Feature - The NARC. Issue 55 Mixtape

The first of a new regular feature in NARC., a 10 track Spotify Mixtape

http://open.spotify.com/user/browno2/playlist/1pTxezMllmTs441dO3TOaa

Vessels – An Idle Brain and the Devil’s Workshop (Errors Remix) – A reworking which sees Errors deconstruct the wandering grandeur of the original, and replace it with a far more playful, glitchy aesthetic.

Trouble Books – Houseplants – Trouble Books are one of the USA’s best kept secrets. Here, they infuse the most minimal of musical elements with an abundance of space to create something beautifully fragile and affecting.

Emmy the Great – Canopies and Drapes – An offcut from Emmy’s impressive debut record which later emerged on the extended version. She namechecks The Magnetic Fields, S Club 7 and KD Lang among others on a lovely folk workout.

The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - Higher Than the Stars (Saint-Etienne Remix) – The EP from last year’s biggest word of blog successes was arguably as good as their debut record, and this remix adds a new air of dreaminess to their sunny C86-isms.

Elliott Smith – Son of Sam – While his sparser work is his most lauded, on Figure 8, Elliott showed that a fuller sound didn’t strip his songs of their emotion. Opening song Son of Sam is an undoubted highlight.

Her Name is Calla – Nylon – Her Name is Calla are one of our most interesting, creative bands, and Nylon illustrates their darker side, building slowly and menacingly to a histrionic crescendo.

Everything Everything – Photoshop Handsome – Any band hyped to fuck like Everything Everything will be met with suspicion, but the infectious bounce of Photoshop Handsome illustrates why they are worth (most of) the hyperbole.

Los Campesinos! – The Sea is a Good Place to Think of the Future – 2010 saw Los Campesinos! apparently outgrow their twee pop origins. This is the apex of the new LC’s achievements, at once euphoric, despairing and thoroughly enriching.

Asobi Seksu – Thursday – Taken from 2006’s Citrus, Thursday is the perfect blend of Asobi Seksu’s twin strengths, Yuki Chikudate’s gorgeous vocals, and the sometimes overpowering tumult of guitars.

Sonic Youth – The Diamond Sea – Clocking in at just under 20 minutes, this is Sonic Youth’s most decadent work, but also the most liberated they have ever sounded, as Thurston’s weary vocal gives way to 20 minutes of exquisitely meandering noise.

Manic Street Preachers - Postcards From a Young Man (Album)

A little over a year ago, when on these very pages I covered Journal For Plague Lovers, an album which saw Manic Street Preachers triumphantly rugby-tackling their personal history, I pondered whether 2009 would be a fitting time for their unfeasibly epic story to end. At the time, my logic seemed fairly sound. The act of bringing the last of Richey’s abandoned words into public consciousness after fourteen years had an undeniable air of finality to it, leaving the band with something of an unenviable dilemma as to how they would follow up such an album. But of course I’m forgetting that the Manics have always been contrary bastards who have spent more than twenty years being perfectly happy to do exactly the opposite of what you might expect. Therefore, the release of Postcards From a Young Man sees them emerging from the shadow of Richey’s ghost for a second time, and in exactly the same manner as they did in 1996, with an album which is brazen in its radio-conquering ambitions. The circumstances surrounding the two records, however, are entirely different. Where Everything Must Go displayed a defiant sense of optimism borne out of tragedy, wrapping it up in bombast and saturating it with strings, Postcards From a Young Man finds a band at an altogether more settled stage in their lives, crucially no longer needing to escape from their history. In spite of the clear differences surrounding their inception though, both records share the same sense of rejuvenation, a feeling that the band are no longer weighed down by the burden of expectation, and able to make a record just for the enjoyment of it.

In a recent press missive, James described the album as “one last shot at mass communication”, and, regardless of how tongue in cheek his sentiments may be, it’s easy to see what he means. Postcards can most definitely be considered a pop album in the sense that it is unmistakably front-loaded, and that it contains three or four absolutely killer singles which stand head and shoulders above much of the rest of it. Following on from the archetypal lead-single stylings of opening track ‘(It’s Not War) Just the End of Love’ is the album’s title track, which amounts to the most perfect distillation yet of what the band have been trying to achieve musically and lyrically for nigh on fifteen years, as Nicky laments the sting of seeing your youth drift away (“This life, it sucks your principles away”) while James engulfs his words in swooning, sweeping guitar. Even grander is the Ian McCulloch duet ‘Some Kind of Nothingness’. The song is enormous in scale, coming across like some Spector/Walker Brothers hybrid on which McCulloch’s magnificently jaded delivery is supported by an uncharacteristically benevolent-sounding vocal from James. Towards the end the whole thing swells to improbable levels of grandeur when the gospel choirs kick in, to such an extent that it really should all be too much, but the song is so gorgeous that it is impossible not to get caught up in its waves of joyous sadness.

Its first three songs are Postcards From a Young Man’s undoubted high points, before it begins to settle in a little, but every now and again it revisits the stateliness of its beginnings. ‘Hazelton Avenue’, for instance, sees an unlikely ode to the simple pleasures of consumerism (would anyone have seen that coming in 1992?) wrapped in an elegant, swirling refrain, while ‘Golden Platitudes’ comes off like a more grandiose version of the MOR pop of Lifeblood, with the massively uplifting musical accompaniment offsetting a song tinged with the sadness of being betrayed by your own political party (and possibly also by your own failing ideals): “What happened to those days when everything seemed possible... Where did the feeling go? Where did it all go wrong?”

Although they are clearly its most recognisable and memorable facets, the happy/sad big guitar pop numbers don’t quite tell the full story of Postcards. There are also occasional blasts of the characteristic anger which clearly still lingers in the 40-something version of Manic Street Preachers, aimed at targets both old (The decline of national industry, and with it, national identity) and new (Wire’s distaste for the blogger culture which means that anybody with a keyboard can now dispense the same kind of bile which he has spent years honing, to the point that “the printed world is all done and dusted”.) Truth be told though, for all that the angrier songs are bracing, with the rattling chorus of ‘A Billion Balconies Facing the Sun’ a standout example, they are ultimately a little bit throwaway, and at times feel just a little bit redundant. Not quite to the same extent as the likes of ‘Underdogs’ on Send Away the Tigers, mind you, but still they never quite seem to rise above the status of being decent rock knockabouts.

Really, Postcards From a Young Man can not be considered to be a logical follow-on from its predecessor. In spite of the relatively short period of time between the two, the parallels are fleeting, and only the paranoid, tetchy ‘Auto-Intoxication’ would come close to fitting comfortably on Journal For Plague Lovers. We only really see one direct reference to the emotional impact of creating Journal, but it is a telling one when on ‘The Descent (Pages 1 and 2)’, James sings “I’ve lost my last defence / The pages that you left”. Finally committing the last of Richey’s words to wax has left the band exposed, and without the safety buffer they have enjoyed all these years, which might explain the gusto and defiance with which they have attacked this project. While they have undoubtedly recorded better albums than this, they have also recorded much worse too, and there are moments on here which prove they can still genuinely surprise even me, a hardened Manics fan of some thirteen-odd years, with their passion and skill. The long and short of it is that Postcards From a Young Man is a microcosm of the band’s career, rich in glorious successes, pitted with the occasional mis-step, often contradictory, but ultimately completely life-affirming.

Grammatics - Brudenell Social Club, Leeds - 20/8/2010 (Gig)

About a month back, and seemingly out of the blue to the majority of us, Grammatics announced their intention to split, citing insurmountable financial woes as the primary cause. I have watched their latter days with interest, both as a fan of the band, and also as someone intrigued by the machinations of the music industry. They have fallen back on online resources to repay their debts by selling off band paraphernalia, merchandise and little exclusive treats like access to rehearsal time and gigs in people’s gardens. While it has been disagreeable to see a band having to resort to flogging off parts of their history, it’s also encouraging that these days they would have the means to be able to do this to break even, and it has also allowed them to draw a neat line under their story with a final tour and a farewell EP.

Tonight sees the very last leg of their send-off, the last ever Grammatics gig which takes place (of course) in their hometown, and features (of course) two locally-based support acts. Opening band These Monsters are gloriously chaotic, battering the shit out of their instruments, themselves, and our ears. Their songs are messy, unkempt, but thrillingly energetic, and they seem to raise the Brudenell’s temperature to sweltering levels which don’t diminish for the rest of the evening. After the frenetic implosion of These Monsters’ set, there is a sea change in tone when Blue Roses steps onto the stage. There is an endearing sense of awkwardness around her between song chat, which belies the extraordinary, spellbinding voice upon which her music hinges. There is a clear debt of gratitude owed to Joanna Newsom, but it’s difficult to quibble when the songs are so beautifully presented.

By the time Grammatics emerge onstage it is pushing eleven o’clock and there isn’t a soul in the room not drenched in a not-altogether pleasant cocktail of their own and someone else’s sweat. There is also a strange feeling in the tangy air, a mix of anticipation and sadness that this is the very last time that this band will play together. Indeed, one girl at the bar feels the need to tell me about how much she is going to cry tonight, and enquires whether I will experience the same response. Now I’m a bit too stoic a boy for all that (and, to be fair, probably not as drunk as my interlocutor), but as the band commence with the stuttering, swooning The Shadow Committee, there is no denying that it does feel a little emotional.

As the show progresses, the sense that this is their last one ever begins to dissipate (for a while at least), and the gig settles in to feel almost like any other. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because it means that both we and they can relax a little and enjoy the night without it taking on a funereal air. The band themselves might not be particularly chatty, understandably, but they are in wonderful form. In typical Grammatics fashion, the songs are full, polished and deliciously melodramatic. It feels like a wise move when they drop album closer Swansong into the middle of the set as opposed to ending proceedings with it, because as far as choosing a song to permanently end Grammatics as a live band goes, this would probably be a little too on the nose.

The main set finishes with Double Negative, a song accurately described by Owen as ‘the whitest hiphop ever’, and it is here that the fun ends, and the sweet sting of finality begins to take hold. Having primed us with a particularly fraught version of one of their most overwrought songs, Broken Wing, to open the encore, the band’s finale is a massive, throat-shredding Relentless Fours. It is brutal, cathartic and downright fucking beautiful, concluding with one final, tumultuous descent. And then that is it. Grammatics are no more.

Magic Kids - Memphis (Album)

It’s probably inevitable, but a bit gloomy nonetheless, that as I’ve edged further into my twenties, and as I begin to lurch ever more rapidly towards their conclusion, my tolerance for anything even remotely youthful has waned significantly. This presents something of a quandary when it comes to attempting to critically appraise Memphis the debut album by Magic Kids because youthfulness is something which positively oozes out of every pore of the record. I must soldier on, though, because it really isn’t their fault that I’m seethingly envious that they retain the lustre which deserted me long ago, and who knows, maybe a little vicarious burst of vitality will do me some good.

One thing which will become abundantly clear from even the most cursory of listens to Memphis is that this is a record which nakedly displays its influences. The spectre of 60s pop hangs heavy in the air, with the Beach Boys being the most blatant of reference points. This is immediately evident on opening song ‘Phone’ which gleefully raids Brian Wilson’s box of tricks, pulling out some of his best harmonies along with his well-thumbed juxtaposition of the headrush and yearnings of young love. The Beach Boys influence goes on to pop its head above the parapet sporadically throughout the rest of the record, and is supplemented by occasional bursts of Spector’s girl bands (‘Hey Boy’), and glimpses of a perkier version of baroque pop (‘Superball’).

While Magic Kids’ magpie-like tendencies are pretty barefaced, more often than not they get away with it because they pilfer more than just a sound from their idols; they also display the faultless attention to detail of classic pop music, meaning that the hero-worship never really grates. It might all feel a little lightweight, but there’s no question that the songs are gorgeously well-crafted, making the intricate appear simple, something which is underlined by a straightforward, unfussy production which makes the album feel quite timeless, regardless of the fact that its roots are planted firmly in the 1960s.

Clearly Memphis is a summer record. This could, of course, present a bit of a potential problem for those of us dwelling in parts of the world where summer is but a myth. Fortunately, though, it is an album which doesn’t need a supportive environment, because it is bold enough and evocative enough to create a sunny climate entirely on its own. It is rich in things which make it easy to like, but undoubtedly, the most agreeable thing about it is the seemingly endless surge of happiness on which it is carried, which is so infectious and authentic that even a prematurely aged curmudgeon like me can do little to avoid being swept along with the tide. You probably wouldn’t expect Magic Kids to realistically be able to make more than two or three records with this blueprint, but frankly that isn’t something for us to think about right now. All that really matters for now is that their debut album is an unqualified success, a concise and perfectly-presented collection of first-class pop music.

8/10

My Vitriol and Me

My small contribution to the forthcoming DiS is 10 celebrations, a piece about an overlooked record from DiS' lifetime which has been of particular significance to me:

I’m pretty sure that the DiS’ tenth birthday celebrations will feature accounts of user/website relationships which are far more interesting than mine. It’s been a pretty commonplace journey for me, you see, one where boy meets website, boy falls in love with lots of bands, boy writes a few words for website in the hope of discovering more bands and (just maybe) helping others to do the same. While I’ve been plodding away mundanely on the boards, posting barely 4000 times in six years, there are those who have made friends, found and lost love, got married, had babies (probably) and, in one or two select cases, found national tabloid infamy. How could I compete with that? So, instead of even trying to, I wanted my little contribution to the festivities to be about a record which has been massively important to the development of my tastes, one which was released before I was even aware of the existence of drownedinsound.com, but which is probably just as much to blame as DiS for my unslakeable thirst for new music.

Around the start of the century’s maiden decade, I wouldn’t have said music was particularly important to me, something reflected by the fact that at the age of 17 the entirety of my ‘collection’ will have consisted of about 12 fairly standard samples of radio-friendly indie (of which probably only the Manics have endured to this day). As time progressed though, I gradually grew bored of the stodgy dad-rock, started borrowing a mate’s copies of the death-throe issues of Melody Maker (well, thieved really, sorry about that Richard), and began to spend time in the company of MTV2. As a direct result of the latter, My Vitriol appeared on my radar around the time they released the Pieces and Always: Your Way singles. They were the perfect band for me to discover at that particular time, accessible enough not to repulse my unsophisticated palate (and indeed to actually discover in the first place), but alternative enough for me to satisfy my urge to rebel against my own tastes.

On the surface (which is about as deep as the younger me would tend to delve), Finelines was a pretty uncomplicated proposition, a nice heavy rock record, bristling with venom, and sprinkled with the occasional catchy chorus. But if its appeal were merely superficial, it would have been chucked to one side with my Feeder, JJ72 and Kinesis records long ago. Instead, while I have experienced dozens of infatuations with songs, albums and genres, both brief and longer term, and discarded far more bands than I have loved, Finelines has grown with me, and become one of the few constants in my musical landscape, to the point where my Digipak copy is now just about ready to fall to bits once and for all.

A huge part of its appeal lies in its dextrous melding of pop rock and shoegaze. The likes of Cemented Shoes, Grounded and Losing Touch are instantly exhilarating (and, unsurprisingly, all singles), and their immediacy acts as a necessary breather from the endless surging waves of effects-heavy guitars, a handhold to cling to in the storm of noise. Even now, it’s hugely satisfying, and quite refreshing, to hear how unrestrained the album is. I mean, just look at Tongue Tied. On the face of it, a mainstream rock record could probably do without a meandering, overblown five and half minute instrumental peppered with false endings slap bang in the middle of it, but thanks largely to its joyous bloody-mindedness, it turns out to be a perfect distillation of the entire My Vitriol philosophy, and one of the highlights of the whole album. And then there are the other instrumental snippets, the shorter pieces like Alpha Waves and Taprobane, which in clumsier hands could jar or slow things down unnecessarily, but instead prove to be vital threads in the tapestry of the album as a whole.

So if you never discovered Finelines (and I wouldn’t were it not for opportune timing), if you dismissed My Vitriol out of hand, or even if you own the album and simply haven’t listened to it for ages, then it is without question a worthwhile way to spend forty-eight minutes. It’s a shame that its lack of a successor has overshadowed the record’s sheer strength, but it also means that it gives My Vitriol that rarefied air of mystique which shrouds bands whose only record is a stone-cold classic. For me though, while Finelines is a special record for its own qualities, what is arguably more important is the gateway it provided me to the likes of Seafood, The Cooper Temple Clause and Idlewild, who in turn each gave me a few more outlets, which then led me to a few more other threads to follow, and so on and so on and so on to a point where my hard drive and bookshelves creak under the strain of music they carry.

Bear in Heaven - Beast Rest Forth Mouth: Remixed (Album)

Beast Rest Forth Mouth is likely to end up one of 2010’s great overlooked records, destined to be overshadowed by Yeasayer’s similar, inferior effort. Entering the minefield of the remix album seems at first a curious decision, especially given the near-perfection of the source material but the result, by and large, vindicates Bear in Heaven. Undoubtedly, the album’s shimmering pop charm is lost, but in its place comes a subtler new appeal, particularly on The Field’s remix of Ultimate Satisfaction, or Deru’s Deafening Love, which experience two of the most radical deconstructions here, both taking on an unnerving, ghostly air. The BRAHMS remix of Fake Out, meanwhile, is a less drastic tweak, enhancing the song’s essence with a skittering little beat, the result of which is probably better than the original. As with practically every remix album ever made, not every reworking is a success, with Pink Skull’s version of Wholehearted Mess turning the song into a shapeless mush. On the whole though, the band have presided over a real success, adding an interesting new dimension to their album, which will hopefully bring it back on the radar to those who missed it first time round.

4/5

Deerhunter - Halcyon Digest Preview (Album)

These days, it feels strange to bemoan a period of less than twelve months as too long to have gone without recorded output from any artist. But such is the outrageously prolific nature of Bradford Cox, a man usually good for at least two records a year, that it seems like an age since his last release, October’s Atlas Sound album Logos. He even stopped spewing out the formerly frequent Virtual 7” recordings which litter the archives of the Deerhunter blog (most of which are well worth exploring if you find yourself with a spare afternoon and a fuckload of hard drive space). His quiet spell is due to end on September 28^th, as he and his Deerhunter cohorts knuckle back down to the day job with the release of their fifth full-lengther Halcyon Digest. Lead single Revival (quite fittingly, given the name), picks up the thread left by last Deerhunter EP Rainwater Cassette Exchange, taking on the same lazy, mildly shoegazey ambience of its predecessor. That’s not to say you should expect any kind of rehash of past glories, mind you, because Deerhunter are most definitely not that kind of band. There may be some vague sense of narrative logic running through their back catalogue, but a huge part of their overall appeal lies in their unpredictability and their sublime meandering tangents. In fact the only thing about Halcyon Digest that isn’t likely to surprise is its inevitable prominent spot in the end of end of year love-ins.