It appears we now live in a country where even compassion is conditional - and pretty much half-hearted. To the point you’ve got to swear allegiance to the correct imaginary friend in the sky to get the golden ticket to be allowed in, even though everybody – whether Christian, Muslim, Jew or atheist - tends to drown in the same manner when an overcrowded fishing boat capsizes. God – whichever one(s) you favour – is dead, if he/she/it was ever actually there in the first place.
So, what can you believe in? Well, humanity is still capable of beauty. Even in a song ostensibly celebrating one of those above-not-mentioned deities. The disparate voices of Gurrumul & Paul Kelly take the maybe-too-often-covered hymn Amazing Grace (Skinnyfish) and it is mystical, glorious, intimate, and give you faith in…something. Probably music, but that’s likely a better bet anyway.
If you were a betting person, for quite some time you’d have got very good odds against The Libertines ever making another record. Of Pete Doherty even surviving to make another record, frankly. But, yea verily, he and Carl Barat stopped trying to kill themselves and each other and got it (somewhat) together. Not interested enough to go through the whole album, or merely curious how Pete ever scored Kate Moss (Hint: Drugs. Lots of drugs…), Heart Of The Matter (Harvest) will do as the short primer. Bit slurry and sloppy, spits out a number of placard slogans, which some who know no better might call ‘punk’. The eternal adolescents who still subscribe to old rock and roll ideal of ‘young/fast/corpse’ will be happy with it, but should be informed the touring party now includes an official ‘Addictions Counsellor’ should an intervention be necessary.
Meantime, Blur have handled the whole putting aside of differences for the sake of art and/or commerce far more smoothly. So well has the resurrection of the brand name gone, they even go for the sometimes risky move of the fan-sourced video for I Broadcast (Parlophone). Generations of enthusiasts mime and profess their love for a new song, while possibly just waiting ‘til they play Song 2 in the encore. New song reflects neon buzz of the song’s Hong Kong origins, although Damon’s word salad including reference to ‘prodigal traffic’ and something about coleslaw suggest great philosophical insights should perhaps be sought elsewhere.
The wonders of the interwebs mean if you choose to, you can keep the band together even when one member decides to decamp to America to live. Soundfiles are emailed back-and-forth across the Pacific between the members of The Aston Shuffle, resulting in Don’t Let Go (Independent). It’s well-wrought summery dance fodder, smooth but not overly so, and eminently suitable for use in a commercial for young moderns enjoying a party, probably with some variety of designer gin.
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And we are still more than capable in providing the twangy and indie and good. The Ocean Party’s Greedy (Spunk) has the guitar that cuts across and in and out, but we will not say ‘angular’, for that is on the list of banned reviewing words, like ‘dark’ and ‘atmospheric’. Which this isn’t, but it will appear in the next bracket of songs after ones like that on community radio stations across the nation. Guitar pop of one modern model, and pretty good at it.
Tully On Tully go for an unashamedly bigger pop sound, happily referencing it having some distinctly ‘80s origins, without revelling in the gated synth drum sound of the era too much. Miles Away (Independent) skates in and does figure-8’s around your headphones, with a true point of individuality being Natalie Foster’s power and soar in her vocals. It’s good, no argument. But maybe in an odd middle ground of sonic quality that might have it falling between the alternative sounds of that national youth radio network, and the alternative-to-the-alternative noises of those broadcasters running on donations.
More sure of the home-ground they want to play on, The Murlocs are Rolling On (Flightless/Remote Control). Although it’s more of a strained stroll back to the garage they’re rehearsing in – possibly with a slab over the shoulder – with occasional sitting in the gutter element as Ambrose ponders going back to the bottleo to say just one more thing to the girl who dumped him three months ago. Words like ‘slacker’ and ‘scuzzy’ are flung in the band’s direction, but it actually does have a bit more focus than that.
There’s often that overhanging melancholy in The National’s ponderings of relationships and existence. And drinking. And that girl. And stuff. So, the second offering of Matt Berninger’s other thing EL VY (pronounced if it were the plural of ‘Elvis’, I am reliably informed), I’m The Man To Be (4AD), centres on the happy thought that Matt’s ‘…peaceful because my dick’s in sunlight’. As you do. The light-hearted menace of Brent Knopf’s music underpins the rhythmic musings of a lonely rock star with too much, er, time on his hands in a nice hotel. Perhaps best not to think about it too much. Although some may. Whatever, it’s making the upcoming album an intriguing prospect.
