What has the French music scene ever given us except Vannessa Paradis? Not much, that’s for sure. Two blokes look set to change this, Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo (what a name!) aka Daft Punk have produced an album that is not new or ground breaking, but is still refreshingly different, if anything they have gone into reverse, some of the tracks have an early techno sound to them. ‘Homework’ is less pretentious and more fun than other Amyl-house, songs like ‘Around The World’ are so infectious that you could call them cheesy. DP have tried to keep away from the rigid 4:4 techno beat and just slipped in beats when they feel like it.
Their influences definitely come out in their music, a number of songs contain the metallic voice and basic electronic sound of Kraftwerk and one or two of the tracks sound similar to their fellow countryman Laurent Garnier. One of the refreshing things about this album is the sense of humour evident all the way through it. Tracks like ‘Teachers’, which basically name checks all the top DJ’s, and ‘daftendirekt’, which is the best intro. to an album I’ve ever heard, manage to be both silly but cool. The album also has the long-time-been-around ‘Da Funk’ which is bugging me, as I swear I must have this track somewhere but I’ll be damned if I can find it.
Some people have dubbed them as being the “French Chemical Brothers”. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, as Daft Punk have less guitars, more melody and are better than their British counterparts.
Sidi Bou Said
Obsessive
(Ultimate)
This should be generic indie sludge, a more serious Lush, only redeemed by the Disney wrapping paper and the dice in the CD box for playing the enclosed game. That’d be the easy review, but it’s not entirely true. Some of it is generic sludge, no doubt about that, but one or two moments really stand out, and leave a hook embedded in your head like Candyman. The title track is nicely angular, all choppy guitars and whooshy keyboards. That’s followed by the even better ‘Like You’, a straight ahead Throwing Muses rip-off. ‘Stopper’ sadly isn’t a paean to the noble art of goalkeeping, but that’s not surprising given that Sidi Bou Said wear their femininity on their sleeves, and football is another form of male oppression (probably).
To a male listener, it does induce a degree of guilt. These women are really pissed off, and I’m not messing. There’s no doubting the sincerity of the sentiments, but the lyrics are usually too cack-handed to take anything seriously. ‘Bella’ should be an obsessive murder song to rank alongside Nick Cave’s. “Hate that cunt but want her madly/Stupid bitch who behaves badly/so I pump my bullets gladly” aren’t lyrics for the faint hearted, but the chorus of “I splat your head” just reminds me of that Kids In The Hall sketch about crushing people, and the song sounds absurd.
They’re definitely better when they’re doing US college rock, but they have a tendency to turn into Tori Amos, Shakespear’s Sister (God help us) or Kate Bush (we really need you now, big guy.) As I said, the dice is a cool touch, and there are a couple of real gems on the album, but nowhere near enough.
Barry Adamson
Oedipus Schmoedipus
(Mute)
This first appeared in a blaze of anonymity last year some time. Round about the summer as I recall. It was the sort of record you heard about but somehow never quite got around to actually hearing. So Mute have decided to do you a favour and repromote it in order to make you buy it. Which is fair enough because it is quite possible that every home should own one of these. Why? Because this is one of those hard to describe records that is elusively cool and not remotely suspicious, although it should be.
There’s a big easy listening feel to it, grafted onto some kind of film noir soundtrack moods with varying degrees of oddball poetry liberally applied on top. Saxophones, honky-tonk pianos, crisp and mellow beats, fuzzy ambience, gratuitous (and very sharp) Miles Davis cover, various guest musicians, Nick Cave being scary about love and Jarvis Cocker gibbering on about sex (for a change). Starts with ‘Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Pelvis’, passes through ‘Dirty Barry’ and ‘Achieved In The Valley Of Death’ amongst many, before finishing at ‘Set The Controls Again’. What more could you say except, perhaps, that it makes no sense? Well, exactly...
Guitar Wolf
Missile Me!
(Matador)
Not the frighteningly inevitable musical debut of that hairy, arsey one off Gladiators (don’t worry Ulrika fans, I mean John Fashanu), but a furious taste of Japan’s blossoming hard-core scene. Guitar Wolf emerge from a tradition of Japanese noise acts who take the western punk ethos, shout at it, chop it up and swallow it whole. A severe Ramones obsession, as suggested by the brilliantly monickered track, ‘Kung Fu Ramone Combination Tactic’ is evident throughout ‘Missile Me!’. However, Guitar Wolf are no Fluffy. Sure, the same old buzzsaw riffs are there, but the only time you’ll see these chaps on Top Of The Pops, is as they hijack the studio whilst forcing Ant and Dec to munch on live maggots.
This record basically sounds like sushi. Raw, disgusting and extremely fishy. It comes across as somewhere between early Mudhoney or Flipper and one of those poor quality live bootlegs. If these guys have ever been in a recording studio, they certainly haven’t a fucking clue how to use one. Bad solos, crap drumming, unlistenable Japanese vocals and acres of feedback adds up to sheer musical chaos.
If, by golly, you still can’t conjure up an accurate picture of this record then, as Mr Lennon once crooned.....imagine. Imagine a male Teen Angels, imagine a clip from one of those scary Japanese endurance programmes, imagine that bit in Pulp Fiction when Uma Thurman is given the adrenaline injection. Take that moment and flesh it out for 30 minutes. This is no lame scud, this is a lazer-guided Polaris. Blink and you’ll miss it, watch it explode and you’ll be peeling your brains off the walls.
Various
Phoenix: The Album
(RCA)
With even Steve Lamacq bemoaning the four hour traffic jams on and off site in the sleeve notes, this album (which is virtually guaranteed to become an annual occurance) looks like it’s meant to be an apology to the masses, a reminder that there were some good bits about Pheonix ’96 - namely the music, and as apologies go this ain’t bad.
As the ultimate festival band, Dodgy are great as openers and Stereolab provide a bit of class. Even the Manics have risen to the festival challenge and make the normally tragic ‘From The Despair To Where’ sound like an excitable challenge to the masses. The exclusive tracks (read selling point for devoted fans) aren’t bad but not worth the price of a CD, even if one of them is Baby Bird running through a pleasant but unispiring ‘Bug In a Breeze’, including the lines “Like leather without beef, like Harris without Keith, I don’t need you”!
As far as live compilations go this is suspiciously good. Not quite ‘made in Stratford’ after all, with the only noticable cheer coming after Bowie shouting his way through ‘Hello Spaceboy’, so if you want this of a souvenir of those hazy, lazy days or to see if you can hear your mate Bob shouting obscenities in the middle of Terrorvision then this isn’t the one for you. Go see the bootleggers in Camden instead. If however you want a live album that you’ll probably listen to more than once then get Bob to buy it. I’m sure he’ll let you tape it.
LaBradford
LaBrafdord
(Blast First)
Labradford were once two. One anonymous American type on synthesizers and another on guitars, tapes and vocals. After releasing their first album they felt they needed depth and roped in a bassist for their second. They got it. ‘A Stable Reference’ had so much depth it sounded like an ocean, or gravity, or, as some would have it, a fridge. With this, their third, album they’ve gone so far as to get a drummer as well. They’ve even put the vocals up a bit in the mix so that you can hear them. They’re almost a proper band now.
In some ways this is a shame. Even though I had trouble listening to ‘A Stable Reference’, their second album released in ’95, I was blinded by its sheer other worldliness. It didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard before and even now I come back to listen to ‘El Lago’, the second track off that album, and cannot believe how much a song with no discernible tune, no beat and no lyrics can be so good.
The mistake, then, Labradford make on this album is to make the vocals more of a focal point. Before they were just vague mutterings heard along with all the other movements in the molten mass that is their music but now you can make out the words there seems to be a focus and as such the tracks loose some of their power. However, on the plus side there is a little more melody and a little more to grasp on to as you fall headlong into the waves of chords and melange of sounds that ebb out of the speakers. It’s almost music.
Reef
Glow
(Sony / Soho Square)
More of the same old poo from everyone’s favourite testosterone-crazed, guttural growlin’, chest-beatin’, all-snowboardin’, mini-disc marketin’ Sony henchmen. Mercifully only a six track taster, a mere aperitif if you will, was sent out, so who can say what delights the whole album might hold in store? Just a guess, but I’m saying the similarity between these tracks makes it a pretty safe bet that the rest will sound exactly the same as well (with the exception of token boring ballad and depressingly inevitable future single release ‘Soft Song’ - These boys got soul, man). The abysmal ‘Place Your Hands’ secured a ridiculously high chart position despite sounding like the Black Crowes, merely because celebrity ginger Chris Evans liked it. Chris Evans has stated live on national TV that Charlene from Texas is attractive. This is not a voice to believe.
The most HUH-UH! annoying thing about H’ALL RIGHT NOW! Reef is the HEYOOH-HUH! way that Mr. growly singer bloke peppers UH! SPEAK NO LIE! every song with bollocks exclamations and random Neanderthal-style gruntings. In an American accent. Wanker. Don’t get me wrong, many of my friends are Reef fans, some of whom are bigger than me and will hurt me, but this has to be said. They stink. (Reef, that is. My friends are textbook examples of personal hygiene). They stink of the sweaty excesses of crashingly dull stomp rock, they stink of faking soul by using a gospel choir when everyone knows they sold their souls to the corporate devil, they stink of the rancid odour of a label that had the temerity to push the abominable ‘Replenish’ on an unsuspecting public while at the same time shamefully under-marketing Neds Atomic Dustbin and bringing about the downfall of one of this nation’s finest and best-loved bands. Oh. I’ve blown it, haven’t I....
Laika
Sounds Of The Satellites
(Too Pure)
Laika was the first dog in space. Naturally. Anyway, this album has a ‘hidden’ track stuck on the end, composed of a radio broadcast mentioning this dog, followed by the sound of a record getting stuck on it’s final loop for a minute or so. I particularly like that bit. I had that noise on the end of a tape onto which someone had recorded an album for me, and after the album it was really nice to listen to that for about five minutes, so I’m quite pleased to see it popping up on a CD. I think more CDs should have one of these stuck on the end.
Anyway, the rest of the album is pretty good too. It’s a bit hard to think of a comparison by way of describing them. They’re kind of a bit trip-hoppy, although maybe a bit more dub than other bands like that, and the female vocalist is more of a straight poetic-type. Okay, so maybe I haven’t cleared everything up for you there - but at least you know which kind of ball-park they’re playing in. It nearly always works well - the exception is ‘Bedbugs’, where she attempts a frantic spoken word type of thing. The unfortunate thing is that it doesn’t really maintain the really high level of the first two tracks, ‘Prairie Dog’ (“If I could pull the nose from my skin, I would”) and the single ‘Breather’ (“Dead dreams dropping off the heart, like leaves in a dry season”) - which both insistently spin out lyrics that stick in your head.
Begins with some bloke going on about you being unable to stop what can’t be stopped. But instead of being faced with some kind of musical Terminator, we are instead propelled into the high in polyunsaturates, low in saturates world of Martine Girault.
In her more successful moments, she manages a Mary J. Blige type of groove, but too often she only manages throwaway watery numbers. Light like low-in-fat food, but what you lose in weight you also lose in taste.
Hovercraft
Akathisia
(Blast First)
I hate reviewing albums that challenge my ability to review them. But I’m not going to talk about that for the rest of the review. You know when you listen to records that are quite experimental, or - damn it , I’m going to use the phrase - ‘avant-garde’, there’s quite a fine line between something being terrific and being total tosh (and I’ve often spent time trying to persuade someone of the genuine enjoyability of some pile of random piano notes). Well with this one, I’m not sure of which side of the line it stands. When a car alarm went off outside it fitted in well with the music, so that’s a good sign.
Well actually, the problem isn’t that it’s too experimental, it’s probably that it isn’t experimental enough. You’ve got your guitar, your bass, and your drums, and they just indulge in these extended instrumentals which kind of just change without really progressing in an interesting manner (don’t ask me to qualify that). Anyway, it’s quite enjoyable for the first ten minutes (and not particularly those at the beginning of the album - any ten minutes you choose to listen to), but after that I begin to think about other CD’s I could put on that could do the job better. If someone gave me the money to go and buy this record, I’d probably get a Stereolab album instead.
But my main concern with this band is the wonder why exactly they’re called ‘Hovercraft’. The obvious connection would be to do with any bouyancy in the music, but that’s not really evident here. Maybe this album just takes you across the channel to pick up alchahol then. Which in itself is quite a nice thought - if you can put up with the queasiness.
I’ve got my rod/and I’m holding it tight/I got my tackle/do you think they’ll bite?”
This opening line to the Ferrino classic ‘Fishing For Girls’ sums up the Portuguese sex and subtlety superstar quite succinctly. Here, Tony takes us on a sweaty ride in his Mercedes 500 SL through heartfelt (‘The Valley Of Our Souls’) via tasteless West-End musical village (‘The Silence Of The Lambs’) to sleaze central (‘Lap Dancing Lady’.)
Okay, so this is all very silly and is probably best avoided by those who feel that combining music and comedy reached its peak with Benny Hill. However, if you can see through the ridiculousness of it all, there are some fantastic, perfectly observed touches to be uncovered. Despair as Tony tries to keep up with Bjork’s vocal gymnastics on their moving duet ‘Short Term Affair’. Cringe as he repeatedly pleads “don’t tell my wife.”
Anyway, how stupid is this really, when compared to you average episode of Top Of The Pops? His Eurovision hit ‘Papa Bendi’ is no less laughable than ‘Ooh Aah Just A Little Bit’ and the vision of a man whose ego is matched only by his libido is not a far cry from our own becuffed Mark Morrison. Basically if you aren’t in stitches as Tony screams “Man Stallion, Man Stallion/What is sadder/than a horse hung like a man?” to the sound of whinnying then you must be his girlfriend.
Later Volume 2: Slow Beats
Various
(Island)
This is one of those albums that you really look forward to hearing when you find out about it, then feel a bit disappointed when you actually hear it. You think back to the performances themselves and think “why that song and not the other one?”. For example, why is the included Björk track ‘Possibly Maybe’ and not the brilliant vocals-and-big-bearded-bloke-with-snare-drum version of ‘Hyperballad’ from the same programme? For the purposes of this review, I will ignore the included boring soul funk jazz bollocks (D’Angelo, Neneh Cherry, Soul II Soul) and Everything But The Girl. You only need to be aware that they’re there, you don’t have to listen to them. I will also ignore the enjoyable, yet ultimately lacking, offerings from the likes of Massive Attack, Morcheeba and Guru.
Although this means that we’re actually ignoring about half of the tracks available here, there’s a good reason for it- the other half is brilliant. Portishead’s ‘Glory Box’ may very well be an overplayed triphop cliché, but the performance here (complete with 21-piece orchestra) is stunning. Portishead turn up again backing Ice-T, who reminds us that gangsta rap was about far more than guns and blunts when he invented it, Ben Harper and G-Love continue their crusade to rescue da blooze from Eric Clapton hell and Spearhead continue to prove that their live performances (or recordings of them) are vastly better than their studio output. Ruby’s version of ‘Paraffin’ is as good on record as it was on telly, and Tricky’s radically reworked version of ‘Suffocated Love’ would be worth the price of this album on its own if it wasn’t available on the current ‘Tricky Kid’ CD single.
A worthwhile compilation. Watch out for ‘Later Vol 3: Obscure World Beats By People No-one’s Ever Heard Of’.
Bring Da Ruckus
A Loud Story
(Loud)
I’ve been purposefully avoiding hip hop recently. I’ve had the feeling that one purchase will probably set off the floodgates and my bank balance will seriously plummit. However, what with the New Kingdom and Jeru The Damaja albums last year it’s getting a bit tricky (oh, my sides are splitting!) avoiding a genre that is rapidly proving itself the most alive and innovatory in a music scene dominated by backward looking reactionaries.
This album may just break the bank. It’s a compilation of one of hip hop’s best labels and one that has given us the mighty Wu-Tang Clan. Although all their solo stuff has been released on other labels Loud has the privilage to release the group efforts of this complicated collective and they have three tracks on this album whilst Chef Raekwon of the Clan has two. These five tracks dominate the album as only Mobb Deep get close to the heavy beats and dense rapping of their trademark style.
The great surprise for me though are the two tracks by The Alkaholiks who rap about getting pissed and generally being, well, alcholics. Their track ‘Only When I’m Drunk’ is the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages. This album also has a couple of swing type numbers of which the Adriana Evans track really stands out but they do sound bland next to the like of the Wu-Tang.
Overall, it is an album which, for me, has confirmed the fact that hip hop is a genre I really need to do some catching up on. It is a great introduction to some great artists but unfortunately I have that sinking feeling that it’s really going to make my switch card burn.
Rick Wright
Broken China
(Rick Wright Records)
Rick Wright is in Pink Floyd. He has lots of money to buy new fangled instruments, set up his own lable and release a substandard, spineless album and not flinch when no one buys it because it’s a concept album. Or something like that. A Wright solo project is to Pink Floyd what a Roger Taylor album is to Queen.
The songs are mainly Wright playing keyboards and singing, which equates to an amateur dramatic ‘Phantom Of The Opera’ feel - but with expensive keyboards. This album lacks any sense of humour, which is a shame because with Mr Wright’s permission I would love to use the Moore penned lyrics in a ‘90’s Spinal Tap production. The verse is based around the words pain, child and fear. How deep.
Nevermind. Rick Wright can pull in the names. Sinaed O’Conner makes an appearance but is drowned out of earshot by the middle aged Michael Ball (or possibly Alan Ball?). More names. Silly ones too: Pino Palladino, Maz Palladino, Manu Katche and Langley Iddens. Bokko!
Overproduced, weakly written and as inspiring as tofu. You might not believe me, but I like Pink Floyd but not this. Don’t buy it. Rick Wright says in the sleeve “Thanks to all those brave enough to face their past.” Aaiiieee!
Laurie Bennett & the Models
Dream Ferret
(Magic Blanket)
Unsurprisingly, where Mr Bennett is concerned, this is a strange one. Strange yet infectious - after three listens your attention has been severed and you’re in the music.
To attempt to dissemble and describe the music this man writes and plays with his various Models is really a somewhat unfair (and probably futile) exercise. Anyway, it takes elements of all sorts of musical genres and cultures, wraps them up in some kind of odd pop glow with a distinctly full sound (kind of Phil Spector-ish) that belies the 16 track nature of this mini-album. Laurie’s distinctive voice works in several registers - often several at once, actually - frequently becoming a hook in itself. For instance, the baritone half spoken chorus in the title track which is, quite simply, a sublime pop moment. The songs he’s singing are hallucinogenic tales of all sorts and nothing much - punctuated and augmented by the odd time changes and schizophrenic style.
So, the first listen is kind of difficult - you need time to come to terms with this unique vision. Maybe it leans a little too heavy on the Reggae vein in places - not whole songs, just one or two of the basslines - but really the underlying sense of fun and poetic happiness carries you through those doubtful moments. By the time you reach the delightful finale of ‘The Weekend Stops Here’ for the second time, the restful lamenting buzz of the song makes you want to hit play once more and go straight back to the off-kilter hazy groove of the opener ‘Swarm’.
In truth then, somewhere in the 29 minutes on this CD, there is true pop genius trying to escape. With the threat of another release (this time of more commercial songs) within the year, you had better keep your ears open and watch the open cheque books winging their way to Lincoln.
Slade
Feel The Noise
(Polydor)
Groovee. Slade rocks. Like a pile of cold stones. The really annoying thing about this CD is that there are some almost vaguely cool tunes lurking somewhere deep in the mire. But whenever you think you might be able to like it, Noddy starts shouting too much. Thing is, they must have sat down and worked out who should sing, and that leads one to the conclusion that all the others must sing worse. The only mitigating factors here are the good guitar tone and the comedy too-much-drugs lyrics. Otherwise, all you get is bad pop moments, designed in Hades, for people with overgrown mullets and really stupid trousers.
Having said that, maybe the really dumb people who got all the worst songs into the top ten the first time around will be dense enough to shell out again. For crying out loud, what the hell was happening in the seventies? Basically, Mr Marketing Man, you can take your glam pub rock revival and shove it up your bloated overfed arse. And take these prime specimens of black country pondlife with you.
The Woolpackers
Emmerdance
(RCA)
Oh Lordy. A record combining two of the Twentieth Century’s worst concepts - records by TV stars and crap novelty dance crazes. The ‘stars’ in question being ‘hunky’ Zak, Terry and Vic (who?) from boring rural soap Emmerdale, and the all-new dance set to take the nation by storm being line dancing, so named because it involves standing in a line. And dancing. Apparently, all you do is stick your thumbs in your pocket and strut around for a bit. Popular with Americans, it would seem.
Anyway its not an all new dance craze, because I distinctly remember dance gurus Richard and Judy proclaiming it as all-new about five or six years ago when Billy Ray Cyrus released the truly, truly hideous ‘Achy Breaky Heart’. It failed to sweep the nation then, because it was fundamentally a shit idea, but not as shit an idea as the decision taken by Emmerdale’s producers to front the album not with the soap’s sexy young stars, but with the three crusty old farmer types. Sound marketing there, I’m saying. Still, if the idea of a bearded Yorkshireman growling “squeal like a pig, boy!” appeals to you, I’d suggest you snap this one up. Otherwise, avoid it like the steaming pile of horse manure it undoubtedly is.