Now, when I was still in work - I have left that behind, dear reader - my telephone extension, and conduit for much botheration, was 5446, which meant little until one night I was listening to a Toots and the Maytals compilation and (are you ahead of me, perceptive reader?) his big hit 54-46 Was My Number came on. As you Greystafarians know this was Toots Hibberts number when in prison...and I thought, Jah moves in mysterious ways, even among the infidels, to send a message. Numbers, so full of import, that at times one cannot be sure whether numerical coincidence is in play or a greater significance is abroad. And one should never ignore the significant coincidence...So what is the significance of 2016. Does it hold anything of significance?
Surveying the Quality Music Press' reviews of the year a valedictory trumpet is blowing through the pages, as the longboats of Bowie, Prince and Cohen drift out to sea, with much punditry expounded on the cruelty of their passing. Undeniable, of course. Saddened to see Plectrumelectrum's absence from the Best-ofs though, (maybe it came out last year?), as this has been a fixture in the Cultureberg Van (The Tangerine Dream) for some time. Both You Want It Darker (a strong addition to the closing trilogy) and Blackstar (which I confess I have not ventured to listen to since the day before Bowie died) are up there in the Tastemakers' tallying, but Cultureberg is going to turn its meager candle on lesser luminaries (and indeed, alive and kicking ones) in its end of year address. Please be assured that this truly reflects on the time spent on turntable or in CD tray and is not some misguided perversity or throwing of consolatory bones, or indeed lack of fondness for the titans who have passed on, all of whom Cultureberg would place on lofty seats in the Tower of Song. Also, I have not gone for a countdown or ranking as all are worthy and from time to time all have been Daddy's favourite, so (Cue fanfare), Cultureberg's Best of 2016...(excluding the piles of hoary old 70's Boogie that is retrieved from The Wall of Sound at Beer O' Clock., much as I'd like to wax on about Jess Roden....)
ARTIST OF THE YEAR - Circuit Des Yeux
Last year I chanced to sample Circuit Des Yeux's In Plain Speech record via the handiness of the digital download and on a foray into Manchester abandoned the Night and Day cafe to nip across the road to Picadilly Records to buy the vinyl, which Thrill Jockey have pressed in fetching white plastic. It has been ever present on the Cultureberg plinth all year, alongside the mini-LP released under the pseudonym Jackie Lynn (of which more later)
When an upcoming concert at the Eagle in Salford beeped on the Cultureberg Radar in October 2015 we ordered tickets fearing it would sell out. In Plain Speech's avant folk strumming, electronica and an enigma the size of the Sargasso Sea had Cultureberg Manor in its paw. It brought one to mind of Buckley pere's Starsailor and Lorca, though its vision was singular and resisted the reduction of comparison. Excitement was so high a top Travelodge was booked to make a night of it.
We can confess some astonishment that, when stumbling from bar-stool to backroom there were only about 25 other souls there for the show. Inexplicable. Haley Fohr (who is, to all intents and purposes, Circuit Des Yeux) backed by flute and violin sucked the room into a trance, reprising much of the record but heightening it with intensity and the presence of a truly great voice, which in the live setting swooped and commanded from behind a curtain of fringe. Stretching from a Joan Armatrading like baritone to the outer limits of Sumac-land, it is a voice which makes Dancing about Architecture an easy option. If you, dear reader, take one thing from this piece, it should be the simple action of Checking em out. There's a video below. The hipsters of Manchester committed an aesthetic sin of omission; I counsel you not to follow suit.
Afterward both Madame Cultureberg and I, having mixed grape and grain and only sustained by the Eagle Special - a ploughmans lunch in a crisp packet - gushed excessively to Haley Fohr and, later back at the bar, the violinist.Please be assured that this is a step that is seldom taken by such reserved interlopers into the Fourth Estate as ourselves, buyt we had been transported and were, indeed, almost indict ably squiffy. Suffice to say it was a truly great performance.
In 2016, Ms Fohr adopted a persona, that of Jackie Lynn, a member of the poor, white diaspora adrift in urban america, and released a long EP or a short Lp, an eponymous debut. I have copied this from some press to give you a flavour of this playful conceit.
"This is what we know: Born and raised in Franklin, TN, in May of 2010, Jackie took a Greyhound bus from Franklin, TN to Chicago, IL. Upon her arrival in the city of Chicago, Jackie found a cheap sublet on the south side. She soon became acquainted with Tom Strong (real name unknown) on a short CTA bus trip to the Chicago Loop. We believe that Tom & Jackie together ran a multimillion dollar business distributing the illegal substance of cocaine around Chicago & the Chicago tristate area for over four years. Authorities believe that a local automobile shop was used as the main distributions headquarter."
In Cultureberg's view the project lacks the artistic intensity of In Plain Speech and is impressionistic, like a Super 8 film taken through a moving car window, rather than imbued with the former's deep expressionism. Friends from Bitchin Bajas and other Chicago figures provide the keyboard based backing, like a updated, cut-price Suicide. Nonetheless it shares a beguiling and quicksilver nature with Circuit Des Yeux and has garnered a lot of attention, even landing her on the cover of The Wire. The persona is literally a mask, with spangly red cowboy hat and face mask in the accompanying videos and photos. My favourite track is the closing "Jackie" which reverts to a folky guitar, but the whole is an entrancing listen.
A few short weeks ago Cultureberg again ventured to Manchester, where Circuit Des Yeux were supporting Julia Holter, at Manchester Cathedral no less. 12 months ago Ms Holter swept the critical boards with her album To Have You In My Wilderness, though this had largely passed Cultureberg by, and it was no secret that Cultureberg were there for the support act. The mix of voice and venue seemed heaven sent. This time Haley Fohr performed solo with 12 string, the set being all new material bar the closer. No compromises, perhaps, though few would have known the songs. The audience seemed lost in beard stroking (they even maintained their polite deference for the headliner, who channelled Lynsey De Paul through an avant-garde filter) but one could detect a groundswell of conversion rippling though the auditorium during the support set. Her voice has become even fuller and controlled and her focus is undimmed and more poised. Cultureberg loved it, and if the performance lacked the Damascene dimension of the Salford show, well, such moments are unrepeatable by their intrinsic nature. The talent to channel emotion into art is still alive and coursing through the Circuits Des Yeux. Enjoy this other church based performance....
VIDEO OF THE YEAR - Radiohead: Burn The Witch
Earlier this year a letter arrived addressed to Cultureberg junior, so being responsible parents we opened it. It was not news of a premium bonds win, instead was a small poster entreating him to Burn the Witch and counselling that We Know Where You Live. Initially concerned that some college chums were playing a jape, a quick consultation with Mr Google reassured and revealed that the missive was in fact from gnomic art-rockers Radiohead, another example of their novel marketing campaigns.
Soon after the album oozed into the world. Burn the Witch was the first track and the most immediately grabbing, reminding Cultureberg of Moondog's Stamping Ground (familiar to many from The Big Lebowski). A quick comparison with his eponymous 1969 album revealed that it did not sample the blind viking, merely aped his string arrangements, just as Mr Greenwood pays due deference to Bernard Herrmann and others on his soundtrack to Inherent Vice, which also got frequent rotation Chez Cultureberg, and which I'd commend to you.
Impressed at the time with the video, I wrote a short piece but dallied about posting it. The makers (Director Chris Hopewell, Animator Virpi Kettu) were clear that the charming yet sinister stop-motion homage to Camberwick Green and Trumpton, wherein a bowler-hatted bureaucrat is guided to his certain doom in an echo of Edward Woodward in The Wicker Man, (with maybe even a bit of Apocalypse Now or Ben Wheatley's Kill List in there too,) was concerned with the stigmatisation of refugees, Muslims and migrants in Britain. The aforementioned poster card arriving anonymously was an allusion to the anxiety that many live with in Britain, unable to trust that they are safe where they live, the band and creators said. The lyrics, delivered in Thom Yorke's anguished choirboy vocal, talked of loose talk around tables and was peppered with paranoia and anxiety - abandon all reason, avoid all eye contact, do not react, shoot the messenger, this is a low flying panic attack. It caught the national mood. I'd even planned to call the piece Brexit Music, but then someone else used that title and it all seemed a bit glib. I didn't post anything but the videos relevance merely grew.
The video depicts a bovine, bucolic Britain of forelock tuggers and stool-duckers, and the sort of Mayor one would imagine being appointed by Scarfolk Council. (Please visit Scarfolk's website for more information.) If the video was insightful at the time, that is, pre-Brexit, pre the murder of Jo Cox, it feels almost prophetic now. At that time I thought the man who had many years ago bemoaned being a Creep and a wierdo now saw society as populated by creeps and wierdos. I think the truth is far more complicated, and the most prescient element in the video for me is the figure of the mayor, superficially plausible and welcoming, his arm in the small of the visitors back as he leads him to death with the silent acquiesence of the populous. This is the sort of town in which Thomas Mair would be someone who did odd jobs for his neighbour and was well-liked.
Of course Trumpton the TV series and arcadian idyll has nothing to do with Donald J Trump either, the name is a fluky coincidence, but watching Burn The Witch now I get a greater sense of foreboding than 9 months or so ago , its air of tense inevitability and resignation even more in tune with the zeitgeist. Here's the video
JAZZ ALBUM OF THE YEAR - Neil Cowley Trio - Spacebound Apes
Cultureberg was once advised to avoid an interest in jazz lest ten years passed whilst being drawn down ever more arcane detours and into the outer environs of sound, before awakening none the wiser. This advice has been periodically ignored and certain albums have snagged in potently - Monks' Brilliant Corners, Keith Jarrett's Arbour Zena and many of the usual suspects - Miles, Coltrane, Coleman, Zorn, Mingus. Nonetheless in that 3am of the soul the anxiety still arises that I will awake and the only jazz on the shelf will be Kind of Blue, Headhunters and The Koln Concert. Such are those siren albums that make the budget section of HMV to entice onto the rocks the ordinary consumer. Maybe I'm one of them...naah, couldn't be....naah, surely not Cultureberg..
Anyway, add to that list of acceptable jazz Neil Cowley's Spacebound Apes.
It seems millions of others came to hear this via the modern tipster Spotify. Cultureberg came late to this lark, resisting the notion that an algorithm could supplement or supplant my eclectic (in reality, undisciplined) listening habits. Buy haphazardly, listen without prejudice, or indeed discretion and the cream will rise to the top. One of Mr Spotify's first recommendations was said album, so en repose in a Top Travelodge (Portishead Marina, as it happens; a quaint piece of sonic synergy) I listened and then, dear reader, I bought the cd.
According to David Hepworth's informative blog Neil Cowley Trio are a frequent recommendation on Spotify and the track Grace has now been streamed over 4 million times. So either I have been herded along a corridor like the public of whose aesthetic patterns I profess ignorance or the music is so good people haven't switched it off 4 million times, I'm one of them, but one of the declining breed who still by albums. (Whether this streaming in garantuan numbers translates to cd and vinyl sales or seats sold, I don't know.)
What I like about Spacebound Apes is that it's a proper album, an immersive listen. It grows and moves from track to track, there's fast ones and slow ones,, some of it's catchy, some more ambient and atmospheric. It'll appeal to fans of In a Silent Way, Dark Side of the Moon and The KLF's Chill Out. Significantly you get no sense of strategy or calculation (though there may well have been some hopeful planning) and it seems a product of the numbers the band had at the time and a recording of how they wanted them to sound, coupled with some spacey titles which reflect how the music sounds.
The first three tracks ease the listener in with simple piano phrases and some echoey drumming, like an athlete warming up, before The City and The Stars bursts out in an eruption of rhythm and piano, recalling more the instrumental tracks of Yer Classic Rock Albums - Elton John's Funeral For A Friend, some Supertramp (Oh yes!) - than jazz as it is commonly understood. These lead into Grace, where Erik Satie meets Electronica. There's The Sharks of Competition, a headless chicken cartoon soundtrack which melts into the repose of the last third of the album, where notes suspend in thin air and the electronic shadings sound like the glitching of distant stars. Back in the day (whenever that was) this would have been a 'Head' album.
The fact that this album is both a good listen, a crossover hit and a bit of a phenomena gave it the edge over my other recent discovery (which is perhaps a sign of how marginal to this enclosed world of jazz Cultureberg probably is), the North-West based Saxophonist Nat Birchall. In a blind tasting of the albums I've heard- 2015's Invocations and 2016's Creation- I would have put money on opening my eyes and finding a gatefold Impulse sleeve with impenetrable sleeve notes and evocative artwork on the coffee table. His sound is, to these ears, reminiscent of Coltrane (both Alice and John) but any worry about crossing the line between homage and larceny is dispelled by the undeniable urgency of the music. This is roiling, rolling, rambunctious music, lively and spritely. The drummer splatters all corners of the kit, other percussion rattles, the piano skitters and teeters whilst Birchall's sax is melodic and pure.
Nat's music often has attached to it the description 'Spiritual'. His website though says that it is "Not 'Spiritual Jazz' but Jazz/Music that is spiritual in its intent and that attempts to connect to, or invoke, the Universal Spirit or Sat-cit-ananda." So that clears that up. Other albums have been called Guiding Spirit, World Without Form, Akhenaten, and the tracks often have similarly wraithe-like titles. Cultureberg may have been diverted from the path to enlightenment when I ditched all my Lobsang Rampa paperbacks many years ago, but that never stopped an enjoyment of A Love Supreme, The Creator Has a Master Plan or John McLaughlin's Shakti, who gave one of the greatest shows Young Cultureberg ever attended. This music is about communication, direct and unencumbered, and I hope Mr Birchall would not demur if I said that I feel that the music moves beyond it's spirituality into a realm of pure sound. It's chosen language is jazz, it's intent is connection, and whilst I would be surprised if four million people stream these albums, or that they are even recommended to by Mr Spotify, there is nothing here that the ordinary consumer could not, and let's say it in the appropriate argot, dig. This is Fire music straight from the fridge.Try this for size.......and apologies to Mr Cowley, but maybe this video link will start a trickle similar at least analogous to the streaming tsunami he has already experienced.
Sunday, 11 December 2016
Friday, 25 November 2016
Trouble Boys:the true story of the Replacements by Bob Mehr
Cultureberg would like to commend Bob Mehr's biography of rock music's premier self saboteurs to you. Having turned its pages over the past month, reclining on the chaiselongue at Cultureberg Manor ,we can attest that the band and satellites interviewed therein exhibit the same candour and highminded be honest and damn the consequences attitude that the Mats demonstrated as they crossed America in ramshackle vans. The one area which could be added to in this comprehensive history is with regard to the tours of Europe, so below are some memories of The Replacements in The North of England. These recollections tend to back up the picture presented in the book, of alcoholic and other indulgences fuelling a barely controlled and undefined mission; be aware,descriptions of events, venues, tour buses and hospital emergency rooms are almost olfactory in their immediacy. The ebb and flow of band relationships are described with no regard for modesty or evasion, the truth often crawling shamefaced into hangover's light, and it's the band's same directness and principled honesty which ensures that the Replacements are remembered with a fondness not extended to the same extent to, for example, the Georgia Satellites or Soul Asylum. The ability to travel down a one way street at a hundred miles an hour is a rare one which here evokes admiration, apology and proselytising and it seems that if you were bitten by the Replacements at the time, you are with them for life.
Cultureberg admits to some erosion of memory about events, and in the interest of accuracy enlisted the assistance of associate Monsieur Jim, also present at both shows. His memories were far fuller, and though Cultureberg was nominated driver to Manchester for the second occasion and demon alcohol cannot be the cause of the sketchiness, the role of the booze is, as Trouble Boys shows with immense detail, central to the story and, indeed, enjoyment of the Replacements.
On May 30th 1987, Young Cultureberg was rendezvousing with a number of musically curious confreres, none of whom had heard the Replacements, perhaps expecting something akin to contemporaries Green on Red or The Long Ryder's, all flannel shirts and rock classicism. The Howard Hotel was the meeting point, a short stumble from the venue, Sheffield's Leadmill. In the corner of the lounge were four or five guys dressed in Thrift Store Keith Richard, feathered hair, falling down drunk. There was a significant Exclusion Zone around their table, as they pulled at each other like puppies, swearing and roaring in American. The roadies, surely.
Of course, dear reader, it was The Replacements, bevvying up between soundcheck and show. Trouble Boys makes clear that drinking was not deferred to after show celebration, but was rather a component to their erratic live reputation, indeed a major part of what endeared them to the cognoscenti. The band had moved on when Monsieur Jim and Mr Wright joined the party, and when we went to the Leadmill I was able to assure all that the figure prostrate on the floor in a vaguely Burberry type suit or maybe checked shirt was Mr Paul Westerberg, lead singer.
M. Jim recalls the band spilling onto stage about 11 pm, late for that venue. They as fully embodied the concept of louche as The Faces had before them. For the first 15 to 20 minutes an exciting shambles ensued. Songs were started and summarily ended. Band members appeared to be in different keys and perhaps even playing different songs to their colleagues. The sound was (M. Jim's emphasis) LOUD in every sense of the word, with Tommy Stinson's bass smeared across, obliterating other sounds. Like sediment settling or a kaleidoscope focussing everything began to gel. The last thirty minutes were great.
Mr Wright chose this as his point of exit, figuring he'd only miss a couple of songs by getting the last bus. A mistake, as the Replacements did a set of encores as long as the first set, getting better and better as they went on. At this juncture, those discharged by the closing pubs (History note: all pubs shut at 11 pm back then) were filtering into The Leadmill, poised to go clubbing, poised to Disco. Some were heard to decry the fact that the band were still on, in stark opposition to the many punters who were being bitten for life as the Replacements headed for unsteady orbit.
The band returned again, after a short intermission, for a third set and launched into the opening number, only for (again, M. Jim's emphasis) the twat DJ to cut the power to the stage and crank up the 80's hip-hop. This divided the room as surely as a presidential election or a european referendum. Mr Westerberg and the Stinsons continued to riff on through the monitors over the top of the dance music but it was a losing battle. With justifiable frustration and expressing the will of those who wished them to Remain on stage, Mr Westerberg gave the DJ the finger as he left. Proof indeed that they could empty bottles of spirits, but also had a spirit which couldn't be bottled.
Cultureberg's memories of the second time M. Jim and I saw the Replacements, at Manchester Boardwalk, are even vaguer, so I will quote my associate verbatim. "The gig was something of a reverse of the Sheffield one. They started off extremely tight and together. It began to feel a little too professional, as though they were squeezing every ounce of that magnificent spontaneity out of their performance. I vaguely remember Tommy dipping out briefly (as does Cultureberg, who recalls him returning with increased brio and application to his task) and that Paul got more tense as things went on, as though nothing they did came up to the standard he wanted. I also remember him doing quite a bit of crowd surfing (possibly during Nightclub Jitters) and the music seemed to become a distraction. There were no extended encores."
From reading Trouble Boys some understanding of the nature of this performance can be made. The band was unravelling, Mr Westerberg was easing into his solo career, but most importantly, the singer was newly sober. As anyone who has assumed the role of nominated driver, and has sat whilst the rest of the party rise or fall into disarray and bonhomie, can attest, sobriety is a tough row to hoe. It can lead you into over-compensation - crowd surfing during Nightclub Jitters would fit into that category. This is a band who Mr Westerberg insisted were on tour, not tourists; who refused to give 100% as a non-negotiable expectation. Trouble Boys makes it clear that written through the Replacements like letters through Blackpool rock was an adherence to the glory of spectacular failure, of willfully falling short, whilst simultaneously giving fealty to an unattainable ideal of truth and honesty. Into that chasm they fell - maybe they jumped. There is nothing as glorious as wasted potential, especially if it is loud and snotty. It was a joy to see.
Cultureberg admits to some erosion of memory about events, and in the interest of accuracy enlisted the assistance of associate Monsieur Jim, also present at both shows. His memories were far fuller, and though Cultureberg was nominated driver to Manchester for the second occasion and demon alcohol cannot be the cause of the sketchiness, the role of the booze is, as Trouble Boys shows with immense detail, central to the story and, indeed, enjoyment of the Replacements.
On May 30th 1987, Young Cultureberg was rendezvousing with a number of musically curious confreres, none of whom had heard the Replacements, perhaps expecting something akin to contemporaries Green on Red or The Long Ryder's, all flannel shirts and rock classicism. The Howard Hotel was the meeting point, a short stumble from the venue, Sheffield's Leadmill. In the corner of the lounge were four or five guys dressed in Thrift Store Keith Richard, feathered hair, falling down drunk. There was a significant Exclusion Zone around their table, as they pulled at each other like puppies, swearing and roaring in American. The roadies, surely.
Of course, dear reader, it was The Replacements, bevvying up between soundcheck and show. Trouble Boys makes clear that drinking was not deferred to after show celebration, but was rather a component to their erratic live reputation, indeed a major part of what endeared them to the cognoscenti. The band had moved on when Monsieur Jim and Mr Wright joined the party, and when we went to the Leadmill I was able to assure all that the figure prostrate on the floor in a vaguely Burberry type suit or maybe checked shirt was Mr Paul Westerberg, lead singer.
M. Jim recalls the band spilling onto stage about 11 pm, late for that venue. They as fully embodied the concept of louche as The Faces had before them. For the first 15 to 20 minutes an exciting shambles ensued. Songs were started and summarily ended. Band members appeared to be in different keys and perhaps even playing different songs to their colleagues. The sound was (M. Jim's emphasis) LOUD in every sense of the word, with Tommy Stinson's bass smeared across, obliterating other sounds. Like sediment settling or a kaleidoscope focussing everything began to gel. The last thirty minutes were great.
Mr Wright chose this as his point of exit, figuring he'd only miss a couple of songs by getting the last bus. A mistake, as the Replacements did a set of encores as long as the first set, getting better and better as they went on. At this juncture, those discharged by the closing pubs (History note: all pubs shut at 11 pm back then) were filtering into The Leadmill, poised to go clubbing, poised to Disco. Some were heard to decry the fact that the band were still on, in stark opposition to the many punters who were being bitten for life as the Replacements headed for unsteady orbit.
The band returned again, after a short intermission, for a third set and launched into the opening number, only for (again, M. Jim's emphasis) the twat DJ to cut the power to the stage and crank up the 80's hip-hop. This divided the room as surely as a presidential election or a european referendum. Mr Westerberg and the Stinsons continued to riff on through the monitors over the top of the dance music but it was a losing battle. With justifiable frustration and expressing the will of those who wished them to Remain on stage, Mr Westerberg gave the DJ the finger as he left. Proof indeed that they could empty bottles of spirits, but also had a spirit which couldn't be bottled.
Cultureberg's memories of the second time M. Jim and I saw the Replacements, at Manchester Boardwalk, are even vaguer, so I will quote my associate verbatim. "The gig was something of a reverse of the Sheffield one. They started off extremely tight and together. It began to feel a little too professional, as though they were squeezing every ounce of that magnificent spontaneity out of their performance. I vaguely remember Tommy dipping out briefly (as does Cultureberg, who recalls him returning with increased brio and application to his task) and that Paul got more tense as things went on, as though nothing they did came up to the standard he wanted. I also remember him doing quite a bit of crowd surfing (possibly during Nightclub Jitters) and the music seemed to become a distraction. There were no extended encores."
From reading Trouble Boys some understanding of the nature of this performance can be made. The band was unravelling, Mr Westerberg was easing into his solo career, but most importantly, the singer was newly sober. As anyone who has assumed the role of nominated driver, and has sat whilst the rest of the party rise or fall into disarray and bonhomie, can attest, sobriety is a tough row to hoe. It can lead you into over-compensation - crowd surfing during Nightclub Jitters would fit into that category. This is a band who Mr Westerberg insisted were on tour, not tourists; who refused to give 100% as a non-negotiable expectation. Trouble Boys makes it clear that written through the Replacements like letters through Blackpool rock was an adherence to the glory of spectacular failure, of willfully falling short, whilst simultaneously giving fealty to an unattainable ideal of truth and honesty. Into that chasm they fell - maybe they jumped. There is nothing as glorious as wasted potential, especially if it is loud and snotty. It was a joy to see.
Sunday, 13 November 2016
Americans don't do irony: Randy Newman and Trumpworld
Randy Newman has written many great political songs, the best of which are in character, not always the most savoury of character at that. It can be difficult for the casual listener to decide if the voice is a reflection of his opinion or not. You have to think about 'em. That's irony. That's saying what you don't mean so the listener has to try a little bit harder. Some of the songs teeter on the brink of multiple interpretations - It's Money That I Love, You Can Leave Your. Hat On, God's Song . Given the recent Election result Cultureberg hopes 'Political Science' will not hopefully be proven too prescient ("Let's drop the big one now, they all hate us anyhow."), but some of his songs are such perceptive sketches of the American mood (at least, some of it) that I'd like to pick out three of them which seem most telling in the light of recents events.......
1. Rednecks, from 'Good Old Boys'. Randy understands prejudice and liberal self delusion better than any other American songwriter, and for Lester Maddox (former governor of Georgia) you could read Donald Trump. Good Old Boys is his most under-rated record, and clearly New Orleans seeped into his consciousness beyond merely his piano playing.
2.I'm dreaming of a White President. Not on any album, released on video in 2012 and no-one is as aware of unspoken prejudice as Randy. The satire is a bit broader but no less on the money.
3. Putin, from forthcoming elpee. Released before the November election, and before Trump started cosying up with Vlad the Terrible, all in a twisted show-tunes, Disney apocalypse style. I love the interplay with the backing singers. I rilly hope you do too.....
As an afterthought I considered Roll With The Punches from Land of Dreams, but that's a level of irony unintended by its author.....and not a course of action anyone should be considering...Here it is anyhoo!
Hey, mebbe this is the most ironic of 'em all. Maybe, we're all gonna have to roll with the punches.
1. Rednecks, from 'Good Old Boys'. Randy understands prejudice and liberal self delusion better than any other American songwriter, and for Lester Maddox (former governor of Georgia) you could read Donald Trump. Good Old Boys is his most under-rated record, and clearly New Orleans seeped into his consciousness beyond merely his piano playing.
2.I'm dreaming of a White President. Not on any album, released on video in 2012 and no-one is as aware of unspoken prejudice as Randy. The satire is a bit broader but no less on the money.
3. Putin, from forthcoming elpee. Released before the November election, and before Trump started cosying up with Vlad the Terrible, all in a twisted show-tunes, Disney apocalypse style. I love the interplay with the backing singers. I rilly hope you do too.....
As an afterthought I considered Roll With The Punches from Land of Dreams, but that's a level of irony unintended by its author.....and not a course of action anyone should be considering...Here it is anyhoo!
Hey, mebbe this is the most ironic of 'em all. Maybe, we're all gonna have to roll with the punches.
Saturday, 15 October 2016
Bob Dylan and The Nobel Prize Inspires Worldwide Gossip, Much of It Very Silly, and avoids seeing the truth, which is just a plain picture
The award of the Nobel Prize for Literature to croaky troubadour Bob Dylan has drawn out much comment and indeed silliness from taste-makers and opinionistas. I'll state up front that, in my view, Dylan's position in the Tower of Song is probably above Hank Williams and much as I admire Portnoy's Complaint and the Nathan Zuckerman novels, I'm not sure what giving the gong to bookies favourite Phillip Roth would have achieved.
Some of the most unfocussed comments I've read are from former Nirvana confidant Everett True, who attempted to perform as The Legend many moons ago on Creation Records, so is well placed to understand that ones intentions are often difficult to alchemise into performance. Nevertheless ,at everetttue.wordpress.com he lists what he says are "some facts", such as "Bob Dylan winning a Nobel Prize for Literature is like your third rate English teacher at school, trying to look cool" and contends that the event is "not a reflection of 2016, and is rather shabby really. Might as well give Trump the Nobel Peace prize for services to women." and ends with "Why not Nina Simone? Why not Beyonce? Why not Fill in your own fucking name?"
Who sounds old and out of touch here? Sadly this is typical of much knee-jerk commentary and sad posturing abroad in response to the award, much of which is then circulated on the WWW as if it has some weight.
Those who feel the Nobel is misplaced fall into two broad camps, Everett in the one which feels Bob is no longer enough of an artist to be worthy. Now, Cultureberg can confide that Tempest and Live Through This, as well as the Sinatra cover jobs, are not regulars in the CD tray, and neither do we fall into the camp that feels that every live interpretation is a masterclass in phrasing and performance,. To contend, however, that Dylan has not, for the length of his career, attempted to engage in his art in new and novel ways, with a questing spirit and a desire to represent the truth and communicate this, and he has done so in a form which he trailblazed, is myopic and misleading. Ernest Hemingway recieved the Nobel in 1954, for works that were published years and decades before, but one can't deny his influence or, indeed, the uniqueness of his style and vision. Pace Bob.
Also wading in with misjudged comment is Primal Scream Associate, Author and former Housing Dept employee Irvine Welsh. I'm not sure that what he's saying bears close consideration, in that he confesses to being a Dylan fan whose art is on a different level to his own, yet fulminates "This is an ill-concieved nostalgia award wrenched from the rancid prostrates of senile, gibbering hippies." Irvine is in camp two, that which seems to deem Dylan's oeuvre Non-Literature or at least unworthy of award, or critical that the establishment is seeking to co-opt a rebel, but picking on a superannuated, toothless one. The committee, in citing Homer and Sappho and their roots in performance, seem to me to eloquently pull the carpet from under those who have also seen the award as populist and playing to the crowd, or eventhose who claim to worry that the award is further undermining literacy and the noble art of Book Reading. The committee are in a lose-lose position - award to an Armenian Poet and you are elitist, award a universally recognised icon and you are vacuous and populist.
Everyone seems to be ignoring Chronicles Part One, a pretty well written Proustian memoir, and Tarantula, a somewhat less successful example of Dylan's art. He's had a few books out, and I'm not going to attempt to argue that the Collected Lyrics constitutes a work of poetry, because this volume in fact only illustrates that the songs are indeed songs which take on an added dimension when sung and not poems. It is his songs that earnt him the nomination. If being a pioneer in the American Song Tradition which he has enlivened and re-invigorated is not, in the broadest sense, Literature and Art, then we are truly stuck in The Groves of Academe with F R Leavis and Matthew Arnold, with the High Culture/Low Culture division intact and only words on printed page worthy of stature.
The evening of the announcement I engaged in two Bob related cultural endeavours. I listened to Uncuts free CD of interpretaions of Highway 61 Revisited, by the likes of Dave Alvin and The Handsome Family. Whatever the versions' individual merits, the craft and singularity of his vision, still fresh and unique 50 years on pulsated through the different takes on the songs. Great lines abound, and the communication of ideas clearly, powerfully and profoundly sounded like the ringing of a bell (as another populist great would have it). I also watched Don't Look back again and throughout Dylan is alive in the moment, hyper-aware, questioning, challenging, coming at reality from new angles, destroying the mundane. When, after Donovan has strummed a pleasant ditty, only to sit consumed with awe and unworthiness when Bob pointedly and persuasively responds with a verse of It's All over Now Baby Blue , it is beyond doubt that Mr Dylan is as worthy of a Nobel Prize as any previous artist whatever their mileu. In some senses it is more interesting to question why people feel the need to say he does not deserve it.
As he says in Don't Look Back, The truth is just a plain picture.
The award of the Nobel Prize for Literature to croaky troubadour Bob Dylan has drawn out much comment and indeed silliness from taste-makers and opinionistas. I'll state up front that, in my view, Dylan's position in the Tower of Song is probably above Hank Williams and much as I admire Portnoy's Complaint and the Nathan Zuckerman novels, I'm not sure what giving the gong to bookies favourite Phillip Roth would have achieved.
Some of the most unfocussed comments I've read are from former Nirvana confidant Everett True, who attempted to perform as The Legend many moons ago on Creation Records, so is well placed to understand that ones intentions are often difficult to alchemise into performance. Nevertheless ,at everetttue.wordpress.com he lists what he says are "some facts", such as "Bob Dylan winning a Nobel Prize for Literature is like your third rate English teacher at school, trying to look cool" and contends that the event is "not a reflection of 2016, and is rather shabby really. Might as well give Trump the Nobel Peace prize for services to women." and ends with "Why not Nina Simone? Why not Beyonce? Why not Fill in your own fucking name?"
Who sounds old and out of touch here? Sadly this is typical of much knee-jerk commentary and sad posturing abroad in response to the award, much of which is then circulated on the WWW as if it has some weight.
Those who feel the Nobel is misplaced fall into two broad camps, Everett in the one which feels Bob is no longer enough of an artist to be worthy. Now, Cultureberg can confide that Tempest and Live Through This, as well as the Sinatra cover jobs, are not regulars in the CD tray, and neither do we fall into the camp that feels that every live interpretation is a masterclass in phrasing and performance,. To contend, however, that Dylan has not, for the length of his career, attempted to engage in his art in new and novel ways, with a questing spirit and a desire to represent the truth and communicate this, and he has done so in a form which he trailblazed, is myopic and misleading. Ernest Hemingway recieved the Nobel in 1954, for works that were published years and decades before, but one can't deny his influence or, indeed, the uniqueness of his style and vision. Pace Bob.
Also wading in with misjudged comment is Primal Scream Associate, Author and former Housing Dept employee Irvine Welsh. I'm not sure that what he's saying bears close consideration, in that he confesses to being a Dylan fan whose art is on a different level to his own, yet fulminates "This is an ill-concieved nostalgia award wrenched from the rancid prostrates of senile, gibbering hippies." Irvine is in camp two, that which seems to deem Dylan's oeuvre Non-Literature or at least unworthy of award, or critical that the establishment is seeking to co-opt a rebel, but picking on a superannuated, toothless one. The committee, in citing Homer and Sappho and their roots in performance, seem to me to eloquently pull the carpet from under those who have also seen the award as populist and playing to the crowd, or eventhose who claim to worry that the award is further undermining literacy and the noble art of Book Reading. The committee are in a lose-lose position - award to an Armenian Poet and you are elitist, award a universally recognised icon and you are vacuous and populist.
Everyone seems to be ignoring Chronicles Part One, a pretty well written Proustian memoir, and Tarantula, a somewhat less successful example of Dylan's art. He's had a few books out, and I'm not going to attempt to argue that the Collected Lyrics constitutes a work of poetry, because this volume in fact only illustrates that the songs are indeed songs which take on an added dimension when sung and not poems. It is his songs that earnt him the nomination. If being a pioneer in the American Song Tradition which he has enlivened and re-invigorated is not, in the broadest sense, Literature and Art, then we are truly stuck in The Groves of Academe with F R Leavis and Matthew Arnold, with the High Culture/Low Culture division intact and only words on printed page worthy of stature.
The evening of the announcement I engaged in two Bob related cultural endeavours. I listened to Uncuts free CD of interpretaions of Highway 61 Revisited, by the likes of Dave Alvin and The Handsome Family. Whatever the versions' individual merits, the craft and singularity of his vision, still fresh and unique 50 years on pulsated through the different takes on the songs. Great lines abound, and the communication of ideas clearly, powerfully and profoundly sounded like the ringing of a bell (as another populist great would have it). I also watched Don't Look back again and throughout Dylan is alive in the moment, hyper-aware, questioning, challenging, coming at reality from new angles, destroying the mundane. When, after Donovan has strummed a pleasant ditty, only to sit consumed with awe and unworthiness when Bob pointedly and persuasively responds with a verse of It's All over Now Baby Blue , it is beyond doubt that Mr Dylan is as worthy of a Nobel Prize as any previous artist whatever their mileu. In some senses it is more interesting to question why people feel the need to say he does not deserve it.
As he says in Don't Look Back, The truth is just a plain picture.
Friday, 16 September 2016
Every album sleeve tells a story....Number 1
...being a series of photos of combinations of album sleeves, grouped together meaningfully, arbitrarily or some point in between, whose juxtapositions are meant to ape the place where umbrellas, sewing machines and dissecting tables meet, or maybe put a chap in mind of Francis Bacon's triptychs, or Rod Stewart and Shanghai Lil, the sum of the parts being greater and all that.....
Number one - The times they have a-changed
Number one - The times they have a-changed
TEENAGE FANCLUB HAVE FOUND IT HERE
Just over twenty years ago Teenage Fanclub pre-empted and pooh-poohed any criticism of their moving on from adolescent guitar strangling with an acoustic EP re-contextualising four of their, even then, established minor classics. Entitled Teenage Fanclub Have Lost It the versions signposted their move from The Status Quo referencing hairy squall of Everything Flows and some of Alcoholiday to the melodic motherlode they accessed via Big Star and The Byrds and alchemised on Thirteen, Grand Prix and subsequently. Their career could be seen as a refinement of this moment. They have continued to lose it in style for over 20 years.
"Here" is a statement of intent and place and time. Perhaps paradoxically it is also what used to be called a "grower", and though immediately likable it's subtleties are the better for knowing. Given it's bucolic cover and dwelling on the processes of life and change, maybe it is not so strange that the album grows in stature and weight These opposites always coexist. It is often unacknowledged that an artist's tenth album (or even thirty-seventh) can be their best, but these artifacts lack the novelty and (often) jeunesse of the beginning artist. It would be a shame if the Fanclub's doubtless no-longer-teenaged fan-base consigned this to the shelf after one-point-two listens, as we are wont to do from time to time. "Here" is full of melodic guitar solos, breezy rhythms, apt yet novel changes and effervescent harmonies, embellishing the twelve songs which, as custom dictates, are split democratically between the three songwriters with only the cognoscenti able to say who wrote what. Robert Forster recently said he writes at best two songs a year, three if he is on fire. Teenage Fanclub, ignoring their side project sorties, have had six years to choose and burnish their four songs. It's a slowburn.
On my last run through the best track is "The First Sight", as Track seven it is also doubtless track one side two. On a different day it has been the compassionate "The Darkest Part of the Night", at other times "Hold On", wherein cliché and eternal verity are fused. Track eleven, "With You" makes a convincing case of disproving Robert Forster's adage (What, him again?!) that the penultimate track of side two is always an albums weakest. The song sequencing is either well considered or a happy accident as they buttress and echo each other. This is a record which resists and is diminished by track skipping and cherry picking.
Teenage Fanclub Have Lost It came out shortly before Oasis' "Be Here Now", an album which is now shorthand for bombast eclipsing perspicacity; it is the point that Oasis lost it, and the vaguely Buddhist title more a plea for the buzz to continue than statement of self-awareness. "Here" is, however, a considered meditation on time passing, connection and the bittersweet notion of living in the moment (Track eight is "Live in the Moment"), and recognises that despite it's harmonic gorgeousness some of the issues it speaks of resist comfort. The more you listen, the more you feel the undertow in the guitars, in the resignation. The musicianship is skilled and deft, not slick and empty, and somehow they have not polished away the sparkle or the grit. Like Alcoholiday, like Songs From Northern Britain, "Here" is also their best album.
So I dug Teenage Fanclub Have Lost It out of it's place in The Wall Of Sound (CD wing, alongside other examples of that forgotten phenomena of the 1990s, the four track CD single/EP). It's more than stood the test of time, and in the acoustic slide guitar take of Everything Flows you notice the unity of their preoccupations, the teenager father to the man. "You get older every year, but you don't change, I don't notice you changing." Even within the comfortable and familiar you can set a course you don't know.
/
Friday, 19 August 2016
Karl Blau, Keeping It Country
Got a pile of CDs in the post from The Crafty Crailler, but can't get past the first one, Introducing Karl Blau, a country soul gem from the Washington state artist who has been around for some time but still is unjustly undiscovered, hence the title. Ten country covers produced by Tucker Martine , one a cover of his father's songs alongside evergreens like No Regrets and To Love Somebody (To follow in Scott Walker's, Al Green's and the Bee Gees footsteps takes bottle and talent). Karl's lugubrious voice is tailor made for country and he sings these songs the only way you can - straight.
I was taken immediately by "That's How I got to Memphis", a Tom T Hall song that Bobby Bare had a hit on, but I've included the video for "Fallin Rain", a Link Wray song. Karl's version reminds me of Dan Penn's classic mid 70's album, Nobody's Fool, and there is no higher praise. The video also features Kyle Fields, who performs as Little Wings, and is also blessed with a deep bronze voice. Here's a link to a version he did of Van Morrison's When The Leaves Come Fallin' Down, cut for Aquarium Drunkard's Lagniappe Sessions series, which shares a similar autumnal pantheism.
I was taken immediately by "That's How I got to Memphis", a Tom T Hall song that Bobby Bare had a hit on, but I've included the video for "Fallin Rain", a Link Wray song. Karl's version reminds me of Dan Penn's classic mid 70's album, Nobody's Fool, and there is no higher praise. The video also features Kyle Fields, who performs as Little Wings, and is also blessed with a deep bronze voice. Here's a link to a version he did of Van Morrison's When The Leaves Come Fallin' Down, cut for Aquarium Drunkard's Lagniappe Sessions series, which shares a similar autumnal pantheism.
Friday, 12 August 2016
New Order (continued)
New Order are touring on the back of a great album Music Complete which blends their offhand insouciance and Technique era dance-rock into a streamlined animal. Tonight the songs from the album are backdropped by abstract, Mondrian-esque designs on the video screens to augment their gnomic presence, older tracks underlined by footage from the late seventies. From their earliest beginnings Joy Division/New Order were both widescreen and homely, the everyday made epic and universal, and that is still true today. In a show as big as The National's there was still time to observe Gillian's wry indulgence as Barney elbowed his way to do a keyboard solo on Blue Monday.
Nothing was as nape hair raising though as the last number, Love Will Tear Us Apart. The use of images of Ian Curtis was the polar opposite of tawdry, it tapped into a collective feeling of lost opportunity and eternal optimism that levitated the crowd. I swear! The big screen graphics fell away to a minus sign then a plus sign, a minus, a - a +, a - a +,black and white, as if to say, all we lost, all we gained. The last time I saw Bernard and Stephen performing the song was at the Sheffield Top Rank when Joy Division supported Buzzcocks. In truth my memories are impossibly vague, I can barely remember anything beyond being there, and no-one had any way of knowing what the future held.
- + - + - +......
New Order are touring on the back of a great album Music Complete which blends their offhand insouciance and Technique era dance-rock into a streamlined animal. Tonight the songs from the album are backdropped by abstract, Mondrian-esque designs on the video screens to augment their gnomic presence, older tracks underlined by footage from the late seventies. From their earliest beginnings Joy Division/New Order were both widescreen and homely, the everyday made epic and universal, and that is still true today. In a show as big as The National's there was still time to observe Gillian's wry indulgence as Barney elbowed his way to do a keyboard solo on Blue Monday.
Nothing was as nape hair raising though as the last number, Love Will Tear Us Apart. The use of images of Ian Curtis was the polar opposite of tawdry, it tapped into a collective feeling of lost opportunity and eternal optimism that levitated the crowd. I swear! The big screen graphics fell away to a minus sign then a plus sign, a minus, a - a +, a - a +,black and white, as if to say, all we lost, all we gained. The last time I saw Bernard and Stephen performing the song was at the Sheffield Top Rank when Joy Division supported Buzzcocks. In truth my memories are impossibly vague, I can barely remember anything beyond being there, and no-one had any way of knowing what the future held.
- + - + - +......
Latitude 2016: Part the fifth - Headliners
Friday - Grimes
If this were Culturebergs spiritual progenitor Tom Wolfe writing about Grimes he would no doubt echo his articles on the Noonday Underground and the Tycoon of Teen, as Grimes is now pogoing on the zeitgeist and to some degree so of the moment it is difficult to explicate without somehow immersing yourself in her sound world. Having spent merely an hour sans preconceptions in the same tent as Ms Grimes and a couple of thousand of her target audience I feel unqualified to make any judgement beyond noting her hyperkinetic show bridging the archetypal dance act cliche of the two backing dancers and a moderne take on electro pop , with a notable pan-global strain, almost oriental, like a hybrid of video game music, hip hop and dark wave. There are high pitched trills, guttural growls whilst rolling on the ground, song introductions at 100 mph, light and sound exploding throughout. Bewildering but intriguing.
Saturday -The National
The first act to headline Latitude twice, one must acknowledge the aptness of this. The National are literate rockers, both cerebral and physical, thoughtful and abandoned. They put on a well drilled show which sometimes appears on the edge of falling apart. Well it is and it isn't. Matt Berringer is a bit of a loose cannon who imbibes himself into a heightened state, tonight showering the stage with discarded wine, and the band have the wit and chops to follow where he wanders.
They drew a large crowd of initiates and neophytes and were rapturously received. The road testing of (I think) 5 new songs may have sent a few off to see Soulwax, but the deft drama of staples like Fake Empire and Squalor Victoria was irresistible . Matt went walkabout into the crowd, lost his glasses and returned like a bearded Stallone to lead the last song singalong of Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks. The National can throw stadium shapes and still connect and they won't fuck us over.
Sunday - New Order
Cultureberg safely estimates that New Order drew the biggest crowd of the weekend and justifiably so. They are as much part of manys DNA as the Beatles. They're iconic. It is difficult not to project onto their austere and probably timid selves. they do kitchen sink drama on an immense scale, all Temptation and Regret
Friday - Grimes
If this were Culturebergs spiritual progenitor Tom Wolfe writing about Grimes he would no doubt echo his articles on the Noonday Underground and the Tycoon of Teen, as Grimes is now pogoing on the zeitgeist and to some degree so of the moment it is difficult to explicate without somehow immersing yourself in her sound world. Having spent merely an hour sans preconceptions in the same tent as Ms Grimes and a couple of thousand of her target audience I feel unqualified to make any judgement beyond noting her hyperkinetic show bridging the archetypal dance act cliche of the two backing dancers and a moderne take on electro pop , with a notable pan-global strain, almost oriental, like a hybrid of video game music, hip hop and dark wave. There are high pitched trills, guttural growls whilst rolling on the ground, song introductions at 100 mph, light and sound exploding throughout. Bewildering but intriguing.
Saturday -The National
The first act to headline Latitude twice, one must acknowledge the aptness of this. The National are literate rockers, both cerebral and physical, thoughtful and abandoned. They put on a well drilled show which sometimes appears on the edge of falling apart. Well it is and it isn't. Matt Berringer is a bit of a loose cannon who imbibes himself into a heightened state, tonight showering the stage with discarded wine, and the band have the wit and chops to follow where he wanders.
They drew a large crowd of initiates and neophytes and were rapturously received. The road testing of (I think) 5 new songs may have sent a few off to see Soulwax, but the deft drama of staples like Fake Empire and Squalor Victoria was irresistible . Matt went walkabout into the crowd, lost his glasses and returned like a bearded Stallone to lead the last song singalong of Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks. The National can throw stadium shapes and still connect and they won't fuck us over.
Sunday - New Order
Cultureberg safely estimates that New Order drew the biggest crowd of the weekend and justifiably so. They are as much part of manys DNA as the Beatles. They're iconic. It is difficult not to project onto their austere and probably timid selves. they do kitchen sink drama on an immense scale, all Temptation and Regret
Wednesday, 10 August 2016
Latitude 2016: Part the fourth
First on the Obelisk Stage on Saturday lunchtime is Sturgill Simpson, championed by Americana devotees for his contemporary twist on traditional country themes. At Latitude he opted for a more traditional set -no Turtles On The Way Down - songs where train rhythms, white lines and cheatin' were featured prominently. Cultureberg had two preconceptions confirmed, and was pleased to be thus affirmed.
First, that the most perfect song is not a folk song, heavy metal anthem or soul stomper, it is a country song. His set was littered with songs whose chord progressions and structure had an inevitability , an essential rightness, whereby the audience witnesses an alchemical or rhetorical inevitability.
Second, that American musicians, even if they are not Nashville Cats, play like they've been playing since they were babies. Sturgill's band -trombone,sax and trumpet augmenting guitar, bass, drums, guitar and steel -played like they could stretch out to the horizon or bend and drop on a nickel, effortlessly inhabiting the country soul stew that is the quintessence of American music. Plus, there was a synth solo.
Sturgill ended on his best song, his "feel good, anti-war hit of the summer", cranking the band up with his rhythm acoustic. Class act.
The diligent visitor to Cultureberg may have read the piece on Father John Misty at Leeds, and the Saturday teatime show was the fifth time I've seen him since vacating the Fleet Foxes drum stool for centre stage, and this was the biggest stage thus far. Was he at home on the big festival stage? Does a Casanova betray his lovers?
The large screens hugging the stage actually give FJM the medium to exhibit nuance and gesture in a way often difficult in a darkened auditorium, and the crisp sound when added to the visual bonus brought out subtleties sometimes difficult to spot from row WW. FJM is as much a character as Bonnie "prince" Billy, Bono or Bonnie Tyler, a character who appeals to his congregation with both his canyon lothario persona and it's heartfelt suitor counterpart. He operates a hinterland previously inhabited by Leonard Cohen circa I'm Your Man and Death of A Ladies Man, a greasy haired, black haired screen for hipster projections. The beard, long hair and black uniform is ubiquitous; on more than one occaissioned I swore I saw FJM queuing for cheesy chips and artisan pizza (ready in three minutes).
FJM revisited his customary moves - collapsing to his knees in supplication, climbing the drum riser, strolling the stage confiding in his microphone -and to those who this was new it was exciting.To those who had seen him before it was interesting and actually brought out the humour - messing with his mobile during Bored In The USA or entreating on of Two Virgins to keep moving. We replay records, why not replay live shows (with a twist)? FJM understands the need to transcend monotony more than most. So, was he at home on the huge stage? Of course. He filled the field like he fills an arena, the very epitome of the new traditional rock star.
First on the Obelisk Stage on Saturday lunchtime is Sturgill Simpson, championed by Americana devotees for his contemporary twist on traditional country themes. At Latitude he opted for a more traditional set -no Turtles On The Way Down - songs where train rhythms, white lines and cheatin' were featured prominently. Cultureberg had two preconceptions confirmed, and was pleased to be thus affirmed.
First, that the most perfect song is not a folk song, heavy metal anthem or soul stomper, it is a country song. His set was littered with songs whose chord progressions and structure had an inevitability , an essential rightness, whereby the audience witnesses an alchemical or rhetorical inevitability.
Second, that American musicians, even if they are not Nashville Cats, play like they've been playing since they were babies. Sturgill's band -trombone,sax and trumpet augmenting guitar, bass, drums, guitar and steel -played like they could stretch out to the horizon or bend and drop on a nickel, effortlessly inhabiting the country soul stew that is the quintessence of American music. Plus, there was a synth solo.
Sturgill ended on his best song, his "feel good, anti-war hit of the summer", cranking the band up with his rhythm acoustic. Class act.
The diligent visitor to Cultureberg may have read the piece on Father John Misty at Leeds, and the Saturday teatime show was the fifth time I've seen him since vacating the Fleet Foxes drum stool for centre stage, and this was the biggest stage thus far. Was he at home on the big festival stage? Does a Casanova betray his lovers?
The large screens hugging the stage actually give FJM the medium to exhibit nuance and gesture in a way often difficult in a darkened auditorium, and the crisp sound when added to the visual bonus brought out subtleties sometimes difficult to spot from row WW. FJM is as much a character as Bonnie "prince" Billy, Bono or Bonnie Tyler, a character who appeals to his congregation with both his canyon lothario persona and it's heartfelt suitor counterpart. He operates a hinterland previously inhabited by Leonard Cohen circa I'm Your Man and Death of A Ladies Man, a greasy haired, black haired screen for hipster projections. The beard, long hair and black uniform is ubiquitous; on more than one occaissioned I swore I saw FJM queuing for cheesy chips and artisan pizza (ready in three minutes).
FJM revisited his customary moves - collapsing to his knees in supplication, climbing the drum riser, strolling the stage confiding in his microphone -and to those who this was new it was exciting.To those who had seen him before it was interesting and actually brought out the humour - messing with his mobile during Bored In The USA or entreating on of Two Virgins to keep moving. We replay records, why not replay live shows (with a twist)? FJM understands the need to transcend monotony more than most. So, was he at home on the huge stage? Of course. He filled the field like he fills an arena, the very epitome of the new traditional rock star.
Thursday, 4 August 2016
Latitude part the third: scions of indie
Minor Victories
On the Radio Six stage fist at Sunday lunchtime are indie supergroup, Minor Victories. Stuart Braithwaite, guitarist with Mogwai and MinorVictories said the band has all the good elements from everyone's bands, meaning also Rachel Goswell's Slowdive, Justin Lockey's Editors and James Lockey's HandHeld Cine Club (no, me neither). Now, Cultureberg looks the world in the eye and shoegazing passed us by, but I have no grounds to challenge Mr Braithwaite as MV pump out a very appealing sound that fits my thesis that many bands that please have both an indiduality whilst maintaining a tradition, subtly tweaking a genre. Their host bands have constructed Sonic Cathedrals of Sound, and MV are a Sonic Sagrada Familiar. Breathy, somewhat gossamer vocals -check. Pummelling drums-check. Screeing sheets of guitar noise - all present and correct. For a band who shared ideas and constructed songs without ever all being in the same room, the sound is cohesive and has a distinct identity, both muscular and crepuscular. Paradoxically, there is no feeling of phoning parts in or writing by committee, with Ms Goswell stood stock still centre stage as the waves of sound undulate and reverberate around her. Minor Victories, then, a tangible success. Some stuff from the past, some of what's on your mind today and you've a juggernaut for the festival season. Big thumbs up from the early risers.
Steve Mason
I'd lost touch with Mr Mason after The Beta Band, but Cultureberg's Fife associate The Crafty Crailler caught a recent show and was enthusiastic so I attended his mid afternoon performance. Unfamiliar though I am of any biographical info, though aware his new album is a return to form an emotional equilibrium, I was unsure what to expect. What we were treated to was a direct set where Mr Mason's personality reverberated with an engaging clarity. Like The Beta Band, there's a winning scallydeilic component and simple, oft repeated lyrics, almost adult nursery rhyme. Mr Mason prowls the stage shedding clothes - he first appears in anorak, goggles plus fours and boots. He has the air of one who may have succumbed to therapeutic input only to emerge much clearer about what he is angry about rather than emerging becalmed and beatific. He is clearly, in the words of one of the best songs, ""alive". At the end of the set he wishes the audience peace, this is in contrast to the fate he wished Tony Blair in the song 'Throw him on the fire' or the singalong he led the tent in, where use of fists and a baseball bat were invoked. What kind of peace he has found, it is avert engaged and active one, and Mr Mason clearly had the tent with him for the lion's share of the set. He also had the best set of plus fours spotted at Latitude. Not practical in the heat or the lights perhaps but I think Cultureberg can safely assume Mr Mason seldom takes the easy route.
Minor Victories
On the Radio Six stage fist at Sunday lunchtime are indie supergroup, Minor Victories. Stuart Braithwaite, guitarist with Mogwai and MinorVictories said the band has all the good elements from everyone's bands, meaning also Rachel Goswell's Slowdive, Justin Lockey's Editors and James Lockey's HandHeld Cine Club (no, me neither). Now, Cultureberg looks the world in the eye and shoegazing passed us by, but I have no grounds to challenge Mr Braithwaite as MV pump out a very appealing sound that fits my thesis that many bands that please have both an indiduality whilst maintaining a tradition, subtly tweaking a genre. Their host bands have constructed Sonic Cathedrals of Sound, and MV are a Sonic Sagrada Familiar. Breathy, somewhat gossamer vocals -check. Pummelling drums-check. Screeing sheets of guitar noise - all present and correct. For a band who shared ideas and constructed songs without ever all being in the same room, the sound is cohesive and has a distinct identity, both muscular and crepuscular. Paradoxically, there is no feeling of phoning parts in or writing by committee, with Ms Goswell stood stock still centre stage as the waves of sound undulate and reverberate around her. Minor Victories, then, a tangible success. Some stuff from the past, some of what's on your mind today and you've a juggernaut for the festival season. Big thumbs up from the early risers.
Steve Mason
I'd lost touch with Mr Mason after The Beta Band, but Cultureberg's Fife associate The Crafty Crailler caught a recent show and was enthusiastic so I attended his mid afternoon performance. Unfamiliar though I am of any biographical info, though aware his new album is a return to form an emotional equilibrium, I was unsure what to expect. What we were treated to was a direct set where Mr Mason's personality reverberated with an engaging clarity. Like The Beta Band, there's a winning scallydeilic component and simple, oft repeated lyrics, almost adult nursery rhyme. Mr Mason prowls the stage shedding clothes - he first appears in anorak, goggles plus fours and boots. He has the air of one who may have succumbed to therapeutic input only to emerge much clearer about what he is angry about rather than emerging becalmed and beatific. He is clearly, in the words of one of the best songs, ""alive". At the end of the set he wishes the audience peace, this is in contrast to the fate he wished Tony Blair in the song 'Throw him on the fire' or the singalong he led the tent in, where use of fists and a baseball bat were invoked. What kind of peace he has found, it is avert engaged and active one, and Mr Mason clearly had the tent with him for the lion's share of the set. He also had the best set of plus fours spotted at Latitude. Not practical in the heat or the lights perhaps but I think Cultureberg can safely assume Mr Mason seldom takes the easy route.
Wednesday, 3 August 2016
Latitude 2016: Part the Second
Estrons
Just as Protomartyr keep a clean stage (see previous post) Cultureberg can exclusively report that the band members in Aberystwyth's Estrons keep a tidy pitch, as they camped scant meters from the Cultureberg Marquee prior to their highly entertaining set on the Lake Stage Friday teatime. Being of a respectful nature. I didn't , as maybe I should have, compliment them on their well-focused 1978ish punk pop. Fronted by an outgoing blonde female singer lesser critics would opt for obvious parallels (and they are there), though I was put to mind of a more Joplinesque comparison. They went down the proverbial storm, a miniature mosh pit developing at a fairly early hour as blokes of various ages (fat lads in gold lame trousers, balding groovers and younger beardy types alike) pushed each other around. I overheard comments like "My favourite new band" and one can see how they readily evoke positivity. They belt out catchy numbers with just enough uniqueness to engender a Proustian rush in the audience and if this is any litmus test of future success then Estrons will be on far bigger stages this time next year.
Wrangler
Stephen Mallinder is the ex front man of Sheffield electronic music pioneers Cabaret Voltaire, and back then they did head out into uncharted territory and returned with maps, templates that are still replicated (often more conservatively) today, indeed on most of the stages at Latitude. Cultureberg assembled to see his new band Wrangler, with two other electro luminaries, in the Lavish Lounge. This is, in fact, a clearing in the woods with a large screen and a dusty slope. Despite this being an unlikely setting on paper, Wrangler gave one of the most enjoyable sets of the festival at midnight on Saturday.
With a sound halfway between the treated vocal menace of early Cabs and the studio funk-tionality of later Cabs, Mallinder has a vehicle that is commercial and yet still jagged. He retains the ability to invest phrases like 'real life' with unease, and I caught the word 'interzone' so the same preoccupations -Burroughs ,control, conformity, you know the schtick - are still present and correct. The casual passerby was drawn into the dust bowl by the dance ability of the music, a blend of kraftwerkian projections, up to date electro rhythm and enticing repetition. If they had been on one of the bigger stages they'd have converted thousands. As it was, in a cruel twist of fate, the only rain of the day cut the open air set short after 5or 6 numbers;either the kit would have been ruined or some unwanted sparks would have flown. They retired leaving Cultureberg both heartened and disappointed but decidedly intrigued .
Estrons
Just as Protomartyr keep a clean stage (see previous post) Cultureberg can exclusively report that the band members in Aberystwyth's Estrons keep a tidy pitch, as they camped scant meters from the Cultureberg Marquee prior to their highly entertaining set on the Lake Stage Friday teatime. Being of a respectful nature. I didn't , as maybe I should have, compliment them on their well-focused 1978ish punk pop. Fronted by an outgoing blonde female singer lesser critics would opt for obvious parallels (and they are there), though I was put to mind of a more Joplinesque comparison. They went down the proverbial storm, a miniature mosh pit developing at a fairly early hour as blokes of various ages (fat lads in gold lame trousers, balding groovers and younger beardy types alike) pushed each other around. I overheard comments like "My favourite new band" and one can see how they readily evoke positivity. They belt out catchy numbers with just enough uniqueness to engender a Proustian rush in the audience and if this is any litmus test of future success then Estrons will be on far bigger stages this time next year.
Wrangler
Stephen Mallinder is the ex front man of Sheffield electronic music pioneers Cabaret Voltaire, and back then they did head out into uncharted territory and returned with maps, templates that are still replicated (often more conservatively) today, indeed on most of the stages at Latitude. Cultureberg assembled to see his new band Wrangler, with two other electro luminaries, in the Lavish Lounge. This is, in fact, a clearing in the woods with a large screen and a dusty slope. Despite this being an unlikely setting on paper, Wrangler gave one of the most enjoyable sets of the festival at midnight on Saturday.
With a sound halfway between the treated vocal menace of early Cabs and the studio funk-tionality of later Cabs, Mallinder has a vehicle that is commercial and yet still jagged. He retains the ability to invest phrases like 'real life' with unease, and I caught the word 'interzone' so the same preoccupations -Burroughs ,control, conformity, you know the schtick - are still present and correct. The casual passerby was drawn into the dust bowl by the dance ability of the music, a blend of kraftwerkian projections, up to date electro rhythm and enticing repetition. If they had been on one of the bigger stages they'd have converted thousands. As it was, in a cruel twist of fate, the only rain of the day cut the open air set short after 5or 6 numbers;either the kit would have been ruined or some unwanted sparks would have flown. They retired leaving Cultureberg both heartened and disappointed but decidedly intrigued .
Cultureberg at Latitude 2016. Nothing new under the sun, but so what?
Cultureberg made their occasional festival trip this July to Latitude Festival in Southwold, this being the fifth trip in its eleven year incarnation. You know pretty much what to expect. Though we did not espy matriarchs in multi colour wellies striding through the mud holding their Victoria Sponge aloft and inviolate, the sheep were dyed pink, Ollie, Archie and Daisy got their faces painted and their hair spiked whilst their big sibs enjoyed a gap weekend weaving through the crowds like a Home Counties Von Trappe family,obliviously making their rightful way to their place at the front. How could one wish to not remain in a place like this.
If Glastonbury has become the Tesco of festivals and Leeds and Reading the Aldi then Latitude retains and consolidates its Waitrose banner. I do not carp as we consumed as many ten pound cocktails as the next person in the Blixen tent and the uniquely good weather made the experience convivial in the extreme. Like any dependable brand Latitude came through with a slightly altered mix of old favourites and tempting new brands. In part one I'll try to focus on the up and coming acts which tickled Culturebergs taste buds and later waffle on about the more established and well-loved acts.
Methyl ethyl
I caught Methyl Ethyl on the small Sunrise arena on Sunday teatime after a frankly lacklustre afternoon of so-so bands, fart-flat comedy, thinking (as one does three days in) am I all music-d out?Not so, as the band with possibly the worst name in the programme delivered a scorching half hour of high octane guitar rock. Coming from Perth in Western Australia one is put in mind of Tame Impala's Kevin Parker and Luke Steele, especially in Sleepy Jackson mode, and perhaps hometown isolation leads to idiosyncrasy. The band were recruited to flesh out the songs from debut album 'Oh Inhuman Spectacle', written played and produced by singer-guitarist Jake Webb, but the heft and brio that the rhythm section add to the songs made me wish they had all been on board.for the record. Mr Webb himself looks like a young Tom Verlaine, though he plays his effects pedals as much as the guitar, and sings in a voice resembling Jeff Buckley and (sans vibrato) David Surkamp of 70s enigmas Pavlovs Dog. Beneath the squall are solid melodic songs. Checking the album out back home at Culturebergs Manor there is a strong current of textured dream pop and drifting serenity not present in a beefy and dynamic live set. Songs like Rogues and Twilight Driving were memorable from first listening, and now seem almost sketches for their kinetic live performance. A real highlight.
Protomartyr
Also on the Sunrise stage I caught Detroit's Protomartyr. The programme alluded to Pere Ubu and The Fall,enough to draw me stage front. The similarity might be as much attitudinal as musical as the music is loosely post punk with fairly bleak lyrical preoccupations. The sound is tense and taut as though struggling to escape a claustrophobic existence, the guitarist reminding me of Robert Quine
But it was lead singer that was the focus. He makes Van Morrison seem like a needy attention junkie,spitting lyrics between slugs from cans of Carlsberg, with a repetition and yelping directness that will have occaissioned the comparisons with MES. The lyrics, however, are direct and understandable, unlike latter day Fall, and one detects a drive to communicate behind the lack of showbiz. The singer wears an everyday jacket, trousers and sensible shoes, is mid thirties to the bands hairy youthfulness, and jabs his lyrics home. Songs from recent album The Agent Intellect won the crowd over and Culturebergs left highly impressed. As a footnote, also impressive was that the lead singer, having emptied three cans during the set put a can in each jacket pocket and left the stage with his debris. Clearly Protomartyr embody a principled stance both on and offstage.
Estero s
Cultureberg made their occasional festival trip this July to Latitude Festival in Southwold, this being the fifth trip in its eleven year incarnation. You know pretty much what to expect. Though we did not espy matriarchs in multi colour wellies striding through the mud holding their Victoria Sponge aloft and inviolate, the sheep were dyed pink, Ollie, Archie and Daisy got their faces painted and their hair spiked whilst their big sibs enjoyed a gap weekend weaving through the crowds like a Home Counties Von Trappe family,obliviously making their rightful way to their place at the front. How could one wish to not remain in a place like this.
If Glastonbury has become the Tesco of festivals and Leeds and Reading the Aldi then Latitude retains and consolidates its Waitrose banner. I do not carp as we consumed as many ten pound cocktails as the next person in the Blixen tent and the uniquely good weather made the experience convivial in the extreme. Like any dependable brand Latitude came through with a slightly altered mix of old favourites and tempting new brands. In part one I'll try to focus on the up and coming acts which tickled Culturebergs taste buds and later waffle on about the more established and well-loved acts.
Methyl ethyl
I caught Methyl Ethyl on the small Sunrise arena on Sunday teatime after a frankly lacklustre afternoon of so-so bands, fart-flat comedy, thinking (as one does three days in) am I all music-d out?Not so, as the band with possibly the worst name in the programme delivered a scorching half hour of high octane guitar rock. Coming from Perth in Western Australia one is put in mind of Tame Impala's Kevin Parker and Luke Steele, especially in Sleepy Jackson mode, and perhaps hometown isolation leads to idiosyncrasy. The band were recruited to flesh out the songs from debut album 'Oh Inhuman Spectacle', written played and produced by singer-guitarist Jake Webb, but the heft and brio that the rhythm section add to the songs made me wish they had all been on board.for the record. Mr Webb himself looks like a young Tom Verlaine, though he plays his effects pedals as much as the guitar, and sings in a voice resembling Jeff Buckley and (sans vibrato) David Surkamp of 70s enigmas Pavlovs Dog. Beneath the squall are solid melodic songs. Checking the album out back home at Culturebergs Manor there is a strong current of textured dream pop and drifting serenity not present in a beefy and dynamic live set. Songs like Rogues and Twilight Driving were memorable from first listening, and now seem almost sketches for their kinetic live performance. A real highlight.
Protomartyr
Also on the Sunrise stage I caught Detroit's Protomartyr. The programme alluded to Pere Ubu and The Fall,enough to draw me stage front. The similarity might be as much attitudinal as musical as the music is loosely post punk with fairly bleak lyrical preoccupations. The sound is tense and taut as though struggling to escape a claustrophobic existence, the guitarist reminding me of Robert Quine
But it was lead singer that was the focus. He makes Van Morrison seem like a needy attention junkie,spitting lyrics between slugs from cans of Carlsberg, with a repetition and yelping directness that will have occaissioned the comparisons with MES. The lyrics, however, are direct and understandable, unlike latter day Fall, and one detects a drive to communicate behind the lack of showbiz. The singer wears an everyday jacket, trousers and sensible shoes, is mid thirties to the bands hairy youthfulness, and jabs his lyrics home. Songs from recent album The Agent Intellect won the crowd over and Culturebergs left highly impressed. As a footnote, also impressive was that the lead singer, having emptied three cans during the set put a can in each jacket pocket and left the stage with his debris. Clearly Protomartyr embody a principled stance both on and offstage.
Estero s
Thursday, 12 May 2016
FATHER JOHN MISTY IN LEEDS May 11 2016
As Cultureberg and My Fellow Enthusiast traveled to see Father John Misty at the Leeds Academy on the opening night of his first British Small Arena Tour, conversation turned to the Enthusiast's brother's epicurean experience at Heston Blumenthal's Restaurant. (Rest assured, Dear Reader, this was a one-off birthday blow-out, not the customary over-indulgence of a pampered elite.) One course on the absurd post-modern menu was a "Bubble of Cauliflower," whereby the Paul Daniels of the scullery inflated a humble floret to unfeasible size whilst retaining it's palatability and nutritional value. Hmmm.
I'll wager you can see where I'm going with this, my dear attentive reader. Could the bearded hirsute King of Canyon Noir maintain his steady trudge up the zigurrat of concert halls and hold true to his essence, whereby finely crafted songs mixing confession and obfuscation were shared with warmth and not a little reined in derangement, or would he retreat into Doing What Is Expected. Would he succumb to Phestival Phwoar, where every song is inflated and injected with Pavlovian Fluids, as the crowd reacts like salivating dogs or laboratory monkeys?
I am happy to report that FJM straddled and avoided this chasm with loose-limbed confidence. Ever since his jocular interjections from the Fleet Foxes' drumstool, FJM has always conducted himself brashly but winningly. Cultureberg and My Fellow Enthusiast were at the Manchester Deaf Institute on his first tour as he strutted, preened and , indeed, loved himself in a self-deprecating amalgam of performing styles, climbing drum-riser and arching eyebrows in equal measure. If he were the gentleman roue he affects sometime to be he might abandon his songs like forgotten conquests, instead he polishes them and continues to court their essence with some loyalty. Sheer size can mitigate against subtlety and the nuance of gesture that is the very key to communication; the canny artist adapts his gesture to the stage accordingly to preserve his intent. If this was FJM's first game of the new season in the Premier League, he began with an away win.
Exhibit one: A few songs in he stops the show. It appears an audience member has fainted. Necks are craned and minutes toddle on. "Safety First," says the Preacher. I was reminded that at the Deaf Institute FJM stopped the show when 2 Mancs had a bit of a dust up, defusing and berating. Mr Josh Tillman is a man with some religious instruction in his upbringing , I believe, and it permeates his character far beyond his pseudonym. He's clearly a nice guy, not the satyr of the songs, and he doesn't turn a blind eye. Cultureberg appreciates consideration above careerism.
Exhibit two: Having seen FJM at the Brudenell and Sheffield Plug, the set remains pretty similar, vitually wholly from Fear Fun and Honeybear, but with more widescreen arrangements. The key is to preserve their core, add some kinesis and whumpf and avoid cliche. No doubt, dear reader, you have ambled out of some enormodome or Festival Field bemused as the former object of your affection had just taken a dive for the short money. That wasn't the case here. FJ maintained his mugging and prowling but never descended to a shallow posturing. Hats off for that.
Exhibit Three: The Show is not just the songs it's the theatrical presentation and the accent, the register, the tone. There were the descents into musical maelstrom we have seen in others, with songs ending with a punctuation mark of sudden silence and stage blackout. There were the primary colour searchlights that wreathed the singer in shadow. It was good theatre and , significantly, it accented rather than replaced The Songs, avoiding the disappointment of empty bombast.
Exhibit Four: There were captivating stripped down versions of Bored In The USA (no canned laughter) and I Went To The Store One Day. Sometimes the unplugged section seems an expectation, here it re-focussed on sturdy songs which (old fashioned concept) mean something, and in these performances clearly still mean something to their composer and performer.
Exhibit Five: Whereby the band "rock out". Danger, Will Robinson, Danger, Will Robinson! There were two "numbers" - principally the Nine Inch Nails cover "Closer" - where a stroboscopic explosion of unhinged dancing ratcheted the house up a couple of notches. Contrast that with earlier covers - Canned Heat's "Going Up The Country" which still linked the band to country rock and Laurel Canyon revivalism. The two songs furthest away from that strand were arguably the best. Bodes well, keeps the interest piqued.
Exhibit Six: The Leeds show was promoted by The Brudenell, where FJM played a memorable show when Honeybear was new. I don't know the biz mechanics, but there is clearly a continued link between grassroots and nascent arena-dom that is cockle-warming. The venue was rammed, the show sold-out; all this a relief to The Brudenell, no doubt. That the show was also a ramalama, tour De Force, Coup De Theatre as well would lead those hats previously doffed to be sent somewhat skyward.
So, Patient and Indulgent Reader....Bubble of Cauliflower or Sturdy Legume. Surely the latter. FJM is moving on up. On Twitter (Yes, Cultureberg has visited) he is Farmer Jah Misery. The mix of weltschmerz, roots and theosophy is as present in that alter-ego as much as in Father John Misty. Mr Tillman is mutating and growing, but, I submit, not inflated emptily, rather his transmogrification is a natural extension of the word of mouth groundswell fueling his growing reputation and stature. Recipe for success, tasty geezer - I won't labour the analogy any more. Away win, Leeds united.....Nurse, The screens!.
As Cultureberg and My Fellow Enthusiast traveled to see Father John Misty at the Leeds Academy on the opening night of his first British Small Arena Tour, conversation turned to the Enthusiast's brother's epicurean experience at Heston Blumenthal's Restaurant. (Rest assured, Dear Reader, this was a one-off birthday blow-out, not the customary over-indulgence of a pampered elite.) One course on the absurd post-modern menu was a "Bubble of Cauliflower," whereby the Paul Daniels of the scullery inflated a humble floret to unfeasible size whilst retaining it's palatability and nutritional value. Hmmm.
I'll wager you can see where I'm going with this, my dear attentive reader. Could the bearded hirsute King of Canyon Noir maintain his steady trudge up the zigurrat of concert halls and hold true to his essence, whereby finely crafted songs mixing confession and obfuscation were shared with warmth and not a little reined in derangement, or would he retreat into Doing What Is Expected. Would he succumb to Phestival Phwoar, where every song is inflated and injected with Pavlovian Fluids, as the crowd reacts like salivating dogs or laboratory monkeys?
I am happy to report that FJM straddled and avoided this chasm with loose-limbed confidence. Ever since his jocular interjections from the Fleet Foxes' drumstool, FJM has always conducted himself brashly but winningly. Cultureberg and My Fellow Enthusiast were at the Manchester Deaf Institute on his first tour as he strutted, preened and , indeed, loved himself in a self-deprecating amalgam of performing styles, climbing drum-riser and arching eyebrows in equal measure. If he were the gentleman roue he affects sometime to be he might abandon his songs like forgotten conquests, instead he polishes them and continues to court their essence with some loyalty. Sheer size can mitigate against subtlety and the nuance of gesture that is the very key to communication; the canny artist adapts his gesture to the stage accordingly to preserve his intent. If this was FJM's first game of the new season in the Premier League, he began with an away win.
Exhibit one: A few songs in he stops the show. It appears an audience member has fainted. Necks are craned and minutes toddle on. "Safety First," says the Preacher. I was reminded that at the Deaf Institute FJM stopped the show when 2 Mancs had a bit of a dust up, defusing and berating. Mr Josh Tillman is a man with some religious instruction in his upbringing , I believe, and it permeates his character far beyond his pseudonym. He's clearly a nice guy, not the satyr of the songs, and he doesn't turn a blind eye. Cultureberg appreciates consideration above careerism.
Exhibit two: Having seen FJM at the Brudenell and Sheffield Plug, the set remains pretty similar, vitually wholly from Fear Fun and Honeybear, but with more widescreen arrangements. The key is to preserve their core, add some kinesis and whumpf and avoid cliche. No doubt, dear reader, you have ambled out of some enormodome or Festival Field bemused as the former object of your affection had just taken a dive for the short money. That wasn't the case here. FJ maintained his mugging and prowling but never descended to a shallow posturing. Hats off for that.
Exhibit Three: The Show is not just the songs it's the theatrical presentation and the accent, the register, the tone. There were the descents into musical maelstrom we have seen in others, with songs ending with a punctuation mark of sudden silence and stage blackout. There were the primary colour searchlights that wreathed the singer in shadow. It was good theatre and , significantly, it accented rather than replaced The Songs, avoiding the disappointment of empty bombast.
Exhibit Four: There were captivating stripped down versions of Bored In The USA (no canned laughter) and I Went To The Store One Day. Sometimes the unplugged section seems an expectation, here it re-focussed on sturdy songs which (old fashioned concept) mean something, and in these performances clearly still mean something to their composer and performer.
Exhibit Five: Whereby the band "rock out". Danger, Will Robinson, Danger, Will Robinson! There were two "numbers" - principally the Nine Inch Nails cover "Closer" - where a stroboscopic explosion of unhinged dancing ratcheted the house up a couple of notches. Contrast that with earlier covers - Canned Heat's "Going Up The Country" which still linked the band to country rock and Laurel Canyon revivalism. The two songs furthest away from that strand were arguably the best. Bodes well, keeps the interest piqued.
Exhibit Six: The Leeds show was promoted by The Brudenell, where FJM played a memorable show when Honeybear was new. I don't know the biz mechanics, but there is clearly a continued link between grassroots and nascent arena-dom that is cockle-warming. The venue was rammed, the show sold-out; all this a relief to The Brudenell, no doubt. That the show was also a ramalama, tour De Force, Coup De Theatre as well would lead those hats previously doffed to be sent somewhat skyward.
So, Patient and Indulgent Reader....Bubble of Cauliflower or Sturdy Legume. Surely the latter. FJM is moving on up. On Twitter (Yes, Cultureberg has visited) he is Farmer Jah Misery. The mix of weltschmerz, roots and theosophy is as present in that alter-ego as much as in Father John Misty. Mr Tillman is mutating and growing, but, I submit, not inflated emptily, rather his transmogrification is a natural extension of the word of mouth groundswell fueling his growing reputation and stature. Recipe for success, tasty geezer - I won't labour the analogy any more. Away win, Leeds united.....Nurse, The screens!.
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