Album of the Month: CARNAGE by Nick Cave & Warren Ellis

Oh, obviously.

What is even more obvious is a lockdown collaboration between Nick Cave and Warren Ellis. 

Perhaps my favourite scene in 20,000 Days on Earth, the brilliant documentary on Nick Cave, is the conversation between Cave and Ellis. The two are sitting in the kitchen of Ellis's mansion by the cliffs of Dover, contemplating some sizzling dish prepared by the host and talking about Jerry Lee Lewis and Nina Simone. It is a freewheeling conversation, and the atmosphere is that of mutual trust and affection. And while it could be argued that Warren Ellis is anyone's idea of a perfect collaborator (I am currently looking forward to the upcoming Marianne Faithfull LP), it is clear that in Ellis Cave found someone a lot more than that. Which is why the sense of surprise at the release of this album wears off so fast.

Carnage is post-grief. Musically, it is similar to Cave's latest works - and yet it is not quite Ghosteen. Nor is it Skeleton Tree. Rather, it resembles Push The Sky Away or quieter moments off Grinderman (with a touch of Alan Vega). There are moments of achingly beautiful piano-based balladry ("Albuquerque") and there are moments of lush gospel singing (the ending of "White Elephant"). There is stately elegance ("Lavender Fields") and there are uncomfortable but oddly satisfying loops from Warren Ellis (the opening "Hand of God" should not really work, but it does). 

And, in the end, all that matters is that Nick Cave is in a place where he wants to be. Which also goes for his songwriting that swirls and floats and loops in a way that feels natural and... dare I say it... relaxed. There is unforgettable imagery ('turning chickens into fountains', 'Botticelli Venus with a penis'), and much of it is related to childhood memories (the oft-quoted Flannery O'Connor line). Carnage is reflective but it is post-grief. Carnage, against all intuition, is a very comfortable place. 

RECOMMENDED THIS MONTH:

Nick Cave & Warren Ellis - Carnage 

Black Country, New Road - For The First Time 

The Hold Steady - Open Door Policy 

A Winged Victory For The Sullen - Invisible Cities 

Fourth Album by The Wrens

Charles Bissell has done it again. At this point in time, it is hard to say what this 'it' even means. We have long entered the stage where the idea of a new album by The Wrens album makes no sense at all. At best, it is silly. At worst, tiresome. Nobody asks questions, nobody calls bullshit on a promise that is not even a promise but, rather, a feeble tweet. What? A new album by The Wrens? Like, with songs and stuff? Fuck off. 

And yet here we are, at the beginning of 2021, and Charles Bissell says something about autumn and a record label that is supposed to release this bizarre novelty called a new Wrens album. There is even a journalist who has heard seven (!) songs from the album, and he swears blind they are all amazing. Well, okay. They better be amazing, because the idea of serving us the second helping of Chinese Democracy would just be hilariously sad.

I say 'us' but I should not, really. The best part of the whole saga is that I have never even been a fan of The Wrens. Their first two albums are high on energy but low on personality. A few songs aside, they never rise to the status of overlooked classics that you so want them to reach. Now The Meadowlands. It is a special album, no doubt, and you will not find me denying the sheer emotional bliss of songs like "She Sends Kisses", "This Boy Is Exhausted" or "Boys, You Won't". Seventeen years on, they are as potent as they were in 2003. 

Having said that, The Meadowlands has never been my favourite album of all time (and it is the sort of album that should be your favourite album of all time, if only for a day; it is all or nothing with The Meadowlands). However, I have always been fascinated by what happened next.

Because next happened... nothing. Which is not a crime in itself, of course, there are plenty of bands who disappear after releasing their masterpiece (99.99% of bands do not even approach that masterpiece, of course, and just disappear). But it was a different kind of nothing, and it goes something like this (I am quoting from memory but the particulars are irrelevant). In 2013, Charles Bissell says that the songs for the new Wrens album are mostly there. In 2014, the release is imminent. In 2015, the songs are mixed anew but the album is almost out. In 2016, the album is not out as some more work needs to be done. In 2017, the last touches are put. In 2018, some songs have to be reworked but the whole thing is done and dusted. In 2019, everything has been finished for a while and the release might happen any day now. In 2020, some of the songs are not good enough but, fuck it, the album will probably be released anyway. In 2021, Charles Bissell says something about autumn and a record label that is supposed to release this bizarre novelty called a new Wrens album.

In other words, Charles Bissell has done it again... And you know what? I will bite. I have grown older, and I should know better, and the boy has been crying wolf like mad, but I will bite if only because it is 2021 and nobody gives a fuck anymore. A new album by The Wrens? Like, with songs and stuff? Bring it on. 

Manic Street Preachers: 10 Best Songs

Having briefly considered doing a detailed overview of the Manics albums, I lost interest halfway through Send Away The Tigers. I still have no idea how Bradfield and Wire could record something as soul-devoid and artistically impotent as that - especially if you take into account that both of them had just released masterful solo albums (in retrospect, I Killed The Zeitgeist was not quite so masterful after all). The first thirty seconds of "Underdogs" are enough to instill existential fear into my heart, and the obvious cover of "Working Class Hero" was no more than a cheap cop-out. So let's just say that The Holy Bible is towering well above the rest of their discography, still.

Instead, here is a list of ten best songs by the band.   

10. "Freedom Of Speech Won't Feed My Children" (2001)

If you are ever going to give Manic Street Preachers some time of your life, you will have to tolerate titles like that. This was the last song on Know Your Enemy, which was their most diverse and underrated LP. 

9. "Postcards From A Young Man" (2010)

Postcards From A Young Man was a good album but it suffered from being released too soon after the terrific and emotionally draining Journal For Plague Lovers. Still, the title song was their classic anthem.

8. "The Next Jet To Leave Moscow" (2014)

This is from Futurology, a loosely conceptual LP from 2014 and one of James Dean Bradfield's favourite albums by the band. "The Next Jet To Leave Moscow" has a terrific driving rhythm that carries a simple but masterful melody from Wales' greatest songwriter (after John Cale).

7. "This Sullen Welsh Heart" (2013)

Featuring Lucy Rose, this opening song from Rewind The Film was an understated anthem with an unforgettable tune underpinned by subtle and stately acoustic instrumentation. The lyrics were good, too, but do not get me started on those.

6. "4st 7lb" (1994)

A properly ugly song about anorexia. From The Holy Bible.

5. "If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next" (1998)

I planned to omit this one from my list for all the obvious reasons but in the end I did not want to fight it. The song is too good. Excessively clean, granted, but so well-written. Should be the new anthem of Belarus.

4. "Kevin Carter" (1996)

Most fans of the band would tell you that it is a toss-up between The Holy Bible and Everything Must Go. I never felt that way. Everything Must Go sounded a little too polite, even if "Kevin Carter" was an all-time classic. Featuring a trumpet solo, no less.

3. "This Joke Sport Severed" (2009)

I love this little tune from Journal For Plague Lovers to an unhealthy degree. Especially good are those god-like strings that come out of nowhere and reach the sort of catharsis the band had not touched in years. 

2. "Motorcycle Emptiness" (1992)

Putting this one down is like putting down "Across The Universe" or "Smells Like Teen Spirit". What's the fucking point? Basically, Generation Terrorists had 17 songs. And "Motorcycle Emptiness". 

1. "Ifwhiteamericatoldthetruthforonedayitsworldwouldfallapart" (1994)

The best song on The Holy Bible is also the best song by Manic Street Preachers. Ugly, catchy, uncomfortable, irresistible. What else is there to it? Nothing, as far as Manics are concerned.

Про Одессу. Канатная.

В каждом городе есть такая улица. Длинная, извилистая. Канатная. В этой улице - сама идея города. Его доброе сердце, его плохое настроение. Нет, Канатная - это не самая яркая улица Одессы. Не самая дорогая и не самая дешевая. Здесь можно купить фалафель за тридцать гривен и флэт уайт за восемьдесят. Канатная - это улица потрясающих противопоставлений. Здесь современные рестораны высечены в стенах домов девятнадцатого века. Здесь дворовая собака заносчиво пробегает мимо австралийской овчарки. Именно по этой улице нужно пройти, если на всю Одессу осталось не больше получаса, после которых поезд уедет с вокзала, а пароход неминуемо покинет порт. Эти полчаса нужно потратить не на Оперный театр и не на Приморский бульвар. Их нужно потратить здесь.

Канатная улица. Во-первых, я люблю это название. Безумное сочетание истории и визуального образа. Она действительно похожа на бесконечно длинный канат. Она лишена широких тротуаров Пушкинской и Маразлиевской, бегущих вдоль нее, и тянется от морского порта до проспекта Гагарина. Тянулась бы, наверное, до Черноморска, если бы кто-то не обозвал ее Сегедской после Парка областной рады. Канат этот сильно поношен, и пеньковые волокна сыпятся и лезут во все дорожные пазухи и трещины домов. И все же история не имеет ничего общего с визуальным образом. Все просто: когда-то на этой улице производили канаты. Другой интересный момент заключается в том, что название это менялось так же часто, как в Одессе менялась власть в период гражданской войны 1917-1918 годов. И все же первоначальное название вернулось после советского распада, и сегодня никому и в голову не придет назвать ее улицей Полтавской Победы или (не дай бог!) Свердлова. 

Контраст с Пушкинской улицей кажется вопиющим. Нет здесь широких тротуаров, важных музеев и крупных банков. Даже знаменитые одесские платаны кажутся редкими и необязательными. И все же именно Канатная кажется мне смыслом этого города (равно как Порту, а вовсе не Лиссабон, является смыслом Португалии). Все настоящие жители Одессы именно здесь, с сигаретами на узких балконах и за разговорами на бесконечных перекрестках с Базарной, Успенской, Троицкой... Здесь, на Канатной, меня не покидает чувство, что вокруг нет случайных людей (самый случайный тут - я). Здесь разговоры старой Одессы. Здесь лучший свежий хлеб и лучший травяной чай. И то и другое можно купить в кафе Breadway, куда нужно приходить с самого утра, когда в окне город только просыпается от очередной оживленной ночи. Здесь лучший маршрут Одессы, от Малой Арнаутской до морского порта. 

Архитектура Канатной улицы мало чем отличается от остальной архитектуры Приморского района. Это та самая архитектура, которая проступает на старых черно-белых фотографиях первой половины прошлого века. Канатная улица не меняется, и не изменится до тех пор, пока там будет стоять, например, знаменитый дом №18 с его магической пристройкой в итальянском стиле. Я все мечтаю на нее подняться, однако ставни заколочены, и мечта остается выгодно недосягаемой. Я завороженно смотрю на этот дом всякий раз, когда бываю в кафе Breadway. На Канатной есть оживленные места, ближе к Троицкой и Большой Арнаутской, однако есть тут и места архитектурного уединения, особенно в самом начале улицы, там, где она легкомысленно и вместе с тем монументально отходит от переулка Нахимова и Одесского мореходного училища (моя любимая часть Канатной). 

Здесь совершенно особенный воздух, свободный и не имеющий веса. Однако описать его почти невозможно. Да и как описать воздух? Нельзя объяснить Канатную улицу, равно как и саму Одессу. Как писала однажды Зинаида Гиппиус, "не надо объяснять, если надо объяснять". Канатная - это лучшие полчаса в Одессе. 

Album of the Month: COOLER RETURNS by Kiwi Jr.

If I were to compile a list of heavenly pop hits (not necessarily 'hits' but mostly 'pop' and definitely 'heavenly'), it would feature The Chills' eponymous classic, The Stone Poney's version of "Different Drum", Comet Gain's "One More Summer Before I Go", R.E.M.'s "Fall On Me", The Move's "Useless Information", a hundred other songs and... it would feature "Maid Marian's Toast" by Kiwi Jr. In fact, "Maid Marian's Toast" would make it on the middle eight alone. The fact that the rest of the song is infectious jangle-pop perfection, from the opening verse to the distorted fade-out, only makes it unfair on the competition. 

Perhaps the best thing about Cooler Returns, Kiwi Jr.'s sophomore release, is that you have no idea where each one of these songs will go. Listening to this album is not unlike listening to a Sparks record from the 70s. The barrage of vocal and instrumental hooks is upon you, and the melody might fly in any direction at any given moment throughout the song. It is unpredictable and yet, equally, it is strangely comforting - because they are taking you exactly where you want to go.

There is power pop without nuance (Jeff Rosenstock) and there is jangle-pop without substance (Barenaked Ladies). Kiwi Jr. do neither. These songs are intricately constructed (there is a melodic maze to every song welcoming you to get lost - which you do, happily) and these songs have meat. "Maid Marian's Toast" may be perfect but it is just one tune out of thirteen. "Tyler" is criminally catchy without compromising on intelligence. "Omaha" has the kind of bridge that brings you back to those teenage summers of blissful haze. "Waiting In Line" is just the soaring anthemic closer that the album deserves.

You could of course taunt these clever Canadians for calling themselves Kiwi Jr. and studying the music of the New Zealand record label Flying Nun a bit too assiduously (Garageland's "Fingerpops"... add it to my heavenly pop list) - but the truth is... none of it matters. Because this is 2021 and in 2021 nobody cares about your influences. All that matters is the song, and these should stand proudly alongside The Clean and The Verlaines. Lyrically, they are full of witty lines (the Ella Fitzgerald one is my favourite) and instrumentally, too, there are plenty of neat touches: the slide guitar in "Only Here For A Haircut", the harmonica in "Maid's Marian's Toast".

Their debut, Football Money, may have been good (and it was good - "Swimming Pool" was my song of 2019), but Cooler Returns is even better. It has the effortless combination of maturity and irreverence that should scare humourless people and point to a bright future that is so clearly ahead of them.

RECOMMENDED THIS MONTH:

Kiwi Jr. - Cooler Returns 

Viagra Boys - Welfare Jazz  

Discovering Baxter Dury

Music is not something to be admired. It is something to be loved. This distinction is extremely important and is wasted on so many people that I tend to bring it up time and time again. I can understand one admiring a beautiful seascape or a Gothic cathedral - but admiring a piece of music seems like an awful waste of time. Yet so many people do, or claim they do. Which is not to say that a work of art cannot be admired, quite on the contrary, but do not confuse that with love. Love is an entirely different concept. Besides, admiration (or respect, as boring people sometimes call it) is commonplace. Love is rare. Think of what the great Anton Ego used to say about the best food: "If I don't like it, I don't swallow it".

Music is sex. All the best music is. Or else what was I supposed to make of it when I first heard this:

It is true, I do not have much sense of humour when it comes to 2020 (ask me again later, in a year or two), but if we allow it for a second, then hear me out: 2020 gets a pass because I discovered Baxter Dury. As I was wading through the albums released last March, I came upon a name I thought was vaguely interesting. Dury... Ah yes of course: Ian Dury, the legendary British musician of New Boots & Panties!! fame ("My Old Man" in particular used to be a favourite of mine). Baxter turned out to be Ian's son, and he looked like a French movie star from the 70s on the cover of the new LP. This seemed intriguing enough, but not nearly as much as the music. Because the music was fucking magical. The music was pure sex. 

Ian Dury does not work as a decent reference point. Rather, you would have to think Leonard Cohen. Serge Gainsbourg. Only a rougher, cruder Serge Gainsbourg, one with a certain Sleaford Mods edge. This edge pushes Baxter into this completely unique territory where all reference points begin to sound lazy and perfunctory. And he has been different, too. Baxter's debut, Len Parrot's Memorial Lift, was released in 2002, and it might shock anyone who only knows The Night Chancers LP. The vocal delivery, for instance, used to be melodic, and buried deep inside the music. These days, it is very much pushed to the forefront, and augmented by female vocals carrying most of the melodic meat of Baxter's songs. 

If you let Len Parrot's Memorial Lift into your life,  it will quickly make the inevitable transition from curiosity to obsession. Truly an album to be drowned in. It is dreamy but it has substance. It envelopes you with these great melodic grooves that feature pianos, tastefully distorted guitars, violins and, of course, plenty of female vocals. Dury's next album, the masterful Floor Show (2005), was in the same vein - but the songs were getting sharper and shorter. This sharpness would come into focus on Happy Soup (2011), a classic pop album that alternates bass-heavy 'hits' like "Isabel" with bass-heavy 'ballads' like "Leak at the Disco". Old Baxter Dury gave way to new Baxter Dury, and both It's A Pleasure (2014) and Prince Of Tears (2017) further perfected the style: sweet pop hooks à la Françoise Hardy mixed with Baxter's gruff and mysterious and oddly poetic spoken-word narratives. Last year's The Night Chancers was him taking that style to its limit, and I loved every second of it. It was nocturnal and synth-oriented. It was him doing so much with so little.

There was also a left-field collaboration with Étienne de Crécy & Delilah Holliday in 2018 called B.E.D, a rather slight 20-minute record of stylish synthpop - hardly essential, but the juxtaposition of expression and restraint was impressive. It was a fitting collaboration, too, the sort of record that just begs for a cult following in France. And the same goes for Baxter Dury's whole body of work. There is an hour long video on YouTube featuring Dury's concert at some tiny club in Paris from a few years ago. It is perfect. In fact, it reminds me of the last line in The Hollywood Ending. I will not reveal it here. The Hollywood Ending is an overlooked Woody Allen classic, and you would be a fool not to discover it for yourself.

Documentary Review: The Last Dance

Reggie Miller was my absolute hero. I was smitten with the three-point shot that swished the net without ever touching the rim. In fact, I would often dream about it, and see myself behind the three point line making that all-important shot as the clock came to nothing. This was in late 90s, back when I was an NBA fanatic (as you would be, in the 90s), back when we played basketball until the hoop was barely visible in the dusk and the parents started to get worried. Michael Jordan was of course a genius and we must have been awe-struck by the famous jump from the free point line, but somehow I always needed a less obvious favourite (something I would carry into my future obsessions). Which was why I was rooting for Reggie Miller and the Indiana Pacers. Specifically, I have strong memories of season 1997/1998 when my hopes were crushed (quite inevitably, I should say) and Chicago Bulls beat them in the hard-fought series that was destined to come to the wire.

The Last Dance, last year's documentary on that singular season as well as on Michael Jordan's career overall, was a huge memory trip for me. More importantly, though, it was a revelation. As I was watching the summary of the legendary Eastern Conference final (which gave me quite a few sleepless nights back in 1998), I found myself somewhat bewildered by the idea that I could possibly support Indiana. Reggie Miller? Great player, a hall of famer, but in the grand scheme of things - little more than a footnote to the story of Michael Jordan. 

This, I believe, is not just a testimony to the fickle infatuations of childhood but also, and most importantly, the evidence of the power of filmmaking. Before we get to that game seven of 1998, there is a great story of Michael Jordan's road to five rings. You get to see the almost pathological competitiveness of the great man, the motivational bullying that he inflicted on his teammates, the brutal Detroit Pistons rivalry that lives on, the super stardom that was bitter as much as it was sweet. It is a fascinating story, something you binge-watch over a couple of days (I believe it is not even especially relevant if you were an NBA fan back when these things happened), and so when you arrive at the 1998 series, you arrive bruised and beaten, and oddly disturbed by the words of Reggie Miller that the Indiana Pacers had a stronger team that year. And so it is like you get there, into that moment in late 90s, and you are rooting for Chicago Bulls and you are hoping that the Last Dance will end the way it is supposed to. 

Because it is such a beautiful career arc, so beautifully conveyed. The focal point is of course season 1997/1998. The season was dubbed the Last Dance by Phil Jackson before it even started, and it is such a perfect narrative hook: the team knew that they would never again play together (the reason is explained in the documentary in great detail), and they went for the final push. A film crew was allowed to shoot them off the court throughout the whole season, so we get to see quite a lot of priceless footage of the tensions and the more relaxed moments in-between the games. Michael Jordan's cruel antics during training sessions, Dennis Rodman's dysfunctionality, Scottie Pippen's mental and physical struggles. The story of the Last Dance is not just one year though. It is decades, and features flashbacks coming all the way back to Jordan's childhood and the brutal beatdowns at the hands of Larry Bird. It is breathless stuff. 

It is not all Michael Jordan, though, and there are stories of Rodman, and Pippen, and Toni Kukoč, and Steve Kerr (a lot of focus is on that shot, of course). I know Pippen was not happy about the way he was portrayed, and I know Rodman was more interested in talking about Kim Jong-un than basketball, and I know Jerry Reinsdorf was not entirely genuine, but if anything - it only adds colour to the great story contained in this documentary. It is a story set in the pre-Internet days and, quite inevitably, there is still a lot of mystery to the whole thing, and that is something that a younger audience should try to appreciate: there is always a certain mystique to the heroes of the past, something you will not find these days. When Michael Jordan was on the court, it was a poem and a thriller and you were gripped not just by the shots but also by the sheer charisma of what you witnessed. It is intangible, it is beyond statistics. How shall I explain this... Well, Michael Jordan would never have worn number 23 if say, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar had worn it. Hang on to that thought. 

These ten episodes are some of the greatest television I have ever seen. The Last Dance is an affecting story, and a deeply profound one. "To have fear", says one of the talking heads, "is to project the past onto the future". "How can you fear a shot you have not yet taken?" the words that encapsulate the essence of Michael Jordan so well. That sentence may well be among the most profound things I have ever heard, and it does take me to those hot summers of late 90s when you shot it from all over the court, and you hit them and you missed them. And then you grew up and you thought better and you stopped.