The Scorpions, Humanity: Hour I

The Scorpions, Humanity: Hour I
Sony BMG

Ha ha. Heh. The Scorpions have landed on my desk. I didn’t realise they were still around. HA, hahaha. Brace yourself. It’s a concept album – about a war between humans and robots. That one never dies, despite the fact that the closest we’ve ever got to proper robots is a washing machine that starts when you phone it up from work. Also, it’s called Humanity: Hour I, which begs to be read aloud in that voice that does all the movie trailers. After searching for a while I can’t actually confirm this, but I will make an educated guess and presume that Humanity: Hour 2 cannot be far behind. Didn’t we learn after Guns N’ Roses? Didn’t we all agree that two part albums are absolutely always wrong? But seriously, don’t mock it – this record is at Number 2 in Greece.

Okay alright, let’s take this a little more seriously. The Scorpions, to fill you in, are a classic metal band from Germany. Their first album, Lonesome Crow, came out in 1972 and they have sold unbelievable amounts of records. Zillions of records. I am quite sure they don’t give a toss about whether concept albums are cool, and Axl Rose is a mere whippersnapper compared to their true Rock Dinosaur status anyway. And you know what? I like it. It is so far removed from anything you will ever hear on the radio, so far from the youth-obsessed music press, Kate Nash and Jamie T, that it stands on its own as a bombastic spectacle and a demonstration of everything that’s great about heavy metal. It has integrity. It has immense guitar solos. It has swagger, drama, and absurd lyrics: ‘At the end of the day, you're a needle in the hay/ You signed and sealed it, now you gotta deal with it/ Humanity, goodbye’. My favourite track? ‘Love Is War’ and ‘Love Will Keep Us Alive’ both get my vote, but are just pipped by ‘You’re Lovin’ Me To Death’. For those about to rock…

03/08/2007

Sum 41, Underclass Hero

Sum 41, Underclass Hero
Mercury Records

Some pop history first. Between 1977 and 1983, alternative music developed and mutated a hundred times over, snarling through ‘God Save The Queen’, stealing and reshaping reggae and funk before crash-landing in shapes as diverse as Soft Cell, Joy Division and The Smiths. Had it been possible, the Pistols would never have dared, nor needed, to release another Never Mind The Bollocks after seven years. Ignoring my unintentional comparison with the truly incomparable Johnny Rotten, in the seven years since Sum 41 released their multi-platinum selling album All Killer No Filler the Canadian punk muppets have journeyed through genres as diverse as pop-punk, faster-pop-punk and even pop-punk-metal. Sheesh. When you consider that pop-punk is itself a genre that dates back to the early 90s it seems perverse that anything so generic and repetitive can dare to call itself by the P-word.

Opener and first single ‘Underclass Hero’ is embarrassingly familiar, bearing an almost identical rhythm and melody to 2001’s ‘Fat Lip’. Chief songwriter and husband-of-Avril, Deryck Whibley, has explored marginally more mature themes on this record (absent fathers and George W. Bush) but it’s such a predictable and yawnsome move from the big kids in short trousers that they barely register. The childish political posturing throws up some lyrical clangers too, of which the worst must be: ‘and now the President’s dead/ Because they blew off his head/ No more neck to be red/ Guess to heaven he fled’. Shocking. The band’s weedy manifesto also falls flat by bleeping the lyrics in the CD’s insert – down with the establishment indeed. Then there’s the obligatory stoopid song: devoid of humour and sung in Franglais, it concerns ‘ma petite poubelle’ and finding something in one’s ‘pantalons’. Quite.

But hey, all of this is irrelevant to how pop-punk operates. Fans of this most repellent and outdated of genres stick with it doggedly. Much like the never-ending Scary Movie franchise, Underclass Hero and its predecessors purport to be satire but are nothing more than adolescent poo jokes.

03/08/2007

The New Pornographers, Challengers

The New Pornographers, Challengers
Matador Records

Meh. The thing is, I know they’re good, I’m sure they are; all the right people are saying all the right things about them, it’s plain that they’re absurdly talented musicians and they’ve been on David Letterman, all of that. And yet – meh. For those who haven’t heard of The New Pornographers, they are often termed a ‘Canadian supergroup’ (a totally bizarre accolade that brings to mind some ungodly collaboration between Win Butler, Bryan Adams and Avril Lavigne, perhaps in aid of protecting the Arctic wolf) despite the fact that you probably won’t have heard of the bands they were each part of before. Instruments of choice include wurlitzers, mandolins, glockenspiels and banjos as well as a range of vocal turns, notably from Neko Case, the redheaded star of the show despite the Pornographers being the baby of lyricist and chief songwriter A.C. Newman.

This, the band’s fourth album, is a little more comfy, a little more quiet and perhaps a little more safe than its predecessors. Though Challengers will certainly be considered a mature and sophisticated effort, it veers dangerously near to MOR territory at times, particularly as the tempo remains at a constant mellow trot throughout. The organic warmth of tracks like closer ‘The Spirit of Giving’ makes for a perfect bedtime record, but that’s also down to rather too many forgettable filler tracks and a soporific quality that overly orchestrated pop can often succumb to.

Fans of quirky, melodic pop full of unusual instruments and rich harmonies (Belle and Sebastian springs to mind) should buy this immediately, and no doubt the Observer Music Monthly and Uncut will hail it with showers of stars. But, I’m afraid, for me it’s still, y’know, meh.

03/08/2007

Jackson Analogue, And Then, Nothing

Jackson Analogue, And Then, Nothing
Universal-Island Records

Many people, ones in bands especially, are of the opinion that one should review records on their individual merit. Rock’n’roll antics, rivalries and feuds, the scene you’re part of, the haircut you’ve cultivated, the quotes you’ve had misinterpreted – these must all be put firmly aside as you deliberate the music and the lyrics in their pure, unadulterated form. I say, bollocks. You can’t help but look at a record in terms of its place in the world. Who are they? And what the hell are they wearing? If David Bowie was just some bloke who looked like your dad who’d also happened to write ‘Life On Mars’, then, trust me, you wouldn’t own his records.

Thus, I’m always wary of a band who’ll declare that ‘music is about passion not fashion and the right song counts for more than the right hair cut’. Music has always been about fashion. Even when Kurt Cobain came along wearing pyjamas and hair dyed in Kool-Aid, he had a look. You have to look like something, even if you look like death. Frankly, it strikes me as something to say if you’d really like to be a cool ‘fashion’ band but have no idea how to go about it, leading you to resent those bands who do have a few good haircuts between them. Methinks Jackson Analogue doth protest too much.

Coming to the end of my word limit then, let me point out that Jackson Analogue aren’t bad at all. They sound like The Bees covering Kings of Leon (they are from the Isle of Wight, after all). They show an appreciation for the protracted blues jam without ever straying into such territory. They squeeze in a bit of classic rock organ. The vocals are a bit iffy, but if you like Led Zeppelin you’ll be fine. And, despite their passion over fashion mantra, you can clearly see a waistcoat in their press photos. But, ultimately, though the opening tracks on debut And Then, Nothing are full of bluster and intent, it all peters out very quickly and becomes derivative and repetitive. So, by demanding me to judge their album solely on its musical and lyrical merit, they have earned half marks. Time for a trip down Brick Lane then fellas?

03/08/2007

Clinic, Funf

Clinic, Funf
Domino Records

Some years ago, when I first saw Clinic live, they had already existed for half a decade. Dressed in doctors’ scrubs, they used a melodica in virtually every song and played a set so hypnotic that the crowd was left wondering if it wasn’t perhaps Derren Brown behind that surgeon’s mask. Needless to say, Clinic have never been chart-botherers. From raw punk riffs to psychedelic scuzz, they channel anyone from the Velvets to Phil Spector through surf guitars, 60s organ or that really creepy melodica (FYI, a melodica is like a mini keyboard that you play through your mouth. Quite).

After the release of fourth album Visitations late in 2006, Clinic have followed it up with the obligatory B-sides collection. A dire listening prospect as far as most bands are concerned, the B-sides album is usually a necessary marketing evil preceding the old ‘musical differences’ chestnut and a parting of ways. In this case though, such a compilation is truly worthy of the plastic it’s printed on. Though Funf doesn’t present some alternate vision of Clinic’s output or better any previous work, there are some real gems here. The eerily festive ‘Christmas’ and all-out garage punk of instrumental ‘The Scythe’ showcase the extremes of Clinic’s range, and the soul rhythms of ‘Lee Shan’ contrast perfectly with Ade Blackburn’s tense vocals sung through a clenched jaw.

Fate is a cruel bitch, as the saying goes, and the saddest thing about this record is that no one is really going to buy it and, after ten years, few really know who Clinic are. They’ll have to wait for the inevitable retrospective when they split before taking their rightful place alongside Sonic Youth and Suicide as purveyors of brooding, intense punk rock. Or, you could do them a favour and get this record.

17/06/2007

To My Boy, Messages

To My Boy, Messages
Abeano Music

Hailing from Liverpool, To My Boy are purveyors of a sexy, scratchy space-pop that will no doubt be filed under ‘new rave’ along with countless other new bands who happen to be wearing Nike Hi-Tops. Unsurprisingly, there’s nothing much ravey about Messages save for a generous use of shimmering synth and energetic beats. Besides, this album is actually about something: each song is an ode to their fascination with the power of technology and the possibility to ‘step inside the mainframe’. The eleven tracks blend malfunctioning drum machines, glassy guitars and android vocals to provide a backdrop to philosophical musings on the internet, atheism and civilisation.

This is a sound that could only have come from the meeting of art school savvy (Sam White) and a physicist’s geeky obsessions (Jack Snape). They preach the democratising force of computers, asking ‘how can you feel alone when we’re all in the zone?’ Yet this isn’t an exercise in irony – in songs like ‘Outer Regions’, their ‘atheist hymn to optimism’, To My Boy praise the computer as a tool for interaction and increased human contact rather than the sterile object we generally regard it as.

With this in mind, Messages is obviously a member of the Kraftwerk church of Computer Love, but musically this record has far more texture and warmth. Ace singles ‘I Am X Ray’ and ‘The Grid’ pound along like a thousand monkeys with cymbals and, along with most of the other tracks, they’re made for the dancefloor. Besides, Messages is defiantly un-retro – this is not an album about robots and fantasy futurism but about the globalised, wireless world that we already live in. Ultra-modern and uniquely stylish.

17/06/2007

Immaculate Machine, Fables

Immaculate Machine, Fables
Mint Records

Kathryn Calder, vocalist and keyboard player in Immaculate Machine, is a sometime member of The New Pornographers (if we’re going to get technical, she actually just chipped in some vocals and a spot on the Joanna for the Pornographers’ 2005 record Twin Cinema). I know this because it’s mentioned every single time I read anything about Immaculate Machine.

Bearing this in mind, it’s not at all unfair to compare new album Fables against The New Pornographers’ output, because riding on someone else’s shiny coattails can never be an antidote to mediocrity. The good news is, Fables is a record cut from the same cloth as all your favourite Canadian bands, complete with layered harmonies, plenty of hooks and a plethora of unlikely instruments. Opening track ‘Jarhand’, a perky sing-along featuring vocals from The Cribs and Alex Kapranos, stands out as the best from this collection but also sets the bar too high for the remaining nine songs. The pounding, shouty ones like ‘Old Flame’ and ‘Nothing Ever Happens’ work best, with the glacial, prickly mood of ‘Northeastern Wind’ appearing as a welcome slice of melancholia towards the album’s close.

Elsewhere though, the three-piece lean too much on complex arrangements and instrumentation, with twee, syrupy results. Calder’s voice doesn’t help matters, being a stodgy and characterless instrument in songs clearly intended to be full of character. Likewise, the lyrics are a bluff of something more meaningful: “Send you off on a big adventure, X’s lead you to the treasure” on ‘Dear Confessor’ is typically banal. Then again, fables are cute nursery stories, not grand philosophies – and you wouldn’t stick a Descartes audiobook on in the car now, would you?

16/06/2007

James Yorkston, Roaring The Gospel

James Yorkston, Roaring The Gospel
Domino

On a snoozy Sunday afternoon in the Greenfields at Glastonbury, you might come across a tent where people are lazing on tatty bits of carpet and sipping tea the colour of nicotine. There will be music that seems so warm and cuddly compared to those shouty snotbags on the ‘important’ stages that you feel compelled to sit down yourself and let the sonic sunshine wash over you. A couple of hours later you’ll wake up with a crick in your neck to find that you’re alone, cold and damp and needing more than an alfalfa smoothie to cheer you up. Veganism is hopeless in these moments.

James Yorkston is a vegan and once turned down £10,000 for his music to be used on an advert for butter. His is the music that you would find in the sleepy little backwater stages of Glastonbury, or any festival where milk and two sugars is not an option. Yorkston’s mumbly, cosy voice and equally mumbly, cosy backing band, The Athletes, are like a hot toddy – soothing, Scottish and saccharine. The sweetness isn’t quite intentional, but every track on Roaring The Gospel shuffles past so politely that it takes minutes to even register that the album has ended.

The fact is, there’s plenty of decent folk about. Whether you like the hip, quirky folk that The Sunday Times bangs on about, or highbrow, virtuosic folk like Bert Jansch or Seth Lakeman, or even a stomping ceilidh at a pub, you’re never far from a good bit of folk. So where, really, is the demand for a collection of rarities and covers from a worthy but nonetheless dull artist like Yorkston? It’s all quite good, it’s all perfectly listenable, but you’ll wake up at the end wondering where the hour’s gone and why you can’t get a decent burger.

14/06/2007

Mark Ronson, Version

Mark Ronson, Version
Columbia

As any Amy Winehouse or Lily Allen fan will know, Mark Ronson is an undeniably fantastic producer. Since his hip hop days (remember single ‘Ooh Wee’?) he has provided countless rap, soul and pop artists with his unique production. On paper then, an album of covers recreated Ronson-style sounds like a recipe for monster record sales and stacks of five star reviews.

The first half of Version ticks all the boxes – tracks by Coldplay, Britney and The Zutons blossom into oddball gems heavy on horns and percussion and heavier on sunny Stax vibes and fingerclickin’ good rhythm. The Jam’s ‘Pretty Green’ is turned inside out and suddenly makes perfect sense as a dancehall nursery rhyme.

By the second half though, horn fatigue sets in and the whole exercise starts to drift. A bland remake of Maximo Park’s ‘Apply Some Pressure’ and a totally pointless version of ‘LSF’ that appears to have left the original Kasabian vocal intact let the album fizzle out. Radiohead classic ‘Just’ is annihilated by Phantom Planet; a whiny vocal that’s a mere impression of Thom Yorke lets down the inventive production. The music on its own is perfect, but Lily Allen’s drippy voice can’t quite lift her cover above mediocre and Robbie Williams’ lukewarm appearance is a real clanger. Still, there are some definite jewels here – get Version on Itunes, but don’t bother with the second half.

29/04/2007

Singles Review, March 2007

Emilie Chalcraft and Sidekick wade through the garbage to find a few gems and one absolute diamond…

The Bees, ‘Who Cares What The Question Is?’
E: If you found yourself in a saloon where John Lennon was behind the bar pouring bourbon and playing slide guitar it’d all sound like this.
S: It also sounds exactly like Chas and Dave. On Route 66.
E: This is true. But they wouldn’t rip a solo like that! Would be nice to see some shuffling railroad blues in the chart wouldn’t it?

Jamelia, ‘No More’
E: I’m expecting a hot’n’fresh-out-the-kitchen nugget of perfect pop, here. [Plays track].
S: Oh my god.
E: Oh dear me. It’s ‘Golden Brown’ by the Stranglers.
S: And the only thing ‘Golden Brown’ ever had going for it was that it’s in 13/8 time - and they’ve dumbed it down to 3/4 time!
E: That’s quite a rarity these days though. Where’s the chorus? This is really very bad. I feel unclean.

Tiny Dancers, ‘I Will Wait For You’
E: This deserves a mention for the packaging alone.
S: Really, the packaging alone. This sounds like that creepy song that gets played at kids’ discos – ‘I am the music man, I come from down your way, and I can play!’ – and then everyone sings ‘Pia-pia-piano’ and does actions.
E: Best to think of it as a pretty poster with a free coaster.

The Noisettes, ‘Sister Rosetta (Capture The Spirit)’
E: Now I know we’re judging the audio experience but I have to really drive home the point that these people look great. No stylist intervention here. Shingai looks like a riotgrrl Ziggy Stardust who’s been living in a bin with Oscar the Grouch.
S: This actually succeeds in being catchy, clever and original – it’s like the holy trinity of a good single.
E: Well, the chorus does sound a lot like ‘Neat Neat Neat’ by The Damned. Still, two out of three…

Lily Allen, ‘Shame For You’
E: I suppose you can’t deny the production is excellent. The squelchy dub bass and that cheeky brass band excite me very much.
S: None of that quite covers up the fact she cannot sing.
E: I think they call that her idiosyncratic delivery. It’s still yawnsome. By far the weakest single off ‘Alright, Still’.
S: I don’t like the way she’s inviting the thought of ‘poking’ her. This fad for sentences instead of lyrics is so bloody irritating.

Mark Ronson, ‘Stop Me’
E: Last one, then. [Plays track. Wild laughter. Track finishes. Plays track again.]
E: This is AMAZING. You seem reluctant – or is that horrified?
S: Um…
E: Can we make this single of the week or something? Probably best to explain that this is ‘Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before’, one of my favourite Smiths songs ever, turned completely inside out into a glob of brassy, Motown brilliance with Prince on vocals.
S: It’s not really Prince is it?
E: No. But it’s still genius. Out of ten I give this fifty. Hahahaha...