The Decemberists: Live

The Decemberists: Live at The Coronet, Elephant and Castle

How would you define confidence? The first entry on dictionary.com lists confidence as “full trust; belief in the powers, trustworthiness, or reliability of a person or thing”. Urban Dictionary states that confidence is “absolut could-care-fucking-less-what-every-fucking-body thinks” (well, they would, wouldn’t they?). But of all the myriad definitions, surely this ranks pretty high: how about releasing the album of the year, going on tour and then playing said album in its entirety as a warm-up to your own gig? Yep, The Decemberists sure have confidence – such an act fits both the definitions above – and on the evidence of their show at The Coronet, it most definitely isn’t misplaced.

The Elephant and Castle Coronet in South East London is primarily used for club nights rather than live gigs and only holds 2600. It seemed a pretty small venue for a Decemberists show, especially seeing as it was a sell-out weeks in advance and was one of only two London performances to promote The Hazards of Love (the other being at the even-smaller Kentish Town Forum).

The show opened – unsurprisingly – with Prelude, and cheers and whoops reverberated round the theatre as the various band members gradually wandered onstage. Colin Meloy’s guitar rang out the opening riff for The Hazards of Love #1 (The Prettiest Whistles Won’t Wrestle the Thistles Undone) and from that point on, it was non-stop. The Decemberists performed all seventeen tracks of The Hazards of Love without pause and without hesitation. The delicate, tender tracks (Isn’t It a Lovely Night?, The Hazards of Love #4 (The Drowned)) were given even more consideration and attention, while the more upfront, rock numbers (The Wanting Comes in Waves/Repaid, The Rake’s Song) were raced through with an urgent intensity. On Won’t Want for Love (Margaret in the Taiga), drummer John Moen went hell for leather, attacking his hi-hat and snare with both sticks simultaneously.

If you’re unfamiliar with The Hazards of Love (and if so, seriously, where have you been?), it’s basically a concept album. There’s a narrative arc throughout, centring around four main characters: two of which are voiced by Meloy, and the other two by guest vocalists Becky Stark of Lavender Diamond and Shara Worden of My Brightest Diamond. Just to make it clear who’s good and who’s bad, Stark wore white and Worden wore black throughout the show and they were in fine voice, Worden in particular performing some applause-worthy vocal gymnastics on Wanting Comes in Waves/Repaid.

As the final strains of The Hazards of Love #4 (The Drowned) died out, the crowd rose as one to give an ovation and Meloy said, “Hi, London, we’re the Decemberists,” before the band left the stage. People in the crowd were looking at each other in amazement as if to say “there’s more?!” and it was hard to imagine how such a spectacle could be matched.

The second half showed that, as well as being writers of extended pop fiction of the highest order, The Decemberists are the jauntiest band in music today. Their songs seem to trigger a Pavlovian response, where you can’t help but move in time to the bass, which is almost oompah-like at times. After an hour of solid music in part one, Meloy and the rest of the band engaged with the audience extensively in part two, and displayed their acumen as traditional all-round entertainers. There was a story of how violent The Elephant and Castle pub in Portland, Oregon is, which ended with the payoff, “so, really, I think you guys could’ve picked somewhere better to name this area after”, there was jazz improvisation between songs and there was even a singalong, where Meloy divided the crowd up (“hey, you there, yeah, you, step left, hey, everyone, this is Dennis, we take him everywhere”), got them to harmonise and then shifted the dynamics like an orchestra conductor.

Oh yeah, there were songs too: great, great songs. The Yankee Bayonet, O Valencia! and Sixteen Military Wives all got a great response. Admittedly, they didn’t play my favourite (We Both Go Down Together, since you’re asking) but I was too busy enjoying myself to really care. After what seemed like not long at all, they retreated backstage once more, leaving the baying crowd hungry, despite the fact an obvious return was imminent, as it always is in these situations.

Meloy returned solo and performed a heartfelt rendition of Eli, The Barrow Boy which had the packed venue almost silent in reverence before the other Decemberists returned. Meloy subsequently announced that for their last song, the crowd would need to “scream as if they were in the belly of a whale”, which triggered possibly the loudest cheer of the night. All five band members stood stage front (plus an inflatable killer whale, courtesy of some industrious soul in the crowd) and ripped through a high-energy version of The Mariner’s Revenge, which was a culmination of everything that had occurred over the previous two hours. There were highs, lows, noise, silence, screams, dancing, slow bits and fast bits, Russian Cossack dancing (evidently quite difficult whilst playing a double bass) and such ferocious drumming that by halfway through the song, the stage was strewn with drumstick and tambourine debris.

A shellshocked, buzzing throng then emerged into the autumnal London night and went their various ways home, all united by what they’d witnessed. That was my night with The Decemberists; they’ve finished their A Short Fazed Hovel (an anagram of The Hazards of Love) tour, so, um, sorry… you really should’ve been there, these paltry words are nothing like an adequate substitute.

Temporary Pleasure

Simian Mobile Disco - Temporary Pleasure
released 17 August 2009 on Polydor

If aliens were to land on our planet tomorrow, they’d probably waste no time asking the big questions. Why do we have wars? Why are some people obese while others die of starvation? Why - when he’s so unnecessarily rude to everyone - doesn’t someone punch Gordon Ramsey really hard in the face? However, this is a music review and since your humble narrator is fond of a whimsical flight of fancy, we can add another question to that list: what’s going on with the naming of music genres?

Pop music no longer means music that’s popular, R n’ B has long been devoid of anything approaching either rhythm or blues and what exactly is alternative music the alternative to? At least you always knew where you were with dance. The raison d’être of dance music was, rather unsurprisingly, to make you dance, and to hell with anything more noble or meaningful. However, the advent of superstar DJs and ubiquitous chill-out compilations has heralded a world where dance has branched out into countless variations, not all of which are fit for dancing.

Simian Mobile Disco could well fit into such a category. Along with groups such as Justice, they belong to a select group of more cerebral dance acts, which place as much importance on the detail as the beat or groove. They’re a combination of old-school dance and Kid A, and SMD’s commitment to the finer points was summed up by the title of their début album, Attack Decay Sustain Release.

The problem with such an approach is that there’s a danger of it all coming over as “art for art’s sake” and hard to love. SMD employ a wealth of additional vocalists for Temporary Pleasure, and on tracks such as the Gruff Rhys-led opener, Cream Dream, seem too in thrall to their guests to really let loose. Every click, tone and beat of Cream Dream is perfectly formed, the vocals are great but it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit more melody and, you know, something to dance to, maybe?

It’s a theme which crops up throughout the album. Temporary Pleasure suffers from relying too heavily on the singers to carry the song whilst SMD do all the clever, science stuff in the background. It’s only on vocal-less tracks such as the fantastic 10000 Horses Can’t Be Wrong that they show their true class. It’s a modern club classic with an irresistible riff (strangely reminiscent of Hot Butter’s Popcorn) and a perfect build-up, leading to an thrilling but agonising pause and the euphoria when the hook comes back in. The trick is repeated on the other stand-out track (and only other song without vocals), Ambulance, which has nightmarish, squonky synths in abundance.

As we go into the new decade, appearance and reputation are all important and let’s be honest, SMD are cool. They’re cooler than you and they’re a damn sight cooler than me, so on occasion, Temporary Pleasure can be hard to warm to. This is music for über-trendy LA clubs, where impossibly glamorous women bump and grind in gold, lamé micro-hotpants. Alas, anyone who has ever spent time in a town centre of the UK knows that a night out equals binge drinking, shrieking regional accents, a river of E number-filled, dangerously alcoholic vomit and a fat girl crying in a corner somewhere. It’s hard to see where Temporary Pleasure will fit in and who it’s for; the relentlessly catchy single, Audacity of Huge, namedrops like there’s no tomorrow (Mama Cass, Peter Tosh, Joey Ramone are all mentioned) - what will that mean to an inebriated teenager in a dingy club in Gateshead?

Luckily, there’s enough to keep you more than interested, if not jumping to your feet to shake yo’ thang. Miraculously, Beth Ditto doesn’t ruin the sultry Cruel Intentions, and shows that, oddly, she may be more suited to the role of ice-cool diva as opposed to her day job of screaming at all and sundry as if they’re personally standing in her way of control. Bad Blood sounds exactly like Hot Chip (no surprise, as it features Alexis Taylor) and Young Fathers provide a welcome change of pace on the hard-hitting Turn Up the Dial. Yet still, it’s all about image, and the lyrics to the whole of Temporary Pleasure are little more than repetitive, empty platitudes.

Maybe all this is the whole point, after all, you can over-think things. Turn the volume up, have a few drinks and this album would probably sound amazing. As it is, attempting to detail this record by scribbling down poorly-formed half-phrases in a notebook and expanding them out in a Word document seems out of step. Frank Zappa famously said that “writing about music is like dancing about architecture” and that may hold at least partly true for Temporary Pleasure. It’s not meant to be written about, it’s meant to be enjoyed. It’s trashy yet too self-conscious for its own good, it’s lovingly crafted yet ultimately hollow, it’s dance music which veers from so catchy you can’t help yourself to chin-stroking music to nod at and appreciate. To quote Morrissey, “it says nothing to me about my life”, but it could mean everything to you.

Three

The Loves - Three
released 11 May 2009 on Fortuna Pop!

Even with, or perhaps because of, the limitless possibilities of the Internet and the seemingly endless recommendations from the blogosphere, artists can tend to drop through the net. Take The Loves, who released their third album, the unimaginatively-titled Three, in May of this year to the glee of no-one in particular. In such situations, Wikipedia is the enterprising hack’s friend although we all know it isn’t exactly the most reliable of sources (either that, or the climate of Colombia actually is perfect for growing moon rocks).

The other problem with Wikipedia is that the pages for musicians tend to be written by obsessive fanboys since they’re the only people prepared to devote the necessary time to maintaining such a repository of information. So, it seems odd that the Wikipedia page for The Loves is - at the time of writing - hardly full of glowing praise. The Loves’ début album (Love) “attracted generally hostile press” and the band themselves have suffered “criticism from many reviewers and people in the music industry.” Be still, my beating heart…

Before even listening to Three, it’s already facing an uphill battle and you might want to bring your Big Book of 60s Influences along with you for when you press Play on the CD player. Be warned though, chances are you’ll contract cramp from furious ticking. The Loves do not seem to have one original idea between them, veering from hippie-pastiche to swirling-keyboard pop with little regard for invention. Perhaps more frustratingly though, is the deadpan delivery of the lyrics, suggesting an in-joke that you’re just not enough of a hipster to be party to.

And you know what? It’s absolutely brilliant.

No, really, it is. It may not be flawless and the constrained vocals can grate but the majority of Three is executed with enough knowledge and respect that it’s a worthy homage to its myriad influences. As a short-hand to describe the sound, imagine The Dandy Warhols, except… uh… well… good.

Opener One-Two-Three is irresistible rock and roll which pilfers the chorus from The Jackson Five’s ABC, Kaleidoscope (In My Head) races around like a marginally more focused Architecture in Helsinki, and Sweet Sister Delia is a power pop classic in the making. Despite the lack of originality, the melodies and the quality of the songwriting is so strong that its possible lack of artistic merit hardly seems to matter.

That’s a pretty controversial statement in some quarters but when all’s said and done, you like what you like and that’s how it should be. The concept of “guilty pleasures” shouldn’t even exist; it’s a creation of the indier-than-thou tastemakers but if you enjoy a piece of music, why feel guilty about it? No-one in the music world seems to be prepared to go out on a limb and say than anything Thom Yorke puts his name to is less than perfect or recognise just how fantastic a song Toxic by Britney Spears really is. So, if you can maybe abandon your principles a little, there’s a gem of an album in store for you.

Of course, there are downsides to Three: the main example being the cloying Everybody is in Love which strays so far into relaxed, it ends up with its feet in the next camp: comatose. Ode to Coca-Cola is as ill-advised as its title suggests and no-one wants to hear a song featuring burping as percussion.

Worth the admission price alone, however, is the penultimate track: Can You Feel My Heart Beat? Over a palpitating drum beat, a sparse Hammond organ plays a simple hook and female vocalist Jenna purrs her way through a seductive call to arms. It’s an effective track given room to breathe and has just the right amount of momentum to take it from one phrase to the next. You’ll wish you were the subject of Can You Feel My Heart Beat?, providing you don’t mind being described as “a motherfucking sweet-as-fuck panic attack” (and let’s face it, no sane person could object).

Not everybody can be as groundbreaking and inventive as Aphex Twin, but then again, you wouldn’t want everybody to be. If you can concentrate on what’s important - the actual songs - then you might just find one of the great underappreciated albums of the year. If that ends up being the case, maybe you could edit The Loves’ Wikipedia page; it could certainly do with some, well, love.

God Help the Girl

God Help the Girl - God Help the Girl
released 22 June 2009 on Rough Trade

There’s a danger in this opening paragraph of wringing the very meaning out of the word “eponymous,” so it’s probably best to start from the beginning. God Help the Girl is the name of a film written by Stuart Murdoch of Belle and Sebastian, due out next year. For the accompanying songs - one of which is called God Help the Girl - Murdoch has created a group called God Help the Girl and their soundtrack is entitled God Help the Girl. So, just to make things clear, on God Help the Girl by God Help the Girl (the soundtrack to God Help the Girl), there’s a song called God Help the Girl. Got it? Good.

The film is a musical, which will probably come as a surprise to those who still see Belle and Sebastian as the fey, publicity-shy indie kids of the 1990s, but less of a shock for those who have followed their career trajectory more closely. The most obvious case in point is Act of the Apostle II from Belle and Sebastian’s last album, 2006’s The Life Pursuit; a song so jaunty and packed with narrative, it sounded like an off-cut from Bugsy Malone. The song is back on God Help the Girl in a different guise (and, somewhat confusingly, simply titled Act of the Apostle) and if possible, it’s got even more swing in its step.

Stuart Murdoch’s lyrics have always been sexually ambiguous (see the harrowing The Chalet Lines from the under-appreciated Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant), so it seems perfectly natural that God Help the Girl makes use of five different female vocalists. Most simply act as a mouthpiece for Murdoch’s tales of regret and the frustration of the mundane, yet one newcomer completely steals the show.

Unless you’re particularly au fait with the notoriously prolific and slightly incestuous Glasgow indie scene, chances are you won’t know an awful lot about Catherine Ireton of up-and-coming and really rather good duo Go Away Birds. But know her you should; her cut-glass accent and perfect pronunciation coupled with a honey-sweet voice possibly shouldn’t work in theory, but in practice it’s daringly alluring and altogether sexy. The nearest soundalike is probably Sophie Ellis-Bextor but that can’t help but come across as damning with faint praise (hey, theaudience were a good band, right?), Ireton outshines everybody here, including Neil Hannon of The Divine Comedy who crops up (with Ireton) on Perfection as a Hipster.

God Help the Girl is based around Ireton’s distinctive voice and wonderful, shiver-inducing major to minor chord changes, which lead to its particular sound. Whereas Stuart Murdoch’s last foray into soundtracks (Belle and Sebastian’s hit-and-miss Storytelling) was too piecemeal, God Help the Girl really feels like a proper album with a running theme. It’s evocative of sassy girl groups of the Motown era and everything drips with sumptuous string arrangements. It’s a similar trick to that pulled off by The Last Shadow Puppets on The Age of the Understatement but with a much more perky attitude.

God Help the Girl is at its best when exhibiting what has become something of a Belle and Sebastian trademark: the soaring, sunny melody juxtaposed with the unexpected lyric. Ireton excels as she floats up towards the chorus on the title track (“If he gave me a sign, I’d think about it for a week, I’d build it up and then I’d turn him down”) and the marriage of cymbals, bells and bombast with the everyday on Musician, Please Take Heed is a joy to behold (“I lost a lot of weight, I think it’s down to leaving meat out of my diet, as a rule I won’t buy it ‘cos it’s cruel”).

God Help the Girl demonstrates that Murdoch is part of a great male-female partnership for the first time since Isobel Campbell left Belle and Sebastian seven years ago. In fact, if God Help the Girl featured solely Murdoch/Ireton collaborations, it could be argued that it’s the best album that Murdoch has put his name to since The Boy with the Arab Strap, over a decade ago. However, that isn’t the case; the aforementioned Neil Hannon sounds curiously out of place popping up halfway through the record and the remaining female contingent do little to engage or uplift. As well as those - albeit minor - complaints, the less said about the frankly horrible lift-Muzak of A United Theory, the better.

All of these things are forgivable, but what really threatens to put a downer on an otherwise stellar record is the teeth-grindingly awful version of Belle and Sebastian’s biggest hit single, Funny Little Frog. Whereas the original (again, from The Life Pursuit) was full of warmth and wit, the 2009 update is devoid of anything approaching quality. Vocalist Brittany Stallings (sorry to attack someone whose presence on the album is due to winning a competition) seems to think she’s Joss Stone and her vapid, melismatic warbling are as synthetic as a nylon pullover. Even the band sound as if they’re going through the motions like they’re contractually obliged and the fact Stallings doesn’t even attempt the charming non-rhyme of “know it” with “throat” would be tantamount to treason in a fair society (ok, maybe that’s a bit of an extreme reaction, but it really is buttock-clenchingly wretched though).

For anyone after the next Belle and Sebastian album, God Help the Girl ticks the boxes whilst simultaneously asking more questions than it answers. Save for a handful of forgettable excursions into tampering with a perfectly good formula, it’s a very well-written, cohesive collection of songs. Its main legacy may turn out to be, however, that a star has been discovered and a girl who may not need help from anyone, omnipotent deity or otherwise.

Lines, Vines and Trying Times

Jonas Brothers - Lines, Vines and Trying Times
released 15 June 2009 on Polydor

In November 1983, Duran Duran released their third album, Seven and the Ragged Tiger. In an interview not long after, Simon Le Bon told Rolling Stone that the album “is an adventure story about a little commando team. 'The Seven' is for us — the five band members and the two managers — and 'the Ragged Tiger' is success. Seven people running after success. It's ambition. That's what it's about.” This proves two things: firstly, Simon Le Bon is an utter tool (not that their was much doubt surrounding that one) and secondly, simple bands shouldn’t make themselves appear impressive by having “clever” album titles. It didn’t make Duran Duran look deep and philosophical; instead it was a prime example of trying too hard.

Perhaps Kevin, Nick and Joe Jonas (seriously, who calls their kid Joe Jonas?) were big fans of lightweight 80s pop, because that’s the only possible explanation behind this baffling title: Lines, Vines and Trying Times. What with the brothers Jonas being signed to Hollywood Records, a subsidiary of Disney, you would think they’d have had to battle hard to keep that title. You can imagine a meeting between the Jo Bros and some head honcho at the record label (you may wish to imagine said honcho smoking a huge Cuban cigar that he lit using a $100 bill):

Head Honcho: “Nick, Curly, Spud, come in, sit down. Now what are we going to call the album?”
Jonas Brothers: “Lines, Vines and Trying Times”
HH: “That’s a terrible title. We were thinking maybe In Your Face or Rock Da House. Calling it Lines, Vines and Nursery Rhymes…”
JB: “…Trying Times.”
HH: “Whatever. It won’t sell”
JB: “But we feel it reflects our new found maturity or some other similarly empty gesture”
HH: “Well, Joe Rivers might do some unfunny, self-referential skit on the title if he reviews it”
JB (in unison): “Who?”
HH: “Good point.”

Yeah, it probably went something like that.

Anyway, despite the eldest brother (Kevin) only being born in 1987, the most striking thing about Lines, Vines and Trying Times is the proliferation of 80s influences. Not 80s in a cool, La Roux, sleek electro revival kind of way, but 80s in a synthetic, cheap, well… Duran Duran kind of way, come to think of it. There are horn stabs at every turn, meaningless phrases, “triumphs” of style over substance and power ballads. The production (and title) of Poison Ivy take it laughably close to hair metal while Hey Baby bounces along on a slap bass figure which reeks so strongly of fromage that even Flea would think twice before donning the Fender and banging his head around in a mindless fashion.

As you’d expect, there’s nothing to change the world of popular music in Lines, Vines and Trying Times. There’s the obligatory syrupy ballad or three (one featuring the irritatingly ubiquitous Miley Cyrus) which prove to be the vomit-inducing lightweight pap that the pre-teens seem to lap up, and a couple of songs that seem to have crafted solely with the intention of soundtracking the season finalé of some post-Dawson’s Creek solipsism-fest where Johnny’s upset with Janey and Danny’s angry at Jay but Jay’s in love with Janey and is going through a really, really hard time.

So, quelle surprise, Lines, Vines and Trying Times is primarily a box-ticking exercise. The songs are exclusively about relationships but what with them coming from America’s most famous wearers of purity rings, everything’s blandly sexless and free of controversy. Even the tracks about longing and wanting don’t contain a hint of lust and the closest the brothers come to breaking their family-friendly image is the implied rhyme within Poison Ivy (“everybody gets the itch/Everybody hates that…”) which has a squall of guitar instead of completing what would be the least threatening lyric used in song since “Stop - Hammertime.”

Then there’s the singing. Whoever started this style of singing - possibly Mariah Carey - should be made accountable for their crimes as the brothers sing as if (and sorry for descending to this level) they’re attempting to evacuate something particularly obstructive from their bowels. Miley Cyrus is just as bad so the only voice of reason on this album comes from Common. Yep, that Common. Mr Lynn lends his flow to Don’t Charge Me for the Crime; a pitiful attempt at sounding street - careful, they mention the police and pistols - that only succeeds in making the Jonas Brothers seem the kind of people who could have their ice creams stolen by a five-year-old.

Now, it’s time for a small confession and one that may be a sackable offence on the good ship No Ripcord (and if that’s the case, thanks for the memories, it’s been a blast, best of luck for the future and all that). In parts, Lines, Vines and Trying Times can be quite listenable. If you manage to ignore the fact that half the tracks make Starship and Heart sound like the Aphex Twin, those Jo Bros sure know how to write a tune. For all the overblown, bombastic production, when they’ve a spring in their step, the melodies are strong and the songs can be fun. World War Three, Much Better and the aforementioned Poison Ivy are catchy enough that if you happen to hear them, you may find yourself inadvertently humming them to yourself hours later.

Lines, Vines and Trying Times isn’t a good record and definitely isn’t the kind of thing you should be looking to investigate further. But if you’re reading this review, the chances are it’s not meant for you, so giving it a thumbs-down is hardly earth-shattering news. Like it or not, Jonas Brothers and the people behind them know their target market and do what they do pretty well. The abundance of such dated sounds is baffling but consider this: if you had a 10-year-old child who was starting to take an interest in music, would you rather they were into the misogynistic, materialistic world of commercial 21st Century R n’ B or the wholesome, clean-cut image of the Jonas Brothers? While comedian Bill Bailey may have had it right when he claimed there was “more evil in the charts than in an Al-Qaeda suggestion box,” Lines, Vines and Trying Times hardly constitutes the war crime your prejudices may have led you to believe.

Journal for Plague Lovers

Manic Street Preachers - Journal for Plague Lovers
released 18 May 2009 on Columbia

On May 15 1991, Manic Street Preachers, then an androgynous glam-punk outfit on the up, played a gig at Norwich Arts Centre. After the show, an interview with the NME’s Steve Lamacq gained widespread notoriety when Richey Edwards decided to carve the phrase “4 REAL” into his arm with a razor blade. Stupid and misguided as it may have been, it’s an iconic moment that has gone down in rock folklore and was quite possibly one of the catalysts for the success of the Manics’ début album, Generation Terrorists, the following year. The fact that this man who didn’t sing, (allegedly) didn’t even play guitar and only wrote around half the band’s lyrics could be the focal point for such an image-conscious band pretty much summed up the enigma that was Richey Edwards.

Of course, we all know what happened next. Generation Terrorists was followed by Gold Against the Soul and, completing the Richey trilogy, The Holy Bible. Then, in February 1995, Edwards went missing and hasn’t been seen since. MSP soldiered on without him and became one of the leading lights of the British music scene of the 1990s but The Holy Bible remains their masterpiece: a brutal, gruelling growl-from-the-id of an album clearly showcasing the fragile mind of a man on the edge. Unfortunately, at the time, no-one knew quite how close he was. Richey left behind folders of poems, musings and ideas, and these form the lyrical content of Journal for Plague Lovers. So, basically, we’re in for The Holy Bible mark II, right? Well, just to be contrary, yes and no.

It’s clear from track one, Peeled Apples, that it’s Edwards’ words coming from Bradfield. Within a couple of minutes, there’s a reference to Noam Chomsky and there’s certainly no-one around in 2009 who would pen an opening couplet such as “The more I see, the less I scream/The figure eight inside out is infinity.”

But MSP have grown up over the last fifteen years (all three members are now 40) and there’s a maturity to their music now that has replaced the all-out nihilism of their formative years. We’re now treated to a situation where Edwards’ lyrics actually fit the music; something of a novelty for long-term Manics fans. James Dean Bradfield’s voice has softened from the passionate rallying cry of the early 90s too . So, there’s the odd spectacle of a 40-year-old man crooning, “Overjoyed, me and Stephen Hawking, we laughed/We missed the sex revolution/When we failed the physical” as Bradfield does on Me and Stephen Hawking (hey, no-one said all his lyrics were winners).

The most striking difference between Journal for Plague Lovers and any album MSP recorded during Richey’s lifetime is the variation. Rather than cranking up the amps and letting the fury fly, there’s much more thought and consideration in every riff. In fact, it’s the ballads that prove the most powerful throughout the album, where songs such as This Joke Sport Severed add a restrained gravitas to Edwards’ words. The hallmarks of Manics of old are still there to see though: metal riffs, double-tracked vocals; in fact, She Bathed Herself in a Bath of Bleach could have come straight from Generation Terrorists.

Manic Street Preachers really do need congratulating for their efforts on Journal for Plague Lovers. Not only have they crafted an album that is fit to rank among their best, they’ve done so in difficult circumstances (though obviously they have previous in this field with 1996’s triumphant Everything Must Go). What could have been a mawkish album in poor taste has ended up being a fitting tribute to a friend and former bandmate.

On this album of confounded expectations, it seems only apt that it’s left for Nicky Wire to apply the coup de grâce. Not known for his vocal dexterity, he stays true to form here, but he lends his pipes to the best track on the album, William’s Last Words. Like most of the high points on Journal for Plague Lovers, it’s an acoustic-led ballad and this time, a tender paean to Richey. You don’t get to write your own epitaph in life but that’s effectively what Edwards has done. The words could have just been thrown together in five minutes on a piece of scrap paper for all we know, but lines such as “Isn’t it lovely when the dawn brings the dew? I’ll be watching over you” take on a heartbreaking poignancy when you consider the tragic story to which they now relate. As Wire’s wobbly voice strains for the notes on “Goodnight, sleep tight/Goodnight, God bless,” you’d have to have a heart of stone not to feel even the slightest twinge of sadness.

Richey Edwards was officially declared “presumed deceased” in November 2008. Chances are, the truth about what happened will never be found out. The fact that, however crass it may sound, we live in an age where death can sometimes seem a good career move (à la Jeff Buckley or Nick Drake) and conspiracy theorists worldwide can share mutterings across the globe via the Internet means that the cult of Richey Edwards will be with us for a long time yet. With Journal for Plague Lovers, it feels like Manic Street Preachers have finally closed the door on a painful chapter in their career and, rather fittingly, they’ve done it with some aplomb.

Further Complications

Jarvis Cocker - Further Complications
released 18 May 2009 on Rough Trade

If you fought in the Britpop Wars of the mid-1990s, you’ll know there was much more depth than the media-constructed Blur vs. Oasis feud. Supergrass, Ash and Saint Etienne all played their part but at the cultural coalface, just behind Albarn and the brothers Gallagher was our Jarv. The thing is, Pulp were never a Britpop band, not really. They’d been a going concern since the late 1970s (originally under the name Arabacus Pulp) and were simply in the right place with the right songs at the right time.

After a promising start to his solo career with Jarvis, Cocker has roped in prolific producer Steve Albini for Further Complications. Albini’s most famous knob-twiddling took place on Nirvana’s swansong, In Utero, so it may initially seem an odd choice of partner for anyone remotely familiar with Pulp’s keyboard-heavy pop stylings. From the very beginning of Further Complications, the Albini hallmarks are most definitely in evidence. The title track is built around an alt.rock distorted riff and has an urgency unlike the laissez-faire approach that characterises much of Cocker’s previous work. Even on lines such as “I was not born in wartime/I was not born in pain or poverty,” Jarvis is imploring us to listen to his message.

However, like the chicken-egg conundrum, it’s impossible to know to what extent Albini is the primary root of this new sound. Did Albini drive Cocker down this alternative road or did Cocker have the idea in mind and decide Albini was simply the best sonic architect? The alternative rock theme continues on recent download-only single, Angela. Here, the production saves what is, in essence, a fairly basic pub-rock ditty. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said about following track, Pilchard. Everyone has differing tastes when it comes to music, but it’s difficult to imagine being excited at a one-note riff and the repeating of the pathetic quasi-threat “you pilchard, you pilchard.” But hey, each to their own and all that.

We’re then pleasingly back in vintage Jarvis territory with Leftovers, which uses Mick Ronson guitars to great effect. In the 80s it was Morrissey, in the 21st Century it’s Alex Turner but from the class of the 1990s, no-one can turn a phrase like Cocker. An opening line of “I met her at the museum of palaeontology/And I make no bones about it” displays clear evidence that he’s still got it when it matters most. In Cocker’s inimitable way, he’s made something which manages to be gauche and slightly perverse, yet somehow pretty damn sexy at the same time beneath it all.

I Never Said I Was Deep is packed full of theatrical sighs and palm-to-brow emotional gestures as you’d wish but then we’re half-way through and the wheels start to come off somewhat. Homewrecker! showcases the fact that, when all is said and done, Jarvis isn’t really a singer, and ends with frenzied screaming. Yes, that’s right, screaming. The rest of Further Complications sadly fades into relative obscurity and is largely forgettable. The tracks aren’t exactly bad - in fact, the lo-fi fuzz-rock of Fuckingsong is thrilling - but they lack a certain something. Caucasian Blues is awkward and ham-fisted (“All gather round, I’ll tell you what it’s all about/You find a good woman and then you fuck her ‘til your hair falls out”)and Slush sounds like Yo La Tengo on a bad day.

Just when it seems all is lost, along comes the final track, You’re In My Eyes (Discosong). It may be going out on a limb but it needs to be said: this one song is the single best thing Jarvis Cocker has been involved with in almost fifteen years. Imagine Jarvis’ trademark purr over a backing track that sounds like The Average White Band and Barry White’s Love Unlimited Orchestra jamming in space. How many disco songs can you think of that are over eight minutes long yet never outstay their welcome? Surely, except for Donna Summer’s I Feel Love, there can’t be any. Yet that’s what You’re In My Eyes (Discosong) is and it makes fantastic use of light and shade that’s all too rare in 21st Century music. Vocals whisper in from the left side, then the right, the band rise to a climax then bring it back to a relaxed groove and then to top it all off, they do it all over again. In short, it’s a revelation.

As it turns out, Further Complications is an apt title for an frustrating mixed-bag of an album. Initial listens may lead you to believe it’s a little non-descript, but there’s reward in perseverance. Jarvis Cocker’s diversions into scuzzy riff-based rock and glam disco are to be encouraged and although it’s unclear where he’ll go from here, we’re certainly better off for having him around.

Gary Go

Gary Go - Gary Go
released 25 May 2009 on Polydor

Firstly, a disclaimer. Music journalists, and particularly amateur music journalists, do what they do because they love music. Therefore, despite the fact that sometimes it may seem otherwise, we don’t want to write hatchet-job reviews all the time (however cathartic it may be). Ideally, we want the next undiscovered masterpiece to land in our lap so we can break out the superlatives and turn people on to something that’s really special. Then again, you can only work with what you’re given, so away we go.

Do you find One Republic a little bit too hedonistic and thrilling? Are The Fray a bit too rock n’ roll for your tastes? Does the very mention of Maroon 5 leave you cowering under your duvet because their music is just too damn terrifying? If you’ve answered ‘yes’ to any of the above questions, then good news - Gary Go is here for you! Fresh from supporting Take That on their recent tour, the man Q have described as a “one-man Coldplay” (though that’s being more than harsh on Chris Martin’s men) releases his début album.

Throughout the eleven (though it feels like many more) tracks that make up Gary Go, Gary demonstrates his mastery of soulless, vapid pop, apparently designed specifically as a bed for highlights packages on low-budget reality TV shows. Polished to the point of being nausea-inducing, this album has been packaged to a precise remit: robotic, stadium-rock-lite that follows the tried and tested formula of acoustic quiet bit, drums come in, second verse, chorus, repeat to fade so strictly that you’ll feel like banging your head against a brick wall and/or adding your own beat-box percussion.

All that isn’t even the worst thing; the vocals and lyrics are beyond awful. Gary Go strains his way through his songs with a voice dripping thick with false sincerity. What is probably intended to sound emotive and meaningful just comes across as, well, constipation to be brutally honest. Factor in lyrics that a schoolchild would baulk at if given them to sing in a school musical production and you have a recipe for possibly the worst album ever to be put on general release.

The album begins with Open Arms as Gary Go whines “whatever happened to truth?” and it’s all downhill from there. There are too many examples of pathetic pleased-with-itself, thinks-its-profound, cod-psychology within Gary Go to list here, but there are a few “highlights.” Today’s favourites are: “We are a miracle wrapped up in chemicals” (from Wonderful) and “I’m finding it hard to fill in the pros on my ‘Reasons for Living’ list” (from So-So, a kind of inferior version of the Goo Goo Dolls‘ Iris). When there’s a wealth of talent in music today plus an exhaustive back catalogue of riches you could immerse yourself in, it’s difficult to imagine who could lap up this rubbish.

After listening to Gary Go in its entirety, it’s not an exaggeration to say it’s more poisonous than anything to come out of the Simon Cowell stable of identikit svengali-controlled pop. It’d be preferable to listen to the soundtrack to High School Musical than this; at least Zac Eyebrows, Cordon Bleu and the girl who had naked pictures on the Internet serve up something which tries to be fun, bouncy and doesn’t take itself too seriously. After a few minutes of Gary Go’s morose, self-obsessed attempt at music, an hour of jumping around to choreographed dance routines with a fixed grin on your face is a much more attractive prospect.

It’s difficult to know what message Gary Go wants to send out with this LP. Half of the tracks are a rallying call-to-arms that a motivational speaker would find ridiculous and the other half are wallowing, boo-hoo-the-world-is-mean-sometimes mope-fests. For example, on Heart and Soul, Gary Go sings “Nothing will matter, nothing at all, if you don’t follow your heart and soul” but on the very next track (Speak), it’s “I’m sorry I spoke, I had all my eggs in one basket; it broke.” The belief that authenticity is all has led Gary Go to create eleven tracks of bland, contemptible music that’s little more than an exercise in lowest common denominator box-ticking.

So, you can probably tell that it’s recommended you don’t buy Gary Go, unless of course every day you wake up hopeful of a Daniel Powter comeback. Some of the orchestral arrangements are pretty listenable (the brass and strings on Brooklyn are certainly above-average) but that’s really clutching at straws. Gary Go is an unforgivably turgid album that is bad in practically every way imaginable.

Hey, you know what? That was cathartic.

Quicken The Heart

Maximo Park - Quicken The Heart
released 11 May 2009 on Warp

Over the last twelve months, it seems that a trend has arisen where after the “difficult second album” you have the “even more difficult third album.” New wave Geordies, Maximo Park, burst onto the scene in the middle of the decade with A Certain Trigger, three months after Bloc Party’s Silent Alarm and a year after Franz Ferdinand’s eponymous début. All three were Mercury nominated (and in the case of Franz Ferdinand, actually won the poisoned chalice of an award) and, if you were to believe the press at the time, heralded a new age in British rock. The media fell over themselves in thrall to the 80s influences, the jerky rhythms, the synths and the fact there was boys with guitars playing music you could actually dance to.

In the cold light of day, that all seemed a bit premature. All three bands struggled with their follow-ups (Maximo Park’s Our Earthly Pleasures, Bloc Party’s A Weekend In The City and Franz Ferdinand’s You Could Have It So Much Better…) and this worrying trend has continued for Franz Ferdinand and Bloc Party on their recent third efforts (Tonight and Intimacy respectively). These albums may have peaked in the upper reaches of the charts and had impressive first-week sales figures, but fell away relatively quickly as the former flavours of the month struggle to conjure up something to beat that “shock of the new” when first albums can sell tens of thousands on little more than industry hype.

So, onto Quicken The Heart. Initial listens suggest that Maximo Park intend to recapture past glories by doing the same as they have before, yet with more maturity and less intensity. Whether the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” approach is a good or bad thing is up to you; it never seemed to do AC/DC any harm, for example. However, as the melodies seep into your brain, Quicken The Heart reveals itself to be professional and adept, if not exhilarating and ground-breaking.

Frontman Paul Smith is one of the great performers and characters of the 21st Century (he reportedly asks for a Vivienne Westwood tie and “mystery paperback” on the rider at gigs) but he’s more restrained than usual here. It’s a shame since when he gives it his all, like on album highlight A Cloud of Mystery, it’s a joy to the ears.

Lead single, The Kids Are Sick Again, isn’t particularly arresting upon first hearing, and its subject of “the effect of advertisements on the youth of today” is unlikely to have you racing to the iTunes Store. However, like much of Quicken The Heart, give it time and its charms - in this case, a great off-kilter chorus - reveal themselves to you.

It’s tempting to suggest this album is world-weary and Maximo Park are going through the motions - maybe Quicken The Heart is a response to A Certain Trigger? They’re older and wiser, but as a result, more jaded and cynical. Who knows? What remains clear is that on eleven of the twelve tracks showcased, Smith still has a keen eye for detail. Tanned is probably the best example of this, as it describes how “Summer glazed our skin, but it scorched everything” and “she kept her jeans on in bed.”

Whilst Tanned and plenty others do a good job of chronicling young lust, Let’s Get Clinical, is wretched and the only excuse for it is that Maximo Park want the “Bad Sex In Fiction” award to be extended to music as well as literature. Now, a quick word of advice: any girl who can be seduced by lines such as “I’d like to map your body out, inch by inch, North to South, and I’m free for circumnavigation” is either a lonely and desperate fetishist, a dangerous axe murderer or more likely, both. The pay-off line of “Bare ankles used to mean adventure, with you they still do” may hark back to simpler times but by then, Let’s Get Clinical will have left you feeling so sordid you’ll want to take a shower.

Quicken The Heart has lots going for it and represents a more grown-up sound for Maximo Park. However, there’s an unshakeable feeling that they’re going through the motions a bit too frequently and that this represents a step backwards for a once fresh and exciting band. Unfortunately, it seems the curse of the third album may have struck again.

Hey Everyone!

Dananananaykroyd - Hey Everyone!
released 6 April 2009 on Best Before

When growing up, we all had phrases that were drummed into us with the intent of turning us into safer, healthier, more-rounded and just plain better people. “Don’t talk to strangers” looks after the safety aspect, “eat your greens” has been repeated so many times that some of us turn to doughnuts as adults just because we can and “never judge a book by its cover” should ensure that we’re all able to get on with our fellow man. Ah, yes, “never judge a book by its cover;” a well-meaning mantra that doesn’t hold much weight in the literal sense seeing as book covers are often tailored to appeal to the target market of said book. Anyway, however non-judgemental you may be, we’re all only human and susceptible to preconceptions. On which note, take a look at the picture above this article - what in the name of Saint and Greavsie is that?!

First off, the cover art looks like it’s been designed by a primate with bloodlust and rudimentary MS Paint skills. Secondly, the typeface for the band name is plain horrible and resembles the kind of thing you’d find in a Wiccan graphic novel. But then lastly, and most importantly is the band name itself. It’s clunky, it’s unfunny and it prevents ‘naykroyd (as the band refer to themselves) from being taken entirely seriously. It must have been thought of as a stop-gap after a particularly heavy night out on the tiles and they’ve never got round to changing it. It’s from the same school of thought that sees you trying to take on the world with a band called Dogs Die In Hot Cars.

Right, that’s the book judged completely by the cover - what’s it actually like? The short answer is an unfocused mess, albeit a divertingly entertaining one. Imagine Los Campesinos! and Architecture in Helsinki had spent their formative years locked in a cupboard under the stairs listening to nothing but crunching metal riffs played at 45rpm and drinking Red Bull. That’s about as close as mere words can come to describing the frankly bizarre sound of Dananananaykroyd. This is an album stuffed with more crazy ideas than Willy Wonka’s factory, where songs change time signature and pace twice a minute with reckless abandon and can veer from unlistenable cacophonous noise to measured balladry to laugh-out-loud hilarity within the confines of the same track.

Hey Everyone! opens with the vocal-less title track which manages to pack catchy riffs, bounce and a no-holds barred prog wig-out into its ninety seconds. This then gives way to Watch This!, beginning with tribal chanting and a Los Campesinos! style vocal imploring “Hiya - watch this! Watch this!” And watch - or rather, listen - is what you need to do; take your eye - or rather, ear - off this song for a second and it’ll turn around and lose you completely, which is a theme prevalent throughout the whole album.

When Hey Everyone! is calm and considered, it can be a thing of beauty. It’s just a shame Dananananaykroyd don’t let anything bed in before rewriting the rule book. Progressive rock influences run deep through The Greater Than Symbol and The Hash whilst a copy of Black Wax should be sent to all bands aspiring to be My Chemical Romance and Panic! At The Disco to should how it should be done. Oddly, the principal lyrics to the chorus of Pink Sabbath appear to be “Dimitar Berbatov - hey!” and really, they might as well be for all the difference it makes.

The singing is all but indecipherable practically the whole way through Hey Everyone! as well as being extremely grating to endure. Sure, it has a passion and a rabid intensity but the vocals are so irritating (Totally Bone being a case in point) that it would be no exaggeration to say they’re on a par with the half-yelp half-scream that furnished The Automatic’s début album.

And this describes the contradiction that is Hey Everyone! - a record that’s never dull but you don’t want to listen to it, a record that’s full of bluster and played at break-neck speed but excels only when it’s restrained, and a record that seeks to combine the unlikely bedfellows of metal and twee pop. Everyone will find something appealing about Dananananaykroyd, no matter how small, but it’s difficult to imagine anyone truly loving this record, regardless of whether they judge it by its cover.

Wall Of Arms

The Maccabees - Wall Of Arms
released 4 May 2009 on Fiction

The Maccabees’ début album, 2007’s Colour It In, closed with the track Toothpaste Kisses - a gorgeous, tender pop song that deserved huge success. Unfortunately, it didn’t even chart and so joined the legions of great lost singles.

Undeterred, The Maccabees are back and have roped in Midas-fingered producer Markus Dravs (Bjork, Coldplay, Arcade Fire) for Wall of Arms. Dravs’ influence is all over the record, specifically the touches he brought to Arcade Fire’s Neon Bible; in fact, frontman Orlando Weeks has more than a touch of Win Butler in his startled yelp of a voice.

As well as Arcade Fire flourishes, The Maccabees draw their influences from far and wide. It’s just unfortunate that each band member has a completely different influence and that leads to a rather confused band identity. The drums are straight out of the Bloc Party school of hi-hat battering, basslines appear to have been lifted from Franz Ferdinand’s first album, there are Shins-style guitar licks all over the show and as well as Win Butler, Weeks seems to be doing his best to channel the spirit of Justin Vernon and - at times - Antony Hegarty too (unsuccessfully, it must be said).

So, sounds like you won’t be getting Toothpaste Kisses II then. Actually, what you will get is an overwhelming sensation that you’ve heard everything here before. For the majority of Wall of Arms, The Maccabees resolutely stick to the guitar/bass/drums/vocals template, which may not be headline news but it’d be nice to let them loose on a high-school musical instrument trolley now and again. Keeping it simple is a trick that only works if you’re really, really good - remember you’re up against early Lennon and McCartney if that’s the route you pursue. Just ask Weezer, who got the simple stuff spot-on for a while but have faltered since 2002’s confused Maladroit. The Maccabees do not possess a McCartney, a Lennon or even a Cuomo and it’s all too obvious.

Wall of Arms certainly has its moments though: the harmonies of opening track and recent single Love You Better being the most obvious example. Their plain approach pays dividends on Can You Give It but it’s on the title track that The Maccabees really shine. Wall of Arms begins with a funk bassline before a wall of crunching guitars is introduced which is given room to breathe thanks to joyful trumpet stabs. This sets the scene for a near-perfect future radio classic before the bass, layer upon layer of guitar and horns close the whole thing out, leaving you exhausted.

It’s a shame that these high points are so few and far between because so often, The Maccabees seem content to settle for mediocrity. Even Weeks himself sounds bored as the album begins its stagger to the finishing line, his voice only has two setting: impassioned longing and “can’t be bothered.” Closing track Bag of Bones is so lethargic it needs a litre of Red Bull just to get out of bed in the morning.

There have been so many great artists and albums in the past that it’s far too much to expect a quintet of early-twenties London kids to reinvent the wheel, but is it really too much to ask that they try doing something interesting? Each track in its own right has nothing inherently wrong with it, but put eleven of them together and it’s all a little one-dimensional. It’s difficult to fathom how a producer who has worked with an artists as diverse and inventive as Bjork could put his name to something so vanilla, yet there are enough flashes of inspiration here to suggest The Maccabees could have a bright future. If only they stop trying to be everybody else for a while and learn to be content to be themselves.

Lost Classics

My final contribution to the NR10 feature was a collaborative piece on overlooked albums of the last ten years. For some reason, my three choices were all released in a two-year period. The last of these three short articles was not published on the site.

The Dears - No Cities Left
The Dears so nearly broke through in the UK in 2003. Critics fell for their swooning soundscapes reminiscent of the best bits of Blur and Morrissey and column inches were duly filled. But then it seems someone realised head Dear Murray Lightburn was black and from that point on, that’s all the Dears-related articles could talk about. It was the UK’s loss really, as No Cities Left is as close to perfect as a sprawling rock odyssey can get. The attention to detail in how every note is sung or played, the arrangements and production is simply astonishing. Twelve killer tunes treated with the love and care they deserve, but always willing to experiment and be innovative, whether it be the squall of jazz and feedback that opens Pinned Together, Falling Apart or the barked vocals that close Never Destroy Us. Ignore the fact that The Dears now have the kind of revolving door approach to band members that would shame Mark E Smith, No Cities Left is simply essential.

Kings of Convenience - Riot On an Empty Street
We’re well into 2009 now, yet my favourite album of the year so far is one that was released almost five years ago. Riot on an Empty Street bubbles with intrigue; something which is immediately obvious from the front cover where Erlend Øye is eyed-up by his bandmate’s girlfriend. This album is understated and sparse, yet utterly, utterly gorgeous. Comprised of mostly just acoustic guitar, piano and minimal percussion, it’s 45 minutes where you can get completely lost and just absorb the music. From the perky single I’d Rather Dance with You to the lingering The Build-Up, Kings of Convenience perfect the trick of keeping it simple whilst always remaining compelling.


Tindersticks - Waiting For the Moon
Tindersticks may have been the critics’ darlings in the early 90s, but by the time Waiting for the Moon was released in 2003 they’d largely slipped off the radar. It’s fair to say you know what you’re going to get with a Tindersticks album but that doesn’t mean Waiting for the Moon is any less stellar. Stuart A Staples’ trademark croon frames every track and they revisit the formula of their first three albums (two entitled Tindersticks, the other, Curtains) by including a spoken-word track (the harrowing and claustrophobic 4.48 Psychosis) and a male-female duet (the oddly uplifting Sometimes It Hurts). It may be slightly over-long – you wouldn’t miss the last two tracks if they weren’t there – but if you like your music melancholy, your bars smoky, your drinks served on the rocks in a tumbler and your relationships twisted and complicated, Waiting for the Moon is exactly what you need.

The Contradictions of Footballing Rivalries

For a change of pace - and to try and extend the number of categories of topics I write about to... er, two - I've written an article examining the curious relationship between rival clubs.

It was Morrissey who first said “we hate it when our friends become successful.” As true as this may be, there is an alternate maxim that also holds some weight: “We hate it when our enemies become failures.”

This may not make much sense at first glance, but this is the realm of football fans we’re talking about: a world where little makes sense initially. It’s a state of mind where intelligent, educated men (it’s nearly always men, though they‘re often far from intelligent) are prepared to spend thousands of pounds and invest hours and hours of their time each year to follow their team around the country. In most civilised quarters, if you drove 400 miles to Wigan on a rainy Tuesday in December to watch eleven obscenely overpaid athletes - a fair few of whom had never even heard of your beloved club until their agent called and the pound signs flashed before their eyes - essentially chase a leather ball around a field. Yes, there’s the ecstasy of the last minute winner that guarantees promotion or safety, the sublime goal conjured from nothing, the thrill of an end-to-end 4-3 victory, but these occurrences are all too rare and fleeting. When was the last time you saw a football fan actually happy while watching their team? For the most part, it’s a painful, unrequited relationship, full of disappointment and resentment.

Football fans really do love their clubs though; often talking about the club as if they were part of it. “We were brilliant on Saturday,” “the referee didn’t give us anything” and so on. In fact, the only feeling or loyalty in football that even comes close to the love of the fan for their club is the hatred of that same fan towards their club’s local rivals. A small confession - I’m little better. While “hatred” is far too strong a word in my case, (I’m probably not classed as a “real” fan anyway; I’ve been to one game in the last five seasons) the result I look out for immediately after my own club (another example, calling them my club) is that of the local rivals in the hope that they’ve lost.

In mid-April, Ipswich Town beat Norwich City 3-2 in a Coca-Cola Championship match at Portman Road. Little was at stake for Ipswich other than local bragging rights, their season dissolved into mid-table nothingness not long after Christmas, but the result left Norwich in serious danger of relegation to League One. The next day, the independent Ipswich Town website, Those Were The Days (www.twtd.co.uk) held an online poll: “Do you want Norwich City to be relegated?” That same day, a look at the results would have told you that 30% of people voted ‘No.’

Just to get this out of the way at the earliest possible opportunity, this is hardly the most scientific or rigorous of surveys - perhaps a disgruntled Delia Smith felt the need to spend all of Monday morning vigorously attacking her left mouse button with an egg whisk while the cursor hovered over the ‘No’ option - but it still raises an interesting question: If Norwich are Ipswich’s bitterest and most-despised rivals, why are there any fans who wouldn’t want them to be relegated?

Just to put it into context, relegation to the third tier of English football would be little short of a disaster for Norwich City. As recently as 1993 they played in the UEFA Cup where they became the first and only English side to defeat Bayern Munich in Germany in a competitive match. Rivalry between Ipswich and Norwich has been fierce since their first meeting in 1902 and has maintained ferocity despite the fact that League One side Colchester United play less than twenty miles from Ipswich whereas Norwich is over forty miles away.

This is the thing about bitter football rivalries; although they are usually formed due to geographical proximity, it is historical factors that keep them on the boil. Ipswich and Norwich are both moderately successful clubs and have played in the same level of the Football League system many times. Colchester, on the other hand, are a relatively new club and have spent only two of the last forty years in the same league as their more famous cousins. Colchester fans hold a bitter grudge against Ipswich (although their main rivals are arguably fellow Essex-dwellers Southend United), possibly borne from envy, but Ipswich fans are generally dismissive of their lower-league neighbours. The history explains why clubs that have fairly recently become successful after decades in the wilderness, such as Hull City, Wigan Athletic and Fulham, don’t really have derby games. The clubs that they would see as their rivals are still languishing divisions below and whilst the media may try to create the perception of a derby around Wigan versus Blackburn or Fulham versus Chelsea, the truth is Chelsea and Blackburn are likely to not even care.

But why even create a media frenzy? Well, it sells more papers for a start but the clubs want the revenue. Ipswich’s average attendance for league games this season is somewhere around the 20000 mark, but for the Norwich game, the gate was up to 28274. At £29 for a ticket, that’s nearly £250000 more for the football club. Next season, no Norwich means no local derby, means no sell-out game. Leicester City and Peterborough United have been promoted from League One for next season; no disrespect meant, but they’re unlikely to bring in the fans in the same way.

So, they’re the teams we love to hate and the teams we hate to love. For the record, a 4-2 defeat to already relegated Charlton Athletic means that Norwich City will be spending the 2009/10 season in League One. Long trips to Exeter, Hartlepool and Carlisle await for those loyal enough to follow their club through thick and thin while they look with envy at Ipswich with their new, high-profile manager and aspirations of bigger things. Ipswich are amongst the favourites to win promotion to the Premiership next season; there will be a lot of people hoping that Norwich aren’t too far behind.

My Maudlin Career

Camera Obscura - My Maudlin Career
released 20 April 2009 on 4AD

There’s an awful lot of music out there; too much music in fact. Seeing as albums are currently released at a rate roughly equivalent to three a day, it’s impossible to listen to and digest them all. This is clearly a shame as it means that the album that could change your life will never reach you or what you would deem an absolute, undisputed masterpiece will forever be consigned to the bargain bin. So, it’s important to start your album well, to have something that will grab the listener’s attention and make them want to revisit your set of songs again and again until they’re fully embedded in the consciousness.

On My Maudlin Career, Camera Obscura set out to achieve this in the best possible fashion. It takes around three seconds to be utterly transfixed by opening track, French Navy: a song built on irresistible hooks and perfectly complimented by a gorgeous string section. Producer Jari Haapalainen is clearly picking up where he left off on Camera Obscura’s last long player, 2006’s Let’s Get Out Of This Country.

Repeated listens to My Maudlin Career reveal that Camera Obscura completely inhabit their own universe. Despite their Glaswegian origins, their sound is so packed full of vintage Hollywood glamour that you’d think they were from California were it not for Tracyanne Campbell’s Scottish burr that occasionally creeps in undetected.

The high standard set by French Navy is maintained throughout the album; Careless Love has a sweeping key change and a beautiful middle eight, while The Sweetest Thing is just as catchy as Let’s Get Out Of This Country’s title track. Camera Obscura - and lead singer Tracyanne Campbell in particular - are a sensitive bunch and have clearly loved and lost. The lyrical content of My Maudlin Career heavily reflects this whilst also hinting at a vulnerable naivety and an optimistic streak that suggest that they’ll always believe in true love, no matter what.

While French Navy is all pomp and vigour, subsequent tracks gradually become more steeped in the painful side of love, best symbolised in the title track. Delicate piano octaves frame Campbell’s laments: “I’m not a child, I know we’re not going steady” and “They say I’m too kind and sentimental, like you can catch affection.” Following track Forests and Sands would be whiny and indulgent in the wrong hands, but Campbell’s heartfelt vocal transforms it into something genuinely affecting.

Unfortunately, all this heartbreak does become kind of wearing. Individually, each track is musically superb (although Swans sails pretty close to the wind with its twee guitar and glockenspiel twin assault), but a continuing feeling of despondency means My Maudlin Career can sometimes be difficult listening. Album closer Honey in the Sun is fantastic, but a case in point; its outwardly cheery demeanour and horn stabs recall ABC at their peak. However, its refrain (“I wish my heart was a cold as the morning dew / But it’s as warm as saxophones and honey in the sun for you”) which would be a paean to love on any other album, sounds tinged with forlornness and regret thanks to the theme of the preceding ten tracks.

Whilst we’re being critical (as is the record critic’s lot), a change of pace here and there wouldn’t go amiss either. Whilst Let’s Get Out of this Country featured the zip and bombast of If Looks Could Kill and the languid Country Mile, everything on My Maudlin Career remains frustratingly mid-tempo. There’s nothing wrong with this on a track-by-track basis, but it means the album lacks a certain something.

These are minor quibbles though, as My Maudlin Career is a wonderful set of songs and can deservedly sit alongside Let’s Get Out Of This Country while showcasing how far Camera Obscura have come since their patchy yet charming début, Biggest Bluest Hi-Fi. Album making isn’t a precise science (it’s not really a science at all, for that matter), but a couple of slower ones, a couple of faster ones and a couple of happier ones would elevate My Maudlin Career from a good album to a sensational one.

Art Brut vs. Satan

Art Brut - Art Brut vs. Satan
released 20 April 2009 on Cooking Vinyl

Art Brut frontman Eddie Argos must be sick to the back teeth of Lily Allen. She cooks up half-baked rhymes about what it’s like to be in your twenties in the UK and thanks to a wave of patronage and suspicions of nepotism, she’s on magazine covers the length and breadth of the country and sells albums by the bucketload. Argos performs the same trick with more wit, insight and humility and could barely get arrested in his homeland.

Strangely for a man whose lyrics, singing style and arsenal of cultural references are so utterly British, Art Brut have had a fair amount of success in Germany. There, Argos is revered as an intellectual; so much so that a lecture was once given at Berlin University entitled The Depressive Dandy: The Lyrics of Eddie Argos.

When there’s one part of the world that holds you in such high regard, it must be hard to take when another part doesn’t. Art Brut left EMI just over a year ago and the fallout from that split is evident in the lyrical content of the Black Francis-produced Art Brut vs. Satan.

It all starts out so well. With Lily Allen misfiring, Jamie T AWOL, The Streets seemingly too successful to maintain the position as “geezer poet” and Kate Nash just plain irritating, the stage is set for Argos to become to lead voice of 21st Century Britain. On the first five tracks, he does this with aplomb. Only perhaps Jarvis Cocker in his Britpop heyday could tackle these subjects so well: the joy of childhood memories on DC Comics and Chocolate Milkshake ("DC Comics and chocolate milkshake/Some things will always be great/DC Comics and chocolate milkshake/Even though I’m 28!"), one-night stands on What a Rush ("Under the covers, both naked/I hate to see an opportunity wasted") and the morning after the night before on Alcoholics Unanimous ("So many people I might have upset/I apologise to them all with the same group text").

Unfortunately, Argos and Art Brut can’t keep up this level of quality for long. If the first five tracks represent the beginning of a happy relationship, the next three are the messy break-up replete with insults, squabbling and name-calling and the final three tracks are the reconciliation; while everything is fine from the outside, the memories of the break-up linger, souring the relationship forever and meaning it will never be as good as it was.

Admittedly, this is an unusual analogy and one that clearly needs expanding upon. Track six, Demons Out!, is a vicious attack on the state of the music industry. We’ve all heard songs where artists moan that, believe it or not, record labels are just money-making machines run by ruthless businessmen with no scruples - quelle surprise. However, the refrain of “The record buying public - we hate them/This is Art Brut versus Satan” means this may the first instance of an artist directly insulting the listener in verse. As a member of said record-buying public, it’s hard to feel any compassion or warmth towards Argos after that. He doesn’t do himself any favours with the next two tracks either (Slap Dash for No Cash and The Replacements) where Argos’ primary concern seems to be to prove he’s more indie than you and has a better taste in music too. It all smacks of immaturity and pettiness; after all, it’s only rock n’ roll.

The last three songs bear the hallmarks of something good, but there’s an unshakeable feeling that something’s missing. In theory, they should be just as enjoyable as the beginning of the album, but are overshadowed by preceding events. The joy and energy that was so evident at the beginning of the album has turned into cynicism and sluggishness. Plus, for a band who are suited to little more than the three-minute verse-chorus-verse pop song, closing the album with a track that clocks in at over seven minutes (Mysterious Bruises) signifies a dearth of ideas (despite the inspired line of “I can’t remember anything I’ve done/I fought the floor and the floor won”).

As yet, nothing has been mentioned here about the music itself and that’s with good reason. Art Brut the band are nothing more than an average pub-rock band straddling the divide between pop-punk and Oi!. They’re nothing without their leader but despite their limitations, their sub-Green Day power chords are the perfect foil for Argos’ arch, ironic delivery. There’s little more to write about them than that, other to say that after three albums, you’d think it wouldn’t be too much to ask for at least some ambition or a sign of progress.

Début record Bang Bang Rock & Roll fizzed with glee; the sound of a band barely believing they’ve been given the opportunity to make a record while follow-up It’s a Bit Complicated was - with a couple of notable exceptions - a deflating disappointment. Art Brut vs. Satan is somewhere in the middle; good enough to be worth a couple of listens but enough bad at times to frustrate and make you wonder what might have been.

Dark Days/Light Years

Super Furry Animals - Dark Days/Light Years
released 13 April 2009 on Rough Trade

It’s rare to find a critic who doesn’t like Super Furry Animals and it’s easy to see why. Since their first release in 1995 (the Welsh-language Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (In Space) EP), they’ve given us eight studio albums full of invention, hooks, catchy melodies, experimentation and downright weirdness. Not for nothing are they sometimes referred to as “the Welsh Beatles,” although giving SFA such a title is setting them up for a fall somewhat.

With the release of album number 9, Dark Days/Light Years, SFA look to follow the road well travelled. For most artists this would be a criticism, but since fashioning genre-hopping, innovative pop songs is SFA’s raison d’être, more of the same is by no means a bad thing.

So, it seems if you’re a fan of Super Furry Animals, Dark Days/Light Years will be right up your street and if you’re not, it’s hardly likely to win you over. Perhaps mindful of this, the album opens with Crazy Naked Girls, a six-minute psyche wig-out with two false starts, heavy prog leanings, manic guitar solos and a chorus of "Crazy, crazy naked girls/With nothing on.” To be honest, it’s unlikely to get playlisted on Radio 2 any time soon and fantastic fun as it is, it’s a peculiar choice for a first track.

Just to confuse the casual listener even further, the second offering is completely different in every way. It’s a bass-heavy glam stomp of a track entitled Mt and is the cousin of 2003 single Golden Retriever. It also has an opening verse that straddles the fine line between genius and idiocy ("I wasn’t looking for a mountain/There was a mountain/It was a big fucking mountain/So I climbed the mountain").

As if to prove their acumen at as many distinct genres of pop music, SFA next throw in some swaggering funk (Moped Eyes) and follow it with some tight Krautrock featuring some spoken German (Inaugural Trams). Around this point, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Dark Days/Light Years is simply a collection of disparate songs, rather than a cohesive album. In the age of single-track downloads and the iPod Shuffle, whether that’s a good thing or not is down to you but essentially, Dark Days/Light Years is far more than that.

Things begin to make more sense and fall into place as the album progresses and repeated listens reinforce that further. The eight-minute epic, Cardiff in the Sun, begins with guitar horribly reminiscent of The Edge at his most clichéd, but evolves into a gorgeous, shimmering, hazy dream, full of sha-la-las and warmth. White Socks/Flip Flops is elevated by beautiful harmonies and the irresistible sunshine pop of Helium Hearts is among the best songs SFA have ever recorded. Penultimate track Lliwiau Llachar is so catchy you’ll be trying to sing along despite the fact all the lyrics are in Welsh (good luck with that, by the way).

Due to awkward, clunky sequencing, Dark Days/Light Years takes longer to reveal its charms than maybe it should. Despite this, it’s still a marvellous record and evidence that despite their increasing years, Super Furry Animals are a long way from being out of ideas. Most bands would do well to create something this accomplished on their second album, let alone their ninth. Yet again, Super Furry Animals have raised the bar and shown the young upstarts how it’s done.