MOG - cogwheeldogs's Posts

Ben Folds: Abnormally Disappointing

cogwheeldogs — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 10:39:32 GMT

[review originally written for Heavy Soil]

Ben Folds has lost his ear

Not a single song on Way To Normal, released yesterday (in the UK; today in the states) is truly memorable. Not a single chorus could I convincingly sing back to you, right now. Opener 'Hiroshima (B B B Benny Hit His Head)' establishes a pattern: it's well-produced, along interesting lines: studio-recorded parts are combined with live crowd sounds and suchlike. But, melodically, it's an emasculated 'Zak and Sara'. The hooks are stunted and malformed. And the humour - normally a strength of BF - is weak. The spoken outro is cringe-inducing. Buoyant 'Dr Yang' continues this (practically album-wide) trend by which production techniques (this album is inventively, cleverly and extremely skillfully produced) and gimmickry utterly overshadow substance. The fuzzy choruses are hugely energetic and satisfyingly speaker-thrashing. But there's nothing there. The same is true, later, of pacy but empty 'Bitch Went Nuts'.

Diarrhoea in a sieve

Throughout the album, the embarrassment of riches in terms of wouldn't it be cool if we...-type ideas is matched by a very real embarrassment at the paucity of fundamentally strong material. Ben Folds has always been able to take a good song that bit further with a clever, outside-the-box musical device. One of the principal reasons for my intense admiration of Folds is his musical restlessness: his unwillingness to settle merely for a good song, but to add something unexpected and clever to make it great. Unfortunately, in Way To Normal, he's doing the unexpected and clever things - but without the strong starting points. So in 'The Frown Song' we have the kind of unprepared, abrupt, song-lifting key-changes that I normally applaud. But here they've nothing to lift. Or, rather, they're lifting a turd. No, wait ... Worse. They're lifting (if you'll pardon the horribly scatological extension of the metaphor) diarrhoea. In a sieve. Elsewhere, we have keyboard solos that cleverly doff a hat to multiple musical eras and genres in the space of 16 bars; hillbilly-parodying vocals; ring-modulated, crispily-synthesised piano-based beats (in 'Free Coffee') ... But what for? 'You Don't Know me', the single and duet with Regina Spektor is notable only insofar as it wastes to an almost criminal extent her vocal talents. I by no means object to the extremely poppy production and stylings of the song. BF is free, in my book, to go as pop as he likes. He has done it well before. But not here. The song is bland, featureless, bereft of direction. All the things that good pop has in abundance. Poor Regina.

And let's talk lyrics

At times, listening to this album for the first time, I worried about Ben. He is perilously close to the deeply unbecoming: bitterness, slathering rhetoric, borderline misogyny. We don't want to hear lyrics that sound as though they're written in recriminatory tones with a particular individual in mind. It's not funny; it's embarrassing, and discomfitting. It puts me off big-style. Cologne is affecting, lyrically. But only relative to the uninspired majority of these songs. On another BF album, it'd hardly be a standout track, as it is here: definitely sub-Jesusland (a song I didn't even much like, at the time). The chorus is pretty insipid, and, again, the melodies are not memorable. I'd challenge anyone to sing back more than a fragment of any of these songs after one or two listens. Similarly, 'Kylie From Conneticut' is lovely, as a last track. But in the same way as a B-side might be lovely. Because you weren't expecting it. It is profoundly disappointing that a BF-ballad-by-numbers song such as this should be my favourite track on an album. At least it seems to be lyrically empathetic, rather than sneering. What else? 'Errant Dog' is just rubbish. An unbelievably annoying song that also manages to murder a metaphor that Folds used far more effectively on the EP track 'Dog' (which is, incidentally, better than anything on this album, by leagues).

In conclusion

Folds has always been a musical shapeshifter, an ironist, an imitator and a satirist. He has always had fingers in many musical genrepies. And has happily juxtaposed styles with a charismatic, ironising wink. I know this is the kind of thing that some people find intrinsically annoying (as Fieldvole will perhaps attest) - but I've tended to feel that BF carries it off because he has always backed it up with strong musical techniques and, above all, songwriting skills. On this album, that third leg of the stool (no link-in with my earlier scatological punning intended) - the songwriting - has disappeared.

Ally Craig Will Make You Cool

cogwheeldogs — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 21:26:41 GMT

Ally Craig is by far the best unsigned artist I can think of.

When I first saw him playing live, my reaction was exclamation-mark-punctuated silence

"–––!"

He is very, very good. The kind of very, very good that is normally associated with slightly tiresome, anally-retentive, practise-noon-and-night musicians who actually turn out to play extremely boring music. Ally Craig does not do this. His superb technique is complemented by formidable musicianship and creativity.

His music is shard-punctured, mosh-defyingly time-signature-shifting, antiphonal. It is full of Pixies-like contrasts, and musical wit – but also poignancy. You care about what he's singing.

Indeed, it is music that ticks just about every box on my personal favourite-musical-elements checklist.

[Signed copies of my personal favourite-musical-elements checklist are now commercially available at all good record stores.]

The Review, then

Ally Craig has just released a double-A-side consisting of the songs Pilot Inspektor and Get What You Pays For. Because I'm a smug, preordering kind of chap, I also received a free bonus track in the (singularly contorted) shape of Angular Spirals. (For those less smugly preordering than myself, the extra track is still available, for a measly 50p extra).

These are all excellent, intelligently-written songs. And they are performed fantastically by Ally and his fellow musicians (Stephen Gilchrist and Ruth Goller of Stuffy & The Fuses and Pete Wareham of Acoustic Ladyland).

So – what do we have? I've already written about the first song, Pilot Inspektor, with its witty subversiveness, wrongfooting rhythms and guitars that alternate between mechanistic regimentation and squalling release.

This is followed by pacey, motif-led Get What You Pays For – characterised not only by Ally's usual tightly percussive guitar, but also (in revelatory fashion) inspired saxophone work from Pete Wareham: flights of exotic birds circling above and around a grim cityscape.

Bonus track Angular Spirals (you know it'll be worth the extra 50p) features Ally's vocals more prominently, with the kind of sinuous, high-pitched phrases the song's title anticipates. He has a fine, versatile, nuanced voice: veering from exposed falsetto to full-throated semi-screams. Just like the arrangements and the guitar style, it is like nothing else I have heard.

What it all means

Dear reader, I cannot endorse Mr Craig too highly. This is a single to buy now. Now, I tell you. While you can still say you were a fan before he got big.

To aid you in this noble end: a handy link to the Ally Craig online store.

Week two: sonic non-compromise

cogwheeldogs — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 20:16:54 GMT

A vague theme of uncompromising sonic aesthetic has run through my listening this past week, even though the five songs I've chosen to write about on my blog are, on the face of it, rather diverse:

Nirvana's You Know You're Right – recorded in the band's final session
Deerhoof's crazy, time-sig-shifting, bipolar lullaby-meets-nightmare Milk Man
Dresden Dolls' breakneck, triangulating Girl Anachronism
Thomas Truax's Heath-Robinson-esque mechanical invention
and Steve Albini's fingernails-on-strings production of Edith Frost's True

Is it just me who thinks these five do still somehow hang together as a group, despite the hotch-potch of genres, decades, genders and styles? Hear 'em all, read my more extended comments and vote for yer fave ... at Heavy Soil. Heck yes.

Getting Heavily Soiled

cogwheeldogs — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 16:32:41 GMT

Long has it been since last I mogged.

Life's chaoses overcame me, &c &c, blah blah. But now I am back. Godwilling, to scatter a review here and there amidst MOG's hallowed (web)pages.

Introducing a new venture

Meanwhile, I would like to introduce y'all to my newly-reinstated blog, Heavy Soil. Its manifesto is simple: to link to one song each work day (Mon-Fri), with a few words as to why said song is worth listening to.

The idea is to be the antidote to the bewildering array of music out there - with bytesized recommendations. Music discovery, lunch-hour-stylee.

Democracy vs the despot

On the Friday of each week, I summarise the five days' songs, and invite my esteemed readers to vote for their favourite song. Then, on Sunday, we see if the People agree with Heavy Soil.

The call to action

Please do shimmy on down to Heavy Soil and see the first week's fruits, which include Joanna Newsom covers, madrigal-meets-muezzin orchestrations and creaky lo-fi vignettes.

And cast your vote!

Anyhow, hello, one and all. It's good to be back.

Battery-operated Portishead? Poker-faced Sinnead O'Connor? ... Ultralash

cogwheeldogs — Sun, 18 May 2008 16:17:23 GMT

Imagine a lo-fi, countrified, battery-operated Portishead. Right? Easy. Now, add a dusting of insouciant Damon Albarn (bear with me), the alt-rock nursery-rhyme quality of Eels, and, finally, a seasoning of late 80s/early 90s synth-pop.

Got that?

Possibly not. But I've made one point, at least: Ultralash is quite an unusual-sounding outfit.

Lads' mag alt-folk?

It's an odd name, for starters. Ultralash! Here in the UK, at least (I know not how universal the slang phrase "on the lash" may be), it could pass for the title of a lads' mag, or an 'edgy' Channel 4 documentary focusing on underage drinking and club culture. I have to say that the sound of this record is nothing like my idea of a band called Ultralash. Which is not - I might add - necessarily a bad thing.

This is an experimental album - not trendy, not a la mode. Its roots are in American folk - but this record is 'folk' in its broadest, least generic sense. The slightly ramshackle, rough-edged juxtapositions of electronic and acoustic elements - trundling samples against fingerpicked guitar - is suggestive of the alt-country genre. I hear echoes of Grandaddy's fascination with organicised technology (although Ultralash is sparser, far less lush and accessible) and, more distinctly, of Sparklehorse - particularly the use of distorted, choppy mechanical loops, and the practice of interspersing short, sample-based interlude tracks amongst the album's longer songs.

Avoiding the cliches

For a record with its heart in folk/country, Foamy Lather avoids just about every potential cliche of the genres. Often, vocals take a subordinate role in these songs: sketchy, distant in the mix, effects-laden and detached. At times, reminiscent of PJ Harvey's excellent White Chalk. Unlike White Chalk, though, this is a beat-suffused album. The dirty, roomy kit sound of opener 'Like a Daisy' is meaty and confidently simple: alongside the distorted, off-key bass, it's the backbone of the track, rather than a nuanced accompaniment. Rhythms, samples and loops frequently and emphatically take centre-stage.

Indeed, it's not until the fourth track - the rather lovely 'Dayglow' - that we hear Karry Walker's vocals mixed clean and upfront. It's an affecting, versatile voice, and the performance eloquently captures the weary quality of the song. I'm glad she made us wait three tracks for it.

Noncommittal Modernism - slaloming from melancholia to noise

Foamy Lather's songs are often explorations of single ideas and motifs, rather than complex, crafted entities. Development tends to be in arrangement and performance rather than built into the songs' structures. The impression is of a fragmentary work - slaloming from acoustic melancholia to collages of mechanical noise. There's something Modernist about it all - rather TS Eliot ("a heap of broken images") - and the listener is quite deliberately (it seems to me) left to make sense of the bizarre juxtapositions and extreme, sudden shifts in tone and colour.

All of which, of course, makes it a difficult record about which to make general observations. I might call it sparse in nature - but then I think of the burst of lushness (strings, vocal harmonies, dirty drums) towards the end of 'Girl On Girl'. Listening to the pitch-bent, woozy near-bitonality of 'Whiskey Sour', I might call it obscure and capricious ... Or apathetic, wry and remote, with the Blur-like, "can't be bothered" vocal inflections of 'Turn Me On'. And then I stumble upon a gem of heartfelt sincerity - the nostalgia-tinted, melancholic 'Bury Me' - that knocks my carefully-assembled adjectives into disarray. It's enigmatic, then - and eclectic. And challenging. In the best way. Provocative.

Sugary platitudes + chauvinism

Which brings me to the song I've chosen to feature: 'World Of Suck'. Bearing the above paragraph in mind, it may need not be said that there's no representative track on this album - no neat encapsulation of the Ultralash sound. But I think 'World Of Suck' illustrates what I (perhaps pretentiously) think of as the band's noncommittal modernism. Again, carried by a weighty beat (heavily distorted - bit-crushed - kit), it's a poker-faced 'Nothing Compares 2 U' (Sinnead O'Connor's version) for the 00s - its lyrics juxtaposing sugary romantic platitudes with intense chauvinism:

You're cute Nice rack Not fat What's that? You're fine I can really talk to you.

It's a brilliantly unsettling song: by turns comical and dark, impenetrably delivered. Again, I'm reminded of PJ Harvey - in spirit and fearlessness more than in sound.

Investigate: visit the Ultralash website

An exotic bird in a steel cage: Portishead's 'Third'

cogwheeldogs — Sun, 04 May 2008 20:02:04 GMT

Beth Gibbons has an excellent, extraordinary voice.

This does not mean "she sounds nice when she sings"; "she has the 'voice of an angel'", or "she'd do a mean aria".

It means: she sings, and you listen. She sings, and she communicates. In my view, she has one of the most distinctive, affecting, expressive voices in modern music. (What a horrible phrase - "modern music".) Listening to her sing after any number of 'cool', 'trendy' vocalists, there really is (for me) a sunlight-breaking-through-clouds sensation. A fascinatingly three-dimensional voice, heavy with real, complex, organic emotion. Not a trace of artifice or empty posturing.

What do you do with a voice like that? If you're Geoff Barrow and Adrian Utley (the other two members of Portishead), you throw it into relief. I've always found Portishead compelling because of the brilliantly-managed contrast between vocals and arrangements/instrumentation/production. And on Third, the contrast is starker than ever: listening to these songs might put one in mind of an exotic bird, enclosed in a stainless steel cage. Even on the more analogue, retro-tinged numbers, there is a pervading iciness and detachment to the arrangements. When, on previous records, beats and samples may've been infused with the warmth of vinyl, on Third, they're stripped to their raw essentials. The uncompromisingly mechanistic rhythms of 'Machine Gun' exemplify this quality at its most extreme - but even the more 'rounded', woody instrumentation of songs such as Nylon Smile sounds filtered, cold - desaturated. As if bathed in fluorescent laboratory lighting. Sounds may be treated with copious delay - but they reverberate in bleak, unfurnished spaces: cold, hard.

There's always been something 'designery' about Portishead - a strong aesthetic sensibility. And the combination of Gibbons' vocals with these arrangements is like the sonic equivalent of complimentary colours: a vibrant, powerful shade against a strongly contrasting backdrop that serves only to maximise its impact.

Third is to Portishead what Kid A was to Radiohead. The two records - to my ears - share a striking degree of similarity. But Third is the better album: Gibbons' performances are the more mature and weighty than Thom Yorke's.

And I'd go further - to say that this is Portishead's best album. Like its predecessors, it's aesthetically uncompromising. But, this time, it's that bit more convincing; more substantial; bolder in its juxtapositions and contrasts, yet hanging together absolutely unquestionably as a unified whole. There are few concessions to the easy listening, coffee-table crowd, as we might've predicted.

... But this is, nevertheless, a hugely dramatic record, and certainly not the po-faced affair the above might suggest. 'Plastic' is a standout track, with its stuttering, stammering drum fills and tape warbles. When the bass kicks in, the power is huge - somewhat reminiscent of the climax to Radiohead's 'Exit Music [for a film]' (high praise indeed). And 'We Carry On' and 'Machine Gun' (masterfully separated by the breath of fresh (if still sanitised, hospital) air that is the Inkspots-tinted 'Deep Water') are shapely and mesmerising, despite their repeating, insistent, inhuman beats.

Flaws? Only one, really - that lyrics just occasionally veer into the realm of the slightly banal and cliched. I'm not, personally, convinced by lines such as "wounded and afraid inside my head", which are a little too much like the blandly extreme soundbites of MySpace emo kids for my liking. That said, my gripe is tiny - as there are also some incredibly memorable lyrics - notably, the closing "I never had the chance to explain exactly what I meant" of 'Nylon Smile'.

This is an album that demands space and engagement. On headphones - or played loud through a good stereo - Third is certainly no less immersive and atmospheric than its predecessors - even though it may lack their broad appeal. This is a brilliant album, and one which I recommend without hesitation to a listener drawn to a highly defined aesthetic - intrigued rather than deterred by a certain degree of austerity.

Vetiver - self-effaced?

cogwheeldogs — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 00:17:16 GMT

Vetiver's new record, Thing of the Past, is out on 13 May. Unlike the band's previous two albums, this one is not built around original material, but is a collection of cover versions.

Perhaps fittingly (given this fact, and the album's title), it's a nostalgia-tinged collection, infused with gentle melancholia and a slight weariness. The majority of the songs are slow to mid-tempo, steady, acoustic-based - and arrangements are subtle, sometimes minimalistic tapestries, in which textures and moods are more important than drama and narrative.

This is a well-recorded and produced collection. The instrumental performances (which are often extremely fine: never showy, accomplished in their restraint) are stylish and well-captured, and the production matches the performances and songs in terms of subtlety and lightness of touch.

I have some difficulty, though, approaching Thing of the Past as an album. In some ways, I'm more inclined to see it as a mix-tape - in which half of the interest is in the song choices, rather than the songs themselves. The spirit of the collection is not radically reinterpretative (like Tori Amos, say, in Strange Little Girls), so there is a certain difficulty in actually identifying the point of it. The record is somehow bereft of a centre, of a unity. This manifests itself in obvious ways - say, the fact that the three consecutive tracks 'To Baby', 'Road To Ronderlin' and 'Lon Chaney' seem incongruously to have roots in a different genre, infused with 60s pop, rather than the folksy americana of the rest of the album. But - on a deeper level - the record feels as though it lacks a narrative. Listening to it, one would be hard-pressed to say what Vetiver were about, as a band.

In this sense, perhaps, it's a very modest work - self-effacing. These covers seem respectful, reverent. Which perhaps contributes to this sense that one is listening to a personally-compiled mixtape.

As a collection, then, it's rather interesting. But - from an album - I want something overarching. I want a journey. And this record fails to deliver anything of the kind. Despite repeated efforts, I've been unable to pin an identity upon it - and am unable to consider its songs as part of any larger whole. For this reason, I reluctantly consider it - despite sensitive performances and tasteful production - a failure.

... And there are some lovely details to enjoy: the brushed drums and shimmering clean guitars of 'I Must Be In A Good Place Now'; the crunchy blues of 'Blue Driver' ... But the fine detailing is let down by a lack of conceptual direction.

A good many of these songs, in fact, would make welcome appearances on a 'shuffled' playlist. But, ultimately, I feel little attachment to them in their collected form.

Nirvana + Bjork / Albini = Niblett

cogwheeldogs — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 17:57:26 GMT

Scout Niblett is like a bizarre cross between Nirvana and Bjork - with the former's rawness, powerful yet spartan aesthetic, and passionate intensity; and the latter's eccentricity and vocal capriciousness. Her music is, I have no doubt, not to the taste of many.

But if it is to the taste of Will Oldham (who appears on four of This Fool Can Die Now's songs - watch and listen to the two of them on the video to brilliant single 'Kiss') and Steve Albini (who engineered the record), she arguably shouldn't worry too much.

Kiss video

It's not necessarily easy to approach Scout Niblett for the first time. Until I saw her play live I had doubts. I'd found myself frustrated or annoyed by the couple of songs I'd heard (fleetingly) - hastily categorising Niblett as a rather over-'quirky' artist who ought to pay a bit more attention to her guitar's tuning.

It was only when I engaged with the music in a live context that I became conscious of its intensity and seriousness - quite the reverse of the trite glibness and forced idiosyncrasy I'd originally identified.

I think one of the most engaging things about Scout Niblett is the extraordinary synthesis that her music creates between Grunge, punk, country and folk. Despite her American accent (she was born in Nottingham), there is something absolutely, indubitably English about her melodies, which feel rooted in English folksong. Not enough interesting is done with the English folk tradition - its purveyors are all too often either guilty of facile and derivative bolt-on-folk stylings or guided by sentimental, risk-averse traditionalism.

Nobody, I think, is going to accuse Scout Niblett of derivativeness or risk-aversion.

Bipolar grunge-lullaby 'Let Thine Heart Be Warmed' neatly exemplifies this synthesis, pairing modal folk melodies and savage distortion. Probably the best song on the album, it is sensational live, and the recording does a fantastic job of capturing the vital - hugely energising - dynamic contrast between verses and chorus. The metallic ringing and scraping of cymbals in the background (complementing bowed steel pedal notes) works well, serving to draw the listener right in, before bludgeoning him/her with the sonic assault that is the chorus.

Production touches such as this help offset Niblett's tendency toward wilfulness and obscurity - in the same way that her presence and performance provide a key to the songs, live.

I'm not sure that previous recordings of Niblett's songs have focused attention as successfully on the more attractive aspects of her music. Perhaps a tendency towards brittleness and sparseness has been partly responsible. Often, a pared-down production ethic (of the sort that is Albini's trademark) may act to remove veils of grandiloquence, pomp and overcomplication that marrs many artists' output - allowing the essential qualities of the music to shine without artificial polish. In this way, Albini often helps bands trim off excess (metaphorical) fat.

Scout Niblett (I suspect literally as well as metaphorically) didn't have much of that to begin with. And I've tended to feel that previous records such as Sweet Heart Fever suffered from under-production. Their edges are a bit too rough. Just as indulgently-produced, multi-instrumental bands may frequently benefit from the stripping-down treatment, so may an aesthetically spartan artist like Niblett benefit from a touch of the reverse.

... And that's where This Fool Can Die Now succeeds. It is by no means a 'produced'-sounding record. But it has the vaguest hint of varnish. And I mean vaguest. Emphatically. Don't - please - come to it expecting Everything Must Go string arrangements.

(As if you would.)

I'd like to leave you with an ardent request: go and watch the video for 'Nevada'. Do it now.

'Nevada' video
#78.3 - Scout Niblett - Nevada
Uploaded by lablogotheque

A 'best of'. But not a 'best of'.

cogwheeldogs — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 17:30:25 GMT

It's not immediately obvious how to approach Eels' latest collections. And the last word of that opening sentence gives a clue as to why this might be.

Meet the Eels presents - in chronological order - the 'best of' the band's output over the past decade or so. A reasonably conventional 'greatest hits'-type affair. Released simultaneously - although not necessarily bundled with Meet the Eels - is a sprawling compilation of 50 B-sides, remixes, demos, live recordings and suchlike: Useless Trinkets. In a way, these two collections are polar opposites. Meet the Eels - as the name suggests - is inevitably somewhat 'introductory' in nature; Useless Trinkets, meanwhile, is for the Eels aficionado. So reviewing them together seems slightly counter-productive. So ... I won't.

MEET THE EELS

Some musicians are served well by the 'best of' compilation - which can work as a kind of musical biography (especially if, as in this case, tracks are ordered chronologically). To Eels, though, I'm not sure that the format is particularly well-suited: it does not play to the band's strengths.

Mark Oliver Everett (Eels frontman and lynchpin) writes simple, predictable - often almost childish and music-box-like - melodies and chord progressions. 'My Beloved Monster'; 'Last Stop: This Town'; 'Trouble With Dreams' ... He is admirably unafraid to use the obvious musical motif when it works, and to present it in a way that unashamedly capitalises on its accessibility (fuzzed guitars and sampled beats still support rather than undermine the melodic nature of the tracks). At the same time, though, his lyrics often radically contradict the breezy, naive nature of the music. In my opinion, one of the most compelling features of the band is the way in which this tension is maintained and managed.

The effect of a 'best of', though, is to disrupt the balance between simplicity and complexity. What comes across most strongly from Meet The Eels is the band's gift for the catchy hook and singable refrain. This sells them short. Although many of my favourite songs are present - and although this is by no means a collection of 'just the happy ones' - there is nevertheless an unavoidable hint of glibness inherent in the back-to-back way in which they are presented. I miss the less obvious 'interlude' tracks that act as musical palate-cleansers on Eels albums, and serve to give the 'hits' a context.

If I listen through to the band's brilliant Electro-Shock Blues - or recent double-album Blinking Lights and Other Revelations - I can practically guarantee that I will be moved. There are staggeringly few albums about which I can say that. It is to Eels' credit that the 'keystone' tracks from the aforementioned records ('PS You Rock My World' from Electro-Shock Blues; 'If You See Natalie'; 'Things The Grandchildren Should Know' from Blinking Lights) don't show up on Meet The Eels (though I would rather the fussy alternative version of 'Climbing To The Moon' had been similarly omitted). I say this is to their credit because I think the emotional power of the above songs is inseparable from the context in which they occur in their respective albums - and to have included them in a compilation would have cheapened them, somehow.

Without such tracks, though, the listener Meet[ing] The Eels for the first time via this collection won't be exposed to what is (in my view) actually 'best' about the band. But here I'm arguing myself into a corner. Because, for me, a 'Best of' the Eels would probably be, well, a copy of Blinking Lights.

In short, Meet The Eels demonstrates brilliantly the degree to which the Eels write brilliant, catchy, accessible pop songs - and are fully deserving of a 'greatest hits' compilation. At the same time, though, with a hint of the paradoxical, it does the band a profound disservice in implying that this is what they are about.

Oh. One closing question, though: what's the cover of 'Get Ur Freak On' doing here? Great original; pointless, here.

So that's half a job done. I'll post my thoughts on Useless Trinkets soon.

A piece of cress, growing up my kitchen wall

cogwheeldogs — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 21:39:57 GMT

I hope, dear Mogger, you'll forgive a brief flirtation with ardent self-promotion.

The band in which I play cello (amongst other things) is called Cogwheel Dogs . When I told someone, earlier today, that we played 'folk punk', he retorted with: 'The Pogues? The Levellers? That kind of thing?'. So possibly more punk folk than folk punk, then. Eccentric, energetic but melodic. Forays into distortion cello. &c &c.

Anyhow, adjectival sequencing aside ... We are releasing our debut single on 8 February. It's a song called _Cress_, and is about tiny, apparently weak organisms that prove far more persistent than one might expect.

I've uploaded an extract for your aural perusal. If you like the sound of it, you can get a free download of the single - and two B-sides - absolutely free. All you have to do is visit the Cress page of the Cogwheel Dogs website and enter your email address in the relevant box. We'll then send a link to the mp3s on 8 February.

We're also going to be selling a limited number of CDs (along with eccentric freebies), for those who can't live without tangible physicality in the audio realm.

Right. That's all. Ardent self-promotion over. Thanks.

Respectful, intelligent interpretations

cogwheeldogs — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 21:00:28 GMT

What is it about Will Oldham that seems to render so compelling any song on which he appears? His voice is immensely full of character, of course. But I think there is something more important still: the simple intensity of his performance.

"Performance" is, I think, key. Music recording technology allows musicians to splice together takes, "punch in" a re-recorded version of a vocal phrase that didn't quite come out right. As a recording musician myself, I'm all too aware of the temptation to cut and paste to compile the "perfect" take (which, obviously enough, turns out to be perfectly soulless).

Oldham, by contrast, performs each song. His vocals have the presence, the idiosyncrasy and the immediacy of live delivery. Each song has an unbroken, sustained quality of focus. I think the sign of good musicianship is the ability to leave notes behind and think (play) in terms of phrases, or lines. The sign of great musicianship, though, is the ability to go beyond phrases - to deal in movements, or songs.

On Ask Forgiveness, Oldham (going by Bonnie "Prince" Billy as usual) is convincing as ever. Inspired, at times. All but one of the songs are cover versions - a fact that is remarkably easy to forget, as a listener, so intelligent and involved are the performances. It strikes me that having your song covered by Oldham must be almost worrying. The fear: that he might actually understand and communicate its depths better than you do.

I've stated my belief that great performers are those whose songs possess an overarching movement that transcends the individual phrases, verses and choruses. Great albums, by the same token, become more than the sum of their constituent songs. It's in this regard that Ask Forgiveness falls just a little short. Doubtless, the task of giving shape to an album is considerably more difficult when every song has a different composer. Nevertheless, looking at the tracklisting in iTunes, I think Ask Forgiveness is a little top-heavy. The strongest material seems to be clustered in the record's first half; each of the first four songs is excellent, while the later tracks don't quite consistently reach the same heights.

That said, I like this album very much. A collection of covers could so easily be glib, gimmicky, derivative or forced. Some musicians might use such a record as a springboard from which to showcase their own creativity, with little respect for the originals. Ask Forgiveness implies quite the opposite kind of approach: one of huge respect and affection on the part of Will Oldham for the songs he has chosen to (and here's another key word, to conclude) interpret.

Which end of the horseshoe for No Age's Weirdo Rippers?

cogwheeldogs — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 14:37:24 GMT

I'm struggling a bit with No Age's _Weirdo Rippers_.

Struggling because - while I think it's aesthetically bold, interesting, new, clever and challenging - I don't actually much enjoy _listening_ to it.

Extremes of contrast

There's so much I appreciate - conceptually - about this record. The way the energetic, primitively direct riff of opener 'Every Artist Needs a Tragedy' only kicks in two thirds of the way into a song hitherto meandering and awash with fluttering hi-hats, distant, filtered guitar ambience and what sounds like traffic noise. Contrasts certainly don't come much more extreme than those of _Weirdo Rippers_ - which, throughout its length, lurches fitfully from the raw, immediate and pummeling to the sparse, expansive and abstract. One minute, you're listening to the Beach-Boys-do-thrash of 'Everybody's Down'; the next, you're pitched into the feedback-suffused drones and lo-fi pulsations of 'Sun Spots'.

It's a record you can reflect on - trying to work out what No Age is trying to do. And I've thought about this album an awful lot over the past few weeks - which, in one sense, may be all the "review" it needs.

I admire the album's defiance. The fact that a brilliant, infectious melody (good enough to carry a 3-minute pop-song, all on its own) is insulted by a lazily off-pitch vocal delivery, mauled by psychotic guitars and dumped unceremoniously after a single chorus. The fact that, when the guitars and drums tear their way through the paper-thin collages that surround them, they really could almost make you jump. The production may be deliberately lo-fi, but someone at the mixing desk certainly knows their dynamic manipulation techniques.

And I like the way that this is the first album review for which I've toyed with (even if only to reject, obviously) the idea of opening with a discussion inspired by a school history lesson.

The [laboured?] analogy

It went something like this. What's the difference between Communism and Fascism? One on the very far left of the political spectrum; one on the very far right. Ostensibly, then, two ideologies in polar opposition. About as far from one another as possible. Except they're not. As Mr Matthews (one of the _good_ teachers) said, it's actually as if they're the two ends of a horseshoe - closer to one another than to the middle.

Obviously, it's simplistic. I'm no political scientist, but I certainly don't delude myself that this is the key to understanding political extremism. But it gets the point across. And No Age's record (see, the point is just on the horizon) reminds me that, perhaps, the same is true of 'classical', high art as opposed to punk - the former characterised _by_ intellectualisation, the latter expressly _rejecting_ the same. But - as Weirdo Rippers proves - the two shimmeringly coexist - can contain one another. Is the album in _defiance_ of art - reducible to the aggressive, raw disdain of punk - or is it in fact a clever, artistically-aware _manipulation_ of punk's aesthetically uncompromising energy? Neither. Both.

So what's the problem?

So - after all that - what am I complaining about? Something (I fear) resoundingly mundane. I can't live with persistently out-of-tune vocals. While I'm well aware that the (sometimes extreme) lack of attention to pitching is consistent with the musical style, I cannot help but find it grating. So it goes.

I also have some reservations about the 'instrumental' tracks - which, at times, meander a little _too_ much for my taste. Obviously, the album's distinctive bipolarity depends to a significant degree upon the contrast between ambient, directionless instrumentals and punchy, direct and stripped-down songs - but, in fact, an instrumental needn't be very long at all to seem vast. Some of these could, I think, be trimmed and still retain every bit of their Gobi-like expansiveness.

Interesting. Very interesting.

I'm glad, in summary, that I'm not in the habit of rating albums. Because I'd find myself faced with a dilemma. Conceptually, _Weirdo Rippers_ is one of the most interesting records of 2007. But, in practice, I don't actually enjoy listening to it very much.

Perhaps this is my own experience of the 'horseshoe phenomenon'?

Scout Niblett - from death-folk nursery rhymes to matter-of-fact lyrical vulnerability

cogwheeldogs — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 00:10:25 GMT

I've just returned from seeing (an evidently less than healthy) Scout Niblett playing at the Carling Academy in Oxford (UK). She made a false start on one song, her guitar was (as ever) slightly out of tune, her set was short, and, I was told, the performance wasn't up to her usual standard.

I thought it was brilliant.

Never previously having seen Niblett play live, I have no point of comparison. Obviously, she _is_ pretty ill - but she still performed with a mesmerising confidence. Scout Niblett's music somehow gives the impression of being 'boiled down' right to its key elements. She does not seem to be interested in the measured, slow-building transition, or, indeed, any real kind of musical synthesis. Much of what I find strong and compelling in her work is related to its raw juxtapositions and stubborn refusal to blur sharp dividing lines (no wonder Steve Albini chooses to produce her records). This music of extremes is very well served by the inherent drama of live performance: songs that might err on the side of wilfulness on record make perfect sense in this context.

Although, as I've said, the set was relatively short, almost every musical base seemed to be covered. Dynamics ranged from the shimmering of barely-strummed clean guitar to pounding drums, banshee vocals and industrially-distorted chords. When Niblett and her (superb) drummer - who plays on about half of the songs - are at full tilt in schitzophrenic death-folk nursery rhyme Let Thine Heart Be Warmed (a stunning track), they make as powerful a sound as any number of axe-wielding metallers with Marshall stacks, Niblett spitting and twitching out her lyrics with almost disturbing intensity.

The sense of ensemble between Niblett and her drummer is powerful: even when the tempo is being stretched and moulded, the two are absolutely together - each drawn-out pause almost vertiginous; each accent impeccably placed.

The set closes with the excellent 'Where are you?'. The first verse is lyrically extraordinary:

"We woke up late again And walked into town My hand held yours But who was prouder to be with the other? I think it was me, I think it was me, I think it was me."

- Matter-of-fact, moving, disarmingly vulnerable. She is, evidently, too unwell to play an encore - but, charmingly, _does_ return to the stage to acknowledge the persistent applause.

Musical myths and fables: Iron & Wine - The Shepherd's Dog

cogwheeldogs — Sat, 24 Nov 2007 20:20:10 GMT

There is something rather modest about Iron & Wine. This could be a damning statement: modest might equate to boring, unadventurous, unambitious, lacking in body ... I imply none of these. _The Shepherd's Dog_ is modest because it does not seek to dazzle - and does not chase what (sorry) TS Eliot might've called an "exaggerated novelty". It's matter-of-fact, unpretentious.

... And, somehow, very much the music of landscapes. It seems to me that the album's primary concern is not individuals, events or specific memories or emotions. There is a very powerful sense of place. It is like a novel by (sorry again) Faulkner (which, despite its plot and characters, is ultimately just about the South). There is something tapestry-like about this record.

Everything is beautifully recorded and produced. In this way (and not only this way) it puts me in mind of recordings by Sufjan Stevens, which similarly manage to combine careful, intricate and well-executed arrangements with an organic, unproduced quality. Although _The Shepherd's Dog_ is undeniably more 'produced' than previous Iron & Wine releases, it certainly does not feel glossy. Rather, it has a full woodiness, and a textured quality - not, at times, unlike Yann Tiersen & Shannon Wright (which I reviewed here a while ago). If you listen to this through good headphones, the warmth of Sam Beam's voice is remarkable.

Melodically, there is a kind of modesty, too. Vocal lines often arch simply and gracefully, each phrase returning to its starting pitch. The lyrical quality of this writing is nicely counterpointed by accompaniments that are often based around complex fingerpicking, minimal (non-kit) percussion and layered sounds. When melodies are more unusual, they are not gratuitously so. In the excellent White Tooth Man, for instance, the unusual central hook - a rapidly descending, circuitous figure - brilliantly complements the 'eastern' instrumentation and arrangement of the song. Generally, I am not fond of western musicians' experimentation with eastern influences (which I find all too often glib, superficial 'copy & paste' efforts, betraying no real effort to penetrate the less obvious aspects of a hugely complex musical tradition and style) - but White Tooth Man - precisely because, melodically and tonally, it is (at least to my inexpert ears) a _genuine_ fusion. It also serves to remind us, perhaps, of a certain kinship between sitar and banjo, focusing on common musical features of the two musical cultures it combines.

There is something reminiscent of Elliott Smith in the layered, close-to-a-whisper vocal delivery and production of many of the songs - and something of both Elliott Smith and Simon & Garfunkel in the use of vocal harmonies. (The latter comparison - though it is one which might not top every cool indie musician's wish list - is entirely complimentary. Listen to the beautiful Carousel, with its chiming accompaniment and wistful character, and judge for yourself.)

Resurrection Fern is certainly the most accessible song on the album, and (though not because of this) I think it may also be the best: it is genuinely moving, and the lyrics hold the attention completely - and deservedly so. And, here, the album's characteristic quality of stasis, of timelesness, is perhaps most succinctly, coherently and affectingly expressed. It is an achingly good song, with a mythical quality reminiscent of classical mythology. It also has what should be put into songwriters' textbooks as a perfect 'Chorus': a musical lift to something that one might have already thought quite adequate (Beatles-esque).

After this, though, I can't help but feel that the album loses its (hitherto admirable) balance. Boy with a Coin meanders slightly, perhaps inevitably suffering by comparison, and seems to lack focus. And the bluesy, honky-tonk stomp of closing track The Devil Never Sleeps - whilst certainly successful in its own right - doesn't (for me) quite hit the right note in the context of the rest of the album.

In general, though, there are few nits to pick. This is considered, subtle, and sensitively written and performed music. The Shepherd's Dog is not a dramatic album. Don't go to it expecting to be confronted by tension, suspense or theatricality in general. Approach the album, though, as you would a book of myths and fables - as opposed to a thriller or a psychological novel - and you're unlikely to be disappointed.

Sunset Rubdown: 'Random Spirit Lover' - or How To Be Witty Without Uttering A Word

cogwheeldogs — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 21:39:49 GMT

Wit in music. Not in lyrics, which is easy enough - but in the way one chord leads to another, or a melody appears, or pauses are used. It's a rare phenomenon: one found in the work of classical composers such as Handel and Haydn, say. A (rather more modern) witty album, in my opinion, is Weezer's _Pinkerton_ (leagues better than anything else by the band) - and Sunset Rubdown's _Random Spirit Lover_ reminds me, in some ways, of that record.

To start off by comparing Sunset Rubdown to Weezer is (to put it mildly) potentially misleading. These two bands are _not_ coming from the same place. But the ebullient, inventive playfulness - coupled with musical intelligence tempered with irreverence - is common. And, despite the many differences between the bands, there is also a certain similarity in sound between _Random Spirit Lover_ and _Pinkerton_ (which, if you don't know it, is quite, quite different from Weezer's more recent, heavily produced releases). A brittle, unproduced, spindly quality.

Defining Sunset Rubdown's musical wit isn't necessarily easy. Much of the time, it's to do with juxtapositions and an almost slapdash approach to traditional musical devices. Keys change with abandon (just as they do, brilliantly, in Weezer's 'Across the Sea'), and, at times, the music puts me in mind of an excitable school music class, all of whom have unplugged their keyboards while practising (and messing around with) their scales and arpeggios. Which, of course, would actually sound awful. But here, it doesn't: _Random Spirit Lover_ isn't ever cacophanous. There's even a certain strange, deliberate cheesiness to it all, with its retro synth sounds and scale-based melodies. Which, again, might sound derogative - but is in fact laudatory.

Before I allow the cement to dry around my Weezer comparison, I should note that Sunset Rubdown's music is far more experimental and eclectic. On the latter quality, indeed, few artists or bands successfully combine aspects of everything from troubadour-esque, quasi-Medieval balladry, through Music Hall, to 80s synth-pop. This outstanding ability to bring together disparate musical elements sets the band alongside artists such as Joanna Newsom - different though their respective 'sounds' and influences may be. There's a baseline of irreverence and deliberate messiness, backed up by strong musicianship, that is reminiscent of Dresden Dolls - and a marriage between traditional rock instrumentation and the unashamedly synthetic that makes the band sound, at times, ever so slightly like Grandaddy (albeit Grandaddy on speed).

'The Mending of the Gown' - hugely energetic, idiosyncratic, inventive - is one of the best opening tracks I've heard. As throughout the album, melodic instruments (guitar or synth leads) feature prominently. Set-piece solos are rare, with these intricate, rather fragile melodic lines instead being woven into the texture of the whole song, often cleverly offsetting the vocals. Lead instruments, then, are integral, not gratuitous.

Elsewhere, there is further proof of adventurous eclecticism: Up on Your Leopard, Upon the End of Your Feral Days might be best described as a lo-fi-electro-intellipunk jig, with its vaguely courtly feel even (appropriately, given the lyrical content). 'For the Pier (and dead shimmering)', meanwhile, is a kind of jerky, arpeggiator-laced take on Roger & Hammerstein ('When You Walk Through a Storm'). 'The Courtesan Has Sung' pairs sparsely-set vocal imitation (a kind of 'round') with martial rhythms - and then, when the rest of the instruments enter halfway through, there is a fantastic effect of sudden 'grounding' - new and unexpected life is added to the melodies. An entirely different vocal texture - male and female vocals, doubled an octave apart and blended into a curiously androgynous hybrid - is explored in 'Colt Stands Up, Grows Horns'. (The band Mew does something similar, at times.) Then, the song blossoms into a dark, retro delayed-synth interlude -- vaguely prog-rockish, but with far better chord changes. The result is brilliantly atmospheric, like instrumental music to a lo-fi indie science fiction movie.

Lyrics are often abstract, literary and somewhat opaque. But, when they need to be, they are clear, powerful - and brilliant:

_But the pattern of flight is chaotic and blind but it's right Because chaos is yours and it's mine; And chaos is luck, and like love, and love blind._

And - just to show that the band's wit isn't limited to the music alone - note the self-referential touch of the device called Verfremdungseffekt (or, more prosaically, according to wikipedia, 'alienation effect') - so beloved of absurdist theatre:

_And explosions make debris and catching it kind of suits you well it doesn’t suit me She said, "My sails are flapping in the wind." I said, "Can I use that in a song?" She said, "I mean the end begins." I said, "I know. Can I use that too?"_

Listening to _Random Spirit Lover_, it is sometimes easy, in fact, to forget that these are songs - so well-considered and cleverly paced is the album. Tracks merge into one-another so that, often, inter-song transitions are barely noticeable - despite drawing on such disparate influences and sources, and vary so considerably in almost any musical sense. Impressively, dramatic and attention-holding variations in tempo, rhythm, key and arrangement are nevertheless bound seamlessly into a balanced, unified whole.

Seldom, I think, have I come across an album that successfully - entirely convincingly - covers so much musical ground, yet loses none of its focus and integrity. Excellent, and - I predict - enduringly interesting and rewarding.

Dark, Tortured Spirituals for the 21st Century (Soulsavers)

cogwheeldogs — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 14:02:30 GMT

Weight. Depth. Space. Each of these are used to great effect in Soulsavers’ new¹ album. Evocative and atmospheric, It's Not How Far You Fall, It's The Way You Land could well be a film soundtrack, at times.

Mark Lanegan – collaborator, vocalist and co-writer of five songs – features prominently. His voice alone would be a gift to most production teams, at once versatile and capable of distinctive extremes of pitch and texture: the vocals at the beginning of 'Ghosts of You And Me' are deep and dark as Hell itself.

... And the above simile is not an idle one: so much of this album is concerned with salvation and redemption. It is always a risk, to load music so heavily with religious overtones: a sprinkling of pseudo-Biblical language/imagery can be (and has been) a cheap and empty means by which to endow songs with illusory power. Here, though, the risk pays off. Mainly, I think, thanks to Lanegan's performances, which are utterly convincing. There is congruence between vocal performance, arrangement/instrumentation and lyrical content – the collaborative numbers gel seamlessly. The Soulsavers duo work well with Lanegan’s vocals (which are recorded with warmth and clarity and – gladly – not over-produced or saturated with obvious and unnecessary effects), pairing them with crunchily distorted beats (boldly modern), seething, squalling, Nick Cave-esque organs, and (perhaps most notably) gospel-style backing vocals. The wailing choirs – in the brilliantly sinister ‘Paper Money’ especially – sound convincingly purgatorial. With their strong, slow chord progressions and rhythms, these are dark, tortured spirituals for the 21st century.

Elsewhere – in ‘Spiritual’ and ‘No Expectations’ – Lanegan is measured and sensitive. The latter (a Rolling Stones cover) is excellent, moving and utterly compelling. A spacious arrangement/production allows the vocals – heavy with restrained emotion, yet delivered with masterful simplicity – due prominence. Single ‘Revival’, meanwhile, is warm, optimistic and tender – a wonderfully confident opener. It is also incredibly memorable, melodically. Like so many of these songs, it has an extremely solid groove: every beat is placed, and given space and weight.

Relative to the songs featuring Lanegan, instrumentals such as ‘Ask The Dust’ serve more as palate-cleansers than as focal points. This may be no bad thing, except that it perhaps implies a certain degree of reliance upon Lanegan for direction and notability. Robbed of the fascinating timbre of his voice, these tracks suffer a little (from comparative lack of adventurousness), looking a little tame. In general, the more a song is anchored by and centred upon Lanegan, the more successful it seems likely to be.

This album is unquestionably intense – and is unlikely to be on my ‘most frequently played’ lists, as a result: it’s not the kind of music one could listen to very often (which is in no way meant derogatively – the same applies to many of my favourite albums). Nevertheless, I might criticise the fact that, whilst many of these songs feature ‘big’ arrangements and a powerful ensemble sound, there is often not a great deal of contrapuntal complexity or intricate musical detailing. In an orchestral arrangement, much of the interest is in the tension between, on one hand, many different instruments/sections playing purposeful, distinct parts and, on the other, the whole orchestra as a unified entity. In the Soulsavers’ arrangements, there is much unified power – many ‘broad brushstrokes’ – but perhaps too little complex interplay and conflict between individual instrumental parts. Although many instruments and sounds may be brought together, they tend to duplicate (rather than robustly play off against) one another. I’d like a little more intricacy in the arrangements, to match the detail of the production and the subtlety of the vocal performances. The kind of detail one might uncover only on a tenth listening, say.

And this, perhaps, anticipates my conclusion. I’ll certainly, I think, find myself returning to It's Not How Far You Fall, It's The Way You Land at intervals – but, significantly, it will be Mark Lanegan, not Soulsavers, that draws me back. Although Soulsavers’ side of the collaboration is in many respects commendable, it nevertheless does not manage entirely to do justice to what is (in my opinion) an extraordinary vocal talent.

¹ New, that is, to the US. Here in the UK, it's been out for months ...

In Rainbows: bastardised chorales - or meandering compilations of cliches?

cogwheeldogs — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 19:40:56 GMT

_Paranoid Android_ came onto my Last FM radio, today. And it made me think about the first few times I listened to _ok computer_. Ten years on, I seldom feel inclined to play an album I subjected to such fervent listening; but _Paranoid Android_, with its crazy, bastardised-chorale structure and embarrassment of melodic riches, reminded me just how much of a shock _ok computer_ was.

_In Rainbows_ is not a shock. Mildly surprising in places, perhaps (much has been made of the ensemble children's shouts in _15 Step_, and this (apparently "unprecedented") demonstration of wry humour) - but not a shock.

That is not to damn the album. But it's an important point. There aren't that many mainstream bands with the power, inclination and (most importantly, perhaps) ability to be daring - to push boundaries - without being contrived. Radiohead (particularly the Thom Yorke/Johnny Greenwood partnership, which unites idiosyncratic, erratic creativity and conviction with technical experimentalism, and a 'classical' attention to detail) has that potential.

And there is much in In Rainbows that is musically interesting. The loosely jazzy guitar in _15 Step_ (reminiscent of Dave Brubeck's _Take Five_), set in striking contrast to the dry, footsteps-on-packed-snow beat; the reversed-vocal/synth string introduction to _Nude_; sinuous, prominent string lines in _Faust Arp_; the almost R&B-like first vocal entry in (again) _15 Step_ ; the spare, lo-fi piano chords of _Videotape_ ...

... But the problem, as I see it, is that the Radiohead of _In Rainbows_ is too much about Thom Yorke. Someone needs to tell him, in my opinion, that pulling lyric lines out of a hat is not an acceptable songwriting technique. Whilst Radiohead's lyrics have never been extraordinary, and have always tended towards the willfully obscure, those of the band's post-ok-computer output have strayed too often into directionless compilations of clichés. Although nobody could pretend to understand _Paranoid Android_, it somehow implied a narrative, nevertheless. My own favourite song on _ok computer_, meanwhile - _Exit Music [for a film]_ - undoubtedly involved characterisation, and sketched out a situation with which one could engage emotionally. Most of Radiohead's post-_ok-computer_ output does not do this - and, often, those songs that _do_ were actually written in the late 90s. Almost like Samuel Beckett, Yorke seems, these days, to endeavour to strip away from his lyrics anything with which an audience might connect or empathise - or by which they might be moved. Search _In Rainbows_ for anything as effective as "Rain down ...", "Immerse your soul in love", or "We hope that you choke", and I doubt you will be satisfied. Which is not to say, incidentally, that I consider the above quoted lines to be masterpieces of literary accomplishment - indeed, 90s Radiohead veered alarmingly in the direction of melodrama, at times - but such lyrics are undeniably attention-grabbing. More so than most.

And, although there are interesting musical touches, the songs themselves often _meander_. Doubtless, this is not helped by the lack of lyrical focus. _Paranoid Android_'s 6-7 minutes seemed shorter than _House Of Cards_' five-and-a-half. Somehow, there aren't enough songs with _shape_ - songs that give the impression of development, of going somewhere. The old, old _Nude_ is, in my opinion, the strongest _song_ here. Elsewhere on the album, songs almost seem redundant, even when they are good. _Bodysnatchers_ is a cross between _I might be wrong_ and _Myxomatosis_. Better than the former; less good than the latter. _Videotape_ may be one of my favourite tracks on the album; but it is no _Pyramid Song_ (perhaps the band's best song since _ok computer_).

I don't dislike this album - as the above might seem at times to imply. It is better and more interesting than many. But, in the end, _In Rainbows_ leaves me somewhat empty, somewhat disappointed - and, if I'm honest, perhaps a little frustrated. At the fact that Thom Yorke - who stripped everything down, professing himself bored/embarassed by _ok computer_'s vocal excesses - hasn't yet got bored of the opposite.

Yann Tiersen & Shannon Wright: Texture and Contrast

cogwheeldogs — Thu, 04 Oct 2007 19:17:03 GMT

_Yann Tiersen & Shannon Wright_ is a beautifully-produced record - both in terms of the music it contains and the package that contains that music. I'm aware that I wrote about PJ Harvey's _White Chalk_, last week, and devoted attention to album artwork - but think of it as a mini-trend within my (hardy copious) review corpus.

I don't think I'm going to try and tie in the album artwork with the music, this time; I just want to say that it's nice. Typographical.

_YT&SW_ is a very _textured_ collection of songs - and that is the realm in which I think it most remarkable. In the opening track, No Mercy For She, for instance, a fantastic piano sound (chunky, compressed, resonant, somewhat lo-fi, but big) is set against whispy (and inspired) violin sketching and slivers of ice-like bowed steel. It's a fine opening track: the unusual pairing of textures captures my attention immediately - and the dolorous, funereal quality of the piano is (fascinatingly) offset by a raging, subdued aggression. In Sound The Bells, a similarly textured and immediate piano sound is paired with shimmering, distant chimes and vague sounds.

Contrasts, then. Near against far; dense against ephemeral; rough against smooth; thin against thick. In some ways, the whole album is exploring the contrast between metal and wood. Electric guitars and basses are deliberately recorded in such a way (it seems to me) as to accentuate the metallic qualities of their sound, to bring out the string noise - in Ode To A Friend, for example, the finger noise of the bass is extremely prominent.

Much of the music, I feel, could work extremely well alongside film - not only because of the textural preoccupation, but also because of the harmonic motion, which often dwells on changes between chords a 3rd apart: a common feature of much film music, perhaps because the effect is atmosphere-enhancing and somewhat harmonically inconclusive. Even the more 'powerful' or assertive songs on the album tend to have a sinuous, unresolved quality to them, because of this harmonic movement - and the collection feels very consistent as a whole (although the similarity between songs can occasionally be somewhat too pronounced, perhaps.)

Some songs, such as Something To Live For (which, incidentally, reminds me somewhat of Samuel Barber. Have a listen to the brilliant song Sure on this Shining Night if you have the chance), gather momentum and intensity to remarkable effect. I am impressed at the degree to which Tiersen and Wright are able (and choose) to build tension without offering release. At times, though, I think they could let go a little more. While You Sleep, for instance, with its alarm-like violin motif, seems just a little 'steady'. After so extended a build-up (this is track 6), an entirely unfettered performance would have highlighted the restraint of the preceding songs all the more powerfully.

Vocally, there is doubtless a PJ Harvey influence. To me, Shannon Wright's voice also sounds strikingly similar, at times, to that of Rose Kemp. The vocal performances throughout are strong: intense and dark, but seldom overdone. Nevertheless, I seldom consider them the focus ("Do you touch her like you touch me? / Do you corrode her like you corrode me?" in Ways To Make You See being one of the few instances in which the voice really seizes my attention), and the voice is generally used somewhat instrumentally: songs are carried by the contrasts, swells, mood-changes and textural developments rather than stories or vocal drama.

Ultimately, I don't think _Yann Tiersen & Shannon Wright_ is a _great_ album, although I think it is an extremely compelling one. The way in which texture and atmosphere predominate is, I think, the reason for this. It lacks the balance, for instance, of Laura Veirs' _Saltbreakers_, to which it is in some respects similar. For my taste, there could be just a little more emphasis upon songs - melodies, hooks, lyrics. As it is, the album is slightly reminiscent of the late paintings of Turner, in which subject matter is increasingly obscured by the artist's ever-present fascination with light (example below). Overall, the album lacks a certain focus, or pointedness. In a way, perhaps, it is _too_ consistent; too well-crafted. Personally, I would like just a _little_ less control.

Tom Cogwheel Dogs

White Chalk - aesthetically brilliant (PJ Harvey)

cogwheeldogs — Wed, 26 Sep 2007 12:49:30 GMT

Well, I have just been listening to the new PJ Harvey album, White Chalk. Below, a few impressions.

The first is the album artwork. Which I like very much. Pared-down, tasteful, attention-grabbing, unpretentious. And I am an unashamed doter upon uncoated card (rough, textured, matt).

With the opening track, the first thing I think of - curiously, and rather unexpectedly - is the The Beach Boys. It's not quite 'I Get Around', I know. But there's a tightness and buoyancy to the opening piano chords that's oddly reminiscent. In general, PJ Harvey's piano playing is very interesting.

In some ways it reminds me of listening to untaught pianists at school, playing pop songs on the Chapel piano. (Yes, my school had a chapel. My school had a whole lot of things that its senior management considered badges of gravitas, respectability and grandeur.) PJH approaches the piano, somehow, as if for the first time. That is, on this album, she seems to tap into a sort of pianistic naivety - sees the instrument's potential in a manner unclouded by formal lessons and classical techniques.

Piano is explored, on White Chalk, as a 'new' instrument. Technically, the playing is generally fairly simplistic - but that's really not the point. At intervals, we hear it played as if it were a palm-muted guitar (tight, repeating chords, no cross-rhythms, deliberately dampened), 'strummed', and playing simple, lovely figures such as the spidery, gossamer opening of 'Dear Darkness' (complemented sensitively by the feather-light brushed drums later in the track).

I think of Kid A/Amnesiac-era Radiohead quite a bit when listening to this album. Which might not always be auspicious ... but, in this case, is. In the excellent 'Grow Grow Grom' (one of the standout tracks), for instance, an irregular time-signature is not employed through clever-clever 'I can count better than you' gimmickry, but is integral to the song, and justified by it. This reminds me of Radiohead's 'Pyramid Song'.

... More than of Radiohead, I think of The Smashing Pumpkins - specifically, Adore (easily my favourite of that band's albums, and underappreciated generally). The link may be partly explained by the fact that both Adore and White Chalk are characterised by a move from guitar towards the more unfamiliar piano.

... But most of all, I think of early 20th century composers – primarily Benjamin Britten, but also Ralph Vaughan Williams. In songs such as 'Grow Grow Grom' and 'Silence', there's a colouristic use of harmony - by which I mean that unusual chords enter the music not so much to carry it foward into new areas, but to add vibrant, unexpected splashes of new colour. A previously minor chord in a sequence may become major, say, yet not affect the rest of the sequence (as it would in 'classical' harmony). In 'Grow Grow Grom', there are some beautiful shifts of key centre (as opposed to key changes), which seems to me very Britten-esque. And the whole song is characterised by a persistent shifting back and forth between two chords (two colours) that don't quite go together - but don't clash. It is delicate, intelligent, efficient and - above all - painterly writing - sparse and moving, with every element contributing to the whole.

'Broken Harp' is only 1:59 long (I applaud the brevity of many of these songs - in tune with the minimalist instrumentation, songs are never allowed to venture anywhere near the gratuitous or the expansive). It sounds old. Like an English folk song. And, like good folk, it manages simultaneously to sound fragile, delicate - almost brittle - and incredibly robust. Later in the song (and not for the first time on the album), the vocals lean in the direction of Björk.

'Broken Harp' and the immediately following three tracks ('Silence', 'To Talk To You' and 'The Piano') are brilliant, together (and, no doubt, independently also). 'Silence', with its pulsing piano, seems to drive forward, but the persistently descending chordal figures contradict this momentum; and 'To Talk To You' employs a different kind of polarity, with very high, tremulous vocals set against a muffled, bass-heavy, "sluggish" piano sound. There are qualities of Tori Amos's 'Bells for Her' (a great song), with its treated piano sounds, imparting an exotic, bell-like, slightly ring-modulated quality – vaguely reminiscent of Gamelan, somehow. The whole song ('To Talk to You') sounds at times as if it's been recorded on an old, degraded tape. The vibrato effect on vocals and piano creates a fantastic texture that is astonishingly tangible-seeming - makes me feel as though I could almost run my finger along the serrated edge of the sound, like stroking the blades of a comb.

Then 'The Piano' picks up momentum, with strange, excellent trilling figures making darting flights and retreats onto another pulsing, tapping piano/percussion background. Then we hear the lyric "Rattling his keys" – and realise that these trills were superb anticipatory word-painting of an entirely non-gratuitous kind.

It's a fantastic song - powerful and evocative, disturbing ... After which, the sinking, melancholic piano motif of 'Before Departure' acts as a very well-judged relief-giver and palate/palette-cleanser. Again, there's that folky, Vaughan-Williams/Britten-esque quality.

PJH's use of the upper reaches of her vocal range is very effective, throughout the album. But when I got to the final stages of 'The Mountain' (the album's closing track), I was amazed. The unrooted, meandering character of the early stages of the song gives way to an extraordinary (and I don't use the word lightly) collage of arpeggios, top-of-range and soaring vocals. This is brilliant - not over-the-top - for two reasons: it does not drag or become 'epic'; and the new vocal quality is underpinned - more, it is justified - by an accompanying shift into new harmonic territories, with unexpected and extreme key-changes (or key-shifts, perhaps) appearing in sudden abundance. Without this harmonic adventurousness, the vocals might seem gratuitous; with them, the result is an inspired album-closer.

To return to my opening comments on the album artwork: after you've listened to the disc, you realise how beautifully the packaging design mirrors the music itself. Somewhat stark, spartan, poised - reined back, almost ... But simultaneously earthy, textured, organic and 'real'. Despite all the 'whiteness', there's also a warmth to the artwork (heightened magenta and yellow, at the expense of cold blue tones) that emulates the warmth of the album's acoustic instrumentation.

Aesthetically, this is a brilliant album, on first impressions.

Tom

Cogwheel Dogs

First post - and a Cogwheel Dogs song

cogwheeldogs — Sat, 01 Sep 2007 14:08:09 GMT

Ghostwriter - a schizophrenic, brooding song recently recorded by us (Cogwheel Dogs) - cello, acoustic guitar and vocals.