism

As far as I'm concerned, this is harmless pop music. Nothing sticks out in particular, nothing is terrible. She has a voice, I guess, and these songs have hooks. Decent, derivative dance pop. I have definitely heard worse, but I do not get the adoration. 

Beyoncé - Cowboy Carter

This album has 27 songs on it. WHY?!? Why in God's name? This album is full of filler and what is not filler is hardly all that great either. Just your glorified country album done with aplomb, schtick and a lot of money. Not bad or anything, and occasionally quite worthy of your time, but there is nothing here that justifies the unbearable fawning from critics. Eighty (!) minutes, too. 

Taylor Swift - The Tortured Poets Department

I wonder what will happen when she takes her show to Warsaw this weekend. Increase the rate of the zloty? Cause an earthquake? Legalise abortion? Hard to say. The fact remains that what looked like a stylish advert for lingerie turned out to be a cover of a new Taylor Swift album. It features a million songs and 95% of them sound like self-parody. Still, she is a pop machine and the algorithm is still working (if you are into this kind of thing). She mentions Dylan Thomas and says 'fuck' a couple of times, but this is way too derivative to sustain my interest all the way through. 

Фільм. "БЕЛАРУСКІ ПСІХАПАТ" (2015) / Мікіта Лаўрэцкі.

Цікава, што пэўны час пасля прагляду фільма я думаў пра слова "беларускі" ў яго назве. Бо што робіць Дзіму, хлопца без пачуцця гумару, з бліскаўкамі на скронях і жаданнем дэманстраваць незнаёмым людзям свае "геніяльныя" турыстычныя фота з Мальты, што робіць яго не проста псіхапатам, а менавіта беларускім псіхапатам? Бо ніхто ж, напэўна, не будзе адмаўляць знарочыстую амерыканскасць Патрыка Бэйтмана з рамана Брэта Істэна Эліса. Але што робіць псіхапата Дзіму з дэбютнага фільма Мікіты Лаўрэцкага беларускім? Мне падаецца, што гэта не пустое пытанне.

Думаю, што кожны, хто хоць нешта ведае пра сучаснае беларускае кіно, чуў імя Мікіты Лаўрэцкага. Ён стварае незалежныя, нізкабюджэтныя фільмы ў жанры "мамблкора" (калі ў двух словах, то гэта калі крыху дрыжыць камера і маладыя людзі шмат размаўляюць паміж сабой), і кожны з іх можна паглядзець на яго YouTube-канале. Мікітавы фільмы дэманструюцца на міжнародных фестывалях, а калі казаць пра яго паўнаметражны дэбют ("Беларускі псіхапат"), то ў 2015 годзе ён стаў лепшым ігравым фільмам у нацыянальным конкурсе "Лістапада". Інакш кажучы, прагляд яго стужак быў толькі пытаннем часу.

Не адмаўляю, што я абраў менавіта гэты фільм з-за яго назвы. "Беларускі псіхапат" - не абы-якое словазлучэнне. Яно мае вагу, пэўны мастацка-гістарычны багаж, і я адразу ж зразумеў, што нават калі будзе дрэннае кіно жахлівай якасці, пра яго ўсё роўна будзе цікава пагаварыць.

Але ж я не мог адарвацца. "Беларускі псіхапат" наўрад ці зробіцца сапраўднай падзеяй у вашым жыцці, але кіно гэта так утульна існуе ў сваім добра акрэсленым свеце, у сваёй сыраватай чорна-белай бурбалцы, што нельга не адчуць эмацыянальнае напружанне таго, што адбываецца на экране. Бо героі ў фільме цалкам зразумелыя, і нічога тут не адбываецца без мэты. І кормяць катоў тут не проста так, і словы падбіраюць далёка не выпадкова. Пасля прагляду фільма ўважлівы глядач успомніць і тыя словы, і тых катоў. Пра ігру актораў у такім жанры казаць цяжка, але няёмкасць ад плоскіх інтанацый Дзімы (дарэчы, ролю іграе сам Лаўрэцкі) прабірае да касцей. І хочацца ці тое смяяцца, ці тое закрыць вушы.

Сюжэт фільма не пакідае шмат месца для фантазіі. Тры дзяўчыны вырашаюць паехаць на дачу, дзе хлопец Дзіма (ледзьве знаёмы адной з іх) святкуе дзень нараджэння з двумя сябрамі. Гэта класічны пачатак для трылера ці фільма жахаў, і ў гледача не павінна быць аніякіх ілюзій. Але ж яны ўсё роўна з'яўляюцца, тыя ілюзіі, бо ты добра пазнаеш і людзей, і іх размовы. Нават псіхапат Дзіма, які адзіны за сталом есць гэты моташлівы торт, упускае цябе ў сваю прастору (але ж гэта вельмі цесная прастора, і змяшчаецца ў маленькім ванным пакоі, дзе за некалькі секунд адбываецца хічкокаўская і, бадай, самая кінематаграфічная сцэна ў фільме). Так, што пэўны час ты існуеш у даволі няёмкім, але цалкам небяспечным вымярэнні "Беларускага псіхапата". 

І вось тут, як мне падаецца, хаваецца поспех фільма. Ён ў тым, як добра Лаўрэцкі гуляе з танальнасцю. Бо менавіта тут крыецца змрочная, крыху таямнічая эфектыўнасць трэцяга акту - які ты павінен быў чакаць, але з нейкай прычыны чакаць перастаў. Бо, напэўна, паглядзеў у простыя, шчырыя вочы псіхапата і паверыў. Можа, і цяпер я думаю пра гэта і баюся ўчытаць у твор неіснуючыя ў ім сэнсы, можа тут і хаваецца таямніца слова "беларускі", якое пазначана ў назве фільма?..

Book review: PROPHET SONG by Paul Lynch

By the end of this book, I was pacing up and down the room like a madman. High-strung and red in the face, I was very much on my feet wading through the dense ending hoping for an impossible ray of light. This does not happen to me too often. Come to think of it, last time that I could not remain seated while reading a book was ages ago, back when I was breezing through Kafka's Metamorphosis. 

This book is, indeed, a very intense read. So intense, in fact, that it took me a couple of weeks to finish it. A few chapters at once was all I could stomach in the face of the present tense (the entire book is written that way) as well as the relentless onslaught of the plot. 

Paul Lynch's novel won the Booker Prize in 2003, and for a good reason. The book presents a harrowing picture of Ireland becoming a totalitarian state. We are never quite explained how this came about, but the whole point is that maybe we do not need to. Such things happen, people turn into animals in no time at all ("The man has been trained for the rules of the game but the game has been changed so what now is the man", Lynch writes quite early in the book), and all of a sudden you are caught up in the commonplace cruelty and indifference. This is infuriating, disgusting stuff - all the more so because it is very familiar. People of modern-day Belarus will find a lot to relate to here.

The present tense is important as it provides this gruesome engine to the proceedings. We do not see the family of Larry and Molly Stack dealing with the oncoming storm. Instead, we see them right in the midst of it, when all you can do, really, is to adapt. You can put on a brave face, you can join the uprising, but there is only so much that you can change with four children, a father with dementia and the brutal police force (the Garda) knocking on your door on an ordinary Monday evening in the centre of Dublin. Soon the borders will be closed, the food will be rationed and your teenage son will be conscripted and forced to join the army.

The book is written at a desperate pace, but with dashes of beautiful, almost serene poetry ("Molly lifts her face from the screen and meets her mother with a look of clear water"). This poetry, however, cannot shield you from the destination that the book is taking you to. As Molly is trying to make sense of what is going on around her ("coaxing future out of nothingness" is one of Lynch's most brilliant turns of phrases here), she arrives at that very ending that had me walking around the room with the book in my hands. The ending that would seem disingenuous and even manipulative were it not also completely inevitable. Because, really, it could be anyone. Anyone at all. 

Three TV shows: Ripley, The Dry, Fallout

Ripley, mini-series (2024)

The genius of Patricia Highsmith's original idea is so inescapable that it is no surprise the first book has spawned no less than three screen adaptations. Purple Noon (1960) with Alain Delon, The Talented Mr Ripley (1999) with Matt Damon and now the mini-series Ripley with Andrew Scott. With the first two adaptations being so iconic, did we really need a new one? 

Strangely, we did. With its discomforting black-and-white aesthetics (at times, Ripley feels like Tarkovsky filming Kafka), the TV series sucks you in from the very beginning. And when the squalor of a tiny New York apartment gives way to the splendour of Italy, the magic hypnotism is complete. Ripley goes on for eight hour-long episodes, which allows the director Steven Zaillian to really delve into the details (the boat scene in particular is truly mortifying, and takes a full episode).  

Andrew Scott is brilliant, and so is Dakota Fanning as Marge Sherwood. Lacking that sinister spark, Matt Damon never really worked for me, and neither did Gwyneth Paltrow who looked plain and depthless in the 1999 adaptation. With the young Greenleaf, it is a little bit trickier as Jude Law was the perfect Dickie (for all my love for Johnny Flynn, he never stood a chance). Finally, while Eliot Sumner (Sting's child, incidentally) does an intriguing turn as Dickie's friend Freddie Miles, it is quite impossible to improve on Philip Seymour Hoffman. 

Getting back to Andrew Scott, neither Delon nor Damon went this deep into the harrowing psyche of Tom Ripley, one of literature's greatest con-men, but also someone who disgusts and fascinates in equal measure. "I offered you my friendship and asked for nothing in return". 

The Dry, Season 2 (2024)

The Dry is an Irish TV show, half-comedy and half-drama, which is set in modern-day Dublin and deals with a young woman named Shiv Sheridan and one truly dysfunctional family. Alcohol, Dublin, a little bit of art. In other words, what is not to like?

The whole thing is somewhat predictable but also great fun. In Season 1, a young artist (played by Roisin Gallagher) comes back from London to deal with her issues (mostly alcohol addiction and proclivity for bad romance). Instead, the issues become ever more evident as she returns, essentially, to the very place that caused all those problems in the first place. In her broken, largely unsupportive family, however, no one gets spared. This second season, out this year, is more of the same: awkward relationships, wine hidden in the toilet bowl, old flames and quite a bit of black humour.

One thing I have to add: I really do not like these Fleabag comparisons. Whereas Fleabag tried too hard and felt contrived, The Dry seems effortless and quite charming. A real joy to watch.

Fallout, Season 1 (2024)

Fallout is without a doubt this year's most acclaimed TV show. I felt a little apprehensive going into this as I have no concept of the computer game this is based on. All I knew, and this you could easily get from the title, is that Fallout is about the state of the world following some major nuclear disaster. 

I was rather annoyed at first. This whole aesthetic of combining brutal violence (and it is quite brutal, almost comically so) with the charming innocence of the Ink Spots and Billie Holiday grew stale in no time at all. I mean, how long can you look at chunks of human flesh flying around to the music of Bob Crosby?.. And yet the makers of Fallout stuck with it, up to that very point where you just had to accept the sheer grotesqueness of the whole thing (through gritted teeth, in my case). 

And now, having watched the full season, I will say that the most fascinating aspect of Fallout is how it manages to straddle that fine line between the silliness and the gore. For that is exactly what they do here. And, in a way, it becomes quite absorbing. I never cared for the characters, Fallout does not really pull you in emotionally, but the sheer stretch of the imagination is overwhelming. Plus, all the narrative hooks are carefully placed and you are ever looking forward to whatever comes next. 

Fallout succeeds in creating its own world, a world which is deranged and quite unique at the same time. And this, come to think of it, is the sought-after apex in all of art. So that when the second season is released (as inevitably it will be), I'm going back into this. Who knows, there may be humans in there after all.