Music
With the aid of some extensive publicity, courtesy of the Detroit bar brawl between Jack White and the Von Bondies' front man Jason Stollsteimer, here is their second LP, the follow up to the Jack White-produced Lack Of Communication. Famously unhappy with the sound of their first record, they enlisted ex-Talking Head Jerry Harrison, and so, as they are now signed to Sire, a subsidiary of Warner Brothers, you would expect Pawn Shoppe Heart to be a more mainstream outing. On the contrary, the production is hardly any different, and there is still the same mix of dirty blues and hard garage rock.
Their sound has evolved to some extent though. The opening 'No Regrets' pounds forward on a wave of feedback and stomping Glam drums, a common feature on the album, whilst 'C'mon C'mon' switches quickly between quiet spindly surf guitar to full-on rock with a killer tambourine during its just over two minutes. As on their debut there is a tendency throughout the album to bring out the surf guitar, especially on the longing and tortured 'Mairead', whose heavily reverbed tension brings the first half of the album to an unnerving close.
Pawn Shoppe Heart sounds more like a group effort than Lack Of Communication, which Jason admits was mostly his. Marcie Bolen and Carrie Smith contribute backing vocals to almost every song and so add frissons of sexual tension behind Jason's voice, and exhibit their own 'American rock girl sassiness' ((c) Kim Deal). Carrie even gets her own song to sing, 'Not That Social', which was reputedly written by Jason about Carrie's ex-boyfriend, Dolf De Datsun. It sounds a lot like Elastica, which can't be bad.
The drumming from Don Blum is excellent throughout and he has more of a chance to show off this time, his style comparable to the primal thumps of Meg White if she could actually play. His spectacular rolls and fills in songs such as 'Broken Man' and 'The Fever' illustrate his understated musicianship. The guitar solos throughout are fierce and angular, the bent discords in the final song, 'Pawn Shoppe Heart', reminiscent of a Detroit Syd Barrett.
I have read the Von Bondies being described as the dregs of Detroit, hanging on the coat tails (or guitar leads) of their famous friends. With Pawn Shoppe Heart these stylish garage waifs are back to prove their critics wrong. The songs, although not as wide ranging in style as on Lack Of Communication, are still as good, and this collection of soon-to-be garage anthems should propel them into the spotlight. Of course, with a little help from a certain punch-up.
"I got pills when I'm famous - I got pills when you're old - I got pills coz I'm blonde - I got pills coz you're dead", fumes Love in her first solo album attempt. Ironic, since she has just appeared in court charged with being under the influence of a controlled substance and possession of prescription painkillers. Courtney though has never shied away from controversy; she has made a career of it.
Controversy and headlines aside, the test of this album is whether it can stand up to the heavy praise laid upon Celebrity Skin and Live Through This. The album opens boldly with the punkish first single, 'Mono'. Love's rasping and guttural voice hooks your interest, as does the burly pulsating guitar riff. Grunge anthems 'All The Drugs' and 'I'll Do Anything' likewise meet the benchmark of previous accomplishments.
But the flaw in this album is its lack of distinction. Its finest track, 'Mono', still harps back to its superior predecessors 'Violet' and 'Celebrity Skin'. It is exactly what you would expect from Courtney Love. Songs such as 'Zeplin Song' are energetic yet blur into ground grunge has previously trodden. A fan of Hole will undoubtedly enjoy this album, yet it is easily forgettable in the vast waves of grunge that have come before it. Of course Courtney states she "...could always swim", but currently she's only treading water.
Big news this week: the Pixies to reform! Brilliant! They're, like, the best band ever! They practically invented all of music! Quiet and loud and quiet and loud and then Boom! a fat chap yelping about slicing up eyeballs. Genius. OK, OK, maybe not that good but despite being perhaps the ugliest band of all time, the Pixies are pretty kosher. They're pretty much responsible for a lot of the good stuff that came after them: Nirvana, for a start. I like them, because their songs are spectacularly deranged, and really quite angry, despite being about absolutely nothing. But this is no excuse for a bunch of geriatrics and their middle-aged spreads to get back together to boost their bank accounts, surely?
Whatever happened to integrity? Did it get subsumed in the rush to release a 'best of' and a DVD to tie in with the so-called triumphant return? I have my doubts that any good will come of this, as old people just don't write good songs (do they, Radiohead?). Will they just tour on their reputation, bashing out 'Monkey Gone To Heaven' to an always dwindling audience? There is also the risk that people like them for who they influenced, rather than the band themselves.
Just be wary, the Pixies, lest your uber-cool cachet be dashed upon the rocks of public indifference and corporate scroogery.
The Washington quartet's latest album Transatlanticism is a harmless collection of pleasant odes to love and the failure thereof, but whether Death Cab for Cutie's blend of cute melodies and sincere lyrics will translate to a live show, I am curious to discover.
My fears are well founded. The audience may approve, with an enthusiastic response and several declarations of love for lead singer Ben Gibbard (the male voices greeted by the front-man with the casual amusement of a man used to unconventional adoration), but ultimately the music is just too boring to sustain any long-term interest. The jangly guitar and cymbal-laden drumming becomes dull after just a few songs, with the majority adhering to the strict 'mournful low-key verse/ louder mournful noisy chorus' structure . While the performance is polished and confident, Gibbard's vocals are lost and mostly inaudible save their mournful tone, while bass player Nicholas Harmer spends much of the show with his back to the audience - an element that would alienate a less favourable crowd.
The success of the band's releases lie with the understated mellowness and heartfelt appeal of their songs, but the nice boy-next-door charm fails to sustain a live show. The crowd are ardent fans, mouthing lyrics both young emo-kids and middle-aged musos alike, but the pace rarely changes and while enthusiasm is evident, passion is not. The music is fine for wistful background noise, but an hour of watching the same sincere song sung in the same sincere tone over the same sincere chords is almost too dull to bear. This is a show only diehard fans will enjoy: for excitement and drive look elsewhere. AMcD
After three critically acclaimed albums yet only moderate popular success, you'd think The Webb Brothers would be starting to get a bit worried. Bear in mind that they have just undergone a rather unceremonious split with their label and their drummer has left mid-tour to "fulfil other obligations". Oh, and they're playing in front of about 50 people. In short, it's a sure-fire recipe for on-stage walk-offs, off-stage bust-ups and, indeed, all the inevitable hallmarks of a gig gone tits-up.
It seems however, that Justin, Christiaan and James had forgotten to read the script. Instead of a bitter musical implosion, the crowd were treated to an intimate portrayal of a band who couldn't care less about what was 'supposed to happen'. Powered by pure brotherly love, the trio treated their small but rapturous crowd to an hour of intoxicating 60's psychedelia and honey-sweet harmonies, fused together with a healthy dose of true rock'n'roll spirit. From the mournful trippiness of 'I've Been Waiting', to the stomping anthem of misbehaviour that is 'Heaven's Never Letting Me In', each song oozes genuine passion and strikes exactly the intended emotional chord. Their rapport with the crowd is excellent, Christiaan jokingly introducing the empty space situated behind the trio as 'the band's new drummer'. By the time they had embarked on a semi-acoustic rendition of their synth-laden dance crossover number 'Funny Ol' Kind Of Music', anything seemed possible.
On a night fraught with difficulties, the exuberance and talent of a band who will go on making great music whether Joe Public wants to listen to it or not shone through. With or without the trappings of fame, the Webb Brothers will always be the kind of band who will take you away on a fantastic musical journey for an hour or two and then gladly have a pint or five with you afterwards. If that's not what live music is all about, then I don't know what is.
JR
Two children, two servants, and two ghosts, all existing in one huge country house. In Benjamin Britten's The Turn of the Screw, the opera based on the Henry James novel, the inhabitants, mortal and spiritual, cannot live happily ever after. The ghosts of Peter Quint and Miss Jessel - one a seducer, the other the victim - attempt to claim the souls of the orphaned children Miles (Barney Hughes) and Flora (Kirsty Anderson).
At the outset Miles and Flora appear to be happy, healthy youngsters. They run, jump and play games, and trudge with reluctant schoolboy faces to their lessons with the Governess (Sara Jonsson), who looks suitably prim and proper - a Jane Eyre with an excellent soprano voice. But supernatural forces are stirring dangerously close by. During the Latin lesson, Miles sings a strange tune that the Governess knows she didn't teach him. In his rendition of 'Malo, Malo', Hughes steals the show, his angelic expression belying the ghost's increasing influence on him.
Miles may sing with the reverent enthusiasm of a King's College choirboy picked to sing 'Once in Royal David's City', but the evil puppet-master Quint (Philip Fine) has pulled the boy to his side. These dark forces manifest themselves in an eerie set in the University Church of Saint Mary the Virgin, where the pulpit, wrapped in muslin, serves as platform for the ghosts, whose disembodied voices fill the interior.
The plot thickens when Mrs Grose (Kath Cooper) reveals that the dead servant Miss Jessel (Charlotte Sayers) was betrayed by Quint. Britten explores the sexual overtones of both the ghosts' motivations: having lost her honour, Miss Jessel wishes to claim Flora as her own, to share in her humiliation.
Similarly, in the Latin benedicite that Miles sings in the schoolroom: 'O amnis, axis, caulis, collis, clunis, crinis, fascis, folks, bless ye the Lord' (which can be roughly translated as 'O arsehole, scrotum, penis, bless ye the Lord'), the homoerotic tendencies of Quint's 'friendship' with the boy are tantalisingly suggested.
But the living will not surrender. The Governess fights Quint. Throughout what appears to be the age-old struggle between good and evil, Britten poses unsettling questions. What constitutes corruption? Is Miles truly better off in the land of the living, where his unloving uncle leaves him with his sister in an old house? Artistic director Katy Littlewood has teamed up with musical director Samuel Hogarth to create a fascinating production of this mysterious opera.
12th Feb 2004