I should acknowledge upfront that I would never have heard this song if it hadn’t been written about by Pete Paphides in the Beside the B-Side blog he and Bob Stanley wrote very sporadically between 2010 and 2012. Possibly it’s not dead and just sleeping. I hope one day it comes back.
Woodwind, percussion, a sitar drone. When it starts, Colorama’s Turnham Green sounds cut from the same cloth as the Portico Quartet’s Life Mask, which I think I’ve written about here before. But the moody, free-time intro is actually an 80-second fake-out. When the song begins, it has two obvious precursors: in mood, it strongly recalls the sun-drenched psychedelia of Donovan in his Sunny Goodge Street phase, a whimsical, light psychedelia with just the merest hint of late-afternoon shadows; while in rhythmic feel (and in its chords too), it’s a dead ringer for Tim Buckley’s Strange Feelin’.
This sort of bucolic English acousticism – and for all that Turnham Green is self-evidently a city song, set at the point where inner London starts to bleed into Outer London, it is a bucolic song; and for all that Carwyn Ellis is self-evidently Welsh, it is an English song – was a staple of 1970s progressive/alternative music. Harvest Records (an EMI imprint), home to such artists as Kevin Ayers and Barclay James Harvest, was its ground zero, Witchseason (Joe Boyd’s management/production stable) an important forerunner. This kind of music is durable, somehow. It keeps coming back. It might disappear for a few years (the coked-up laddish 1990s were an inhospitable decade for it), but it always seems to return, with a faraway look in its eye and joint in its pocket.
I like the idea that there’s a form of music just floating out there on the breeze ready to be plucked out of the air by any songwriter who reaches for it. Indeed, Turnham Green is not all that indicative of the usual style of Colorama’s main man, Carwyn Ellis, which is as likely to feature vintage monophonic synths as jazzy piano and strummed acoustic guitar. Sometimes his work recalls the smashed and slightly scary Beach Boys of Smiley Smile. Sometimes he’s a Les Cousins troubadour. Sometimes he’s a Super Furry Doppelganger. Turnham Green, such a perfect little moment, sounds as if he just reached out his hand and found it resting there. And if it’s not quite of the same mood and feel as the rest of the band’s debut album (Cookie Zoo), I don’t think it says anything negative about Ellis to say that, at least early in Colorama’s journey, he didn’t quite know what he wanted to be. Stylistic consistency is overrated anyway, as I’m sure you agree: the last refuge of the unimaginative.