Don’t start me talking…

Quality blog Sweeping The Nation is in the middle of ‘Songs To Learn And Sing’, a very admirable project in which every day of this month sees a single recommended to the readers of the blog.

The remit was along the lines of ‘singles you think everyone should hear’ and, as my proposal to the project was accepted, my thoughts initially went to those singles I love that did not crack the top 40. You know, songs like ‘Sworn and Broken’, by Screaming Trees; ‘J.J.’s Song’, by Kerbdog etc. However, as you shall see, my mind was changed, and I opted for a more famous single, due to its ostensible disappearance from cultural consciousness…

Elvis Costello & the Attractions – ‘Oliver’s Army’ (1979)

I initially considered this single invalid for a topic of ‘singles everybody should hear’. Not that it shouldn’t be heard by everybody (it should), but more because I was labouring under the belief that it, in fact, had already been heard by everybody.

It was only when talking to friends that it became clear a worrying amount of today’s young populace had never heard the greatness that is ‘Oliver’s Army’ so, on the off-chance readers here find themselves members of such a group, that can now be rectified.

What is odd about this song is that, while I was always aware of its existence, it is only really in the last few months that it has been elevated in my mind to the level of true great. Indeed, and this is by no means intended as a slight on today’s music scene, a modern equal to ‘Oliver’s Army’, in its combination of aesthetic and commercial success, is sorely lacking; this truly is the perfect single.

Clocking in at (a shade) below three minutes, not a second is wasted. A sympathetic satire on the situation school-leavers would find themselves in during the late 1970s, the title references Cromwell’s New Model Army (a precursor to the modern army), and concerns the near-predatory targeting, by the British army, of the youth: ‘Called careers information / Have you got yourself an occupation?’.

The song opens in friendly enough fashion, as Costello warns ‘don’t start me talking – I can talk all night’, but develops into rather an aggressive treatise on the policy of the time. This song is also the closest one is likely to get to hearing the ‘N-word’ on Radio 2; Elvis references the historical subjugation of the Irish with an eye on the contemporary Northern Irish violence:

There was a checkpoint Charlie
He didn’t crack a smile
But it’s no laughing party
When you’ve been on the murder mile
Only takes one itchy trigger
One more widow, one less white nigger

What is truly sad is that, while Northern Ireland has thankfully seen less of the overt violence than in the past, young British army recruits are still being packed off to many a ‘murder mile’ around the world. Though the closing quip of ‘if you’re out of luck or out of work, we could send you to Johannesburg’ is less of a threat than it was during the dark days of Apartheid, little (other than integrity of
rhyme) would be lost by replacing it with a Kabul or Baghdad in 2006.

Sobering indeed is the knowledge that the reference to the Palestine is as relevant now as it was twenty-seven years ago. Familiar, too, is the ‘London is full of Arabs’ line, to anyone who has seen the sensationalising news of late.

Not for Costello the politico-single that is merely a wordy essay, though. With such intelligent, abrasive, lyrics, the erstwhile Declan MacManus paired a very simple, and incredibly smart, arrangement.

The key vocal melody in the verses is both well-written and exquisitely performed – Costello gets little recognition for his singing ability, but he sings here with a sensitivity of voice, while dancing subtly around the notes. The chorus, meanwhile, is a very simple melody, but crafted well in that it rises to mini-climaxes every time it is sung.

Musically, it is also on the money; to think the half-finished song was very nearly omitted from the Armed Forces record. Thank goodness, then, for keyboardist Steve Nieve who, at the last minute, came up with a catchy piano riff. By Costello’s admission, it was more than slightly in thrall to ‘Dancing Queen’, by ABBA. Still, if
one is to steal, it might as well be from the pop masters.

Such grand piano flourishes meet Reggae-tinged keyboard stabs in the mix without sounding at all incongruous, but the devil really is in the details: the quickly ascending piano notes lead listeners into the middle-eight that, itself, is the verse melody sung gloriously in a higher key. The loose, yet brilliant, harmony in the chorus really adds to the anthemic feel of the song. The way the piano directs the
ears into the climactic chorus, with a solitary rendition of the vocal melody itself, is the icing on the cake.

In a nutshell, then, ‘Oliver’s Army’ is a single that managed to marry the conciseness and pure pop sensibility of the very best ABBA, with a near-Swiftian taste for the satirical. And for that, as well as countless other reasons, I love it.

sunnO))) & Boris – Altar (2006):
Initial thoughts

I received, and listened to, this new album last night. Inspired by the music I heard, here is what I jotted down, in an obsessed frenzy:

The sound on the last track was immense. Too considered, and sophisticated, to merit the term ‘chaotic’, it was nevertheless a sonic mire of low frequency bass tendrils, high-pitched, yet strangely muted, guitar howl (as though the listener was going on a journey through a ghost-filled graveyard of Metal essence) – and all that lay betwixt.

This track, as with all on the disc, was impeccable, both in arrangement and mix; the sound was perfect in its brew of heaviness, sludge and sonic clarity. But, while impressive, what preceded this track beat it mightily.

The record opened with the sort of gradual build the prepared listener might expect from collaboration between the two bands (among the prime purveyors of musical terror in the USA and Japan), all guitar hints of menace, and ominous drum fills that recalled those of Justin Greaves in another sunnO))) collaboration, Teeth of Lions Rule the Divine.

While the disc was book-ended with traditionally neo-doom fare, these bookends pincered music at once more ‘regular’ in the grand scheme of things, and departure for the participants – especially the Americans.


Though it might be both stereotyping, and perhaps somewhat blinkered, to discuss music in terms of the masculine and feminine, I shall do so regardless, as I consider the two to be basic concepts (albeit a continuum, rather than binary; and even if they are merely signifiers, rather than actually linked with sex) in the aesthetic of music.

This can be evinced, on at least a superficial level, in the music of sunnO))). Their previous collaborations have seen them work with luminaries from Melvins, the Black Metal scene, as well as with Julian Cope.

And, while these musical ventures structurally usurped the traditionally ‘masculine’ rock linearity of gradually constructing a piece of music with the ultimate aim of conclusive release/ejaculation, with their bass-droning soundscape, there was a very definite masculinity in the meeting of hairy men to posture about Behemoths, and construct vulgar displays of power (amps).

So much so, in fact, that on previous sunnO))) albums, the very absence of any kind of traditional release felt like just that – an absence. The very form of the music was such that the listener expected the loudness and slo-mo riffola to lead somewhere. In the case of White 1 (2003), the resulting long-play wind-down that followed a half-hour introduction, in which Cope monologued about ‘sub-bass clinging to the valleys’, among other chest-beating proclamations, was bitter in its disappointment.

With this release, however, Boris brought something new to the table, beyond just the physical oestrogen of guitarist Wata. In their young, yet extensive, back catalogue, there are episodes of what erstwhile Terrorizer editor Nick Terry termed ‘Oceanic Metal’ (and half a decade before the release of that Isis album, in a Neurosis review) that, while building to finales, tends to undulate, and continue after the payoff (Flood, 2000; Feedbacker, 2003).

Augmented by guest vocalist Jesse Sykes, of The Sweet Hereafter, the meeting of Boris with that Metal near-equivalent of the Rorschach test that is O’Malley and Anderson, manifests in the form of the achingly beautiful ‘The Sinking Belle (Blue Sheep)’

With a gentle vocal performance that recalls Jarboe at her absolute breathiest, the song is an exercise in almost still serenity, hovering delicately in the air, as a photograph of a Butterfly in mid-beat, for nearly eight minutes. Then it fades, as though it could support itself no longer, into the sturdier ‘Akuma no Kuma’.


The latter is a strange track within the rock aesthetic, in as much as it is hard to discern whether its structure is that of evil Metal song that lacks a skeleton or, conversely, merely a skeleton itself, with no flesh on its bones.

The guitar sounds rise up the frequency ladder, out of the densely layered mix, with an almost liquid timbre. Perhaps more interestingly, the track is characterised by brief, though shocking, visits from an elephantine instrument (Oberheim? Korg MS20? I have no idea) that strides into the mix for a couple of brief interjections.

Its sound is essentially a (better produced) reminder of the fantastic movement of deluge in Neurosis’s ‘Æon’, a movement that is the most enormous sound in all the rock music that my CD player has experienced thus far.

Sandwiched between ‘Akuma no Kuma’ and the closing ‘Blood Swamp’ is the psychological springboard-to-elsewhere that is ‘Fried Eagle Mind’. Probably the most successfully textured track on the album, sounds traverse in the mix, while Wata gently intones the instruction to ’dream’.

Much of my favourite art, from concert and cinema to the odd album, acts as a conduit for me to make a psychic journey. This, while the mind technically wanders, is no negative, but rarely do I recall objective facets of that which I have just experienced. What I do remember, though, is that the experience was great. And so it is with Altar.

Extras: Series 2
So, the series finished with quite the whimper last week, despite a brilliantly minimalist performance from Robert DeNiro. It seems to me that Ricky Gervais tends to watch Curb Your Enthusiasm to see what he can nick, and repackage for his own show. And I don’t mean that in a nasty way, just that he seems rather ‘inspired’ – sorry, inspired – by Curb.

We have the character of Barry (Shaun Williamson) who, to me, seems like an extended meditation on the little story arc where Seinfeld’s Jason Alexander (who played George Costanza) guested on Curb, playing himself, and articulating his annoyance that he was typecast, which was a waste of a man as prodigiously talented as he.

However, as he got into his inevitable arguments with David, especially about how he was nothing like George in ‘real life’ (a complex and confused term when it comes to this style of hyperreal comedy), he was reduced to the petty, chubby, balding archetype that characterises both George and Barry.

Of course, one key difference between the character of ‘Jason Alexander’ (as he appeared in Curb) and Barry is that of success; Barry is viewed as unsuccessful in life, a man who has had so little TV work post-Eastenders, that he has resorted to moonlighting as a roofer, and doing odd jobs. Jason, on the other hand, is a former star of one of the biggest TV shows in US history. He’s pretty set for money.

The other would be their roles in the respective programmes. Jason is there to reiterate how closely George was based on Larry; I’m unclear of the level of causality here, but the similarity seems to extend to Jason as well. So we have scenes in which Larry and Jason get caught up in argument about such trifling matters as who should go to whose office for the next meeting; both acting like real life avatars of George.

Conversely, Barry’s character seems to exist in Extras as a counterpoint to Gervais’s Andy Millman. Both are overweight, quite ugly, and in their forties. However, whereas Millman is on a constant search for dignity and nobility in his extra work or, this series, his sitcom, Barry seems content to wallow in mediocrity and self pity.

In terms of guest stars, this series has had almost too many. Excellent were Keith Chegwin, Stephen Fry (in a wonderful, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, bathroom scene) and Richard Briers. Daniel Radcliffe and Orlando Bloom had good lines, but seemed to be trying too hard. Coldplay’s Chris Martin was decent, though too self-aware, and I’m uncomfortable with the parody of ‘rock star on a show to pimp his band’ when that was precisely what was happening in reality.

Of definite note was the cameo, near the close of the series, of Sir Ian McKellen who, while acting to a traditionally high standard, seemed rather a forced presence.

Of course, he was necessary as the homosexual director (and the downfall of that episode was the fact that it was predicated on homophobia – I thought Millman was supposed to be a decent bloke), but his actual character seemed to be a photocopy of Patrick Stewart at the end of the first series. He echoed the Stewart template of ‘I’m a posh actor who everyone loves, but really I’m a bit stupid’ to a tee; a tad too obvious for my liking.

The upside to the cameo was there, though, and was very smart; if a tad subtle. What I enjoyed about his character was the insistence that acting was all about pretending to be a character you were not, as he cited the fact that he was not actually a wizard called Gandalf. That, in itself, would not have been so funny, but I loved its nod to the abysmal (in the show) performance by Chegwin, which he attempted to excuse by saying ‘but me sister isn’t dead’.

While in that opening episode, Millman could look at such a comment as indelible evidence that his guest star was rubbish, the exact same sentiment coming from such a respected thespian as McKellen must have been troubling for the protagonist. So it was a shame that the rest of the episode descended into ‘I’m not gay’ jokes.

Live Review: My Morning Jacket, 23rd August 2006


Manchester Academy 2. Support: Richard Swift.

So I finally went to another gig. It had been a while since I was last in Manchester, so I enjoyed the return to the Cornerhouse* café (I love that place, and there is nowhere that good in Leeds. Fact); brought back memories of my university days, when I would go to watch a film at least once a week.

We also went to a curry house, specifically Shere Khan. I had a decent enough, if overly tomato-drenched, lamb madras. That’s one thing I did woefully little of, when living in Manchester; I lived in a city that boasts a ‘Curry Mile’, and I had about three of the things while I was there.

And on we went to the venue. In my day, it was Manchester Debating Hall, where I saw Tomahawk (and missed what should, in hindsight, have been excellent support bands Dalëk and Ex-Girl) and, supporting Mark Lanegan, a Masters Of Reality line-up that featured Josh Homme on guitar and Nick Oliveri on bass. Apparently that name wasn’t cool enough, so the hall now bears the less charismatic nomenclature ‘Academy 2’.

As per usual, getting into the actual venue was an adventure. For whatever reason, the front door was a no-go, so we entered through the side and snaked through corridors until we had to submit our whole tickets (not merely the stub for these ‘security’ workers) and ‘hit the hall’, as it were.

In the closing stages of his support set was a young man who, though he went by the name ‘Richard Swift’, looked from a distance to strangely resemble the Yorkshire Ripper. Thankfully, it was just really his slightly afro-ish hair.

Aside from that claim to infamy, there was little to pen a missive to one’s relatives about. Piano-driven, retro-for-the-sake-of-it, songs that I’m sure would go down well in the middle of the afternoon on Radio 1, or a church jumble sale, but nothing you’d really choose to listen to.

Swift had a decent enough voice, a mix of the low and a touch gritty while also being strangely nasal. It put me in mind of Richard Hawley, which is not good when one considers:

1. Hawley’s voice is lower and grittier.
2. Swift had nothing to compare to Hawley’s excellent ‘The Nights Are Cold’.

Anyway, he soon finished in a blaze of mediocrity; nudging and winking through what sounded like a Billy Joel cast-off that featured one of those keyboard vocoder deals. It was a thousand times less cool than ‘Living on a Prayer’, and the only redeeming feature was the keyboardist dancing like Jimmy Somerville.

After a brief wait, the headliners came on, and I was very pleasantly surprised. Pre-gig, I had been anticipating rather a laidback performance from those the lazy would compare to Neil Young; to be precise, I was expecting the kind of set that would be great for a blissed-out summer day, lying on a field, rather than the stinky Academy 2 on a rainy, cold evening.

I should have probably paid more attention to their last album which, when I heard it, wasn’t quite up to the At Dawn standards, and had me switched over to the superior sounds of the Great Lake Swimmers. But I digress; this set began in a surprisingly rocking style, and I loved it.

Of especial note is their drummer, apparently one Patrick Hallahan, who plays with such sustained enthusiasm and power that the observer cannot help but be caught up in the passion of the moment. I recognised few songs (on record, I have a definite preference for their more melancholic moments), but that mattered little in the live context.

Sadly, this high was not to last. As the old saying goes, the band played on. And on, and on. Whether this is a reflection of their catalogue, or simple fatigue, I am not sure. What I do know, however, is that boredom set in.

Eventually, the band left the stage and, although I enjoyed the show overall, the feeling of relief was strong. Knowing the band would return for an encore, I hoped that brevity would save my soul – and the band’s esteem.

My Morning Jacket being the band they are (a throwback to a simpler time, when rock groups played for hours, and a decent show could be measured in beard growth over the course of the performance), my hopes proved to be an exercise in futility.

By this stage of the night, I had turned off. What had begun as pleasant surprise (and rocking!) was now a war of attrition between band and yours truly; I had been waving the white flag for quite some time. In short, the encore was about half the length of the set proper, and even the drummer, that accurate barometer of MMJ show quality, was flagging massively.

No longer buzzing with the enthusiasm of the first stage of the show, he was now merely drumming, and not in a particularly enthusiastic manner. It’s a shame, as this show had very real potential.

What little banter there was from the stage was enjoyable, as singer Jim James meditated on the church across the road from the University, and the common power of all religions to scare you. If only the music was as concise; my associate in attendance of this concert made mention of a time he saw the band, early one day during the Leeds Festival, and how good they were.

I can only imagine it was a great set; the lazy midday August sun would be a fine partner to the band. And so would the thirty-minute time limit on those opening bands.

* As far as I’m concerned, the greatest cinema I’ve been to. It boasts four screens, independence, with separate bar, café and gallery. And a pretty boss magazine/book shop.