Delays - Star Tiger, Star Ariel (Album)

I have never been in a band. No obvious journo/failed musician clichés here then, more journo/never even tried to be a musician. Therefore, it is quite difficult for me to accurately assess at which point it becomes clear to a band that their creative and commercial peak (which are sometimes concurrent, but more often than not come at completely different times) are gone. More to the point, when that realisation does dawn on you, what do you do? Do you give up the ghost, or do you continue to plug away gamely, making music entirely for yourself and the die-hards? There’s an argument for both really. There are few things more depressing than seeing a once-wonderful band knocking out by-numbers tripe to an increasingly uninterested public (Weezer, anyone?). But then surely your first aim as a musician is to make songs that satisfy you, regardless of whether or not the public take them to heart?

The reason for this meandering train of thought is that to me, it is fairly apparent that Southampton four piece Delays probably enjoyed their zenith in their early years, with debut record Faded Seaside Glamour quite rightly garnering plaudits aplenty for its blend of Cocteau-esque beauty and jangly indie-pop. Mildly electro-infused follow-up You See Colours, perhaps harshly, didn’t take off in the way it was expected to, and Everything’s The Rush seemed to pretty much pass most people by entirely. So for the release of fourth album Star Tiger, Star Ariel, I guess you could say at least there is little to no pressure on the band.

And, for the most part, this freedom seems to show, because Star Tiger very definitely sounds like a band who, perhaps for the first time, have been liberated from the demands of having to follow up a successful debut record, or from the burden of having to regain lost momentum. It also gives us the impression that Delays are entirely comfortable in their own skin, old enough and mature enough to know who they are, and capable enough to convey that in the songs.

Where Everything’s the Rush was largely an exuberant blast of straight-up pop, Star Tiger tends to be a slightly more diverse affair. Its greatest successes are undoubtedly the moments where the band retreat into their shell with opening song Find a Home the most gorgeous example of this. Along with Hold Fire, it is also probably the most direct excursion the band has ever taken into dream pop yet. Few British bands can do woozy as well as Delays, which has a lot to do with Greg Gilbert’s falsetto, something which has always accounted for a sizeable chunk of the band’s column inches.

While the sleepier moments are the high points of the record, there is still plenty to cling on to for those who enjoy Delays doing straight up pop. In Brilliant Sunshine is an invigoratingly boisterous piece which has Aaron Gilbert’s fingerprints all over it, and would have fit quite nicely on You See Colours. Shanghaied is similarly urgent and also serves as a timely reminder that there’s another element to Greg’s voice, though, because as affecting as it is when he’s being all ghostly, it’s also pretty exhilarating when he lets rip with those throat-tearing howls. It’s like Mark Greaney probably thought he sounded on those JJ72 records all those years ago.

The album comes to a close with its title track, which is about as grand and majestic as we have ever seen the band. It reinforces the feeling that Delays have probably found their niche, a slot below the surface of mainstream success which allows them to quietly plug away safe in the knowledge that history will be kind to them. Granted, they might never produce such pure and perfect pop as Long Time Coming again, may never serve up another glorious dancefloor shredding curveball like Lost in a Melody or Valentine, and chances are they may never inspire in me that same feeling I did upon first encountering the band some seven years when a solo rendition of There’s Water Here by Greg pinned me spellbound to the floor. However, with Star Tiger, Star Ariel comes the realisation that Delays will also never produce a half-arsed record, nor is the quality of their songwriting ever likely to dip. Sometimes, you know, that’s enough.

4/5

Perfume Genius - Learning (Album)

There are rare occasions when you just know. When you put on a record for the first time, and you are encompassed by the vague and indefinable sense of warmth that comes with the knowledge that what you are listening to is, in a word, special. It has nothing to do with epoch, genre, or geographical origin, but stems from an intangible kind of magic that elevates the music above the confines of being merely ‘good’, into something wondrous. Learning by Perfume Genius (aka Seattle native Mike Hadreas) is such an album.

It’s difficult to know where to even begin picking Learning apart, really. The first thing which will strike you about Hadreas is his voice. Floating above the bobbing piano intro of the title track which opens the album is this tragic, pain-laced voice which sounds almost childlike, but which also seems worn out by years of sorrow. This is far from the only contradiction which adorns the album, because really, one of the most intriguing things about Learning is that it is sheathed in paradox. It is resolutely dark in tone, yet it emits a gentle warm glow. It is utterly minimal in its components, but it still comes across as a hugely complex piece of work. And while the songs are shot through with the starkest kind of fragility, it is difficult to escape the feeling that from the catharsis of putting this pain on record, there emerges a kind of defiance.

Perhaps wisely for a record of such emotional heft, Learning is short in length. The ten songs clock in at less than half an hour, and each is in itself an ephemeral snapshot of raw humanity. The album seems to drift away on the breeze before it has even begun, and while you are left drained from the experience, ultimately it leaves you pining for more. Hadreas, clearly, is a believer in the old maxim that less is more, something which is abundantly plain from the sparse instrumentation he employs throughout.

In spite of the fact that the shelves of our record stores are clogged up by a million and one albums constructed, like Learning, almost entirely from piano and voice, you can’t really accurately compare Perfume Genius to any other artist. There may be a hint of turn of the decade Radiohead (think Motion Picture Soundtrack) in the ghostly murmur of Gay Angels, and very occasionally the vocal delivery calls to mind Jason Lytle and Grandaddy’s more tender moments, but aside from these all-too fleeting reference points, Hadreas is an artist whose sheer uniqueness is extraordinary. Just take this coda from ‘Mr Petersen’ as an example: “He let me smoke weed in his truck / If I could convince him I loved him enough...When I was sixteen, he jumped off a building / Mr Petersen, I know you were ready to go / I hope there’s room for you up above or down below”. It’s difficult to imagine any other artist who could take what is essentially the tale of (at best) a questionable relationship between an older and a younger man, and imbue it with such heartbreaking compassion. This is the real power of Perfume Genius, his ability to inspire feelings that can not be drawn from the work of any other musician.

By now, it probably goes without saying that Learning is not the easiest album that 2010 will give us. But at the moment it is almost impossible to imagine anything being released that will even come close to being as enriching as this. It is the sort of record which can completely engulf you with its beauty, and leaves you wondering just what other marvels Perfume Genius will be able to sculpt in years to come because, lest we forget, this is his first release. Mike Hadreas is a rare and wonderful artist. Savour him.

Allo, Darlin' - Allo, Darlin' (Album)

There has probably never been a better time for a band to produce straight-up indie pop, particularly if they happen to position themselves at the twee-er end of the scale. What with the mass acclaim for The Pains of Being Pure at Heart last year, the gently swelling commercial and critical success of Camera Obscura, and a general wave of C86-inspired bands seemingly sweeping the blogosphere, it would appear that in 2010 it’s hip to be fey. It is into this hospitable environment that Allo, Darlin’, a part-English, part-Aussie punctuationary nightmare launch their eponymous debut record.

It’s clear from even the most cursory of listens that it is a record which nakedly displays its influences, a factor which makes it no less enjoyable. Album opener Dreaming calls to mind the sweet youthfulness of mid-90s twee superheroes Heavenly, and specifically their Calvin Johnson collaboration with its lovely boy-girl interplay. The Polaroid Song, on the other hand, has the sort of gently insistent melody which calls to mind a more girly Smiths. There are plenty more reference points to be found in here if you look further, but the band deliver the whole thing in such a way that it never feels like theft, more like affectionate homage to their musical idols.

One of the band’s greatest strengths is the disarming directness of their lyrics. Take Silver Dollars, for instance, a simple but charmingly pretty love song to the toilet circuit: “And yeah, I sold all my records, but I’m still in debt by two grand / and yeah, we played that show, but we spent what we earned on the cab...we do it, because we love it”. The delivery of singer Elizabeth Darling aches with vulnerability, and carries the same sort of delicate emotional punch as Tracyanne Campbell, something which is at its most apparent on Let’s Go Swimming.

It is Kiss Your Lips which sees Allo, Darlin’ achieve their aims most perfectly. Aside from the mildly grating pronunciation of the word lips (although I must concede that as a Geordie many would say I have no cause to call anyone up on any kind of accent-related foibles), the song is the glorious high point of the album. It is the centre-piece around which the rest of the album is built, a breezy burst of pop exuberance, and gains extra kudos for the beautifully reverential mini Weezer cover in the middle.

The other side of Allo, Darlin’ is their slow-paced ukulele-led laments which resonate with obvious heartache, but they don’t all find their mark in the same way as Let’s Go Swimming. Heartbreak Chilli is very nearly a step too far into tweeness, a syrupy ode to culinary flirtatiousness, while What Will Be Will Be is a bit of an inconsequential way to end a record so replete with pop gems. While this is a bit of a shame, it by no means takes the shine of what is a hugely impressive debut album. As far as the current wave of mid-tempo indie pop goes, Allo, Darlin’ is likely to be a key album, one which I’m sure many will try and fail to emulate.

4/5

Band of Horses - Infinite Arms (Album)

As much as it pains me to admit it, it is probably a bit snobbish to suggest that all bands who achieve stratospheric levels of radio saturation are chancers whose sole aim in making music is to hit the lowest common denominator paydirt. Nor should I really imply that they all sacrifice their artistic vision in favour of the ever more insipid for the sake of shifting another 100k units. Still though, there has quite clearly been a large element of this in popular music for a lot of years, and to those responsible, well, I guess all I can say is fair enough. Clearly the likes of Lightbody, Martin and Followill have long since reconciled themselves with their choices, and a bit of stick from little old me isn’t likely to change their ways. That said, it doesn’t half stick in your craw sometimes that such blanditry is so ubiquitous when there are innumerable artists producing music which could conceivably cross over to larger scale popularity without completely sacking off ambition or creativity. Band of Horses are a perfect example of such a band. Their dust-hewn Americana has raised their profile steadily for five years, making Infinite Arms a relatively major release in indie circles, but its arrival still comes largely unheralded in the mainstream.

Gradually increasing stature aside, little else seems to change in the band’s world. With every new release you know what you’re likely to be in for, something which makes the result no less pleasing. Sometimes the art of simple, stately songcraft, when exhibited as consummately as it is on Infinite Arms, can be far more stimulating than wild directional twists and turns.

The lilting waltz of Factory with which Infinite Arms opens is about as strong a back-up of the previous point as I could possibly provide. It is at once gorgeous, swooning, and completely and utterly typical of Band of Horses. Like much of the rest of the record, it provides little in the way of the unexpected, but it is still entirely satisfying. Perhaps the closest thing to a surprise to be found on the album is lead single Compliments, if only for the fact that it imbues an otherwise simple slice of pop with more bounce and swagger than we’re used to hearing from the band.

Band of Horses have always been fond of slow-burners, and Infinite Arms dips into their canon of lovelorn laments more than either of their previous two albums. They are masters of the art, and the likes of On My Way Back Home and Older can sit comfortably with their back catalogue, but with the heavy reliance on the sleepier songs comes the uneasy sensation that the balance of the album doesn’t feel quite right. There’s an unmistakeable lull between the middle and the end of the record where it is difficult to stop your attention from wandering until the gust of NW Apt suddenly blows away the cobwebs. I can’t help but feel that had the band bared their teeth once or twice more over the course of Infinite Arms, then the album would have been the healthier for it.

All told then, Infinite Arms is further proof, if such a thing were necessary, of Band of Horses’ enviable command of a song. It is not a perfect record, indeed it is probably not quite the best of their career, but there is sufficient elegance here to deem the album a success. And who knows, with a place on the soundtrack of the next Twilight film coming up, perhaps it’s not too unrealistic to expect them to be catapulted to the large scale fame soon...

3/5

Broken Social Scene - Forgiveness Rock Record (Album)

Is it really five years since the last Broken Social Scene album? It really doesn’t feel like it. Perhaps it’s the ubiquity borne out of their indie megastardom, perhaps it’s the not-quite-solo, not-quite-BSS records released by Kevin Drew and Brendan Canning since 2005’s eponymous effort. Either way, it feels like they’ve never been away. However, that didn’t stop the initial announcement of Forgiveness Rock Record’s arrival being greeted with a feverish level of anticipation only matched so far this year by The National. Like Messrs Berninger, Dessner et al, BSS were on a bit of a hiding to nothing in trying to satisfy expectations, however Forgiveness Rock Record, like High Violet, comfortably achieves this feat.

Impressively for a band whose membership is so befuddlingly fluid, Broken Social Scene have been quietly cultivating an entirely specific sound ever since You Forgot it in People. Their albums have always been pretty diverse affairs (and Forgiveness Rock Record is no exception), but there have always been odd common threads loosely woven throughout their music, that creaky guitar, for instance, or that slightly dusty feel to the production, all of which serve to make a Broken Social Scene record instantly recognisable. Forgiveness Rock Record has this same sense about it, yet is still markedly different to anything yet released by BSS.

The biggest difference to a lot of the band’s previous work is that large chunks of Forgiveness Rock Record show a greater focus on more conventional song structures than usual, which is no bad thing. You might be surprised to hear it of a mass conglomerate of indie experimentalists, but when they want to, BSS can do pop pretty nicely thank you. ‘Art House Director’ is the finest example of this, a glorious slice of fun driven by a bounding brass refrain which races breathlessly onwards. ‘Meet Me in the Basement’, too, is similarly unrestrained in the joyousness which seeps out of its instrumental elegance.

Broken Social Scene have featured their fair share of big name female singers over the years, but one of Forgiveness Rock Record’s most gorgeous moments comes courtesy of one of their less feted chanteuses in Lisa Lobsinger. ‘All to All’ is heartbreakingly pretty, all woozy and lovelorn, and also has a disarmingly catchy groove to it. Perhaps the competition from Lobsinger has inspired Emily Haines, who in response turns in one of her most seductive vocals in years on the irresistibly sexy ‘Sentimental X’s’. It would be misguided to think that it’s just the girls who are capable of sending a tingle down the listener’s spine, though. ‘Sweetest Kill’ creeps up on you after a few listens, gently tugging at your sleeve for attention, and it is Kevin Drew’s careworn vocal which is largely responsible for this. For years, Drew has been a master of understated emotion, and this is one of the finest moments of his enviable career.

It probably won’t come as a surprise to hardened Broken Social Scene listeners that Forgiveness Rock Record isn’t without its missteps. There are undoubtedly times when the album can frustrate, such as with the aimless closer ‘Me and My Hand’, or the throwaway ‘Ungrateful Little Father’. And the less said about the ill-advised ‘Scoody-doody’ bits at the start of ‘Highway Slipper Jam’, the better. That said, the slack quality control which comes with their chaotic make-up is part of the band’s appeal. After all, how often do we berate bands for being a bit too slick? Besides, none of the record’s faults can possibly take anything away from its high points, which are as plentiful as they are enriching. Forgiveness Rock Record is definitely as much of a slow burner as any previous BSS efforts, but it’s at least as good as any of them.

4/5

Pulled Apart by Horses - Pulled Apart by Horses (Album)

I’m not sure exactly what it takes for a post-hardcore band to cross over successfully to indie-land, but Pulled Apart By Horses might be able to answer that question. Like Rolo Tomassi and Dananananaykroyd before them, they have managed to get check-shirted types a-quivering with anticipation for their debut record. They might not have Rolo’s lunatic creativity or Dananana’s insane levels of unbridled energy, but PABH are still quite adept with straight-up dumb shouty rawk. They have a sense of fun which is pretty appealing. This is music which doesn’t take itself too seriously, something that is clear from a mere passing glance at the track-list. The likes of ‘I Punched a Lion in the Throat’ and ‘The Crapsons’ are more than just silly one-liners though, they are backed up by satisfyingly meaty riffs and are catchier than all the yelling might lead you to believe at first. A lot of this might be a bit tongue in cheek, but there’s still a convincing amount of anger present, particularly in ‘I’ve Got Guestlist to Rory O’Hara’s Suicide’. It’s unlikely to reveal much more of itself after the first few listens, but PABH is still a decent rock knockabout.

3.5/5

Singles Round-Up - W/C 17-5-10 (Single)

It’s been suggested that the single is a dying artform, and although I’m a firm believer in the format, there are some weeks where it is hard to argue its case. Disappointingly for me, embarking on my maiden run at our Singles of the Week column, this week is one of those weeks. Still, there are one or two diamonds buried in the rough, so onward we go...

This week sees releases from more of pop’s luminaries than usual. Firstly, Christina Aguilera is back, and it would appear she has decide to reprise her filth-pop heyday, when she used to go around calling herself X-Tina. Sadly for pop’s yummiest mummy though, ‘Not Myself Tonight’, is a forgettable slice of “If you don’t like it, fuck you” –themed bluster, which sounds a little hollow now that we have far more interesting pop stars like Lady Gaga. A slightly better attempt at urban pop comes from little Alexandra Burke, whose ‘All Night Long’ at least has a more memorable chorus which is likely to go down well with Radio 1 types. She’s definitely one of the more worthwhile of the X Factor ‘artists’, but that contest is a bit like trying to decide what the best type of skin disease is. Completing the trio of pop giants releasing records this week is the wonderfully batshit Shakira, who at least deserves our admiration for gaining such prominence by embracing her lunacy rather than allowing herself to be buffed into radio-friendly generica. Her song ‘Give it Up to Me’, however is no ‘She-Wolf’. It’s a bit too straight, doesn’t really play to her eccentric strengths, and ends up sounding kind of like something Timbaland would have chucked at Nelly Furtado a few years ago.

While we’re on the subject of female pop solo artists, this week also sees the release of Ellie Goulding’s latest effort ‘Guns and Horses’. The song is perfectly pleasant, inoffensive and quite catchy (though not quite ‘Starry-Eyed’ catchy), but it’s difficult to take her seriously. It just feels like she’s been vacuum-packed in the lab which produces BBC Sound of 20xx candidates, with this year’s vintage requiring liberal splashes of baggy checked shirts, leggings and kooky vocal tics. You’d like to think there’s some irony present when she sings “It’s time that we found out who we are”, but there probably isn’t.

A far more enjoyable effort comes from Swanton Bombs (apparently it’s something to do with wrestling). Their single ‘Wasteland’ is a beautifully shambolic chunk of messy guitar pop. It has that fantastic grubby sound of Let’s Wrestle and the energy of Dananananaykroyd, but amid the murkiness, a tune is buried, and a surprisingly catchy one at that. Competing with Swanton Bombs for this week’s best single are Wild Palms. ‘Deep Dive’ is comprised of equal parts ominous portents of doom and driving power-pop, and is an all the more interesting proposition for its identity crisis. The singer might want to tone down the affectations just a touch though.

Also out this week is Camera Obscura’s cover of Richard Hawley’s ‘The Nights Are Cold’, which I would have loved to have told you all about, but as there seems to be an implausibly wide online exclusion zone around it, I’m afraid that’s not possible. The original is a lovely example of gently bouncing acoustic songcraft, so I expect the cover is kind of like that, only a little bit twee-er. They’re a lovely bunch, so you might as well just buy it and let me know what it sounds like.