Tag Archives: Portishead

Replica sun machines

In the spirit of the fifty word fictions currently being posted by Chan over at A wild slim alien, here are some reviews of exactly that length – tips of the hat to my long-player listening so far this year.  With the odd hand gesture or wrinkled nose thrown in.

The Shortwave Set – Replica sun machine

Seduced by the alethiometeresque cover, but disappointed by the frequency with which the wan, characterless vocals of Andrew Pettitt displace the considerably more elegant singing of Ulrika Bjornse.  Danger Mouse production?  Check.  Van Dyke Parks string arrangements?  Check.  Tunes?  Mostly.  ‘Glitches ‘n’ bugs’, ‘Distant daze’ and ‘No social’ stand out.

Elbow – The seldom seen kid

In the last couple of years Elbow’s records have been surreptitiously stealing their way to the centre of my listening world.  This confirms their place there with its high musicality and wry humour.  Guy Garvey’s songs are lugubrious and beautiful, even managing to reanimate the corny image of the mirrorball.

DeVotchKa – A mad and faithful telling

Romany Mexican indie with Greek or Klezmer undertones, anyone?  Not forgetting occasional forays into chamber and oompah band territories?  Singer Nick Urata looks like a roughed-up cross between Clooney and Morrissey.  One song – ‘The clockwise witness’ – is truly great, throwing off excessive stylistic colouring for an affecting shade of blue.

Carl Craig – Sessions

How long it’s been since I was lost in niteklub rhythm.  For all that Craig is a master of dancefloor dynamics, Sessions ultimately feels relentless, at home or in car.  It’s a relief when the end is near and the unpredictable rhythms of ‘Bug in the bass bin’ take hold.

Four Tet – Ringer

A river whose flow is as relentless as Sessions, but out of the current more is going on.  I wish I had more time to relax into ‘Swimmer’’s patterns; fretted less about the time Kieran Hebden takes to develop his swirls and eddies.  Moments of life that won’t come again.

Neon Neon – Stainless style

After the Rhys-Boom Bip collaboration on Blue eyed in the red room, and Gruff’s loveable Candylion, a disappointment.  In evoking the worst aspects of the eighties, it’s loud, shiny, and as attractive as the boxy lines of the De Lorean car.  But ‘I lust u’ achieves a  Depeche Mode-esque melancholy.

Colin Meloy – Colin Meloy sings live

Just occasionally in these solo performances, Colin Meloy is one note short of a melody.  Otherwise he conveys the best of the Decemberists – as well as Shirley Collins and the Smiths – with songwriter’s conviction, stand-up comedy and helpings of the ‘campfire singalong’ spirit that he declares he is aiming for.

The Last Shadow Puppets – The age of the understatement

The chief northern monkey and his best mate perform a Dukes of Stratosphearic take on Scott Walker (and indeed Brel through Scott’s distorting mirror); in their turtleneck sweaters they’re photo-fit go-getters.  The result is a noirish existential beat group and the second of many reinventions Alex Turner may yet perform.

Goldfrapp – Seventh tree

I lost interest between Black cherry and the insistently decadent electro of Supernature.  Fortunately the duo are aware of the benefits of reinvention and return; Seventh tree is closest in spirit to Felt mountain but with added folk sensibility and pop nous.  ‘Little bird’ floats and ‘Caravan girl’ drives along.

British Sea Power – Do you like rock music?

Like Open season, this is eight-tenths of the way to greatness; if I were eighteen and at my first Glastonbury, I would wave my flag to it.  But it’s as rock as the substance you’d mine were you to tunnel into Mount Blanc, and for me that remains a problem.

Paul Weller – 22 dreams

Press would have you believe that Weller has suddenly emerged from a lengthy spell in rock purgatory.  Truth is he rediscovered his touch over the two preceding sets; you could not get more pastoral than ‘Pan’ on As is now22 dreams expands the lightness in familiar and fresh directions.

Portishead – Third

Top bombing from Barrow, Gibbons and Utley.  The avant-garde attack of the electronics is reminiscent of New Order discovering synthesisers.  Next time Portishead can worry less about making it impossible for anyone to countenance putting them on as dinner party listening; this is music with which to greet the apocalypse.

Robert Forster – The evangelist

The healing power of song – I’m so glad RF rediscovered it.  But how could the tone be anything other than elegiac, with fragments of Grant’s last songs among Robert’s lyrical responses to his death.  As we hear those last tunes, Robert sings ‘it was melody he loved most of all’.

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Machine gun

How do you announce your return after a ten year break from releasing records?  Why naturally, you spray your every willing listener with a hail of metaphorical bullets.  Predictably spiky and unpredictably basic, as minimal as early Detroit techno and as compelling as ‘Blue Monday’ – Portishead’s ‘Machine gun’ does much more than its nominal job of whetting appetites for Third.