Thursday, 26 May 2011
Monday, 23 May 2011
But where you are it's just getting light
Where you are it will just be getting light'
He made a point of losing her address
And every trinket that she ever touched
he keeps locked away and just burns up in the furnace of hIs chest'
Saturday, 21 May 2011
Saturday, 14 May 2011
Friday, 13 May 2011
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
Leg it! The hipsters are coming! With their beards, their checked shirts and a new album they recorded in a forest in Nevada, after the principal songwriter broke up with the love of his life, because, you know, 'sometimes shit happens.' Probably. It's so very easy to dislike the Fleet Foxes with their acoustic guitars, walls of harmonies, wooly hats, universal acclaim and damn preciousness. So let's calmly put all that terrible prejudice and preconception to one side, lower the needle to the vinyl and give it a chance.
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Saturday, 7 May 2011
The Tallest Man On Earth, aka Kristian Matsson, is a Swedish bloke with a guitar. The Wild Hunt is his second album. I won't mention who he shares a striking vocal resemblance with, because it's mentioned in every article written about him (it's even on his Wikipedia page), and it must really piss him off. So, in the spectacularly unlikely event that he'll ever read this, I'll probably piss him off in a different way. Gradually, over the course of the album his voice becomes wearing. All starts well with the title track, an enjoyable song that breezes along. I first reached for the volume on You’re Going Back where he sings like he wants to ram his words into your ear with his fist. 'DID YOU HEAR THAT?' he roars, 'Did. You. Hear. Every. Single. Word? OR SHALL I DO IT AGAIN LOUDER SIR?' And whilst 'The Man We Won't Mention' (Bob Dylan) often let rip back in his early years, back when he was more likely to bother to annunciate clearly and deliver a crisp tirade, you got the feeling he didn't actually give a shit whether you could hear clearly or not. Whereas Matsson delivers his lines like he will surely die if his message is not heard and understood. Too often it sounds like he's riding across the Mojave desert on the back of a Harley Davidson, and the person he is singing to is back in New York. Drilling. In a quiet moment, when the city lulls itself into a rare calm, and his intended audience turns his drill off, he might even be able to hear the fucker. Even the low-key songs only give you a verse or two before the vocal is jumping straight back out and smashing down doors. Maybe it would work better if there was more dressing around the voice, but there is only ever a lone acoustic guitar or piano to try and shelter his keening (ok there is a bit of banjo accompaniment on the title track, but that isn't going to smooth the edges off anything). Headphone listening becomes tiring. Exhausting even.
I didn't start this blog to smash anyone, so let's finish with this. He can write songs. He can play guitar beautifully. This album has been reviewed and loved in loads of places. A friend saw him live, said he was wonderful, joyful. He's selling out venues all over the place. And my girlfriend, who has spectacularly good taste, enjoyed this album. It's ok, we're fine about it.