Panda Su - I Begin (Peter Panda Records)

By releasing a gentle lull of a record which delights in its beautiful simplicity, Panda Su embarks on her recording career with astounding poise and sensitivity. Rising out from an over abundance of singer-songwriter acts, it might just be worth your time.

Having grown up in the Scottish Highlands, the Folk scene of the rugged north has clearly influenced her melancholy acoustic attitude. Her voice, conventional at first, later reveals a personal tone crucial to any serious minded poet. She relays dreamy and nostalgic tales of lazy days spent deep in thought: ‘I am younger then I was then’. Unlike a lot of solo artists of a similar nature, she also provides the words with the respect they deserve (I have a particular hatred for singers who force in ‘woooaaahs’, ‘ooohhs’ and other ad-lib filler clogging up the mix with self love.)

The producer, Robin Sutherland has taken special care to allow Panda Su’s guitar to shape to the song structure instead of dominating it. It leaves space for a desk-drawer collection of incidental sounds (a glockenspiel, feedback drenched waves, scratching percussion) to quietly gleam away in the background. No single element takes precedence over another and as a result, each of the four songs on I Begin feels complete, full of life and pleasantly tuneful.

‘The Bee’, along with its theme of innocence lost, samples as its opening rhythm a clock ticking and being wound back up. Gazing inwards, the EP’s title track contains a haunting guitar riff dripping like summer rain. Panda Su is Twee with backbone; wisely produced and satisfying Folk-pop perfection.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

Shabby Rogue - By Hook and By Crook

Being accommodating and hard working musicians, Shabby Rogue try and be all bands for everyone by lending their hand to a host of styles. Their second outing By Hook And By Crook spreads on a thicker layer of Romantic Folk cliché and ticks off every box on the rustic charm checklist: weathered wilds, Bohemian living, the wandering outsider and of course, hard liquor; which sounds good…

As track after track turns into tick after tock, Shabby Rogue become grey and inconsequential and the record, an impassionate assortment of oddity. The songs all reflect a hobo chic with foot stomping rhythms and classic 60’s guitar. During ‘Old Man’ the lead singer (they all share vocal spots) despairingly lurches into the bland heartache of American Rock and ‘Tales From the City’ is dangerously close to a ditched Kasabian number.

The record is not without a few left field moments: The unexpected shift in gear towards the end of ‘Jack in a Box’, the complex song-in-song structure of ‘Reason’ serve as tantalising fragments of possibility. These happenings are few and far between.

Even the distorted Folk-Punk fusion – or hillbilly punk, I haven’t quite decided – of ‘My Life As A Secret Agent’, a feverish injection of The Troggs style Rock n’ Roll is forcibly jabbed into the middle of a comparatively demure and conventional album (Chosen as their debut single, ‘My Life…’ received some airtime on national radio, ushered in by an ever present demand for authentic retro.)

Alas, the dusty roads that Shabby Rogue walk along have been flattened by the feet of many before. A no-bollocks-approach to recording may have evolved in the studio but (they vaguely admit this themselves) constricting funds, time restrictions and “substance abuse” hindered their final product. The low fi violence and raw live realism they were aiming for is definitely missing and while some bands benefit from slap dash studio work, Shabby Rogue need a better starting point to capture their respected live set on tape.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

Erland And The Carnival – Erland And The Carnival:

I think it’s safe to say this record is exactly what comes from a bunch of middle class guys “making a folk album”, unable to keep their wrists from jangling out an Arctic Monkeys’esque riff every minute or so. Ultimately, Erland and The Carnival are no more folk than Bob Dylan is. But who cares? Not me. A single play revealed only a small portion of its charms. Later on, it changed into something very different: an anatomical splicing of NY Jazz’ swinging body to 13th Floor Elevator’s head full of acid.

If any of you get off on literary references, my advice is not to listen to this record in public to avoid embarrassment. The band salute an assortment of frightfully British Britons, such as William Blake and Vaughan Williams, and use their artistic licence to adapt the high brow material. Tricks like this generally appeal to the kind of dicks who congratulate and fondle themselves while reading poetry at a Costa and want to be seen doing it. There’s none of that here. Erland and The Carnival’s loving inclusion of the old world is seamless, effective and very unpretentious.

Without the support of Simon Tong (the busybody ex-guitarist from The Verve, now following closely in Damon Albarn’s shadow) and the superior drumming talents of David Nock, this lounge indie concoction might be easily shelved and forgotten. This is not to say that Mr. Erland Cooper, a baritone songwriter with his own tale, would be unable stand up on his own. I mean that without them, the record would be missing a huge chunk of its allure. ‘My Name Is Carnival’, with its stumbling rhythms, trippy guitar slides topped with Cooper’s lazy jazz crooning, is a personal favourite – as is the impossibly catchy ‘One Morning Fair’.

The rest of the album is on more of an even plateau and slips into the background. The atmosphere that’s left behind, of familiar Romanticism crossed with modern London, is none-the-less enticing. Erland and The Carnival is Britain’s answer to the hipster Folk of Fleet Foxes; only smarter, more daring, rougher, denser, better. Its breezy and cool headed effortlessness could only be the work of true professionals.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

God's Little Eskimo - In Play in Borely Rectory

Multi instrumentalism is a powerful tool to many a lonely composer, but it is still a tool and may or may not be put to good use. Would anyone in this age of plenty know, or care, whether a burst of brass for example was the result of a fifty piece band or a heavily edited keyboard patch? Does hard work, sweat and blood really matter?

God’s Little Eskimo (or God’s Little Inuit, if you’re being politically correct) is a solo project of the illusive Jonny Eskimo, a self declared ‘one manned band’ as well as a keen illustrator.

So yeah, he’s multi talented, blah blah what’s in it for us? Well, you selfish, superficial jackass, nothing for the impatient or mass consumptive. If the record were to take physical form, it would be a laboured piece of arts and crafts; like a wicker basket, or a knitted sweater. It has a scratched, everyman charm that unites the bedroom studio ethic of Wavves with the folksong expression of Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy. Steve Reich once said that the true folk music of our time was being made in the bedrooms and garages of ordinary people. Reich was right about a lot of things.

The clunky and grainy nature, an experiment in Gypsy Folk sensibilities, strays from the genuinely unsettling to the mournful and sad. Featuring a zither (yay), ‘Who’s That Calling Your Name’ begins cloaked in deceptive and enticing beauty only to crash into jarring dissonance. His finest track, ‘At The Base of Her Spine’ is also his most aggressive, shouting “Sink your teeth into my soul” in unreserved passion. Jonny sings in a high, minstrel style – like Jon Boden from Bellowhead on a comedown – and the music is wide awake, intimate and lovingly put together.

At Play In Borely Rectory rests directly on a thin line dividing brilliance and stupidity, sort of like Eddie Izzards ‘Circle of Cool’ gag. It teeters between the two, like an eccentric, pleasantly drunk trapeze artist. In this position, it’s a cult folk classic in hibernation. A record of such sincere strangeness will always find someone, somewhere to inspire. Who knows where it could go from there.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

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)

Curly Hair - The Ivy League

Putting on a Curly Hair song has the same rejuvenating effect as taking a midday walk in the park. There’s no disturbances, no irritating twats hurling their egotistical chants at you, just time allocated to wandering about and collecting your thoughts. The duo’s first release, a six track EP entitled The Ivy League, has some organic, flowery illustrations on its cover and is refreshingly real and honest.

The twee, sing a’ long nature of their music belies the confidence and serious intent underneath. Curly Hair are not to be underestimated. Having set up their own label in Brighton, Toy Soldiers (which has incidentally signed Jonquil), recording their own songs and designing CD covers, they seem keen to keep control over their art. As a first for Curly Hair, the record avoids making a bathetic entrance or flogging a pointless statement; it’s satisfied in its handmade process, in the pleasure of playing and recording.

Comparisons to Belle and Sebastian have already been drawn in the press, as is typical with this kind of light song writing. After a short opening, we hear the first of two standout tracks: “Let’s Get Cleany”, a smiling ode to rough living that slows to a gradual halt and, to finish, “The Bus Song”, an upbeat affair which provokes me to use the ‘infectious’ adjective… regrettably. Some minor problems include “Hully Gully” - an out of place acapella vignette. The duo’s voice doubling displays a strong musical bond, but in the mix it’s muddy and cluttered.

Even with synth organ, glockenspiel and trumpet, The Ivy League is unlikely to give you anything unpredictable. Its play count might also be short lived, or at least infrequent. None-the-less, Curly Hair set a resonant tone for themselves and their prospective label. If you see them busking somewhere around the country be sure to buy them a cup of tea and a sandwich.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

The Smittens / The Just Loans Split Single

In just cause, Twee Pop and DIY ethics promote an inspiring idea that anyone can pick up an instrument and write songs. Nobody said however that all this music will be ‘good’. This release from WeePOP! is a prime example; it means well but fails to convey anything beyond the simple joy of being in a band. Seriously guys, it’s time to grow up and let Belle and Sebastian go.

You may get two bands for the price of one (two tracks by each) but like Tesco or an unfamiliar drug dealer, it pushes something of dubious quality. About halfway through The Smittens’ ‘Summer Sunshine’ you realise you’ve been burned. Lines like “cause we’re bands and we’re fans / and we like to have fun and we like making friends” don’t do much for me; neither does the irritatingly jolly backing band and tired clichés of mix tapes and cute musings. Beat Happening made an art form out of being sad and child-like; few get close to replicating it.

The Just Loans are more accomplished musically – “I hear you’re the man now, John” is a bitter and jangly bit of folk with a grumpy accordion – but again the lyrics let them down. Both bands need a dramatic change of subject matter and musical prospects – maybe a turn to The Mouldy Peaches’ sarcasm for inspiration? The rest of you keep away, there’s better stuff coming from Scotland.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Stanley - (Truly) Nothing To Say

The Stanley Experience is a little like watching a romantic comedy. Everything aims to please and falls where you expect. Self released through Porcupine Records, their EP couldn't be more aptly named. How anyone missed the irony beggars belief.

Everything about this record groans with boredom. From the white walled, minimal decor of the room on the cover, to the empty subject matter, pace and tuneful placidity of all five songs. This is music by musicians who've given up taking risks and have settled into what they know and what feels safe - a creative suicide.

With melodic country/folk guitars, casual drumming and a light dusting of brass, Stanley's five-piece group have been ambitiously compared to Belle and Sebastian. Hazel's vocals are smooth and relaxed but are of an all too familiar style: Norah Jones, Macey Grey, Eva Cassidy, Katie Melua - the list can go on.

After the dull first two tracks, it picks up a little. Three Words has a smiling, wistful rolling rhythm, but this is about engaging as it gets and the last track, California Boy, concludes on cliche Americana.

More happens in Waiting For Godot. Nothing To Say leaves you feeling neither happy nor sad, nor any particular mood at all, just... nothing. It lulls the listener into a state of comatose, into apathy. Stanley are a painfully accessible, celebration of mediocrity and as the EP draws to a close you sense a desperate need to check your pulse. Maybe their next release will be Something To Say?

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Jonquil, House of Brothers - The Borderline 13/06/09

It was 7pm and already Soho was wired and buzzing on a neon pill. Having never been to the Borderline before, I decided to head over early and gather intel on the local festivities. There was electricity in the air. The evening heat brought the hipsters, rockers, punks, drag queens, retro kings; every kind of oddly dressed weirdo out of the bars and pubs and on to the streets. This was my kind of scene. I felt included but inconspicuous; just another clown in some crazy circus.

But while the streets were vibrant and unpredictable, the Borderline was dark and lifeless. It was not the epicentre of Soho's Saturday reverberations but rather a musical retreat from the madness outside.

Using all the indie tricks in the book, House of Brothers opened to a slowly growing audience. The frontman was an emotional, swishy haired sort of chap of considerable ability, a strong posture and an honest voice. Despite missing a guitarist, they were tight and well controlled (although the harmonies were occasionally off). Not so much Jeff Buckley, more Pete Doherty fronting Wheat. It was all very reserved - too controlled perhaps - and every song ended abruptly.

The Outside Royalty, all the way from Pittsburgh, took it up a notch with their hunky dory, 'yeehaah' appeal. Their singer shuffled onto the stage on crutches gaining sympathy and locked attention from the crowd. They were a sort of orchestral Rock, like Arcade Fire or Broken Social Scene, making use of an odd array of instrumentation and hymn-like choruses. An electronic cello (always a plus in my eyes) added a folky element. Some tracks gave off a pipe tobacco whiff of Irish reels or jigs. Worth noting was their upbeat, post punk cover of 'Eleanor Rigby'. Tremendous whiskey drinking fun.

But every evening reaches its peak and, in retrospect, this probably happened sometime before Jonquil took the stage. Both Jonquil and I reside in Oxford and I've made an effort in the past to go and see them. What I remembered was their unbridled energy and confidence. It was definitely the Jonquil I knew at The Borderline - fragments of DIY Math Rock and textured melodies topped with a charming sense of good humour - but, avoiding any improvisation, they kept to safe territory. Though technically accomplished, it felt hollow somehow, like they were simply going through the motions. It would be foolish however to write them off. These boys won’t be dropping off the map any time soon. Compared with older nuggets such as 'Parasol' from their first EP this selection was underwhelming.

For me, the current Rock scene has always felt exclusive, like some big party I have to gate crash to be involved in. Just before the end at The Borderline, I took one last look around me; at all the trendy London kids and wondered what the rest of Soho was doing.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)