There are bands, and there are cults. There are concerts, and there are religious experiences. There are fanbases, and there are devout followers. There is an endless void, and there is Killing Joke. Those wise enough to make this distinction and spend All Hallows' Eve crammed into Birmingham's Institute enjoyed a rollicking set of the Joke's special brand of indescribable purifying noise: cackling over the end of the world and presenting landscapes drawn from a sonic palette so indefatigably punishing and relentlessly brutal that it is, in its own way, unerringly beautiful.
Touring in support of their fifteenth album, the shit-kicking Pylon, Killing Joke - returned to their original line-up after bassist Paul Raven's untimely passing, with a rare Absent Friends dedicated to him - take to the stage then take the stage itself, their autonomous zone for the night. Ploughing through an exploratory career-hopping set, due reverence is given to their position as venerable statesmen, with the tunes to match: a suitably boinging Eighties is judderingly relevant, despite being older than some of the crowd (hello). Pandemonium closes the set, after the likes of Turn to Red going toe-to-toe with the assault of newer cuts.
Theirs is a tribal-industrial lot - if forced to categorize - pummelling the Institute and instigating a two-way energy exchange. Bassist Youth lighting incense sticks or whatever the fuck it was christ I'm tired who reads this shit anyway was a touching addition. Love Like Blood and Requiem, two foremost set staples, are tucked inside the middle of the set for once. Security lies in the understanding that the band could fart them through a kazoo and the respective gorgeous ache and fantastic stomp of these two would still transmit, and still incite no less applause. After thirty-eight (thousand?) years in the game, frontman Jaz Coleman is also no less the most hypnotic frontman of his generation. Still keeping any heel-snapping newcomers at bay, looking away is an impossible task as it is searingly clear from his expressions that every word carries megatons of weight, delivered accordingly.
Guitarist Geordie Walker, meanwhile, is a mystery no easier to figure out even when working a few feet away. Chordal oddness and sheer inventiveness mixes with a guitar sound that is completely and utterly unmistakable, with bludgeoning riffing giving way to effortlessly illustrated textures, housed inside great cathedrals of sound, making his underrated status all the more criminal.
Geordie Walker's Gibson ES-295: a conduit to chaotic noise
There are precious few acts where each and every member makes their mark through sheer force of personality as well as musical and technical skill. Skinsman 'Big' Paul Ferguson emits kidney-puncturing beats, perfectly undercutting the band's sound and quite possibly vibrationally eroding the venue's infrastructure. Aforementioned Martin 'Youth' Glover's driving bass dances around it wonderfully, fulfilling an overall sound that is, upon reflection, something not to be repeated.
It is sobering to think of the oft-cited bands who Killing Joke left a (claw) mark on - the likes of Metallica, Tool, and Nine Inch Nails may command bigger audiences and their own degrees of fan loyalty, but know this: there will only ever be one Killing Joke, with an unrivalled intensity and singular identities of sound. Miss them at your absolute peril.
Every few years, with the state of Planet Earth sinking utterly beyond satire and parody in its Nineteen Eighty-Five-on-steroids ruination, a certain collective pause to pass scathing comment upon it. This acidic dissent comes courtesy of messrs Jaz Coleman, Martin 'Youth' Glover, Geordie Walker and Big Paul Ferguson, trading unclassifiable apocalyptic disco-metal as the legendary and influential Killing Joke. "Living outside of the grid is our goal! Misery lies at the heart of control," blares Coleman, resuming duties as messenger from the atomic wasteland in Autonomous Zone. Killing Joke's ideals are everlastingly precious and increasingly sensible, and are more often than not wielded as a bludgeoning device with which to beat some sense and wordly awareness into the listener. And bludgeon, they certainly do: Ferguson commands a legion of skin-thwacking undercurrents that piercingly punctuates each nuclear missive, driven by Youth's submarine bass. Guitarist Geordie Walker's unique stringsmanship, an integral part of the Killing Joke sound since its inception, acutely divides his time between blunt-force-trauma riffing and wonderfully bleak soundscapes, matching Coleman's fustrated railings against mankind's descent. Their knack for an immediately discernible and danceable tune is gratifyingly present and correct, with Euphoria and New Cold War proudly representing the band's fearless forays past the punk label in a time-honoured willingness to explore other avenues and nuke them. Their primal ferocity is entirely compounded, aided and abetted by the same slickness that so enriched predecessor album MMXII. This production sheen may lend a slight cleanliness to the sound, but it in no way distils the message, like a celebrated film director employing modern touches to realise the artistic vision with greater clarity. As is to be expected of such a self-aware and consistently thoughtful act like the 'Joke, the persistent question of mortality pervades (see also: Iron Maiden). Big Buzz also expertly treads between joyous anthem and teary emotion-trigger. A sense of celebration is one of their several alluring aspects, and this track harks back to the likes of On All Hallow's Eve, Honour the Fire and even Gratitude, where the doomishness is countered by Killing Joke's great sense of occasion: the self-styled Gathering. In another parallel to Iron Maiden, they present their first double-disc studio effort. The second 'half' of Pylon, while feeling slightly like a tugboat trailing behind a battleship, still packs in four righteously furious pieces. It oddly ends with a remix of Snakedance, the original being curiously absent from the album. This prevents Pylon from sharing the sense of end-to-end completeness that MMXII had. Yet, Pylon has the key advantage of the expansiveness of double albums, and an abundance of such searingly strong music is not to be complained about. With this, their fifteenth half-spat-half-sung commentary on a world continuing to circle the drain, Killing Joke have proven, once again, that the last laugh is theirs. Pylon is the mutated flower that grows through irradiated concrete: glimpses of ironic beauty in a diseased, dying landscape.
Birmingham's long-awaited new Grand Central shopping centre, plonked unceremoniusly on top of New Street station, has been open now for some time. The second city's denizens have had sufficient time to give themselves undue neck-ache looking at the giant boil of a glass ceiling, before an irate and late traveller almost knocks them flat while hurrying for their train.
Social media has, so far, been kind: likening the new money-sucking endeavour as having the potential to rival Manchester Piccadilly and London St. Pancras in the travel/shopping experience stakes.
However, this is swept away by the experience the travellers actually have before reaching New Street and when boarding a train at it. Aside from whitening several platforms and walls, adding staircases and suchlike, what has actually happened to the station itself? You know, the station-y bit of the station. Where the trains actually come in and out, and people vie for comfortable standing-spaces in their vestibules.
Having been likened to a dungeon in the past, you'd think lashings of lolly would have been targeted at making the sub-level experience slightly less hellish. But no: the price Brummies pay for having a truly city-centre station (an admitted benefit) is still ongoing - and the dark, miserable trains-and-tracks bit is still as unedifying as ever.
Trains still jostle for platform space, evidenced by the waiting game played by every fifth train attempting to enter New Street. Rolling stock is still barely covering the requirements.
Tossing a few wanderers into the paths of hurrying commuters and adorning the building with a frankly hideous array of reflective nonsense will not allay the worsening bottleneck. These problems can only worsen, too, given general reluctance to procure new trains, along with the other time-honoured chestnuts - growing population numbers, growing passenger levels, etc.
It is frankly laughable to consider Manchester Piccadilly and London St. Pancras to New Street. For those who have yet to visit these, it is almost advisable not to as New Street will only worsen in comparison. Out of the capital's numerous terminals and large-scale stations, perhaps New Street is on a par with Euston, being a similar sardine-ramming concrete assault (con)course.
Euston aside, London still has the delights of Paddington, King's Cross, the aforementioned St. Pancras as well as Victoria. Each of these, whilst perhaps not intricately comparable to New Street due to various factors, are spacious and welcoming spaces.
So, what's to be done about New Street? Trains can only lengthened so much, platforms less so. If HS2 wasn't on the horizon, a satellite station of sorts could be built in the place of the planned Curzon Street terminus, with certain services' inter-connectivity sacrificed.
No envy emanates from this quarter for those charged with finding such solutions. Thankfully, we also have the gloriously retro and tasteful Moor Street, sadly beaten down by its neighbouring Snow Hill, the bastard concrete spawn of New Street. An online perusal at 1960s-era Snow Hill is a painful experience, as it less resembles a fallout shelter and more an attractive travel hub/venue.
With the exciting Midland Metro expansion and the HS2 terminus planned, we cannot afford to have any weak links in Birmingham's idealised city connectivity. Making New Street's platform levels attractive, however, may be akin to planting plastic flowers in Mordor.
As far as victory laps go, Steven Wilson's hot-ticket successive sets at the prestigious Royal Albert Hall stand aloft like two giant middle fingers: for the humble bespectacled audio-wizard has enjoyed a fantastic new chapter in a musical career already jam-packed with the kind of accomplishments many musicians would kill for. After impressing all concerned with 2013's rightly acclaimed The Raven That Refused to Sing,Wilson did it all over again with his latest, Hand.Cannot.Erase. The newer release carries a freshness and immediacy in stark contrast to Raven's lengthy, haunting proggy ghost stories, but not without hidden depths that only appear after the 99th listen. The first of the two shows feels like an extended Hand.Cannot.Erase. tour concert: Wilson and band glide through the entire album (sans Transcience, sadly, preventing it from being a complete end-to-end run-though), being an extremely well-oiled and rehearsed machine by now. Despite having taken this set to numerous rapturously-received shows throughout the year, they attack the new material with pleasing, spirited zest. While Hand... is a multifaceted, genre-skipping milestone unto itself on record, hearing it explored live is nothing short of a treat, Wilson and band employing quadraphonic sound to fill the Albert with it. The material traverses almost all of Wilson's musical palette: the uplifting prog-rock of 3 Years Older, the nimble pop of the album's title-track, the wistful slow climax of Perfect Life, the monstrous riff-labyrinth of Ancestral before finishing with Happy Returns, expertly treading the cheery/sad balance. Three select choices will survive into the second night, squaring off impressively against older cuts: now, however, Wilson's self-belief in his fantastic accomplishment shines through. With Hand.Cannot.Erase. put to bed, the second set of the first night provides the assembled disciples with a grinning bag of jewels and gems, starting slowly and ominously with the first ever performance of material from Wilson's collaborotion with Opeth's Mikael Akerfeldt. Drag Ropes, a wonderfully spooky and foreboding piece (to call it a track or 'song' would be a misjustice), is laid out across the Hall over the course of approximately seven days. Its sheer length may have has a slight pulse-weakening effect on some, but the sheer rarity of the event cannot be underestimated, especially when Akerfeldt joins the band on stage to provide vocals and animator Jess Cope's fantastically disturbing video accompanies it on the giant screen. Wilson next reminds all involved whose name is on the ticket as he leads the bands through their reworking of Index, complete with synchronised statue-posed finger-clicking introduction, a fantastically surreal sight through one of Wilson's brilliantly darkest pieces, with suitably eerie visuals presumably from long-term collaborator Lasse Hoile. How is Your Life Today? and the invincible Lazarus follow, respectively a not unwelcome oddity and one of Wilson's absolute strongest compositions, rapturously received. A short speech from Wilson prefaces a particularly tasty showcasing of unreleased HCE material, titled My Book of Regrets. Part proggy length and catchy verse, it is reminiscent of the dreamy sections of Luminol crossed with the singalong 'Tree track Blackest Eyes. It will arrive on an EP in January: begin the countdown. Harmony Korine, The Watchmaker and Porcupine Tree's Sleep Together follow, the latter two with the expected white sheet hanging before the band, with appropriately disturbing visuals projected onto it for Watchmaker. It is nothing short of spellbinding, a masterfully executed matrimony of sound and sight. By way of eventual encore, the 'Tree's The Sound of Muzak's sincere lamentations precedes The Raven That Refused To Sing, a perfectly judged conjuration of storytelling and emotional power. The first night wrapped, all speculation turns towards the second: making sense of what has taken place, however, will take a long time. Wilson and band admirably stepped up to deliver something far more than a simple recital, matching expectations by putting on a spectacular event. Night 2: With the first evening being an extended Hand.Cannot.Erase. tour show, the second is a rarities free-for-all. The band members consecutively take the stage to contribute to a steadily growing No Twilight Within the Courts of the Sun. Wilson is the last to take the stage, to deserved cheers, leading it to its fantastically intense conclusion. Fully assembled, the team tackle the first of several Porcupine Tree gems in the maudlin Shesmovedon, before returning to newer material in Routine. Guest vocals from Israeli singer Ninet Tayeb have been conspicuously absent from renditions of the song due to Tayeb's own inability to attend tour dates. For both of these nights, however, she is present to fill the Hall with the full force of her impressive larynx. Animator Jess Cope's heartbreaking stop-motion video accomapnies it as expected, and suddenly there is a demand for Wilson-themed handkerchiefs at the merchandise stand. A prog-rock stand-off ensues between Wilson's solo material versus more 'Tree tracks, to satiating results. "The only way to follow that is with some dumb heavy metal", quips Wilson in the aftermath of the emotional onslaught of Routine's unholy trinity of itself, Ninet's presence and Cope's aforementioned video. The 'metal' he speaks of comes in the form of Porcupine Tree's Open Car, with its itchy verses, gloriously epic chorus and the best guitar riff Matt Bellamy or Tom Morello never wrote. Don't Hate Me follows, before the two-part prog workout of Wilson's Home Invasion and Regret#9 - the former being a hydra-headed piece of volatile riffery, dreamy chorus and alt-rock swagger, the latter a truly fantastic showcase for the remarkable skills of keyboardist Adam Holzman and guitarist Guthrie Govan, who returns to the lineup tonight as a welcome guest, his recent absences ably covered by the superb Dave Kilminster (including these two nights). Govan and the band then revisit Wilson's wondrously fragile Drive Home, featuring Govan's jaw-dropping emotion-wringing extended solo. Also re-joining for Drive Home is the humbly talented Theo Travis, providing woodwind instrumentation for a jog through more of Wilson's solo material: the crushing Sectarian, the dreamlike Insurgentes, No Part of Me, and finally a tastefully trimmed airing of sinister prog-demon Raider II. The first of two encores is a fascinating exploration of the first of three Porcupine Tree songs, the lengthy Dark Matter. Celebrated 'Tree sticksman Gavin Harrison receives some of the biggest cheers of the night, joining the band for a one-two of Lazarus and The Sound of Muzak. For Steven Wilson, victory was secured long ago. With performances like this, he is reaching for something greater: immortality.
And there, in the title of this slab of pure fury brimming
with intelligence, is the first warning to the uninitiated about the sheer size
of Killing Joke’s colossal sonic testicles: that this is their second self-titled album.
This is entirely appropriate as a title, marking as it does
a point of rebirth in the band’s history – a history that makes the story of your
favourite band read like a council memo on lamppost legislation. The Joke are
about as recharged as a musical act can be without actually spontaneously
combusting: there is enough energy and sonic intent here to level cities.
Doubly interesting, then, that the band sound is completely
stripped back, which pushes each instrument so far into your face that the
collective aural beast manifests as a clenched fist. There is nowhere for the
listener to take refuge, nor any let-up in the pacing. It’s the musical
equivalent of a sound beating after spilling the pint of an intellectual.
And as usual, the forefront intellectual is Jaz Coleman –
either a ranting, bug-eyed madman or one of the few to musically spew truth
pearls into people’s faces in the hope that they’ll sit up and take notice (In
this review, he is the latter).
Such is the skill, that fact is intertwined into memorable
hook. ‘Five corporations earn more than
forty-six nations!’ Coleman bellows on Blood
On Your Hands. Total Invasion,
meanwhile, has the sneering ‘Only fools
won’t know, they haven’t been told/their empire’s run on the old black gold’.
The sense of a shouted history lesson prevails.
The relentless barrage is also the great flaw of the album,
one you don’t notice for a long time. Killing Joke pummel the listener
senseless here, which is fine, as they do it with intelligence.
However, in concentrating on one of the things they do best,
their other abilities are kept shut out, namely the talent in crafting
danceable tunes and music with a sense of exploration and/or adventure, namely Bloodsport and Communion respectively as just two examples.
Nevertheless, for what Killing
Joke is, it knocks out the competition with a swift knee to the balls and a
diatribe on the state of the world. None do it better.
It's been a strange decade for The Darkness, having been through more ups and downs than the average rollercoaster, with more rock n' roll tales from ten years' worth of music than lesser mortals will endure in a lifetime. Bursting into British popular music with shit-kicking debut'Permission to Land' in 2003, the band enjoyed a hugely successful multi-faceted bullseye, totting up several victories in a short space of time: being the first unsigned band to sell out London's legendary Astoria and injecting much-needed life into rock's decaying corpse as it was being kicked around by indie hipsters. As is often the case, a speedy rise ensures a similarly speedy descent, and the masses who bought into The Darkness' immediate popularity were suddenly nowhere to be seen for album number two, 'One Way Ticket to Hell....and Back'. A year after its release, frontman Justin Hawkins would underdo rehabilitation treatment for alcohol and coke addiction, leaving the band and leaving the remaining band to become Stone Gods. Hawkins, meanwhile, would return to action with the excellent Hot Leg. While The Darkness are happily together again - albeit minus original drummer Ed Graham - history has a habit of passing (and pissing) over their unloved second album. Here, ten years on from its release, I wish to make the case for its recognition as one of the best British albums ever made. Where 'Permission to Land' blew everyone's faces clean off with a giddily inspired mixture of snotty punk exuberance, near-perfect rock balladry, cannonball guitar riffs, Brit-wit and Hawkin's inimitable falsetto wail, the follow-up displayed a sense of world-beating maturity - but without losing the humour. The impression from having listened to 'One Way Ticket...' more than my mother's voice is a disc where each gilded track stands impressively aloft on its own two flicked-v fingers, and still flows perfectly well in a single sitting. Where there was belligerence ('Get You Hands Off My Woman'), there was now a greater sense of scope and scale, with every single facet of the band sounding monstrously HUGE. Hawkin's fantastic vocal range sears through each song in an impressive array of styles, a perfect narrator for chucklingly witty lyricisms. Who else can inspire childhood memories of school with the gorgeously anthemic 'Dinner Lady Arms'? The vocals are also produced to glossy perfection, with exactly the right amount of ghost-Justins popping up for sporadic backing vocals and harmonies. Moving on to the music itself, there is the same subtle hints of serious guitar skills from Justin and brother Dan with considered deployments of widdly-widdly solos and acoustic flourishes, such as the verse to 'Hazel Eyes', which subsequently explodes into a chorus of mountainesque power chords and heaven-sent guitar licks, all the while punctuated with cannonfire drumming and powerful bass. While almost every track is lyrically entrenched in lurve, the title track is a fantastically-told story of Hawkin's cocaine addiction: 'I always tried to keep my vices under wraps/but a coach-load of mutes would have been talkative chaps'. Setting the course for the rest of the album, there is spades and spades of sheer wit, catchy invention and polished-to-perfection balls-out rock. There are absolutely no low points, perhaps except for when 'Bald' and 'Blind Man' get a little serious in tone. The sprawling gorgeousness of 'Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time' is this album's answer to earlier single 'Love is Only a Feeling', and is an excellent sequel of sorts. While these songs burst a few of the party balloons momentarily,they are surrounded by bollock-burstingly-brilliant hymns that, above all else, must be applauded for being something that precious few bands seem to manage these days: FUN. Like an unloved gifted child who turns to heroin during a traumatic parental divorce, 'One Way Ticket...' lay weeping in the corner as The Darkness underwent their meltdown. An incredible record such as this deserved far better in terms of a stable line-up to support it. A fat (middle) finger must also be pointed at everyone who enthused about their debut - hipsters and midlife crisis dads alike - who couldn't be arsed to stick with the band just as they produced their golden egg. Since their reformation, The Darkness have produced two more albums of knockabout British rock n' roll, thankfully carrying their hallmarks and ensuring their continued existence as a functioning band. But for a catastrophically brief moment in their history, at their most fragmented, a once-in-a-lifetime album was born in the worst possible conditions for its deserved recognition. If you love witty, loud rock n' roll with just the right amount of polish and heart, I implore you to pick up a copy of this tragically overlooked album. It may just be the best thing you've ever heard. 10/10
The world continues to resemble an appallingly-written sci-fi movie by every passing day, so it feels especially righteous to have a fresh slab of music from popular rock's most endearing riff-wielding commentators, Muse. Album number seven, with the band noting a marked return to the primal guitar-bass-drums setup of their earlier works, comes with its own narrative: indeed, Matt, Dom and Chris have even expressed enthusiasm for Drones to be adapted into some form of musical. Possibly to nix the allure of potential album leaks, Muse have pre-empted the release of Drones with not just the expected slew of singles, but approximately half the album. Psycho was the first out the gate, providing a musical home for a guitar riff that Bellamy has been throwing around for almost all of the band's history. The Drill Sergeant barking that precedes it is one of two interludes on the album, recalling Tool's fondness for such between-song pieces that allow the listener to breath and take a detour through disembodied planes before stumbling directly back into the album's narrative.
Dead Inside followed, despite this Undisclosed Desires-turned-nasty stuttering disco stomper actually opening the album, possibly to allay fears of Bellamy talking a load of bells about the supposed return to Planet Rock. When received by the masses, it prompted confusion - it wasn't pureblood rock, but wasn't meat-and-potatoes either, proving Muse hadn't lost their appetite for exploration. Next up, in both pre-album releases as well as Drones' actual running order, cometh Mercy and Reapers, which history may pinpoint as the overall album's standout tracks. Mercy proudly shows off its musical lineage, carrying several elements from past songs such as Starlight, Follow Me as well as setlist cornerstone Stockholm Syndrome, juicing the ingredients into a fantastic slice of glittercannon pop-rock. Reapers takes the madness further with a so-so verse that gives way triumphantly to Rage Against The Machine-turned-glam guitar work, featuring a fabulously jubilant - and dare I say it, sassy - guitar solo with the greatest chorus of the whole album. A surefire gem. The Handler sits stubbornly at the album's core, guitar riff reaching out in several directions like a drowsy belligerent octopus. It provides the uneasiest experience amongst the tracklisting, but not without showcasing Muse's songwriting prowess. The second of the interludes, JFK, features the great man himself blathering before Bellamy and co kick the door down with Defector, (yet) another monstrously rocking track that wields its hammerblow riffs and Queen-esque backing vocals, Matt in a pleasingly defiant mood that contrasts with the negativity preceding it over the course of some of the album's first half. After the usual dizzying carousel of thick-stringed riffery, bombast and epic themes, Revolt is a not entirely unpleasant prospect but its city-stomping predecessors leave such a mark that it nearly drops the baton. It may please those who wish for a simpler song, but history may consign it to the dusty corner of unloved filler tracks (see also: Explorers and Guiding Light). Then again, it may be the intention to wind down the musical intensity as the narrative reaches its conclusion. Aftermath almost recalls the woozy sway of past tracks such as Blackout and the three-part Exogenesis Symphony, but is slightly too watery and ultimately fails to make a meaningful impression. Ten-minute-monster The Globalist pointedly defies any notion of bringing things to a gentle halt with a heady mix of unadulterated fearlessness, albeit with slightly wobbly execution. Whilst not the greatest thing Muse have ever committed to tape, it inarguably succeeds in marking out Muse as one of the most interesting acts to tap the Top 10 on the shoulder before lending it a copy of 1984. Closing this chapter in Muse's history is the album's title track, in which Bellamy clones himself and forces the assembled Matts at Manson-point to all sing at the same time. It's a strange soup of the man exploring the different levels of his still-brilliant voice, but also sounds like several vocal warm-up takes being played at the same time. As album closers go, only time will have the final word on whether it truly works or not. A cabal of longtime Musers wait, agonised, for Muse to return to the form they built their career and legend on. Drones doesn't completely hark back to those times, because nostalgia is a backwards glance and Muse have never done anything else except march into the future. For that, they cannot be criticised. 7.5/10
Remember The Darkness? Spandex, 2003, I Believe in a Thing Called Love, Love is Only a Feeling, and a sophomore album that nobody liked or bought (despite Kerrang! magazine breathing one of their few remaining gasps of sanity and awarding the album their highest score)?
No?
Well, now's an excellent chance to either re-aquaint yourself with them or roll over and take their special brew of brilliantly silly carrying of the sacred rock n' roll torch.
As rock finds itself in arguably its weirdest state yet, album number four crashes down through the ceiling. Sequinned boots kick in all directions as the glammy force of the band's favourite form of gloriously OTT rock n' roll cheerfully bash your skull in (and out, like a hokey-cokey with Marshall Amps sponsorship).
Where thank-god-they're-back previous disc, Hot Cakes, had more of a lairy feelgood, um, feel to it, Last of Our Kind appears to wear brass knuckles underneath the velvet gloves. Witness the one-two punch of the first two tracks, Barbarian and Open Fire, notably uptempo shitkickers that carry a slight snarl with the expected snigger.
Handclapping anthems sway to the tempo alongside supercharged slices of rifferama, and suddenly the prospect of there being a dimension not containing this band is enough to scare you into grabbing a ticket for their winter 2015 UK trek, for at least one more chance to partake in the time-honoured Darkness party.
On other fronts, The Darkness continue to wear their rival-beating talents on their nipple tassels. Justin Hawkin's inimitable force-of-nature wail is present and deliciously unapologetic, delivering their amusingly inventive lyrical games with the expected alacrity. In a musical landscape oversaturated with unpalatable identikit bores, it is all too easy to
However, having worked so hard to develop their own take-no-prisoners identity and zippily identifiable character, along with a songwriting nous that has set the bar giddily high for themselves (not to mention their catastrophically underrated second album), some tracks, perhaps inevitably, can't quite reach up to those heights.
It's an issue that permeated previous long-player Hot Cakes, a thoroughly solid romp that couldn't quite match the pure greatness achieved prior. Taken as a standard rock album, however, it was by no means without identifiable merit.
Whether Last of Our Kind can be deemed a victim of the same problem can only be determined with 999 more listens and the fullness of time. What can be immediately ascertained, however, is that it is another secured victory.
Few, if any, stand bigger in the pantheon of aren’t-you-dead-yet
pop stars than Paul McCartney. Having sold more albums than there are stars in
the sky, with a ready repertoire of the most enviable hysteria-inciting pop
hymns known to man, delivered by a backing band with more chemistry than a Breaking Bad binge, few have aged as
gracefully as Macca.
He and band bring an infectious energy and gusto to the
proceedings, leading a hip-shaking conga through Beatles and Wings tracks
rarely, if ever, aired before. The brave decision to leave the first undeniable
gem until the third song – Can’t Buy Me
Love – allows the far-travelled disciples to find their seats without
missing the unmissable, but also sets a slightly sedentary precedent: with so
much time to fill, Macca & Co set about darting around furtively in his
glistening back catalogue.
Unfortunately, that leaves slight gaps between the
iron-clad hits.
The result sucks some of the momentum from the show. It is
the way of all musicians, a problem so great that someone even of McCartney’s
venerable statesmanship cannot escape: a shorter set of greatest hits, or a
longer one that finds room for forgotten songs?
Deep cuts please the obsessive fans, but they are
outnumbered by those who’d rather hear the immortal paens and go home again:
the polarity in mid-song audience response is irritating, but thankfully
allayed by rapturous arena-wild cheering after each song is put to bed.
Such quibbles are washed away when the immensity of a state
visit from someone as celebrated as Macca is taken into account, along with the
rarity of his visits (1990 – 2003 – 2015), and the sheer spectacle of it all. His
voice, one of popular music’s immortal crown jewels, is understandably slightly
ragged in parts. Thankfully, and in defiance of the natural ageing process,
McCartney still greets each song with due respect, to satiating results.
For longer than anyone would admit to remember, in a moment of feverish 'Christ, I'm old' panicked realisation, Faith No More have been enthusiastically leapfrogging genres and expectations required of the ostensible rock band. Effortlessly embracing funk, rap, metal and everything else and soldiering it into their own bizarrely unique yet entirely accessible package, they have consistently proved themselves lovably versatile. Fans who still can't get the taste of Angel Dust out of their ears need to calm down, however, as Sol Invictus stylistically seems to carry on where 1997's Album of the Year left off. This isn't to say Faith No More are stuck in their own past - instead, this new effort sits all the more comfortably next to its bigger discographical brothers. For there isn't the effortless shit-kicking genius of their most celebrated disc, enveloped in an otherworldly alt-sheen, but instead the sound is far punchier. Sadly this means less atmosphere-creating synths from keyboardist Roddy Bottum, reduced to piano jingling here. However, the band don't sound like they are transmitting from a dimension of their own dimension - on Sol Invictus they have both arms down your throat, and Mike Patton's hydra-headed range of voices and styles finds copious employment, always to startling effect. Lead single Motherfucker almost collectively drew an 'Oh' moment, considering the long wait for new material - prickteased by the band's reformation and series of gigs from 2009 onwards. It's a dark, brooding track that is almost entirely composed of a great slowly swelling buildup that overshadows its payoff, dissipating like a fart. The track sits strangely amongst its brethren, an odd choice for the band's first single in 18 years. And the brethren it sits amongst appears to form its own musical rock face, better heard and easier appreciated as a dark and twisted whole. Few cuts stand tall with both fists flicking the V's, save the manic groove of Superhero. But for a sorely-missed band such as these, not only is any return to action a cause for jubilation, the added bonus of a comeback album that isn't complete doo-doo is an absolute boon.
As new songs from Muse's upcoming seventh album Drones break out like laser beams burning through the brick walls of the muscle museum, Matt Bellamy's claims of stripping back all the Queen-preening operatics, theatrics and vocal acrobatics in favour of good-old meat & potatoes rock is slowly being met with puzzlement from ardent fans. First up was Psycho, a long-awaited musical home for a guitar riff almost as old as Muse itself, frequently tagged on to the end of certain songs live. It appeared to fulfil Bellamy's announcements of a grand return to planet rock, but was derided in some parts by whinging twats for being boring. Evident that you cannot please every bastard - especially when you're at Muse's level and can level entire stadia in virtually city in the star system, recruiting innumerable followers with every squealing slice of gargantuan lightsaber pop-rock. Following this was Dead Inside, seemingly an about-turn from Psycho's primal riffery. Sounding like Undisclosed Desires' evil brother with its stuttering drums and bass, with Bellamy's guitar arriving late to the disco, it promptly split a lot of onlookers down the middle: either a disappointing continuation of the electro-pop leanings that turned off a few fans, or a relief to hear that Muse were not about to cut off their musically curious side. Whatever indication it might have been of the eventual full-length, it was still pretty damn good. Finally, we come to the very latest offering: Mercy. Referred to by one wag as 'Starlight Syndrome', referencing its gleaming pop sheen and teasingly chugging guitar forming part of the tapestry beneath Bellamy's ironically merciless soundcannon wail in the chorus, Mercy appears to perch between those two while clutching the severed central hook of Follow Me, air-punching single from previous long-player The 2nd Law. The vocal-following piano notes of Starlight are present, with a dazzlingly bright production lifting the proceedings into the air and into the raised hands of the tour-following disciples. It veers off from there, however, by simply being more up-tempo, with one hand firmly around the listener's neck and another on their balls. But is it rock? Pop-rock, yes. Those looking forward to the promised balls-out ROCK may have to hope there are riffy gems posted deep amongst the Drones tracklisting, because Mercy doesn't appear to fit that bill. What it does do, however, is provide Muse with (yet) another OTT pop-rock monster that features traceable lines back through their dynasty of increasingly signature brand of this sort of thing, shooting glitter-guns in several musical directions at once: a worthy successor to Starlight and Follow Me, perhaps as Drones' grand continuation of their process. Long may it continue - who else manages to sound this big nowadays? 'Drones' is released June 8th. Muse will bring Christ only knows what to the main stage at Download Festival 2015 on Saturday 13th June. Listen to Mercy below:
Ah, the tribute band. A sad waste of musical ability pissed away on crowds of saggy-bottomed middle-aged fools who, for one night, pause the process of growing up - or, a harmless skip down the memory motorway? The deathless debate hangs in the air. If your tribute band is so good, why not pen some tunes of your own?
The curmudgeons' oh-do-cheer-up side of the argument is rightfully hit in the eye by gladioli chucked into the crowd by Jurgen Wendelen, The Smiths Indeed's Morrissey representative, as the four-piece shimmy into Still Ill.
A glance at The Robin's sizeable crowd, buoyant and resplendent in all manner of Smiths and Morrissey t-shirts, and the argument is swiftly kicked in the shins, a night of blissful indie memories well underway.
This is in no small part down to the masterful note-for-note replication of The Smith's timeless hymns, each shot through with sufficient verve to render them with a gratifying freshness. The skilfulness of their act doesn't just replicate, it channels the historic much-loved odes to love, loneliness and everything else.
Celebrating the 30th anniversary of The Smiths' No. 1 album Meat is Murder, every song from it is given spirited renditions, even the maudlin title track. For Panic, igniting a mass 'Hang the DJ!' chant in the room, Wendelen swings a noose around in one of many touches that superbly contributes to the act. He has the mannerisms, accent, weird dancing and, of course, the singing voice utterly nailed down.
Taking Bilston by the throat through just about every Smiths song you really wanted to hear (except your correspondent's favourite, Shoplifters of the World Unite - but no qualms here), we are fortunate to have a shit-kicking visualisation of what it must have been like to witness such a band in the flesh.
Representing those who sadly couldn't due to age (or lack of it), I am all the more grateful for such an eerily imitative experience that, for one night, opens a portal into hitherto inaccessible sonic territory that all the grainy YouTube footage in the world can't quite compete with.
For my BCU Media & Communications degree course, a 'cross-media' product is required. It is as follows:
The chance to meet an admired
musician is one that should under no circumstances be missed, and such an
opportunity was presented to me by accidental discovery of The Guitar Show, a
celebration of the ubiquitous six-stringed instrument (and its surly four-stringed
brother), and the realisation that a New Jersey guitar demon would be
appearing. But who is this maniac? Call his name to ten people off the street
and you will endure blank faces. Yet, to the initiated, he is one of rock’s
best kept secrets. Step forward, Ron ‘Bumblefoot’ Thal.
Rising to prominence in the 90's with his penchant for dazzling guitar pyrotechnics and a witty, almost cartoonish approach to songwriting, Thal would appear to get his big break when signed up to a modern incarnation of Guns N' Roses in 2005, joining in time for Axl Rose's 2006-07 comeback attempt. Nearly a decade of sporadic touring followed, with Thal gathering more disciples wherever Rose's rock n' roll carnival ventured.
It couldn't go on forever, and rumours of Ron being dissatisfied with the sluggishness towards Guns N' Roses recording fresh music gradually increased. For reasons never officially declared, it seems he has parted ways with Rose and his cohorts.
Whatever is actually happening
with Guns N’ Roses, Thal seems to be truly back in the saddle for his solo music,
with Little Brother is Watching his
first album under the Bumblefoot moniker since 2008’s Abnormal. “It’s just something I needed to do, to put everything
else aside and make that happen,” says Thal, who appears relaxed and
characteristically sunny. And so he should be, surrounded by guitars, amps and
innumerable associated paraphernalia from Marshall and Fender to Birmingham’s
own businesses, such as Fair Deal Music, Professional Music Technology and The
Little Guitar Shop.
Not only those, but Manson's offerings raised the guitar porn barrier considerably.
Little Brother is Watching seems to be the best possible album Thal
could put out at this juncture in his career. While there may not be the
variance in styles and jaw-dropping guitar instrumentals that Abnormal boasted of, Little Brother is Watching seems all the
better for it: the album takes on a streamlined feel, full of knockout
singalong melodical rock anthems. Plainly put, there is no room for
consideration, just Ron’s enviable mastery of the rock song form. In that
sense, it is perhaps closer to Normal,
his 2005 air-punching bag of hooks and wit.
He will later be found at the
D’Addario stand, noodling on a sample guitar. A small crowd slowly appears.
“Stop staring at me!” He wails, only half-joking. At the absolute last minute on the event's second day,
I apologise my way into getting a few words from him, going for the jugular by
asking Ron how it feels to be his own master again.
“For me, being creative is the
most important thing. Giving myself the time to produce other people, [and other projects like]
Art of Anarchy, the Generation Kill thing with Run-DMC, my own music, it feels
great. I just feel very good inside to be back in the studio, creating again." It’s especially
interesting to consider this with his Guns N’ Roses tenure in mind, where
around a decade of membership hasn't quite resulted in the new music
that Thal was rumoured to have been itching to write.
Cynical types painted him as
someone desperate to get his name on writing credits, thus securing royalties,
while those anxious to see GN’R as a revitalised musical force praised his intentions
of creating new Guns material. At the moment, his only recorded input to see
the light of day has been overdubbed guitars and reworkings of solos on Chinese Democracy.
With this in mind, Thal seems all
the better for almost picking up where he left off – releasing his own music,
playing with other bands, producing, teaching, making appearances such as
these, and even selling his own line of hot sauces. There is a slightly
touching moment when, after the first of his two guitar demonstrations over the
weekend, he diligently sets out each sauce on a table and explains the ingredients
of each, along with his recommendations on their culinary utilisation.
After all, if Iron Maiden can
flog Trooper Beer (and almost every conceivable item with Eddie’s scowling
fizzog plastered on it), why can’t a self-made guitar wizard from New Jersey
manifest his love of spicy food and combine it with his own artist-brand?
Back in Hockley, a bemused crowd
fidget with their cameras, phones and bits for Ron to sign as he takes them
through his range of sauces. Accidentally being the first in the queue, I whip out a CD inlay for Thal’s Hermit album (his second, released 200 years ago and now out-of-print) and get the treasured grunge-shred artefact anointed with Ron's scribble:
Charmed by Ron's entrepreneurship, I plump
for a bottle of ‘Normal’ sauce, as it is named after the first Bumblefoot album I
ever owned and it might not pack as much of a rectum-ripping punch as, say,
‘Bumblef***ed’ (his hottest) might. I hope to lead by example in supporting
Thal’s sideline, and when he appears at the Vigier Guitars stand the next day
for the Sunday signing session, his boxes of sauce look noticeably emptier.
Sauce in hand, I and my friend have another
wander around the event. I brilliantly fail in finding entry-level left-handed
guitars to rehome, and am soothed by having a go on a Fender Telecaster and modified
jazz bass, later discovering they are both worth over a thousand pounds. Gulp.
Left-handed guitars, as usual, are rare as hen's teeth. Thankfully, Fender delivered the goods.
Due to the rarity of favourite
musicians turning up on my relative doorstep, I make my way back to The Guitar
Show the next day. This time I elbow my way to the front of Ron’s guitar
masterclass, getting an excellent view and blocking small children. After
yesterday’s tragedy I would leapfrog my own nan to get a decent look at Thal,
and in particular his frantic-fingered fret-fuckery.
As with the day before, he plays
a selection of his more indulgent guitar pieces from his solo career, kicking
off with the epic Guitars Suck, where
he just about hits every note on the fretboard, twice.
And it’s a Vigier guitar he
plays, embodying a long-time involvement with the luthier Patrice Vigier: Vigier have built guitars either directly for Thal, or heartily used by him, including his perhaps most
visually striking, the Flying Foot. As the name implies, the body is in the
form of a foot, with bumblebee stripes, complete with wings that emerge when the guitar's whammy bar is used.
Ron letting rip. Spellbound room of punters just out of shot.
Sadly it's not present here, but Thal nevertheless impresses with a particularly sexy golden double-necked axe. The bottom neck is a conventional six-string, while the top neck is a 'fretless' - allowing Ron the freedom to instantly switch to the limitless landscape of a guitar neck without any fret markers in the way of his fingers.
Enthusing about the guitar in the Q&A session, he chirped: ‘It’s like playing a stick of butter. Cold, shiny butter!’. As with yesterday's showcase, the packed room is entertained with stories from his childhood, experiences in eventual mastery of the guitar, and detailed descriptions of how his double-neck works. He is both illuminating and endearingly self-deprecating, with a seemingly endless enthusiasm for just about everything around him, and diligently signs everything thrust under his nose while grinning brightly for every photograph.
Ron's flagship composition and technical showcase, 'Guitars SUCK'
Eventually, the whole event draws to a close, with Ron Thal packing up his gear (and his sauce) to travel to Oxford, for the next stop on his string of UK appearances. However humble and low-key these sessions are, his star is in the ascent, and deservedly so.
Listen to some of the chat with Ron here on the BrumRock podcast :
Ron Thal's latest album as Bumblefoot, Little Brother is Watching, is out now.
Being an avid fan of post-civilisation noiseniks Killing Joke, it was only natural that the semi-autobiographical tome from their lead visionary, Jaz Coleman, would wind up in my possession (and in turn, I in its possession).
Having spent over thirty years fronting a cross between an influential post-punk British institution and a secret society, as well as doggedly pursuing his own ideas of spiritual destiny, it was perhaps inevitable that a life built of up a thousand interesting stories would make for a fascinating one written down.
It's the exact kind of work you'd hope for from Coleman: Robert Anton Wilson's Cosmic Trigger with sprinkles of The Dirt-esque rock n' roll insights. The man warns that readers hoping for a straightforward (not a word ever associated with Killing Joke) rock n' roll autobiography are to be disappointed, as the book's focus is more towards Coleman's personal spiritual journey.
Yet, KJ fans will still lap up fascinating recollections of recording in Berlin during the cold war, inter-band fracas, science-fiction-esque individuals and drugs, drugs, drugs, all seen as they are through Coleman's kaleidoscopic self-effacing eyes. These flashes of memories contribute in no small ways towards illuminating the backstory of a band most deserving of insight, as their story trumps most for eye-popping revelations.
For the occultly uninitiated, Coleman's casual referrals to such things as the Quabbalah and Gematria may prove either baffling or enlightening, spring-boarding them into new territories (or in my personal case, re-igniting some research desires) as his story weaves on.
It all points to one undeniable fact: Killing Joke are, simply, the most interesting band of all time. There is something to them that far transcends the music, and Letters From Cythera lends some semblance of understanding to this beast directly from the figure at its still-beating heart.
It can't be easy being Morrissey. It seems that every return to the spotlight for him is marred (Marr'd?) by some near-catastrophic event, turning a relatively simple new album n' tour into a triumph over inexplicable odds and developments. For his latest venture, Death himself has tapped Moz on the shoulder in a series of health scares that has resulted in particularly emotional renditions of the Smiths gem Asleep, with the ominous statement: 'Remember my face, but forget my fate'. Back in the present, however, all notions of nature catching up with him are swiftly nixed as he and band tear through The Queen is Dead, followed by Suedehead in a sure-footed one-two punch that instantly satiates his considerable disciples, who are out in force tonight at Birmingham's recently rechristened Barclaycard Arena (and not a kind word was heard about the name change from the punters). In a typically bullish move, the audience are then lead through a large amount of numbers from last year's excellent World Peace is None of Your Business album. Here, an age-old debate flares in your correspondent's dazed mind: to promote the admirably strong new effort, or reward the gatherers with the cherished hits? Tonight finds a lot of the former, Morrissey bringing inspired vocal performances to the proceedings. It can't go on forever, and Speedway is whipped out - a stone-cold classic from the Mancunian's sizeable back catalogue, with a verse from Irish Blood, English Heart stylishly inserted in the middle. It's a welcome break that undoubtedly leads more than a few assembled down memory lane, and a reminder of just how long he has stalked the stage. Things take an awkward turn when The Smith's Meat is Murder is played, for it is accompanied by a puke-worthy video of various animals being 'prepared' for eventual consumption. While this is an admirable effort by Moz to spread the word of vegetarianism, it leaves a strange taste (no pun intended) in the context of a gig: I'm left thankful I had beans on toast instead of a chicken curry earlier - something I may never, ever eat again, which probably means Morrissey has succeeded. After well-received renditions of Scandinavia and One of Our Own, more new cuts, the ghost of The Smiths reappears in the shape of Stop Me if You Think You've Heard This One Before and What She Said, drawing perhaps the night's biggest cheers. It's a testament to the enduring affection for the classic Smiths tracks that Morrissey and band could probably fart Golden Lights and still woo the crowd; and while there are innumerable songs that would almost incite hysteria (How Soon Is Now?, for instance), any Smiths songs are still absolute treats. Eventually, the night (and the tour leg) is wrapped up with the clarion call of Everyday is Like Sunday, his undeniable anthem. Belying his advancing years and putting chart-bothering pop stars to shame, Morrissey admirably (still) belts out each syllable with absolute conviction and class, leaving many a ringing ear.
Heaven knows we're Mozerable now.
**** 8/10
Crappy self-shot footage can be found here, with more videos on the channel. Shot in glorious WobbleVision. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e_7gzGDOdG8&feature=youtu.be
The cult of Steven Wilson is surely reaching critical mass.
It’s becoming increasingly difficult to imagine a gem of a musician staying
hidden from the mainstream public for much longer, especially when he manages
to surpass an already widely-acclaimed album, 2013’s haunting The Raven that Refused to Sing. Tonight
he returns to Wolverhampton’s Civic Hall in support of his latest, the
end-to-end perfection of Hand.Cannot.Erase,
a breathtaking guide to Wilson’s musical repertoire and a concept that
out-concepts most concept albums.
The man has consistently translated well to the live
setting, and tonight builds upon great memories of when he and his formidably
skilled band (Guthrie Govan on guitar, Nick Beggs on bass and Chapman Stick,
Adam Holzman on keyboards, Marco Minneman on drums) last graced the Civic in
2013, breathing life into the proggy ghost stories of The Raven that Refused to Sing with poise.
And in a moment reminiscent of that tour, an overly-long
introductory video opens the proceedings, Wilson and band drawing loud cheers
when they take to the stage.
Later, the ensemble reel off the Porcupine Tree classic Lazarus. it’s debatable whether this is
as deep a cut as fans would hope for when Wilson spoke of airing rare tracks
from his songwriting career, but it’s a flawless rendition. Announcing the song
drew some of the biggest cheers of the night, when Wilson mentions that certain
songs were chosen for airings due to having relevant themes. It’s a touching
moment that demonstrates the enduring love for Wilson’s ‘other’ band, Porcupine
Tree, from which he seems to finally be stepping out from under. Given how
unlikely future Porcupine Tree activity may be, it’s safe to bet that more than
a few fans were glad to hear it, along with Sleep
Together which rears its head later in the set.
As every song from Hand.Cannot.Erase.
is played tonight, and in sequence, save the gentle Transcience, it’s tempting to wonder why they don’t go for the
jugular and perform the whole album. A few Steven Wilson standards, such as the
woe-is-me pop of Postcard, are
conspicuously absent - such is the fate of songs belonging to a steadily growing
back catalogue.
Despite these gripes, what actually transpires is
note-perfect and emotionally charged; every delicacy and every stomp is acutely
brought to life. It’s (another) testament to the team that Wilson has
assembled, who now have several tours under their collective belt and have
gelled admirably (take note, Axl Rose).
While the band could play with just a post-it note for
visual accompaniment and still put on an amazing show, the music is brilliantly
paired with dynamic lighting and artistically matching visuals that shed light
on the slightly mysterious story of Hand.Cannot.Erase.
Eventually, the giant veil from tours past drops over the stage for The Watchmaker, a reminder of Raven’s progressive beauty and
fragility. Nightmarish visuals projected onto the veil adds another dimension
to the song, and is hugely effective.
All too soon, it’s time to say ta-ta as the band creep into The Raven that Refused to Sing’s title
track, a wonderfully moving piece that may be the most beautiful and simply perfect thing Wilson has ever created.
While it feels odd at first to have the same closer as the last tour, absorbing
the magnificence on offer reminds you that very few things on Earth could
follow such a song, and indeed such an act as polished, imaginative and skilled
as Wilson and co.
So. Matt Bellamy warned us (or soothed us) with tales of a stripped-back sound for the new Muse album, now absolutely, totally, properly confirmed as the blunt-sounding Drones. It's interesting to see that even the title retains the same minimalistic feeling as the music is supposed to, and the tracklisting for the impending album is almost entirely made up of equally blunt one-word song titles. So far, more blunt than a James Blunt family gathering. It's some surprise, then, that new track Psycho is a musical long-awaited home for a guitar riff (known as the '0-3-0-5-0 riff') that Bellamy has been dicking around with for several years, Muse often launching into it by means of an outro to Stockholm Syndrome in concerts. This opens a debate: if the lead single is a queasy mixture of new and old, what can be said for the rest of the album? Anyway, on to the single itself, which is pleasingly rocking, and feels like a spiritual successor to 2009 single Uprising in its steady fist-pumping pace. A drill sergeant features throughout, yelling at a soldier, while Bellamy yells 'Your ass belongs to me now!', a line which finely treads between being acceptable and just a bit cringeworthy - as is the swearing, which is either Muse flopping their balls on the musical table or trying slightly too hard to be edgy. It may seem that they cannot win, as some will inevitably find Psycho's meat-and-potatoes approach boring, missing the sonic explorations of previous singles Madness and Follow Me, excellent songs that drew a collective 'Oh' from a large portion of the fanbase. Here's hoping that Drones will be a blend of Muse's best traits; much-loved past albums such as Absolution and Black Holes & Revelations have successfully blended their ASDA-sized riffs, orchestral backings and sense of adventure immensely, while the subsequent The Resistance and The 2nd Law saw the quality barrier dip slightly. Muse have proven themselves as world-beaters several times over - hopefully they'll get right back where they belong, at the top of the pile.
Not one to either rest on his laurels or plough a particular
musical direction ad nauseum, Steven
Wilson has made a name for himself in energetically pursuing all manner of different
styles and genres across various projects, spreading himself like peanut
butter: a distinctive taste that is instantly recognisable against any
background.
He is also keen on approaching music armed with a theme or
story, as 2013’s magnificent The Raven
That Refused to Sing proved: a haunting collection of musical mini-feasts, encompassing
prog-rock, jazz, and based on ghost stories penned by the man himself.
2014’s Cover Version
compilation was a perfect stop-gap between Raven
and Wilson’s latest, being an unpretentious collection of covers (duh) and
original compositions – reminding everyone of his ability to create intriguing
and spellbinding music simply for the joy of doing so.
Having given his growing legion of disciples time to breathe, he
returns with a concept that out-concepts most other concepts, the concept being
(sorry) the story of a young woman who is swallowed up by the big city and is
discovered dead in her bedsit, having tragically passed away years beforehand.
An interesting story in itself, a judder of significance
permeates the proceedings when it transpires that the story is based on real
events – an actual breathing, living, loving human named Joyce Carol Vincent. A
documentary about Vincent, titled Dreams
of a Life, had such an effect on Wilson that he took inspiration and ran
with it – to the studio.
We begin at the start of the album (where else?), the first
of eleven intriguingly-titled tracks, First
Regret. An instrumental piece, it sets the scene with seasick piano and electronic
washes of atmosphere. Digital thumps appear underneath the piano, and more
electro tomfoolery fills the space. It could have fitted on The Social Network’s soundtrack.
Sparse keyboard gently introduces 3 Years Older, a musically exhilarating rollercoaster of full-band adventures,
a Rush-esque rush. As the track veers between exciting peaks and gentler
troughs, it’s hard to not wish for a little more time to be spent exploring the
various avenues that the piece hurtles down: it feels like a taster montage of
songs from a full album. However, it is brilliantly weaved together – and tremendous
fun.
The album’s title track then elbows its way to the front,
with breezy pop-rock sensibilities. You can almost hear Wilson smirking as he
reminds you that while he can drag the listener through twenty-minute prog
epics (Raider II, from past album Grace For Drowning), he can ‘do’ pop
with a flick of the wrist.
A further part of the unfolding story is illustrated with
the wistful and subtle Perfect Life,
where Katherine Jenkins narrates memories of the female protagonist’s former
foster sister, over a gently building electronic beat that gradually reaches
its full sonic height, revealing Wilson waiting in the wings to add soft vocals
in the second half. The sensation of sad longing for a much-missed happy period
abounds.
These first four tracks almost lull the listener into audio
safety before Wilson drags you into the album’s meatier, if less hooky, core.
The further you venture into the album (and thus the story), the further into
madder musical territory you go. Thankfully, all those who trespass here will
be rewarded.
Home Invasion
takes a turn for the weird with a proper prog-out leading into alt-rock
swagger, permeated by dreamy intersperses of Wilson’s distinctive layered
vocals and guitar that floats along with him, before shazoomphing into Regret #9, essentially an elongated
spacey guitar solo that never approaches the wrong side of indulgence.
In turn, it sets the stage for the fleeting and gentler Transcience, which simultaneously
recalls the aforementioned Cover Version
collection of mostly acoustic numbers, and even the wondrous past project Storm Corrosion, where Wilson teamed up
with Mikael Akerfeldt and produced stunning atmospheric vistas that paid zero
heed to established ideas of song structure, revelling in a tremendous sense of
musical freedom.
We now come to the biggest bastard of the album, Ancestral, clocking in at thirteen
minutes. Classical instrumentation shakes hands with more electronic beats, in
a mixture that shouldn’t work, but Wilson bends unto his will and view. Like 3 Years Older before it, enough music is
stuffed into it to fill a warehouse (or the last chunk of space on your phone’s
microSD card).
Happy Returns, um,
returns us to the piano melody in First
Regret. This is the last we hear of Wilson’s female protagonist, and the
lyrics alone are heartbreaking when thinking of the tragic Joyce Vincent’s
final moments. Wilson is to be commended for helping the cause against
loneliness, by imaginatively filling in the blanks for a life shared with
nobody but Vincent herself. The track also recalls the slow climb and build of Perfect Life – it’s reminiscent of when
non-linear films show the viewer a penultimate scene near the beginning, so
when we reach that crucial moment, it is already strangely familiar.
If this is the case with Happy
Returns, it works excellently. A musical sad smile shows as Wilson engages
in lyric-free doo-dooing, acoustic in hand, before the whole piece dissolves
into Ascendant Here On..., the album’s
exeunt. A gorgeously simplistic choir
vocal is accompanied by considered piano notes, and the sound of children
playing leads us out...along with the life of a young human being.
As the world becomes more and more connected but increasingly
impersonal, future generations would do well to recognize Hand.Cannot.Erase. as a commentary on our increasing social
coldness, and the effects it has on our fellow selves, most of which go unseen
by the absolute majority.
It’s a bewilderingly beautiful kaleidoscope with which to
view the social network age; few will ever capture it so vividly.
