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)

Sennen - Destroy Us

In fear of falling into repetitive, zombified writing, I had made up my mind to quit reviewing any more ‘nugaze’ for a while. It lasted a couple seconds. We all have our addictions and Sennen from Norwich might have been my next love affair. But it wasn’t to be. They tick all the boxes but still leave a little to be desired. It’s awful when you discover that love isn’t blind.

The problem is that they lack a noticeable shade of colour to separate them from the prism of other rising dream pop acts. Destroy Us is more of the same post rock guitar layering and huffing and puffing, unable to move mountains as intended. Case in point: ‘The Distance from A to B’ climbs and climbs only to fall on an anti climax. It’s bathetic or, to lower the tone, like interrupted sex. If you want EPIC guitar crescendos then you’d be better off turning to the unsigned Dezerett, a Florida based trio that call down some biblical, God-like climaxes.

By track three the EP finds its feet. The earnest and well executed ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ is enough to rescue it from being forgotten in the caverns of itunes. Here, the drummer, James Brown, whose role is otherwise functional in the band, pulls his finger out and moulds the rhythms into more daring shapes. Pseudo-religious pop archaisms like “Every time I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray” are nearly poetic when supported by the strong melody and Interpol style guitars. It’s then taken way too far on ‘Figurene’: a soupy, sad bastard that sounds identical to Christian pop (shudder).

During its better moments, Destroy Us displays amiable song crafting suggestive of The Chameleons and soft, creamy vocal harmonies that would complete a milkshake. Not lacking in emotion by any means, their ethos is untouchable. What brings them down is their manifestation of those deep thoughts. This problem could be mine however, as I just can’t shake off the pessimism that’s been shadowing me lately. It’s like Sennen say: “Is there anything left for us to destroy?”

(© 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)

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)

Dixon – Temporary Secretary Compilation

The promotion accompanying this record rants on in huge detail of how the internet is destroying the mix tape; that track streaming and quick availability cheapens the ‘art’. But what they forget is that the mix tape’s purpose is not to glorify the DJ but to showcase the bands.

The Temporary Secretary Compilation mixed by Dixon is like Warp Records transported back to happy 70’s disco and the CD cover cloaks it in sparse and functional Factory Records chic. As mixes go, it’s pretty stylish.

The flow is very much like a dream, of a club night long ago. Tracks spill over into each other, blending seamlessly together like oil rainbows, forming a single, extended event. It sets its aim for the subconscious; there are moments that spark your attention, but for the most part the mix is best enjoyed while your mind is off doing something else. Given its chilled pace, Dixon makes no qualms about this.

As you’d expect from any compilation, there are better features than others, unless that compilation happens to be ‘Rn’B anthems 2009’ or something, in which case it’ll all be shit. Dixon’s inclusion of international artists displays an excellent ear and ranges from the beautiful, pulsing opener ‘Ongou’ by Icasol, the siren calls of Fever Ray from Sweden, the Netherlands stoner rock trio The Machine and ending with Tokyo Black Star, a union of NY and Tokyo electronics. Under the professional hand of Dixon, it welds together for a timeless, placeless feel.

Ideally, a good mix tape is about the shared love of music and Temporary Secretary Compilation unearths a few artists worth investigating further. The record balances Dixon’s “distinct mark” with a sense of curiosity and discovery. Without the later, a mix tape is merely two dimensional and no amount of promotional bullshitting will elevate a DJ’s position. As always: the music comes first and egos come second.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Hazy Recollections and Eardrum Torture

When attending a gig, we like to feel that we’re in control of what we hear and that the artists are performing for us. Of course, not all bands intend to simply entertain. Some invite you to experience something unusual, unexpected and some push your patience even further, subjecting you to some seriously uncomfortable shit. I’ve been to gigs where it’s all out war between the band and the crowd over who will buckle first. Damn right. They just don’t know what’s good for them. Sometimes you need to be offended to be educated.

I recall an evening at the Bullingdon in Oxford, at the beginning of this empty and pointless decade (it was when the pub supported acts of all kinds rather than targeting the blues and folk audience to compete with the nearby Ex-Zodiac O2 Academy). On this memorable night a few local artists were touting their wears. The venue got busier and we, two friends from my halls of residence, got drunker. Snake Bite, the students drink of choice, was being consumed at a fatal rate. It’s the drink you grow to hate and, by the end of the first year, just looking at a pint of its swirling purple madness makes you gag. Ugh! Terrible stuff, but such was University; the days when the future was inviting. Optimism ruled and everything felt on an upward trajectory. It couldn’t last.

Nearing closing time, the pack was getting restless. A combination of sugary alcohol and low key music was boiling their blood. I imagine they were impatient for the cheesy, late night club disco. The fragility of the atmosphere was practically moist in its lusting for what was to come, a band called Holiday Stabbings.

And this was it: two guys with long, greasy hair crouching on the floor like Homo Sapiens fed an electric guitar and a mic'ed cymbal through a vast array of pedals and sound manipulators. By layering drones and whirling sounds from these two instruments, their improvisations were long, painful and, of course, highly pretentious. Tip-toeing around the pedals as best they could, they paced back and forth, tweaking a knob here, adjusting a control there – almost as if they were obeying the whim of a super machine, its anatomy gruesomely sprawled out on the stage.
I was hooked but it seemed I was the only one. “This is fucking awful” said one guy in front, sneering with arrogance. He was the kind of unimaginative twat who gathers all his stylistic accessories from The Matrix.
A few dirty posh girls behind him grimaced in agreement but kept silent. They knew deep down that to raise a fuss would be to fuck with the wrong scene. They were listening to pure mortality being pumped into their ears and no amount of sobbing under the covers in the early hours would make it all go away.

Someone else from the crowd placed a bit of paper on the stage with something written on it and one of the band held it to his face deep under his hair. Disgusted by words to this day I’ll never know, he threw it hilariously away like an angry child would an unwanted toy. So far so weird. Maybe we were being punished for our complacency; we shouldn’t have left our guard down. It reminded me of the headache inducing, now legendary Jesus and The Mary Chain gigs of the 80’s. Holiday Stabbings over-serious, misanthropic bravado was laughable though strangely captivating. Presumably be known to them at the time, this droning, mechanically distorted, tonal death-bringing style was being simultaneously cultivated by many other groups: Sunn O))), OM and Euthedral who is also from Oxford. It’s pretty safe to say that Holiday Stabbings did not go down well. The general public would once again learn to accept being tortured.

Several months later I would set up my own band with the two friends who joined me for the evening. I can’t speak directly for them but the evening inspired me. I realised that in order to make real music you have to ignore the masses, take risks and make enemies. Do it for yourself. With their myspace deleted and no trace of articles or contacts anywhere, I guess Holiday Stabbings were doomed to be despised and lost behind the sofa of history. When you think of the thousands, millions of bands who have fallen victim to the same fate, it’s hard not to feel a sense of melancholy. But yeah yeah, such is life and even the almighty Internet cannot preserve everything. Nothing ever lasts forever.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

N.A.M.B. – BMAN

Hailing from Italy, N.A.M.B. have been deliberately cryptic online about the meaning behind their initials. Is this to enforce open interpretation on us or is it simply a dastardly promotional tool? Yeah, I know: yawn! Let’s get down to how they sound.

Way back in 2002, The Flaming Lips made a compilation of their first three studio albums called ‘Finally The Punk Rockers Are Taking Acid’. Interestingly, N.A.M.B have been compared to The Flaming Lips (debatable in my opinion) but in context, a more accurate version of that title would be 'Finally The Punk Rockers Have Gotten Into The Beatles'. N.A.M.B. are what would ensue if the band from Liverpool rose out of the 80’s instead of Chuck Barry Rock n’ Roll. A dangerous statement I am aware but the two are similar only in creative approach. Perhaps a link to Supergrass or suggestions of psychedelic Punk would be safer to claim.

BMAN is an ambitious, Rock-of-all-types record with intentions of international recognition - an eighteen track labour of love chocked full of driving guitar, unusual changes in mood and structure, echoing textures and surprising effects, contrast and unity. What remains consistent throughout is their humour and ‘throw it all in’ ethic. Earning his position at the front, Davide Tomat (guitar/vocals) has a rich tone and a powerful delivery achieving David Bowie style singing acrobatics. Some tracks of note are the uncannily drunk ‘Musichetta In Pausa Sigaretta’ and the cloud gazing ‘Hate My Telephone’.

So, despite my premature reservations, N.A.M.B are not wise guys, banishing abbreviations and trying to be clever. This, their Big Second Album, is a push forward for them, a proud accomplishment; but let it roll around in your head for a few days and the record becomes more like a prog misadventure by Feeder. So much for The Beatles. Still, with this much crammed in, it’s bound to appeal to a great many tastes.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)