New Model Army: 'Between Dog and Wolf

My review for Soundsphere magazine:

Perhaps the cult band of the 1980s, New Model Army effortlessly bridged the gap between the snarling politic of punks first-wave and its darker, more experimental [read: interesting] post-punk cousins. The "f*** you" rhetoric of punk could only go so far, and soon – as Tony Robinson onc e said – someone was going to want to say "we’re f***ed". Together with Spear Of Destiny and others, New Model Army plied a rallying, banner-waving rock ‘n’ roll for the disenfranchised, switched-on dweller of Thatcher’s Britain. Perhaps it explains why these bands have outlived their contemporaries, and, through their continued relevance, had such an impact on this Sociology undergrad growing up under the Coalition. Propelled by Justin Sullivan’s terse vocals and evocative lyrics, their catalogue has taken influence from everywhere, teetering on a bed of tribal rhythms and punk attitude to form his own unwieldy vision.

2009's ‘Today Is A Good Day’ was not an empty spectre of a record; nor was it the ignition of a band firing on all cylinders. In the wake of tragedy, theft, and departure, Sullivan has weathered a storm, wiped the slate clean and started again – the result is ‘Between Dog And Wolf’. Suddenly, the band sounds rejuvenated and purposeful, with new four-stringer Ceri Monger adding a youthful exuberance to the rhythm section. The sound is vast and empty, as if the whole band were recorded in a vacuum. Even at its most visceral, it manages to lift the listener out of the studio and into the heart of nowhere.  From the cave-painting artwork to the music it contains, ‘Between Dog And Wolf’ is an aural clashing of worlds, of modern and arcane; an observation of the microcosmic, archaic systems pervading beneath the surface of our ‘Big Societies’.

Even in the most accessible of NMA pieces – the mighty ‘Vagabonds’ from 1989’s ‘Thunder And Consolation’, for example – there exists an underlying sense of uneasiness, a sense that it could all kick off at any moment. Here, that tension remains: From the sinister choral undertow of ‘Horsemen’, to ‘Ghost’ - the grinding, Mediterranean-flavored  closer - the band’s ability to contort the post-punk medium to its limits endures. Sullivan’s Quaker upbringing continues to permeate his lyrical philosophies. His search for truth and contradiction in Zygmunt Bauman’s "liquid times" is a powerful universal language, apparent in the claustrophobic ‘I Need More Time’ - “I need more time to make good on the promises I made to the world, when the world was moving slower.” In absence of any singular "anthem", this album is unlikely to win new fans, but to the discerning listener, this is arguably one of the finest, creative collections New Model Army has assembled in years.

Like the vignettes of a traveller’s diary, every song feels vital, slowly coalescing toward an image and eventually disappearing into thin air. The likes of ‘Storm Clouds’ and the blistering title track contain enough bare-knuckle guitars and swinging percussion to keep fair-weathers happy, but it is in pushing the Army’s boundaries that this record succeeds. Its finest moments – as dervish ‘Quasr El Nil Bridge’ sets into ‘Summer Moors’ - are two visions of Sullivan’s ever-decaying world: one, the "man on the street"; the other, watching from a faraway knoll as the light fades on another day. When the credits roll, reflecting over the preceding hour, there is a sense of relief – the journey is over, yet you are unsure where to head next.
Though lacking the immediacy of their catalogue highs, ‘Between Dog And Wolf’ is thoroughly evocative and a worthy addition for any serious fan, marking itself as an exciting, creative ground zero for this new model Army.

For tour dates, visit: https://www.songkick.com/artists/527966-new-model-army

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zBxs8d8LoFM

Rhombus: 'Here Be Dragons'

2010′s ‘Open The Sky’ marked a quantum leap forward in terms of sound and song craft, so dramatic a leap in fact, that I could see Rhombus hurtling headlong up a stylistic cul de sac. With studio supremo Stephen Carey [Adoration; Eden House] locked in at the controls, the sophomore effort was a real game-changer: a “worth-seeing” live act suddenly became serious contenders in the Brit-Goth underground, silencing naysayers – this writer included – and earning new fans.

So, ‘Here Be Dragons’, the “forever-delayed” follow-up. Social media may get on our collective wicks at times, but it’s been undeniably pivotal in the continuation of independent music. PledgeMusic has become a veritable feast of fancy for band fund-raising and audience interaction – an opportunity for fans to get involved, buy limited-edition merchandise and even sundries such as “things the band don’t want”.

Straightaway, the classic Rhombus elements are in place – the big choruses, the split-octave vocals, and the wash of elation when those guitars hit. Carey’s absence is instantly noticeable with the production being something of a retrograde step, but thankfully the instruments never quite manage to swamp one another. They are clearly brimming with confidence on the back of ‘Open The Sky’, and the quality of the song writing is astonishing. The sumptuous title track defines this record: its blend of major-key refrains and middle-eastern inflection is peerless, with singer Mya’s semi-tonal scat providing counterpoint to Ed Grassby’s [bass; vocals] earnest baritone.

The same can be said for ‘Fallout’ and ‘Tomorrow’s Yesterday’, showcasing the band’s sonic intricacies with myriad dynamic shifts and key changes. While the use of piano and strings is nothing new to Rhombus, the instruments are more creatively deployed, forging their own harmonic lines rather than simply propping up the mix. Even at their least imaginative, they remain impeccable tune-smiths – I challenge you not to find yourself nodding along to the sub-Die Laughing groove of ‘Turn Around’, with the duelling guitars of Ian Grinn and Rob Walker sparring back and forth across your headphones.

Only briefly does the band lose way: ‘The One Thing’ and ‘Lifeline’ feel somewhat hurried for lack of better arrangement, with the latter feeling particularly sterile – they are not bad songs, per se, rather surrounded by superior company – and If I were to get all curmudgeonly about it, I would say that call-to-arms ‘Timeless & Elegant’ lacks the panache of the ‘Anywhere’ EP version. These are small gripes however, because overall ‘Here Be Dragons’ is a worthy follow-up with every kind of song one could ask for, Goth or otherwise. Rhombus have always known what they’re good at, but they continue to prove that the formula can be contorted into new shapes. Playful as they are sombre – with tongues hovering precariously around cheeks – they are simply a darned fine rock ‘n’ roll band with a penchant for “changing the light bulb” [Wikihow: Goth dance].

Where have I been?

That is a good question, and the answer is...busy! While I've not written a great deal online for either One&Other or Soundsphere this last month, I have been working on a series of articles for their respective printed publications. Somewhere between those pages you'll find interviews with the Gaslight Anthem AND Reverend and the Makers, as well as your usual quota of reviews and a couple of more arty numbers. I've had a lot of personal goings-on to deal with too, which has made things difficult. Thankfully, I seem to be coming out of the thick end and look forward to climbing a positive gradient once again.

Thanks and see you for now,

J

Interview: The Anxiety of Love

On behalf of Soundsphere magazine, I caught up with burgeoning Leeds gloomsters the Anxiety of Love.

“The city’s sounds are brutal and oppressive” cried Charlie Gillett in his seminal publication ‘The Sound Of The City’. The “aural ecology” of our environments is widely discussed as impinging upon everyday experience as we traverse its spaces, an emphatic by-product of that area ‘in action’. Occupying a space somewhere between J. G. Ballard’s dystopian visions and the concrete enclaves summoned up by Throbbing Gristle, The Anxiety Of Love is every noise you thought you heard and every shadow caught in your peripheral.




The Leeds trio – Paul Southern [guitars], Duncan Thorpe [bass], and M [vocals] – and their enviable rack of analogue and digital drum machines purvey a kind of emotionally-charged, oppressive sonic poetry examining the human condition in its most naked of states. Loosely connected with the burgeoning independent scene that sprang forth Lebanon Hanover – a brooding synth duo from Sunderland who have already made a name for themselves on the chilly dark-wave underground – The Anxiety Of Love are at once arcane and direct, archaic and timeless. Commanding the contrary, suffocating ambience of early 4AD artists and to a lesser degree, the Manchester contingent, theirs is a sound for very feeling carried dormant within each of us as we make our way across the day.

We caught up with singer and lyricist M shortly before the band’s first official gig last week. Featuring three well-versed individuals of the underground scene with ties to Red Lorry Yellow Lorry and Joan Of Arc Family, we were curious as to how the band came to fruition: “I think it was a long time brewing and was of vital personal importance to get off the ground. Both Paul [Southern; guitar] and I are inspired and driven by things that a lot of people don’t want to have to expose about their lives and their feelings about life, yet it’s not really an urge driven by choice necessarily more of overriding compulsion as was the case.” It is a telling mission statement. In the same way that Sarah Kane wrote starkly about her surroundings in near-brutal plays ‘Blasted’ and ‘Crave’, The Anxiety Of Love are something of a force of nature, a musique concrète for the disenfranchised city dweller. “[Our music] does in part reflect our surroundings, which aren’t particularly joyous or inspiring let’s say, but it is inward looking”. While it is no misnomer to consider their music bleak, M stresses a humanitarian empathy to what they do. “Misanthropy for the sake of itself is stupid; there is hope and humanity in it too. It’s not dismissive to consider what we do to be gloomy. It is. I don’t however think we choose to wallow in it, which is what separates us from others in some ways."

Mark Twain once wrote that emotion is at its most sincere when involuntary, and with this mind we asked M about the evolution of the band’s direction and aesthetic. “I think the underlying notions were already fully formed yet the sound wasn’t. I think you shape a picture in your head of the people who blew you away first time round, people like Cocteau Twins, and it’s very hard to follow that, so we don’t.” After aborted rehearsal attempts, the trio entered the studio anew: “relatively blind and wrote and recorded on the spot, given a very limited and tight time frame, and yes, it worked against the odds. That’s how we’re pursuing it right now. To me personally, the writing process is the soundboard and yes, if it happens, what comes live will follow.”

December saw the band release their hand-numbered cassette-only debut ‘One’ through German distributor Aufnahme + Wiedergabe, a DIY mail order label fitting with the bands own sensibilities: “I really loved and indeed love their ethos: both super cool guys and with a real knack of playing the system which works. They fitted perfectly with my own views on how a body of work should be administered; this is rather oblique but, to me, pretty straightforward.” Recorded alongside a disinterested house engineer, it featured four vignettes of cerebral, drum-machined post-punk noise centred on M’s yearning and often impenetrable lyrics. It isn’t an easy listen and demands a lot from you, patience and persistence. If you are prepared to put the work in, those songs really can align themselves with you. Part of a wider “cottage industry” of labels and artists utilising new social media in the release of “old” platforms – cassette, vinyl and things that move and whir – the bands dedication to the aesthetic of their art and its merchandise is inspired.

The veritable feast of equipment at the band’s disposal – those wonderful things called drum-machines that would have every bed-bound teenager with a synthesizer salivating copiously – has already raised eyebrows amongst those in the know. Despite this, M is aware of the band’s physical and technological limitations both the arranging and performing of the material: “We’re subject to our own limitations. The drum machine is a tool, and it structures things tightly, maybe a bit too tightly at times. We use a duo of Roland 626s, which are very uncool, but if you tweak them sufficiently they can sound harsh as fists and not the soft jazz they were designed for.” Preparing for live performances in this manner of brought about its own obstacles, but after the band’s mostly triumphant set in Newcastle last Friday (in spite of power failures), The Anxiety Of Love continue as a forward-looking, uncompromising musical force. Theirs is a rather iPodded kind of world: a musical form that can synchronise itself with the listener, projecting something of himself in the face his immediate surroundings – an intersection between the warmth of humanity and the harsh “non-places” we find ourselves passing through.

With much of 2013 still in waiting, we parted company with a brief note on the bands future. With the arrival of second cassette ‘Nausea Libido’, more singles will follow in quick succession before they “start work on something more complex. Maybe some more performances and some in mainland Europe would be nice too”.

Amplifier - 'Echo Street'

Another review for York-based mag Soundsphere from last month - thanks to Dom Smith for the continued belief and support.

There is no overstating the influence that the city of Manchester has had in guiding and shaping the UK music scene. At its heart beat a pulse that radically altered the way in which music could be produced, played and visually-realised. From Tony Wilson’s Factory through the Stone Roses and Brit-pop giants Oasis, the metropolis is capable of writing its own Greatest Hits of rock ‘n’ roll.

 


Once again, a strong undercurrent of independent bands has begun to flourish. Along with the likes of David R Black and the Narrows, we have Amplifier; a four-piece band who have been lavished with considerable media approbation since their inception in 1998. Led by a suitably oddball frontman in Sel Balamir, they ambitiously walk the line between indie and the suddenly acceptable “prog rock” tag – contorted every which way by the Mars Volta, and sent plummeting over the edge by Muse – and have survived label disputes and stayed true to their identity, producing a body of work that is highly musical, existing exclusively within their proverbial oyster.

2011′s ‘The Octopus’ was a gargantuan two-album journeythat showcased a band refusing to bow to perceived convention, a self-released effort selling a respectable 20,000 copies. New album ‘Echo Street’ already finds itself standing in a rather big shadow. Mixed by Chris Sheldon – responsible for rubber-stamping serious power onto the likes of Biffy Clyro and Feeder – ‘Echo Street’ is in many ways the opposite of its predecessor: eight distinct pieces of music, each their own quirky road movie to envelope the senses. The production is lush and spacious, the post-rock-inflected clean sounds never at odds with any distortion. Cross their palms with silver and you will be rewarded with a rich and eclectic record, one which draws together four decades of music in almost-excellent fashion.

Extended opener ‘Matmos’ – curiously named after the lake of fire residing beneath the city of pleasure in 60s movie ‘Barbarella’ – does a good job of drip-feeding the listener, easing them into proceedings in a steadily building haze of keyboard drones and sparkling guitar arpeggios. It sets a good precedent for things to come, with plenty of left turns and key changes to keep things interesting, but with six minutes standing between the fade-in and a discernible hook, fair-weather listeners may find themselves giving in. This would be foolish however, as things hit their stride with ‘The Wheel’. This second track is a less quixotic sibling of the Mars Volta, one who has heard Khan’s excellent ‘Space Shanty’ album, released in 1972. We mention this record because, quite simply, this writer never imagined he would hear such chord structures from another band, let alone one in the present day. The grinding bass notes are taunted by an incessant minor-key organ and guitar motif as Balamir’s oblique lyrics keep you guessing. The chorus offers no release, instead suffocating you in washes of synthesizer and distant vocal harmonies before reprising that hypnotic riff. Things do eventually reach breaking point, with Matt Brobin letting out some blistering percussion as the waves of fuzz bring the curtain down.

At odds are ‘Where The River Goes’ and ‘Mary Rose’, deceptively simple novellas featuring some glorious vocal harmonies and off-kilter time-changes; the band’s ability to morph its core components is startling, using light and shade to tell their story in the most compelling of ways as they hurtle towards frenzied conclusions. ‘Paris In The Spring’ – a lament on the Nazi occupation – is the album’s centrepiece. Hovering around keys, there is a schizophrenic push-and-pull between the aural beauty of the Parisian streets and the grey soar of marching feet.

Whether or not ‘Echo Street’ is the follow-up that fans wanted or expected, it is certainly the one they deserved. It is unlikely to excite those unfamiliar with either the band or the genre they continue to tip-toe around, but is a rewarding listen for the rest of us.

'Digging for Gold' - An interview with Robin Guthrie

Something I never thought I'd do this early on is interview a hero. Last week I did, on behalf of One&Other magazine:

“[Instrumental music] is very visual. There’s no singer bleating something over the top of it, locking you into one way of thinking. It gives the listener space to put something of them into it, layering your memories which become intrinsically tied to it” – Robin Guthrie

To the erudite amongst you, the name Robin Guthrie will follow hot on the heels of one of Britain’s most revered yet modestly-discussed bands; the Cocteau Twins. In truth however, the Grangemouth-born Scot has come a long way since his 4AD days: a prolific composer who over the last decade has produced intensely personal instrumental works; collaborated with others such as renowned contemporary-classical pianist Harold Budd, and even scored the odd film here and there. Ensconced in his adopted home of northern France, he continues to reveal his collection of aural postcards to a dedicated audience. ‘Fortune’ – released in November on his own Soleil Après Minuit label – continues in the canon of ambient guitar sounds that have become his signature, with its ten tracks traversing very aspect of the emotional spectrum.

If conducting this interview was not nerve-wracking enough, having him ask me to “show us to a nice café” only added to the pressure. I played it cool, eluding him to the fact that I’d spent the preceding half an hour asking friends for help. We, along with his partner Florence, eventually sat down upstairs in the Little Shambles Tea Room and – sipping a double espresso – the tape began to roll. The burly Scot appears tired, having travelled from Manchester in the early hours following a packed house at the Band on the Wall. “I promised myself today I was going to eat healthily, but when you’re travelling it is very difficult – the promoter usually turns up at the end of the night with a pizza”. The guitarist chuckles, tucking into a grilled blue cheese sandwich as I muse over his return to our pokey little island. This tour has been Guthrie’s most extensive for some time: “It’s the first time I’ve been asked come to here with this many dates – a simple as that. We simply go where the concerts are offered, and we get a lot more in other countries than we do here, whether it is America, Japan or wherever else we’re popular”.

It’s a testament to Guthrie’s continued following that he is able to get full houses without real promotion, and ponders the notion that with the right amount of backing, they could step up the level of venue they play in. “We rarely get support from British media. The anomaly is that we’ve been selling out some of these shows – we were at the Band on the Wall in Manchester last night [14/02/12] and it was packed – but then we go to Liverpool and there are 20 people there”. Eschewing direct album promotion because “it takes a while for me to actually figure out how to recreate it onstage”, the trio will be drawing on a decade of material from 2003’s ‘Imperial’ onwards. Due to its rich and textured nature –all the parts often recorded by Guthrie – a gap has emerged between the songs on the record and those which can be worked into a live setting. “I like to keep things down to the trio, which means that of the hundred-odd songs we have, there are only really thirty that I can do”. There are no rearrangements, rather a series of loops played by Robin himself, alongside bass player Steve Wheeler and drummer Antti Makinen.

Our conversation soon turned to the music, and like myself, Guthrie remains imbued in the whole ‘experience’ of producing a record. Since ‘Imperial’, artistic continuity has been paramount, even down to fonts and numbering. “Working with 4AD and Vaughn Oliver, I took it upon myself to get involved with the artistic side of things. It took a while to get confident, but I thought ‘I’ve got a computer, I’ve got a camera, and it’s my record, why not’.” One would imagine that with such an elegant touch on his instrument, this is a man enamoured in theory and rolls of parchment. You couldn’t be more wrong. “I can hear it in my head and visualise where to put my fingers, but if a bass player were to say ‘hey, is that a D?’ I’d say ‘I don’t know! Is it?’” This is no false modesty, and the guitarist is acutely aware of his gift for arranging, recognising that he can exploit his ability to ‘not play properly’. “I really cannot play any other way. I’m good with one or two strings, but it’s a horror of mine to arrive at a party, there’s a guitar in the corner and someone says ‘give us a song!’”

Offering a glimpse into his creative process, Guthrie remains profoundly inspired by his surroundings while at the same time embracing modern means of ‘getting it down’: “I don’t really listen to music, it’s quite shamefully really! I’ll have it on when I’m making dinner – open a bottle of red and listen to some John Coltrane, but I’ve lost the ‘music fan’ thing that I had when I was younger.” To park up by the beach and sit with a laptop and a rollout keyboard is a synergising of two worlds symptomatic in his music – the natural and the ambient, colliding with the digital to create something distant yet surprisingly intimate. “Part of my process – I’m not sure you could call it a talent or skill – is turning what I see and experience into something aural”. He recalls the story of his album ‘Continental’ [2006], composed on a train journey between Los Angeles and New Orleans: “It took two and a half days, just watching the world going by; it was hugely inspiring. When I arrived in Los Angeles, I borrowed a guitar from somebody and performed the whole thing that night.” His nonchalance is charming; evident that behind the tapestries of sound is a gifted arranger, a Dylan-esque craftsman, with an innate understanding of melody. Conversely, new album ‘Fortune’ was completed without travelling, a feat fraught with its own difficulties. “It became a challenge to live my domestic life and create something of that emotional depth – that’s okay though, because I’m sure the next one will be different again.”

Working with a musician of Budd’s calibre would be daunting for anyone, and Guthrie is no exception, but he is humbled by the experience. “I feel privileged to work with him; someone who touches the keys and is instantly recognisable”. Their relationship can be traced back to the 1980s, but their score for cult film Mysterious Skin is where, for me at least, their styles gelled. Guthrie cites this as one of his most challenging musical excursions because “he can play properly [laughs]. He’ll sit down in his house and just write manuscript perfectly. Now, try putting that in the same room as someone who doesn’t know what the black notes are for”. Their styles compliment one and other beautifully, Budd’s rolling arpeggios skipping like pebbles over Guthrie’s sustain. But the former’s age – now 77 – and experience can create worries. “In the studio you have time, but live we’ll have a quick soundcheck. I’ll think ‘hmm, this is in E – I can do that…but please don’t do any black notes!’”

Recounting a number of issues I addressed in my Sunday Essay last month, attention turns to record sales, and the impact on artists desperately trying to sustain themselves in an increasingly disjointed industry. “Sales are going up, without a positive gradient in terms of what the bands are actually making: people are beginning to reject iTunes and Amazon in favour of Spotify. People assume that because I’ve been doing this for 30 years I’ve made a lot of money, which couldn’t be further from the truth. People ask ‘why do you continue?’ To feed my family, quite simply: much of what I earned in the past [Cocteau Twins] has been signed away to someone else. I am very grateful for what 4AD did for me in my previous band, but the assumption that I’m still resting on it is wrong”. In our time of open-source outlets like Youtube, the volume of readily-available music has seen an almost Darwinian sense of competition emerge: “nowadays you can put something out on the internet, and it can potentially have the same value as something released on a label”. As the words leave his mouth he holds hands up – “…but that shouldn’t stop anybody from making music, because it is such fun”.

So where in this ephemeral world of iPhones and Twitter feeds finds room for an artist like Guthrie? It’s a tough question because ambient music, if you’ll forgive the pun, is always there; rock’s quiet unobtrusive friend at the party. He has managed to keep his foot firmly behind the door to the mainstream, casting a shadow on a new generation of bands lavishing money on their echo units. He will remain respected, but perhaps not pedestaled in the Eno sense. Before packing up and heading over to the venue, I asked Robin where he would be heading at the end of this tour: “as soon as the tour is done, I shall be off travelling again – taking a few trains, moving around America perhaps”. No doubt he will bring some more postcards back with him.

Sunday Essay: Physical vs Digital

A piece I am proud to present, which was written two weeks back now. One&Other gave me some wriggle room and - following the HMV crises - allowed me to write something that I hope will provoke discussion:

“For a collector – and I mean a real collector, a collector as he ought to be – ownership is the most intimate relationship that one can have to objects”. Walter Benjamin, 1992.

Yesterday I sat in my usual pub, in my usual chair by the fireplace. I took a swig of scotch and tensed as the burn caught the back of my throat. Across the room two of the regulars were locking horns. After several minutes tones elevate and hands flail, moving light-hearted gents’ banter into a full-blown war: in one corner, the traditionalist – unkempt and sporting a Genesis t-shirt and a Walkman held together with tape; in the other corner, the modernist – white ear buds hanging from his shirt collar, using names like ‘Spotify’ and ‘Apple’ as verbal cannon fodder. The fact is that debates over the format and distribution of music have moved beyond the realm of barstool chatter to serious academic exchanges, and as such, my mind was in two camps when I was asked to write this article. My first thought was that somebody somewhere must have placed a serious bounty on my head in approaching such a contentious topic; the second was simply ‘where the devil am I to start’? It is very easy to sound evangelical when discussing physicality in record buying, however, and without wanting to come across too academic, I will endeavour to avoid too many jingoisms. That said, as I sit now in a room replete with CD cases, dust jackets and cassette boxes, I suppose it is fairly obvious on which side of the fence I reside. When HMV announced its administration earlier this month, my personal Facebook and Twitter accounts were rife with sobs from friends – those who defected to online outlets still found themselves mourning the loss of Britain’s most recognised multimedia store. It has always been de rigueur amongst music diehards to belittle the franchise for its commerciality and unashamedly mainstream focus, but because of that very position in their consciousness, its demise has been a hammer blow to both high-street and independent record buyers alike. For those of us who still enjoy filling our shelves, we appear more determined than ever to cling on to high-fidelity means of music consumption.

In record purchasing, ownership is a highly tactile, conspicuous experience. The act of physically ‘picking up’ your item and paying for it – or vice-versa, if you’re using a website – is a strangely personal one; the £9.99 exchange leaves you with something you can touch, an acquisition an experience in its own right. Whatever your poison, an album sleeve potentially colours your listening – from the fantastical landscapes of Roger Dean [Yes] to the stark brilliance of Peter Saville [Joy Division], the listener can choose to envelope themselves sonically and visually within something tangible, that really is theirs. A far cry came in September last year when the Sunday Times published an article challenging our ideas of ownership in digital music consumption. Silver screen veteran and known music collector Bruce Willis allegedly sought legal action upon discovering that his extensive iTunes library would revert to Apple when he dies, unable to pass it on to his family. Though the lawsuit was promptly dispelled as folklore, the article provoked quite a reaction with readers learning that those files and folders didn’t actually belong to them.

When discussing purchasing, I used the second adjective for a reason: coined by economist Thorstein Veblen in 1899, ‘conspicuous consumption’ is something increasingly practised by high-fidelity listeners as we find ourselves fighting against the digital market. I am certainly guilty, with the mere mention of ‘download’ forcing my hand toward the nearest shop like some unwieldy defence mechanism. Satirically depicted in Nick Hornby’s ‘High Fidelity’, the image of the collector has become one of near introversion: scribbling names, thoughts and dates in a little black book, unwilling to accept the ever-changing outside world. That is the cliché, and it can be construed as shallow to some.

Philosopher Walter Benjamin, from whom I take my tagline, postulated that our collections form a ‘material biography’ – that our dusty shelves reveal something unique about us as people. Indeed, my own personal record collection maps a trajectory that underpins the best part of a decade. Record ownership is profoundly social, a game of join the dots if you will. In my first year of university, I played a record by Pink Floyd to a guy I met at a mixer; the next day he came in with a CD case in his hand, threw it down onto my bed and said ‘dig this, man – David Gilmour produced it!’ Like a scene from ‘High Fidelity’, this is a record I can date with a snapshot of my personal history; a reminder of my first days as a freshman. Numerous sociological studies have been conducted to show that digital music libraries can also house such biographies – Marjorie Kibby’s ‘Collect Yourself’ warrants further exploration. However, there is nothing as ephemeral as that which can be erased by pressing a key, casting it off into a silicon no-man’s-land. Record or even CDs can decay physically just like their owners – scuffs, worn jackets or a mysterious stain – but ultimately continue to turn with the aid of the right mechanics.

The wealth of music open to the digital user is unprecedented – between legal and illegal sources there exists a boundless, readily available catalogue. Whether it is the instant gratification this medium provides, or perhaps that you have access to hours of music without risking disappointment, the appeal is easy to see: ‘every song you have ever owned in your pocket’ is enticing and liberating, waving goodbye to your cluttered, cobwebbed storage spaces. Having no fixed location frees us to take our music on the move, creating a mobile, ‘imperfect sanctuary’ in which to reside as we traverse our environments.

The choice afforded by your friendly neighbourhood record shop is always going to trumped by, say, the Apple store, but like the self-service supermarket, an interface can only take us so far before we require the services of a sentient being. Software can offer us suggestions, but it cannot ‘recommend’ to us in the same way; your local record junkie is always on hand to say ‘hey man, if you like this band, try the guitarist’s new solo album’ – if the projects are stylistically different, it is unlikely that a buzzword-based computer system will make the connection.

Operating economist Nigel Thrift’s ‘technological unconscious’, it is only when you begin to analyse the complexity of the processes involved, that user-friendly cracks appear. If these processes fail – power cuts, computer viruses and the like – our collections become dormant and isolated. I will never forget the week I spent carefully ordering my CDs and vinyl onto a portable hard-drive, only to be met with the message ‘your disk has corrupted and is unable to complete this operation’. Suffice to say I haven’t bothered a second time. My record collection is my back-up, my hard-drive – when my mp3 player packs in, I will still have a ground zero to return to. Call me shallow, but I like having something I can point to, something of which I can say “I bought that. I sat down and listened to that on this stereo, with these headphones”. Above questions of ownership and tangibility however, stands the true vernacular; we simply enjoy collecting and sharing things.

I believe it is too dramatic a leap to say that the record as an artefact is dead, and while file-based formats continue to supersede, a vast cottage industry exists for those willing to investigate. Giving new salience to Benjamin’s ideas, I move to suggest that combined, these formats serve two distinct purposes: my digital collection is the functioning offspring of what is on the shelf – I can take it out with me and listen on the move, but always return to the original at the end of the day. This is the true collection, the one that I continually nurture and love.