Porter – Arcade (2019)

Porter parece usar el silencio como la base encima de la cual se añaden sus instrumentos. O sea, es como si oyeras la ausencia en sus canciones, y lo que te llega como oyente parece venir de lejos, o incluso de otra dimensión. A sus canciones les da un elemento extraterrestre y incluso excéntrico, como si hubieran elegido montar su concierto en la sala al lado, y hayan obligado a la audiencia a presenciarlo a través de la pared. Por así decirlo, es la coexistencia simultanea de presencia y ausencia, la una implícita en la otra. 

Me recuerda un poco de Spoon, quienes también usan el silencio como una tabula rasa sobre la cual imponer sus sonidos. Pero a diferencia de Spoon, quienes contrastan este silencio con la voz carismática de Britt Daniel, Porter amplifica este sentido de abstracción extraterrestre, de estar contigo pero a la vez fijado en lo otro, tanto con sus elecciones sonoras como el cantante.

El cantante de Porter, David Velasco, tiene una voz monótona y llana, casi robótica, que logra transmitir su compromiso con lo que canta a la vez de cierto desapego de ello. Si un día David Duchovny de ‘Expediente X’ eligiera cantar en español, no sonaría tan distinto, quizás. El otro contraste vocal obvio, al menos para mí, es con Karin Dreijer de The Knife, quien claramente usa la manipulación artificial para apelar a lo extraño. Sin embargo, lo gracioso es que Velasco logra un efecto parecido sin el uso de tecnología.

Mientras tanto, los sintetizadores también refuerzan el sentido del robótico de Porter, apelando a la ciencia ficción de los años 80. En el estribillo especialmente, suenan casi como láseres, disparando en medio de una batalla galáctica.

Por cierto, debería contrastar tanto Porter como Spoon, bandas que parecen utilizar el silencio y hacerte fijar en ello como punto de contraste entre el sonido y su ausencia, con bandas quienes no lo hace, por ejemplo Los Piratas. En la gran mayoría de las canciones de Los Piratas, la presencia lo es todo, como lo es para casi todos los grupos. Realmente, hay pocos quienes usan el silencio como parte del lienzo sonoro.

Además, me doy cuenta de que este uso del silencio es bastante oriental, incluso zen. Me recuerda de un libro de filosofía japonesa que leí el ano pasado, ‘La Plenitud del Vacío’ de Yasunari Kitaura, que incluía ejemplos de pinturas de monjes japoneses, donde el espacio vacío ocupa la mayoría del lienzo. Se podría decir que hay un paralelo musical con Porter, aunque claro, los objetivos de Porter y los de los monjes se diferenciarán mucho. Al final, me parece que Porter sigue queriendo entretenerte, y lo hacen muy bien, mientras los monjes no. Para concluir, ¿me pregunto si Porter es consciente del efecto que crean sus canciones, y cuánto de ello es a propósito, o si les viene naturalmente?

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Porter seem to use silence as the base on top of which they add their instruments. To put this another way, it's like you hear the absence in their songs, and what comes to you arrives from far away, or even another dimension. This adds an extraterrestrial or even eccentric element to their songs, as though they'd chosen to set up their concert in the room next door, and obliged the audience to listen through the wall. In a sense, it's the simultaneous coexistence of presence and absence, the one implicit in the other.

This reminds me a little of Spoon, who also use silence as the tabula rasa onto which they impose their sound. But unlike Spoon, who contrast this silence with the charismatic voice of Britt Daniel, Porter amplifies their sense of extraterrestrial abstraction, of being with you but focused on what's other, both in their sonic choices and the singer.

Porter's singer, David Velasco, has a flat, monotonous and even robotic voice, that manages to transmit his commitment with what he's singing alongside a certain detachment from it. If one day David Duchovny from 'The X-Files' chose to sing in Spanish, it wouldn't sound so different, maybe. The other obvious vocal contrast, at least for me, is with The Knife's Karin Dreijer, who clearly uses artificial manipulation to invoke what's strange. However, the funny thing is that Velasco manages a similar effect without the use of technology.

Meanwhile, the synths also reinforce the sense of the robotic in Porter, appealing to 1980s sci-fi. In the chorus especially, they sound almost like lasers, firing in the midst of a galactic battle.

By the way, I should contrast both Porter and Spoon, bands that use silence as a point of contrast between sound and its absence, with bands that don't do this, for example Los Piratas. In the great majority of Los Piratas' songs, presence is everything, like it is for the almost all bands. Really, there are few who use silence as part of the sonic canvass.

Also, I realise that this use of silence is pretty oriental, even zen. I'm reminded of a book of Japanese philosophy I read last year, 'The Fullness of The Void' by Yasunari Kitaura, which included examples of paintings by Japanese monks, where empty space occupies the majority of the canvass. You might say that there's a musical parallel with Porter, although clearly, the objectives of Porter and the monks would be quite different. In the end, it seems to me that Porter still wishes to entertain you, and they do it very well, while the monks don't. To conclude, I wonder if Porter is conscious of the effect their song creates, and how much of it is intentional, or comes to them naturally?

St. Vincent - Digital Witness (2014)

Las trompetas flotan encima de la acera. Se tocan a si mismas, sus teclas apretadas y soltadas como si estuvieron manipuladas por hombres. Barajan, se balancean, al ritmo de su propia melodía. Están en un calle estadounidense. Las fachadas de las tiendas están pintadas chillonamente, sus ventanas llenas de lata plateadas. Mientras que se mueven, el reflecto del sol baila encima del superficie de cada instrumento. Siguen en una cola por la calle. Al ver los, los compradores desvian violentamente, lanzando sus bolsas llenas de compras en un circulo aldredor de sus propios cuerpos. Es como si fueran bailarinas en disfruz, aprovechando de las rebajas, o paseos en un parque temático. Una mujer, un cisne blanco. Un hombre, un helter-skelter. Mientras tanto, una voz feminil suena encima de todo, como si fuera un coro de campanas del cielo: "Get UP to yer seat." Y así son los primeros cinco segundos de la canción. : )

The trumpets float above the pavement. They play themselves, their keys pressed and released as though manipulated by men. They shuffle, they swing, to the rhythm of their own melody. They're in an American high street. The facades of the shops are painted in shrill colours, their windows full of silver cans. While they move, the sun's reflection dances over the surface of each instrument. They continue in a line down the street. On seeing them, the shoppers swerve violently, launching their full shopping bags in a circle around their own bodies. It's like they were ballerinas in costume, making the most of the sales, or theme park rides. A woman, a white swan. A man, a helter-skelter. While this is going on, a feminine voice rings over everything, like a chorus of bells from heaven: "Get UP to yer seat." And so go the first five seconds of the song. : )

Marlango - Si Yo Fuerta Otra (2012)

No hay nada especialmente original sobre Si Yo Fuera Otra. Sin embargo, no en el sentido de que suena como cualquier otra canción en la radio hoy. En lugar, no hay nada especialmente original, porque suena casi exactamente como algo de Rain Dogs, el disco de Tom Waits estrenado en 1985, con la única diferencia que el cantante es una mujer. En serio, podrías poner esta canción como un bonus track de Rain Dogs, y aparte de la voz femenil, no notarías la diferencia. Es Derivado con un D capital.

No obstante, eso dicho, no es decir que Si Yo Fuera Otra es una cancíon mala. Y esto es por dos razones. Primera, tan pocas cosas en este mundo suena como Rain Dogs, que algo que lo imita es bienvenido. Hay espacio de sobra para cosas que suenan a Rain Dogs, yo creo. Segunda, este sonido se asocia tanto con Tom Waits, que es una sorpresa cuando aparece la voz del cantante, Leanor Watling. Y lo que es más sorprendente, es que la mezcla funciona bastante bien. La voz dulce y romantica de Watling hace una contraste implicada con la de Waits.

Y, aparte del patriminio de Si Yo Fuera Otra, sencillamente, me gusta escucharla. Es una canción que podríá recomendar a gente que no habla español, porque la voz de Watling comunica tanto aparte de las palabras. Suena romantica, divertida; no hay que entenderla. Es una voz facil, en el sentido de que te relaja, y te invita tomar placer en el momento. Por qué rechazarla?

Laura Veirs - Sun Song (2013)

Como artista, Laura Veirs ha advanzado en la manera más sutil. Aún canta de la naturaleza, dando gracias por los colores del amanecer, el profundo azul del cielo, et cetera. Además, sigue con los mismos instrumentos: la guitarra acustica, y la violín, con que toca cada cuerda individualmente, como gozos de lluvia chocando contra una ventana. Entonces, en su letra, y la forma en que construye sus canciones, es igual. Sin embargo, a pesar de eso, no suena como la misma mujer hace diez años. El contenido emocional de sus canciones ha cambiado completamente. Ser especifico, es como, en lugar de estar en admiracíon del mundo, como un niño viendo una flor por la primera vez, como fue en discos como 'Galaxies', ya comunica un profundo tranquilidad y entendimiento. Tal vez esto tiene algo que ver con el hecho de que ya tiene hijos. Podría ser que, ahora es madre, se ve a si mismo como parte de la vida del mundo; es decir, parte del mismo proceso como el cambio de las temporadas, o el subir y bajar del sol. No sé. Sin embargo, el hecho es que, aunque sus canciones no han cambiado en ninguna forma tangible, comunica una sabiduría nueva ahora, que es muy agradable.

As an artist, Laura Veirs has changed in the most subtle way. She still sings about nature, giving thanks for the colours of the dawn, the deep blue of the sky, and so on. What's more, she still uses the same instruments: the acoustic guitar, and the violin, with each string plucked individually, like drops of rain crashing against a window. Hence, in her lyrics, and the way in which she constructs her songs, she's the same. However, in spite of this, she doesn't sound like the same woman from ten years ago. The emotional content of her songs has changed completely. To be specific, it's like, instead of being in admiration of the world, like a child seeing a flower for the first time, as she was in albums like 'Galaxies', she now communicates a profound tranquillity and understanding. Maybe this has something to do with the fact that she's got kids now. It could be that, now she's a mother, she sees herself as part of the life of the world; this is to say, as part of the same process as the change of the seasons, or the rise and fall of the sun. I don't know. However, the fact is that, although her songs haven't changed in any tangible way, she communicates a new wisdom now, that is very enjoyable.

Manolo Garcia - Un Alma de Papel

Cuando empiezas en un grupo de música, es facil a ver lo que te motiva. Quieres que la gente te escuche, quieres un público lo más grande que puedas conseguir, quieres ser rico. Y eso te motiva hacer buena música. Pero, qué pasa después, cuando has conseguido tus millones y tal? Para qué vas a seguir haciendo buena música? Pues, esto me parece un problema que les pasa a muchos artistas. En plan, pierden sus razones para ser artista. Con esto en mente, me interesa mucho músicos como Manolo Garcia. Tiene casi sesenta años, pero a pesar de eso está haciendo la mejor música de su vida ahora. Entonces, qué le motiva? Qué quiere conseguir? No es fama, porque todos los españoles le conocen. Y no es dinero porque, después de cuarenta años en la industria, supongo que ya tiene bastante. Entonces, lo pregunto otra vez, qué le motiva? Pues, en fin, no podría decir. Pero de todos modos, sé que me gusta que alguien que ya tiene fama y dinero seguia mejorando su arte. Me recuerda que algunos de nosotros trabajan para más de cosas materiales.

Jesca Hoop - Hospital (Win Your Love)

Escuchando al nuevo disco de Jesca Hoop, a veces tengo la impression que haya cambiado su ambicion. En sus ultimos discos, cantó como si compartiendo secretos, y su voz y sus palabras revelasen cosas de otros mundos. Como en (mas obviamente) ‘Four Dreams’, en que Jesca narra el contenido de cuatro suenos, incluido uno en que su stereo pierde sus baterias, y el dios de la musica lo da electricidad. (Y sabes que Jesca tiene un blog de sus suenos? Algunos son bastante interesante.)

Pero me parece que algo ha cambiado en su nuevo disco. Es como, en lugar de crear mundos nuevos mediante de sus canciones, quiera ser un pop star. Quiera decir al mundo, ‘Oiga - estoy aqui! Escuchame!’ en lugar de esperando para la gente la descubre. Toma ‘Hospital (Win Your Love)’ por ejemplo. En lugar de un mundo completo, tenemos un acertijo sencillo, se trata de una chica que quiere dana a si mismo para ganar atencion. Ademas, Jesca canta en una manera muy directa, como si quiera estar en el radio.

La cancion no esta mal. Pero es como, despues de tener algo tan intricado y intimo como sus ultimos discos, este es mas basico. Es como ir de Alfred Hitchcock a Arnold Schwarzenegger en un paso, o de pavo asado de McDonalds (bueno, no tan malo como eso, pero ya tienes la idea.) Jesca ha cambiado su direccion de verdad? Quiere ser mas commercial? No tengo ni idea. Pero para mi algo ha camiado aqui y, aunque no es el fin del mundo claromente, espero que no sea permanente. Me gustaria escuchar mas de los suenos de Jesca en el futuro.

Listening to the new Jesca Hoop album, I sometimes get the impression she’s changed her ambition. In her last discs, she sang as though sharing secrets, and her voice and her words revealed things from other worlds. Like in (most obviously) ‘Four Dreams’, in which Jesca narrates the content of four dreams, including one in which her stereo loses its battery, and the god of music gives it electricity. (And did you know that Jesca has a blog of her dreams? Some are quite interesting.)

But it seems to me something has changed on her new disc. It’s like, in place of creating worlds through her songs, she wants to be a pop star. She wants to say to the world ‘Hey – I’m here! Listen to me!’ in place of waiting for people to discover her. Take ‘Hospital (Win Your Love)’ for example. In place of a complete world, we have a simple riddle, about a girl that wants to injure herself to win attention. Also, Jesca sings in a very direct manner, as though she wants to be on the radio.

The song isn’t bad. But it’s like, after having something so intricate and intimate, this is more basic. It’s like going from Alfred Hitchcock to Arnold Schwarzenegger in one step, or roast turkey to McDonalds (well, not so bad as that, but you get the idea.) Has Jesca really changed her ambition? Does she want to be more commercial? I have no idea. But something has changed for me and, though it’s clearly not the end of the world, I hope it won’t be permanent. I’d like to hear more of Jesca’s dreams in future.

Jesca Hoop - Peacemaker (2012)

When we use an adjective to describe something, on what basis do we determine that the thing we’re describing has that quality? For example, I sat here listening to Jesca Hoop’s “Peacemaker” just now, and wrote out a list of the qualities I thought it possessed (or rather, that it evoked.) I’ve got words like: Tribal. Dreadlocks. Animal cries. Whistles. Iron works. Forgery. Witches. Shamans. Battle. Sex. Strength. Now, what is it about the song that summons those? To be sure, the lyric concerns battle to some extent, but that’s just one part of the experience. Instead, it has to do with the musical construction, the use of instruments to evoke not just sounds but a sensory environment. Of course, I appreciate this is just my perception of the song. Jesca herself might not agree, and someone else might feel it evokes something completely different. Or maybe nothing at all. But it nonetheless feels that part of the richness of the song lies in the fact that it’s not just a song, but a construction that appeals to other experiences, or a fund of associations that we pre-possess. The reason I like Jesca so much is because she seems especially good at this.

Sting - Love Is Stronger Than Justice (The Munificent Seven) (1993)

Listening to The Munificent Seven again tonight. It occurs to me that the narrative is about comparable to being accosted by a drunken eccentric at the pub one night. He might be a bright-eyed chap, eager to impart stories of his long-distant past and about as likely to hurt a fly as lay a hand upon you. You might even settle into your chair while he’s speaking, he tells his tales with such confidence and skill. But at the end of that hour or half hour stretch, when the drinks are finished and silence settles across the table, and the eccentric pulls himself from his stool, slaps you on the back good-naturedly, and disappears into the night, you might wonder: “What the hell have I just experienced?”

For instance Sting uses the first person throughout. This itself is about as unusual as day night following night, and is no different from a million other pop songs before and after this one. Except that in ninety nine point nine percent of pop songs, the narrator uses the second person too. To whit, most songs are all: “I cannot do without you / You are the cereal bowl in which I pour my coco pops la la la.” Even where that’s not the case, using the second person implies an acknowledgement of the audience on the part of the musician. It’s like saying: “Look, I know I’m recording a hit record here, and squillions of filth-encrusted oiks besides you are going to purchase this thing. But for the next three minutes, let’s pretend it’s just you and me, alright?” But no. No such sop for the listener of The Munificent Seven. This is part of why the song reminds me of being accosted by an eccentric drunk: you might be being addressed and you might be listening, but your presence is never in fact acknowledged.

Part dos of my admittedly odd simile to describe the feeling I get listening to The Munificent Seven is this: though the narrator might ramble on and on about himself, the listener in fact learns almost nothing about him. The song after all tells the tale of Sting and his six hermanos(!), who agree to rid a bandit-infested village of its less desirable elements in exchange for the opportunity to wed six swooning senoritas. When the job is done and Sting realises the promised senoritas amount to just one, he does away with his nearest and dearest to get the girl. Beautiful no doubt. But is there a sense that Sting is perhaps repenting the cold-blooded murder of his kin, to have the chance to get into the pants of some dark-eyed beauty? Does it seem as though he’s fallen so deeply for this woman that, in his eyes, the murder of six men is worth her love? None of it. Instead it’s like: “Well, these are the facts.” He might be giving testimony in court perhaps, except that the tune is so damned jaunty. Hence my sense then that this is like listening to a pub eccentric. Sting might have just revealed the most sordid and important event of his life, but does it feel like has made the least connection with us? It does not – and that is a touch unnerving.

Sting – Love Is Stronger Than Justice (The Munificent Seven) (1993)

In recent months, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the old Plato axiom about knowing enough to know you don’t know anything. To the extent that I can have a conversation or argument with someone and each of us come away with a completely different interpretation of what happened, this axiom strikes me as true (or useful.) In the past week alone for instance, I’ve apologised to several people about what I feared might be unreasonable behaviour on my part, only to be told they hadn’t noticed anything amiss in the slightest. It hence seems folly to me to assume that anything is wrong with anyone, unless of course they make it plain that I HAVE done something  to upset them. (I am, for instance, pretty sure that I’ve upset an old friend to the point where they won’t respond to me, entirely because of this philosophy that people are not sensitive to the point of being paper thin. This is something I obviously regret.) But on the whole, I can’t assume that people on the street or on the train are going to break down and cry because of a perceived slight. The world doesn’t work like that and people (me included, I suppose) learn to toughen up and get on with things. The other advantage to this approach too is that it takes a lot of pointless weight off your shoulders. Being concerned that people might be hurt or upset, when in fact there’s no real cause to do so, prompts a lot of useless stress and anxiety. It means for one that you constantly double guess yourself.

One thing I am realising though is that, though it perhaps isn’t right to make judgements and so-called insights about the world, this is something you can still do regarding art. So I’m starting to get critical about music and prose again. Listening in particular to Love Is Stronger Than Justice by Sting last night, something occurred to me. Each line of the song is a complete statement unto itself. Each line relates to the song as a whole of course, but can also be digested as an independent asset. It turns out this is something Sting does a lot. It must be because he’s appealing to the mass market, and so breaks down his theses into bite-size chunks for public consumption. The pretentious git. Ho-hum. Not so interesting perhaps, but I like that I’m allowing myself to make observations like this again.

dEUS - Ghosts (2011)

You needn’t feel concerned if - five seconds into Ghosts - you feel an intense wave of confusion rush over you. Is this a dEUS song or a Lilt commercial? For the steel drums that kick in just after the percussion are so un-dEUS that, in truth, you could be forgiven for thinking Tom Barman had traded in his Belgian nationality for something mas tropical. Fear not though. Steel reverberations aside, this is dEUS warm and snug in the centre of a comfort zone established long ago. Tom for instance shows up not long after those Caribbean aberrations, sounding as usual like a nuclear explosion wouldn’t faze him. If this man had been born a parrot, his feathers would be unruffleable: he is that (ahem) cool. The structure of Ghosts is dEUS-by-numbers too. Chorus verse chorus, building like many times before to an electric guitar explosion at the close. Bought the t-shirt, as they say. 

However like expensive clocks and German cars, just because it’s old doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. Ghosts soars. Take for instance the gusto with which Tom bites into couplets like: ‘It wasn’t til I met you that I realised / I wasn’t living in a movie but a franchise.’ So bad it almost makes you want to cover your eyes. But enormous fun. Or how the sing-rapping at the verses becomes a soaring melody at the chorus. Sure then. Steel drums aside, no one is going to confuse Ghosts for a masterpiece of original song-writing. But does it matter, when the track is this fun? No. No it does not.

[Get it here: Deus - Keep You Close]

Laura Veirs - Tumble Bee (2011)

One good litmus test to determine how well a musician knows their own strengths and weaknesses is to look at the songs they cover. For instance, indie legend has it that Johnny Marr stormed out of The Smiths, on hearing Morrissey’s decision to cover Moon River (of Andy William’s repute.) More fool the unfortunate Mr. Marr of course because, while the cover itself is about as appealing as a William Shatner strip tease, the Great Moz went to make squillions as a solo artist. Nonetheless, the litmus test remains.

Onto Laura Veirs and her latest album Tumble Bee then. On listening, it only takes a song or two to realise that, unlike a certain Northern misanthrope, Veirs has a firm grasp of her own strengths and abilities. Though Tumble Bee is a collection of cover versions (in fact, a collection of all-American children’s songs stretching back to the eighteenth century) she has chosen so well you’d barely know these were covers at all. Take for instance the song Prairie Lullaby. Lines such as: ‘Shadows slowly creeping / Down the prairie trail' mine just the same seam of pastoral detail Veirs has dealt in for years (mixed metaphor alert!) Ditto regarding these lines from The Fox: ‘He had many a mile to go that night / Before he reached the town.’ This isn't so different from the anthropomorphising of the sun that features in Sun Is King, on July Flame.

Of course, you could argue Tumble Bee is an example of the snake eating its own tail, and that precisely the reason these songs work so well is that they influenced Veirs in her own songwriting. In that sense, you could call Tumble Bee limited. On the other hand though I prefer (as I mentioned) to think of this as a musician playing to her strengths. Though Tumble Bee might not break new ground for Veirs, it is nonetheless a great pleasure to listen to.

[Get it here: Laura Veirs - Tumble Bee (2011)]

Colin Stetson - Red Horses (Judge II) (2011)

I got home this evening determined to do something I had not done in years: browse through bands until I found something I both liked and found genuinely interesting. (I tend to blog about music I don’t like that much in fact, since finding bands I do like takes fucking ages. That said I thoroughly enjoy the sense of digging around the internet, finding something that I identify with as a person. It tells me more about me than I could perhaps consciously state, and is just fun.) So how long did it take to find something I liked? I guess about 30 songs from 30 different bands – and about 110 minutes. Fuck! I guess it was always this tough but – damn! – that’s a lot of evening gone.

Onto the music then – Red Horse (Judges II) from Colin Stetson. The thing I like about this is that the sound is so totally removed from the beaten path of things I encounter on a daily basis. Once upon a time, I chose bands and musicians because they channelled my existential angst so to speak. For instance, Jenny Lewis seemed to possess a self-awareness and pain at just being alive that I related to. Since then though, it seems I'm becoming interested in things that are interesting just in themselves. I don’t need music to channel angst. I don’t think this is necessarily a superior reason to like something – just a different one - perhaps related to my different position in life and experience. Being an office drone I feel it itinerate upon me to create the furthest possible distance from that in the evening, and that means strangeness. In addition, I suppose I like the idea of exploring uncanny states of being. Listening to the latest St. Vincent album for instance, I find the lyrics mundane but the atonal electric guitar solos fascinating. Just the sense of discord or disfunction being expressed. Heh - come to think of it, perhaps I am still choosing the bands I like based on what I relate to emotionally. Perhaps it's just the emotional states I’m hoping to channel through music have changed. : P

In any case listen to Red Horses. It's interesting - and so little in life is.

Bitter Ruin - Trust (2011)

In most pop songs the band tends to cohere in a single point around the frontman so that the instrumentation provides just a backdrop. Take the song I looked at last night - Campfire Songs from Carlos Forster. The instrumentation provides an emotional tone at odds with the singing but does not challenge it. It is background to Forster. In duets too the contributing singers tend to take turns dominating the song - almost never interacting. For me this often makes duets a sterile experience. In contrast the interesting thing about Trust from Bitter Ruin is that the band members outright compete against each other to dominate. Take the verses. In the first the female singer makes claims about being a drunk and pill addict - but then in the second the male refutes them one at a time. This is call and response raised to an aggressive pitch. Furthermore in the chorus the pair outright sing on top of one another - replicating as close as possible an argument between lovers. Tis a nice trick. Of course I recognise this is just a conceit - I doubt there is actual tension between the dual singers here - but it is nonetheless an unusual and interesting dynamic. Sorta.

Carlos Forster - Campfire Songs (2011)

Ever notice how in pop songs the words can suggest a quite different meaning from the instruments? Take for instance something obvious like Every Breath You Take from The Police. Listen to the guitars and it sounds like an all-out ballad intended to leave the listener loved up to the hilt. Take the words in isolation though and it resembles the manifesto of a psychotic. This is a common thing in pop music. However the problem comes in deciding whether the difference between the instruments and words is intended to soften the overall meaning - or provide contrast. For someone as pretentious as Sting he might have intended a joke on his audience - presenting something deranged as something romantic using the guitar. For Carlos Forster in Campfire Songs however his intention is a bit less clear.

The song provides advice to people facing death that - upon entering heaven - it is important above all else to remember the campfire songs for in fact there is nothing else. That sounds depressing – right? Except that his ramshackle guitar tone takes the edge from this and makes the song quite comforting. In fact had I not listened to the words I’d have had no idea it presented such a morbid sentiment. How then to reconcile the grim content from the blissed-out sound? I suppose on the one hand Forster might be - like Sting - intending a joke. He might be laughing at people that make light of religious topics - suggesting that people lacking serious ideas are ridiculous. To be honest though I sorta doubt this. Forster sounds much too sincere to be attempting something deconstructive. On the other hand then he might be – as I suggested earlier - using his instruments to soften his message. Thinking about death is not fun and in bringing a blissed-out guitar tone to the subject Forster removes its sting. He does not undermine death and the afterlife - he mentions both God and Satan in a respectful tone. But I guess that Campfire Songs is intended as a balm to people concerned about death in that Forster uses instruments to tackle a tough topic in a comforting form. Nice!

The Cat Empire - Sly (2005)

For me ska music is a little like I imagine talking to Lindsay Lohan might be. She looks good in a superficial sense and she can hold a conversation so long as it doesn’t extend beyond how she spent last night. But I get the impression that should I ask her about current events or her taste in art her brain might dribble through her ears. Take The Cat Empire song posted here. Energetic drums and a bright brass section and ten seconds in the audience is on its feet. Then the singer starts describing the approach of a woman he feels like fucking, alternating between fantasising about her in the third person and flirting with her in the second. Noooooo. Of course I should point out that it isn’t songs about lust in particular that I object to. Elvis Costello has penned some superb tracks on the topic. Instead it’s the ska insistence on keeping to the shallow end of the pool. Same thing applies to Madness. Our house. In the middle of our street. Our house. Death. Death to it all. Life is too short for things that don’t challenge us.

Joe Lally - Why Should I Get Used To It? (2011)

Before I start writing about a song, I ask a more-or-less fixed set of questions to figure out what it’s all about. Questions like: what kind of attitude is the band posing to its audience? The aim being to figure out what kind of experience the song is putting up. In St. Vincent’s Surgeon for instance, something tells me that, St. Vincent had the impact on her audience in mind during production. In contrast, I get almost nothing from Joe Lally’s Why Should I Get Used To It? There’s no keeping the audience in mind to create a specific experience. There’s no sense of emotional release on the part of the band. Instead, this is as meat and potatoes as rock and roll gets. Take the bass line for instance. It could not be a better hook, but no special effort is being made to reach the listener or please the musician. Same regarding the drumming and vocals. Each element of the song inhabits itself so to speak, competent but not pushing to reach an emotional or intellectual level. I can imagine the musicians sitting around, not thinking about what the song was going to accomplish but feeling it out. Of course, this doesn’t have to mean it’s a bad song. Like I mentioned, the bass line could not be a better hook, and the disaffected vocals recall Generation X to great effect (notwithstanding that the singer is pushing 50.) Furthermore, it’s refreshing that a band might put a song to tape without spending months in post-production. The present-day emphasis on grabbing the listener at whatever cost can mean songwriting gets lost in the process. That’s not the case here.

St. Vincent - Strange Mercy (2011)

Like most St. Vincent songs, listening to new track Surgeon is a little like being introduced to a gorgeous sociopath. Her voice is charming and disarming, but the words she speaks nonetheless keep one on one’s guard. Take first line: I spent the summer on my back. That’s a thing to start a conversation with! It could of course mean several things: Ms. Clark spent three months in an operating theatre or feels like she did (the song is called Surgeon after all), or perhaps spent the June to August period being fucked. But in fact it isn’t clear. She never elucidates. So one has to question: what sort of person introduces themselves like this? How traumatised (or flirtatious) must she be to tell people this? The temptation might be to back off at the earliest chance, except that St. Vincent has such a siren-like voice. Surgeon proceeds like this throughout, using Ms. Clarke’s voice as the carrot, and the insights and emotional tone of her language as the stick. In consequence, like her previous albums, one comes away from the encounter charmed but shaken, not sure that one has learnt anything about this woman, but unable to forget her.

Handsome Furs - Repatriated (2011)

Listening to Repatriated, I get the impression Handsome Furs frontman Dan Boeckner has spent a lot of time listening to David Bowie circa the Berlin Era. In fact, I’d go so far to comment that Repatriated might be mistaken for a tribute to Low or Heroes. Take for instance Boeckner’s singing. In lines such as: I see the future / It’s coming low he mimics almost on the nose Bowie’s inflection on Breaking Glass from Low. The same is true regarding instrumentation. Though performed on keyboard instead of electric guitar, the repeated riff recalls Blackout from Heroes almost to a T. I don’t think is bad as such, since Repatriated is a good track. I was nodding along inside moments. The trouble is that, should I feel the urge to listen to electronic-driven Bowie tracks, I’ll head to the originals. Hence though it’s enjoyable, Boeckner’s song feels redundant to me.

Of Montreal - Black Lion Massacre (2011)

0.00 Doesn’t the guitar roar resemble that of a lion? It is an aggressive thing to start a song. 0.03 Doesn’t the jangle sound reminiscent of a horror film? Like someone entering the room of an evil and/or dead child. Brings to mind innocence gone a bit pear-shaped. 0.38 Is that a moan in the background? How about the juxtaposition of the roar and the jangle? Both aggressive and scared? Unusual contrast. 0.45 Percussion sounds like the clap of thunder to me. 0.54 Drums recall both a heartbeat and the motion of a machine. Like someone feeling threatened but also a regular and unstoppable process. That bass too – almost not there. This features a lot in horror films to induce foreboding. 1.09 The vocals sound passive but non-human. There’s no emotional resonance here – in itself threatening. The echo recalls a loudspeaker. I have the impression this is something being broadcast. The use of the present tense is interesting. 1.26 The scene described is horrific but the listener inhabits it as it goes on. Happening happening. 1.32 Speaks of ritualised sex and murder. Post-Christian post-civilisation setting perhaps. Brilliant to suggest so much in so little. 1.45 Pagan I think. Fetishist too. Lot of instinct and surrender to our impulses. But ritualised. 2.00 Then the discordant guitar tone. Once more like a machine. Sounds like destruction or fire too. Terrible violence. But the narrative roots this in human action. So the industrial applied to ritual fetishist action? 2.20 Discord grows. Parallels to an orgasm of course. More and more until it tapers off.

Priscilla Ahn - Torch Song (2011)

Three things tend to strike me in songs like Priscilla Ahn’s Torch Song. Strike me less because these are exceptional things that leave me passed out on the floor in admiration, but more because such things are absurd, and make me laugh. 

First of all, such songs are written in the second person and address a specific human, in all likelihood the musician’s lover. More often than not however, this person is not in fact present, and resides it seems in the musician’s past. Long ago I thought I heard your name Priscilla begins Torch Song, using language that suggests this person were present, but singing as though reminiscing to herself. So which is it? Is Priscilla addressing this other person, or addressing no one? It’s never made obvious in songs of this sort, and often strikes me as absurd. (Of course I recognise this is half the charm.) 

Second of all, though the musicians in these songs sing as though recalling the Greatest Love on Earth, no one has much specific to recall about it. You were the only one to know me Priscilla confides to her audience and absent partner, pouring her heart into the line, but telling us nothing at all. This, of course, is not something unique to Priscilla Ahn. I tend to associate such songwriting with Coldplay, though I’m sure others mastered it long before them. 

Last of all, though songs like these are intended to be romantic, look past the sentiment tone and it seems these musicians have real emotional problems. Take the line quoted previous for example. Examined alone, it characterises Priscilla as an isolated woman, unable to connect with other human beings besides this absent partner. Either that, or she is in literal terms describing her first ever acquaintance. This of course puts a huge burden on this absent man, perhaps explaining how Priscilla finds herself alone in the present(!) The Police’s Every Breath You Take is perhaps the archetypal example of this song and, for people not inclined to sentimentalism, makes such tracks both absurd and a little bit terrifying. 

Of course, the reason I chose to describe Torch Song in terms of archetypal traits is that I found little interesting to write about in the song itself. Perhaps the most interesting thing is that Ahn uses forceful strums on her acoustic guitar, to counterpoint the soulful sustained notes in the chorus. That aside, this is the kind of generic thing that might have emerged from the Recdep of Orwell’s 1984 almost.