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ARIEL PINK Pom Pom 4AD
One of the inherent risks of being in a band like Radiohead is that any further work bearing your name will be judged in its overbearing critical light. Oftentimes this weight of expectation is enough to deter artists from going it alone, yet Philip Selway is the third member of the superband to take that plunge – not a bad ratio in a group with only five members. This commitment to pursuing extra-curricular musical projects is certainly worthy of praise. However, while Thom Yorke’s commensurable musicianship and experience as a lead vocalist can (usually) be relied upon to produce material not far from Radiohead’s own standard, a couple of listens to Phil Selway’s debut effort Weatherhouse leaves one lasting impression – there’s a reason he’s not ordinarily a singer. And Selway isn’t so much a bad singer, just a rather bland one. The instrumentation across the 10 tracks is, for the most part, pretty robust. Opener Coming Up For Air is compelling in its ponderous broodiness; It Will End In Tears has a genuinely rousing, string-backed finale; while the drumming on Around Again is – as you might expect – both dense and skilful. However, for the most part the songwriting feels shallow and undeveloped, with Selway’s naive lyrics and predisposition towards twee melodies resulting in something that is, ultimately, a little lacking in impact. From a new artist on the scene, Weatherhouse might seem like a competent debut with room for real promise; from an artist as well travelled as Selway, it’s a little too predictable in its choices to be really memorable.
For a group of psych-theatricals who’ve managed to cultivate such mystery, Goat O'Carroll's statements about the making of Commune in last month's Crack were confrontationally facetious. To say that the band "just did some music … some drumbeats, some riffs" consciously underplays the tremendous clamour that the masked band from the semi-fictional Swedish town of Korpilombolo muster. And yet, as we become engulfed in album opener Talk to God, it’s hard to deny that the initial joy of Commune is sparked by the fact that it picks up just where 2012's World Music left off. The wailed vocals over harmonised thousand-mile riffs summon a similarly physical reaction to the band's debut single Goatman two years ago. And the characters in the Goat mythology rear their horned heads again – where World Music had Goatman, Goathead and Goatlord, here we are introduced to the latest members of the commune: Goatchild and the Goatslaves, all layered voices in a continuing, farflung narrative. But Goat are a progressive band, and certainly there is a progression to be found. On single Words the band employ an elephantine, robotic stomp that's more tangibly danceable than the freakouts that Goat inspire more generally, though the everpresent wah pedal still shreds addictively overhead. That Goat have sought to build upon the groundwork of their debut rather than rip up their timeless template shows a confidence and an apparent nonchalance born from the riotous success of those first steps. The resolutely unknowable individuals at Goat’s core have created a sequel to World Music that packs an even harder, weirder punch.
Following the delightfully profane LP Eat My Fuck under his I.B.M alias and the irreverent mixtape The Worst DJ Ever, both released earlier this year, Hieroglyphic Being's latest full length finds him on predictably noisy and eccentric form. Released via Planet Mu, The Seer of Cosmic Visions is a compilation of unreleased Hieroglyphic Being tracks rather then an album proper, presenting Jamal Moss's work in a more edited and curated context than we’re used to seeing. Yet in the most part tracks feel cohesive, leaning towards the more ambient, or at least, less abrasive, side of Moss's output. By now we all know what to expect from Hieroglyphic Being, and there is plenty on The Seer Of Cosmic Visions for fans of mutated jacking techno – but there is also something fresh to be found. There is a feeling of stasis – tracks start, are held in place, and then are over. But once you submit to the rather skewed notion of structure at play, it’s possible to appreciate a tangible sense of a journey guided by the Being’s whims. The title track and Letters From The Edge are built on melodic foundations, Space Is The Place emerges as a take on new age, and Letters From The Edge is constructed around a heavy jacking beat and a slowly building piano figure. But even in these forays into genre, Hieroglyphic Being remains entirely unpredictable, wouldbe pounding kicks have no low end, distortion snaps from every corner and rhythmic elements fall completely out of sync. The music of Hieroglyphic Being is love-hate. Moss himself thrives on both the positive and negative reactions to his music with the borderline arrogance of what you might call a ‘true artist.’
It’s not easy to think up a band name that doesn’t make you come across as a pretentious little shit. By itself, and with no accompanying musical reputation, they almost uniformly sound ridiculous; the juvenile, pseudointellectualism that you aspire to amounts to nothing. Bass Drum Of Death, before they’d accrued three albums beneath their belts, probably received a great deal of this snobbishness and scoffing: it’s only with increased listens that you realise what an apt choice in moniker John Barrett has made Their third record, as ever, goes as hard as their name befits, but the lo-fi scuzziness of the band’s previous two albums now receded as Bass Drum Of Death’s garage rock reaches new, anthemic heights. In fact, this is no longer garage rock, not for shit. Cuts like Electric have the sort of denimclad chug usually the sole reserve of Thin Lizzy or Steppenwolf. They are good at it, but things do get pretty road-movie-ish at times, exemplified again with bizarre accuracy by album closer Route 69. This is not necessarily a bad thing, and there is a trend for this sort of retromania across the board, but those expecting the riotous punk of Bass Drum Of Death’s albums of yesteryear are in for a leathery slap.
Concerted oddball to the last, Ariel Pink’s first solo-titled venture, the double-stacked Pom Pom, sees his well-worn formula finally run out of steam. 17 tracks, 69 minutes, but scant substance it feels like the work of a man out of time. Multiple voices emanate from Pink’s role as the album’s central protagonist, slipping between characters, actively seeking to retain his creative enigma. Kim Fowley is invited along to add a playful touch on Plastic Raincoats In The Pig Parade, its zany ‘oh yeah’s’ painting a Moldy Peaches shade to their storytelling, rather than the psychprankster reference points they musically reach to. Jell-o jingles as if an advertorial for the sugary US staple: “Everyone eats white bread/ That’s why they’re all dead” Ariel regurgitates, uber-speed babbles jumping in between verses. White Freckles fires out with riffs so fast and shrewd they sound straight off the credit sequence of Miami Vice. “She got them at the tanning salon” he spectates into a slow-tuned, strut-worthy groove, while on Lipstick he flatly breathes out to ask “Where are the girls?”. Not Enough Violence also trickles into the outlandish and squirmingly uncomfortable, his vocal almost inaudible, apart from the avowal of “Penetration time tonight.” You hope it’s all in jest, but then you awkwardly realise it’s not. The unbearably wacky Dinosaur Carebear revels in its dippy carnivalesque skittery, while lead track Put Your Number In My Phone opts for the flipside, soft-rock division of Pom Pom, standing out as a minor joy amongst the befuddled, juvenile, borderlinepatronising rest. Flashback-worthy One Summer Night and Exile On Frog Street musically resound as if worthy of cult indie-pop classics, but come bathed amongst the creepy – allthemore pointed in the context of Mr. Pink’s own creep-like tendencies – and lukewarm. But Pom Pom’s fun and romance is drained by a conceited stretch of triviality and a growing realisation that, even if you are in on the joke, it’s just not that funny anymore.
! Alex Gwillam
! Jack Bolter
! Thomas Painter
! Jon Clark
! Leah Jade Connolly
GOAT Commune Rocket Recordings
PHILIP SELWAY Weatherhouse Bella Union
HIEROGLYPHIC BEING The Seer Of Cosmic Visions Planet Mu
BASS DRUM OF DE ATH Rip This Innovative Leisure
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JESSIE WARE Tough Love PMR/Island Whenever an artist is celebrated for their humility and simplicity they can be cursed with a fanbase who might lose interest the second the sound ventures into more ambitious territoty. On Tough Love Jessie Ware masterfully escapes this trap by widening the lens on her panoramic songwriting without losing a touch of focus. Her vocal on the title track ricochets off a fluttering beat as she discusses the weariness of unrequited affection, while Say You Love Me grapples with similar themes of lovesickness and even employs the crescendo-enhancing abilities of a gospel choir. Moments like this can either be seen as schmaltzy gimmicks from a major label popstar or careful – even bold – juxtapositions from a songwriter who soaks up as much TLC as she does Clams Casino. Ware is self-effacing enough to allow her voice to be diluted against the whistling synth of Desire and bold enough to fully embrace the over-sentimentality of Champagne Kisses. This LP won’t remap pop’s outlook in the way Devotion did, but it doesn’t feel like it’s trying to. It’s a record that looks to the skies with its feet on the ground. Not necessarily revolutionary, then, but blissfully carefree. ! Duncan Harrison