Nerina Pallot: “Year of the Wolf”

She wears wide-brimmed hats now. Wide-brimmed hats are cool.

Nerina Pallot reads this blog.

I know because of two things about her latest record, Year of the Wolf. The first is that it didn’t take four years to see the light of day: release a dignified two years after The Graduate, it is also – and here is the second thing – a marked and welcome improvement on that somewhat thinner LP. Year of the Wolf, written recorded whilst Pallot was pregnant with her son, Wolfgang, has more tunes, lusher production (thanks no doubt to Bernard Butler being at the faders), and a finer turn of phrase. This clear response to my own private wishlist is rather welcome – and not just, I suspect, to me.

Year of the Wolf also sees Pallot return to Polydor, the label which unceremoniously dropped her following the release of her debut album in 2001. She writes about that return in the Guardian. She doesn’t say so, but there must be something sweet about all this for Pallot, a self-made singer-songwriter whose break-through sophomore effort Fires was strong enough to break avert what had seemed like a career death. Her career has probably been helped by writing for the right people – Kylie Minogue, Diane Vickers – but, of course, it is the strength of her pop songwriting which has achieved that sort of canny networking. Moreover, she retains a quirk all her own in her solo material: there is always the odd creak or curl in a Pallot song which tips the wink that it is not merely a finely turned tune. Pallot songs also have character.

Thus the shuffly chug on ‘Put Your Hands Up’, a feel-good anthem which includes seeing stars, saying you won’t stop and boats setting sail in the lyrics. Likewise ‘Turn Me On Again’, a post break-up reunion song which, in its rueful self-knowledge, short-circuits any charge of X-Factor hedonism and acts as a sort of sequel to one of Dear Frustrated Superstar‘s best songs, ‘Jump’. Indeed, Year of the Wolf seems to cast a nod to the past whilst also looking forward: ‘I Do Not Want What I Do Not Have’ is not just the title of a song on this latest collection, but a lyric from the debut record’s ‘Bread’. Even ‘This Will Be Our Year’ shares a title with a song by Semisonic, whom Pallot supported on tour in 2001.

Pallot’s light touch and expressive voice offer a wry, under-rated sort of pop music. Year of the Wolf sees her again at her best, and consequently my only request for the next album would be fewer hats. We’ll see what we get in another two years, but this is more than enough for now. Much obliged, Nerina.

 

Advertisements

My Morning Jacket: “Circuital”

My Morning Jacket didn’t make many friends with their last record, Evil Urges. Fans are easy to offend, but on that LP the band seemed to go out of their way to do so: take ‘Highly Suspicious‘, an angular, chugging Prince-esque number characterised by a keening falsetto and stop-start rhythms. This was not the keening alt.country with which they made their name, and many were nonplussed by the band’s apparent adoption of a broader but shallower palette. Pitchfork’s review from the time of the album’s release is representative: “After listening to Urges, I wonder if My Morning Jacket might just be satisfied following in the footsteps of labelmates Dave Matthews Band: nestling into a comfortable niche and aiming for the Starbucks carousel with rootsy New Age romanticism.” Ouch.

To some extent, though, all this was unfair: My Morning Jacket had been so successful that everyone from Monsters of Folk to Fleet Foxes were stealing their clothes and playing dress-up. If in the past Jim James’s voice and songwriting has been at its best on soaring folk-rock like ‘At Dawn‘, it’s hard to demand he stick to that furrow when it has become so over-crowded. Evil Urges was at least an attempt to become something more than the revered godfathers of the current folk-rock zeitgeist. If it failed also to be a properly good record in its own right, it may in retrospect at least be profitably read as preface to Circuital, the band’s new album and a more successful fusing of what they do best with what they now do differently.

Boldly, Circuital opens with a song entitled ‘Victory Dance’. It grooves along with a sort of exultant menace, which, though dominated by James’s vocals in a way Evil Urges eschewed, still shares that album’s ambivalence for the band’s acoustic inheritance. The segue into the bright, up-beat title track, strummed and melodic, is simultaneously a relief and a surprise, then: the clanging guitars are replaced by telecaster twangs, the droning bass by top-end piano runs; and yet the two songs somehow sit side-by-side in happy co-operation.

There’s still playful genre-bending – on the catchy, slightly silly funk-soul ‘Holding On To Black Metal’, which may or may not entirely alienate post-adolescence fans of Cradle of Filth – but there’s also another kind of bravery, which allows for gentle, heartfelt songs such as ‘Wonderful (The Way I Feel)’, or hooky, soaring singalongs like ‘You Wanna Freak Out’. The cleverness lies in refreshing the Beach Boys pop of ‘Out Of My System’ with the lessons learned on Evil Urges, as can be seen on the souping-up of ‘First Light’. The album ends on ‘Moving Away’, a gorgeously simple piano tune led by James’s renowned vocal. Of that instrument, Amanda Petrusich writes in the far more favourable Pitchfork review of this latest record, “anyone who’s ever heard James wail in concert is likely to be frustrated by the eternal underuse of his voice in the studio.” She concludes, though, that this latest record comes closer to capturing James’s voice than most – no feint praise for a band gifted with one of the finest, sweetest voices in rock music, and especially for one seeking, here largely successfully, to put all their pieces together.

 

Bill Callahan: ‘Apocalypse’

Open the packaging of Bill Callahan’s Apocalypse, and the internal sleeve is blank, save for an antique frame housing a profile image of the man himself. It could be a print, but it could also be a mirror: “To me,” he recently told the Guardian’s Ben Thompson, “this record is like a lot of mirrors, and I suppose if you hold up a mirror to yourself and then you turn it around, it reflects outwards … also, if you look in a mirror you might see someone standing behind you who you’d didn’t know was there.”

The creepy sparsness of the record’s artwork is matched by its sonic landscape: from the repetitive strumming of ‘Drover’ to the gentle riffs of ‘One Fine Morning’, Apocalypse steps even further away from the orchestration of Woke on a Whaleheart than did Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle. This tonal modesty comes despite the implicit violence of the album’s title – and, indeed, Callahan’s apocalypse seems to be a personal, incremental one rather than some world-ending cataclysm. As Ben Graham writes in a great review at The Quietus, “he appears to be using the phrase to mean a revelation or epiphany of some kind, both life-changing and extremely personal.” The gentle, brushed quality of the instrumentation, and the slight, almost ephemeral, structure of the nevertheless precision-tuned songcraft, offer a ruminative mood in which Callahan explores without map or direction but with unflagging purpose.

The record is the sound of a man finding if not home then comfort. This leaves a danger that a listener may struggle to find purchase – Callahan’s gnomic utterances at times appear to hold meaning only for him (he’s all you see in the mirror). But that searching mood offers a context in which to orient yourself, and there is a through-line here, from lost to found. Rare is it that we see Callahan depicting things changing for the better, but by the end of Apocalypse, the lightness and sweetness of ‘One Fine Morning’ – indeed, its very title – suggests that’s precisely what he has achieved. In songs such as ‘Eid Ma Clack Shaw’, Callahan has often reveled in obfuscation; yet, as he revealed in an interview with the New York Times, clearing the smog (geddit?) is at the heart of this new record: “The record is kind of, like, blind, or searching, until that point, and then the flare goes off [in ‘Universal Applicant’] and the music stops for a second. And from that point on, it’s like, the music is illuminated.”

That such import is placed on so small a moment helps explain why it’s taken me so long to get to Apocalypse: I’ve wanted to give it proper attention. It rewards that with ambivalence: on ‘America!’, Callahan lists the revered country singers of yore who were also in the US armed forces, and then sings as if startled, ‘I never served my country’; he then proceeds to sing of ‘Afghanistan! / Vietnam! / Iran! / Native Americon! [sic]’, and there’s no easy reconciliation of reverence and revulsion. “I’m standing in a field / A field of questions,” he sings over a skipping, pastoral flute on ‘Free’s’; an apocalypse does not necessarily lead to permanent resolution. It may not be quite as good as the record that proceeded it, but this one is still a keeper.

 

‘Helplessness Blues’, Fleet Foxes

“I was a bit worried they’d suffer from second album syndrome,” said the kindly record store guy who sold me Fleet Foxes’ Helplessness Blues last week. “But it’s actually really good.” It’s true: any risk that Robert Pecknold and company would fall into rock cliché with their sophomore release have been entirely squashed by its actuality. Helplessness Blues is if anything a brighter, more consistent, more accomplished album than its forebear. If Fleet Foxes continue to filter the Beach Boys through Laurel Canyon with an unapologetic nostalgia, the songs on this record do so with such muscle and so memorably that it no longer matters.

Helplessness Blues opens in familiar territory with ‘Montezuma’: Pecknold’s reedy vocals sing among ethereal reverb, backed by the Gregorian richness of his bandmates’ supporting vocals. The bright, plucked guitars, the soft, rounded bass, the swift changes in dynamics are all present and correct. ‘Bedouin Dress’ strips them back, sounding like the record Sam Beam may have made if hadn’t gone all psychedelic on Kiss Each Other Clean. Both it and the album’s similarly subdued third track, however, eschew the principle weakness of the band’s first album: the manner in which its smaller songs experienced trouble in peeking out from under the heavy shadows of its major movements. It’s not that Helplessness Blues has no ‘Blue Ridge Mountains’, catchy and fat with evocative orchestration; it’s that all its songs aim in their own way for that track’s impact.

Thus the second record masters more moods than the first: where Fleet Foxes were most comfortable on their eponymous debut with grand, crashing statements, on this album they make even the finest detail work as substantial as the soaring anthems: ‘Blue Spotted Tail’ is a finger-picked folk ditty, as simple a song as the band have recorded, but it is as beautiful and haunting as ‘Helplessness Blues’, a twisting and turning of a song, full of pregnant open chords and piano riffs worthy of Arcade Fire. Indeed, you can hear Mercury Rev, the Flaming Lips, and Sufjan Stevens on this album, too – so successful is Helplessness Blues that it may well now also be a cliché to describe it or the band behind it as mere retro indulgence. They are a mature band capable of producing music of emotive beauty.

Go bother your own record store guy right now.

“The Wild Hunt”

Wearing his boots of Spanish leather...

Let’s get this over with: Kristian Matsson sounds a bit like Bob Dylan. It’s the sparse acoustic instrumentation and the literate songwriting, for sure; but above all it’s the nasal bray, the insistent attack of his vocal delivery. The comparison no doubt drives Matsson, who records under the moniker The Tallest Man On Earth, crackers by now – but it isn’t going anywhere any time soon.

Which is a shame, because that reedy voice is actually a more supple instrument than Dylan’s. Regular readers of this here blog will know that I bow to no one in my conviction that Dylan’s voice is uniquely expressive; but Matsson’s voice is more sinuous – it seems to slip between registers more easily. This in part dictates – or aids – his songwriting, which focuses as much on melody as it does on lyric (again the comparisons with His Bobness both fall short and are exceeded). Thanks to Anna’s brother, Joe, I’ve been investigating Tallest Man on Earth’s second album, The Wild Hunt, since Christmas, and for melodic invention amongst many other things it is to 2010 what Paul Curreri’s California was to 2009 – too late to be in with the shot it deserved at my year’s best picks.

Take one of The Wild Hunt‘s stand-out tracks, ‘King of Spain’: from searing vocal to deceptively deft acoustic guitar, from its memorable tune to its mordant, droll lyrics, this is a mature but also hugely enjoyable song. It reminds of Mountain Goats at their best in a way: a clever, complex song which is also raucous and funny. In other ways, though, Matsson is much sweeter than John Darnielle: ‘Love is All’, another of the album’s highlights, is as sprightly as its title makes it sound, with a skipping beat and an earworm of a sing-song riff.

Refreshingly, there’s nothing portentous about this plain little record – “I plan to be forgotten when I’m gone”, sung several times during the album’s title track, is not a line you’ll hear from the Pete Dohertys of rock music, for instance – and yet so good is the songwriting that the limited palette of acoustic guitar and voice never gives the impression of treading water.

Scandinavia has played host to a curious number of rather fine songwriters in the Americana vein – from Thomas Dybdahl to Jose Gonsalez – but Matsson, with this record which builds in the memory and develops on every listen, may have outstripped them all. Simply special.

Albums of 2010

Last year’s top five albums held up surprisingly well in my memory: if I’ve returned to Midnight At The Movies or California as much as I have to Merriweather Post Pavilion, it is for simpler pleasures than the sometimes demanding latter can offer. To this end, I’m brutally omitting great albums from 2010 from this year’s list, such as Riverboat Soul, Beachcomber’s Windowsill, or, most painfully, the inventive but at times cold Antifogmatic. Great melodies are essential, but the defining albums of a year need to offer a coherent, compelling something on top, right?

5. John Grant – Queen of Denmark

It’s difficult to ignore a record which adds honest-to-goodness pop hooks to lyrics such as, “Jesus / He hates homos son / We told you that when you were young.” Lest we forget, Grant had practically given up on the music business; what he achieved in 2010, at the urging of Midlake, was a shimmering pop record of at times uncomfortable depth. Once heard, Queen of Denmark lingers in your ears, and your head, and demands relistens even when at first you may fail to love it. It is a troubled, triumphant LP – and it worries away at its listener. Shyly remarkable.

4. Roky Erickson – True Love Cast Out All Evil

Not so very different from Queen of Denmark in many respects, True Love Cast Out All Evil has the sweet surface, the demons beneath, and the redeemed singer at its centre. Both its genre and its tenor, however, are quite different: produced by Will Sheff of Okkervil River, Roky Erickson here inhabits a grimy, garage Americana, plucked acoustics giving way to distorted soundscapes before falling back to earth again. Throughout, Erickson’s winsome lyrics are rescued from naivety by their sense of earned weight. This is a life-affirming record not because it pretends everything is OK, but because it knows things aren’t. Despite all the ugliness in Erickson’s life, which is often much in evidence here, this record is quite beautiful. Everyone should own it.

3. Laura Marling – I Speak Because I Can

Simply chock-full of consistently good songcraft. A quintessential coming-of-age album, I Speak Because I Can finds Marling a far more disciplined, and more creative, songwriter than she was on her patchy debut. Her voice, her lyrics, and her way with an arrangement have all matured, meaning that this record represents what is now a sadly rare thing: a release from a proper singer-songwriter which is truly essential. Crucially, it develops Marling’s sound whilst also hanging together as a collection: where another singer-songwriter might have settled into a single mode of expression, or crafted a series of songs without much in the way of a single identity, Marling has achieved both variety and coherence. A delight all year.

2. Villagers – Becoming A Jackal

Villagers take their place in a long line of solo artists (Mr E, Damon Gough) who prefer to hide behind what sounds like the name of a band. Bands are, of course, usually cooler and more popular than solo artists, who tend to strike a lonesome pose on stage and warble sadly about it. In defense of Conor O’Brien, Villagers has a bona fide line-up, but one imagines that all except him are expendable – not least as a result of his mesmerising solo performance at this year’s Mercury Music Prize, which exploded outwards that stereotype of the solitary songwriter on stage with an intensity unmatched by all the other nominees, up to and including the eventual winner, the xx. Becoming A Jackal reflects that forcefulness, couching spectral melodies in haunting musical contexts. It is in many ways very nearly a perfect record.

1. Have One On Me – Joanna Newsom

I suggested shortly after the release of this three disc monster that it would be difficult to displace as the year’s best record, and it is therefore with a certain inevitably that it earns its place here. Difficult to like, even harder truly to know, Have One On Me is nevertheless an ambitious, sonically inventive, deftly delivered, and fiercely unapologetic, record. It refuses any single statement you might make about it, including as it does pop songs and prog epics, love songs and fabulist fancies. It is infuriating, but almost addictively so. In a year which saw many more albums get greater splurges of attention, Have One On Me simmered constantly, endlessly rewarding. Bravo.

Bubbling under these top five are albums from Band of Horses, Arcade Fire, Of Montreal, Sufjan Stevens and The National. Of all those, The National are most cruelly served: that quintet, either over-long (The Suburbs) or over-cooked (False Priest) have their issues of consistency or flow; High Violet, however, has simply failed to register beyond an initial impression that it was quite good. It may also be excellent and over-looked; but to this listener at least, it has not been wholly memorable.

Lonely Avenue

Here’s a good Christmas present: Lonely Avenue, Ben Folds’s latest album and a collaboration with the author of High Fidelity and other popular works of fiction, Mr. Nick Hornby. Anna is a very wise gift-giver.

I’m a long-time F0lds fan, and began by wanting to say in this post that Hornby is not as good a lyricist as my erstwhile idol. On repeated listens, however, I began to drift towards his merely being ‘different’; further listens still and it’s hard not to hear in, for instance, ‘Levi Johnston’s Blues’ – “I’m a fuckin’ redneck, I live to hang out with the boys / Play some hockey, do some fishing, kill some moose” – precisely the tone Folds has brought to much of his work. Likewise, ‘Claire’s Ninth’ begins precisely like a song from Rockin’ The Suburbs filtered through ‘Alice Childress’: “So / She stands / And waits / And waits at the school gate.”

If anything, collaborating with Hornby – with whom Folds made contact after reading about himself in 2002’s 31 Songs – has given Folds a new lease of life. Some of his solo work has at time concealed his preternatural facility beneath mere strained invention (Way to Normal, I’m looking at you). “‘Belinda’ has been a mother fucker,” Folds gripes in an email to Hornby quoted in the disc’s liner notes (of the deluxe edition, at any rate – Anna wins again). You sense him setting this high bar throughout: the lyrics and song briefs provided to him by Hornby are the seeds of songs Folds can make his own, but also represent challenges he may not have otherwise considered tackling. The twists and turns of ‘Password’, in which Folds pens a sweet soul song with a Willow-the-Wisp structure, ends with a classic Folds kiss-off – “One day I won’t even remember your face” – but sounds nothing like any other song he’s written.

‘Picture Window’, too, sounds like a great lost Ben Folds Five song (“They checked into the hospital New Year’s Eve / Nothing to be done about that / Rainbows, daffodils, she’s not naive / Symbolism’s all crap”). These are lyrics identifiably the work of a novelist as opposed to a songwriter – at times, they lack the doubleness of Folds’s own specialist writing. On ‘Doc Pomus’, for instance, we get, “Man in a wheelchair in the lobby of the Forrest / With frighters, hustlers, hard-up millionaires / Mobsters, cops, whores, pimps and Marxists / All human life is there”. But, conversely, this directness frees Folds up to write melodies more memorable than many he’s written in years. Lonely Avenue may well be a more consistent record than any he’s produced as a solo artist: there may not be a ‘Late’ on this disc, but nor is there an infinitely more forgettable ‘Time’ or ‘Prison Food’.

Hornby tells us in his liner notes that the title of this record is taken from Alex Halberstadt’s biography of Doc Pomus (many of the LP’s songs fictionalise real people – Saskia Hamilton gets a namecheck, too). But it is also about people searching in some way for meaning, pattern and identity – that is to say it is written by Nick Hornby. We salute him, however, for in Ben Folds he has found a collaborator whose best work is no longer quite so far behind him.