Simon Bookish - Trainwreck/Raincheck [Teeth Records album]

I can hardly ever remember my dreams. It’s kind of frustrating sometimes, but I’m resigned to the fact that that’s the way it’s meant to be, right? As a result of this, I am more than a little distrustful of Leo Chadburn and his alter ego Simon Bookish. For not only does he remember his dreams, but they also have a recurring motif (transport), and he remembers them so well that he has managed to re-create them in the form of ‘Trainwreck/Raincheck’, an album of avant-garde, mostly electronic, spoken word-littered soundscapes.

And when I say avant-garde, I mean avant-garde. I haven’t listened to such a dense and far-out album as this for a long time (not that I have really set out to). It is unsurprising that a classically trained composer, actor, performance artist, vocalist and remixer for hire and multi-instrumentalist, recently returned from touring with the National Theatre, who references Euripides and experimental French composer Erik Satie in his press release, has produced a challenging record, but any thoughts of a quirky Patrick Wolf-a-like are way off as far as ‘Trainwreck/Raincheck’ is concerned. It is, in fact, a barely quasi-pop experiment of startling content.

The artwork for the album, which sees Bookish dressed in futuristic pyjamas, high above a cartoon city dreaming of ships and aeroplanes is a successful depiction of how the album sounds, but is hugely more romantic than the clinical coldness of much of what is held inside. Beginning with future-experimental wobbly noises akin to the alarm system on the Starship Enterprise on ‘Theme (Mercator Projection)’ and moving swiftly into an electronic backing track that sounds like you have a crossed telephone line with a conversation between robot rats, it is an opinion polarizer from the outset. Many more will be put off the moment Bookish opens his mouth with the first stream-of-consciousness dream-tale of ‘Crab Lawn’. This sci-fi psycho-babble continues on the subsequent ‘Invasion’ and ‘Dwarf Documentary’ as his voice meanders through bizarre tales of the dreams he has had. It works adequately enough on the Philip K Dick-esque ‘Crab Lawn’, but the slightly fey, knowing tone of ‘Invasion’s “And so… It might have been Berlin I suppose” is rather off-putting.

The question with these spoken word compositions, is – eccentric experiment aside – whether the stories themselves are interesting, engaging or well written/delivered enough to make for appealing listening. The answer is probably a ‘no’. There are moments of wit, most notably when Bookish is explaining to Bush and Rumsfeld how ducks stand on one foot to avoid getting shit on both feet (‘A Deception (Municipal Mix)’) but rarely is there anything that begs for a repeat listen, a story to really enjoy. It is actually the ‘songs’ where Bookish moves away from the straightforward spoken word that are the most successful. The closing ‘Long Haul’ is sparse and calming, the drone-based ‘Arborescences’ is a triumph of bleakness (if something of an acquired taste…), while on ‘Interview’ he actually strings together something of a melody and his Bowie-esque intonations support what is closest to a traditional song structure. A record like this neither warrants nor benefits from comparisons, though. At a push you could see Bookish as a kind of future-Beefheart or a precocious English David Byrne, but these associations are as misleading as they are useful.

‘Trainwreck/Raincheck’ is a success in that as intended it sounds totally otherworldly and as close to the reality of dreams as one could get. Not in the usual way that fluffy, ethereal music is described as dreamlike, but instead in a coldly psychological portrayal of the confusion and stream-of-consciousness nonsense that dreams actually are. It is densely layered, unsettling and uncomfortable, occasionally warm and fuzzy, but always surprising and generally just plain strange. Like most dreams though, it is the negative moments that that stay in my head after the event – the deliberately read, forced monologues of ‘Invasion’ and ‘Dwarf Documentary’ in particular. As an avant-garde pop music experiment it’s intriguing and often brilliant, as a pleasurable listening experience, well… it isn’t really. Not for me anyway. I strongly recommend anyone remotely interested to give this record a listen and make up your own mind, though, because for as many that will undoubtedly hate it there will likely be the same number who think it’s a work of genius. The problem is, I have reached my final sentence and still have no idea how many stars it deserves. I shall sleep tonight dreaming of a fence to sit on…

***

First published on rockfeedback.com. See it here.

Kate Nash - Made Of Bricks [Polydor album]

We all know Kate Nash, even those of us who would rather not. Myspace, Lilly Allen, the fact that the release of this, her debut album, was brought forward by two months due to popular demand and all the rest. And of course we all know ‘Foundations’: with its ubiquity, its repetitive melody and its whiny estuary accent it has been the love/hate song of the summer. For those that care, the worst fears for ‘Made Of Bricks’ will be that it is an album built entirely on the ‘Foundations’ of a single that makes pun-avoidance nigh on impossible.

The main surprise on ‘Made Of Bricks’ is the amount of classical piano-playing there is (something clearly present on ‘Foundations’ but that managed to pass at least me by un-noticed under that overpowering vocal melody), making Nash sound more like a mockney Regina Spektor or Dresden Dolls parody than a Lilly Allen wannabe (see in particular the bouncy melodrama of ‘Skeleton Song’). The songs are rooted in the same quotidian teenage language as Allen or Jamie T, though, with several following the same ‘girl-at-boy’ rant pattern as ‘Foundations’. While probably perfect material for teenage girls (at times you wonder how close she is to having her own kids TV show a la S Club), it quickly becomes tired for anyone else. This is largely because she doesn’t have the lyrical depth or trickery of a Jamie T, with songs like ‘We Get On’ reading like direct out-takes from a diary hidden under her bed as opposed to the cutting social commentary of much of ‘Panic Prevention’. Also, clearly swearing is an integral part of modern society, but the oft-used argument that it shows a lack of vocabulary or creativity is an undoubtedly valid one. What then, Ms Nash, are we to think when the third track of your album opens thus: “Why you being a dickhead for? Stop being a dickhead / Why you being a dickhead for? You’re just fucking up situations / Why you being a dickhead for? Stop being a dickhead / Why you being a dickhead for? You’re just fucking up situations”.

Perhaps she deserves the benefit of the doubt with this, for the following ‘Birds’ is a genuinely poignant chav-ballad that touchingly explores the difficulties of inarticulacy. Beautifully constructed and drenched in slide guitar it is a fine moment and there are others on what is in reality a far from offensive album. The ‘loved and lost’ lyrics of ‘Merry Happy’, for example, are excellent in places: “Sitting in restaurants, thought we were so grown up / But I know now that we were not the people that we turned out to be… Can’t take back these hours but I won’t regret / cos you can grow flowers from where dirt used to be”. ‘Pumpkin Soup’s chorus is pure timeless pop with some great harmonies, ‘Skeleton Song’ is great in parts and next single ‘Mouthwash’ is a simple but effective assertion of the virtues of normality.

On the other hand, these positives are just about outweighed by negatives and in context the previously annoying ‘Foundations’ is actually one of the highlights. ‘Dickhead’ and ‘Shit Song’ are both poor, the latter being unfortunately named for this very reason. The entertaining ‘Mariella’ is let down by the awkward phrasing and the fact that at times Nash sounds like Catherine Tate’s foulmouthed ‘Nan’ character. And at its most pronounced, that estuary accent and its intonations can be grating at the very least, something exacerbated by Nash’s continual insistence on multiplying the number of syllables in any given word by about fifty.

Criticisms aside, Nash has a short-term career secured by the hype and undoubted initial success of this album. The long-term will be decided on her ability alone – hype can only last so long (or am I being naïve…). There certainly seems enough song-writing talent here that, given a bit of time, could come up with a genuinely good album, especially if she branched out more from the teenage girl ‘dear diary’ stuff. But one wonders whether by the time that happens things will have moved on too much for sustained success (probably why the record company rushed this release through). There are some decent moments, and despite some accusations to the contrary the girl can definitely sing, but ‘Made Of Bricks’ comes up short in too many places to be considered anything better than average.

**

First published on rockfeedback.com. See it here.

Video of the Month #1: Liars - Plaster Casts Of Everything [dir Patrick Daughters]

The all new Anywhere's Better Than Here feature - 'video of the month' - is inspired entirely by the fact that this video for Liars' new single is so damned incredible. It was directed by Patrick Daughters, who has previously worked with YYYs, Kings of Leon, Bright Eyes and The Shins to name but a few. For the record, the song is equally incredible.

Press play and turn it up...



ps it has some naughty (though hugely un-erotic) bits so be careful if at work...

Total Loss Farm - The Windmill, Brixton (26/27/28th July)

The problem with festivals is that there are often a veritable menagerie of distractions that can cause you to miss some of the bands you went there to see in the first place. For this correspondent Total Loss Farm was no different, despite the fact the entire weekend took place on one stage in one pub. Organised at the Windmill – the finest live venue south of the river no matter how many awards Brixton Academy wins – by the heady combination of the Sadder Days club night people and Trash Aesthetics label, the only festival-free weekend of the summer was celebrated in fine style with an impetuously eclectic line up...

The Friday is allegedly treated as a “warm-up” day for yours truly who is going to “save himself” for the Saturday night. Famous last words indeed. In any case, things start well as not two sips have been taken from my first pint when Julian Donkey-Boy kicks things off in appropriately lo-fi style. The first of a host of bands from Wakefield to appear over the weekend, JD-B could well be the result of a social experiment consisting of giving a geeky looking Northern kid with a doleful voice a load of Pavement albums and locking him in his bedroom with a guitar until he’s written a collection of quite lovely songs. Far from half-assed, this boy and his band will turn out to be one of the many highlights of the weekend. The Old House are also from this part of the world and are a bit like a band from Wakefield covering an American band covering Wakefield’s own The Cribs. And quite frankly they are effing great. I suspect some big things might be lurking round the corner for this lot.

By the time Napoleon III^rd has finished setting up his intriguing ‘future one man band’ ensemble, it is fair to say that I am regretting missing out on the free BBQ and the beer is starting to take its toll. In fact I get rather scared by the man. Switching between guitars and keyboard, Napoleon (I presume this is the accepted shortening?) sings weirdly grand psych-pop songs (that remind me of the Beta Band a bit, but I sense few may share my opinion) to a backing track that plays from a large reel-to-reel tape machine. However, when I manage to stop staring fixatedly at his on stage set-up – and latterly his beard – I decide that he does indeed have some fine songs.

This provides quite a segue into our esteemed hosts The Tailors who provide a rockier than usual take on their fantastic Wilco and Whiskeytown-inspired Americana. And here’s where the problems begin as I am already drunkenly stumbling down Brixton Hill as The Colonies are entertaining a full house of revellers with their harmonic guitar stylings. Sorry! For the record I am informed that I didn’t miss anything earth shattering…

Saturday begins, unsurprisingly, with a horrific hangover. Learning from my mistakes of the previous night I hit the BBQ first, and after struggling through a pint I am good to go again. Will Burns provides the delightfully simple but heartfelt first set of the evening. It’s as if he knew. His harmonica-filled, strummed alt-country ballads would be utterly charming any time of day, but tonight are like aurally administered Nurofen for my hangover. It is a good thing I get some before Sheffield’s Avida Dollars, who, due to transport mix-ups have to swap their headlining 11.30 set for a 7.30 one. The lack of a booze-fuelled capacity crowd to play to doesn’t seem to affect the intensity of performance from the 5 piece, though, with guitars flung across stage and singers on the floor before the end of the set. Their CBGBs-influenced ramshackle rock’n’roll show does, however, boast some quite wonderful tunes as well as the onstage antics.

Unfortunately more problems are on the horizon as I spend most of the next couple of hours trying to help the aforementioned Dollars work out how they are going to get themselves and their equipment to Heathrow to make their coach back up North on time, thus only catching sporadic parts of the Notorious Hi-Fi Killers and Joeyfat sets. The former, though, come across as the perfect party band, mixing Hendrix-style solos with stoner rock to get everyone into the Saturday night groove. The latter’s singer provided an even more intriguing stage show than even Napoleon IIIrd or Avida Dollars could manage, wearing kings crown, fox’s tail and glitter whilst walking back and forth through the crowd. The rest of the band play a take on post DC hardcore in the vein of Fugazi to a somewhat divided crowd.

I do manage to catch all of Radio LXMBRG and am easily won over, not least by their pride in their heritage. This comes not only in the form of the joyous Swedish pop-rock that they peddle, but also through the on stage banter: “We’re from Sweden, land of the Vikings… [three claps from crowd] You know you like that!” The Red Fishes are last minute replacements for the absent TAP Collective and, despite having sacrificed my place at the front hours earlier, they seem to fulfil the role more than adequately with their hypnotic psyche-pop from my position behind throngs of people and a large pillar. Making up for the missed live stuff I make the most of the after-band DJs from Rough Trade and Heavenly records and am last seen dancing to some 50s rock’n’roll in the early hours of the morning.

By Sunday those hardy souls in possession of weekend tickets are flagging, but thankfully a few others descend on the Windmill to soak up the last night of this excellent weekend. It is (thankfully for most) a predominantly quiet affair, just right for a Sunday evening. John George Cooper seems to be suffering as much as I was the previous day, but when he does shine he comes across as something like the son of Evan Dando. I am glad to find that his best track is included on my free Total Loss Farm compilation CD. Fireworks Night are one of the few bands this weekend that I have actually seen before and their brand of weird folk comes across perfectly in the hushed Windmill setting. As usual they put on a quite mesmerising show, including playing the requisite saw.

Rosie Taylor Project are a quite lovely band who count no one called Rosie Taylor among their number, but do have some whispered vocals that blend nicely with their woozy Americana. It is rare to hear – and enjoy – a band this quiet very often, but incredibly the following It Hugs Back manage to be almost as mellow. Either way both bands’ finger picked electric guitars – complemented by RTP’s trumpeter and IHB’s synth – fit perfectly with the Sunday comedown atmosphere. Even if some that have been present since Friday are almost lulled into a contented slumber.

Anyway, enough loveliness. Mi Mye are without doubt one of the highlights of the whole festival. Led by fiddle-playing, charmingly shy-cum-chatty Jamie Lockhart they are one of the most infectious live acts I’ve had the pleasure to see. Jamie regales the crowd with comically detailed tales of exactly what each song is about, and the band even manages to fit in a cover of a song by the Tailors to keep their hosts happy. New Zealand’s Lawrence Arabia round off what has been a rather magical weekend with some suitably genre-defying witty indie-rock, and I return to the Brixton night with a broad smile on a face. It is a face that has probably aged a good few years since Friday, but I now have a whole load of new favourite bands and a Total Loss Farm compilation CD to remind me exactly why. Til next year then…