Number 10 New Order Clips - In a Lonely Place

I love this so much. Marvel at how far New Order have moved on from the Shadow of Joy Division. Lyrics by Ian Curtis sung by Barney in his own voice, compared to the pale imitation of Ian on the recorded version.

If Joy Division are long rain coats and gloom, this is class A drugs, synths, sunshine and those nasty shorts.

Faster Steve, faster......

New Order - My Top 10

I am going to post up my favorite New Order tracks over the next few days with clips from you tube if I can find them.

First my review of the Singles Collection penned for Music OHM

New Order - The Singles

Genius. Simply, pure genius. No doubt, no hesitation. New Order kings and queens of disco melancholy. Rhythm, beauty, melody and bass. God like genius award from the NME. A trifle. You know that Pope Benedict is addressing the calls for their beatification as a matter of urgency. Touched by the hand of god, the perfect kiss, heaven in their hands.

Singles is the perfect review for New Order. All thirty singles, from the brittle sackcloth of Ceremony to the sleek surging Waiting For The Sirens' Call. See, they hail from a time when bands didn't release singles from LPs. Bursting with so many thrills and pills that they dropped faultlessly formed blasts of music on matt black 12" singles. Songs full of languid grace and thumping beats. The Manc fab four. Effortlessly cool and arty.

The shadow cast by Ian Curtis' death, the weight of the myth of Joy Division would have been enough to bury most bands. That New Order not only rose above and did not buckle as people but exploded in a riot of electro, programmed drums and gruff honest humour is a miracle. When U2 went all postmodern and swish they where attempting to ape New Order's jump from the ashes of the past. With U2 it always felt like a mask, a game, a ruse and now they are back grinding out rock music in 1000 shades of grey, with New Order it was a love affair, a taste for New York high life mixed with Manchester low life. The art of parties. It shows in the energy rush, the glee and vibrancy of the music.

Blue Monday is often labelled with inventing indie dance. Sure its huge success brought the sound out of the left-field and onto Top Of The Pops but you can hear the stirrings on Everything's Gone Green and the majestic Temptation. Bernard Sumner's Chic via Salford guitar playing on Temptation is the sound of their past being unstitched and shrugged off. The long overcoats of Joy Division crashing to the floor revealing (if not gold lame, that comes in the video for World In Motion) then reds and blues where once was only grey. In the "woah woahs" of the refrain you can feel the relief, the light at the end of the tunnel. Memories cleansed, the future imperfect

Enigmatic single, followed enigmatic single. Along the way they invented the blueprint for much of the mid 80s indie. The Cure, in hyper poppy style and Depeche Mode owe much to the trailblazing of New Order. Depeche Mode's Enjoy The Silence is New Order in fetish gear. The bassline is pure Hooky. Subculture is a Pet Shop Boy's wet dream. Their sound can be heard in artist such as The Killers (named after the fake band in the Crystal video) and Franz Ferdinand, who think making dance music with guitars is radical. New Order were doing that in 1982!

Not content with re-imagining the limits of pop music, they also provided the cradle for acid house, their club the Hacienda becoming the Northern Mecca for the first generation of ecstasy fuelled ravers. Their finger has always been on the club pulse, leading where others follow. True Faith is an ode to drug use that sounds like a hot air balloon ride to heaven. Fine Time is Barry White meets acid house in a crumbling canal side warehouse, Regret a comeback greater than Liverpool's in the Champions League.

If you have any interest in pop music then sell your soul to buy this. At that price it's a bargain.

Glasvegas - The Best New Band In Britain

At my ripe old age I have become somewhat immune to the screaming hype that comes from the NME. A best new band banner headline in the NME would normally make me YAWH!

Glasvegas are different. Terrible name amazing tunes

I am gripped by a sense of anticipation that I had almost forgotten surrounds the arrival of a debut LP.

From the moment I first heard Daddy's Gone I've been hooked. The band blend the kind of kitchen sink reportage and eye for detail that the Arctic Monkeys excel at marriaged to a blissful, heavy reverb soaked sound. It the Jesus and Mary Chain covering the Smiths with the amps turned up really loud. Their is a yearning and ache in the sound, a scene of loss and hope. I can't wait for the debut LP.

Daddys Gone - Jules Holland

Geraldine - Jules Holland

Burial - Untrue Review

The landscape of London has had its fair share of bards, poets and punks. The city has been eulogised and damned by musicians as varied as The Clash, The Kinks, Patrick Wolf and even those arch Mancunians The Smiths.

To that list you can now add the name of Burial. The south London dubstep producer has released a collection of songs that has the city's dirty DNA etched into its grooves. The anonymous back bedroom genius has followed his ground breaking debut with a huge leap forward.

Untrue is not the streaked neon and glitter bomb buzz of the West End in the early hours. Nor is it the melancholy romantic sweep of city possibilities so beloved of outsiders. No, Burial has soundtracked the London night out beyond tube lines, the shadowy hinterlands of South London Boroughs. The stuttered shops, graffitied underpasses, the smashed bus shelters and abandoned cars of the endless suburbs. You feel as if you are wandering dazed through the early hours of a Sunday morning. Half-heard mobile phone conversations, reverberations of bass bins in passing cars, snatches of dance music drifting in the air. The lonely sound of a distant tower block party heard coming up through the piss stained lift from six floors below.

This record could not have been conceived or composed anywhere else but in London, 2007. Untrue is a dark record, a refraction of night time, a hazy, hypnotic mosaic of voices, beats, sub-bass and clouds of radio static. It's Iain Sinclair or Peter Ackroyd's psycho geography of London's hidden corners ripped from the page and made flesh. The sound of a ghostly city floating, the past remixed and remodelled into the near future.

The songs unfurl like a blissfully slow comedown, those hours spent waiting for the restless chemical-fuelled dawn. Ethereal vocal hooks, drizzle, crackle, submerged beats swimming to the surface of your dreams. You feel immersed in half-remembered clips of the tunes you heard on the dancefloor, Like the night is continually rewinding then jumping forward, twisting time, bending space.

Never has such a prosaic title as In McDonalds been attached to such a beautiful piece of music. The grandeur is conjured from the briefest whispers of electronic vapour, via slowly evolving string pads and a heavily treated, time-stretched vocal that melts away into thin air. The title track's restless snare-driven rhythm is welded to a soulful vocal sample and a swarming bass frequency that seeps through the mix like an impending headache.

On the nightmarish Homeless the samples, beats and synths collide head-on before the track is stripped back to a haunted twisted vocal, warped bass and the distant sound of gunfire. A weary, weak vocal sample intones "no future" over and over on the majestic Endorphin. The vocal rises and falls away like a voice heard through a broken radio, infusing the music with a sense of dread and unease.

Untrue is complex, stark, tender, blurred and breathtaking. Burial has managed the impossible and improved on his faultless debut. Buy this record, for diverse is the pleasure it will bring.

Burial - Archangel MP3

Portishead - Third Review

Portishead - Third (Island Records)

The release of Third by Portishead has been imbued with a heavy cultural significance. It has been reviewed on the Late Review, generated acres of coverage in the music press and broadsheet newspapers and there is a growing online buzz. It feels less like a release more an event.

In a music scene so deprived of anything approaching sonic innovation, there is a desperate desire for Third to be an audio panacea. That it will push the envelope, blur boundaries, feed our imaginations and extend out expectations. Relight the fire of experimental wonder at the crossroads of dance music and indie.

It’s been ten years since the misfiring second LP Portishead. Ten years? Is that too much of a wait or even a weight.? Has it been worth it? Frankly, no!

Back in 1994 it seemed that Portishead had discovered the future sound of heartache. Dummy inverted hip-hop. Slowing down the beats, removing the machismo and replacing it with angst and twisted song writing. Geoff Barrow strip mined the sonic template of hip-hop, capsizing the structure. These static Luna landscapes and haunted dancehalls where the perfect foil for Beth Gibbon’s smoky evocations.

The signifiers we all too quickly collected collated and copied by a host of pale imitators. The skinny latte genre of Trip Hop was commoditised and packaged. Now blaming Portishead for the likes of Sneaker Pimps is like blaming Elvis for Cliff Richard or The Beatles for Oasis the source material might be the same, the outcomes somewhat different.

The bands reaction to the wholesale larceny of their sound was to get darker, harder and grittier. The second LP, confusingly titled Portishead, replaced samples with live recordings and melancholy with full blown despair. It sounded like a band fighting too hard to distance themselves from their original sonic blueprint. The resulting songs where sterile and still born. Somewhere along the way they lost the magic that coursed through crackled hissing grooves of Dummy.

Third is much closer to the disappointing harsh metallic sounds of the bands second LP. The songs are overloaded with heavy bleeding synths, high whining strings, heavy strained rhythm patterns and a far too many turgid guitars.

Yes Third is dense but devoid of tension. It aims to be abrasive and harsh but comes across merely ingenuous and brash. You get the feeling that the band where aiming for something edgy, maybe the nightmarish soundscapes of Scott Walker’s Drift. If that was there intention they are wildly wide of the mark.

The Drift is bone chilling, a myriad mix of disconnected sound and complex Gnostic lyricism. A scream into the dark emotional void of the 21st Century. The only blood curdling aspect of Third is Beth Gibbon’s appalling lyrics. They are thrown into a stark and unforgiving spotlight, much more audible than on previous releases. They are so pitiful, sub teenage Goth platitudes that would be unforgivable for a teenager. That the author is over the age of 40 beggars’ belief.

The lyric issue wouldn’t be so crippling if the music wasn’t so grey, ponderous and lacking in dynamism. Yes the have attempted to broaden their palate and range. Acoustic guitars and folk melodies intertwine with the beats and strings. Unfortunately you soon realize that Beth Gibbons wouldn’t even scrape a living as a folk artist on the Bristol Pub circuit. The material on display is so pallid and clichéd. The Rip is awful collision of Fairport Convention and Kraftwerk, all flimsy pastoral imagery, wishful melodies and analogue synths. The hook to Machine Gun is a stunningly prosaic rhythm track. A slowed down blunted version of that kick drum pattern that powers New Orders Blue Monday, repeated over and over again.

Third starts promisingly enough. Silence rattles along on some frantic percussion and descending bass notes, the guitars spidery and inert. Portishead by number maybe, with it’s grainy film nor atmospherics but it is the stand out track. Hunter is a lacklustre folky lament with a pedestrian rhythm that is juxtaposed with a bleeping synth interlude in a failed attempt to inject some interest.

Disappointingly ordinary, you can help but feeling the alchemy that Portishead summoned up on Dummy was a fluke.

Tony Heywood ©

American Music Club In Bristol

A few photos the set list and hopefully a video (shot on my phone) of Hello Amsterdam which they opened the set with.....its sideways but you get the idea!! Will try to work out how to change it...

PJ Harvey White Chalk Review

PJ Harvey – White Chalk (Island)

In search of her muse Polly Jean Harvey has ditched the stripped down bone dry blues of Huh Huh Huh. In the arch of PJ Harveys career this is nothing new, each record seems to have been a reaction to the previous one, but she has never gone this far out before. Purged are those trademark guitars, missing those deep vocals growls, absent any signs of alternative rock. The results are a brave, honest and terrifying record.

In fear of repeating herself, unwilling to release substandard material, she has abandoned the guitar as a writing tool. These songs where written and performed on the piano. An instrument that is an unfamiliar to her as a healthy diet was to Elvis. The results are a collection of sparse, skeletal songs. This is audio ectoplasm. The material haunted by ghosts, unfulfilled desires, departed lovers and loved ones.

From the first moment you hear Polly sing on this record you aware of the change. Her voice is pitched at the highest point of her range. A floating whisper compared to her usual tone. The backing track just sparse piano notes, a barely audible guitar and restrained drumming.

Lyrical concerns are cryptic, impressionist, allowing the listener to draw the dots to divine the meaning from the dark and broken images. There is loss, regret and a fair degree of guilt hidden amongst the twisted oaks, decaying fallow earth and enveloping darkness

The lead single When Under Ether is a brave choice. Harvey has spoken of how pleased she was that it sounded so odd when played by Zane Lowe on Radio One. That it’s otherworldliness provided such a stark contrast to the lumpen guitar rock that is the programs stock and trade.

The piano melody of the track gently repeats itself as Harvey sings of an operation, probably an abortion, in a hushed drowsy timbre. The description is in the first person but you not sure if its autobiographical or dark fiction. The protagonist is focussed on the human kindness of the staff; it is an unsettling and unusual twist. The theme is of an unwanted child is alluded to throughout the record.

On the gentle acoustic strum of White Chalk there is mention of “Dorset’s white cliffs reach the sea, …unborn child me, scratch my palms there is blood on my hands..”, the guitars are coupled with a banjo and then a set of single hammered piano notes carry the song to a close.

A single vocal pleading “please don’t rapproch me for how empty my life has become..”snaps you awake at the opening of Broken Harp. The clanking of, well broken harp carries the melody before the songs drops to a multi tracked vocal and a organ drone Harvey sings “Something metal tearing my stomach out, if you think ill of me, can you forgive me.” The starkness of the declaration is an electric shock, a high voltage and soulful testimonial.

The brevity of White Chalk, little over half and hour, leaves you breathless and anxious. The ideas crammed into these eleven songs are more than many artist manage in a career. This is a record for the dark nights of the soul. Heaven only knows where PJ Harvey will head next. Will she be able to top the power and precision of this record? I don’t know but I am already desperate to hear her next step forward.

Tony Heywood
©

New Reviews

Have done a few reviews for Music OMH this month.

St Vincent - Marry Me

Annie Clark's debut is a hit and miss affair hamstrung by the over the top production and the juvenile nature of some of the lyrics.

Shearwater - Palo Santo

Oh joy! A record full of ambition,post rock ambient textures, guitar shredding, think the majestic late period Talk Talk. Pure bliss.

Liars - Liars
Loud, proud, obtuse, arty, artful you have to love the liars.

The National - Boxer

The National - Boxer

I was worried when I heard that The National where struggling to follow up the breakthrough success of Alligator. All the bands previous LP’s had been so fluid so natural that I feared that a creative impasse would result in a tedious mess of a record.

The first syncopated piano notes on the opening Fake Empire buries that thought for good. The slow build from a piano, low humming guitar and Matt Berninger’s gorgeous baritone is all restraint. A full minute and half passes before the first drum roll that rattles like a gun shot, another fifteen seconds before the drums properly kick in. Then a burst of brass elevates the song onto another level.

It’s a brave opening, a statement of intent. Boxer isn’t going to be Alligator mark II. They could have written huge guitar anthems and become Coldplay. Thankfully they have minted something darker, fragile, deeper, troubled and glorious. Boxer progressively unfolds as a series of stark tracks, all monochrome guitar shades, intense drum patterns and obtuse melodies. Berninger’s dense lyrics concern themselves with the ennui, the emptiness of urban life. He nails the anomie, the soulless city sickness that seeps through the cracks in the sidewalks.

For all the dark subject matter, this is an uplifting record. Squalor Victoria , is a beautiful collision, of piano, strings and drums that sound like Steven Morris on Unknown Pleasures. Start a War, all chiming guitar refrain and gentle eddy of ambient organ is Johnny Marr produced by Brian Eno. If Burt Jansch was raised in Ohio he may have written the beautiful lament of Racing Like A Pro.

Boxer is a subtle masterpiece. The band are disciplined enough to let the songs breath for themselves. They sound like a 60’s soul band covering Joy Division. Wonderful.

Tony Heywood (C)

First published in Mercury Moon

You Tube Cover of the Week PJ Harvey Dress

You Tube Cover of the Week PJ Harvey Dress

I seem to spend a large amount of my spare time watching music clips on you tube and I have become increasing interested in the rough hewn cover versions that appear on the site.

I will endeavor to bring you my favorite cover each week.

The honour of the Highway Five cover of the week goes to:

djambas cover of PJ Harvey’s Dress

With just her acoustic guitar and a soaring voice djambas strips the song back to its harsh and aching core.

This version of Dress is much closer to the demo version of the song than the one released as a single The conflict between desire and self loathing that forms the centrifugal force of Dress is highlighted perfectly in djambas no thrills cover version.

I am sure Polly would be proud.