Morning, morning, Jameson here.
No, it's not, it's me. And it's lunchtime. Sorry, as soon as I started typing, Derek Jameson popped into my head, how unpleasant.
Anyway, here's a review. To be honest, this is a deadline day review, and I think it reads like it. Sorry about that, Nightshift and Kraus deserve more, to be frank. But I'm a busy and/or lazy man, what are you going to do?
SHARRON KRAUS – THE WOODY NIGHTSHADE (Strange Attractors Audio House)
The sleevenotes to this new CD are a paean to the album format, eroded and endangered in our MP3 playlist era. We couldn’t agree more, but, like those scientists who try to explain how miniscule a fraction of the universe’s lifespan human beings have existed in, we would expect a folk singer to be unconcerned with a format that has been around for only fifty odd years, a tiny fragment of the history of song.
But this is definitely an LP, not a random selection of songs, and it’s a record with a constant, misty atmosphere. Kraus’ voice high and delightfully reedy, but it lends itself more to ghostly melody than cracking out a rousing folk narrative: her allusive singing and vaguely evocative lyrics are more Bert Jansch than Norma Waterson. There are even hints of PJ Harvey’s recent recordings. Musically it’s ethereal and unsettling too, from the keening feedback that opens the album to the woozily plucked strings on “Two Brothers” that sound like a weary traveller pushing through a dense forest: it’s like the sound a night at the Twin Peaks Folk Club. All drums on the record are reverbed and stately like the faded memory of percussion, the washed out toms of the title track a resigned, slow walk to the gallows (roll over, Berlioz).
Individually these songs may not be startling, and it’s certain that Kraus couldn’t challenge Spiers & Boden for the Oxford oral tradition trophy, but The Woody Nightshade is a gorgeous, immersive listen, that you want to start again as soon as it’s finished...which is about the best definition of a good album we can think of.
Sunday, 27 March 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
Dawn An Hour Later
Been enjoying a lot of 2nd hand classical vinyl recently. Especially good are multi-disc sets, Karajan doing Brahms' German Requiem is going on the deck later. One thing troubles me, though. Why - why in the name of fucking bastard hell - do so many classical boxsets split the sides between discs? I mean, you might get two records, the first fo which has side 1 & 4, and the other side 2 & 3. Seriously, how does that make even the tiniest whiff of sense to anybody?
Sometimes I think that, if I ever invented a time machine, I'd never use it, because people in the past were STUPID.
DAWN PENN/ JAMATONE, Skylarkin’ Soundsystem, Cellar, 3/3/11
The night is running just shy of an hour late. “But that’s all the better, you get to see the support”, says our host Aidan “Sky-” Larkin. Yeah, brilliant, hooray – less exciting for those of us who actually turned up on time, of course. And doubly depressing when the support aren’t actually that good. Their chunky, approachable roots sound is solid and melodic, something like a supermarket brand Black Uhuru, but Jamatone don’t ever quite achieve the cohesion of a good reggae band. They spend most of the gig standing on the edge of the groove, peering in. The vocalist keeps our interest, with a warm, unhurried style and a stage presence with plenty of character - which is good as the hackneyed lyrics can’t be said to have any – which is all good until half way through the set when he cedes the mike to a younger model. The new singer has a staccato style that is an interesting contrast, but it grates awkwardly against the band’s rhythms, which is ironic as the band actually improve noticeably for the last couple of tracks; perhaps adding a little dancehall phrasing to a straight pop reggae style might work, but as it is he just sounds like a clumsy version of Eagle Eye Cherry.
Compare Dawn Penn’s delivery. Within seconds of climbing on stage, she reveals a mastery of phrasing that makes every line matter, and gives every word weight. Each tiny portamento at the start of a phrase, every subtle vibrato at the end make the songs sound natural and conversational, as so many great pop songs should be. Penn’s voice, as befits a woman nearing 60, doesn’t have the sweet clarity of her early rocksteady recordings, but it has a deeper timbre and air of experience that is, if anything superior, reminding us oddly of Johnny Cash. The Man In Black is also a good reference point for Penn’s ability to recreate a song, and give a trite ditty an air of gravitas and richness you’d never expect was there. It took us a good few bars to realise that one naggingly familiar tune wasn’t a soul classic, but All Saints’ “Never Ever”! Of course, a healthy attitude to found material is one of the pillars of Jamaican music, from the endless and inventive versioning of rhythms to the unpretentious approach to melody that says that any track is worth covering if it has a tune that can be used, but Penn is a master of the art.
In case this sounds impressive, but somewhat honed, like a seasoned cabaret performer, we must also note the wonderful spontaneity of the gig. Second to Penn’s easy melodic sense is her understanding of musical space. She twists and elongates lines as the whim takes her, but is also content to drop the vocal for bars at a time, remixing the songs from the inside. If you thought that late Johnny Cash was a weird reference point, then you’d better sit down before we tell you that technique somewhat recalls latter day Mark E Smith (although we are certain that Dawn would be a better person to have a drink with). When she does “You Don’t Love Me” as the inevitable closing track, we are stunned by the liberties she takes with it, improvising lines and melodies, giggling and narrating ad hoc sections, as if it’s the first time she’s ever sung the song. Pretty audacious when you consider that it’s the one piece half the audience has specifically come to hear. We’ve seen some of Jamaican music’s greats play live – most, it must be said, at Skylarkin’ events – but this is the best, an effect heightened by the intimate atmosphere, which stops the music slipping into empty gestures (although the guitarist does smuggler in some overwrought Dire Straits solos whenever Penn’s back is turned). Why wasn’t this gig sold out ten times over? Has nobody heard of Dawn Penn? Wake the town and tell the people!
Sometimes I think that, if I ever invented a time machine, I'd never use it, because people in the past were STUPID.
DAWN PENN/ JAMATONE, Skylarkin’ Soundsystem, Cellar, 3/3/11
The night is running just shy of an hour late. “But that’s all the better, you get to see the support”, says our host Aidan “Sky-” Larkin. Yeah, brilliant, hooray – less exciting for those of us who actually turned up on time, of course. And doubly depressing when the support aren’t actually that good. Their chunky, approachable roots sound is solid and melodic, something like a supermarket brand Black Uhuru, but Jamatone don’t ever quite achieve the cohesion of a good reggae band. They spend most of the gig standing on the edge of the groove, peering in. The vocalist keeps our interest, with a warm, unhurried style and a stage presence with plenty of character - which is good as the hackneyed lyrics can’t be said to have any – which is all good until half way through the set when he cedes the mike to a younger model. The new singer has a staccato style that is an interesting contrast, but it grates awkwardly against the band’s rhythms, which is ironic as the band actually improve noticeably for the last couple of tracks; perhaps adding a little dancehall phrasing to a straight pop reggae style might work, but as it is he just sounds like a clumsy version of Eagle Eye Cherry.
Compare Dawn Penn’s delivery. Within seconds of climbing on stage, she reveals a mastery of phrasing that makes every line matter, and gives every word weight. Each tiny portamento at the start of a phrase, every subtle vibrato at the end make the songs sound natural and conversational, as so many great pop songs should be. Penn’s voice, as befits a woman nearing 60, doesn’t have the sweet clarity of her early rocksteady recordings, but it has a deeper timbre and air of experience that is, if anything superior, reminding us oddly of Johnny Cash. The Man In Black is also a good reference point for Penn’s ability to recreate a song, and give a trite ditty an air of gravitas and richness you’d never expect was there. It took us a good few bars to realise that one naggingly familiar tune wasn’t a soul classic, but All Saints’ “Never Ever”! Of course, a healthy attitude to found material is one of the pillars of Jamaican music, from the endless and inventive versioning of rhythms to the unpretentious approach to melody that says that any track is worth covering if it has a tune that can be used, but Penn is a master of the art.
In case this sounds impressive, but somewhat honed, like a seasoned cabaret performer, we must also note the wonderful spontaneity of the gig. Second to Penn’s easy melodic sense is her understanding of musical space. She twists and elongates lines as the whim takes her, but is also content to drop the vocal for bars at a time, remixing the songs from the inside. If you thought that late Johnny Cash was a weird reference point, then you’d better sit down before we tell you that technique somewhat recalls latter day Mark E Smith (although we are certain that Dawn would be a better person to have a drink with). When she does “You Don’t Love Me” as the inevitable closing track, we are stunned by the liberties she takes with it, improvising lines and melodies, giggling and narrating ad hoc sections, as if it’s the first time she’s ever sung the song. Pretty audacious when you consider that it’s the one piece half the audience has specifically come to hear. We’ve seen some of Jamaican music’s greats play live – most, it must be said, at Skylarkin’ events – but this is the best, an effect heightened by the intimate atmosphere, which stops the music slipping into empty gestures (although the guitarist does smuggler in some overwrought Dire Straits solos whenever Penn’s back is turned). Why wasn’t this gig sold out ten times over? Has nobody heard of Dawn Penn? Wake the town and tell the people!
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Interesting Developments
Vaughan Williams is ace. That is all I have to say today. Ace.
FIXERS – IRON DEER DREAM 7” (Young & Lost)
Jack Goldstein from Fixers claims that he found the title “Iron Deer Dream” in a book about Sylvia Plath, was unable to discover what it might mean, and subsequently found he couldn’t locate the passage again. It’s not essential, but it helps to suspend your disbelief and imagine that a suicidal poet’s biog sent an esoteric message to the band, it chimes well with their self-professed spirituality, and it certainly goes with the single’s cover, a tye-die fractal Masonic mystery that inhabits that wonderful space between beautiful and truly hideous.
It’s also useful if you manage some other mental dislocations. It’s handy to forget Fixers’ clumsy involvement with Blessing Force, a movement nobody can actually define, except to the extent that Fixers think they’re not in it anymore, and it sort of helps to try not to think about the extent to which the single sounds like latter day Animal Collective. Because it does. A lot. Which is fine, because not only have the Collective made some wonderful records, but their sound was only a rough collage of borrowed tricks anyway. In actual fact, “Iron Deer Dream” is better than Animal Collective’s recent recordings, although probably not quite on a par with their best work. Finally, in your Fixers reception yoga meditation, endeavour to ignore the way the track fits in with the already stumbling Hypnagogic Pop movement. Because if you start thinking about any of these things, you’ll dismiss Fixers as a zeitgeist scavenging trend parasite, and fail to notice just how brilliant a band they are.
From the nagging organ that sounds like Steve Reich arranging “California Girls”, “Iron Deer Dream” is a lovely little song, and may be Oxford’s first glimpse of summer. In truth, it’s barely song at all, it’s a cycling fade-out from a half-recalled childhood radio broadcast (as the references to the Berlin Wall seem to confirm). Over and over the melodic fragments turn, and immersing yourself in the song feels simultaneously like riding a powerful swell of sound, and drifting safely in amniotic fluid. If you could surf in a hammock, “Iron Deer Dram” would be your soundtrack.
Ironically, the song actually has its own little outro, and to be frank it bows somewhat overly deferentially at the altar of the Beach Boys (and we say this as proper Wilson worshippers ourselves). Our other issue is that the vocals are slightly too yearning, and there seems to be too much energy going into expressing barely decipherable lyrics that don’t appear to mean much. Perhaps they’re casting a spell. We wouldn’t put it past them.
“Iron Deer Dream” is Fixers’ calling card, and a fine one it makes. However, glorious listening experience though it is, it actually adheres slightly too much to their own template, a template that live sets indicate they may already be growing out of. If absolutely pushed we shall admit that we prefer the B side, “Egyptn Aberration CULT”, a tip of the hat to Detroit techno legends Drexciya, who don’t get nearly enough recognition (slightly confusing tributes from Turner Prize nominees notwithstanding), that also reminds us of the wonderful Model 500. The crisp handclaps are just as hypnotic as “Iron Deer Dream”’s reverby melodies, and less woozily dizzying. It reminds us of that bit in The Bell Jar that says “went batshit at a rave to ‘Strings Of Life’”...or did we imagine that?
FIXERS – IRON DEER DREAM 7” (Young & Lost)
Jack Goldstein from Fixers claims that he found the title “Iron Deer Dream” in a book about Sylvia Plath, was unable to discover what it might mean, and subsequently found he couldn’t locate the passage again. It’s not essential, but it helps to suspend your disbelief and imagine that a suicidal poet’s biog sent an esoteric message to the band, it chimes well with their self-professed spirituality, and it certainly goes with the single’s cover, a tye-die fractal Masonic mystery that inhabits that wonderful space between beautiful and truly hideous.
It’s also useful if you manage some other mental dislocations. It’s handy to forget Fixers’ clumsy involvement with Blessing Force, a movement nobody can actually define, except to the extent that Fixers think they’re not in it anymore, and it sort of helps to try not to think about the extent to which the single sounds like latter day Animal Collective. Because it does. A lot. Which is fine, because not only have the Collective made some wonderful records, but their sound was only a rough collage of borrowed tricks anyway. In actual fact, “Iron Deer Dream” is better than Animal Collective’s recent recordings, although probably not quite on a par with their best work. Finally, in your Fixers reception yoga meditation, endeavour to ignore the way the track fits in with the already stumbling Hypnagogic Pop movement. Because if you start thinking about any of these things, you’ll dismiss Fixers as a zeitgeist scavenging trend parasite, and fail to notice just how brilliant a band they are.
From the nagging organ that sounds like Steve Reich arranging “California Girls”, “Iron Deer Dream” is a lovely little song, and may be Oxford’s first glimpse of summer. In truth, it’s barely song at all, it’s a cycling fade-out from a half-recalled childhood radio broadcast (as the references to the Berlin Wall seem to confirm). Over and over the melodic fragments turn, and immersing yourself in the song feels simultaneously like riding a powerful swell of sound, and drifting safely in amniotic fluid. If you could surf in a hammock, “Iron Deer Dram” would be your soundtrack.
Ironically, the song actually has its own little outro, and to be frank it bows somewhat overly deferentially at the altar of the Beach Boys (and we say this as proper Wilson worshippers ourselves). Our other issue is that the vocals are slightly too yearning, and there seems to be too much energy going into expressing barely decipherable lyrics that don’t appear to mean much. Perhaps they’re casting a spell. We wouldn’t put it past them.
“Iron Deer Dream” is Fixers’ calling card, and a fine one it makes. However, glorious listening experience though it is, it actually adheres slightly too much to their own template, a template that live sets indicate they may already be growing out of. If absolutely pushed we shall admit that we prefer the B side, “Egyptn Aberration CULT”, a tip of the hat to Detroit techno legends Drexciya, who don’t get nearly enough recognition (slightly confusing tributes from Turner Prize nominees notwithstanding), that also reminds us of the wonderful Model 500. The crisp handclaps are just as hypnotic as “Iron Deer Dream”’s reverby melodies, and less woozily dizzying. It reminds us of that bit in The Bell Jar that says “went batshit at a rave to ‘Strings Of Life’”...or did we imagine that?
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