Talking Heads: True Stories

TALKING HEADS: TRUE STORIES (1986)

1) Love For Sale; 2) Puzzlinʼ Evidence; 3) Hey Now; 4) Papa Legba; 5) Wild, Wild Life; 6) Radio Head; 7) Dream Operator; 8) People Like Us; 9) City Of Dreams.

General verdict: Not bad as far as ordinary pop-rock albums go, but way too unfocused and old-fashioned for us to understand why it had to have the name "Talking Heads" attached to it.

For all my immense respect towards David Byrne as a multi-faceted artist, and for all my undying admiration towards his body language in Stop Making Sense, I could never be bothered to follow all of his creative activities — here implying that I have not seen the movie True Stories, nor have I heard Sounds From True Stories, the actual soundtrack from the movie, split between Byrneʼs solo takes on some of the songs and incidental music from other artists. This does bring me closer to lots and lots of people, I believe, who only bought True Stories, the album — Talking Headsʼ bona fide sequel to the previous yearʼs Little Creatures — and experienced it without any contextual knowledge. And really, there is nothing about the sound of the album that suggests it should have been a soundtrack. It just sounds like a Talking Heads album — and not a very good Talking Heads album at that.

All right, admittedly, not a very bad Talking Heads album, either. Common consensus pegs True Stories as the absolute nadir of the bandʼs existence; but considering the fact that it came out in 1986, the counter-artistic nightmare year for so many different artists par excellence, it actually seems amazing to me that it does not suffer from too much overproduction, too many cheap synthesizer sounds, too seriously watered-down lyrics, or too many outside cooks (hacks) stirring the pot. If anything, where most of 1986ʼs failures suffered for sounding way too big, the chief flaw of True Stories is its being so frustratingly humble. Little Creatures began the process of transforming the band into a «normal» pop-rock outfit; True Stories finishes the job by making it sound like a simplistic pop-rock outfit.

Indeed, once the somewhat drunk-sounding one-two-three-four count-in has announced ʽLove For Saleʼ (whose very title, taken in the context of 1986, is easier associated with the likes of Bon Jovi than Billie Holiday), more than one listener will probably be taken aback by the flat, loud drum sound and the arena-rock style guitar riff: is this truly a Talking Heads song, or have we accidentally put on another experimental record by KISS? The lyrics seem to be Byrnish all right, but the music owes much more to conventional, old-school blues-rock than anything this band was ever about. The song is not devoid of meaning or catchiness, but the music is just a bit too dumb for the satire to catch on, and Byrneʼs vocals are not quite as effective in the context of this brawny, pub-rockish spirit.

In fact, if you concentrate on stuff like this opener or the albumʼs best known song, ʽWild Wild Lifeʼ, you might begin to wonder if Mr. Byrne has not taken a subtle and twisted liking to the popularity of the hedonistic hair metal scene — twisted, because neither of the songs count as open celebrations of the reckless lifestyle, but both deal with it one way or another. It is as if The Byrne City Dweller, having come to terms with the reality of modern family life, suddenly decided to be The Man, went out to town, got drunk at the local bar and began fraternizing with the local bikers, to the best of his abilities. In fur pyjamas. Itʼs weird all right, but it is not nearly as exciting (and certainly nowhere near as funny) as the description might make it sound.

Turn elsewhere and you will see that another new influence is ska — ʽPuzzling Evidenceʼ and ʽRadio Headʼ have exchanged the funky basslines of old for fast, furious, and monotonous head­bobbing, though I will be the first to admit that both tunes are fun to bob your head to, and the organ / guitar / backing vocals groove of ʽPuzzling Evidenceʼ is pumped out with all the energy and the discipline that we came to expect from the band. ʽRadio Headʼ is also quite sympathetic, though for a song that allegedly gave the name to one of the most depressingly existentialist bands of the late 20th century it is quite surprisingly cheerful and good-natured.

The worst thing about it all, really, is that all of these songs are... just okay. They do not feature any particularly horrendous lapses of taste, and they still prominently show Byrneʼs knack for pop hooks. They are simply not too interesting, and not too exciting compared to everything that the band did before. Had True Stories been recorded by any B-level pop-rock outfit in the 2000s or 2010s, the album might easily have been the highlight of their career. But since this is Talking Heads, all I can say when I listen to something like ʽPapa Legbaʼ is "these are the same guys that did ʽI Zimbraʼ and ʽSlippery Peopleʼ"? Compared to those musical exorcisms, ʽPapa Legbaʼ is a smooth, inoffensive piece of lightweight exotica, with almost elevator muzak-level guitar playing and a vocal performance that could be seen appropriate for the Fifties.

Speaking of the Fifties, though, I might have something there, what with the most sentimental and heartfelt song on the album, ʽPeople Like Usʼ, beginning with the line "in 1950 when I was born, papa couldnʼt afford to buy us much...". In fact, the bandʼs entire line of evolution ever since the triumph of Stop Making Sense had them oddly growing backwards — where in 1977 they were recording stuff that may have been at least four or five years ahead of its time, in 1986 they were making music that might have belonged in the early Seventies or late Sixties. Old hard rock riffs, simple ska patterns, countryfied slide guitars, even a prom night waltz-type serenade (ʽDream Operatorʼ) — and none of this would be too bad if there wasnʼt a certain aura of laziness around it all. Most of the songs just go on for too long, even if not a single one actually goes over six minutes. This is... unpleasant.

In the end, I think, we have no choice but to return to the reality of True Stories as a soundtrack: allegedly, at least some of the songs work better in the context of Byrneʼs movie, where their relative simplicity and old-fashioned nature should theoretically make a fun contrast with the absurdism and sarcasm of the plot and cinematography. But then we remain with the big question of why the hell Byrne had to force the entire band to release this set as a Talking Heads album rather than just stay contented with the movie soundtrack. Knowing David, this could have been an intentional move to piss off his annoying bandmates — or even an intentional move to give the bandʼs reputation a solid shot in the foot. But since the truth is usually boring, it is more likely that nobody just gave that much of a damn; and by 1986, the other band members, despite all their hard feelings for David, were so used to following his directions that they could not have come up with a better plan on their own anyway.

Paul McCartney: Wings Over America

PAUL McCARTNEY: WINGS OVER AMERICA (1976)

1) Venus And Mars / Rock Show / Jet; 2) Let Me Roll It; 3) Spirits Of Ancient Egypt; 4) Medicine Jar; 5) Maybe Iʼm Amazed; 6) Call Me Back Again; 7) Lady Madonna; 8) The Long And Winding Road; 9) Live And Let Die; 10) Picassoʼs Last Words (Drink To Me); 11) Richard Cory; 12) Bluebird; 13) Iʼve Just Seen A Face; 14) Blackbird; 15) Yesterday; 16) You Gave Me The Answer; 17) Magneto And Titanium Man; 18) Go Now; 19) My Love; 20) Listen To What The Man Said; 21) Let ʼEm In; 22) Time To Hide; 23) Silly Love Songs; 24) Beware My Love; 25) Letting Go; 26) Band On The Run; 27) Hi, Hi, Hi; 28) Soily.

General verdict: Paulʼs triple-live contribution to The Age Of Excess — loud, chaotic, clumsy, and technically expendable, but alive and fun rather than mechanically nostalgic.

The Wings Over The World tour of 1975–76 was not merely the public zenith of Wings as a band: somewhat arguably, it marked the very last moment in history when any one of the Beatles was still capable of «moving mountains», figuratively speaking. McCartney was making headlines, selling like hotcakes, attracting gigantic masses of live audiences, and basking in the warmth of rockstar extravagance. Sure enough, for the upcoming generation, soon to be feasting on the fresh flesh of punk and New Wave, Paul was approaching the status of living fossil — but not any more than, say, Led Zeppelin, who were still very much at the peak of their game.

The thing is, Paul was really digging the Seventies. He would never succeed in properly catching up, Bowie-style, with the new musical trends of the Eighties, and starting with Flowers In The Dirt, he would completely jump out of the time window. But the hard-rock, the glam-rock, the prog-rock period of 1970–75 — this, instinctively, was still his time, and Wings Over America is the perfect historical document to prove that. The band that was assembled for that tour may not have exactly been the tightest, most disciplined, or even most professional team to back him up on stage; but each and every member of Wings in 1976 — even Linda! — was a personality, rather than a willing and obeying servant of the one and only Sir Paul, and all these personalities were enjoying the dope-thick air of the mid-Seventies in a freedom-loving, reckless way that, some might say, could only have existed around 1976. (Cue Weenʼs ʽFreedom Of ʼ76ʼ here).

That was a hyperbole, but so is this entire album: a triple LP set — if ELP and Yes can do this, then why not an ex-Beatle? — focused on ensuring Wingsʼ dominance over the contemporary world of rock (or, at least, pop-rock) music, and ensure it did: to the best of my knowledge, this is the only triple live album to have ever topped the US charts. Once again, one last time, Paul McCartney was on top of the world, showing himself to the world exactly the way the world wanted to see him — rocking out, glitzy, long-haired, and playing tons of catchy anthems. And most importantly, while he did make a few nods to his past with the Beatles, for about 80% of the time he was busy presenting his new stuff, and the fans did not seem to mind. Never again would a McCartney live set feature less than at least 50% Beatle classics — and never again would the man ever agree to share the spotlight with any of his supporting band members.

This is not to say that Wings Over America is a great live album. For all his lively nature, Paul McCartney lives and breathes studio polish, and everything that he takes with him on stage inevitably suffers from the lack of that polish. The lack of atmospheric overdubs, the difficulties of singing and playing at the same time, the inability or unwillingness to reinterpret or expand the studio material — all of these problems, so typical of pop artists in general, are especially biting in the case of Paul McCartney, where you instinctively want everything to be perfect, get sorely disappointed when not everything is, then understand that there would be no need for a live album if everything were perfect, then try to find a way to embrace the imperfections... then you find out you cannot really do it, and never return to the album again.

Granted, as long as Paul has those Wings around him, the situation is not that dire. The biggest hero in this mess is Jimmy McCulloch, who has enough raw talent to make almost each single song on which he is active slightly different from the original, with subtly improvised moments that make the songs come alive. Listen to his solo on ʽMy Loveʼ, for instance, which he has faithfully learned from Henry McCullough, his predecessor, but subtly converted from a soft-rock to a hard-rock paradigm; or to his screechy flourishes on ʽLet Me Roll Itʼ, which make the song a little less repetitive and monotonous than it was on Band On The Run. His instrumental and vocal performance on ʽMedicine Jarʼ turn it into a serious highlight of the show, with Paul willingly reduced to the role of his trusty bass henchman for a bit.

Next to the young passion of Jimmy, Denny Laineʼs more mature professionalism is not as easily noticeable, but he, too, gets a couple interesting spotlights, including a heart-on-sleeve acoustic rendition of Paul Simonʼs ʽRichard Coryʼ ("oh I wish that I could be... JOHN DENVER!") — I am only sad that he had not yet written his own masterpiece in this fast acoustic folk subgenre, ʽDeliver Your Childrenʼ, which would have been an even more appropriate inclusion. And, some­what predictably, he gets to pour the contents of his broken heart out on ʽGo Nowʼ, probably the only song associated with his person in the pre-Wings days that anybody in the audience had a chance to remember — with Jimmy lending a helping hand, as the old torch waltz is transformed into a strong arena-rock anthem.

Speaking of the setlist in general, the album has an interesting structure and features some unique performances that favorably set it apart from the string of sonically superior, but interchangeable live records from McCartneyʼs later years. The first side of the first LP is fully contemporary: nothing but songs from Band On The Run and Venus And Mars, with Wings in full-scale rock mode — Paul pulls no punches when he blasts off with ʽRock Showʼ and then directly segues it into ʽJetʼ. After the first adrenaline-raising segment is over, he switches to piano and tests out a couple of Beatles classics (ʽLady Madonnaʼ, ʽThe Long And Winding Roadʼ). After this, the band gathers round a friendly campfire to have some acoustic fun, and eventually Beatle stuff resurfaces once again — but this is just Paul solo (with a little help from the horns), playing solitary renditions of ʽBlackbirdʼ and ʽYesterdayʼ to a thrilled audience that would probably be offended if it had to leave without hearing a single Beatles song.

Once ʽYesterdayʼ is over and the people have been placated, it is back to contemporary business: as we get to the third LP, the band begins to play selections from its most recent album, Wings At The Speed Of Sound, and you get unique takes on ʽSilly Love Songsʼ and ʽBeware My Loveʼ, songs that, to the best of my knowledge, McCartney has never played live since then — my guess being that the former taxes his bass playing skills to the max, and the latter does the same to his vocals. That live version of ʽSilly Love Songsʼ is well worth your money, though, because the bass might be even louder and tighter than in the studio — and, for that matter, Paul himself plays a lot of bass on this tour, unlike the later years when he would frequently switch over to rhythm guitar and generally present himself as The Great Ex-Beatle rather than a fabulous musician. Here, he hugs that Rickenbacker like there was no tomorrow (you can actually see all the hugging on the Rockshow video from the tour), and it becomes particularly evident that on all these Wings albums he was still treating the bass as a highly important melodic instrument rather than a support strut, which would be more typical of later albums.

It is also telling how the show ends — not with a predictable good-vibe audience hug with ʽLet It Beʼ and ʽHey Judeʼ, but with two heavy and slightly provocative power-pop-rockers: ʽHi Hi Hiʼ and ʽSoilyʼ, the latter surprisingly funky for Wings (a bit reminiscent of the Stonesʼ ʽHeart­breakerʼ from Goats Head Soup) and never issued in a studio version, perhaps for the better, since the song (similarly to the earlier ʽMessʼ) is essentially an excuse for some dark and sweaty band jamming. It might not be a great composition, but once again, it shows just how much effort Paul was putting in at the time to avoid his shows being perceived as nostalgic events.

Personally, I find myself watching the accompanying video (Rockshow, recently remastered and officially re-released by Eagle Rock) more often than I listen to the album — the glammy vibe of the mid-Seventies, with all the glitter flying around, is ridiculously fun, and even if Paul now admits himself that Wings were a "terrible band" when it came to hanging out on stage, the important thing is that they had some great stuff to play, and they had a lot of fun playing it. It is hardly surprising that the pop rocker Paul McCartney, the folk / art-rocker Denny Laine, the hard-rocker Jimmy McCulloch, and the photographer-cum-keyboardist Linda McCartney could never gel together on the level of The Who or Led Zeppelin — but the very weirdness of this combina­tion of a bunch of talented people brought together by fate adds a special flavor to this historical document, one that you will never taste again. 

Autechre: NTS Session 4

AUTECHRE: NTS SESSION 4 (2018)

1) frane casual; 2) mirrage; 3) column thirteen; 4) shimripl casual; 5) all end.

General verdict: Two hours of almost nothing seems like a pretty natural conclusion to eight hours of nearly something, but that does not prevent it from sucking on the gut level.

I suppose that even Autechre can get tired from a four-week residence at a radio station, because this is precisely what this final two-hour marathon sounds like — tired and out of breath. With but five tracks on it (and the fifth one quite a fraudulent one at that), the fourth volume offers nothing by way of new ideas, except serving as a dutiful wrap-up for all those who live on borrowed time and do not mind having it stretched like a nylon hose because they got nothing better to do anyway than to listen to a single sample looped for eternity.

So here is a quick runthrough. ʽFrane casualʼ is fourteen minutes spent staring at a conveyor belt that splurges out the same robotic part at regular intervals. ʽMirrageʼ is six minutes spent wading in the early morning through a sticky nebula of electronic fog that looks, smells, and feels exactly the same in any given direction. ʽColumn thirteenʼ is seventeen minutes spent stuck in an alien elevator, with the friendly repair technicians convinced, for some reason, that these seventeen minutes will be much better spent with the muzak remaining on rather than off. ʽShimripl casualʼ is twenty four minutes spent in a giant empty refrigerator, breathing in dry ice clouds and staring at all the complex sub-systems of blinking lights.

Finally, the magnum opus ʽall endʼ is one track which, I have to be honest, I finally did not have the patience to experience from top to bottom — or perhaps I did, but I might have fallen asleep near the beginning and woken up towards the end of its fifty-eight minute running length. Yes, that is right: the thing clocks in at 58:21, and you can get in, get out, get in again, get out again, get up, get down, get with it, and get under it at any single particular moment: most of the time it will just be an ocean of calm electronic noise, sometimes quieter, sometimes louder, sometimes with the waves hissing and foaming, sometimes with subtle undercurrents, but mostly about as consistent as any real ocean with a quiet, stable breeze blowing over it. Chill!

Now, actually, all of these things kind of make sense within the overall context of the NTS Sessions. Since the basic idea behind all of them is to have more or less the same fun that you do with Youtube videos when playing them at 0.25 speed, it makes all the more sense to give the fans a special two-hour long goodbye, just to make you properly savor and digest all the tiny microcell elements that constitute a goodbye. Therefore, as far as multi-part artistic gestures go, I have no problem with the album. But it goes without saying that getting it to properly «register» is equally hard on its own or as part of the entire 8-hour experience: where each of the previous sessions had at least occasional moments that could grab my attention, this one is background electronic muzak that makes a very good job at making you treat it as such. If there are actually people in this world that are not doing chores while the session is on, Jeff Lebowski promises to eat his heart out.

Concluding this entire sub-section, I must stress once again the surprise at all the glowing reviews of the NTS Sessions — not that there were many of them in the first place, since Autechre are long past the peak of their fame, but most of those that did come out spent their digital space gushing at the many wonders and thrills offered by the experience. Personally, I am just not convinced that a semi-improvised eight-hour session by an aging avantgarde electronic duo could be consistently wonderful and thrilling even theoretically — though the first volume, as I have already written, did offer a somewhat fresh and exciting take on the old formula. Perhaps it is all about the ambitiousness: people, sometimes unknowingly, are so hungry for monumental artistic feats these days that the mere introduction of a Gargantuan gesture like this one gets them all aroused. Or perhaps Autechre have simply mutated into that particular kind of dinosaur which only stimulate the aut bene, aut nihil principle when people write about them.

Regardless, I have to state that NTS Sessions are a partial success on the microlevel (there is still potential in the old formula) and a general failure on the macrolevel — not only is the eight hour length no longer an impressive feat of originality by itself (sure, the whole thing runs longer than The Disintegration Loops, but who really cares?), but I am afraid that the entire «less is more» principle has ambiently hummed its last ambient hum just as well. Other than a tiny bunch of niche fanatics, this kind of product is not likely to appeal to anybody, and what once used to be a feat of free thinking and artistic exploration has turned into a routine way of making a living. Maybe I am dead wrong, and maybe, as one particularly gushing reviewer wrote, "itʼs as if the preceding decades of work were acts of research leading to that point". But to my mind, thatʼs like saying the same about something like Tom Waitsʼ Bad As Me — a good record that shows tremendous professionalism and maturity, but does not tell us anything about Tom Waits and his badass attitudes that we have not already learned decades ago. And really, with Autechre it is even more confusing, because how exactly do you rate and assess an Autechre record if you do not use originality of approach as the single defining parameter? (The only way in which you could salvage something like Confield, with its obviously clear-cut departure from tradition that even the coarsest layman could observe). I have no answer here, and I doubt anybody has — certainly nobody, so far, who has ever written anything about them. 

My Bloody Valentine: MBV

MY BLOODY VALENTINE: M B V (2013)

1) She Found Now; 2) Only Tomorrow; 3) Who Sees You; 4) Is This And Yes; 5) If I Am; 6) New You; 7) In Another Way; 8) Nothing Is; 9) Wonder 2.

General verdict: A respectable and enjoyable attempt to reproduce and refresh the old formula, but comes nowhere near the magic charm of its predecessor.

Had My Bloody Valentineʼs third album been released hot on the heels of Loveless, it might have gone down in history as a solid follow-up, not breaking any particularly new ground but further consolidating and developing the bandʼs vision — a Magical Mystery Tour on the heels of their Sgt. Pepper, or a Day At The Races to match their Night At The Opera. Instead, Kevin Shields accidentally happened to drop through a wormhole, and emerged exactly twenty-two years later: an enigmatic disappearance that fascinated the critics for a brief while, but ultimately condemned the record to the status of a historical curio.

In between Loveless and MBV, the band had had ample time to tour, chill out, procrastinate, stall, stagnate, break up, reunite, tour some more, chill out some more, and find ways to cope with the mental problems of its leader — but almost none of that seems to rub off on the final product. In fact, I am not exactly sure if there is anything that rubs off on the final product. It clearly benefits from the advantages of 21st century production, but apart from that, it does not seem to owe any debts (at least, not major debts) to any of the contemporary musical genres or scenes. It just feels like a very natural, subtle evolution of MBVʼs sound that picks up exactly where Loveless left off and gently nudges the wheelbarrow just a tad further.

The tad in question is significant, though. On the whole, MBV is slightly less about hallucino­genic treatments of pop melody and more about the power of amplified, distorted drone. Cases where you get offered a sharply pronounced melodic riff, like ʽSoonʼ, are few, if any at all; in their place we usually witness violently strummed single chords, so that MBV ultimately is much closer to the ideal of «shoegazing» than its genre-transcending predecessor. This new — some might same lazier — approach, fortunately, does not apply to vocal melodies, most of which are still written in the finest traditions of melodic dream-pop and still faithfully feature Kevin on the outside and Bilinda on the inside, with the desired «androgynous» effect. Without the vocals, however, the music suffers: cue ʽNothing Isʼ, an odd instrumental that madly thrashes in place for three and a half minutes, like an enraged stallion galloping on the spot because the reins keep holding him back. For the first twenty seconds, it is cute; by the second minute, it has become annoying, by the third, unbearable. Perhaps they should have extended it by ten minutes, like ʽYou Made Me Realiseʼ — at least, that way it would be a statement and a psychological test. As it is, it is just three and a half minutes of wasted space.

What I do like about the record, though, is that it takes time to develop and gradually evolve. Loveless was essentially static: the formula was set in motion with the very first track and went on unhindered until the very end. MBV is less straightforward. The first couple of songs are very Loveless-like in style. ʽShe Found Nowʼ opens the album with expected layers of jangly and distorted guitars, smooth waves of feedback crackling atop your ceiling, and Kevinʼs vocals smoking out the window; ʽOnly Tomorrowʼ melds jangle and distortion in a single tone that goes along well with the accompanying romantic falsetto; ʽWho Sees Youʼ is like a hive of genetically engineered electric bees swarming around your head, with several additional hives gradually joining in at select intervals.

But none of these three songs are really on the same level with the best that Loveless had to offer; with all those guitars droning on rather than being dynamically melodic, you could suspect that this stuff might appeal to fans of stoner rock rather than people who, like myself, were won over by the ability of Loveless to combine overwhelming noise with lovely pop melody. And for me, therefore, MBV truly only begins to redeem itself by the time its fourth track comes along. ʽIs This And Yesʼ breaks with the formula by introducing keyboards into the mix — not modern-sounding keyboards by any means, but an old-fashioned organ sound filtered through some of Shieldsʼ filters, hypnotically wheezing through your ears on its own before it becomes completed with Bilindaʼs friendly ghost vocals. This is totally MBV in nature, but technically it is very different — one might even suggest a Beach House influence, except I am pretty sure that they would have been quite capable of coming up with this sound on their own.

From there on, subtle surprises come incessantly. ʽNew Youʼ is unexpectedly funky, bouncy, and sparsely arranged for MBV, except that whatever guitar and bass and vocal sounds there are, they still wobble and fluctuate like crazy — this is what Blondie may have sounded like if somebody came up with the idea of putting them on acid. ʽIn Another Wayʼ begins with a brief snippet of almost King Crimsonian guitar cacophony before settling into a much more familiar paradigm, yet even then the main melody is carried by an oddly bagpipe-like tone with strong Celtic over­tones (the band suddenly remembering their Irish roots?). And the closing ʽWonder 2ʼ takes a serious risk — it may be as close as they ever came to the edge of equating melody with total sonic chaos; although there is a definite rhythmic backbone and melodic structure, there is so much flanging and phasing that you may feel yourself being blown out of the little piggyʼs house by all the huffing and puffing. Not sure if I am a fan of that, but I appreciate the teasing.

That said, I will be cruel and state that MBV is not Loveless, because at times it tries too hard to be Loveless (and fails), and at other times it tries too hard not to be Loveless, and still fails. Some of these tracks are sonically very interesting, and some are quite lovely, but twenty years is a long time, and the magic cannot really be rekindled. There is a lot of atmosphere, for sure, but not nearly enough substance: I miss the strong melodic hooks that were such great fun to dig out from underneath the sonic rubble of Loveless — here, with cleaner production, the rubble is easier to remove, but the findings are comparatively disappointing. All of the stylistic experimentation and all the attempts to find new ways to apply the MBV formula are very welcome, yet I am afraid that lightning wonʼt really strike twice this time. 

Talking Heads: Little Creatures

TALKING HEADS: LITTLE CREATURES (1985)

1) And She Was; 2) Give Me Back My Name; 3) Creatures Of Love; 4) The Lady Donʼt Mind; 5) Perfect World; 6) Stay Up Late; 7) Walk It Down; 8) Television Man; 9) Road To Nowhere.

General verdict: Talking Heads in their "We donʼt want no syncopation" phase — perfectly acceptable for those wanting to taste a dish of pop hooks sautéed in David Byrneʼs artistic philosophy.

And here it comes — the infamous «sellout pop» album. Actually, it is funny that some people still vaguely remember Little Creatures as the point where Talking Heads «sold out», because the album charted lower than Speaking In Tongues (though it did sell more copies in the long run), and none of its singles were as successful as ʽBurning Down The Houseʼ. The entire sell-out idea seems to be mainly rooted in the bandʼs change of style: all of a sudden, the Heads began playing in a much more old-fashioned, conventional, 4/4-based manner, cutting down on all the funkiness and all the electropop and embracing a pop-rock sound that brought their sound much closer to, say, The Pretenders than to, say, Afrika Bambaataa.

It is highly unlikely, however, that this unpredictable change in style had anything to do with the bandʼs commercialism — if anything, this particular sound was drastically out of vogue in 1985, the year of ʽCareless Whisperʼ and ʽLike A Virginʼ. Far more probable is that David simply wanted to try something different for a change, and for a band as consistently innovative and rule-changing as Talking Heads, «radically different» could only mean «old-fashioned». Not nearly as old-fashioned as is sometimes suggested by people who drop the word ʽAmericanaʼ in their description of the album — a few touches of the steel guitar now and there should not mislead you into thinking that Talking Heads are transforming here into The Band or anything. But old-fashioned enough in the sense that the band dares to ask you the question — so can you still be into Talking Heads if we intentionally remove ourselves from the cutting edge?

Actually, the entire message of Little Creatures had already been previewed two years earlier: the album picks up from exactly the same spot where we were left with ʽThis Must Be The Placeʼ. That particular song had both introduced and perfected the tightly relaxed, smoothly rhythmic, joyfully catchy pop vibe that is all over this album — merely one more, and still quite significant, chapter in the life of that one quirky protagonist of the Talking Heads story whom we might call The Byrne City Dweller. As The BCD grows older, and as life eventually forces him to adapt to his uncomfortable and stressful environment, and as he finds more and more ways to cope with himself and everyday life, so does the music become less stressful and paranoid: surprising as it is, Little Creatures is a perfectly organic evolution of the bandʼs sound, and, most importantly, the songs here sound just as sincere as everything that came before. They even begin making more sense — fortunately, just enough for us to be able to understand what is going on, without diving into banalities and platitudes.

In a way, there are certain lyrical and attitude similarities between Little Creatures and the bandʼs debut — back in 1977, the music may have already been funky and energetic, but the baby BCD had only just come into life, and he was looking at this world with a mix of awkwardness, terror, amazement, and sympathy. As time went by, amazement and sympathy were generally taking a back seat to awkwardness and terror, culminating in Fear Of Music. But then something happened to the BCD — he may have started psychotherapy sessions, or gulping down Prozac, or settling down and trying to raise a family, or all of those things at once — and eventually he reclaimed some of that lost innocence, including the ability to perceive not just the grossness and danger, but also the charm and beauty of some of lifeʼs creations. "A woman made a man / A man he made a house / And when they lay together / Little creatures all come out". (If you need a more direct argument, then how about the na-na-naʼs of ʽThe Book I Readʼ making a surprise return as the ooh-ooh-oohʼs of ʽPerfect Worldʼ?).

If there is a problem with all that, it is mainly that we do not see too many signs of Talking Heads, the band, covering the flanks of The Byrne City Dweller. Most of the songs were written by David alone, and although the band members dutifully recorded it all, little about these particular arrangements says that they could not have been made without the participation of Jerry, Tina, or Chris. For sure, as soon as something like, say, the opening chords of ʽWalk It Downʼ makes a punchbag out of you, you can see how it is the same band that did both ʽPsycho Killerʼ and ʽMemories Canʼt Waitʼ — but, truth be told, even ʽWalk It Downʼ is not that dependent on the particular chemistry of this particular rhythm section any more. Nor can we hope to rely on the kindness of strangers: great musicians like Adrian Belew and Bernie Worrell have been replaced by Eric Weissberg, a banjo and steel guitar player who is mainly familiar to bluegrass fans (hence the entire «Americana» thing, even though he is only playing on two tracks and neither of them sounds too «American-ish»).

But mistreating your bandmates is one thing and coming up with bad music is quite another. As it happens, Little Creatures is fully consistent and cohesive — in fact, it could be such a natural and perfect conclusion to the story of The Byrne City Dweller that it almost feels as if the band would go on to outlive its proper age by three years. ʽCreatures Of Loveʼ is the new anthem of our protagonist, followed up by ʽStay Up Lateʼ — two songs that show an odd new interest in procreation and baby care (I first suspected that they might have something to do with Byrneʼs own family, but apparently his daughter was only born in 1989) — and both are charming little pop vignettes that make a lot of sense. Nobody but David can sing the line "we are creatures of love" in a way that suggests "hey you know what? Iʼve been thinking about it lately, and it just came to me that, like, you know, we are not just these strange, smelly, grotesque upright-walking flesh lumps... we, like, have this LOVE inside! Isnʼt that, like, the coolest thing ever? Okay, Iʼm off to write a song about this before I have another panic attack!"

To be sure, there are still occasional small panic attacks scattered throughout this record — most obviously, on ʽTelevision Manʼ, an almost epic-length saga of split personalities that may be the single best example of the «television terror» genre since Bowieʼs ʽTVC15ʼ. But with such a drastic reduction of funkiness and such strong elements of vocal melodicity in the chorus, the music becomes more Kinks than Talking Heads (I could totally see Ray Davies doing a cover of this song — heck, of most of the songs on this album). But when the album is over, it is not them that you will remember the best — more likely, it will be the mysteriously ecstatic hooks of ʽAnd She Wasʼ and ʽThe Lady Donʼt Mindʼ, featuring The Byrne City Dweller in lovestruck mode and his personal muse "drifting through the backyard", "rising up above the earth", "jumping out of the window", and "floating by whenever she wants to"... well, then again, there is really nothing surprising about The BCD developing a butterfly fetish.

If you think that there is an overabundance of romantic notes on the album, you are probably right, but it has been such a long time since Talking Heads wrote proper love songs in significant numbers that surely they would be entitled to indulging themselves — after all, such an important aspect should have never been left in the exclusive ownership of Tom Tom Club — and whatʼs wrong with that, Iʼd like to know, if the hooks are so insane? ʽAnd She Wasʼ is all about ringing guitars and soft bouncy bass rhythms, building up a sunny, dizzy, feather-light atmosphere of a sunny day. ʽThe Lady Donʼt Mindʼ is all about suspenseful string bends and mild jungle-style percussion, cooking up the feel of a slightly thrilling, but harmless mystery. Both songs were excellent choices for singles, even if neither of them charted too high — this musical style was completely out of touch with the trends of 1985.

It wouldnʼt really be Talking Heads, though, if they had not given the album the proverbially ambiguous finale — and so ʽRoad To Nowhereʼ is, on one hand, an anthemic celebratory conclu­sion to the whole experience, with a soul choir to amplify the message and a loud, triumphant galloping rhythm to carry you away into the sunset of the future; on the other hand, "weʼre on a road to nowhere, come on inside" does not exactly feel like the most positive message out there. Half call to action, half bitter satire, it still continues the new trend of ending the record on an emotionally optimistic note, but is more in line with ʽThe Big Countryʼ than ʽThis Must Be The Placeʼ. In other words, behind all the lightness and poppiness of Little Creatures we still see the same old fears and cynical judgements — all you have to do is bring along a slightly more power­ful magnifying glass this time.

I dare say that if you are only into Talking Heads for the musical innovations that they brought into this life, Little Creatures will be a deadly dull experience; not even the strong pop hooks in these songs will save their face for you. But for those who were interested not only in the evolution of the funky melodies as they gradually built up towards the ultimate marriage of the ancient and the modern on Remain In Light, but also in the evolution of David Byrneʼs artistic storytelling, Little Creatures may be just as fun a chapter in that story as any that preceded it. Even if you happen to disagree with his assessments of love and sex. (And I hope you disagree with his assessments of love and sex). 

George Harrison: Thirty-Three & 1/3

THIRTY-THREE & 1/3 (1976)

1) Woman Donʼt You Cry For Me; 2) Dear One; 3) Beautiful Girl; 4) This Song; 5) See Yourself; 6) Itʼs What You Value; 7) True Love; 8) Pure Smokey; 9) Crackerbox Palace; 10) Learning How To Love You.

General verdict: This is where George Harrison finally sells out to funky grooves, catchy choruses, and British humor — and I think Iʼm loving it.

Supposedly we have to thank Olivia Trinidad Arias, the secretary for Dark Horse Records and, as of 1976, not-quite-yet-Mrs-Olivia-Harrison-but-getting-there, for reigniting the spark of life in dear old George. Even though his health problems, financial issues, legal troubles, and critical reputation were all far from being restored by the end of 1976, Thirty Three & 1/3 (the title actually refers to his age-of-Christ rather than simply the LP-playing speed) is a much brighter and livelier record than both of its predecessors — in fact, it could be the brightest and liveliest record so far in Georgeʼs entire solo career. Where John Lennon preferred to mark his coming to terms with the world around him by retiring from the music industry altogether, George had no such radical leanings — yet he, too, seems to have taken a turn for calm and peaceful at about the same time as John. Family life — where would we be without it?

Curiously, the album succeeds in spite of the fact (or, perhaps, as is often the case, because of the fact) that it features relatively few new material. Many of these songs are actually outtakes from older sessions, some going back to ideas as old as 1967 (ʽSee Yourselfʼ), and one is a cover (albeit drastically reworked) of an old Cole Porter standard. Then again, this was hardly the first time that George found himself diving into the old archives; what is really important is that the old ideas are presented with lighter, poppier undertones — occasionally bordering on dance-pop, as bass player Willie Weeks is sometimes surreptitiously found sneaking in a disco bassline or two... and the master, so it seems, almost ends up encouraging him.

You can see the difference immediately on the opening number; an early acoustic take from the All Things Must Pass sessions shows how ʽWoman Donʼt You Cry For Meʼ began life as quite a stereotypical piece of acoustic country-blues. But the finished take opens with a tight rhythm section groove instead — so bloody tight, in fact, that the interplay between Alvin Taylorʼs drums, Weeksʼ bass, David Fosterʼs clavinet, and Georgeʼs slide lead has forever become ingrained in my head as one of the catchiest funk grooves ever recorded (in all honesty, my mind has placed it on just about the same shelf as Stevie Wonderʼs ʽSuperstitionʼ). On no record prior to this one has the George Harrison ensemble played so fast, so tight, and so groove-oriented — to the extent where lyrics cease to matter completely, and we simply see George Harrison delighting in making pure music with his backing band, with no preachiness and no capital-S Spirituality in sight. You can only imagine the deep sighs of relief that so many fans and critics alike must have heaved ten seconds after placing the needle on the turntable.

It might not be a coincidence that the song, which had started life in 1969, was finally chosen as the lead-in track in 1976 — it is easy to take the opening lines ("Iʼm gonna leave you here / Iʼm gonna leave you at the station") as one final goodbye to Patti, as George finally accepts that it did not work out and moves on in life. But even if you know nothing about Georgeʼs personal circumstances at the time, it does not take a genius to recognize, upon listening to Extra Texture and Thirty-Three back to back, that ʽWoman Donʼt You Cry For Meʼ announces a decisive reboot of the George Harrison franchise. The slow, dense, preachy, tragical ballad is not going anywhere, but it no longer has a complete monopoly on this manʼs creative process, and this is good to know — even if it might drop the reputation of the artist among the crowds of stone-faced, sacred-book-thumpinʼ fanatics who get appalled at the mere idea of a spiritual man like George Harrison going out and having fun. (Not sure if «crowds» is the right word, though, because I have no idea what the average Christian rock fan thinks of George Harrison and his suspiciously pan-religious worship of Krishna-Jesus).

Another song here where the musical groove is more important (or at least more in your face) than the message is ʽItʼs What You Valueʼ. The pretext for writing this song was apparently Georgeʼs gift of a Mercedes 450 SL to drummer Jim Keltner, and the message is about the highly relative values of material possessions, but the point is to simply let the band groove along to this cool mid-tempo stop-and-start RʼnʼB groove for five minutes — the last of which features no vocals whatsoever and just has Tom Scott maniacally blowing his sax over the rising-and-falling piano pattern of the groove. It ainʼt genius, but I can never resist tapping my foot to Alvin Taylorʼs swaggy drum beat on this one.

For the most part, however, the album is remembered through its two first singles, both of which were accompanied by promotional videos made with the assistance of Georgeʼs friends from Monty Python. ʽThis Songʼ is Georgeʼs final word on the ʽMy Sweet Lordʼ / ʽHeʼs So Fineʼ controversy: to his being found guilty of plagiarism the man responded with bitter humor, not only filming himself being dragged in handcuffs to the courtroom, but also coming up with a great set of lyrics set to a fast, flashy, ultra-catchy pop melody. What makes it such a winner is how effortlessly he combines misery and sarcasm in his vocal delivery, how aptly Tom Scott mimics it in his playful-and-desperate sax solo, and how the final lyrical twist ("this song could well be / a reason to see / that without you thereʼs no point to this song") suddenly makes you, the listener, such a vital part of the show. (Although, to tell you the truth, I am a little bit happy about The Chiffons, too, because without this ordeal I would never have known of their existence).

The second single was ʽCrackerbox Palaceʼ, another tune where you really do not need to know all the trivia (about how it was inspired by Georgeʼs meeting with the manager of the late comedian Lord Buckley and his visit to Lord Buckleyʼs residence) to take it as a general allegory on life and death, or even ignore the lyrics completely and just admire the fabulous slide riff that makes the song — the one that sounds like somebody running up the stairs that lead up to the ʽCrackerbox Palaceʼ in question and then taking an amazed look around. But if you do take in the lyrics, it is another striking realization that George is now writing philosophical songs that are almost danceable, and goad you with subtle irony rather than weigh you down with preachiness and heavy moralization.

There are still elements of preachiness on the album, of course: ʽSee Yourselfʼ goes heavy on Biblical clichés and sounds like a slightly sped-up outtake from the Extra Texture sessions (though in reality, as I already said, the song dates back to 1967), and ʽLearning How To Love Youʼ, originally written for Herb Alpert, teaches us exactly how to do that in the same old terms, while also sounding like the single most clearly Bacharach-inspired piece in Georgeʼs arsenal (which is why I could never remember how it goes, probably). But they are now elegantly out­balanced by the funny and / or the energetic parts, as well as pretty rhythmic love ballads (ʽBeautiful Girlʼ — another oldie, brought to new life by the Olivia romance; the fast-paced reinvention of Cole Porterʼs ʽTrue Loveʼ) and even a heartfelt soul tribute to Smokey Robinson (ʽPure Smokeyʼ).

All of this makes Thirty-Three & 1/3, despite its shortness (though, with severe indignation, I must complain that the album does run for 39 minutes instead of the expected 33 minutes and 20 seconds!), easily the single most diverse George Harrison album to date, and fully justifies calling it a «comeback»; temporary, perhaps, since George would not make another release with that level of consistency until at least Cloud 9 (and that one only works if you are as much of a Jeff Lynne fan as you are of Georgeʼs), but a deeply enjoyable one, showing us how it is possible to produce really good music in a period of spiritual convalescence, and that one does not always need to be in a state of deep crisis to free oneʼs artistic genius. Much too often, we forget that «the quiet Beatle» actually loved this life (in the oh-so material world) no less than most of us do; Thirty-Three & 1/3 does a good job of refreshing that bit of information in our memory. 

Autechre: NTS Session 3

AUTECHRE: NTS SESSION 3 (2018)

1) clustro casual; 2) splesh; 3) tt1pd; 4) acid mwan idle; 5) fLh; 6) glos ceramic; 7) g1 e1; 8) ninefly; 9) shimripl air; 10) icari.

General verdict: More of the same old: this oneʼs largely for all fans of digital balls clanging against each other.

With this third session, the downward slide continues: it has even less of a personal identity than the second one, and most of the tracks intuitively feel like unnecessary variations on ideas that have already been presented in better form. So, instead of trying to come up with generalisations that might sound pompous and mean jackshit, let me just make a few brief comments on the individual tracks here:

ʽclustro casualʼ — eleven minutes of busting particles in a small electrified container, with traces of bass rhythmics and synthesized ambience; the track outlives its coolness by the end of the second minute. ʽspleshʼ — nine minutes of Pong in a deep underground cavern; at least there are occasional new players with originally sounding balls joining the game from time to time, so the nine minutes are not a complete waste. ʽtt1pdʼ — twenty-two minutes of crackling electricity and humming wires, almost scary in a few places where the overdubbing gets out of hand, but it takes a LONG time to get to those places from anywhere. ʽacid mwan idleʼ — twelve minutes of a complex, but single, repetitive pulse that may be their idea of an automatically generated alien SOS; in any case, believing in that interpretation and getting in that game might be the only way you could actually enjoy all twelve minutes of it.

ʽfLhʼ: now this here is one track that I really like. It almost seems attached to a basic 4/4 tempo (though the groove is actually skewed), against which the electronic pulses engage in complex twisted patterns in a King Crimson-type manner. The tempo / melody combination seems fairly unusual for Autechre, and the slight subtle tone changes of the pulses from beginning to end are fun to trace. Lighter and less typical than everything else on here, although the trackʼs special qualities will inevitably get lost in this ocean of sound.

Moving on, ʽglos ceramicʼ is thirteen more minutes of humming electric wires, although midway through they change direction and the track becomes more industrial in nature, with jackhammer percussion a-plenty, and the humming largely replaced by clanging. The change is curious, but it only happens once, and I would rather go back to my Einstürzende Neubauten records than relisten to the second half again anyway. ʽg 1 e 1ʼ is another slightly unusual track that may or may not show some Fripp/Eno influence, beginning with a minimalist «piano» melody and then transitioning into an extended avantgarde «guitar solo» (or maybe «bagpipe solo», whichever analogy you find closest) — another relative standout that does not at least remind me of any of those guysʼ past glories.

The last three tracks, however, are a borefest. ʽnineFlyʼ is ten more minutes of Pong, only this time with the actual sound of the ball hitting the wall taken out and only the echoes of its trajec­tories audible to us victims. ʽshimripl airʼ is sevn minutes of symbolic ambience — symbolic, because the sound is barely audible; it is like a musical picture of a silent stream of air that actually tries to portray it realistically — not the most interesting audio experience, believe me. Finally, ʽicariʼ is... guess what, twenty more minutes of Pong, albeit with slightly more complex trajectories than before.

As you can see, occasional fresh ideas are still popping through on occasion (ʽfLhʼ and ʽg1 e1ʼ in particular, though I have seen several fans dismiss ʽg1 e1ʼ as something too «un-Autechre», which is probably why I singled out and liked the track), but mostly it just continues to seem that the inspiration / innovation / careful pre-planning were largely spent on the first two hours, and now the boys are largely back on autopilot.

My Bloody Valentine: EP's 1988-1991

MY BLOODY VALENTINE: EPʼs 1988-1991 (2012)

CD I: 1) You Made Me Realise; 2) Slow; 3) Thorn; 4) Cigarette In Your Bed; 5) Drive It All Over Me; 6) Feed Me With Your Kiss; 7) I Believe; 8) Emptiness Inside; 9) I Need No Trust; 10) Soon; 11) Glider; 12) Donʼt Ask Me Why; 13) Off Your Face.

CD II: 1) To Here Knows When; 2) Swallow; 3) Honey Power; 4) Moon Song; 5) Instrumental #2; 6) Instrumental #1; 7) Glider (full length); 8) Sugar; 9) Angel; 10) Good For You; 11) How Do You Do It.

General verdict: An essential collection for the bandʼs fans, an interesting educational piece for those casual admirers who wonder if there is any life beyond Loveless.

Since MBV only managed to put out two full length albums in their prime, it is reasonable to pay attention to their shorter products as well — in a way, one could argue that singles and EPs were a more natural, or, at least, a less painful, manner of expression for Kevin Shieldsʼ vision. Since allocating a single review to each EP would be a serious overkill (especially since the title songs off their EPs often made it onto LPs anyway), this particular compilation, released in 2012, comes very much in handy: it collects every EP that the band released from the year of Isnʼt Anything and right to the year of Loveless, plus a handful of rare and unreleased tracks to justify the presence of two CDs.

Other than one particular song (to which we will get a bit later), the discs offer little by way of revelation, but for those in sore need of an additional MBV fix this is all essential and auspicious listening. It could be said that the four EPs collected here represent two different and distinct epochs in the evolution of MBVʼs sound, with each pair further subdivided into two less different, but still subtly varying «sub-epochs»; and although I cannot call myself a true fan of the band in their pre-Loveless period, their gradual, natural, and inspiring evolution is fascinating to behold from its humble foundations right to the glorious peak.

On the first EP, You Made Me Realise, they are still very much a noise-rock indie band with lo-fi production values. The title track became famous in the underground world because of its «holocaust section» (the final distorted chord that would be put on forever loop and played as an incessant rumble for up to ten minutes), but the short studio version is just a fast-paced psycho-grunge rocker with psychedelic falsetto vocal harmonies — nothing particularly great, and nothing Sonic Youth could not have played in their sleep. The other four songs tend to be slower, with more pronounced acoustic guitar parts (ʽThornʼ) and soothing somno-folk female vocals (ʽCigarette In Your Bedʼ), but poor production values, unfortunately, bring down the melodic potential of even such prettily crafted tunes as ʽDrive It All Over Meʼ; at this point they are not yet anywhere near the level of Lovelessʼ sonic brilliancy, but neither are they capable of bringing out the full beauty of their guitars and vocals without the psychedelic effects.

Feed Me With Your Kiss, kicking off with the title track that would also make it onto Isnʼt Anything, is already a major improvement in terms of production, though not truly in terms of creativity. The brutal stabbing melody of ʽFeed Me With Your Kissʼ, come to think of it, is almost like a variation on ʽYou Made Me Realiseʼ (think an ʽAll Day And All Of The Nightʼ to a ʽYou Really Got Meʼ), but it sounds cleaner, with a much better drum sound, much thicker and weightier guitars, and a general impression that it might have been produced in a cavern rather than a toilet. That said, the other three songs are nothing to write home about: ʽI Need No Trustʼ, in particular, goes for a gently lulling effect with its blubberingly arpeggiated waltz tempo, but ends up sounding like something in between a completely stoned Syd Barrett and a completely spaced out Jeff Mangum, only messier and hissier than either of these gentlemen. I really do not think that My Bloody Valentine were cut out for this kind of «stoner folk».

Skip forward about a year and a half, though, and you get what is arguably the single most impor­tant moment in MBV history: the Soon EP, introducing the world to its first taste of the sound of Loveless. You already know everything there is to know about ʽSoonʼ, the song, but just as important and even more mind-blowing is ʽGliderʼ, a fully instrumental demonstration of Kevinʼs new guitar-playing technique — three minutes of what sounds like a herd of genetically modified elephants engaged in the wildest orgy on Earth. And if you think three minutes of this is way too much on the ears, how about ten minutes — on the full length version of the tune, appended as one of the bonus tracks on the second CD? In all honesty, I never listened to that one to the very end (fortunately, neither did any of the prisoners at Guantanamo, because CIA people can never really come up with anything more creative than good old black metal). But a couple minutes of that sound, perhaps the purest essence of the MBV sound ever distilled, is indispensable listening to anyone still not convinced that people in the Nineties could still make the kind of sonic innovations that could leave your jaw on the floor.

The best comes last: Tremolo, the last of the four EPʼs, was released with the band already in full Loveless mode. ʽTo Here Knows Whenʼ was the lead-in track, later to be included on Loveless itself; it is great, but almost just as great is ʽSwallowʼ, a «valentinization» of a sampled Turkish belly dancing track (Eastern psychedelia!). And ʽHoney Powerʼ and ʽMoon Songʼ are two other strong compositions of Loveless quality — the former now using that «elephant orgy» sound in support of a catchy and lovely vocal melody, and the latter returning us to the stoner-folk territory of ʽI Need No Trustʼ, but now with vastly improved production, as the steady, distorted waves of electric guitar conjure so much more majesty than three years before.

The bonus tracks are not ecstatic; but three previously unreleased songs are solid, if not particu­larly memorable, indie rock (I am not sure of the exact time of recording, but they clearly predate the Loveless era), and ʽInstrumental #2ʼ is a rare case of the band experimenting with minimalist drumʼnʼbass rhythms and echoey vocal overdubs, creating a bit of «ambient-dance» music; appa­rently, the trend did not catch on, but it is interesting to see them try out something that does not involve a shitload of acid guitar sound — just as it is, above and beyond everything else, interesting to witness the band evolve and reach their peak in slightly over an hourʼs time. All in all, the collection will hardly convert you if you are not already a fan, but if you are a fan, not owning it is like not owning the Beatlesʼ Past Masters.

David Byrne: The Knee Plays

DAVID BYRNE: THE KNEE PLAYS (1985)

1) Tree (Today Is An Important Occasion); 2) In The Upper Room; 3) The Sound Of Business; 4) Social Studies; 5) (The Gift Of Sound) Where The Sun Never Goes Down; 6) Theadora Is Dozing; 7) Admiral Perry; 8) I Bid You Goodnight; 9) Things To Do (I've Tried); 10) Winter; 11) Jungle Book; 12) In The Future; 13*) Tree (reprise); 14*) (I've Tried) Things To Do; 15*) Tic Toc 2 (In The Future); 16*) Whisper; 17*) Misterias; 18*) Faust Dance; 19*) Ghost; 20*) Super Natural.

General verdict: If a brief history of American popular music in the form of sax-trumpet-trombone trios is your thing, this is a great album. If it is not, it is still a David Byrne album.

This was a very interesting (sub-)project which, unfortunately, does not make for truly great entertainment — but is well worth hearing at least once. Still not ready for a proper solo album, David spent part of 1984 working for director Robert Wilson, providing a series of musical interludes for his gargantuan opera, the CIVIL warS (hope I got all the caps right). In doing so, he had to live up to the potential of such avantgarde giants as Philip Glass and Gavin Bryars, which may be the reason why Wilsonʼs original design was for Byrneʼs pieces to serve as links («knee plays») between the major themes. Ultimately, however, since the opera was never performed in its entirety (or even fully completed, for that matter), The Knee Plays premiered on its own, as a stand-alone piece, in April 1984, and was released as an LP the following year (titled Music For The Knee Plays and featuring a slightly abbreviated set; in 2007, Byrne finally released the whole thing on CD, adding eight more bonus cuts and simply calling it The Knee Plays).

Although the opera was supposed to have something to do with the American Civil War, there is nary a hint of the Civil War in the music — or, for that matter, in the dancing program that it was supposed to accompany, largely influenced by traditional Japanese theater and featuring nine dancers in white doctorʼs smocks. That said, the music is definitely American in nature, with New Orleanian brass bands taken as the major influence, and the melodies covering jazz, blues, marching band, and even doo-wop territory. Clearly the most unusual feature is that, percussion aside, all the music is being provided by brass instruments alone — no fewer than sixteen musicians are credited for saxophone, trumpet, and trombone parts (fortunately, not all of them are playing at once), while Byrne either keeps silent or recites, rather than sings, his lyrics against the melodies. Yes, the effect is precisely as schizophrenic as it sounds.

In all honesty, I suspect that Byrne intentionally took up this challenge so that he could make the least Talking Heads-like album imaginable — though, in order to succeed even better, he should have invited Bob Dylan to perform lead vocals (which is actually not a crazy idea at all), and he should have included more tracks like ʽThings To Do (Iʼve Tried)ʼ, apparently a traditional spiritual number rearranged for Byrneʼs brass band, meaning that most of the other music is still too broken-up and jerky in the finest of Talking Headsʼ traditions. That said, it is still a perfect cold shower after the Marathon experience of Stop Making Sense — and, dare I say it, not the most enjoyable, or even the most understandable, cold shower in the world.

Arguably the most, if not the only, properly memorable track on the album is the final entry on the original LP — ʽIn The Futureʼ. Like most of the vocal numbers, its musical structure is elementary (two or three very simple brass phrases from the jazz-pop idiom overlapping each other), and the emphasis is on Byrne as he lays down one forecast after another — "in the future everyone will have the same haircut and the same clothes", "in the future everyone will be very thin from not having enough to eat", "in the future it will be next to impossible to tell girls from boys, even in bed"... The hilarious thing about this dead-pan delivery, of course, is that he seems to be collating together all possible prognoses — optimist, pessimist, idealistic, cynical, techno­phile, apocalyptic — which is a natural thing for his stage character, suffering from personality disorders, splits, paranoia, and paralyzing indecision... wait, no, this is not the most hilarious thing. The most hilarious thing is that so far, out of all these forecasts, only one — the very last one to be spoken — has come true: "In the future there will be so much going on that no one will be able to keep track of it".

Other than that particularly striking performance, The Knee Plays is really all about the strange atmosphere. ʽTree (Today Is An Important Occasion)ʼ introduces the proceedings with a three-note melody that is part royal fanfare, part New Orleanian funeral ceremony, and everything that follows sounds like a band of little tin soldier men with brass instruments, all pulled by Byrneʼs subtle invisible strings. They are not playing anything particularly challenging: the melodies are really quite traditional, sometimes going as far as to delve into Bulgarian folklore (ʽTheadora Is Dozingʼ) or Les Baxter-ish exotica (ʽJungle Bookʼ), but more often staying within the safe confines of jazz-pop. The weirdness comes from banning all the instruments except the brass ones, and from Byrneʼs occasional (and always mentally disjointed) narrations.

It is up to the art lover to decide whether this «grooveless» approach to music-making, coming from one of the finest groovemakers in pop history, is acceptable or not. In my opinion, the value of these pieces is more intellectual and symbolic, and they should be valued on the same plane as modern art installations; also, I feel as if there may be some serious waste of talent here (most of the tracks are too minimalistic in nature to really warrant the presence of so many professional jazz musicians). But at least the album definitely deserves to be heard, if only because it truly sounds like nothing else ever recorded — not by a pop artist, at least. And this leaves plenty of room for your personal interpretations and associations.