ARTHUR BROWN: SPEAK NO TECH (1981)
1) King Of England; 2)
Conversations; 3) Strange Romance; 4) Not Fade Away; 5) The Morning Was Cold;
6) Speak No Tech; 7) Names Are Names; 8) Love Lady; 9) Big Guns Don't Lie; 10)
Take A Picture; 11*) You Don't Know; 12*) Old Friends My Colleague; 13*) Lost
My Soul In London; 14*) Joined Forever; 15*) Mandala; 16*) Desert Floor.
Very little information is available on this
and the next album: minimally distributed upon original release, out of print for
years, we are nearing the bottom end of Brown's «scale of recognizability» out
here. The original date does seem to be 1981,
and the only other thing I think I know is that the producer was Craig
Leon, for whom this must have been quite a curious stop in between working
with the Ramones and Blondie on their self-titled debuts and then working with
the likes of Joshua Bell since his late-1990s «conversion» to the world of
classical.
And there was quite a lot to produce: Speak No Tech, contrary to its
self-ironic title, is completely electronic — and we know that when Arthur
Brown goes all the way in any direction, the man may overdo it, but he
certainly does not underdo anything.
So here, there is a transparent attempt to show us all... or, at least, just
to check up on the idea that electronic music does rule the day. Not in the
Kraftwerk sense («robotic-flavored minimalism for elite audiences»), not in the
early period Depeche Mode sense («trivial, but catchy dance music for the
masses») — simply as an answer to the question: «What will music sound like
once live instruments and analog equipment are gone for good?»
Silly-sounding question, for sure, but not that silly when answered by somebody
like Arthur Brown — a guy who, no matter how obnoxious or pretentious he might
get at times, has always meant business. Speak
No Tech is not an example of «electronica» as such; rather, it is an experimental
art-rock album made with exclusively electronic means. With dramatically
recited theatrical pieces, lyrical ballads, «rockers», and only a few numbers
that bear a strong «New Wave» stamp, it manages to be surprisingly diverse and
inventive for a record that seems to have been born out of a simple «oh, I got
me a brand new Yamaha, I wonder what I can do with it now?» type of idea.
As with all of Brown's albums where
«experiment» takes precedence over «artistic expression», Speak No Tech is a little baffling, and is more likely to pique
one's curiosity than the soul. The best example is probably Arthur's daring
deconstruction of Buddy Holly's ʽNot Fade Awayʼ — what used to be a prime
example of Diddley-beat-based dance-pop has been transformed in a sea of
electronic waves, lapping against the aural shore with perfect clock
regularity. It's quite a puzzling piece of work, particularly so if you are
familiar with the original — or, at least, the Stones cover. But who knows,
maybe that is exactly the way that
the little green aliens who made their camp in the back of Arthur's mind dance
to Buddy Holly in their parallel universe.
Odd enough, some of the numbers are quite
catchy: the New Wave synth riff in ʽConversationsʼ, for instance, might owe its
existence to a period of heavy listening to Gary Numan, but is quite
self-contained nevertheless. The repetitive mantra «speak no tech, speak no
tech» in the title track is annoying and hypnotic at the same time; so is the
melancholic dirge melody of ʽNames Are Namesʼ and the amusing «romantic techno»
of ʽLove Ladyʼ. In fact, most of the songs here have something at least to draw our attention — and the something can
well be anything, including, for instance,
an artificially prolonged scream at the end of ʽBig Guns Don't Lieʼ.
If only there had been some clearer sense of
purpose to the album — its least comfortable aspect is that it seems to be so
totally committed to electronics just for commitment's sake. Usually, electronica
artists are «sonic painters», plunging us into sci-fi environments, or
«atmospheric prophets», using the coldness and detachedness of their
instruments to express cool subtle irony on the dehumanization of humanity, or
something like that. Speak No Tech,
however, is neither complex and multi-layered enough to create such an
environment, nor does it present any good reason as to why synthesizers are the only musical means on it. Okay, so if this
is the music of tomorrow, then why does the first song divert us with a
monolog on the fate of the ʽKing Of Englandʼ? What's up with the modernist
poetry recital on ʽThe Morning Was Coldʼ? Neither these nor most of the other
tracks seem to actively require an electronic coating.
Consequently, Speak No Tech still gets a thumbs up for curiosity's sake — it is certainly a
different album from most, and a
«different» album from Arthur Brown that stands out in his own catalog is
different indeed. But do not despair if you are not able to lay your hands on
it: it is anything but a «lost
masterpiece» — an attractive period curio, for sure, but reflecting much too
blurry a vision to fall in love with it, I'd say.
For the record: the (semi-official?) CD release
of the album adds a bunch of bonus tracks that seems to be randomly assembled
from various points in Arthur's career — including a very early, hiss-crackle-stuffed
white R'n'B number, ʽYou Don't Knowʼ, that he recorded in 1965 with his first band,
The Diamonds. Funny coincidence, I guess, but the heavily distorted electric organ
that drives the song, from a sheer sonic perspective, fits in brilliantly with
the electronics of Speak No Tech —
and beats most of it to hell.
No comments:
Post a Comment