NARC Magazine Demo Reviews - December

Miss Danby & The What / bltp / Tighten Grip / Glenn Maltman / Debs McCoy

‘Humdinger’ by Miss Danby & the What’s is an uninhibited and joyful celebration of its muse. The garage door is lifted fully up, and this pop-punk ode jingles and jangles, warbles and tangles into the sunshine. It is a testament to the songwriting that a lot of ideas are packed up inside this three-and-a-half minute pop song without distracting the listener from the overall rush. Catchy guitar melodies and changing drum patterns add colourful definition to the sections of ‘Humdinger,’  whilst the vocals, charming for their manic vibrato and approximate pitching, lead the parade like kids on skittles. Not only does this gem promote a wonderful and underused noun with its title, but the song exemplifies its definition too. 

‘TheFour’ is a sombre warm-pad meditation by bltp (Budda’s Last T-Party.) As the sustained chords slowly rise and fade, the sound is never quite resigned to silence as each new tension replaces the last. Emerging from beneath the tide is a second voice; a soft synth whistling glissandos like a wind exploring the contours of a coastline. The patterns are patiently intensified with the tones overlapping more readily until a climatic held chord at the finish. This piece is poignant for wrapping up alarm quietly within a deceptively calm ambience. The melancholic intervals and enduring siren, however softly they are both treated, innately disturb our subconscious.

Grungey, broken-chords underpin a sorrowful description of a character facing judgement in‘Fall’ by Tighten Grip. Tightly synchronised riffs, lead by dynamic drumming, drive the song on through despondent lyrics until the reserve of its character breaks open, and Simon Dowling’s vocals unleash an impressive raucous wailing over instruments now spread in distortion. The sense of loss and despair is all-consuming as the voice eventually falls underneath the noise of the final progression. The length and ecstasy of the final act implies a longer journey leading to it than we are given. Further discussion of more hopeful times in the narrative would justify the resulting trauma, eternalised by a track fade-out.

Glenn Maltman’s track ‘The Star Navigator’ offers the greatest disparity between technical instrumental skill and compositional imagination this

month. Throughout this chilled aperitif, the fingers of our composer scuttle and spring across the keys of the lead piano part with clarity and precision. Though some of these patterns show invention, the supporting “backing-track” is tediously monotonous and muddy. It is understandable to utilise peaceful tones to highlight the brightness of the lead part, but this incorruptible beige shows us more with each passing minute the composer’s indifference to truly supporting the piano’s organic changes.

As these nights draw in, Debs McCoy’s soundscape ‘Therapy Sessions 1’  offers something tender to the severity of the season. It is a gentle creature, revealing itself in cello lines and pensive piano assertions. Low bowed drones underly each thought; sometimes as a comforting blanket, at other times as a deep depression. As the piece develops from its initial timid, and more abstract, motifs a spritelier pattern emerges in the piano part. As this life reveals itself, the weight of the strings subsides. Though much of the tonality of the individual parts are rooted to a major centre, they are cleverly arranged into a collage which uses various juxtapositions to disorientate the natural positivity of major intervals into something more ambiguous and strange. The reverb is applied with temperance aiding the natural sustain of the instruments. When the last chord fades, you realise how this music has elevated your sympathy, for in the silence that follows, you feel that the sound is still there, like a phantom limb.

[2014.11.07] for NARC Magazine.

Richard Dawson - Nothing Important - Album Review

Upon hearing that Richard Dawson was releasing a new album called Nothing Important, a slightly modified version of a famous quotation from the artist Francis Bacon cycled in my head as I tried to manage my expectations in the time leading up to hearing it.

    “I am an optimist about nothing.”

    “I am an optimist about Nothing Important.”

    Bacon’s wonderful statement has the possibility of being interpreted in contradictory ways with both conclusions being held equally true. This is just the kind of paradox Dawson finds liberating, and in a recent interview for the BBC, regarding his musicianship, he explained that it is best “to be yourself as much as possible within the knowledge that you are both nothing and everything.” Through acquainting himself with these limits and possibilities he has found more freedom to play. It would seem The Magic Bridge was his first commitment to this understanding, wanting to share the potential of this viewpoint all at once, but it is in The Glass Trunk and this latest release that we see that original enthusiasm soaked into his instincts. In these most recent records he has had the confidence to narrow his focus, which, in another paradox, has lead to the creation of albums with a greater breadth.

Nothing Important is a collection of four tracks. Two sixteen-plus minute songs as centrepieces, with two instrumentals book-ending the set. As with his previous two records, the form of the album is greatly considered to give weight and dimension to the songs above their isolated merits. By placing his song Man Has Been Struck Down By Hands Unseen as the penultimate track on his 2011 album The Magic Bridge, Dawson uses the powerful climax of that testament to bring together all of the energy and emotion accumulated throughout the record (as well as in that song itself) to deliver a cathartic release as we reach our destination; the magic bridge of the record title. With his previous album, The Glass Trunk, the listener’s ear is brutally cleansed after each of the a cappella songs by two fractured instrumentals following each vocal track in turn (except the last.) This formal segregation keeps the ear alert and listening clearly to each composition fully as each new track arrives. Here, with Nothing Important, the form celebrates the lengthy centre tracks. The outer pieces act as Prelude and Epilogue; introducing ideas and feelings relevant to the Universe about to be described, and then delivering us from that place with a final thought.

The titling of the four tracks is instantly provocative, particularly with the instrumentals being named after two controversial biblical Apostles. As a fractured progression of notes from his trusty amplified and distorted parlour guitar open the programme, the listener is asked to consider this opening track in relation to Judas Iscariot; to some, a traitor to Jesus, to others, an important catalyst in the process that saved the mankind. The opening guitar expressions are deliberately tripped-up and reset for the first minute of the track until the phrasing evolves into a violent stomp, with the open-strings rattling and the fretted notes whining. These more quantised riffs reflect Dawson’s passion for Heavy Metal music. As he punches at the Locrian intervals and beats down on the bass strings we forget we’re listening to one man with a guitar. All of a sudden, the mood changes and the tempo is relinquished as barely touched chords maintain sound just above silence. A thin lead line then falls into the similar folly as described in the introduction before being finally swept into a blasting repeat of those angry riffs. Each section of this instrumental portrays a character disaffected in some way; from their inability to harness a consistent voice, through to their arrogant reactionary swaggering. Dawson uses his Judas to demonstrate a passage of chaos and destruction - and this is where the story begins!

The album’s title track emerges from a singular harmonic; feedback gently expanding the tone until intervals seize upon shapes and nurture a new environment for themselves. Images of The Big Bang and the start of the Universe colour the mind. From this scope, the song lyrics transport the listener to the birth of a child at St. Mary’s Hospital, forty years ago. Our singer assumes the voice of the newborn and relays a collage of peculiar childhood moments. He uses physical description to recall events, avoiding the rhetoric of persuasion or judgement. As the details fill in the picture of a life, he interjects ‘I am nothing / You are nothing / Nothing Important / Death inside a dream,” each time singing the assertion more desperately until the final repetition, where the delivery is almost rabid whilst the guitar support buckles. After the track sprawls through an energised instrumental passage (a skipping section that recalls a similar motion of a former Dawson jig, The Bamburgh Beast) a final sung section takes over. Our narrator sites further memories and becomes increasingly frustrated that these seemingly insignificant objects ‘remain so clear, while the faces of [his] loved ones disappear?’ This song climaxes in an elongated melody, using melisma to stretch out a final desperate cry. The last stanza twists the knife in the story as the singer occupies the voice of the child’s parent, testifying that their child was the most beautiful thing that they had ever seen, and yet he lived for only seven days.

This song uses the concept of time to expose views around what is considered important. Firstly, donating a comparatively large amount of time to express a song titled Nothing Important raises the suspicion that this title is ironic. Over that time, the dynamic, structural and stylistic variety of the sound consistently fights the idea in the mind of the listener that nothing important is happening, for in front of our ears the terrain is constantly challenging. The music spans the life of a person, beginning with their birth and ending with their death. By including little sound before and after these events, our songwriter weights their importance as all that is different from silence.

Though Dawson sings firmly, often in unison with melody lines from his guitar, an amount of his words get camouflaged in the sound. This is in part due to the superior volume of the guitar, the more resonant tone of the instrument over his voice, and a singing style which chooses to soften the diction of certain words for a more legato style. All of these choices are deliberate and such consideration has been a consistent pursuit of his in sound-checks for gigs over the years. Sometimes he performs live without a microphone whilst still amplifying his guitar, demanding the fullest delivery of his voice to rise up and be heard. Where as a songwriter like Leonard Cohen mixes his voice clearly above the rest of the orchestration to direct the listener’s attention to the words first and foremost, to Dawson the overall effect is prime. By balancing his music this way, the listener has two choices - to zoom out and see the galaxy of stars, or to specifically focus in on the singing; to register each word, missing the full effect to discover the detail. Jarvis Cocker writes a request to the listener in the inlay of Pulp’s album ‘Different Class’  that they do not read his lyrics whilst they listen to the songs recognising what would most likely be missed if someone was to do that. Here, through these performance and mixing decisions, Dawson implies a version of that request.

     

The complimentary epic on this album, The Vile Stuff, is a mighty march through a restless dream from a hospital bed, the contents of which is ripe with calamity, mixing the believable with the symbolic. Dawson is fascinated by this situation, exploring it first on The Magic Bridge through his Grandad’s Deathbed Hallucinations. The track is introduced with a seductive swaying guitar riff. As listeners, we are gently rocked to sleep in the sweet major tonality. As the pattern disperses, there are hints of melodic augmentation, creating suspicion that all may not be what it seems, but as each repeating chord lingers longer… and longer… … and longer… … … we are drugged, and in another death of a dream. The world down the rabbit whole quickly forms around a phrygian melody from Dawson’s guitar and an accompanying marching beat, made of a bass drum and clapping. The lucid stream of lyrics are chanted in unison, an octave apart, as unrelenting as the pulse. Many characters are encountered in this Alice In Wonderland-style trip of adolescent experiences. On a school trip, we meet Craig, who cracks his head open and has to be rushed to hospital. Then, we meet a scamp who schemes and covets the bed of Miss Bartholomew. Later we meet Andrew, who is contemplating a dramatic lifestyle change. Did I mention a Horse-Headed King who sings? He’s in there too.

If the previous track explored a relationship between chronology and life, then The Vile Stuff seems to focus on the forces that throw a life around. The listed experiences are framed within a dream our narrator is having following the consumption of a liquid. “I only drank a / Few little droplets / I only took a tiny draft of the vile stuff.” Such a small act triggered this world of experience and adventure. Drinking these droplets fuelled hallucinations of helicopters. The image of someone drinking a small amount of an undisclosed liquid reminds us again of Alice in her story and the vial she drank from, the contents of which diminished her size in relation to the world that surrounded her. Dawson sings this twisted melody at full force, even double-tracking his voice to make himself heard against the surrounding ocean of noise, as if he is attempting to be heard in an environment that stands tall around him.

The instrumental support in this track allows Dawson to experiment with his guitar parts in a different way, ornamenting the central sounds with polyrhythms and splayed arpeggios. As the song proceeds, extra layers of guitars and percussion, tuned and otherwise, are added to the mix, steadily building the power of the sound, until the track finally rides out in a farmyard of noise, with saxophone improvisations and chanting, all competing within the drone.

Finally, the second instrumental, Doubting Thomas, guides us to the end of the record. The slow-moving plagal chords heal feedback as it attempts to grow. The soft repeating progression allows the listener’s mind space and time to reflect on the considerable detail of the past forty minutes of music. By placing us with the Apostle who doubted Jesus’ return with the resurrection, and required proof before he believed, our thoughts are persuaded towards the application of empiricism. With this album, Dawson has written a tapestry charting relationships with the everything, the nothing and places in-between. If you doubted the existence of these places before, it is likely that you will believe in them now. 

When The Magic Bridge was released, I was too heartbroken by it to imagine how this unbelievable painter could improve on this masterpiece. I feel so lucky to have lived locally in Newcastle to witness his concerts around that albums release and in the years following, watching the complexion of his confidence get healthier and healthier. Dawson has said that there was a long period of time in his earlier years making music before a clearer instrument and compositional personality emerged. I recall when I went to buy a record from him after the first time I ever saw him play, and as he handed me Sings Songs & Plays Guitar, he used the interaction to manage my expectations for that recording whilst enthusing that his next shortly-to-be-available release was much better. His comment held no arrogance, it simply reflected the truth of his understanding for what had been happening with his composing, and that it would be the next album rather than the one I held in my hand that would show a light he had now found. I don’t know where and when he would pin-point this rose growing through the concrete, but for me, although Sings Songs & Plays Guitar shows wonderful roots, it is The Magic Bridge that breaks through and stands up tall to the sun; exquisitely designed and utterly vulnerable. I now know why he was excited for that release. It represented change and a brave step. With both The Glass Trunk and Nothing Important following as unique triumphs in this new garden he seems so at home playing in, each new offering makes us more thankful that he took that leap. Wherever his adventures take him next, I hope he is supported and cherished.

[2014.10.21] for NE:MM Online Magazine.

NARC Magazine Demo Reviews - November

Far Pacific / Control Zed / Jake Fletcher / The Raging Sickness / ako

I Know starts with a gleaming high-pitched electric guitar line, and when the band joins in with a swaggering funky-beat, complete with a raspy trombone, a cheeky positivity shakes the airwaves. Enter the vocals and a confirmation of Far Pacific’s mid-90’s Indie roots. The lyrics are delivered in the style’s typical nonchalance, making broad confessions with arbitrary rhymes until the choruses come around and the song title is repeated as a refrain; each repetition taking us to a new level of boredom. The production is strong and the choice of tones sit supportively with one another, but such quality in this area acts only as a cherry on a very plain sponge. 

Four repetitions of a gently disarming 7/8 drum beat welcome our ears to Control Zed’s ’Stop and Rewind,’ before the pattern is gently fleshed out with an arpeggio acoustic guitar riff and a root-note bass-line. The vocals are tightly accompanied with choice harmonies. Melisma is employed casually in the melody of the verses, and with it being closely paralleled with a backing harmony, this gives Stop And Rewind a memorable personality. A xylophone interjects in the breaks falling just the right distance from twee. A sinusoidal electric guitar part lifts the energy in the final portion of the song, before letting the primary riff cycle a few more times at dusk.  

Terrace Row Defeat is a macabre ballad testifying for various proletariat archetypes and their problems in endlessly rainy times. Over strummed strings and a soaked skipping beat, Jake Fletcher observes the deadly routines of characters from Bennett’s Talking Heads, round his way. From his young eyes, he spots a danger, and warns ‘if you’re gonna get out, get out now.’ Such advice from an aspiring-to-tour troubadour maybe misjudged, but flying from the ark, he is more like the dove, and someone who wants the best for his community.

Perhaps when Metallica released Kill ‘Em All in 1983, songs with such an aggressive pro-destruction character could be seen as reflective of a certain paranoid position of American thought surrounding The Cold War, fearing what might be. The Raging Sickness’ remake of these sentiments feels flaccid and unsympathetic in a time where minute-to-minute violence is occurring and evidenced for general public viewing on the internet. Though I admire the ambition to create drama, the lack of originality, both lyrically and musically, undermines this song’s intended power; the parodies on display to the listener here evoke similar feelings that a parent might experience waiting whilst their toddler exhausts themselves through a tantrum. 

ako’s ‘process/us’ displays a number of charming musical attitudes, and has melted its way to be the primary focus out of this month’s bag of tracks. This six-and-a-half minute instrumental has its roots in house music; driven by a wonderfully leathery pulsing kick-drum and low-pitch wet looping bass-line. Touching my instincts particularly are its minimalist heart and patience. Calmly out of the heartbeat emerges syncopated clicks, ricochets and soft keyboard intervals, until a wobbly sharp synth bursts the track open for the sunshine. The mix of melodic loops of different lengths, and a strong use of the major-third driving the bass, keeps process/us in perpetual motion. By the final act of the track, the listener is gliding high over a glorious terrain. Throughout, we hear replays of whispering voices. The montage intensifies, as if the satellite is zooming out, and witnessing the greater buzz of international traffic. This track takes city lights at night and puts them with dreams and feelings of possibility.

[2014.10.04] for NARC Magazine.

Philip Selway - Weatherhouse - Album Review

At the end of July, Radiohead’s exceptionally creative rhythm-maker Philip Selway released a new song from his up-coming second solo LP release; the anthemic Coming Up For Air. As our anticipation for this record grew, all of a sudden another of Radiohead’s Republic surprised us, releasing their own second solo LP this September, ahead of Selway’s, but in spite of this timing, these diverse projects will not steal attention from one another, for they both serve as special and unique offerings to the Autumn of 2014.

Selway’s debut in 2010, Familial, was a modest acoustic-guitar driven record, with melodies and juxtaposing chordal changes that set the listener’s ears on a path to fill-in the possibilities for what fuller arrangements might sound like. Four years later, and our composer’s ambition for the orchestration and sonic landscape encompassing each of his new recordings is much greater.

Weatherhouse is an apt title for this album, suggestive, amongst other things, of the more luscious textures and seasonal atmospheres dressing these new tracks. Along with realising each composition through its melody and arrangement, a track-to-track focus on the space and room each occupies gives a further level of distinction to the experience this time around. The song Let It Go marries its theme of tormented sleep with a constant and distant rattling bell. Other parts rise in a mist around the vocal melody like the waves of thought keeping our subject awake. In Don’t Go Now, the acoustic guitar sits dry and solid at the front of the mix, whilst vocals and strings are rapped in thicker air. As lyrics are disclaimed, the textual disparity metaphors the distance between the lover in the distance and the loved in the foreground.

This further solo release also clarifies the ideas that Selway brings to and enforces in Radiohead’s communal songwriting. The descending vocal melody line along with the lyrics in Ghosts strongly reignites memories of Exit Music For A Film. The cyclic eternity of the drum pattern in Around Again speaks to the energy and paranoia of his band’s Hail To The Thief era, employed here for his more existential study.

From his long-time involvement performing music, and the accolades he has received for his contributions, the effects Selway employs on the production of his vocals in these recordings would appear a stylistic choice rather than one used to cover a lack of confidence in his abilities. In Coming Up For Air a smooth fuzz veils his natural voice, and often, on the songs that follow, reverb heavily soaks his serenades. The vocals are just another part of the orchestra in these arrangements, and the use of these effects to frame them more intrinsically in the complete sound helps remove any possible perceptions of a vocalist leading the march. The song is always the thing, not the performer. 

Weatherhouse is a collection of some beautiful melodies, supported tastefully with intricate arrangements. With a history of being involved with creating music that has re-evaluated the landscape to which it was born, audience expectations for what Selway releases are unfairly extreme. Embracing Weatherhouse with the hope of unheard timbres, or unusual postmodern concepts, would be to misdirect the focus from what is to be enjoyed from this characterful album. These songs are united by their gentle centres and their arms outstretched to the listener. His voice, though wide-ranging in pitch, is often delivered calmly and softly, welcoming the listener rather than waving for their attention. Thematically the songs are held together through their exploration of the harder sides of the relationship between a You and an I.

Being a part of an incredible ensemble does not necessarily dictate that, operating separately, you can offer a rounded voice and work of value. In Philip Selway’s case, however, a class shines from his solo music that simultaneously convinces the listener of his intrinsic relevance to what Radiohead make, and also to his bravery as a musician, who, in spite of his achievements and commitment with that collective, takes time to stand apart from them, to explore his creativity elsewhere.

[2014.09.24] for NE:MM Online Magazine.

NARC Magazine Demo Reviews - October

Slow Moving Targets / Chased By Badguys / Neolithic / SkyRush / Ilser

Our singer at Slow Moving Targets uses a combination of nonchalance and primal assertion to relay his kitchen-sink observations in Dirty Knees, a bluesy seduction letter. Earthy sexuality is order of the day; from the song title and accompanying EP cover-image to the primitive use of pentatonic riffs and raucous singing. A tight, slim production is preferred and works particularly well with a percussive breakdown section involving hand-claps later in the track. The lead vocals go from a droll patter relaying description to wild cries of desperate profession, ditching diction when touched by the full-moon. 

A sweetly naive keyboard part introduces Ghost by Chased By Badguys before an acoustic guitar overtakes the progression with the chords plucked to keep a pendulating beat. The forced vibrato of the lead singer’s vocals whines sharp against the gentle backing instrumentation, and although the attempt at conveying unrest and passion in his voice is noticeable, the effect is grating. A tape-recording sample is presented at a critical point in the song as a poignant document, but anything other than hiss is unplaceable to the listener, leaving the reason for it inclusion unclear. The instrumentation is tastefully arranged from the start, right through to when the narrator’s resultant loneliness is conveyed with the track concluding with nothing but synthesised strings repeating a refrain. 

Life’s purpose seems somewhat tarnished to the folks from Neolithic with their twenty-four minute dissertation, Born To Suffer. At volume, this recording serves meditation on the weight of life, offering a sound consistent to the usual dimensions of the Drone genre. The instrumental parts, shifting tectonic plates with their might, have been well captured. When the vocal screaming erupts from the noise, it is well articulated above the booming. Lacking any major idiosyncrasies, the adjective Neolithic in the band-name perfectly describes the compositional level of development in Born To Suffer, where the rudimental possibilities of each instrument’s sound is sufficient to achieve their muscular purpose. This track chants anonymously alongside the congregation of its church. 

Why Me? is a simultaneously excitable and anxious indie-pop song by SkyRush lyrically orbiting a protagonist’s vulnerability and resilience. The bass riffs cut through the electric-guitar and drum noise lushly, providing a central personality to an otherwise messy sound. Garry Benns sings his words with a brave conviction though a natural fragility accompanies each phrase. At the choruses, a sweet harmony tenderises the lyrical sentiment. An alternative ending to the arrangement would serve this song well, as the current rallentando-drum-fill-pow feels rather cheesy outside (and one might also argue inside) of a live situation. 

Rachael Whittle’s wonderfully bending voice slowly twists through Ilser’s moody grunge-rock ode. Out of the creeping, Last Chance explodes in the choruses, thrusted by the bass-drum and power chords hitting nearly every down-beat. As the format dictates, a guitar solo breaks after the second chorus and mixes moments of brilliance with awkward stumbling. The words seemingly outlay a prayer to a saviour but serve a more threatening gesture as the song develops. Unfortunately, at climatic points, Whittle holds some sustained notes out-of-tune and the clear production does not protect the singer’s fallibility here. 

Though I am not the bee for this flower, Slow Moving Targets and Dirty Knees deserve the top spot in September’s Demo of the Month for their clarity of songwriting and its execution. They uphold the spirit revived by Sheffield’s favourite simians with rock ’n’ roll at their centre and a song mixing dry wit and documentation of a localised existence.

[2014.09.11] for NARC Magazine.

Jenny Hval & Susanna ‎– Meshes Of Voice - Album Review

Meshes Of Voice is a fascinating collaboration between Jenny Hval and Susanna Wallumrød. This album represents their first recorded album together, but the way in which these premier Norwegian talents merge leaves terms like ‘debut’ or ‘first collaborative album’ redundant in spite of that language being technically accurate. This offering is whole; with its imagination relevant to a past tradition, a present mystery and a future vision, honouring the quality of its muse, the enigmatic 1943 film, Meshes Of An Afternoon by Maya Deren.

Both Hval’s and Wallumrød’s vocal talents are uniquely exquisite but, by the strength of their complimentary aesthetics, form a melodic hydra that characterises the heart of these compositions. Each instrument added to the orchestration feels like an embellishment to these rich voices, which duet as if they have been trained as twins from birth. Wallumrød’s fuller tone often leads in the mix, but the expression is a united force, with Hyal’s edgier voice fleshing the thought; sometimes in unison, sometimes with simultaneous alternative patterns and repeating phrases. 

The traditional instruments used are mixed within a narrow texture, highlighting their timbre and influence in the sound. For example, As O Sun O Medusa wilts into A Mirror In My Mouth the transition, although seamless for other sounds, is recognisable for an acoustic guitar quietly assuming the waves of the new section’s (new track’s) arpeggios. Towards the end of Thirst That Resembles Me, a zither strikes unexpectedly out of a hypnotic repeated refrain. It’s crystalline quality is made particularly delicious to the ear as the arrangement presents it with such import. The music never travels too long before the listener is treated to a new idea, whether it is a new sound element, technique or phrase. 

Equally as important to the overall expression as the melodic and instrumental choices is the use of reverberation, noise and distortion. These effects are treated as instruments in their own right, building intersections and links within the construction of the tracks. Whether prominently crashing into the sound hard, with unruly guitar feedback (as in Black Lake,) or isolating the vocals in a numbing thick air, (as inThirst That Resembles Me,) the application of these qualities is less to colour an existing part, but to register with the listener as a part in its own right.  

Hval and Wallumrød explain that mythical creatures, particularly those that spoke to womanhood, were a large inspiration for this record. Though this could naturally lead to a conceptual piece, the result goes even further into the theatrical paradigm for its structure, characterisation, and symbolic lyricism. Droplet, with its calm meditative loop brings us into the album’s world, the house lights are faded to Black Lake, and the story begins.
The track, I Have Walked This Body, builds in its sonic texture whilst the lyrics chart a journey ever deepening. This sense of layering is similar to the film which, too, shows characters (or versions of a character) repeatedly approaching and entering a house several times. The acrobatics that unfold from the duetting voices in this particular track quickly destroy any expectations and limits that the listener may have presumed early into the programme; we are in the presence of magicians and their itinerary is vast. 

Repetitious motifs are drawn upon throughout the lyrics of Meshes Of Voice, much like the visual devices in the film; the knife, the flower and the disconnected telephone. Honey Dew, Milk and Bones are symbols that reoccur organically within Hval’s and Wallumrød’s lyrics and get re-evaluated in each new appearance. The contrast of sunlight and darkness are constantly exposing the nature of the oral testimonies. The penultimate track welcomes a dawn; an unveiling light. Having been set loose from a ‘Heart like a Black Lake,’ the album finally returns to that image as it closes, this time, sung with an ignited enthusiasm by Hval, delivering the lyrics in a wild incantation. The songwriters cite Athena, Medusa and Harpy as characters of particular interest in this study. Their examination is made painfully intimate by lyrics including first person confessions, characters working out their nature against the elements and their experience of the world. Any innocence is certainly fermented by the time this record finishes.

There is little relief within this emotional experience, and at fifty-plus minutes of sound, these intense expressions would rip apart the weary. However, the fluctuation in the tone and mood of each portion of this cycle formulates a playlist with all the necessary angles and curves to recharge energy in the listener to brave the more tumultuous chapters. This record is the result of a deep curiosity, explored by brilliant minds, and interpreted into a wild creation by uncompromising composers and performers. Meshes Of Voice is a triumph; simultaneously a mystery and a key. 

[2014.09.07] for NE:MM Online Magazine.

Slow Decades - The Frost & The Concrete - Album Review

Our Imaginary Friends have been quietly accumulating a great number of exquisite pop songs to their portfolio over the years, but until now, we have only been able to enjoy them performed live. From the 15th September, this will no longer be the case, as our band, recently renamed Slow Decades, release their debut album - The Frost & The Concrete.

Confetti starts the record as if it were the closing track to the end of a movie; a brave final scene where all conflict is resolving in embers. This piano-lead ballad, with its aching minor-sixth chords, stoically resists defeat as our troubadour charts betrayal. The final lyric exposes a previous conjecture that our narrator’s situation “won’t get [him] down,” and as this moment reveals fallibility and vulnerability, cushioned in the tenderness of the music, as listeners, we are offered up an open heart, and asked for our empathy. 

Pulling the curtains back and setting the record in full flight is The Chaos, a track previously unveiled, with a surreal video courtesy of Sean Gaw, in anticipation of The Frost & The Concrete’s release. Its driven pace and unrelenting full-band orchestration underscores descriptions of social awkwardness and barroom frolics. This uncertain course is braved by our singer for beauty.  

Ben Lowes-Smith’s voice cuts richly through the mix across this record, whether softly singing in the depths of his natural baritone or weeping a falsetto melody amongst flocking arpeggio accompaniment. Through subtle changes in delivery, Lowes-Smith draws further complexity to lyrics already filled with poetic humour and symbolic description. The lyrics are often sympathetic to the trepidatious steps of the youthful and romantic, in particular illuminating some of the struggles that face young men. In A Boy Your Age (one of the stand-out tracks from the album) the lyrics come as advice from an older friend; a girl or woman who is sensitively managing our narrator’s clumsy development into adulthood. By hearing about his behaviour from her perspective, a more acute criticism of our subject is shown. By the care and consideration taken to observe such detail and express it within the lyrics, the listener is invited to try to understand the characters motivations and the humanity that they display. 

As the record moves swiftly from each three-minute song to the next, it is understandable, upon a first listen, that you might interpret these songs as musically simplistic because they are instantly engaging and leave strong vocal melodies repeating in your mind. However, many unique countermelodies are modestly entwined within the textures of these tracks, often courtesy of Paul Gardner and Gary Cameron on various instruments. This sensitive layering and supporting characterisation shows the dedication to fully interpret the song and that no instrument is superfluous. Upon various repeat listenings, new parts draw the ears attention. 

The momentum of the playlist is excellently judged, interspersing bounding tracks like The Chaos, Real Men and the intriguingly titled Margaret Bad Boy alongside more somber tracks. The album adventures through a great deal of scenarios at a fast pace, but reaches its emotional apex with the song Hesitation. This heartbreaking track shows a character, stripped of confidence, rationalising their rejection against their own self worth. The electric guitar is strummed timidly, whilst a sorrowful clarinet melody wanders lonely between a wilting voice and a weary rhythm section. Our End follows and offers a gentle pause after the devastation. This instrumental is the morning light leading us home away from the confusion. Whilst the penultimate track Television shows our singer’s concerns with his solitary habits and supermarket wine, Home For The Weekend, with its perfectly-judged loose beat, stumbles our weary traveller home and to the safety of his bed. 

This album has been a long time coming and has been constructed over many months, but this time has not been wasted, and the resulting recordings are those of fully-honed pop gems. Some of these songs have been loved and given life at gigs for many years and time has now granted them a place on this very special debut. It is the organic result and generous gift of musicians living and breathing the music that they love.

Slow Decades will be performing at The Mining Institute on 6th September 2014 in celebration of this debut release. They will be supported by Blackflower and Ettrick Scott. Be there to listen to these beautiful songs reverberate with the spirits of this beautiful hall. 

[2014.08.17] for NE:MM Online Magazine.