Tuesday, 6 September 2011
Now this is a bit of a cheat because as a floppy-fringed, indie guitar loser boy, of course I've heard Loveless before, but not for years. And going back to it a couple of days ago was a strange experience, it was like hearing it for the first time, hearing it for it really was, after all the hype and nonsense which surrounded the album on its release had disappeared. I was sent to the album after listening to Pure X, when I was left hankering for more twisting and chopping guitars, more buried vocals. What I hadn't realised before is that Loveless is in fact a pop album, pure pop. When Loveless came out at the time it was often described with words such as: experimental, dense, impenetrable, cacophony, and for me back then, a 14 year old from a small town, a half-hour bus journey away from the town with a decent record shop, where you would still be lucky to find a solitary copy of Loveless amongst the latest albums by Marillion and Motley Crue, those words made a lot of sense. At the time I admired the album, perhaps because I was told I should by the tastemakers, but I couldn't love it. But listening to it now all I can hear is huge catchy riffs, massive hooks, and pop song after pop song. That's not to play down its adventurousness - nobody's guitars sound like the churning, seesawing, fuzz and roar of My Bloody Valentine's guitars, and of course it's a world away from the trudging rock bores it was competing with at the time, and whilst I have a huge soft spot for the bands who eventually followed in their wake, bands like Slowdive and Chapterhouse, they barely touched the surface of what MBV achieved here. But whilst MBV might be out there on their own with their textures and sounds, there isn't one song on Loveless that isn't anchored firmly to the floor by a massive tune. Of course you can't hear the words, but this isn't Waits, Dylan or Cohen, you don't listen to MBV for words, you listen for the sounds, and after a few listens you realise Loveless is a drugged, majestic, unhinged version of Bananarama's greatest hits. Which is the highest praise possible, of course.
Posted by Jon Donald at 06:56
Friday, 2 September 2011
Cold. Grease. Slow-witted. Lonely. Kasabian. Overdrawn. Blackpool. Alienated. Rising damp. Infection. Bored. Tired. Rival football fans in same train carriage. Football fans. Football message boards. Football. Kasabian. Disenfranchised. Gastroenteritis. Gas leak. Broken Britain. Senseless death. Cold chicken skin. Negative Equity. Lump. Grey. The Bigg Market. Kasabian. 2 Meals for £5. Panic attacks. Super morbidly obese. Underclass. Illness. Broken heart. Scared. Kasabian. The Trafford Centre. Darkness. Black eye. Mould. Kasabian.
Posted by Jon Donald at 09:10
Friday, 19 August 2011
Remember indie music? Not the shiny britpop bullshit of 'Alright guvnor how's yer tin pan alley' bollocks, but the stuff from before, the proper indie, when 'indie' meant 'independent', not a Paul Weller haircut and a new pair of converse. When a cover of the NME or Melody Maker didn't send you to the top of the charts but guaranteed seventeen paying punters when you played The Falcon. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I'm talking about The Good Old Days, when guitars drowned out vocals and it was for the best because the singer couldn't really sing anyway. And who wants a singer who can sing? That way leads to Mick Hucknall, Celine Dion and eventually Leona Lewis (not to mention Fleet bastard can we fit another harmony in here Foxes). I'm talking about music that was recorded for seventy five quid in the back of a laundrette, and sounded like it, but simultaneously filled your pathetic, moping teenage heart until it almost burst. Dirty, scruffy, romantic music that didn't ever think about its midweek chart position because that could never happen to an indie band. In fact, it so obviously couldn't happen, indie music had its own chart. I remember getting a lift off my cousin when I was sixteen, and he told me his mate was in a band and their ep had gone into the indie charts at number seven. That to me then, and if I'm honest, even now a little bit, seemed the most extraordinary thing that could ever happen to a man. Fuck walking on the moon, if I was ever in a band that debuted at number seven in the indie charts my life would surely be complete for ever.
I mean this from the bottom of my massively impressed sixteen year old heart - Pure X sound like they would debut at number seven in the indie charts. Scruffy, fuzzy, sweet and sometimes angry guitars roam, vocals are buried in there somewhere, wrapped in reverb, the words hidden amongst the noise, drums lazily thump, just about in time, and a rumbling bass spills out of a distorting amp. To be specific they sound like a cross between The Jesus and Mary Chain and Mazzy Star, the perfect down-at-heel indie guitar band then. They don't do anything as uncouth as writing tunes as such, they're too good/cool for that, leave that to the chart wannabes, but clearly a lot of care has gone into the recording of the album. The guitaring particularly is wonderful - at times dopey and docile and then a sudden switch, and it feels like someone is poking your brain with a knitting needle. If you want an instant pop hit you will have to look elsewhere, but if you want an album that a 1992 Melody Maker review would probably call: dreamy and dozily hypnotic - it will stone you to your soul - this is the album for you.
Posted by Jon Donald at 04:45
Monday, 15 August 2011
In this age of full disclosure I will be upfront. A few months ago Isabel Monteiro (Drugstore singer, songwriter and chief) set up a Pledge account to help fund the recording of a new album and I pledged a tiny, tiny bit of cash because I have a long history of fandom with this band. I can't claim credit for this good taste, it comes from my girlfriend. When we first got together she was regularly playing Drugstore's first album and we have followed them ever since, seeing them at various venues from York to London. Now brace yourself for a sad story. At a Christmas gig at The Garage (I think), in 2002 (maybe), in London (pretty sure about that), the band were running a raffle and my girlfriend, let's call her Anne, bought a few tickets. After a fantastic gig Ms. Monteiro announced the winners and if she called out your number you had to go up to the stage to collect your prize. I noticed Anne looking panicky as one number was repeatedly read out. I grabbed the ticket off her to see that it was her number, but it was too late, Isabel had moved on to a new number. Anne was desperate to win the prize but she'd been too shy to walk up to the stage to claim it. Why didn't she hand the ticket to me?! I know! At a later gig I managed to snaffle a handwritten set list to try and make up for it. We still have the set list, and one day will get it framed and up on the wall. All this is a long way of saying I bring baggage to this review and was very sad when the band disappeared after their 2001 album Songs For The Jet Set. That was ten years ago, and there is quite a story contained within those ten, seemingly lost years, which you can read about here.
To the album. It's always an exciting yet scary moment when a much loved artist returns - what if it's shit? What if it had been better if they hadn't bothered? There are plenty of reunions which reek of cashing in and which leave nobody convinced. Well, you can't accuse Drugstore of doing this for the cash, they've had to raise the money just to record, and thankfully, the music is beautiful. Call it alt. country or hushed, confessional pop, call it whatever you want, it's a brilliant piece of work. You may think that a band who have been away for a decade would want to kick the door in on their return, but Drugstore have gone the other way. This album creeps in and keeps creeping pretty much until the last song. This is battered, bruised, broken and then rebuilt and defiant Drugstore. And whilst the album is wonderfully recorded and produced you can thankfully still hear the intimacy of the early scruffy demos Isabel began to post online a couple of years ago, when she first began to toy with the idea of some sort of return. So it may be quiet, and at times defeated, but that it exists at all is a testimony to the strength of human spirit, the creative spirit. 'Life can break your heart, but it can make you great' she sings on Falling Rocks and I think that just about sums up the story behind this wonderful album.
Oh, and if they need to, the band should set up a Pledge account so the label can afford to nominate Anatomy for a Mercury next year (I think it's quite expensive to nominate, but I could have invented that). That would be the perfect end to this story.
Posted by Jon Donald at 00:01
Saturday, 6 August 2011
At least when Viva Brother swagger along, gurning away in their slightly slow, inane, manner you get to your swing arm, tighten your fist. Whereas what is there to say about The Horrors' album? By the fourth, or maybe it's the fifth song, it's hard to keep track, you find yourself wondering if ITV3 are showing any Taggart (Can't believe they axed Taggart).
There's a lot of talk about how The Horrors sound like other bands with this release, mainly Simple Minds and other eighties culprits, but that's not the problem, loads of bands steal from/sound like other acts. But it is a problem that they don't sound like themselves. When Suede referenced Bowie they sounded like a band acknowledging a Bowie fascination, when Teenage Fanclub jangled and swooned like Big Star, they sounded like the perfectly formed sunkissed Scottish pop band they were in their hearts. With The Horrors it's like they've collected a bunch of sounds and kicked them into their songs, which are, sadly, as unremarkable as the sounds they've plundered. Not even disappointing, just, you know... Oooooh look, Taggart is on!
Posted by Jon Donald at 05:46