Spring
Spring & Friends
Bungalow
‘Spring and Friends’ was made for now, for this moment, to rescue everyone from reality. The room is submerged in Parisian elegance, Seventies’ kitsch/charm, and several meadowfuls of flowers and, er, grass. Swimming in fluid, relaxed, funky pop you feel COOL - a much under-rated word due to its continuous over-use in youth culture since the Sixties but, in its purest sense, it is so appropriate for this album that a review full of words can not provide a more accurate description. So there you are, floating on your back in ambient orchestration, guitar strumming, unidentifiable electronic noises, samba rhythms, slinky bass-lines and laid-back drum beats. Even in your old, baggy-at-the-knees tracksuit bottoms and school jumper you are sophisticated, yet casual, and undeniably beautiful.
By meshing Spring’s smooth French pop with the triphop/beat sounds of their collaborators (Javier Pez, Indurain and Extra Lucid) annoyance at some of their overly cheesy tunes and Cardigans-esque vocals is on the whole avoided, and relaxation is prevented from progressing into a comatosed state. There are still some borderline moments, on tracks such as ‘Pinky Poo’ and ‘Blisters and Bruises’, but ‘Skool Bus, Be My Star’ and ‘Hotel all showcase this fusion to perfection, taking Spring out of the bedroom and into a sleepy corner of a club where you can hear the hectic bpm vibrating through the surrounding walls, safe and exciting.
Ultimately, however, we are left unsatisfied in post-coital disappointment, knowing our partner could have given more and we could have reached higher heights. The experience is all too short, a slender nine tracks, and Spring seem to have held themselves back. But then the challenge and anticipation involved in unleashing that potential may well be worth the wait. Especially when we are still floating on a cloud of Gauloise smoke and daisies.
Various Artists
Quantum Mechanics
Renegade Hardware
We can blame Nico Sykes’ No U-Turn label for this. Ever since Trace’s ‘Squadron’, and techstep jerking itself out of the drum’n’bass scene, more labels have become characterised by that hoovering bass sound and the percussive ticking clock than seems strictly necessary, and, sad to say, many of these dalliances with the artform have actually done very little in pushing the envelope as far as the originators still do. Renegade Hardware would love to believe that they’re experimental but, a couple of solid twelve inches aside, this is just techstep done to a formula, and that’s just not the way to make music.
Too much of this album sticks with the tried and tested, and goes no further than run-of-the-mill drum’n’bass. Even the excellence of stand-out contributions by Optical and the ever brilliant Technical Itch can’t provide this LP with the edge it wants and so clearly lacks.
If this seems a bit harsh, it should be said that this isn’t totally shite; the aforementioned remixes are class, and sterling work by Dillinja and Future Forces, whose own remix work for the Itch is worthy of praise by itself, pulls ‘Quantum Physics’ out of the morass in a really inspiring way. It’s just that there’s so little going on here the rest of the time that there’s nothing to separate Renegade Hardware from so many other labels, not something to admire in a self-proclaimed experimental label. Wear the grooves on ‘Torque’ down till you can’t hear it, or put any Blue Planet samplers on repeat, but if you want to hear something inspiring don’t put ‘Quantum Physics’ on in the middle, because it’s fooling no one. It’s fine for what it is, but it’s nothing like it wants to be.
The Charlatans
Melting Pot
Beggars Banquet
If, like me, you’re rather sad about these things and own plenty of Charlatans’ early stuff, this semi-Greatest Hits compilation probably isn’t worth your while. There’s nothing too exclusive here, and the rare tracks (‘Theme From The Wish’ and a Chemical Brothers remix of ‘Patrol’), though up to the Charlies usual standard, aren’t worth getting too excited about.
If, however, ‘North Country Boy’ is (ahem) the only one you know, then buy ‘Melting Pot’ purely for the fact it’s by one of the decade’s greatest singles bands. ‘The Only One I Know’ is a classic, and always will be. The Hammond-led groove of ‘Weirdo’ still sticks at least four fingers up in the face of the period unfortunately known as Indie / Dance Crossover. And even though the Charlatans were slated during their ‘difficult third album’ period, it’s refreshing to hear ‘Jesus Hairdo’ and friends sounding better than ever in retrospect.
‘Melting Pot’ shows how the Charlatans’ sound has developed over the years, from the urgent energy of their earlier work, to their recent will to rock in as laid back a way as possible (see ‘One To Another’ for more details). They’re a good-time band who’ve had more then their fair share of bad times, and this album covers pretty much all of it. Although there’s nothing here from the post - Rob Collins ‘Tellin’ Stories’, probably due to sales figures, everything up until ‘North Country Boy’ is included.
It’s unlikely this album will convert the unconverted - there’s something about that sound and that voice you either get or you don’t - but if you bought and liked ‘Tellin’ Stories’, you’ll find ‘Melting Pot’ tells a bigger, wider story well worth listening to.
Truly
Feeling You Up
Headhunter Records
It’s true that, since the late ‘80s at least, Seattle has developed something of a reputation for a particular brand of music. But wait! Grunge isn’t dead (again) - it’s merely become a little more watery and slightly less pissed off with the world.
Upon listening to ‘Feeling You Up’, it doesn’t come as too much of a surprise to learn that at least two of Truly have passed through the likes of Soundgarden and Screaming Trees, although the union sounds little like either. Truly remind me of those kind of post-grunge bands (Sponge and Everclear, for example) who have taken the original plaid-shirt-angry-about-something-don’t -know-what blueprint and turned it into something a lot more lightweight, polished and well, MTV.
Truly’s contribution to the ongoing Saga of Seattle is by no means unoriginal, however. Pleasing, maybe, in a kind of Beatlesesque harmonies, 60’s style bass-lines way with the occasional bleepy nod to all things not hairy, scary and rock-like. However, it’s not all ‘Surfin’ U.S.A.’ and ‘Love Is All You Need’ around these parts you know. As the album title suggests, Truly appear to have a slightly more sordid agenda - songs like ‘Public Access Girls’ and ‘Leatherette Tears’ point to a ongoing interest in all things physical and a slightly kinky physical at that. And as for ‘It’s On Your Face’, you gotta smile.
Truly are clearly a far more sexy proposition than most of their more gloomier compatriots, defunct or otherwise, just rather more in a hazy afternoon kind of way than any major ‘if I don’t have you I’m going to die’ affair, but hey, who cares about sex anyway? Hee-hee.
Now Pearl Jam, to me, have always been one of those bands that I’ve heard of in a mythical kind of way, yet know precious little about. People older than me know about them, but I somehow seem to have missed the boat. Tender young thing that I am, the early ’90s grunge scene bypassed me whilst I sat blissfully unaware in front of Byker Grove when it still starred characters that seemed old.
I’d just about caught up with music in time to get all overexcited about ripped jeans, guitars and teen spirits, only for Kurt Cobain to die on me and drag most of grunge off to the grave in his wake. And that was that, or so it would seem. Well not exactly; some of those earlier contributors have just refused to shuffle off and leave their Doc Marten-clad roots in peace.
Pearl Jam have, in the meantime, been carefully going about their trade and to this day, seem to be turning out some works of admirable skill- ‘Yield’ compares favourably to some vintage Pearl Jam. The guitar-beauty of ‘VS’. does shine through in elements here and there, and the rawk of ‘Animal’ is apparent in ‘Brain of J’, the hit-you-between-the-eyes opening track. ‘Yield’ is definitely no disappointment - Ed Vedder’s voice holds the strange enthral that it always has, with some almost magic moments. The single, ‘Given To Fly’ really does fly effortlessly and magnificently, though perhaps it rides on the thermals of radio-familiarity - certainly a current favourite of Radio One, but deservedly so. The secret track at the end strangely sounds as if Pearl Jam have been moonlighting as entertainers at Israeli weddings in their spare time, but in all a satisfying main-course of an album; savour it soon. Nice box too.
Some musicians, it seems, will never be content with one instrument. Imani Coppola is one of these. To believe the bumf packaged with this album is to define her as a singer, rapper, violinist, guitarist and keyboard player. Judging by that lot she probably drives the tour-bus, deals with the record company and sets up the stage herself too.
If you think that lot sounds eclectic, check out the record itself. This is one of those albums that will have sad musical anoraks like myself playing spot the influence for days. There is a collision of styles as diverse as hip-hop, country and rock, to name but a few. This is a record by somebody who has no respect for musical pigeonholes and who doesn’t know or care what American singer-songwriters are supposed to sound like these days. If you must have a comparison imagine Beck with a cheery Alanis Morissette writing the lyrics.
Imani herself describes what she does as ‘happy, spiritual, feel-good rap’, with the word in operation being happy. That is not to say that this album doesn’t have its sombre moments - just listen to ‘Piece’ for proof of that - it’s just that the majority of it is so sunny as to be dazzling. Tracks like ‘It’s All About Me, Me And Me’ are just stupidly cheery, exactly what you want at this time of year. Purists will hate it, but the public will love it, predict a string of summer hits.
James Iha
Let It Come Down
Hut Records
I had been warned about this album before I listened to it; had been told that it was dreadful dirge. I had also been informed that it sounded nothing like the Smashing Pumpkins, the band with whom Iha plays guitar. This latter feature did not particularly bother me. I own no Smashing Pumpkins records and am not, nor ever was overly fond of them. It’s not that I’m trying to be smug, I just thought I should explain that I have no passionate beliefs about what members of the band should(n’t) be doing. Still, even from a relatively detached position, something inside tells me I really should detest this album. And yet... call it the effects of the early appearance of summer last weekend. Call it the whimsical remnants of Valentine’s Day. Perhaps even call it poor judgement. Either way, I can’t shake the feeling that ‘Let It Come Down’ is actually alright.
The majority of the eleven tracks are overwhelmingly sweet-natured and easy-going. ‘Sound of Love’ and ‘Beauty’ are pleasantly folky, but then you could say that about the entire album. If there’s one problem with Iha’s attempts to distance himself from the epic distortion of his ‘Other’ band, it’s that he never lets up throughout. The album browbeats you with its lightness of touch at every opportunity. There appears to be one clear reason for this: the invariably gentle, dare one suggest, frail tone of Iha’s voice. It’s not quite the newly-discovered gem that might have been hoped for and it has no range. Songs like ‘Jealousy,’ with its rawer rootsy guitar riff, are undone because Iha still sounds as if he’s singing about kissing in the sunshine.
Ironically, of course, it is tracks like ‘Winter’ which have a more distorted sound that stand out and add a little variety. Nevertheless, it’s hard not to be won over, if only just a little, by the touching simplicity which permeates the entire album. It’s hard, in fact, to think of a better descriptive term for Iha’s debut than ‘nice’. Not quite lovely, or heart-breaking, just nice. And if that sounds like I’m damning with faint praise, then it’s probably appropriate.
The Halo Benders
The Rebels Not In
K Records
It’s been three years since this sometime underground supergroup first appeared, when they sneaked out the brave and schizophrenic ‘God Don’t Make No Junk’. This new blast of fresh air is firmly situated between that brief yet blinding rollercoaster ride and the later, more meandering, ‘Don’t Tell Me Now’. This record is so much more song based and coherently created, but still as different as ever. So, the core of the Halo Benders is all about switching positions - trading leads, working off one another, or just not really paying attention and singing a different, yet complementary, song.
Most of the time, Calvin Johnson’s unconventional weaving of his almost brassy-sounding baritone into counter melodies for the surging, driving and altogether catchy music is still the prime hook. But meantime, to really mess with your head, Doug Martsch is off singing something entirely different. This meshes so well as a high register counterpoint, and is the true joy in listening to a Halo Benders record. Add Doug’s guitar work, which is as startlingly alive as it is in Built To Spill, and flesh out the bouncy-castle tunes to perfection with the presence of a maddeningly good rhythm section and it starts to make perfect sense. Those (not unrecognised) persons provide the rattle, the drive and the shimmer that help make this the definite pinnacle of everything the band has done so far.
You really need to hear this to understand, but I can tell you it definitely is fantastic. ‘The Rebels Not In’ also provides some serious evidence for greatness yet to be achieved.
Richard Davies
Telegraph
Blue Pose
Niceness; the ultimate musical crime. Music should be passionate, angry, heartfelt, raucous. Music should be either wonderful life-affirming brilliance or utter worthless shite. You aim for the stars and see if you can get close.
Well, fuck that. This album’s pleasant and no worse for it. Its value is all in its subtlety. Its changes from verse to chorus, from chord to chord, from slow to slightly faster are understated, yet effective. It develops in a gentle progression of moods that lead to the almost epic ‘Days To Remember’ planted at the end of the album.
It’s a bit like the Radar Brothers or Lambchop in its textures and mood. You’re left feeling soothed and pacified, ever so slightly happier than when you first pressed play. It nods to country but tries not to get too involved. It hints at AOR but is slightly too off beat for that. It needs a bit more bite but compensates with an abundance of melody.
It’s by no means a life-changing album yet it’s got more to offer than most released this month. This album is nice but in no way is it mediocre, which would be the ultimate musical crime.
‘Comparsa’ is Deep Forest’s third album. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the sounds of Deep Forest, it can best be described as tribal-trance, although even this fails to truly characterise their music.
The individuality of Deep Forest stems from the fact that they bring together ancient sounds with modern technology - hence a tribal chant is accompanied with a techno back beat. In a sense they can be seen as finding the roots of techno, although that is not their project; their project is to combine the music of the world to present us with an enlightenment, challenging the rules of the game, their music is refreshing and happy! Not bogged down with themes, it is a presentation of the world as acoustic expression, by combining traditional music from Spain, Cuba and even Syria. The French musical duo that are the heart of Deep Forest have created a unique sound that is both tranquil and inspiring.
‘Comparsa’ is ultimately influenced by the wisdom of African chants which is unfortunately lost on the Western world. Its strength is drawn from its ability to touch your instinct and your soul in its expression of such a sublime universal language. In this sense, Deep Forest are musicologists who you ignore at a loss.
Chantal Kreviazak
Under These Rocks And Stars
Epic
“Raw, sensual, and heartfelt,” according to the record company’s blurb. To be fair, that’s not a terrible description of this 23 year-old Canadian’s debut album. ‘God Made Me’ and ‘Believer’ could both certainly be described as raw. Coming from the Alanis Morrissette/Sheryl Crow camp, they are both similar enough to the aforementioned lasses to appeal to their multitude of followers. Indeed, if you ignore Chantal’s somewhat misplaced piano intro to ‘Believer,’ it could easily be an offering from Alanis herself.
Having said that, there are differences, namely Ms Kreviazak’s ‘sensual’ piano pieces. Tracks such as ‘Surround’ prove the album’s difference from records such as ‘Jagged Little Pill;’ it’s a long, flowing piano ‘epic’ which, to be honest, doesn’t really seem to work. It’s the sort of song that has you reaching for the skip button no more than half way through.
I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised with this record. Having resigned myself to a whole album of piano ballads, it was refreshing to hear something that wasn’t some wannabe Celine Dion or whoever. It certainly shows originality, which is an achievement in itself considering most bands today. Try it, you might just like it.
Michael Head
The Magical World Of The Strands
Megaphone
Take a man who’s the singer / songwriter for a band called Shack, a four piece backing band, a flute, and a string quartet, and what do you get? Something pretty amazing, actually. A band, in fact, who have recently been compared to the likes of (gulp) the Stone Roses, Spiritualized and The Verve, of all people. And whereas people are starting to realise that ‘Urban Hymns’ isn’t actually the masterpiece it was first championed as, this album really is worth a long period of residence in your CD player.
Listening to an album that’s positively drenched in a kind of warm melancholia is an incredible experience. There are songs here that don’t deserve the complete and rather shocking anonymity the band appear to have at present. There’s ‘Loaded Man’, that sounds like Bob Dylan waking up with a hangover in a shit English town and managing to top ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ when he tries to write about it. There’s the opening ‘Queen Matilda’ which starts things off very gently and seems like a bit of a support act for the rest of the album.
The words are difficult to make out - Head sounds almost like a cross between Ian Curtis and Ian Brown, but it doesn’t stop your jaw hitting the floor over a period of 50 minutes as you gradually take it all in. The emotional kick you get from this is almost unbearably gut-wrenching in places but it’s essentially highly uplifting.
By the third listen of ‘The Magical World Of The Strands’, a slightly stupid half-smile will have crept up your face, and you’ll probably leave the CD player with a feeling of, dare I say it, happiness. Because really amazing, affecting music like this doesn’t need 6 Brit awards, 18 sycophantic journalists and a bandwagon to jump on - just a slight feeling of loneliness and a few presses of ‘play’.
Warm Jets
Future Signs
This Way Up
It seems the romance between Warm Jet Louis and jug-eared radio temptress Zoë Ball has now sadly hit the rocks. You’ve got to feel sorry for the bloke, not only did he have to put up with her constant early mornings and alleged dalliances with ‘punk’ buffoons Three Colours Red, but he also misses out on the chance to become the son-in-law of eccentric educational hero Johnny ‘Think Of A Number’ Ball, the genius madman whose TV maths wizardry did more to make my generation numerate than Thatcher’s National Curriculum ever could. Just imagine going round to Zoë’s to meet the folks. Louis sits nervously on the sofa as Mrs Ball pours the tea and Zoë enthuses about this hot new band she’s just discovered called The Menswear. “So, Louis, Zoe tells us you’re a musician” says Mrs Ball. Louis’ answer dies in his throat as Johnny ‘Johnny Ball Reveals All’ Ball crashes into the room dressed in full pirate regalia and proceeds to launch into a nautically-themed song and dance number extolling the virtues of long division before frothing at the mouth and being wrestled to the ground by his wife. Poor Louis.
However, on the plus side, Warm Jets have come up with a debut album crammed with smart sharp-edged tunes which hearken back to a time when guitar music was so much more uncomplicated and in many ways so much better. No 30-piece orchestras here, as veteran Clash and Stones producer Glyn Johns keeps the sound crisp, uncluttered and straight to the heart. Warm Jets nick a touch of Pixies (Big bass intros and girlie backing vocals), a smidgen of Bowie (Louis’ pronunciation of the word ‘disco’ on the title track is particularly amusing), a hint of ‘Modern Life...’ Blur and a healthy dose of fragile melancholy (‘Vapour Trials’, ‘Meteorites’) to balance out the brisk pop of ‘Never Never’ and ‘Hurricane’. Top, top stuff. Never mind Louis, plenty more fish in the sea...
Delicatessen
There’s No Confusing Some People
Viper Records
Delicatessen are wilfully obtuse awkward buggers. It’s their defining characteristic, in fact. Just when it seems that their distorted, disjointed and distinctly odd rants might be coming into something approaching fashion, they have chosen to do a Strangelove and undo all the good work of their fine first two albums with a substandard third. Delicatessen have always walked on a tight-rope; with all music of this type the line between gloriously strange noise and self-conscious art-school pseudiness is perilously thin. Their first album ‘Skin Touching Water’, while containing some of their very best songs (‘C F Kane’, ‘I’m Just Alive’, ‘Classic Adventure’ to name but three) often strayed over that line and into wanky territory, but eventually emerged triumphant, albeit with a few embarrassing stains. 1996’s ‘Hustle Into Bed’ focused and refined the formula and remains easily their best album.
‘There’s No Confusing People’, however, despite its donkey-shagging cover, is the sound of a band with nowhere left to go; just nine more Delicatessen songs the world will be happy to ignore. The trademark lyrical obsessions are all there - Neil Carlill still reassuringly threatens his pets with all sorts of nastiness - but there’s no effort to engage the listener with anything new. They still occasionally hint at a twisted pop genius, and songs like ‘Candles And Moths’ and ‘Psycho’ flirt with the idea of a tune but the result is blandness. I can only hope that this (mini) album is a stopgap measure while they think up something new to do; in the meantime, stick with ‘Hustle Into Bed’ and try to forget this ever happened.
Sue Garner
To Run More Smoothly
City Slang
In a desperate attempt to begin this piece with a cunningly crafted ‘gag’, I have made an important and disturbing discovery. There are not enough famous Sues. Well, there’s tennis legend Sue Barker, there’s Soo from ‘The Sooty Show’ and a whole host of Susans, but when one is forced to dredge up former Eastenders ‘regulars’ Sue and Ali Osmond , proprietors of the ill-fated Oscabs taxi service, the extent of this discrimination becomes worryingly apparent.
As such, it is refreshing to see artistes like Sue Garner forging a new path for Sues around the world. This path meanders extensively through the garden of US alt-rock history and Sue’s position as a lovely big daffodil is firmly assured. This is mainly due to her connections with a lot of people I probably should have heard of, but haven’t. Indeed, Sue Garner’s origins in the realms of left-field / no wave guitar experimentation shine forth sporadically on this record, initiating some of the albums most interesting tracks in ‘Box And You’ and the sample based ‘Sense Enough’. ‘Silver Wings’ though, tries to achieve Live Skull-esque no wave weirdness, but merely becomes the first “feedback drenched” cover version to contain no discernible feedback. Elsewhere, chiming guitars and lightly plucked strings produce pretty sounds, spoilt only when Sue’s Patti Smith-like voice goes all Tammy Wynette, especially when she dices with the satanic world of Country and Western during ‘Dear Darling’.
Despite its shortcomings, ‘To Run More Smoothly’ is firmly redeemed by its sumptuous production values displaying a compelling attention to detail. Consequently, rich and emotive sounds are lifted from essentially ordinary ballads such as ‘Goodbye’. Sue’s album is a flawed, but often beautiful experience probably best heard late at night or in the early hours of the morning. I’m sure Sue Osmond would be proud, wherever she is.
Dawn Of The Replicants
One Head, Two Arms, Two Legs
EastWest
Throw away everything that is accepted, pick up the pieces and stick them back together with the clay from someplace near the end of the rainbow. Perfection is unlikely, but a glorious unabashed trip right around the loop and over the garden wall could well be on the cards. It’s like the music you find in your most disturbing dreams, those ones where there aren’t any rules or natural laws and you have to grab hold of your fear, stride onwards and outwards to see what you find. Dawn Of The Replicants seem to have remembered those sounds, reorganised them with no shortage of pop nous and committed them to tape. What results is a blast. By no means the finished article that is genius, but full of ideas and a willingness to let the seams show if it means you can hit the delight button.
At times it sounds like a cross between Guided By Voices and Lard (‘Lisa Box’) and at others like the Beach Boys in rehab (‘Mary Louise’). The rest of the time, there are references too numerous to mention that just get swept away by a sound that flirts with being tacky before deciding to get wasted in the woods instead. With lines like, “Keep away from daughter - she has homework to do all year round,” they have to be onto a winner. Sure, there are things you’d change but at the moment it’s not that important because it kicks arse sufficiently. Net result: marvellous homebred diseased alternative pop that has grown up safely away from the irretrievably inbred hole that is London. In short, they did it their way.
Sofa Surfers
Transit
a:head / MCA
The list of instruments Viennese Sofa Surfers used to create this long player reads more like a bric-a-brac shop than a studio. Instruments include a tiny drum kit, someone else’s bass guitar, a black six string, congas, tarabukas, shakers, handclaps, a broken melodica, a blues harmonica, a second hand vibraphone, some electronics, a wreck of a turntable and three sofas. From this shamble, however, Sofa Surfers have produced one of the finest debut albums heard for some time. The continuous soundscape squeezes every inch of potential from the equipment - including the sofas! Like fellow Austrians and contemporaries Kruder and Dorfmeister their sound is very organic, subtly covering a vast musical spectrum and array of sounds. The tiny drum kit takes a bashing as live-sounding drum and bass resounds on ‘Flaker’ and intricate percussion beats on the jazzy PFM style ‘Monoscopolis’. Soundtrack vocals warm up ‘Bon Voyage’ before King Tubby bass gives birth to the dub-reggae daydream of ‘Walking Ghosts’. The sound is timeless. Although on occasion taking themselves a little too seriously, Sofa Surfers have the last laugh with the blood brothers ‘The Plan’ and ‘Internac Ional’. With wah-wah guitar, hammonds and a brass section ‘The Plan’ quite literally booms. It is as if James Bond walks into a Tarantino movie just before something big is about to go off. Following on, ‘Internac Ionical’s’ ragga vocal sample hits Hawaii slide guitar whilst kettle drums rumble as a cheeky little beat tickles.
A post trip-hop (cringe) sound is definitely building up around Austria and particularly Vienna. Along with Tosca, Terranova, and Kruder and Dorfmeister it is Sofa Surfers that will pioneer this sound. With a bit of luck Austria may even share some of the limelight currently shining on Paris. Laid back listening for the educated ear.