Music
Tanya Donelly has a pretty impressive musical pedigree by anyone's standards. Her distinctive tones used to grace Throwing Muses, and then Belly, and now some very credible solo work; her last album, Lovesongs for Underdogs, was acclaimed by just about everyone who heard it, which was in no way enough people. Beautysleep is the follow-up, after a five year hiatus during which Tanya's taken some time off, given birth to a daughter, and clearly been through a bit of serious introspection. It's a slow record, an album for the moment of calm after the outburst, not at all like her solo debut; only one song, 'Wrap-Around Skirt', bears a noticeable resemblance to what came before. The rest is almost dreamlike in nature, save for a couple of tracks that veer off into less well-travelled territory.
The first sound you hear is the slow pulse of a heartbeat, on the frankly breathtaking opener 'Life is but a Dream'. It's soothing, serene; just what's needed to brush off the pain and move on, easing you into better times. And in a way it's kind of enticing; perhaps it's the allure of the future and the unknown triumphing over what you knew before. Tanya's got a beautiful voice, and she's taking every opportunity to show it off, but at no point does it come across as such. It's perfect and natural, at turns cooing serenely and murmuring seductively in your ear. Tracks like 'The Night You Saved My Life' and 'Keeping You' go well to illustrate this, and also reflect the album's overriding lyrical concern, that of finding love and of being completely satisfied with life (clearly inspired by Tanya's own). 'Moonbeam Monkey' is the only one to depart from this theme, and bizarrely this makes it the obvious standout track, sounding almost like the music from a very bizarre western. It features the sinister vocal talents of Mark Sandman, the now-deceased Morphine singer, shadowing Tanya's own voice like an evil twin. Amazing, but disturbing in the feelings that it evokes - which are all the more uncomfortable for being unidentifiable. From this unsettling mid-point, the album returns to reflection and meditation, floating gently back down to earth with 'The Wave' and fading away into the distance with the final bars of 'The Shadow', before returning with a short but sweet hymnal secret track to grace us with a choice few last words.
"I'm not finished yet, I'm under construction," sings Tanya on 'The Storm'. If that actually is the case, her next album really should be something to look forward to, since it's hard to imagine quite how she can possibly get much better than this.
Ever since Vinny Jones decided that being an embarrassingly sub-par actor was preferable to being an embarrassingly sub-par footballer, popular culture has been desperately trying to convince us that deep down we all want to be a bit of a "geezer". Unfortunately,
most of the population have fallen for the hype lock, stock and two smoking barrels, which means this single will probably be massive...God help us all.
If, like me, you are a firm believer that the words "garage" ("A building, either
private or public, intended for the stor-
age and shelter of motor vehicles while not in use") and "music" ("Sounds in melodic or harmonic combination, whether produced by voice or instruments") should not be placed consecutively in a sentence unless the words "is the spawn of Satan" follow closely, you need read no further. If not, let me just point out that this is not music; instead it falls somewhere between hideously bad comedy and Chinese water torture. And I refuse to give it a mark out of five; for even giving it zero would be an insult to any artist who has ever been given a rating of zero. By anyone. Anywhere. Ever.
If forced to describe this single in a phrase I could only suggest ambient trance-pop. This is club music but with an atmosphere and a soul. The three French electronicists accomplish the difficult task of adopting a slick clear production technique that avoids the harsh, cold sheen often felt in the house and trance genres. Strikingly, despite a traditional, repetitive dance structure and limited span of lyrics, 'Breathe' is genuinely emotive. This is partly due to Angela McCluskey's pure, relaxed and sexy vocals, placed intimately at the front of the production. While sounds and samples all carry a vague familiarity, with robotic Daft Punk-esque bleepings set next to welling Massive Attack-like synthesised strings, all are used artfully to create an inventive and fluid sound-scape. Markus Nicolai's remix far surpasses the more simplistic radio edit, with organ-like, flooding keyboard chords lending a more chilled, meditative aspect. Despite a tendency to become so tranquilly atmospheric it verges on background music, this is thoughtful and inventive dance music for the night before or the morning after.
And so, just in time for Valentine's day those cheery old codgers from Nottingham release another bout of broken hearts and disappointed dreams. This time keyboards play a far more prominent part throughout than might be expected, though the requisite thunderous guitars return for the chorus, and the vocals are, for the most part, from Chris Olley's resigned and pleading range. Only at the very end does he come close to reaching that level of genuine desperation which has made so much of their work compulsive listening. Indeed, it takes until the last minute or so for 'I.O.U. Y' to really grab you, as the throbbing bass and simple but incessant drums force themselves inside you, so that without really realising it your head is already nodding far more savagely than it probably should be. This is hardly Six By Seven at their most visceral; indeed, the keyboard lines at the end sound more like pan pipes than anything else, but they still manage to strike a chord; no longer so desperate and angry, more reconciled but disappointed. The perfect soundtrack to Valentine's Day.
I went to Sweden once. It was fairly boring. And in all fairness most of the things Sweden has inflicted on the rest of the world have been pretty unspectacular as well (with apologies to Sven-Goran Eriksson and Ulrika Jonsson). Couple this with the fact that The Strokes et al with their silly names (The Hives' lead singer is called Howlin' Pelle Almqvist) and retro chic are sooo 2001 darling, and my hopes weren't exactly high for this single from the Fagersta five-piece who claim to be everyone's "new favourite band". Ah well, I thought, at least the sleeve should give encouragement to would-be rock stars everywhere, proving conclusively that in this world of Britney, Boyzone and Pop Idol ugly people can still make it in the music industry.
Having said all that, this is actually quite pleasant in an unoriginal, let's all jump on the NME-fuelled bandwagon kinda way. The majority of the lyrics are charmingly indecipherable but musically it's tight, with riffs that pack a nice little punch. It's unlikely that The Hives will become your new favourite band on this evidence alone, but they are officially the most exciting thing Sweden has produced since Freddie Ljungberg's hair and as such they deserve my, and your, respect.
Let's get one thing straight from the start. Miss Black America have, in the shape of 'Gish' (spot the reference), a talented guitar player. A very talented guitar player, giving the title track a breathtakingly complex riff which could almost be taken from an epic Tool song if it weren't so adrenalinised. Followed by an eminently hummable chorus, this is impressive stuff. With the band combining the in-your-face punk attitude of early Manics (they too include literary quotations on the CD back cover and in the inlay), elements of experimental distortion à la Fugazi, and a generic hatred for the apathy of most modern music and a determination to change it, singer and lyricist Seymour Glass (very nearly a comedy Simpsons name) writes his lyrics with just as much vitriol: "More new, useless also-rans/single of the week! Big in Japan and Thailand!" Their direct confidence rubs off well on their songs, giving them a youthful vitality and conviction.
The third track is, however, something of a mistake. 'Scarface' aims to be some kind of darkly-lyrical acoustic ballad, but it lacks all of the panache and verve of the previous songs. Not that Miss Black America will care, of course, although perhaps their self-indulgence should wait until they're the punk rock stars the Manics dreamt of being. Thankfully, they're British too - well, they're from Cambridge, which is near enough. With a few Peel sessions and earlier singles under their belt they may well be on the verge of a breakthrough, and given that this is probably the best single on this page, good luck to 'em.
14th Feb 2002