Music
Clinic have never really been too concerned about being fashionable. Continually coming in from the left-field of garage pop, being popular with the masses has never been one of the most obvious of their ambitions. But, in the words of Andrew WK, "we do what we like, and we like what we do", and so it seems they have carried on doing it.
This however is the main problem. There is little to distinguish Walking With Thee from their previous releases. Indeed, they do not seem to have developed their style in any particularly discernible way at all. The rhythm section continue to churn out head-nodding grooves, which can't help but be irritatingly catchy, and Ade Blackburn's vocals remain as difficult to decipher as ever before. Not of course that this is necessarily a bad thing - he could be singing about cheese for all I know, thus making track titles such as 'Pet Eunuch' and 'Mr Moonlight' all the more intriguing. Needless to say of course, in the case of the former it probably is for the best that we're not too sure of what's going on.
On the other hand though, there is a lot here to be very proud of, and were this a debut album lots of people would be getting very excited. The title track, and first single, is an organ-fuelled delight, pummelled into order by the driving drum beat, whilst 'Mr Moonlight' transports you to the most surreal chill-out bar you can imagine, complete with spaced out harmonica solo, and I'm absolutely convinced I heard some mention of "elephants coming out" in there somewhere. Oasis this is not. And then there are the occasional genuinely surprising moments. At first 'Mr Vulture' sounds like so much else on the album, but gradually it becomes apparent that Clinic have created an almost effortless claustrophobic nightmare; so much so that you didn't even notice it creeping up on you, the single keyboard notes ringing out and sounding genuinely chilling.
There is though something clearly not quite right when you are relieved that an album clocks in at only 38 minutes. In this case it is not that what is here is unlistenable - merely that there is not enough variation to hold people's attention for much longer. They have found the formula they like and are resolutely sticking to it; indeed this is probably the most faithful representation on record of what Clinic are actually about to date.
They have honed their sound and the production is considerably more assured than before; Clinic fans will love it, but I suspect that even they might think twice about shelling out for something they probably own all the constituent elements of already.
The New Acoustic Movement that was so loudly hailed last year was, frankly, a load of old monkeys - didn't anyone else have problems seeing David Gray as embodying the spirit of the so-called 'new punk', where quiet is louder and less is more? Punk my arse. Thankfully, while acoustic-led, this isn't wholly Mr. Gray-style nonsense. It doesn't boast the best of starts - "Mr Crow" is a pale, inoffensive little ditty, the soft vocal harmonies and acoustic basis bringing to mind the Beatles in their later phases, without ever really grabbing your attention. These insidious things always do seem inoffensive, that's the problem with them.
It's on the B-sides though that things start to get a little more interesting. Deceptively simple beginnings collapse into lazy, meandering detours through electronic soundscapes of gentle bleeps and thumps. Sometimes they deign to coalesce into relaxed beats, as on 'Something New', and this experimental attitude and willingness to monkey around with traditional song structures brings to mind the likes of the Beta Band. It is this chilled ambience that seems to fit them best - as in life, experimentation seems to be the way forward.
1998 was a bad year for music, the exuberance of Britpop was dying its last, to be replaced by bad, bad cheesy pop, and the near-Prog excesses of Stadium Indie. A wave of bands including Silver Sun, Symposium, 3 Colours Red, A and China Drum had found themselves on the brink of making it only to find that, well, 'it' had moved. A bunch of average albums, several amazing singles, one helluva cider-induced hangover and some of the best live shows I've ever been to later, and they've all moved on. Feeder and Idlewild worked at it and are finally reaping the rewards. Most imploded. And A? A went to America and toured like bastards. And now fashion has caught up with them - they have been mucking up the basic blue - print of poppy punk for 5 years, adding samples and electronic beats to the mix. 3 years ago they released 'Monkey Kong' and were derided for it. Now everybody wants a piece of it. 'Nothing' is their "comeback" single, a giant slab of a song, with a main riff that Faith No More would be proud of, hooks that the cheesiest pop band would be proud of, and, well, it makes you smile. I mean, what else do you want from a song? The best pop song of 2002, and now Radio 1 are playing it on daytime radio. How ace is that?
With 'World Of Our Own', it comes as a great surprise to hear that Westlife have jumped on the nu-metal bandwagon. The cover pic shows the Irish oiks on the rough streets of Sligo, clad in red boiler suits, sporting multi-coloured spiky hair and piercings and gurning at the camera in a variety of lewd poses, and if you look carefully, Ronan Keating can just be spotted in the background, giving mad props to Eminem, wearing a red baseball cap and cavorting with his bitches.
Musically there's a huge leap sideways, too. Bryan and Kian have taken up dual rapping vocals, trading off offensive jokes about their mothers at one another, occasionally yelling at each other to "Jump da fuck up!", whilst the others scream along in the background as the mighty synthesised guitar riffs slice holes through their reputation. Before you know it the hip-hop outro segues in, calming the storm and laying down some phat choons.
Actually, no. That's all bollocks. Critics of the band will take great pleasure in knowing that this single has come from the very same cess-filled barrel of shit as the rest of their back catalogue, but then so will the fans. Mind you, their B-side cover of 'Nazi Punks Fuck Off' is phenomenal.
I can't help feeling that Gorillaz are just an exceptionally cool manufactured band. The whole cartoon persona/hidden band/fake biographies thing just reeks of sensationalism. That said, I do own the album, so their unique mixture of phatness and quirkiness must work. It must work for everyone else too, judging by their critical and popular success: four million albums and six Brit nominations, thus far. So I come to this single with quite high expectations. The phatometer certainly registers highly from the first moments, as does the coolness factor - Damon's lethargic ramblings fit the sheer bass of the track to perfection, and the mournful harmonica is a great touch. Despite this, it's a short track and feels very uneventful, especially compared to the genius of 'Clint Eastwood'. The lads didn't seem to get out of bed for this one - part of their charm is undoubtedly the scruffy, indie, hungover patina of tracks like this, but on this particular occasion it just feels a bit lazy. Nice enough for what it is, but nothing remotely special.
Aw, boy meets girl. What a lovely little idea for a song. Sure, it's not exactly original, and some might say the same of The White Stripes' whole brand of scuzzy Detroit garage-rock. (By the way, if you think that phrase means Craig David, or maybe So Solid, with guitars? Forget it. Feck off. Yeah, you heard me, you in the Moschino at the back. God, the youth of today). It's one of those classic ideas, though, innit - y'know, love and that. You're led to wonder if the decision not to cash in on the indie Valentine's market was deliberate or merely an oversight - but forget it, just buy the thing. It's a fast, spiky, retro pop gem, created with all the lust for life you could hope for. Damn straight it bears repeating!
In the hard-fought battle to be the world's coolest retro indie band, in which The Strokes and The White Stripes have been joined this year by The Hives, it's important for fashion-conscious pop-pickers to remember one thing. As The Guardian pointed out last weekend, it's The White Stripes who've achieved the impossible. They've revolutionised this season's look. Yes, it's now cool to wear red and white together. 'Nuff said!
21st Feb 2002