Music For Life

Playing The Angel

Somewhere along the way, after the release of industrial rockish Songs of Faith & Devotion in 1993, Depeche Mode or maybe just Martin Gore decided that DM would discard its ace, namely the band's supreme tunefulness and mature into a band that played subtlety as its main calling card. While the willingness of a band to evolve is surely a postive development, this move also seemed to mark the decline of Gore as a tunemeister for the output that DM put out after Songs could, at best, be described as mediocre.

1997's Ultra was about as underwhelming an DM offering as humanly possible. Sure, the band's new and improved production was informed by the latest technological clicks, swishes and effects but it looked and sounded suspiciously like the emperor's new clothes. The album, despite its updatedness, was devoid of tunes and laborious to sit through. 2001's release, Exciter, lowered the bar even further. Indeed, Exciter must surely be one of the worst misnomers in the history of music. Flatliner would have been a much more befitting title.

Hence, we now come to DM's latest release, Playing the Angel. Will this album restore DM's much battered reputation? Is it the comeback to form that so many critics have lauded it to be? I am mixed in my assessment of this. How good this album is really depends on which era of DM's output you are comparing with? Yes, Angel is DM's best album in a decade. No, it can barely compare with DM's golden years.

Opener A Pain That I'm Used To, begins with a wail of loud, distorted and heavily disorientating feedback that harks back to the Songs album...or so one thinks. Until the listener is soon plugged back into a slowburn of a melody that is, very much, in line with the band's current mode of understated tune construction. It's a fine, toe-tapping introduction by all means but greatness wouldn't beckon it for company.

John the Revelator then comes on, in uptempo Music For the Masses mood. Bombastic and aided by a swelling call-and-response chorus, John is the one track on this album coming closest to matching DM's golden era songs. It probably wouldn't look out of place anywhere on a pre-1993 DM LP. First single Precious, while lacking John's immediacy, is a steady grower that etches itself into one's consciousness. These two tracks are, surely, the highlights of an album that moves steadily without offering any surprises or delights.

Much has been made of David Gahan's contributions in this album, a first, if I'm not mistaken, for any DM effort. Gahan acquaints himself well, alongside Gore. His work here is largely indistinguishable from that of Gore's. This is not necessarily a bad thing, considering the calibre of Gore as a songwriter...but then again, Gore hasn't been good for quite a long while.

Sharp-eyed readers must, by now, have realised that I have lurched wildly from talking about the quality of individual tracks to a commentary about David Gahan's songs on the album. This must say something about the impression that the rest of the unmentioned songs had made on me that I've had to change subjects. For sure, the likes of Suffer Well (A David Gahan song) and Lilian are nice and radio-friendly, but like French Fries, they are consumed and dispersed from memory the moment they evaporate from my senses. Satisfactory but unmemorable sensory feeds.

How would I rate Playing the Angel then?

To be honest here, I had been tempted to award it a 7/10 on the basis that DM is better here than they have been for a good number of years now, but to award that on a basis of relativity against a low benchmark is ultimately an insult. The truth is that the quality of songs here, whether stand-alone or compared to the high water mark set, are nondescript. From a band that had produced some outstanding songs during its existence, I believe we are surely entitled to expect a little more.

6/10

John Doe criticised on 10:01 AM.

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The Warning

For this reviewer, dance music is one genre of music that he loathes to comment on. This is because dance music is usually reviewed in terms of beats, textures and the tapestry of sounds that make up the feet-shuffling music that blares from one's speakers or headphones. Lyrics rarely come into the picture.

Dance music isn't exactly a form of music that you usually sit down on your couch to chill to and analyse, because the words (if any) that adorn the constructed soundscapes are usually just meaningless arbitrary phrases used to embroider the clothes of the beats beast. Emotion and/or intelligence is a commodity that is acutely lacking. Thankfully, this is something that cannot be said of Hot Chip's The Warning. For this is an album that offers much in both shifting one's feet and moving one's heart.

The Warning is Hot Chip's sophomore effort and I, admittedly, did not have the benefit of catching their debut to fully decipher their influences and direction. The band appears influenced by a myriad of dance heavyweights, of which their sounds the band seems to mix and concoct into a whole new recipe altogether. I could throw the names of New Order, Aphex Twin and Air into the mix, but it wouldn't be helpful as Hot Chip doesn't actually sound much like any of them. But whatever the influences may be, one thing is much in evidence. And that is, this band can write pop tunes...and they also have things to say, even if some of it is just plain prankish.

The album opens with Careful, a song that opens with a calming ambient swirl and then, out of nowhere, shifty beats and sound effects break their way into the fold and the number morphs into a jerkily funky number that would happily find its natural habitat nesting on a dance floor. This is a good introduction to the modus operandi which is to follow. And it is leads to the first of the album's centrepieces.

And I Was A Boy From School is a pop disco tune wrapped around fat, infectious beats and is impossible to dislike. While this observation could also, ostensibly, be applied to dozens of tunes by dozens of other dance groups, Hot Chip (or possibly vocalist Alexis Taylor) infuses this great bubbly crowd-pleaser with words that you would not normally associate with dance tunes. "And I was a boy from school, helplessly helping all the rules. And there was a boy at school, hopelessly wrestling all his fools.", Taylor croons. And then the chorus comes. "We try but we don't have long, we try but we don't belong." A song about social misfits for the hip dance-clubbing horde? Such ironic misplacement for a song that wears a sensitive heart on its sleeve for an audience that couldn't recognise one. Look After Me, a most blissfully sweet and sad love song continues much in the same vein. "Look after me and I will look after you. That's something we both forgot to do.", the chorus intones. It is the sound of a million broken hearts.

But, of course, a dance group couldn't have all blues in its palette. And you couldn't accuse Hot Chip of lacking cheek. Its hit, Over And Over, is a ridiculously kitschy mega-hook that repeats itself, well, over and over. "Over and over and over and over and over, like a monkey with a miniature cymbal." You would have to surmise that the simian must be pretty ingenious to come up with a melody like this. The monkey mischief is carried very much over to the second of the album's centrepieces, the title track. The Warning is a track so gentle that it hardly registers when Taylor threatens that "Hot Chip will break your legs, snap off your head. Hot Chip will put you down, under the ground". Yeah, Hot Chip is threatening its listeners well-being. The impertinence...

While the band's vulnerability and irreverence provides an X-factor that differentiates (and elevates) it from its dance contemporaries, this band is also skilled at formulating beats that move feet. And they dare to experiment with song structures and progressions that less talented groups might be well-advised to avoid. A good example would be the song, Colours. It begins with a wistful introduction before shuffling into a glorious sunshine ditty that would put a smile on the faces of many. Arrest Yourself similarly shape-shifts all over the place, offering melodic switches that are as much surprise as pleasure. While such changes in form and delivery can administer triumphs, it can also result in miscalculations like Tchaparian, a daft track that gives the impression that the band is either not half-interested in this effort or just trying to be too clever. Experimentation is not without its pitfalls.

It is, however, gratifying that no matter the mis-steps, the album does end on a high note with its strongest track and the third and final of its centrepieces, No Fit State. An atmospheric number that envelopes and then refuses to loosen its grip, its mantra that "I'm in no fit state, I'm in no fit shape. To fall in love with you, to make a record of my life. To lose any more than I need, to watch my fingers bleed. To bust my body up, to drink out of your cup. To act a fool in love, acting hard's been tough." is both devilish and honest all at once. No Fit State effortlessly and confidently encapsulates all that is good about The Warning. And there is a fair amount of good in this album.

7/10

John Doe criticised on 2:10 PM.

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Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not

It is difficult, no, make that nigh on impossible to review Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not without alluding to the massive amount of (over?) hype that has heralded the arrival of the Arctic Monkeys. By now, everyone would have known or maybe heard about the famous internet success saga of the band.

From playing a gig in a Sheffield pub called The Grapes where their music caught on with the audience, demo mp3s and assorted live recordings started circulating on the internet. Before long, interest in them rose and word about them grew exponetially, with the infamous British musical hacks speedily jumping onto the bandwagon. A record deal and a couple of No. 1 singles soon materialised on the horizon and thereafter, the Arctic Monkeys became the fastest and biggest selling Brit band in the land since God knows when.

Was the hype justified? It was a question which bothered me. NME saw fit to award Whatever a perfect 10/10. Most other Brit music writers didn't stray too far from blazoning it as something akin to a masterpiece. On the other side of the Atlantic, North American critics laughed at the lofty eulogies that came the way of the Monkeys and opined that the Monkeys offered nothing new and were plainly just another dime a dozen British band with Northern accents. So who was right?

For all the hype that besieged the band, raving about the band's raw energy and aptitude for a tune, the British music critics also seem to have expediently forgotten to mention the band's lack of dimension in its music, despite there being conspicuous changes of pace in the album, noticably Riot Van. There is a homogeneity that seems to course through the veins of Whatever, making it a tab arduous listening to an album that lurks mainly between furious punk and mid-tempo ska and which offers little ideas besides straight energy rush.

Talking about the songs themselves, the melodies can be a "hit or miss" affair. A typical example of a miss would be opener, The View from the Afternoon, which hurtles along pleasantly but lacks a distinctive hook. The rather dismal Perhaps Vampires is A Bit Strong But... and From the Ritz to the Rubble can also be rather grating.

As for the hits, the well-known Fake Tales of San Francisco is a mighty decent song, aided by a surprisingly addictive riff during its bridge and coda. Its only problem is that it doesn't really sound outstanding and I could think of a number of other Brit post-punk bands who can possibly do just as well, if not better. The Monkeys' other hit, I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor induces exactly the same feeling as well. And these are the hits! Maybe all that hype has brought expectations to an unreasonable level. Well, maybe, but let it be said that there are moments of beauty here, such as When the Sun Goes Down and the album does close with the rather brilliant A Certain Romance, which must suggest that this band is capable of better, greater things to come.

What the British reviewers got absolutely spot-on though, is their lauding of the voice and lyricism of 19 year-old lead singer, Alex Turner. Turner is, without doubt, the star of the show. Blessed with a lusty larynx that many rock vocalists would break a limb for, the South Yorkshire lad is sharp, observational and remarkably gifted in his vocabulary and intricate depiction of everyday life in Sheffield (or England?). One would be hard-pressed to find another 19 year-old as articulate as this lad. The potential and talent are hard to miss.

At the end of the day, the query remains. So who was right, the euphoric Brit hacks or the cynical North American journos? Rather than answer that, I put forward a couple of other pertinent questions:

Is potential alone worthy of a perfect score of 10/10?

And are the Monkeys really perceptibly better than other fellow post-punk bands in the market?

I would think the answer to both of these questions is "No" and so, it's a...

6.5/10

John Doe criticised on 3:03 PM.

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Black Holes & Revelations

The Americans just don't get it.

Muse is a band that draws sharply divided critiques, depending on which side of the Atlantic they originate from. An apposite example would be its latest LP Black Holes and Revelations. Most critics from the British Isles lauded it as an ambitious, grandiose piece of work that explored new soundscape horizons. The Yanks just remarked it to be pompous and perposterous. Who is right? I admit that one hardly aid one's own cause when one of your songs is ludicrously named Knights of Cydonia, but having said that, there is plenty to like in an effort that is, patently, Muse's most accessible to date.

Muse has always come across like The Bends meets Bohemian Rhapsody. A band that, somehow, decided OK Computer wasn't epic enough and so decided to go totally daft on synthesised orchestrations, keyboard flourishes and ear-splitting Metallica arpeggios. From its debut Showbiz to its last album Absolution (which finally broke America), Muse has never strayed from this modus operandi. Indeed, its sound has only gotten progressively tighter, more epic and arguably more over-the-top. It was something you either bought wholeheartedly or just despise. For me, the same old approach was approaching its sell-by date and beginning to sound rehashed to death. It was with much trepidation then, that I approached their latest.

The opener, Take A Bow, started (relatively) understated enough. Full of swirling keyboards and syntheised beats, with nary a guitar in sight, Matt Bellamy proceeded to mumble (rather than to typically screech) his indecipherable lyrics through a meat grinder. "Hmmm, something new, this could be promising...", I told myself. And then, of course, a wall of epic guitars comes crashing into the picture and it's "Same old, same old" then. A leopard just couldn't change its spots, could it? Maybe. Maybe not.

So I was rather surprised by the next track Starlight. Opening with the sound of grinding guitars, the delicate sounds of a piano then breaks the monotony and adds a pop touch that's almost brave, considering the source. It's Keane with guitar bite. It's pop. But most importantly, it's different.

Starlight is followed by the album's first single, the surprisely sexed-up Supermassive Black Hole, where crunching funk is met by Bellamy's Prince-impersonating falsettos. It's a form that Muse has never allowed its musical beast to take shape in and it's quite refreshing. Map of the Problematique continues in the vein of experimentation, sounding like a twisted Depeche Mode, only that David Gahan's masculine baritone is replaced by Bellmay's sinewy shrieks. And the sound is still even more densely layered than Depeche Mode would usually have it. It's still typical Muse overblown work but hey, it marks an offbeat approach.

After the strong opening, it is almost inevitable that the middle might seem to sag in comparison. Soldier's Poem, despite having its heart in the right place, sounds like a filler. Invincible is Muse-by-numbers. And then Assassin comes crashing in.

Assassin opens with (overly) aggressive guitar licks that left me groaning, "So they don't change, do they?" Well, they don't. But Assassin does have a chorus to die for. It's the closest they have come to (besides Exo-Politics) in replicating the formative baby-steps sound of their debut. And it's pretty good. One really does have to look at the fact that only two songs might sound like they have come from their debut that this band has progressed.

I have to disagree with critics who said that the album ends on a strong note. City of Delusion, despite surprising me with acoustic guitars, sounded like a typical Muse track by its end. Hoodoo is not worth mentioning and while Knights of Cydonia had many a critic proclaiming it to be Muse at their imperious best, to me it is simply an impervious mess. Forging a musical equivalent of a fantasy novel by creating a soundscape replete with galloping horses and what-have-yous might sound great on paper but on execution, it's just plain daft. This might explain why I'm not a Rush fan.

Muse is a band you either like or hate. It's rarely just an "ok". But Black Holes and Revelations sees the band creating a relatively more palatable sound that might reach and grab a larger audience for its music. Although the move has alienated some of its core listeners (these are the same people who would call Starlight and Supermassive Black Hole unpleasant sell-outs and adore Assassin to death), it is a sound strategic move that has also seen the band produce its strongest work yet.

Now, as to the question why American critics still do not dig Muse. I can only offer this theory. For too long, the Americans seem to mostly value truth, honesty and sincerity in their music. Which must be why they seem to more eagerly embrace earnest singer-songwriter types/bands and punk bands. This is also the main reason why American audiences usually seem to reject the more arch Brit bands such as Blur and Pulp in the past (Is Franz Ferdinand liked more by the Yanks for their infectious post-punk dance disco or their supreme archness?).

When it comes to Brit bands that sing about ridiculous stuff like aliens and flying saucers, the Americans simply scratch their heads and go "duh?!". Music does not always have to be rooted in reality. OTT imagination/theories can be as potent a muse as everyday occurrences/stories, and just as good.

But hey, the Americans just don't get it.

8/10

John Doe criticised on 12:27 PM.

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Ringleader Of The Tormentors

"Even now in the final hour of my life, I'm falling in love again" From "Life is a Pigsty"

Since the heady days of the legendary Smiths, Stephen Patrick Morrissey had not always produced work that is consistently rewarding or well-received. There were critics who said that his fans has outgrown his version of teen miserablism and that he was simply been left behind as time advanced. So it certainly came as surprise when, after a seven year hiatus, his last album "You Are The Quarry" was not only well-praised by many critics but also well-loved by his fans (and beyond?), becoming his best ever seller amongst his solo catalogue. It is little wonder then that his followup "Ringleader Of The Tormentors" became highly anticipated. Would the Mozzer continue his rejuvenation and create an even greater impression on the public's consciousness? Or would he revert to his old ways and disappoint his fans with his moaning and complaints?

Fans would, therefore, be mighty pleased to hear that "ROTT" continues much in the vein of "YATQ". In truth, I never saw much difference between "YATQ" and his previous works. It might have been slightly different in form but Morrissey never really changed when it came to subject matters closest to his heart. He was still miserable, droll, angry and desperately looking for love. But in "ROTT", it seems that Morrissey has finally found a resting place for his affections.

"ROTT" opens with the Middle-Eastern tinged "I Will See You in Far-off Places" that, as its style implies, is about conflicts in the Middle-East, especially the Iraq War, with the line "...and if the USA doesn't bomb you, I believe I will see you somewhere safe" particularly telling. Same old, same old then. After all, "YATQ" contained "America Is Not The World".

However, it is the next track, the Ennio Morricone assisted "Dear God Please Help Me" which signals a change in direction for the Mozzer. Majestic and touching, it talks about Morrissey finally finding love in Rome (where most of this album was recorded). While I do find the line "There are explosive kegs between my legs" a little comical, the final verse where Morrissey talks about his heart feeling free (and finding fulfilment) is unusually touching. Dynamite testicles aside, I can't help but feel happy the Master has finally managed to find some happiness and peace after seeking them for ages.

Lead single "You Have Killed Me" is a satisfying song, as is potential followup "The Youngest Was The Most Loved". But the central piece of the album is really the seven minute epic "Life Is A Pigsty". Hmmm. From the sound of the title, Morrissey obviously have not ditched his modus operandi of being insufferably miserable...but then again, he does warn that "it's the same SOS with brand new broken fortunes. I am the same underneath". And gloriously so, I might add. Sung against a background of rain and thunder, Morrissey is in fine form. And the final line about him falling in love again in his final hours, that's unusual optimism expressed by the man.

Unlike what some critics have said about the album, I disagree with their assessment that the strongest material lies in the second half. Not when it contains fillers like "I'll Never Be Anybody's Hero Now" and "On The Streets I Ran". Nor can I agree that this is the Mozzer's heaviest album besides "Southpaw Grammar". Critics seem to have conveniently forgotten the muscular hillbilly rock of "Your Arsenal". But is it the Mozzer's best though? Well, close to it...

Produced by legendary glam-rock producer Tony Visconti, "ROTT" represents another move in the right direction for a man who had seemed mired in mediocrity and self-pity. While Visconti must be credited for the sound of the LP, it is Morrissey himself who has made the biggest change and who must take credit for how good this is. Finding love has probably been the best thing to happen to Morrissey and the album closer "At Last I am Born" is an indicator of Morrissey's new found confidence and dare I say, life.

"It's remarkable what you can learn when you are born"

It's remarkable indeed.

7/10

John Doe criticised on 6:25 PM.

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