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.