Album of the Month: DOGREL by Fontaines D.C.

In case I am overrating this album a little - please know that I am willing to do so. After all, when was it last time that I was this excited about a modern debut record?

'Dogrel' alludes to a particular type of working class poetry once big in Ireland. It is a fitting title as 'working class poetry' is exactly what this album is about. Working class poetry sung in thick Irish accent so high on attitude they can get away with repeating the word 'tyre' eight straight times (in the incredible "Sha Sha Sha", which may or may not be their take on "London Calling"). 

The sound of Fontaines D.C. is not unique, so what impresses me most is its undeniable freshness. Freshness, urgency, spiritedness. I guess the sound does owe something to The Fall, but then Mark E. Smith would probably say they remind him of Steely Dan. Be that as it may, Fontaines D.C. build their songs around infectious grooves that pump tons of blood to your heart - if not, in fact, to your limbs that have not danced to a decent song in ages. 

Some complain about the bad mix, but I do not hear it. As far as I am concerned, these people should either get out more or listen to the goddamn tunes. Because the tunes are emphatically great - in fact, most of them had come out as singles prior to the release of the album. Out of these, the opening "Big" is a standout; one minute forty six seconds of pure guts, attitude and classic lines. "Liberty Belle" is almost as good, and almost as short, but even with lengthy five-minute grooves they are fully capable of holding your attention ("Hurricane Laughter", "The Lotts"). They are not afraid of repetition, but that is because they know they are on to something here.

They do beautiful, too, and "Roy's Tune" (I have heard people compare that intro to The Go-Betweens, no less) is a masterful working class ballad whose lyrics do resonate. And it is most welcoming to see them take on rootsy Irish music on the closing "Dublin City Sky" which is as derivative as it is special - coming as it does on the heels of the propulsive, James Joyce name-dropping, cool-as-fuck-and-we-know-it "Boys In The Better Land". 

And it is important. I believe Fontaines D.C. know exactly how good they are, but for once this overconfidence is justified. They come fully formed, to the extent that I am slightly afraid for their future. And excited about it, in equal measure.

My Cultural Lowlights: WEYES BLOOD

These days, it almost seems arbitrary, the way people choose a new record to gush over. They call it the best album of the month, year, decade, ever. They tweet about it a lot more than they actually listen to it. They lionise it beyond all reason. So that when the time comes and you actually give it a good listen, you roll your eyes to Heaven and you say 'well, all right...'.

Happens to be Weyes Blood this time. And when I say 'happens', I do not mean 'bad'. Far from it. Titanic Rising is a lovely record, dreamy, nostalgic and self-consciously gorgeous. Take "Everyday", for instance. The song, possibly the biggest highlight on the album, is an ideal throwback to the hippy era of loose jeans, daisy chains and the smell of patchouli. Is it bad? Not with a sweeping chorus melody like that. But equally, it is so inescapably unexceptional that you almost have to wonder why the goddamn acclaim. Or take "Movies", a song praised to an almost hilarious extent. So meticulously pretty you cannot breathe. But then neither can the song. 

Part of me is almost ready to believe that this is all calculated - and the universal elation was the effect of some deliberately constructed equation. A conspiracy. Some clever ploy. Or maybe this is just the way some people are struggling with boredom - by choosing some random record and going nuts over it. Because while Titanic Rising does have its appeal, God knows parts of it are just plain dull. And I know that 'dull' is hardly an esoteric word, not the sort people use when describing this album, but occasionally it's very pleasing to say something straightforward in the world ruled by waves, tides and a four-letter word that rhymes with 'shepherd's pipe'.

My Cultural Highlights: SHOPLIFTERS

In a recent conversation with Sam Harris, psychologist-cum-economist Daniel Kahneman spoke about memories that have the annoying tendency of getting in the way of our experiences. As an example, he talked about this guy listening to a beautiful classical record and then becoming frustrated by the screeching noise of the vinyl. Which, this guy believes, ruins the whole thing - the noise being the sole memory left of the experience. Naturally, Professor Kahneman mentions how absurd this notion really is - after all, there was one full hour of great music before that noise, and no one can take that away from the listener. No matter how exasperated the listener may appear to be.

My relationship with Shoplifters, the winner of last year's Cannes festival, has a lot to do with what I have just described. The film, which is set in modern-day Tokyo and tells of a dysfunctional family involved in shoplifting and various other dubious activities, provoked in me various shades of confusion, anger, irritation. The constant slurping of noodles. The unlikable characters. The perverted nature of the relationships, both sexual and non-sexual. Most of the time, I kept being reminded why it is that, Kurosawa and Miyazaki aside, I never cared for Japanese culture whose otherness has always seemed as off-putting as the taste of sushi.

Then, however, I fell in love with Shoplifters, and it took the final scene to do that. Just a couple of minutes of a little girl on the balcony, with no words spoken except for a famous English counting rhyme that she keeps repeating again and again. "One, two, buckle my shoe...". And then there is something else she does - something that stays with you long after you have stopped watching the film. Something that made the whole experience so valuable as to seem priceless. Suddenly, there was no slurping and there was no vulnerable Japanese guy lying in the lap of a girl who undresses for money. Or, rather, it all did happen, but it was all part of a raw, bruising and still very humane story which is as much about memory as it is about experience. 

travelling notes (lxxxiv)

In my heart of hearts, I know that the three best places in Europe are Lucca, Dublin and Odessa... in that order. 

Скетчи про Минск. Интерес к жизни.

Если я за что-то и люблю китайских туристов, то лишь за то, что им нет до тебя никакого дела. Им наплевать. Их взгляд не улавливает твоих черт и даже твоих очертаний. Тебя не существует. Ты - пыль, фон, скучное привидение. Даже если ты будешь ехать в узком поезде лондонского метро, а напротив будет сидеть одинокий китайский студент без телефона в руке, то он все равно не увидит тебя. А если увидит, то лишь на мгновение, и ты об этом все равно не узнаешь. 

В Минске о таком можно только мечтать. В Минске - и это особенно заметно после долгого путешествия - люди любят смотреть друг на друга. Тот факт, что это невежливо или попросту глупо, никому не приходит в голову. И если косые взгляды в Kindle еще можно понять (или хотя бы простить), то это пристальное подсматривание вызывает раздражение. Хуже того - тоску. 

Когда кто-то однажды сказал мне, что прическа молодого человека напротив выглядит нелепо, я только улыбнулся. И предположил, что прически молодых людей не должны входить в круг проблем тех, кто сидит напротив. И потом - не как ли угодно. На что человек вполне решительно возразил мне, что одно дело носить какую угодно прическу в Нью-Йорке или Париже, и совсем другое - носить какую угодно прическу в Минске. Это опасное допущение, и я не готов его принять.

Разумеется, этот взгляд существует всюду, и не только в мире постсоветской неудовлетворенности (хотя в Киеве его мало, а в Петербурге - еще меньше), но все-таки... Что есть в этом взгляде? Апатия? Любопытство? Скука? Мания комплексов и внутренней несвободы? Желание сравнить, подсмотреть, осудить? Трудно сказать. Но я точно знаю, чего там нет: интереса к жизни. А иначе как объяснить то, что здесь так редко смотрят в глаза, когда разговаривают? 

Album of the Month: INFERNO by Robert Forster

In terms of sheer quality, March has been one hell of a month. Edwyn Collins released the masterful Badbea, Mekons did the wild and beautiful Deserted, Beth Gibbons performed Gorecki's unimpeachable Third Symphony with the Polish National Orchestra. Excellent records all around. To me, however, this was all about Inferno.

The parallels between this album and Danger In The Past, Robert Forster's solo debut from 1990, are obvious and just a little unnerving. First of all, nine songs. As every Go-Betweens/Forster fan knows, this number is wrong. Secondly, Inferno was recorded in Berlin and produced by Victor Van Vugt. And finally, there is this question of Irish literature. Only whereas Danger In The Past clearly alluded to James Joyce with its cover picture, Inferno has Forster write music to W.B. Yeats's poem. I say 'unnerving' because it brings things full circle and I hate full circles like that.

The poem in question is "Crazy Day On The Day Of Judgment" (this is Yeats's spelling of the last word, Robert adds the very British 'e' to it), and Forster weaves a beautiful melody into it. It's an untypical, sparse melody but it holds your attention all the way through, and seduces you with its elegant arrangement and Karin Bäumler's timely backup vocals. Apparently, Mike Scott is not the only songwriter who can put Yeats to music. The faux-anthemic "No Fame" features this rare thing called Robert's falsetto, and I strongly believe that it should have been chosen as a single. Instead, it was the fine title song whose rollicking piano is a treat and whose video has Robert Forster in a suit, with a lawnmower. Side one closes with the gorgeous ballad "The Morning" with lyrics both inspiring and strikingly simple.

Side two starts with the languid and very naturally (I guess 'raw' is the word, but I mean that affectionately) vocalised "Life Has Turned A Page". The pop 'hit' "Remain" is yet another highlight, not least because of its hard-hitting lyrics referencing some of Robert's frustration with the lack of recognition that has dogged him ever since... ah well. "I'll Look After You" is a romantic little breather, the rip-roaring "I'm Gonna Tell It" is - and I hate to admit it - a relative letdown (despite the descending 'I'm gonna, I'm gonna, I'm gonna' hook), and then it all ends with the majestic "One Bird In The Sky". Well, I cried and I laughed at how good it is. Songs like that only get written a handful of times per decade, and I know the stark magnificence of those lyrics will stay with me forever. Put it this way: "One Bird In The Sky" is a top ten Robert Forster song. And I do mean of all time.

To me, a new Forster album is always an event. The man only comes up with one every five years or so, but when he does - it's something you will listen to, and grow old with, for quite some time. How does Inferno fit in with his other work? I guess it's too early to say, but while it's neither Danger In The Past and nor is it The Evangelist (Forster's best album, still), I would say it inhabits a world similar to that of Songs To Play. A classic artist with impeccable taste and songwriting chops who is playing to his strengths, and doing it with relish and great freedom. The kind of relish and freedom that only come with experience. I can't wait to see him in Bonn in early May, him and his terrific band.

Scott Walker, 1943-2019

Not much to say, really, except the obvious: this is just fucking sad. I remember buying Scott 4 years ago and thinking there isn't a song more beautiful, and disturbing, than "The Old Man's Back Again". I was enamoured by the voice and the sound. Late at night, he would do Bergman before I saw Bergman. He would do Camus before I read Camus. Later still, he would do Bowie in Berlin before Bowie came to Berlin. Later still, he would do Tilt. The Drift. Bish Bosch. And I would still be enamoured.

He was one of the greatest.