Incomplete (i)

Ah, the sun. The sanguine azure sky. The wobbly flesh celebrating its freedom, rippling joyfully in the sparkling light. Yes, the summer has finally arrived. Gone are the festering frowns brought on by rain and the grey. Gone are the umbrellas battling through sodden crowds. Gone is the inane talk of a hosepipe ban and floods. All melted away by the first rays of a mischievous sun, toying with our reignited happiness. He could disappear again at any moment, taking with him the contented cover airily thrown over the UK.

With a typically British rush the hoards fill the streets, squares, greens and parks of London, to recline and stretch and rest and play. Some cascade out of the restaurants and bars onto the heat-baked pavements, the unbridled hum of friends dispersing vivaciously into the clear sky, like a bumble bee lazily drifting from plant to plant, filling the air with its cheerful buzz. The sharp chinking of bottles clash with the hazy mood, adding a celebratory edge to the lulling atmosphere. A young woman rests in the enclave of an embracing man, her placid gaze reflecting the comfort of the day, his cheek resting softly against her hair, a strand of which is lifted by a caressing breeze to tickle the tip of his nose. A sudden jerk away; his cheek removed, the embrace broken so that he can tend to the tickle. A breaking of the peace, the wind sauntering off, sassily glancing back at the minor disturbance she’d caused and then back on her way to find another unsuspecting couple.

PS I Love You - Death Dreams

What is it about musicians and death? Every successful musician has to have at least one song based on mortality; Morrison, Curtis, Cobain, and that’s without reference to the entire back catalogue of My Chemical Romance. The latest addition to the pile is ‘Death Dreams’, the sophomore record by the Canadian band PS I Love You. After the success of debut, ‘Meet Me at the Muster Station,’ a rollicking thrashing of guitars and shrieks that helped catapult Benjamin Nelson and Paul Saulnier into the indie-sphere, the latter started having dark dreams about the ultimate question – the result being Death Dreams. The clue is in the title.

For the most part the morbid sentiments are hidden somewhere in the often indecipherable wailings of Saulnier: listen closely and you’ll be able to make out “this is the worst week of my life” in ‘Don’t Go,’ and “sleeping in the van with a knife in my hand...in one day I lost all I ever loved” – it’s self-loathing at its emo best. In 'Sentimental Dishes', a rip-snorter of a song with crashing symbols and scuzzy guitars, Saulnier apathetically screams on the chorus “I don’t wanna do the dishes! You don’t wanna do the dishes!” before unleashing a guitar solo that Slayer would be pleased with - the banality of domestic life given zest in a gloriously defiant and fun indie-pop song.

Even if the content of the lyrics has become a little heavier (it would be irksome for them to continue paging songs about breaking out of their hometown, Kingston, Ontario, like they did in 2010’s Meet Me at the Muster Station) they still remain true to the driving drums and distorted writhing guitars shown on their debut. ‘Toronto’ rattles through at a frenetic pace; Saulnier’s paranoid cries relaying his anxiety as Nelson unrelentingly pounds away at the drums. ‘Future Dontcare’ immediately follows to build on the foundations of worry for what lays in store; “I wish this summer was like last summer...Love doesn’t care about the future.” It’s lines like these that would make any psychotherapist lick their lips in anticipation of sitting Saulnier down on the couch for a few costly sessions.

The LP is split into two sections by instrumental songs, ‘Death Dreams’ as an opener and ‘Death Dreams II’ halfway through are, according to their website, a recreation of a melody played by a ‘death march band’ from one of Saulnier’s dreams. The opener sets the scene for what’s to come with a bleak overture that atmospherically sweeps by, whilst ‘Death Dreams II’ acts as an interlude from Saulnier’s keening howls more than anything else. It kind of works. As ‘How Do You’ rolls in like a thundering wave you are slightly pleased to hear the familiar screech back again. The song itself has a good contrast between thrashing guitars and mellifluous breakdowns, giving it a Pavement-esque feel.

Although in parts the record feels like a therapeutic release for Saulnier to vent his anxieties about life, the future and, ultimately, death, it’s easy to ignore the self-loathing sentiments and concentrate on songs that are actually very good. ‘Red Quarter’ builds and erupts into a two minute oozing of guitar solo, smothering everything in its path, whilst closing track ‘Close Contact’ is a unabashed display of triumphant rock and roll, almost coming across as a celebration of life compared to the other tracks. Whatever Saulnier says about death, one thing’s for certain, guitar music is very much alive in PS I Love You.

8/10http://www.virgin.com/music/reviews/ps-i-love-you--death-dreams

Sat Nav Nightmares

A thought struck me last night as I was being driven home by a pleasant, yet slightly odorous, taxi driver. I should hasten to add that there were many thoughts whizzing through my mind at the time; why is Red Leicester cheese labelled ‘Red’ when it’s clearly a dark orange, who invented the cable car, will I ever be able to afford a white Toyota Prius, did Ban Ki-Moon change his name because it sounds cool, who’s the TT in The Bridge, is Richard Hammond a real person? But one thought lodged in my head and stayed there long enough for me to consider writing something about it. And it is this: Will technology render humans useless? As in, will the ever varying ways in which technology helps humanity eventually lead people to being unable to think independently?

The sat-nav is a perfect example. Key in your destination and a cold, empty voice directs you, to the minutest detail, on how to reach your desired place, draining any excitement about the trip in the process. “The voice doesn’t sound too enthralled to be going to Pembrokeshire, maybe we shouldn’t go. Maybe we should go back because she sounds tired, even a little cantankerous.” Take a wrong turn or decide to veer from the suggested route and the person in the screen gets angry, in part due to you taking matters into your own hands and in part not having the programmed vocabulary to say “turn around and go the way I tell you.”

The sat-nav - such a nagging abbreviation - removes any chance of stumbling, quite at random, on a seemingly unspoilt, remote hideaway. (Unless you end up on the edge of a cliff - wrong turn - , something which only goes to prove people’s over reliance on technology and lack of trust in themselves). It removes the possibility of spontaneity. “That road looks interesting, let’s see where it goes.” Most of the time you’ll end up at a dead end or in a Royston Vasey type village, where locals greet you with accusing glances and up-turned noses, but there’s fun in it.

What was so bad about an A to Z anyway? They worked. They were relatively simple. You may have needed to sit down and concentrate on planning a route for a short while, but is that such a bad thing? Do we really need something to tell us where to go at every turn in the road? The problem is that everyone’s become too impatient, too time conscious and too busy to think for themselves on matters of such simplicity. We’re living in a world where the internet, i-phones and sat-navs can give you information and answers at the click of a button – why would you want to waste time looking at a map?

But we should – just because we can get information quickly doesn’t mean we should all act quickly, barely stopping to catch our breath.

Back in the taxi and we were stuck in traffic, less than a mile from my flat. “If I turn right here will I be able to get to yours?” enquired the taxi driver. “I don’t know. Maybe.” We both looked at the sat-nav, then glanced at each other, and waited in the traffic.

BEACH HOUSE - BLOOM

Following 'Teen Dream', the third album from Baltimore’s Beach House, was always going to be difficult. It would be in most people’s top five albums of 2010; the languorous swirling synths of 'Zebra', 'Walk in the Park' and '10-mile Stereo' already initiate a reinforced nostalgia for that hazy halcyon summer. It catapulted Alex Scally and Victoria Legrand into the indie mainstream after the initial smatterings of success for their self-titled debut in 2006, and sophomore, 'Devotion' (2008). Alongside Grizzly Bear and Animal Collective it also helped to cement the duo as one of the most important bands to come out of the US in recent years. Yet two years on their fourth studio album, 'Bloom', doesn’t disappoint. In fact it’s better.

Largely created whilst touring, Bloom features all the trademarks you’d expect from a Beach House record; meticulously crafted dream-pop songs with catchy, achingly tender melodies and lo-fi beats all combining alongside Lagrand’s sonorously yearning vocals.

The album starts where Teen Dream left off. First track, 'Myth', meanders indolently along, like the sanguine flow of a burgeoning river on a blossoming spring day. Led by the searching slide of Scally’s guitar and pulsing piano rhythm the song cautiously builds to a crescendo, where Legrand’s entrancing purr effortlessly dominates proceedings. Lazuli saunters by, sounding slightly like Enya, with Legrand’s “Huh huh huh” reverberating through the arpeggiated piano, whilst 'Troublemaker'’s haunting circus melodies are tinged with menace, leaving the listener restive.

It’s the combination of Legrand’s seductive vocals with the droning synths that helps to create the ethereal, dreamlike qualities Beach House has become so synonymous for. This is no more apparent than on 'Wishes', a song where Legrand’s almost lachrymose, doleful voice contrasts sumptuously with the yearning of the organ; pangs of regret and sorrow echo through Legrand’s descant – one of the most vulnerable, strong and understated voices in music – leaving the listener with an ungraspable sense of longing. It’s Beach House at their sepia-tinted best.

What makes Bloom better than its predecessor is the way it grows, even flourishes; it entices the listener in with the minimal beats of the opening tracks and gradually, subtly blossoms into a verdant, full-bodied piece of work. It’s not a surprise that the best songs are towards the end of the album. The wistful waltz of 'On the Sea', where shivering guitars clash with mournful piano, and the resplendent release of Irene culminating in a cacophony of sonic guitars and synths demand that it is listened to as a whole LP and not singular songs. Put simply, it’s one of the best albums of 2012.

9/10

Mull Historical Society - City Awakenings

Remember the early 00s? UK Garage was, quite literally, booming, fashion was in a state of flux, desperately trying to escape from the 90s tie-dye but being dragged back by its baggy jeans, Pop Idol, Hearsay, Blazin’ Squad, MiniDiscs and the entire western world was in a state of panic due to the events of 9/11. The early 00s were also “the manic depressive years” in music, not in the sense that the music was gloomy (some of it was) but because they were dark years spent bleakly, blindly wading through musical mud, tempered with impulse-buying Las Ketchup after returning from an ill-advised week in ‘Shagaluf.’ You know, before The Strokes saved music (so people say). Travis, Stereophonics and the Red Hot Chili Peppers were the insipid best most people could hope for. And lurking somewhere between Idlewild and Turin Brakes, the multi instrumentalist, Colin MacIntyre, burst onto the scene under the pseudonym, Mull Historical Society.

His debut album, 'Loss', went Gold, he was voted Scotland’s Top Creative Talent at the Glenfiddich Spirit of Scotland Awards, and he toured with The Strokes, Elbow and REM. Now 10 years on from Loss, we have 'City Awakenings', produced by Dom Morley of Amy Winehouse, Mark Ronson and Grinderman fame. So it must be good, right? Wrong. City Awakenings is a loose bundle of 2001-filled nostalgia, to the point that it should come with a warning not to close your eyes because on opening them you might see Suzanne Shaw standing next to your bed, like the poltergeist in Paranormal Activity, but scarier.

The stuttering “can you let her know, it’s o-o-over” on 'Can You Let Her Know' only enforces the feeling of retrospectiveness, coming across like a mix between Gareth Gates and Frankie Cocozza. The comparison with failed talent show contestants doesn’t end there. The saccharine sounds of 'The Lights' could easily be a Louis Walsh song choice for his next mentee(s) who are slightly on the spectrum. It leaves a queasy feeling in the stomach, like foolishly eating your way through a whole bag of Haribo Star Mix on a long car journey in the sweltering summer heat. 'Must You Get Low' is a mockingly upbeat song, with a chipper chorus and keening papping horns. For anyone feeling slightly down it will only cause them to spiral deeper into resentment fuelled apathy.

With its mellifluous bluesy guitar, 'Fold Out City' is almost the redeeming song of the album. Redeeming in the sense that it doesn’t make you want to tear your ears from your head, drive to Beachy Head and commit ear suicide. 'You Can Get Better' should work as a perfect motivational tool for MacIntyre, given that you’d really hope that he can get better. And 'This Is Not My Heart' is a bold attempt at a tender, bittersweet love song, which just comes across as contrived.

City Awakenings is a Sisyphean struggle to move on from the early 00s, but it just can’t help but roll back down to the beginning of the millennia, where it belongs, toiling and wrestling with the other bands who, for the better of music, decided to stay in the dark. Now where’s my MiniDisc player?

Kate Havnevik - You

Kate Havnevik’s sophomore album, 'You', is titled thus because ‘you’ is the word she says most throughout the album. On 'Myym', a song layered with jerky strings and surreptitious bleeps, she says ‘you’ quite a few times. In fact she says it so often that it drove this writer to a mild state of paranoia. I started shuffling cards nervously. I smoked a cigarette (I don’t smoke). I even alphabetised, colourised and categorised my DVDs, only to disassemble them again into a random order, deliberately putting some of the discs back in the wrong cases. I almost became as paranoid as she sounds when she sings, “someone will have to section me if my you cannot find you.” At least I think it’s ‘you’ and not ‘ewe.’ I haven’t ruled out that she’s in fact losing her mind because her adult female sheep cannot find you. Him. It. Either way it’s confusing. Not content on having said ‘you’ enough she then says it 1,532 times on 'Think Again', a dreamy ditzy ballad about a summer fling that she’s still desperately attached to.

That aside, apart from being more than a bit maudlin and saccharine, the songs are unfailingly catchy. 'Castaway'’s sweeping strings and atmospheric thudding drums elevate the song to a soaring landscape, giving the impression of an outcast roaming the Gobi Desert. With papping horns and carefree whistling 'Show Me Love' is unashamedly happy. Although at times it could be seen as mocking, the upbeat skip of the song could make it worthy of being used on any number of dating adverts fervently blooming into our consciousness, you can’t help but tap your foot to it.

The album starts promisingly with 'Krakowska', which, after some research on Wikipedia, turns out to be ‘a type of Polish sausage, usually served as a cold cut.’ The type seen in the meat sections of your local mini supermarket, which are always tempting but you can never really tell what’s under the opaque wrapping so you stick with Richmond sausages and take the indigestion that’s coming. The song itself starts with Havnevik’s delicate dulcet tones accompanied by soft melodic chords with a soupcon of electro whirring bleeps, adding depth and allowing the song to grow into a multi-layered pop song. 'Mouth 2 Mouth' demonstrates the subtle range and strength of Havnevik’s singing, whilst also showing her capability to write an intricate, fast paced, smash and grab hit. Promising in the way a capricious young English footballer is promising.

But, like most young English footballers the album never fulfils its early potential, petering out into the stagnant waters of mediocrity. Like choosing the Richmonds over the Krakowskas, the Norwegian chanteuse decides to play it safe for the rest of the album, not fully trusting her obvious talent. It’s not that her songs are bad, they’re really not. They just meander along without really grabbing the listener’s attention. One feels that she should be pushing the boundaries on her next album, or, like the Polish sausages, her records will remain alone on the shelf.