Sleep Whale – Houseboat

It didn’t take long to be swept up the bellowing zephyr that is Sleep Whale’s Houseboat and I don’t think I’ve come down yet. Whoever said beauty is fleeting hadn’t stayed alive long enough to hear this record.

Along with Explosions in the Sky, of which they share some post rock similarities, Sleep Whale emerge from Texas, at polar opposite musically from the local hardcore scene. The open space and grand majesty of the Southern American landscape is clearly a fundamental influence on their creative consciousness. Their mesh of collected sounds paired with colourful and melodic instrumentation feels as natural and invigorating as pissing off a cliff. The small, rhythmless passages, such as the mid album vignette ‘Dissolved’, remind me of Animal Collective’s album Feels (2006) - particularly the free, harp-like strumming in the guitars.

They’ve also cranked up their production on this one, compared to their sparse early work, and it’s put it to great benefit employing everything from coffee rich cellos (provided by the talented Bruce Blay), to pan pipes and guitar harmonics, to toy box bells and cricket chirping; all bubbling and fizzing and bursting with life. Lyrics such as “The rain came down in pouring puddles, there’s magic in everything” from ‘We Were Dripping’; though simple, when put to a pretty acoustic guitar and a wash of watery effects, it projects a kaleidoscope of images in your mind.

Being prone to tendencies of hyperbole and melodrama, it may be difficult to believe me when I say that Houseboat is the tenderest, most beautiful and masterful release I’ve heard this year. No exaggeration, it sets a new standard for acoustic recording and it was love at first sight; like the first time I heard the ornamental sampling of Four Tet’s Rounds (2003). The secret ingredient must be liquid sunshine or concentrated joy or something. It’s a stirring celebration of nature and life and is certain to please, unless you don’t like music or trees, in which case you have no soul. Sorry, but the truth hurts.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

The Clientele - Bonfires on the Heath

Red wine, curling smoke trails, brown anoraks, orange leafed trees; these are a handful of the images that The Clientele zoetrope through your brain on their newest release. Bonfires on the Heath, their sixth outing, feels husky and weather worn, as if each track was hung over the fire for a smokey flavour. But enough about salmon, because wandering romanticism and long scarfs are back in. Whoopie! Let’s not kid ourselves now, they never went out of style in the first place.

Through Classical training and years of recording experience, The Clientele have tended and grown a level of pop songwriting and musicianship that feels good and right to envy. Their simple but effective arrangements, assimilated from just a typical selection of instruments, is further evidence of their ability. Bonfires on the Heath strolls on safely down the same path.

The record poses a dreamy, autumnal mood and evokes the season’s particular poignancy and sadness. It combines twinkling guitar lines (drunken sliding on the album title track), jazzy chordal structures and soft brass with the silky vocal harmonies of those two 60’s bums Chad and Jeremy (‘Jennifer and Julia’ being a near forgery). Their luscious ganja-pop, reminiscent of The Zombies, The Turtles, Love and The Small Faces, is offset by a funky, off beat guitar showing later influences, perhaps closer to Orange Juice.

Yes, it has it’s patchy moments and compositional sleep walking (‘I know I will see your Face’ oddly breaks into sub par flamenco during the chorus, scrabbling for some kind of variation.) Even so, after ending with two beauties: ‘Graven Wood’ and ‘Walking in the Park’, the resounding silence is a reflective one. Despite being only mild escapism, the literary equivalent of a holiday read, Bonfires on the Heath is so calm and relaxed (groovy even) that, as long it’s spinning, someone could be yelling bile directly in your face and you’d just sit there, smiling to yourself, in a dribbling coma, like a lobotomised Labrador. Has that convinced you?

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

The Brothers Movement – The Brothers Movement

Ten years ago, before that preening leather jacket wearing cock Richard Ashcroft helped bury Brit Pop, there was a band called The Verve whose cool mix of cloud parting power chords and psychedelic dabbling defined an age. The Brothers Movement recall the optimism of the time providing feel-good Rock complete with mournful slide guitar.

Doubtless some of you are rolling your eyes but I liked The Verve back in the day and, to be fair, The Brothers Movement don’t exactly hijack their entire career. There are relations to another 90’s classic Supergrass, as well as some free wheeling Americana. In 2008, they were fortunate enough to support Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s tour which must have given them some indie credibility and exposed them to the right people.

Aside from one or two throwaways, such as the dull and directionless ‘The Salute’, each track stands out on its own without deviating from the collective flow. One of the best tracks (if not the best) is ‘Someday’, a genuinely moving ballad that builds to an emotional finale. The close of ‘War and Peace’ approaches symphonic homophony in its guitar muli-layering and their June ‘09 single, ‘Sister’, boosted by a warm church organ, takes a shot at the Rock religious experience.

Their debut may not be ground breaking, but the head bobbing confidence that it bestows is hard to dislike. As good as the LA scene can be, The Brothers Movement manage to steer clear of its acid fascination in favour of some harsh British reality. They also avoid The Verve’s habit for needlessly long jams. Most of all, their next release must evolve further still if they hope to achieve “ushering in a new era of Brit Pop” as opposed to rehashing the original one.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

We Fell to Earth and The Big Pink at The Electric Ballroom 22/10/09

My aversion to hype is now so refined that each time The Big Pink popped up on that TV advert, or an album review came into vision, I ignored it, childishly sticking my fingers in my ears and going “la la la la la”. Thanks largely to a blitzkrieg of promotion and the release of A Brief History of Love (an adequate debut album sporting an overused theme) the quality of the gig was being decided for me, before it had even started. So I kept my head down, avoiding every outside influence as best I could.

Gratefully, the supporting band set these anticipations aside giving me something else to think about. We Fell to Earth were a moping and moody Post Rock quartet with Math elements, stalked in the shadows by a droning, unsettling bass. Even though the bald singer sang (badly) like Phil Collins on the verge of a breakdown, they had clearly given their compositions ample thought and attentive care. And although not as well known, they proved themselves The Big Pink’s equals (seriously, check them out). Soon enough, on walked the headline dressed in their cyber Lou Reed chic. London was their last spot on the UK tour, a return to home.

I wanted to see The Big Pink because of ‘Velvet’. ‘Velvet’ is such an achingly good track and so unusual, like the product of some divine inspiration. It blows all the other tracks out of the water and their performance of it was a joy. The album title track was also well played proving they do have the odd reflective mood. Like being submerged in warm water or floating about in a Mark Rothko painting, each track blurred into the next preserving the hazy sensation. Their recent Radio 1 friendly single ‘Domino’s’ was what got the crowd bouncing and chanting in a sing-a-long. If you ask me, to close on their most popular single was a bit cheap, but I was the only one not ecstatically shouting along, so what do I know?

Without directly meaning to, The Big Pink bring shoegaze and noise art to the masses by adopting catchy refrains and by making the typical image of the oddball shoegazer much more sociable. Their textured hymns, made up of singing synths, electro beats and monster guitar distortion, transferred without blemish to the live setting. It took me a few days to work out that, aside from that generic crowd pleasing conclusion, their Electric Ballroom finale was strangely modest, short and razor sharp – possibly a reaction to their heavy exposure? I predicted much more improvisation and showing off but these cats appear to be shrugging off their rising fame. Once you brush all that hype away all that remains is the memory of a damn good evening.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Twinkranes - Spektrumtheatresnakes

From the dizzying highs of acid to the chemical overdrive of speed, Spektrumtheatresnakes emulates in music a wider drug variety than Hunter S Thompson’s briefcase, and even the good doctor didn’t take it all at once.

Like a sadistic fairground ride in primary colours, ‘The Market of the Bizarre’ spirals and loops around marching percussion and a hypnotic vocal line. ‘Fizz Nor Feedback’ subjects any acid heads that were letting their minds wander in the previous tracks to dense, pill-charged club rhythms - a bastardisation of Pink Floyd and The Prodigy. The heavy and psychotic, bass dominated nature also brings to mind the club antics of Primal Scream, particularly ‘Xtrmntr’.

Razor sharp synths and off key organs pierce through the haze like metal under fingernails, setting teeth on edge, frightening women and children, refusing any attempts to gasp for air. There’s no chance for a rest, the hunt must go on, but before fading into the mad, moonless night, ‘Spores’ combines Stoner Metal drones and some nods to German prog-lords Can.

For all their more modern influences such as Krautrock and dance music, Twinkranes are really anchored in late 60’s psychedelia, in the paranoia that only civil unrest and meaningless war can grant (an era which grows somewhat familiar). Harbouring more than a few blood chilling sights along the way, Twinkranes heady jams are the classic work of creative exploration and drug nightmares - the cocktail is highly addictive.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)