Kill The Sound
Sunday, 5 June 2016
Thursday, 28 April 2016
Kerb your enthusiasm
Sound Advice #4:
Pavement – Slanted and Enchanted (1992)
When I was at university, I took a module focusing on the
work of writers who lived during the reign of the British Empire, such as
Rudyard Kipling. I remember very little about what we studied, but I do
remember thinking that the course name, ‘Ripping Yarns: Fictions of Empire,
1880-1924’, would have made a fantastic title for a Pavement album. They’d
already split up by then, of course.
1992: I’d already decided I was a Pavement fan before I’d
really heard any of their music. I’d caught five-second snippets of songs such
as ‘Trigger Cut’ and ‘Texas Never Whispers’ on the indie chart of the ITV Chart
Show back in 1992 (they hadn’t made a video for either track so those few
seconds were all the programme played), which I thought sounded great –
melodic, chaotic, laid back and yet also strangely focused.
In press interviews, they came across as quirky, without it
ever feeling forced. They had not one but two drummers, one of whom (Gary
Young) displayed a particularly individual brand of eccentricism, ranging from
performing handstands onstage or clucking like a chicken mid-show to handing
out mashed potato or strands of cold spaghetti to bemused punters as they came
through the doors.
Seriously, what was not to like? They sounded fun, they
sounded intriguing and, to their credit, they didn’t seem the slightest bit
interested in fitting into any particular scene.
I finally heard a Pavement song in full (this is
pre-YouTube, remember) when I bought ‘Slanted and Enchanted’ in early 1993,
roughly a year after its release. For a 13-year-old to spend around £13-£14 of
my pocket money (remember how expensive CDs were in the early 90s?) on an album
by a band of which I’d only heard a combined total of 10 seconds, this was
obviously a massive gamble, but definitely one that paid off.
I was blown away on first listen. For someone more
accustomed at the time to hearing polished, highly produced albums such as ‘Nevermind’,
‘Ten’ or ‘Automatic for the People’, it was something of a revelation to hear a
record so wilfully raw and rough around the edges, where distorted, buzzing
guitars came close to drowning out Stephen Malkmus’s gloriously wry vocals (I
always imagined he sang with one eyebrow raised) and the drums threatened to
break free from the song they were supposed to be holding together. Sometimes
capturing the true essence of a song is more important than capturing the most
technically proficient version.
The songs themselves were wonderful, of course (and still
are). ‘Summer Babe’, ‘Trigger Cut’ and (my personal favourite) ‘Perfume-V’ should
by rights be permanent staples of any definitive alternative playlist in the
same way seminal classics such as ‘Touch Me I’m Sick’ and ‘Freak Scene’ already
are.
The band’s love of English post-punk and indie is evident on
the Fall-esque ‘Two States’ and ‘Conduit For Sale!’, while tracks such as ‘In
The Mouth A Desert’, ‘Loretta’s Scars’, ‘Our Singer’ and even the
country-tinged ‘Zurich Is Stained’ bring to mind The Wedding Present (it’s easy
to image David Gedge singing all of them). ‘Chesley’s Little Wrists’ manages to
channel the spirit of Gang of Four over frenetic free jazz rhythms, while the
gorgeously world-weary ‘Here’ could loosely be described as the ‘ballad’ of the
album (it was later covered by Tindersticks).
The original album cover appropriated for 'Slanted and Enchanted' |
Also striking was the artwork. The band name and album title
were seemingly painted in correction fluid over the existing cover of a piano
music record from the 1960s, while the inside was a DIY collage of apparently random
photos (with the exception of shots of the three band members involved in the
recording) and pages torn from notebooks, alongside the largely nonsensical
lyrics to 10 of the album’s 14 songs, lovingly scrawled in what I assume to be
Malkmus’s handwriting.
This, coupled with the lo-fi nature of the music, reinforced
the notion that anyone could have a go at doing this: you didn’t need a studio
the size of the Starship Enterprise and you didn’t need to be friends with a graphic
designer – all you needed were ideas and enthusiasm, and Pavement evidently had
both in abundance. And anyway, isn’t the idea just as important as the realisation
when it comes to art?
Although I remain a huge fan, for me, Pavement never quite managed
to match the sheer experimental playfulness of ‘Slanted and Enchanted’
(although 1995’s ‘Wowee Zowee’ came pretty close). Follow up ‘Crooked Rain,
Crooked Rain’, while obviously great, always felt a little restrained compared
to its predecessor.
‘Slanted and Enchanted’ will be a quarter of a century old
next year, a prospect which is equally incredible and terrifying. Of all the
albums I’ve owned in that time, I’ve probably listened to this one more than
any other (twice in the last two days alone).
It’s really no exaggeration to say that the day I grow tired
of this record is the day I stop believing in the power of music.
Friday, 25 March 2016
Emmy the Bloody Fantastic
Emmy The Great – live
@ The O2 Institute, Birmingham, 19/03/16
It’s taken me the best part of a week to put finger to key
and write this review. You see, I went to see Emmy the Great as a punter and a
(new) fan, rather than with the express intention of writing about it. I’ve
always been of the opinion that it’s better to write because you have something
to say, because you feel compelled to, rather than simply for the sake of it (I
believe the same applies to making music), so did I need to write a review of a
gig I enjoyed just because I have a music blog?
Here we are, almost a week later, and I’m still thinking
about the show and how Emmy played to a fairly small audience (I’d guess between
80 and 100 people, tops) in a relatively tiny room at the very top of the venue
while another band I’d never heard of were playing a sell-out gig in the main
room downstairs to what looked like thousands of teenage girls, and how those 80
to 100 people watching Emmy the Great remained fixed to the spot for the
duration of her performance, hanging on to every word, every note, and how that
same audience was also a little reserved but in a quietly reverent and politely
starstruck kinda way – and NOW I feel the need to write about it.
As seems to be the case with many of the artists I’m
enjoying at the moment, I was a little late to the Emmy the Great party. I’d always
been aware of her name, but her music had never really been on my radar (no
particular reason, but better late than never, right?). Then, having read a few
glowing reviews of latest album ‘Second Love’, I decided to explore some of her
work via YouTube and immediately realised what I’d missed out on. Said album
was duly purchased and subjected to repeated listens until I found myself singing
the lyrics to songs such as ‘Hyperlink’ and ‘Phoenixes’ in my head at random
points in the day.
Anyway, on to the gig. Emmy was fantastic, of course, as
were her band: all four people on stage completely in sync with each other. She
writes hypnotic, mesmerising songs which feel like layers are being peeled away
as they progress, revealing greater depth and detail to the listener. Much of
tonight’s set (quite understandably) draws from ‘Second Love’, although even a
newcomer like me (who’s done his research, natch) recognises older songs such
as ‘Dinosaur Sex’ and ‘Paper Forest’ (the latter closing the encore).
Her between-song banter is delightfully surreal, ranging
from anecdotes about Lord Elgin (Google him), how weird it is that River
Phoenix never owned an iPhone (before ‘Phoenixes’, of course, and just after
she moves a pot plant decorating the stage to cover up the glowing Apple logo
on a laptop) and inviting the audience to join her on a mission to ‘repopulate’
Mars – she later asks: “You’re all still thinking about repopulating Mars,
right?” and when questioned on why she said ‘repopulate’ instead of ‘populate’,
replies cryptically: “I guess I know something you don’t.”
As part of her encore, she invites singer Grace Petrie (also
there as a punter) onstage to perform one of her own protest songs (the
brilliant, Billy Bragg-esque ‘Farewell to Welfare’) while Emmy perches on the
crowd barrier and watches: the ‘no crowd surfing’ signs on the walls may not
have been necessary on this occasion, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t an air
of unpredictability about tonight’s proceedings.
It certainly won’t be the biggest audience she’ll play to on
this tour, but as we all know, the best gigs are often also the most intimate.
The kids downstairs in the main room who queued round the block for hours can
keep their sell-out show because I know where I’d rather have been.
Next stop, Mars.
Wednesday, 24 February 2016
The Brit Awards 2016: from A to Zzzzzz
You know, I was tempted to simply repost last year’s
article, seeing as this year’s Brits line-up appears to be little more than a
regurgitated hybrid of the past few years. I haven’t done that, however – I still
respect you, even if the organisers of the Brits don’t.
Last year, I wrote what was effectively a chronological breakdown
(in every sense of the word) of 2015’s audio-visual atrocity. I could easily have done that again, but it’s
kinda self-defeating when you’re trying to criticise the rehashing of old
ideas, so instead I’ve lovingly compiled the highlights (in no sense of the
word whatsoever, in many cases) of this year’s ‘spectacular’ in the form of an
A to Z, for no particular reason.
And yes, some of them are pretty tenuous, but work with me
here…
A is for Adele,
who probably does the most interesting thing of the entire evening by dropping
an F-bomb approximately 85 minutes in after Major Tim Peake announces (from
space and everything!) that she’s won yet another fucking award for her godawful
caterwauling. That said, if you think she sounds bad on record, her speaking
voice is something else entirely – in an alternate universe, she’d be running
the caff in EastEnders or gaining meaningful employment as a human burglar
alarm.
B is for Bieber. The
first artist to simultaneously hold the number one, two and three spots in UK
chart history, apparently, which is odd as it all sounds like number two to me.
He rather predictably wins the International Male Award (which I’m sure had absolutely
nothing to do with the fact he was in attendance) and gives a speech lifted straight
from one of those bullshit pseudo-inspirational memes about life being a
journey and how we’re all on our own individual journeys. That’s true – after
hearing that, I went on my own individual journey to the bathroom to reacquaint
myself with my dinner.
C is for Coldplay,
who demonstrate the truly wretched state of mainstream British music by being
named Best British Group. They also open the show with a performance so
reserved that it may as well have a German beach towel slung across it. Chris
Martin plays his battered old piano whilst rocking back and forth like someone
who swats imaginary pigeons, the drummer looks like he was rudely awoken just
seconds beforehand and the other two decide to alternate between playing their
usual instruments and a set of additional drums, for no apparent reason. I
would wager this is what the producers think passes for an explosive, on-point
show opener these days and yet the end result is probably one of the most
underwhelming, by-numbers performances yet at any Brit Awards ceremony, as
Coldplay slip ever further into predictable self-parody. One question: do you
think the other three members of Coldplay actually know they’re in Coldplay?
D is for Dec and Ant,
also known as Ant and Dec. It’s their third (and thankfully final) year of
hosting and this means we have to endure a whole evening of two excitable
Geordie foreheads in designer suits harping on about “upping their game”. Not
sure what their game was, exactly, or how they think they’ve upped it, but tonight
they could have beamed in a hologram of any Ant and Dec hosting job from the
past decade and no one would have noticed the difference.
E is for ecstacy,
as in something which might make sitting in that audience even vaguely
enjoyable.
F is for fire – and lots
of it. That’s literally all I can remember about Justin Bieber’s
performance. While he’s undoubtedly as popular as ever (maybe even more so), he’s
really not doing anything that Justin Timberlake hasn’t already done a hell of
a lot better.
G is for Gary Oldman,
who comes on to accept the Icon Award for David Bowie. It’s clearly an
emotional occasion and no one can blame one of our nation’s finest actors for
wanting to pay tribute to one of our nation’s finest musical legends, but you
can’t help feeling everyone in that arena is wondering how long Oldman’s speech
is going to go on for…
H is for hairy,
which could be used to describe Jack Garratt, winner of this year’s Critics Choice
Award, who has a rather alarming hair and beard combo, giving him the appearance
of a graphic design student who works part-time in Urban Outfitters. He sits
there taking advice from last year’s winner, James Bay, who tells him to ‘keep
doing what you’re doing’, by which I assume he means keep folding those jeans and
hand in your coursework on time. On paper, he sounds like he should be an
interesting proposition (“brilliantly talented multi-instrumentalist”) but in
reality he sounds exactly as you’d expect someone who’s won both the Brits
Critics Choice and BBC Sound of 2016 accolades to sound: relentlessly
pedestrian.
I is for
International Female, deservedly won by Bjork who has the honour of being the only winner of the night not
to be present at the ceremony (I’m obviously not including Bowie here).
Instead, she sends an acceptance video in which she appears to be wearing melted
plastic over her face. Unlike Lady Gaga, Bjork’s kookiness never feels
contrived. Treasure her.
J is for James Bay.
This year’s George Ezra, I guess – he sounds like every over-ambitious busker
on every city centre street corner and you’d probably struggle to name more
than one song. The only real difference is that Bay looks a bit like Jack
White, if he’d been styled by River Island and the Amish. He wins British Male
Solo Artist and duly accepts his gong from Kylie before rotating on the spot,
apparently unsure which direction to face (a common problem tonight, thanks to
the circular stage in the centre of the arena). To his credit, he seems humble
enough, but there’s no escaping the fact that his win is exactly what’s wrong
with this year’s awards.
K is for K-hole,
as in you’d probably need to be stuck in one to enjoy much of tonight’s
ceremony.
L is for Lorde. The
rumours about who would be taking part in tonight’s Bowie tribute hadn’t been
promising – Noel Gallagher and Chris Martin (with whom Bowie had famously
refused to work) were among the names touted. In the end, it was Lorde who
stepped up to perform ‘Life On Mars’, accompanied by Bowie’s own backing band.
A beautiful, subtle and, above all, fitting tribute.
M is for Mark Ronson,
who still irritates the living shit out of me for reasons which have yet to
become entirely clear.
N is for Nick
Grimshaw, who comes on with Cheryl Whatever-Hernameis to present the award
for British Breakthrough Act. It goes to the appallingly named Catfish and the
Bottlemen (I’m sure there’s probably some ‘hilarious’ story behind it but
frankly I don’t give a shit) but all I can think about is the fact Grimmy’s
head appears to be at least four times the size of Cheryl’s. Feeling slightly
disturbed.
O is for One
Direction, who, despite technically not really existing at the moment,
manage to win the British Artist Video of the Year Award. Two boys in suits who
look like they’ve drawn crude beards on their faces in felt tip accept the
award. It’s good that they’ve given the work experience kids something to do.
P is for Pam Hogg,
who designed this year’s statue and thankfully succeeded in ensuring she didn’t
repeat Tracey Emin’s mistake of making 2015’s trophy look like an ornament in your
gran’s downstairs toilet.
Q is for: “Quick, Adele’s
about to swear, press the mute button... oh, never mind.”
R is for Rebekah
Brooks. Oh no, wait, sorry – it’s Jess Glynne. If I’m honest, she’s not
been on my radar at all and I’m pretty sure I’m not in her key demographic.
That aside, she has one of the least pleasant-sounding voices I’ve heard since
Sam Smith. Still, if the music career doesn’t work out in the long-term then
she could probably make a pretty reasonable living recording those warning
klaxons used when bin wagons are reversing.
S is for Simon Le Bon,
this year’s token Veteran Pop Star Who Looks Like He Doesn’t Really Know Why He’s
Here. Good of him to take time out of his undoubtedly hectic schedule to be
here tonight.
T is for Tame Impala,
who scoop the International Group Award. Pleasant surprises (or indeed ANY
surprises) at the Brits are few and far between, but this is definitely one of
them.
U is for
underwhelming, which is exactly what British music SHOULDN’T be, right? Maybe
the bigwigs at the Brits missed the memo?
V is for varying
degrees of mediocrity. Fifty shades of Bay, if you like.
W is for white,
as in: “Wow, the Brits seem overwhelmingly white tonight – I wonder why they
chose to overlook the many innovative black artists who made fantastic music over
the past year in favour of yet more homogenised River Island balladry from
skinny, long-haired, hat-wearing white boys with guitars or miserable, watered-down
blue-eyed soul from whining white women who’ve been ploughing the same stale
creative furrow for the best part of a decade?”
X is for xylophone jazz-wobble
tech-hop, a genre woefully under-represented at this year’s Brits, to the
point where there were no xylophone jazz-wobble tech-hop artists nominated at
all. I’m writing a very strongly worded letter to my MP as we speak.
Y is for years and
years. Not the awful pop three-piece of the same name, but the amount of time
I feel is passing with each excruciating second of Adele’s closing performance.
I note she’s playing it safe by not wearing a cape.
Wednesday, 10 February 2016
Going all the way to the top
Hip Hop Hump Days
#10:
LEVELZ – LVL 11 (2016)
Yeah, that’s right – 2016. I’m using a column that is (with
the exception of the Rough Trade compilation I reviewed last time) normally
reserved for revisiting classic hip hop albums released in years beginning with
‘19’ to write about a mixtape released JUST LAST MONTH.
Why? It’s simple really - I only heard ‘LVL 11’ for the
first time three days ago and I’m already convinced it’s a modern day
masterpiece, a future classic in the making. I’m trying to remember the last
time I heard a hip hop album as fresh, as inventive, as utterly compelling as
this… and I’m still scratching my head.
LEVELZ are a 14-strong collective of rappers, DJs and
producers from straight outta Manchester. I know very little else about them,
but that’s not important right now because what I DO know is that ‘LVL 11’ not
only DEMANDS your full and undivided attention, but manages to hold it through
each and every one of its 13 tracks AND leaves you wanting more.
Refreshingly, ‘LVL 11’ is entirely free of those lazy
‘skits’ many hip hops artists rely on to pad out albums. No fillers here –
we’re talking exceptional quality from start to finish, an exhilarating showcase
of smart, on-point lyrics, breath-taking vocal dexterity (with Mancunian
accents in full effect, of course) and crisp, clean production.
This is an album literally bursting at the seams with ideas,
which is to be expected when so many different people are bringing something to
the table – and yet it never sounds too busy or crowded. Musically, they cover
a phenomenal amount of ground, from filthy-but-fresh grime (‘Look Who It Is’,
‘LVL07’) to gloriously hypnotic G-funk (‘King Of The Disco’, ‘Bow Wow’, ‘Slow
Down’) through to exuberant dancehall rhythms (‘Rowdy Badd’ – one of the album’s
highlights for me) and even Bukem-esque liquid funk (album closer ‘Jazzface’). There’s
also razor-sharp social commentary in the form of the fantastically frank ‘Drug
Dealer’, while the punchy but humorous ‘Dickhead’ is probably one of the most unapologetically
British hip hop tracks you’ll hear this year.
I don’t know what they put in the water in Manchester, but
there isn’t a single duff track here – each song bristles with the same
boundless energy and enthusiasm: these guys aren’t just fantastically talented
at what they do, they actually sound like they’re having fun doing it too.
Astonishingly, for a group who’ve
just turned in one of the best albums of the year (and yes, I know it’s only
February), it seems LEVELZ are still unsigned. On the one hand, this is utterly
staggering because their music very clearly deserves to be heard as many people
as humanly possible and yet, for many, it’ll slip under the radar. On the other
hand, however, ‘LVL 11’ is an album of pure, undiluted, uncompromising music
which its creators have made on their own terms. Crucially, this means it’s
free of the curse of major label interference – no one’s looking at pie charts,
thinking about market demographics or trying to write a radio-hit-by-numbers. Fuck
that shit.
‘LVL 11’ is available to download
from the group’s Bandcamp page. You can pay as much or as little as you like. I
trust you’ll all do the right thing, because albums this good genuinely don’t
come along very often.
Wednesday, 3 February 2016
Back to the fusion
Sound Advice #3:
Cornershop – When I Was Born For The 7th Time (1997)
Let’s start at the beginning.
It’s a hot July afternoon in 1993 and my 13-year-old self
and a school chum have just walked through the gates of a free music festival
taking place in the grounds of a stately home in Nottingham. It’s my first
proper gig (I say ‘proper’ because my first gig was actually East 17 earlier that
same year, but I won’t tell if you won’t) and we’re looking forward to seeing a
‘Modern Life Is Rubbish’-era Blur later, even though they’re not deemed big
enough to headline (that honour goes to textbook crusties Back To The
Planet).
Walking past the stately home in question, we head down the
hill towards the deep, bass-heavy rumble emanating from the huge tent at the
bottom. I can’t yet make out the song being performed inside but as we get
closer I recognise the people on stage: Cornershop.
Just two EPs into their career at this point (the excellent
‘In The Days Of Ford Cortina’ and ‘Lock, Stock and Double-Barrel’), the band make
deliciously raw post-punk noise-pop reminiscent of The Jesus and Mary Chain. To
the side of the stage sits a sitar player, his delicately plucked notes piercing
through the dense wall of feedback and crashing drums, seemingly out of place
and yet also making perfect sense. It’s chaotic, it’s noisy… and obviously brilliant.
To a 13-year-old in a Nirvana T-shirt whose dad will be picking him up at the
end of the night, it’s nothing short of a revelation.
The kids down at the front in long-sleeved T-shirts are
going wild, naturally. Immediately in front of me, a middle-aged guy sporting a
trilby, leather jacket and rucksack leans casually on one of the tent poles,
arms folded, swinging his head from side to side in time to each alternate beat
as he surveys the swarming moshpit ahead of him – he’s been there, done that,
but he’s still having fun.
Looking back, though, one thing is clear: no one in that
tent, not even the band, would have predicted that five years later Cornershop
would be performing live on Top of the Pops, having scored a number one single.
From the very start, the band were unashamedly outspoken and direct in their
approach: the name ‘Cornershop’ referenced an all-too-familiar stereotype still
prevalent in Britain today, as did the fact they pressed their debut EP on ‘curry-coloured’
vinyl. Their first Melody Maker feature in late ’92 saw them burning a
Morrissey poster outside EMI’s offices (Moz’s label at the time) in disgust at
the singer’s disastrously ill-conceived flirtation with far-right imagery. They
were also notable for being the only all-male band to be embraced by the Riot
Grrrl movement. In short, they weren’t about to compromise their politics and principles
for anyone.
The original line-up burning the Morrissey poster in late 1992 |
Fast forward to 1997 – Cornershop now have two albums under
their belts in the shape of 1994’s ‘Hold On It Hurts’ and 1995’s ‘Woman’s Gotta
Have It’. Both great, but destined to remain cult classics – although the
latter did offer a tantalising glimpse of a more funk-tinged direction, as did
a handful of low-key 12” releases from side project Clinton, indicating that Cornershop
were starting to outgrow their earlier sound.
If ‘Woman’s Gotta Have It’ laid the foundations for a more
dance-orientated direction then ‘When I Was Born For The 7th Time’
represented the crystallisation of those ideas, achieving the simultaneous feat
of being both their most experimental and accessible work to date. It felt like
everything had now fallen into place: here was a band who had found their
niche.
‘Sleep On The Left Side’ still feels like a strong choice of
opening track, with its hip hop beats (one of several tracks co-produced by Dan
The Automator) and earworm melodies setting the scene for the next hour’s
musical journey. ‘Brimful Of Asha’ you already know, of course, but it’s
important to remember that this is the original, definitive version, with its
warm, reassuring, bluesy guitars building up to a truly gorgeous string-filled climax.
I always felt that the Norman Cook remix stripped away a lot of the original song’s
soul, but maybe that’s just me?
‘Butter The Soul’ is one of several (largely instrumental)
hip hop-influenced numbers peppered throughout the album, alongside ‘Chocolat’,
‘Coming Up’, ‘It’s Indian Tobacco My Friend’, ‘Candyman’ (featuring vocals from
Justin Warfield) and ‘State Troopers’, showing just how far the band’s music had
evolved in the two years since their previous album. It’s fair to say some of
these pieces wouldn’t have sounded out of place on a Mo’Wax compilation, which
is certainly no bad thing.
‘We’re In Yr Corner’ feels like a logical progression from ‘6am
Jullandar Shere’ from ‘Woman’s Gotta Have It’, with Tjinder Singh’s Punjabi
vocals sounding like a rallying cry soaring over a sitar-drenched accompaniment.
‘Good Shit' (renamed 'Good Ships' for its single release) and ‘Funky Days Are Back Again’ show Cornershop at their most funky,
demonstrating that it’s possible to write decent songs for listeners AND
dancers.
‘What Is Happening?’ is an experimental sound collage,
layering snatches of spoken word samples (creating a ‘channel-surfing’ effect),
scratching and space-age sounds over hypnotic, bubbling dhol rhythms
interspersed with affirmative handclaps. ‘When The Light Appears Boy’,
meanwhile, features Allen Ginsberg (who died just five months before the album’s
release) reading one of his poems while what appears to be a street carnival
takes place outside (you half expect Ginsberg to stop reading and stick his
head out of the window to tell them to keep it down).
Country and folk influences are also present and correct in
the form of ‘Good To Be On The Road Back Home Again’ (featuring Paula Frazer)
and a quirky and genuinely wonderful Punjabi language cover of ‘Norwegian Wood’,
which closes the album.
Next year will mark two decades since ‘When I Was Born For
The 7th Time’ was released – the same age that ‘Never Mind The
Bollocks’, ‘Low’ and ‘Trans-Europe Express’ were in 1997.
Nearly 20 years later, ‘When I Was Born For The 7th
Time’ is still a record worth talking about and, more importantly, listening
to.
Monday, 11 January 2016
The stars look very different today: a tribute to David Bowie
Like many people, I woke up to the news. In fact, I was literally woken up by the news. My radio
alarm clock crackled into life in time for the 7.30am bulletin. I was sure I’d
misheard them. I sat bolt upright, paused for a few seconds and then reached
for my phone. I’d received a text message 40 minutes earlier from a very dear
friend. It read simply: “Bowie is dead!”
I’d heard correctly, of course.
I immediately felt compelled to write something about David
Bowie, his music and why the world was now suddenly a much poorer place without
him in it, but of course I had to go to work (real life can be both a gift and
curse sometimes), so I’ve spent much of the day trying to work out exactly what
I wanted to say. Goodbye productivity.
Here goes…
How does one sum up someone like Bowie? To refer to him as a
singer and songwriter, or even a musician, is to do him a great disservice. He
was an artist in the truest and purest sense of the word. Sure, his career hasn’t
been without its questionable choices (Tin Machine and that duet with Jagger
are obvious examples) but, ultimately, he has never made music just for the
money (although he made plenty) or to appeal to the widest possible audience
(even though his music often did) – he did it because he genuinely felt a need
to express himself creatively, often captivating and confounding in equal
measure.
Never one to rest on his laurels, Bowie has been through
almost as many incarnations and personas as The Fall get through bassists. It’s
a well-worn cliché to say this, but you genuinely never knew what he was going
to do next – and even when he returned with a completely new musical direction,
it was still unmistakeably Bowie. Crucially, it never felt false or forced; it
just felt like Bowie being Bowie.
For me, what really made Bowie stand out was that he was truly
individual in everything he did – a genuine one-off. No one else has come close
to matching the innovativeness and sheer eclecticism of his rich canon of work.
Seriously, when was the last time you heard anyone described as ‘the next Bowie’?
Come to think of it, when did you EVER hear anyone described as that? It’s really
no exaggeration to say that we will never see his like again.
Unlike many of his contemporaries, Bowie refused to fall
into the comfort zone of becoming a ‘heritage act’, instead continuing to push
forward and make music on his own terms right until the very end, as clearly
evidenced on astounding final album ‘Blackstar’. Released just two days
before his untimely death, the album now takes on a whole new poignancy when
you realise that its creator recorded it knowing he was on borrowed time (producer
Tony Visconti described it as Bowie’s ‘parting gift’, which is both heart-breaking
and heart-warming at the same time).
While many in his situation might have been tempted to give
up, Bowie instead turned in his most creative and intriguing work to date,
blending space-jazz, frenetic broken beats, post-apocalyptic funk and even
techno-tinged rhythms. ‘Blackstar’ and its equally lauded predecessor ‘The Next
Day’ (his first album in a decade) revealed a reinvigorated Bowie clearly still
bursting at the seams with ideas – it seems so cruel and unfair for him to be
taken from us at a time when he was not only producing his finest work in
decades, but most likely still had so much more to offer, if he’d only had more
time on this earth.
Like Lemmy, Bowie was someone we probably all took for
granted – we assumed he would always be here and now we’re going to have to adjust
to a world without him.
Goodbye Spaceboy and thank you for the
music. Safe journey home.
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