Sketchleys of Spain

Here's my latest review for MusicOMH, and the first to which I've given 5 stars - but, fair enough, it's a killer (though if I could get away with not giving marks out of 5, I'd be all the happier).  I think I might start delaying my MOMH posts, as it's behind a paywall; I don't think I can never share things with you, but perhaps I could wait a month, which would be the equivalent of waiting until a print mag was off the shelves, and therefore fair game to reproduce.  Course, the problem is I'll probably forget, but we shall see.

DRY CLEANING – STUMPWORK (4AD)

Mixing a Dry Cleaning gig must be a nightmare. The band creates such a dense sound, interlocking riffs twining thornily, that a declamatory vocal would be the instinctive choice, but Florence Shaw’s delivery is always muted, pastel-toned, and dispassionate, as if a dentist surgery’s automated receptionist had started offering existential commentary (Press 1 for appointments, press 2 for a wry encapsulation of the human condition). But simply burying the vocals in the mix, shoegaze style, won’t work because Shaw has a huge library of micro-inflections that give unexpected depth to the often disjointed lyrics: the line “If you’re rich you look good, that’s not news” on opener 'Anna Calls From The Arctic' is pitch perfect, and the tossed off plea “Can you not?” on 'Kwenchy Kups' is like a whole character study in three syllables. Luckily, that’s some venue engineer’s dilemma for another day, and on Stumpwork we can revel in every subtle vocal intonation, as they play against the knotty rhythms.

Although Shaw has stated that the lyrics on this album have moved away from the found texts of their debut New Long Leg, it definitely feels more collage than essay, lines rubbing unexpectedly against each other, the poetic cheek by jowl with the preposterous. But themes swim out over repeated listens even where individual songs remain oblique. A major concern on Stumpwork would appear to be finance and the impulsive consumer, with different tracks noting “I’m bored, but I get a kick out of buying things”, “That’s what money’s for, isn’t it? For spending”, and the hilarious “Nothing works, everything’s expensive, opaque, and privatised. My shoe-organising thing arrived, thank God”. Press 3 for sales and self-justification under late capitalism.

The album also features a roster of tiny instances of intimacy, such as “let me squeeze you and do your hair”, or “I’d love to hold you across the middle and be your shoulder bag”. The title track features a gloriously prosaic undercutting of the school of pop romance in which hearts flutter and nerves tingle:

I feel your approach/ All the hair on my arms raise up/ Because you are wearing a fleece/That has become electrified

Even on 'Gary Ashby', the only song that’s fully decodable, about the loss of the titular pet tortoise, the mundane and quotidian are deftly presented in a way that makes them feel surreal and otherworldly (Press 4 for Harold Pinter and Alan Bennett). And even this hides the menacing mysterious line “Dad’s got blood on his head”.  And if unexplained wounds don’t surprise you, sudden moments of potty-mouthed filth just might - Press fucking 5 for some shit or other – which sound doubly incongruous in Shaw’s tranquil unruffled tones. The debased handicraft of the album cover, spelling out the title in soap-adhered pubes, might have served as a warning that the odd bit of smut might pop up. Most inexplicable is the claim “I’ve see your arse but not your mouth, that’s normal now”, though perhaps Naked Attraction gets heavy rotation on the Dry Cleaning tour bus TV. 

Mesmerising as the words and delivery are, the album is also musically excellent. Like the debut, there are clear nods to classic alt rock, especially in the fleet-footed but anchoring basslines – Press 5 for Peter Hook and Kim Deal – but the sonic range is broader this time, from the warm jangle of' Gary Ashby' which nods towards The Blue Aeroplanes, to the sludgy unfunk groove of 'Liberty Log', replete with woozy tape wobbles. The last few tracks are the most exploratory, with dubbier textures and the intense hypnotic guitar sounds of post-rock (or even post-metal), but the biggest surprise is at the other end of the album, where 'Anna Calls From The Arctic' swoons in a humid, sun-sleepy synth and clarinet bliss-out, as if Penguin Cafe Orchestra were trying to imitate 808 State’s 'Pacific'. By the time the goth hypnotism of 'Icebergs' fades away, with a quietly dawdling sax that sounds like hip-hip banger 'The 900 Number' dropping off to sleep, you’ll be ready to flip this wonderfully enigmatic record over and return to track one.  Press 0 to hear these options again and again.

Being Pleasured Aurally

Here's my review for the latest Nightshift, the first to be available as a hard copy for over a year!  It's sincerely exciting and a little moving to have the scabrous Demo Dumper in print again, if for no other reason than so the unbelievers can burn it.

In other news, I will now be doing some reviews for a website.  My reviewing chum Sam Shepherd volunteered me, and I had to do a micro-application form in which I detailed my three favourite albums of the past 12 months.  There wasn't much science in it, but I thought they were fun little summaries, so as a bonus treat, here they are:

Oneohtrix Point Never – Magic Oneohtrix Point Never (Warp)

Vaporwave can be fun, but most of its creators seem to be trying to recapture the innocence of youth, and might be equally happy shutting down Ableton and joining the “who remembers Pyramints?” messageboards.  Whilst Daniel Lopatin’s mature masterpiece nods (sleepily) towards all the hypnagogic tropes – tape deck hum, VHS flicker, corporate ident synth – there’s a depth to the songwriting, which matches ornate pop with emotional  directness, half ELO and half double glazing ad jingles.  The radio dial-twirling concept might be played out as a way of structuring an album, but this parade of gaseous mini-epics is more like someone flipping through the Rolodex of your half-remembered dreams.  With some really nice DX7 noises over the top.

 

Dry Cleaning – New Long Leg (4AD)

Since punk, boredom has often been weaponised, so that a yawn is just a slower paced sneer.  What’s refreshing about Florence Shaw is her unconfrontationally bored delivery, somewhere between indolent and exhausted, too laconic to stretch as far as melodies, a suburban precinct sprechgesang celebrating the surreality of the mundane.  The mordantly funny non sequiturs in the lyric sheets read like Sleaford Mods if they responded to the modern world with wry defeatism rather than twitchy disgust.  It’s musically no slouch either, sparse hypnotic classic indie motifs riding elastic Steve Hanley/Peter Hook basslines off into the distance.

 

The Bug – Fire (Ninja Tune)

Sometimes, though, as well as the literate ennui you just want some righteous ire, and this album is nothing but sonic anger, sometimes smouldering and malevolent, sometimes spittle-lipped and raging.  There are some pandemic-flavoured statements, and a few allusions to global politics, but really it’s no more a meaningful dystopian satire than most black metal is a coherent deconstruction of Christian morality, it’s simply a celebration of fury.  Just check the track titles.  “Vexed”.  “War”.  “Hammer”.  “Fuck Off”.  Especially “Fuck Off”.  And while the rich roster of doom prophet vocalists rail, the tracks rumble and rasp, dense, deep and insistent, like geological klaxons.

ENJOYABLE LISTENS/ MOOGIEMAN/ THE MAY, All Will Be Well, Port Mahon, 28/8/21

 We talk about musicians “playing” a gig, but it’s quite rare that this implies a childlike experimental glee.  Crouched over an array of electronics that he admits he only partly understands, The May takes us down ludic alleyways of electronica, sometimes erudite in the vein of Orbital’s philosophy ‘n’ bass classic “Are We Here?”, sometimes much dumbasser with 90s beats and buzzing synthlines (one COVID-safe raver inadvertently giving us Altern8 flashbacks).  There’s a witty wastrel edge to The May, recalling obscure Planet Mu signing Tim Exile’s “nuisance gabbaret lounge”, and the whole thing is as much fun to watch as it apparently is to create.  All The May’s bleepy gear even comes in a little wagon, like he’s Linus from Peanuts off to Megadog.

 Seeing event host Moogieman solo is rare nowadays, although that was how we first encountered him.  Where he once wielded an acoustic and sang cheeky Radio 4 songs, he now has sparsely programmed electronics and intones sententiously.  A huge improvement, in short.  At times there’s a cosmic, consciousness-expanding feel to the words at odds with the deadpan delivery and minimal sonics – think Wilhelm Reich recited by Laurie Anderson – and one piece is what we imagine a Scientology induction is like, but the beating pop heart of metaphysical rant “Mr Curator” still shines through, the indie fanfare of the band version turned into a sleek melding of The Blue Aeroplanes and Suicide.

 Enjoyable Listens is Luke Duffett, his phone, and several hogsheads of cabaret showmanship.  He gyrates and sways like an Animatronic Bryan Ferry, and croons his poetic balladry in the style of Lloyd Cole or Tony Hadley (and even, at times, early Vic Reeves).  His songs are ostensibly simple fare to tug the hearts - and loins - of an audience raised on estate agent pop and John Hughes movies, but there’s an addictive passion to the performance, which takes place in the crowd as often as onstage, that reminds us of Jack Goldstein.  We even end up singing along to a Bonnie Tyler cover, which is only a step away from pier-end schlock, but that step has been so elegantly taken you could easily  miss how masterful Duffett’s performance is.  That’s the total eclipse of the art.