Album of the Month: THE TALKIES by Girl Band

It delights me to no end that this is the second Irish band who get into my 'best album of the month' feature in 2019. All the more so because the abrasive brand of noise-rock played by Girl Band would not really be high on the list of 'my kind of music'. The Talkies, however, is so fucking good (cathartic, as people in the know would have you believe) that I'm willing to take its adventurous and raucous pleasures over albums like In the Morse Code of Brake Lights or Beneath the Eyrie.

The name of the band is better than it sounds: four lads from Dublin with not a girl between them. The Talkies is their second LP, and it is telling that it took them four years to release the follow-up to their 2015 debut Holding Hands With Jamie. Telling in the sense that the noise of The Talkies does not come out of nowhere. And nor do the vocals which sound like Mark E. Smith let completely, disconcertingly loose.

All through these punishing forty-six minutes, Girl Band create noise that is smart, diverse and perversely melodic. After the unsettling breathing of "Prolix", an introduction both fitting and bizarre, you get the intense pummeling of "Going Norway" that does not sound unlike The Fall at their least inviting. The melodies are there, however, and you might find it hard to get the brilliant and repetitive "Couch Combover" out of your head. Also, while the brief "Akineton" is little more than colourful noise, the six-minute "Laggard" extends intriguingly into the lo-fi fade-out. Better still is the epic "Prefab Castle" that builds and screeches and honks into this album's undisputed centrepiece. 

I love the aesthetics. I love the title and I love the cover that beautifully complement this wonderful experience which manages to turn sonic irreverence into sheer joy. The Talkies is a true artistic statement, subversive and utterly exciting. I would love to see how they evolve on the next album, and I do not care whether it will take them another four years to get there...

My Cultural Lowlights: LANA DEL REY

The problem with Lana del Rey is not her music. The music is all right. In fact, Norman Fucking Rockwell, her latest, is her most consistent album to date. And while the main vocal hook in "Fuck It I Love You" is the most annoying thing I have heard all year, much of the LP is full of beautiful meandering melodies that spell a talent bigger than a fraud. So no - the problem with Lana del Rey is not her music. The problem with Lana del Rey is that she does not mean a word she sings. 

Which is crucial, because in a world where everyone and everything is overrated, there is one thing whose value will never go down. I am talking about sincerity, a notion to which Lana del Rey, by the looks and by the sounds of it, is a total stranger. 

Note please that the concept of art for art's sake does not apply here. If it did, the whole thing would sound a lot more intriguing and, yes, seductive. Lana del Rey's case is different in the sense that she wants to come across as someone genuine, someone sad-eyed and tragically beautiful, someone possessing real emotions and not just sorrowful red dresses that she wears lying on a West Coast beach drinking cocktails and watching boys in immaculate slow-motion. This desire is commendable, of course, but she cannot really execute her intention beyond song titles and staged photoshoots. Because the image is manufactured, and the fakery is so overblown it becomes genuinely grating. 

From the Spanish name to that impeccable pout, you would have to try really fucking hard not to smile. It probably speaks volumes about the superficial nature of these times when so many people (who really should know better) fall for that crap. In fact, many of these people get their knickers in a twist when you question the integrity and the incessant name-dropping (Norman Rockwell being the latest casualty). They should not bother: outside the Spanish name and the impeccable pout, there is nothing to Lana's personality. Zilch. Cocktails and boys in slow-motion are as far as it goes.

With Lana del Rey, you are not supposed to disentangle the song from the image. When you do that, however, you are left with tons of empty posturing and a few good songs. Thus, I would still profess my admiration for the cold-blooded charms of "Video Games" and "Ride" and "Venice Bitch" as well as a vocal hook here and a vocal hook there, but there is so much artistic forgery that you can take. And, inevitably, each time that I stop trying to get into another one of her albums (and the bastards keep coming), I just end up playing something else instead. And God it sounds wonderful:  

P.S. Honest question: how big a chance is there that The Replacements will be name-dropped on Lana's new album?..

My Cultural Highlights: OLDER WISER HARDER

In art, 'mature' is not the greatest of epithets. Oftentimes, it just means boring. Once in a while, however, I do stumble upon a mature-sounding record which nonetheless has all the joy and inventiveness that make me listen to music in the first place. What I mean to say is, you do not have to cut off your ear to create an Impressionist painting. 

Older Wiser Harder is a recent discovery, a collaboration between Richard Earls and Thierry Audousset. The resulting album is, regrettably, very little known, but then it does not strive for popularity. All it is concerned with is creating great music that is supposed to contain the experience of the artists involved. That it succeeds is a testament to the dedication of Richard and Thierry, and the amount of craft and skill that was invested in making this expansive, diverse collection of music.  

The songs are mostly excellent. The absolute highlight is the endlessly intriguing, beautifully arranged "Before That Long Hot Summer" that manages to be both uplifting and properly depressing. Late-period Monochrome Set could be a decent, if rather loose, reference point. I also love the playful, music-hallish "Youth And Beauty", the strings-infused "From The Minute I Met You" with its soaring chorus, the piano-based "The Long Goodbye" that sounds like a long-lost Tom Waits classic, the terrific acoustic closer that bows out with a fitting, if ironic, lyrical message. 

If there is anything wrong with Older Wiser Harder (other than the straight-faced "Perfect Dream" that badly needs some edge), it is that it sometimes lacks a rougher approach that would have benefitted its great songwriting. It is as if the whole thing is too professional, the musicianship too immaculate. Occasionally, you want some distortion where maturity steps in... Which is why I like it how "Walking To My Girlfriend's House" comes right in the middle of the whole thing.

The album unfurls like a well-written book, like a life well told. I could almost call it a concept album confronting the past head-on, with all its troubles and regrets. But then equally, when you are listening to Older Wiser Harder (and I have been doing this over the last few weeks), you get the impression of the artists' joy of recording these songs (in rural France, no less). Which, in the end, may be the reason why I have been returning to it again and again.  

travelling notes (cx)

If you wear a tall green pointy hat in the Paris metro, people will look at you and smile. If you wear a tall green pointy hat in the London underground, people will look at you, get distracted for a second or two, and then go back to their books and phones. If you wear a tall green pointy hat in the New York subway, you might as well just keep being invisible.

Скетчи про Минск. Кинотеатры.

Я ни разу не был в минском кинотеатре "Современник", но помню, что когда в детстве мы гуляли в районе улицы Харьковской, он доживал свои последние дни. Сначала осыпался кирпич, затем тускнели стекла, потом стали пропадать буквы. Я не был в тех местах несколько лет, но мне страшно представить, в какую груду пыли и щебня все это превратилось. Какой супермаркет там строится, и какие дети гуляют там теперь. И не так важны фильмы, что показывал "Современник" сорок или пятьдесят лет назад. Просто все то, что не случилось со мной в том кинотеатре, - этого уже не случится никогда. 

Дело в том, что я люблю минские кинотеатры. Не те, что открываются теперь в торговых центрах и спортивных клубах, но все эти старые советские здания со старыми советскими названиями. "Ракета", "Октябрь", "Победа"... Всякий раз, когда я прохожу теперь мимо последнего, закрытого, кажется, уже миллион лет назад, я вспоминаю фойе с черно-белыми фотографиями, где я нервно ожидал Одиночество бегуна на длинные дистанции или тот старомодный порог, по которому я медленно сползал в ночной город после жуткого и давно забытого фильма Бесчестье.   

А еще "Москва", где был последний фильм Анджея Вайды, после которого час или два вообще не хотелось говорить. "Ракета", где после второй смены в университете нужно было отстоять длинную очередь, чтобы каждый понедельник смотреть по одному фильму Тарковского, начиная от Иванова детства и заканчивая Жертвоприношением. "Октябрь", куда в детстве мы ходили с сестрой, и после длительного сеанса в котором нам однажды позвонила мама, чтобы сказать ужасную новость... "Пионер" с его бесконечным Бергманом, где дама у входа объясняет нам, что фильм этот мы будем помнить весь год. А еще полусоветский "Дом кино", где помнится все, что было до, после и во время сеанса. И вообще я вдруг понимаю, что некоторые фильмы забываются, но я всегда помню кинотеатр.

Потому что поход в кинотеатр - это не только сам фильм. Это одинокий мужчина, который нервно курит короткую сигарету и просит тебя продать ему свой билет. Это две девочки, что пронесли на Хичкока две бутылки пива, и половину сеанса пытаются неслышно их открыть (у них, разумеется, ничего не получается). Это пожилая пара, которая пришла в кинотеатр "Ракета" на Огни большого города, и которая смеется и рыдает так, что ты влюбляешься не только в Чарли Чаплина, но и в них. Это, в конце концов, кофе, который ты пьешь после сеанса в кофейне за углом.

Все, что ты помнишь в многозальном кинотеатре на верхнем этаже торгового центра, - это сам фильм. И нет ни разговоров до, ни молчания после. Одна и та же девушка у любого зала, одни и те же кресла и один и тот же вход через огромные стеклянные двери. Так что порой из памяти стирается даже сам фильм.  

Возможно, старые кинотеатры Минска - это лучшее, что оставил после себя Советский Союз. Этих стен и этих старых букв на тусклом фоне мне не хватает даже за границей, где, конечно, есть свои кинотеатры "Победа" и "Салют", но где все же так много типовых дверей с бесконечными номерами залов (что, черт возьми, я помню про тот день в Лондоне, когда я пошел смотреть последний фильм Пола Томаса Андерсона?). Наверное, однажды я напишу книгу о том, как ходил в минские кинотеатры. Наверное, мне стоит написать ее хотя бы ради того, чтобы вспомнить того странного старика, который во время финальных титров Соляриса выбежал к экрану кинотеатра "Ракета" и начал рассказывать безумную историю из своего детства...

Album of the Month: IT'S HELL OUT THERE by John Moore

This album was released on July 5. For a brief rundown of August albums, see below.


For my money, John Moore's run of five albums this century has been nothing short of immaculate. Half Awake was the perfect Black Box Recorder hangover. Lo-Fi Lullabies and Floral Tributes were hopelessly beautiful. Knickerbrocker Glory was freewheeling and musically accomplished. Finally, John's latest album, It's Hell Out There, unfurls like a complex psychological thriller. I cannot think of too many artists with a run as good as that.

And still it was with a certain sense of dread that I approached this record. The cover picture was unsettling and the album title did not leave much to the imagination. And indeed, It's Hell Out There starts in a cold, claustrophobic manner. The title song is a memorable acoustic riff carrying the sound of smooth paranoia that should nonetheless hit quite close to him. The imagery is evocative and the references are desperately recognisable. "Billy Fury Way" ('you’re going to lose your life today down on Billy Fury Way...') is darker still, and the atmosphere is unnerving. These two songs make up one hell of a start, and I do mean hell.

Then, however, the album suddenly grows more upbeat, as evidenced on both the bouncy "The North Sea Fisherman" and the anthemic "Fantic Dreams (Of Sweet Sixteen)". The latter is particularly good, capturing all of that youthful vigour and recklessness and madness. "If The Beatles Had Never Existed", with its tastefully deranged "I Am The Walrus" noises in the background, is a couple of light years better than a certain Danny Boyle creation. "October Rose" is a classic John Moore ballad that suddenly transforms into a propulsive rocker right in the middle, and the piano-based "(Life Is A Fucking) Fiasco" has the most elaborate instrumentation on the album. Lyrically, it manages to straddle the line between catharsis and despair, and the melody is inspirational.

The laidback "Oh Baby, What Have You Done?" is the sort of intimate, tortured song I could almost imagine on a John Moore album from 2014, and God knows I do not mind that at all. The tune, though, has more light to it, and the Trump line cannot be denied, or argued with. Finally, "No One Listens To Music Anymore" is filled with rock'n'roll allusions and love for the lost art of, well, listening to music. An art that should not really be lost on anyone who listens to this album.

I would not call It's Hell Out There a difficult record, but - with its 50-plus-minute running time - it certainly is a challenging listen. Deeply rewarding, too, as some of John's best songwriting is on here. It is a very personal record, the only kind that he makes. It is raw and intense, very much like the album cover that I have grown to like quite a bit after some time spent with the music. 


AUGUST RUNDOWN 

Ezra Furman's Twelve Nudes is brilliant glam-rock insanity and very much a five-star LP, Nérija's Blume is exciting jazz from London and Thrashing Thru The Passion is the first Hold Steady album that I like (am I getting old?). Oh and of course: Lana del Rey has released the same fucking album for the fifth time. 

My Cultural Lowlights: BON IVER

Years ago, somewhere in England, a good friend of mine advised me to use the word 'hate' more sparingly. Do not use it too often, he told me as we were sitting in his Gateshead kitchen drinking Yorkshire tea. Apply it with care. It's a very strong word, he explained to the Russian-speaking teenager who was at the time 'hating' just about everything. As a teenager would. My opinions on music were particularly vicious: 'Nirvana can't write melodies', 'Radiohead are bloodless', 'U2 are unbearable' and 'Queen are the worst band of all time'. And these were just some of the bands that I 'hated'. 

Now of course things have changed, and my views have evolved (or devolved, depending on your point of view). I try to use the word 'hate' sparingly (there is a lot to be said for late-night advice given to impressionable 15-year-old teenagers), and I can safely claim that Nirvana could write melodies and Jazz is a very good album indeed. Still, I subscribe to Christopher Hitchens's idea that the feeling of hate can be a force for good, and a perfect reason to get out of bed in the morning. But enough of that, let's talk about Bon Iver.

Because I hate Bon Iver. With passion. One glance at the tracklist of Justin Vernon's latest albums makes me want to strangle every fucker who was involved in the 'creative' process. One snippet of Bon Iver's 'music' (I use the term loosely - Bon Iver's music is pretentious faffing around that is supposed to distract you from the fact that the guy can't write a tune to save his life) makes me question the sanity of those who say they like this kind of stuff. And the voice? That goddamn falsetto which seems to bring every hipster and paid critic to the verge of orgasm? No, I do, truly and sincerely, hate Bon Iver. There is just no vocabulary esoteric enough to express this idea any better than that.

For instance, look at the tracklist from Bon Iver's 2016 album 22, a Million and tell me what you think.

1. "22 (OVER S∞∞N)"
2. "10 d E A T h b R E a s T ⚄ ⚄"
3. "715 - CR∑∑KS"
4. "33 "GOD""
5. "29 #Strafford APTS"
6. "666 ʇ"
7. "21 M◊◊N WATER"
8. "8 (circle)"
9. "____45_____"
10. "00000 Million" 

You have to be a human being totally devoid of self-irony to come up with this, and you have to be a truly humourless human being to be taken in by this bullshit. 

But so many people are taken in by this bullshit, to the extent that you could think there is a global conspiracy involved. Because while I can believe that some people might be stoned/heartbroken enough to appreciate the whiny folk that Bon Iver's debut was made of (plus, there was an intriguing story to go with the music: a lonesome guy with an acoustic guitar, somewhere in a cabin in the woods of Wisconsin), there is just no way you can view his subsequent albums as serious artistic statements. Chopped-up, autotuned, pretentious and ultimately empty posturing by a guy who can't sustain a decent melody over the course of two fucking minutes. And when he does manage that, on a very rare occasion, the melody is as bland as Justin's normal speaking voice.

The odd part is that back when Vernon's first LP, For Emma, Forever Ago, came out, I was actively supporting it. But then emotionally I was going through a very difficult time in those days, and a cabin in the north-central US did sound positively cathartic. Once I got better, however, For Emma revealed itself to be just plain dull. Which brings me to this final thought: I hope that all these hapless people (critics included) are simply too gullible to see through the primitive tricks. They are just going through hard times, these hapless people, and in a few months they will get over it and finally realise that Bon Iver's music has no substance whatsoever. That they were taken in by this bearded charlatan who was fucking with them all along. And everyone will open their eyes and ears and just laugh out loud and think this guy does not even deserve anyone's hate. 

But until that day comes... I hate Bon Iver.