The Chapman Family - 'Cruel Britannia'

Stockton-on-Tees, a small market town in the north-east, is hardly stooped in rock ‘n’ roll heritage. Having driven through on occasion, it is, like my own home town, pleasant enough, but encourages the kind of escapism only music can provide. The Chapman Family formed in 2006, and quickly outgrew its surroundings, garnering considerable adulation from both mainstream and underground press. Their debut album Burn Your Town emerged last year following five years of touring, singles, and festival appearances – a late bloomer it may have been, but praised nonetheless.

I must confess that Burn Your Town completely passed me by. Blending art-rock influence with thrashing, dervish punk chords, the likes of ‘Anxiety’ simply didn’t resonate and as such, the band had all but faded from memory. Following a line-up change and some effects-pedal investments, new EP Cruel Britannia showcases a band beginning to live up to the lofty expectations put upon them. Darlings between the covers of the NME, the band at are at present the ‘go-betweens’ of alternative rock music; billed alongside Goth-crossovers O Children, with spot on last year’s DV8 Fest, while holding appeal to fans of Editors and Arcade Fire. In truth, the Chapman Family have manoeuvred to sound like none of these bands and instead simply sound like, well, the Chapman Family. Moving forward from their debut, a Jesus and Mary Chain swirl begins to show, but obvious leanings to the darkened vibes of Factory set them apart from fellow noise-mongering contemporaries, managing to eschew condescending comparisons to shoegaze royalty My Bloody Valentine.

The first thing you will notice about Cruel Britannia is its throbbing backline; particularly evident on ‘This English Life’, the fuzzed-as-all-hell bass guitar successfully threw me from my seat and blew my speakers in one fell swoop. Spattering along on a stately shuffle, building in intensity with singer Kingsley Chapman moving from croon to Morrison-esque howls at the epicentre of waves of guitar, initial claustrophobia is ripped apart as the final chords fade. Opener ‘No More Tears’ is possibly the least enticing of the five, sharing traits with Interpol and Maximo Park, the chiming guitars and rollicking beats are sure to get heads banging, but the vocals lack the conviction needed to elevate the song above a basic workout. ‘Summer Song’ on the other hand is served well by its restraint, beginning with ominous, discordant guitarmonies (check it) sliding into a glorious, soaring chorus. It’s clever song writing; for once again the melody lines retain their laidback pitch while the instrumentation revolves, signalling the changes.

The strongest cut here is the title track; taken alone, it serves as a bridge between the EP and Burn Your Town, a perfect synthesis of that record’s thunderous tempos with the sophistication of the new material. Sure, the lyrical simplicity may fail to inspire those of us refusing to wash our The Queen is Dead t-shirts, but serving the song is what matters, and Kingsley’s words float gracefully upon music, much like Ian Curtis' restrained incantations on 'Shadowplay'. Closing with a cover of Morrissey’s ‘Everyday is Like Sunday’ is certainly a welcome surprise, and provides calm, lilting coda. The walls have fallen down and you’re all moshed out, the stripped-back arrangement wraps around like a summer duvet, it’s an emotive way to finish; Kingsley’s vocals, exposed for the first time on this record, are genuinely moving.

Cruel Britannia is the sound of a bigger budget, bigger effects rack and most importantly, bigger ideas. At times, the band veers into ‘tried-and-tested’ territory – no bad thing, but if some of these tracks are to go by, they are capable of greater things, possessing a knowledge of dynamics and musical depth which could elevate them above their peers. An enjoyable record, growing with repeated listens.

Have You Heard: Aberdeen - 'What Do I Wish for Now? Singles & Extras. 1994-2004'

I’ve never been to California, but thanks to the ‘magic’ of modern television, it has nonetheless succeeded in permeating my imagination. What it has actually permeated me with would depend on the channel I was watching: E4’s love of imports brought me the saccharine rich kid pool-parties and spray tans of ‘90210’, with myriad excursions into ‘silicon valley’ through trashy documentaries; Quest on the other hand saw me revel in the native grasses and giant sequoias of Calaveras. A welcome schooling from Jack Kerouac merged these distant entities in ‘On the Road’, striding into a crowded café bar, taking a girl with no second name into the foothills and fooling around in the back of an old beaten sedan. Of late I have resigned such absolute, romantic visions to the fact that a seedy underbelly resides beneath postcards of the shimmering lakes of Tahoe or the rolling topography of Yosemite Park and Sierra, Nevada.

The only band from across the pond signed to the Sarah Records label, Aberdeen were able to capture the latter with an irresistible, naïve pop persuasion. Fronted by high-school sweethearts Beth Arzy (vocals/bass) and John Girgus (guitar), and a rotating cast of bid-part musicians and drum-machines, the group plied their glistening dream-pop across a handful of singles and one LP before disbanding in 2005. This CD, released following their demise, collects the band’s singles and EPs into something one could loosely call a ‘greatest hits’ package. Lumped in with the ‘twee-pop’ of Sarah – a ridiculous notion, given that only two releases exist with that label – Aberdeen, like the Field Mice, fell victim to cruel jabs from a vocal contingent of the press. Thankfully this did nothing to belittle their confidence, and their songs are still hummed in the shower by the receptive listeners of the original ‘indie’ generation. Compiled in chronological order, it is easy to chart the development both creatively and sonically from 'Byron' up to their final release, 'Florida', on Tremolo Arm Users Club, 2005.

Lyrically, the songs are not always brimming with the optimism one would imagine – like the Smiths, they favoured sardonic, playful one-liners wrapped in lush harmonies; a lethal combo to a paisley-clad English Lit student in their late teens. Their 1995 EP ‘Fireworks’ still stands out, sounding fresher than ever. The Byrds, a dashing of Supertramp and the occasional nod to the Cocteau Twins continues to set them apart from their contemporaries; slowly building to a swirling, psychedelic conclusion, the title track is a sonic document of corroding romance. ‘Super Sunny Summer’ is onomatopoeic to the highest degree – it swans along from one pithy escapist line to another, and I love it. Its vivacious backbeat and ringing guitars shimmer beneath Arzy’s breezy vocals. The nursery rhyme lyrics – ‘let’s catch a wave and say/the ocean’s blue, let’s sail away’ – are sweet to the tooth, sure, but are given a palpable vitality alongside the music. The halcyon groove of debut single 'Byron', with it's charming DIY cover art, is one of the weaker tracks here thanks to the spindly production, but still contains enough hooks to keep you coming back and back. Latter day tunes 'The Boy Has Gone Away' and 'Sink or Float' are more aligned with the likes of Belle & Sebastiane; not surprisingly, these remain the band's most commercially memorable, the latter receiving exposure on the soundtrack to 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer'.  

The namesake ‘Florida’ is Robert Smith’s day at the beach, all echo and reverb with a chorused staccato bass line – like the Cure’s ‘To the Sky’ holding a bucket and spade; a polaroid of ‘that great day last summer, remember?’ Something about the musical undercurrent is telling, you can almost feel that they had reached the end of their creative and personal tethers. Reading the booklet along with music confirms that unlike a lot of groups who separate their lives from their art – pretending everything is merry before pulling each other’s hair out off-camera – Aberdeen made clear the strains that would ultimately be their undoing.

If this article has given you a headache, I would not blame you: Aberdeen are one of those bands where resorting to hackneyed cliché – ‘achingly beautiful’, etcetera - is almost unavoidable, so my apologies. This is record plays out like those seemingly never-ending school holidays, the weather was always perfect, and throwing stones on the shore distracted from inner-turmoils we were all wracked with in our youth. The good news is that as we listeners grow up, have 'serious' relationships and begin finding our way in the world, the songs themselves remain timeless. If you need more, the band's sole long-player 'Homesick and Happy to Be Here' comes highly recommended. One piece of advice: do not play whilst flicking through old photo albums, your make-up runs.

For that sickly-sweet taste, for your viewing pleasure :)

The Groundhogs - Live at Fibbers: York 08/06/2012

It’s the end of the 60s: an incident at the infamous Altamont festival saw Hell’s Angels pummel several fans, resulting in the death of Meredith Hunter as she tried to climb onstage; the arrival of King Crimson and Black Sabbath had already begun to dispel the hippie ideal; and nights at the UFO club were a distant memory. Peace, love and flower power were collapsing beneath a nascent concrete jungle. In the midst of all this were the Groundhogs, a utopian musical force taking in blues, space-rock, psychedelia and just a dashing of prog – armed with hard non-hippie idealism and a manifesto for great cover art first laid down by ‘Sergeant Pepper’.

Four decades on and I’m stood in Fibbers on a rainy Friday evening, surrounded by a mass of bald heads and wispy beards flecked with white. For the first time this year, I am in the presence of tie-dye that reeks of patchouli, hearty conversations on the merits of Amon Duul II, and being bought beers by a gentleman because ‘mate, you look like a young Jon Anderson’; there’s one for you to Google. The Dan Hudson Blues Band are the perfect opening act, wading earnestly through blues classics from every side of the Delta, culminating in a stomping ‘Get My Mojo Workin’, the audience responded generously, though seemed reluctant to break off from their social groups toward the stage. Bang on 9.30pm and the Groundhogs emerge from the pokey Fibbers dressing room into the violet lights; band leader and sole surviving original member Tony McPhee offers a furtive wave as he takes up his white Fender Strat. These days, the band is fronted by eternal flower-child and McPhee's wife Jo Deacon, who indulges in some entertaining banter throughout the set – cue a point at this young writer and a friendly jibe about my youth.

Singer/guitarist Tony McPhee has come through slaughter to be here; suffering a stroke in 2009, the snowy-haired gunslinger has fought his way from barely being able to ask for a cup of coffee to where he is today, scraping the outer-reaches of the cosmos with his innovative playing. Tonight’s set draws on the ‘classic years’, 1968-72; from ‘Scratching the Surface’ through ‘Hogwash’. There’s a real sense of community in the venue; that these fans are here as much to support Tony as to listen to his band’s music. His lingering speech impediment causes lyrical stumbles on several tunes, but he really gets his chops around ‘Eccentric Man’, much to the delight of the crowd, and Deacon, who looks on proudly between her forays into mad psychedelic dancing. Token cover song ‘Still a Fool’ – the Muddy Waters number by McKinley Morganfield – lacks sonic conviction, but I put this down to a somewhat boggy, bass-heavy mix, a problem which thankfully did not last.

The band’s onstage camaraderie is undeniable, and Thor-heavy drummer Carl Stokes, well, I just wanted to be him, pounding away on his kit with a serene grafted across his face. Deacon’s psychedelic freak dancing should be upsetting to me as a ‘youngster’, but she does it with such charm and merriment, I couldn’t help but join in myself. The endless boogie of ‘Split pt. 1’ and ‘…pt. 2’ allows the band to cut loose somewhere between Hawkwind and Electric Ladyland-era Hendrix, with some creative bass work. Classic wig-outs ‘Garden’ and ‘Split pt. 4’ veer between dreamy textures and growling swamp-rock, the latter featuring some seriously erratic, thrilling slide playing – an aural vision of some acid-tripper, dancing in the UFO club. Set closer and fan favourite ‘Cherry Red’ gets a rapturous reception, with every tie-dyed shirt and denim jacket joining in for the falsetto chorus. Yes, in today’s eyes, one could dismiss tonight as a glance over an old photo album, great no doubt, yet no longer relevant – despite the fact that 90% of the audience’s mode of dress is strangely fashionable at the moment, mine included – but ultimately, it is the music that matters. Tonight Tony McPhee and his band proved why they wielded such acclaim in the honeymoon period. They remain, albeit in new guise, poised and roaring with power; McPhee is a strong and admirable figure, who can bend strings with the best of them. I just had to shake his hand. Freaking out? You’d better believe it. Down and out? Not on your life.

The Beach Boys - 'That's Why God Made the Radio'

True, this is the first record from Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys in over 16 years, but their music has remained undiminished and has experienced something of resurgence in popularity of late. Last year saw The Smile Sessions released after four decades in the vaults; Brian Wilson’s unfinished masterwork was lapped up by an eager public and the ever-discerning music press. Their sunny-side-up harmonies are indulged by everyone from Fleet Foxes to Belle and Sebastiane and the Sleepy Jackson, while their ambitious, orchestral arrangements reside within just about any knob-twiddling producer you could name.

That’s Why God Made the Radio has the trademarks all present and correct. 12 tracks of gleaming, irony-free melodies that could easily have you believe the last four decades never happened. Of course, those who have followed Brian Wilson’s career will be very much aware of the singer’s personal woes, but to elucidate for those unaware, the man’s dark side is caught in a tug of war, rearing its head once more on this release. Father time is a shadowy presence on this record, and so Mike Love’s namesake optimism is at loggerheads with Wilson’s bleaker grandiosities. That said, we have managed to escape unscathed from a repetition of '...Reimagines Gershwin' - a venture as breath-taking as it was impenetrable.
As for the material itself, the wordless opening salvo moves into focus like a church service, gathering the congregation before bleeding into the title track. The harmonies are righteous, infectious, and perfectly fitting lyrics such as ‘cruising at 7/push button heaven’, soaring over an insistent staccato rhythm, the guitars are light and breezy and the horns and squeezebox punctuate things nicely. The a cappella middle section is gloriously uplifting, and the sudden dynamic shift allows the insistent chorus line to elevate the song until its fade-out. With old muckers Jeffrey Foskett and Bruce Johnston, as well as veteran colleague David Marks on board, Wilson, Love and Al Jardine have seldom sounded this unified.

‘Isn’t it Time’ jigs along to ‘I Get Around’s percussion, the love-struck bop is emphatic of the record’s entire first half – backward-looking, but nonetheless reflective, perhaps best illustrated in the rye-humoured ‘easy money/ain’t life funny’ in ‘Spring Vacation’. Wilson’s presence is felt much more on the album's second half. In the days of vinyl this would have come as less of a shock – when side one finished, the listener can reflect, make a cup of tea, readjust and turn-over before continuing – but on CD or download, it comes upon the ears rather abruptly. Two songs in particular deal with the themes mentioned above. First, ‘Strange World’ is a bleak weather forecast, Wilson struggling to grasp the reins in an ever-changing environment. ‘Pacific Coast Highway’ is every bit as salmon-skied as its title suggests, yet again echoes the ‘coming to the end of the track’ sentiments only brought about by that thing my parents like to call ‘life experience’. Lilting visions ‘sunlight is fading and there’s not much left to say come hand-in-hand with a chilling evening breeze - ‘I’m better off alone’, conscious without being rueful.

The passage of time – and his cruel sibling, age – permeate this record like the two fired band mates who just refuse to leave, but with this inward focus emerges a reinvigorated band still bursting with ideas, harmonies and of course, the odd pop gem just for good measure. The Beach Boys continue to occupy that most coveted of positions in the ephemeral world of music. They have vintage without the burden of nostalgia, while seamlessly retaining popularity and relevance in the rapidity of the 21st century; a land of Toyota Priuses, iPhones, and structural uncertainty.

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Patti Smith - 'Banga'

Patti Smith has always had a handle on ‘shaman-poet’ notions, an imperative that some have tragically fallen under as Jim Morrison did in 1971. Cut in Electric Lady Studios – the birthplace of Horses some 37 years ago – Banga comes as a result of a four-year creative streak, ticking things off the Smith ‘to do’ list. In the last two years, she appeared in Jean-Luc Godard’s video polemic, ‘Film Socialisme’, published her award-winning memoir, ‘Just Kids’ documenting her friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe, and collected an honorary doctorate from Rowan University.

While the release has already racked up unwarranted comparisons to her debut, Banga represents a stark dichotomy in its position as ‘earth mother’ rather than the howlin’ wild child of yesteryear. While musically this record is as much a pick 'n' mix as the four years yielding it, the songs are united in their eulogising and nurturing of friends, colleagues and strangers. So, without further ado please welcome our cast: Amy Winehouse, actress Maria Schneider, Robert Mapplethorpe, explorer Amerigo Vespucci, novelist Nikoli Gogol, Johnny Depp, the survivors of the Japanese tsunami and Pontius Pilate’s dog, no less! All the while, the collection is peppered with futurity and the sound is bright and guitar-heavy, making this motley crew coalesce in the strangest of ways.

Smith’s visceral growl has cooled off with age, best emphasised on spoken word pieces like the swirling, 11-minute ‘Constantine’s Dream’; inspired by a postcard she received of an old Dimitri Levas painting.

Her voice has softened into a kind velvety lilt, lending a strange gravity to every breath, even during her trademark scats. Opener ‘Amerigo’ reimagines travelling and visiting the indigenous population of Vespucci’s new land. The song unfolds like an old forgotten letter, corners all creased and paper gone brown: the rhythm section strides along smooth as the ink on the page, with rolling italics and curled ‘g’s, while Smith’s vocals play out between a purr and a wheezing catch of the throat. It’s infectious refrain - ‘Where are you going? And are you going anywhere? Where are you going? Send me a letter, if you get there at all’ – is the perfect counterpoint to her more esoteric references, and the simple guitar and string lines beautiful unscramble the prose for the uninitiated.

The stoic ‘Tarkovsky (the second stop is Jupiter)’ comes across as heavy-handed at times, it’s sprawling pace certainly does not careen with past energies. But there is something wonderfully humanising in the etched linguistic idiosyncrasies that continue to permeate Smith’s work – something as simple as her New Jersey pronunciation on ‘wuter’ never fails to raise a smile. An elegy to Amy Winehouse in ‘This is the Girl’, for all the late jazz singer’s blemishes, is idyllic enough to give her gorgeous ‘Back to Black’ another spin. The affecting keyboard parts are vivid, the harmonised chorus moving enough to bring Winehouse to the foreground and, just for second, take on life again. ‘Maria’ (for Maria Schneider) is understated and spare, if not entirely successful. ‘Seneca’ with its minor-key acoustic arpeggios and Mazzy Star-like inflections is sorrowful for sure, and Patti’s sandy vocals are as affecting as anything from ‘Easter’.
If any criticisms were to come, and I’m sure they already have, they would be of the inflated nature of the lyrics. But herein lies the dichotomy of Patti Smith: poet laureate, mother, photographer, activist, rock n roll icon…which is she? To the casual listener, there is something undeniably daunting about the record’s weighty storylines, but on repeated listens, this is a warm and compelling album.

This is not a career high, but in the aural, secular religion that is Patti Smith's music, the singer remains among the precious anointed few to wield considerable power. She can cast a spell on her audience that is seldom broken, and, with the right pair of ears, this collection is yet another bottle of elixir. Her position as ‘Rimbaud with amplifiers’ remains intact.

Sourced from The Yorker: http://theyorker.co.uk/arts

Neil Young and Crazy Horse - 'Americana'

Ah yeah, Neil Young. Man, I remember dad putting on a record when I was 13 – Harvest, it was called, released in 1973 – and I stared at that inside cover for hours. There he was, slender-framed and straggly-haired, like some old hippie you’d see off the television. The fact that Young was Canadian never made sense to me; ‘Heart of Gold’s voice smooth as freshly spun honey and the coppery clatter of acoustic guitar, like I’d taken a turn off an unmarked track, settled in for the night and warmed my dusty boots by the campfire.

A seriously hardworking artist with huge universal appeal, Young’s back catalog is vast, diverse and impressive. His unique, choppy guitar style blends seamlessly between bona fide solo classics – Rockin’ in the Free World, Like a Hurricane – through his various collaborative projects – Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s wonderful Déjà vu – and with his late 60s group, Crazy Horse. Here they are together again; Americana is the band’s first studio release in almost a decade since 2003’s goofball novella Greendale and once again Young and co. refuse to rest on their laurels. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact, because they’ve gone back to nursery school; opening with ‘Oh Susanna’ and ‘Clementine’, you’d be forgiven for drawing blank expressions, but Young and Crazy Horse are not giving mere run-throughs of these old folk tales. All but one of the eleven tracks here rage with psychedelic proto-grunge thunder, tom-toms pound like shotgun blasts and, unless I’m mistaken, I never felt chest pains from the rumbling bass singing ‘Oh Susanna’ at cub scout meetings.

Oh yes, even with songs sweet enough to make your teeth hurt, in these veterans’ hands they’ll make you cough and splutter like a chain-smoker, stompin’ your foot to the gelatinous chords and wispy leads of ‘Clementine’ and ‘God Save the Queen’. There will be Horse die-hards out there wishing Young always sounded this way. The band’s trademark sludge, even when coupled with a children’s choir on the latter, is rousing and angular throughout. As an artist frequently baring his innermost feelings for all to hear, the songs themselves are metaphoric of the path to childhood regression many have trodden at this stage in their careers. Australian poet Steve Kilbey once wrote ‘I go back to my blindness so I may see again’, referring to the purity of thought we experience at adolescence, before the world’s ills begin to permeate our outlook, and so there is something morbid and strangely prophetic about the children clueless, singing lines from ‘Tom Dula’, an uneasy tale of man bludgeoning his lover to death before being committed to the gallows.

The records sole acoustic number, ‘Wayfarin’ Stranger’, is a welcome change from the grungy stomp of its neighbours, yet it offers little respite from the weighty themes touched on in ‘…Dula’ or ‘Travel On’, the protagonist imagining richer pastures in the afterlife. You do have to wonder who exactly the Americans in these tales were, but then, that is the point. It’s a means illuminating the past whilst keeping one foot firmly in the present. ‘This Land is your Land’s hoedown harks back to seldom-sung verses that emphasise a defiant character.

Across this collection, Young and Crazy Horse create an interesting weave of trademark grit, subtle humour wrapped in concrete meanings (‘God Save the Queen’) and the uncanny ability to rewrite the past in their own image. Sure, some of themes can be jarring to the discerning listener, but the radical re-imagination has to be credited. A great listen.

Joey Ramone - 'Ya Know?'

Jeffry Hyman, alias Joey Ramone, led a turbulent life. His notoriety as a cult icon came at a price; his shyness and insecurities frequently crippled him in the face of a vicious music press. By the same token, these traits are arguably why his reputation has endured since his death in April 2001, following a seven year battle with lymphoma. Unlike Lydon or Strummer, the young rebel never saw himself as the anointed saviour of rock 'n roll; he wrote his lyrics on the back of shopping bags and, at least on the outside, carried with him the naïve persuasion of a school boy on his first date.

As an eleven year old Ramones addict, yelling the ‘wun, choo, free, faw’ gospel on the bus to school, I took Joey’s passing very hard indeed. His seemingly eternal youth was inspiring to me, and at that time I knew very little of his inner turmoil; I learnt a harsh lesson about the terseness of life, something I would only realise fully years later, picking up Floyd’s ‘Dark Side of the Moon’. In the late 70s, while us Brits were content with chucking bile at the middle classes and pretending to despise everything, the New Yorkers aligned to a more inventive, hook-driven approach. If you wanted to get raucous with The Ramones, you could; if you wanted to get arty with Television you could; if you wanted to get prophetic with Patti, you could. CBGB’s was a veritable melting pot of youthful exuberance.

This posthumous collection is a 50 minute whistle stop of demos and unreleased material written and recorded during The Ramones' 23 year lifespan. Featuring producers Jean Beauvoir, Ed Stasium, and Daniel Rey, all of whom had dealings with the band, this collection – like 2002’s ‘Don’t Worry about Me’ – serves as a remembrance of one of rock’s most misunderstood figures. That voice of his remains divisive, and it is difficult not to make Ramones comparisons, but 'Ya Know?' contains a few surprises. The occasional ballad aside, everyone knew what to expect from The Ramones. No bad thing of course, but their gawky frontman had more to him than their patented blend of bubble-gum surf-punk. One such chameleon moment is the sublime country drawl of Waiting for that Railroad - something Bruce Springsteen would manage to dress in a flannel shirt and spoil - but in the hands of the Forest Hills boy is sweet without ever turning saccharine.

There’s Got to Be More to Life is signature JR couplet repetition, but the mid-tempo stomp is its Achilles heel. The breakneck pace of old did well to hide lyrical shortfalls and is laid bare here, though the female backing – a recurring feature – keeps things pleasing. On the other hand, the swaggering 21st Century Girl is pure rock 'n roll, featuring a Kinksy riff from Joan Jett and a purring vocal that you just know JR is enjoying. His loveable nature makes him difficult to criticise, but I’m afraid to say this album has its share of turkeys. Despite it’s truly dire title Seven Days of Gloom is a solid punk-rocker, but you can’t help but feel its outro payoff should have come two minutes earlier; New York City is for the most part inaudible, sounding like it was recorded in a bathtub, in a house three streets away. A re-recording of The Ramones’ Merry Christmas (I don’t want to fight tonight) elevates things again; starker than the ‘Brain Drain’ version, with little more than vocals, guitar and obligatory sleigh bells at times, JR’s gritty warble is sure to give the heartstrings a tug.

There is nothing ground-breaking here, and none of the tunes quite match the grinding intensity of, say, Poison Heart - arguably his finest vocal moment and a bona-fide anthem for the disenfranchised – but 'Ya Know?' elucidates a singer who, beyond the Queens New York cracks, was hugely emotive and versatile. Ramones devotees will lap this up, and it will serve as an interesting curio to others. Granted, he probably would have been laughed off the X Factor, shot down in the Voice, but man, Gimme Gimme Shock Treatment any day!

Sourced from the Yorker: http://theyorker.co.uk/arts/music/albums/11572

Public Image Ltd - This! is! PiL!

I haven't updated the blog in while due to other commitments but I am well and truly back (babee!). It's a welcome to new fans and a cheery old hello to my ever-expanding Siberian following.


It’s remarkably difficult to love John Lydon these days. Certainly those [Country Life ads] banged the last nail in the coffin for those who doubted his snotty-nosed sincerity, but it is the revenue the singer generated here that made this release possible in the first place.

Already, commentators have been aching to poke fun at the déjà vu moments surrounding this album – another Royal jubilee, a modest Pistols get-together, and the reformation of Lydon’s post-punk project Public Image Ltd. Even at their most meandering, PiL (as they are often known) were always interesting. Opting to sigh and creek and rattle along in a dub-influenced negation of four-to-the-floor rock riffage, their early work is still highly regarded by the right people, and at the very least acknowledged by others. A fantastic triptych – 'First Issue', 'Metal Box', and 'Flowers of Romance' – followed by a slip-slide down through poor production and patchy writing meant that to many, their potential was never fully realised.

**This! Is! PiL!** is a strange and unwieldy beast. The trademark Rotten fury permeates the likes of 'The Room I am in', but frequently comes across as befuddled, despite the topic choice – British Council Housing no less – providing for some suitably close-to-the-chest altercations. The no-frills production works well on 'Human' and 'Deeper Water', the latter evoking the very best in Factory Records’ echoing guitar styles. There are points however, when things go wrong and in doing so, threaten to tarnish the rest of the album; 'Lollipop Opera' is quite intolerable to the ear, and 'It Said That' is the aural equivalent of pre-school collage, without any of the direction.

Niggling aside, 'Reggie Song', with its cod-Reggae vocal, high harmonies and backwards guitar, is a favourite – deranged and charming, summed up neatly by the line ‘I am from Finsbury park/ and I’m having a lark’. The closing numbers hark back to the drawling dub of yesteryear; 'Out of the Woods' in particular wouldn’t be out of place on any of the above releases, nine minutes long and staggering along sinister as some back-alley drunkard. This is among the more frustrating reunion albums I’ve come across, one which adds little to the band’s catalogue, yet does not detract from it either. It stands instead as a testament to John Lydon who, for all his butter-churning and faux-raging, is still full of street-smarts, and capable of some wonderful turns of phrase. There is plenty for die-hard fans to appreciate here, but for a fair-weather, buy 'First Issue' and go from there.