Spring 2001
GO TO: Laura Cantrell GO TO: Clearlake
GO TO: Lowgold GO TO: My Vitriol
GO TO: Santa Sprees
GO TO: Snowpatrol GO TO: Twenty-Eight Days
And
with regards to the scoring system – the more Gizmos a band are awarded the
better, the more Gremlins, the more …bobbins. Up to a maximum of five each.
Okay?
LAURA CANTRELL – ‘NOT THE TREMBLIN’ KIND’ (Spit And Polish
Records)
This is John Peel’s favourite album of 2000.
And not just because of the mandolins. Accordingly, my first introduction to
Laura Cantrell was her multiple appearances in the Festive 50, singing lonely
about loves lost. Now I have a copy all of my ownsome, I realise all twelve
songs justify Mr Peel in his 
enthusiasm. (And that Laura isn’t possessed of the big hair
her Nashville twang would lead a person to expect.) It’s country music, but
without being shoulder-pad plumped or diamante coated, and while Cantrell
sticks to the old familiar topics (love, heartbreak, whiskey) you’d never even
think about line-dancing along to these numbers. The album title is from the
song of the same name, where the abusive partner is firmly told that the one
he’s looking to cower before him is ‘not the tremblin’ kind’. And that strength
runs throughout all the songs; the lyrics might make Ms Laura sound jaded and
lonely, but the only fragility in evidence is in her voice. She sings
beautifully, bring to life a succession of intricately crafted little films in
her songs, throughout which a haunting quality seems all-pervasive. Added to
which, ‘Not The Tremblin’ Kind’ has the dubious honour of being the only album
to remind me simultaneously of Dolly Parton, Woody Guthrie and the Fraggles
(they, um, sing a lot of country). What further incentive could you
possibly require…?
CLEARLAKE
– ‘LIDO’ (Dusty Company)
Put on your flip-flops m’dears; let’s go jumble
sailing. ‘You look so happy’ he beams on ‘Don’t Let The Cold In’, ‘like you’d
just swallowed a sunset.’
Sound
like Ruth. If you remember the faint cockerney chirrup of those bouncy young
tykes
They
got ‘Songs of Praise into a bombast languid lambast
LOWGOLD
– ‘JUST BACKWARDS OF SQUARE’ (Nude Records)
You know, lazy journalism isn’t just about
listening to a record for a good month before you get around to reviewing to
it; a goodly part of it rests in the Death-Knell Comparisons, arbitrarily
creating an entire movement or scene by threading together the names of the
bands currently making your ears smile. And while I draw the line at describing
folks ‘like X on Y’ (though Bill Bailey’s 
‘Hobbit
on speed’ is inspired), I can’t help but wanna explain Lowgold to you by
linking them through to other artists. Tell you that they sound like Grandaddy
on the waltzers with Sparklehorse. Or like Mercury Rev sleeping on Lambchop’s
sofa. Or even like Coldplay being washed out to sea as Yo La Tengo stand
giggling on the sand. Theirs is an indolent sound, as though the songs
themselves are content to recline and sprawl, sunning themselves all over. On
songs like ‘Back Here Again’, a flavour almost tropical emerges, and ‘Just
Backwards Of Square’ seems like an album just waiting for a palm tree to
complete the scene. And even when the pace picks up, as on the single-friendly
‘Counterfeit’, there’s still a laid-back feel in there, as though the urge to
just bask is inescapable. Without being soporific, Lowgold have managed to make
an album which captures the warm wrap-around feeling of drifting off and dozing
in the sun. Now if only I could create some sort of Pool-Side music scene – possibly
based in Camden but my options are open – these fellas would be able to ride
the first wave to glory…
MY
VITRIOL – ‘FINE LINES’ (Infectious)
My Vitriol were on ‘Buffy’ (Season #5) last
night. ‘Cemented Shoes’ was the song chosen to sound-track Tara’s Bronze
birthday celebrations, the happiest part of the episode. Never-mind how good
the album is (and ooh, is it good) this truly means they’ve made it. And to
think there was a time when they were but Queen Vic material… Though whether
pounding out in 
Walford
or Sunnydale (or even other places that are – hey – real), My Vitriol were
always ones to watch out for. As is proven on this, their debut album, which
does them justice in a way their singles never quite managed. ‘Fine Lines’ has
snap-shot captured them from all sides. Here they get to unleash the beast. And
in so doing, they really make me wanna put on my poncey-journalist trousers.
Metaphorically. And say things like: ‘Fine Lines is redolent with shiny
polished baubles for the Christmas tree of rock, atop which the deadly
mercurial ‘Always: Your Way’ must surely sit as crowning starr’. Or:
‘insinuating through every track the anguished tendon scraping guitar manages a
superb diffusion of tension, creeping out of your turned-to-eleven speakers and
into the listener’s body like a sly arthritis.’ Or even to miss the point of
track seven entirely and coo at nonsensical length over ‘the masterful wind-tunnel
of straining guitar horse-power bellowing at every seam of C.O.R.’ Because even
on their sarcastic thrash sessions (‘C.O.R.’ = Critic Orientated Rock), My
Vitriol still sound amazing. And from a review that’s plump-stuffed full of
lines ready to be taken out of context, it’s that last ‘un which should
emblazon their every poster.
SANTA SPREES – ‘KEEP STILL’ (Dreamy Records)
Now then. Don’t go thinking this is the token
wibbly-wobbly lo-fi record in here just cos, well, none of the other albums
have over twenty tracks on them or make such excellent 
use
of Sesame St. -esque voice-manipulators. ‘Token’ implies something perfunctory.
And that doesn’t apply here. Though Santa Sprees do fit the wibbly-wobbly
criteria; tremulous muppet vocals, a slightly odd band name (like a severed
Lapland headline), occasional filmic samples, good whooshy noises, and
rejection of the guitar as instrument of ultimate importance. The mostly playful
songs are every bit as good as their titles (‘Alcoholic Gunslinger’s Are Cool’
and ‘Make Up Dust’ being particular favourites), and on several occasions
managed to remind me simultaneously of both Hefner and Lou Reed, which is a
skill to be treasured. That one or two songs – ‘Back There’ in particular – do
sound as though they’ve been composed on an instrument ‘only from Tomy’ that’s
made of brightly coloured unchewable plastic only seems to make them more
endearing. The inner sleeve of this album has a little label declaring itself
to be ‘a repository of arbitrary knowledge set to cheap primitive music…’
Definitely a manifesto for a bright ‘n’ shiny future…
SNOWPATROL – ‘WHEN IT’S ALL OVER WE STILL HAVE TO CLEAR UP’ (Jeepster)
Above me, Marilyn Manson has been replaced by
Rage Against the Machine. The serrating guitar echoes through the top half of
our house. Against that bile-riddled swagger, Snowpatrol can’t really compete.
And probably wouldn’t want to. Their follow-up to 
‘98’s
‘Songs For Polar Bears’ is a peaceful new album with an Enid Blyton style title
(“Oh come on Moonface” said Silky, “when it’s all over…”), more languid than
its predecessor but every bit as charming. I love the way that they’ve built an
entire song around the shy acoustic request to ‘make love to me forever’. How
the shoulder-shimmying ‘ask me how I am’ starts off like it’s coming from the
room beneath yours, and slowly bubbles up through the floorboards towards you.
And how the twin vocals quietly chase each other across the course of ‘if I’d
found the right thing to say’, as though both ribboning around the same maypole
but at slightly different speeds. There’s also that the album’s turntable
action leaves me wondering whether there’s something infectious at Jeepster
which lends a compulsory Belle And Sebastian style twinge to every 6th
song (or so) recorded by the other bands on the label’s roster, but as this is deemed
‘good thing’ I’m not preoccupied over it for too long. ‘When it’s all over…’ is
a joyous little gem of a record, and Snowpatrol should revel in the assurance
that, no matter the volume it’s played at, this could never be deemed an aural
pollutant.
TWENTY-EIGHT
DAYS – ‘UPSTYLEDOWN’ (Mushroom Records)
Somewhere in the valley which separates the
heady heights of the Beastie Boys’ kingdom and that of Blink 182 lie 28 Days.
The 
air
is better down there. Giddiness and rampant immaturity don’t strike so often.
Clothing stays on, giant robots stay away. People have more time for crunching
guitars and nosebleed rhythms in the world of 28 Days. As is proscribed within
such a realm, they write songs about hate and class and heartbreak, losing
friends to drugs and bandwagon-jumpers. And, um, how nasty poachers are to
elephants and turtles. This I like in a hardcore hip-hop/rap crew. I’m also
quite taken with their haphazardly tuneful abilities, and a vocabulary which
includes words like ‘misconstrue’ and ‘diddly squat’. But then they go and
spoil it all by saying something stupid like ‘shoot yourself in the foot when
you’re talkin’ outta your sphincter boy’. Because, apparently, if you’ve got
your shit down on the road and you’re talking about shit but you don’t write
shit, then your shit is unlikely to rock. Which is news to me. As, I suspect,
it could be to a great many others…
GO TO: Laura Cantrell GO TO: Clearlake
GO TO: Lowgold GO TO: My Vitriol
GO TO: Santa Sprees
GO TO: Snowpatrol GO TO: Twenty-Eight Days
Last revised: 27/07/01