Tag Archives: My Bloody Valentine

Memory Cassette – Hurtling

Here’s the first of a couple of posts about some new music…

If you were lucky enough to have gigs playing additional guitar for Graham Coxon, Charlotte Hatherley and My Bloody Valentine, what kind of band would you form as a vehicle for your own music?

Jen Macro, faced with exactly that decision, went with a power trio. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you? However satisyfing, however much a privilege, it might be to get called in to provide extra firepower for celebrated guitar wranglers like Coxon, Hatherley and MBV’s Kevin Shields, when playing your own music you’d want all that sonic real estate for yourself. To just go out there and blast without worrying about stepping on anyone’s toes.

Hurtling’s debut album, Future From Here, came out a couple of weeks ago, and has already gotten some strong reviews and good airplay. Rightly so: it’s a top-to-bottom solid record of guitar-heavy pop songs in the vein of Last Splash-era Breeders and Bakesale-era Sebadoh. Which is, to say the least, my kind of thing. Especially when it features an awful lot of that guitar.

Memory Cassette, the band’s new single (I assume it’s a single, as it has a video), is my favourite track on the album, and there’s nothing I don’t like about it. It’s all brilliant: the sparing but well-chosen use of vocal harmony to lift key lines, the whisper-to-a-scream quality of Macro’s delivery when she sings “Get set, go!” as the band drop out for a brief second then pile back in, the “From here” backing vocal by Simon Kobayashi, whose bass playing might be the band’s secret weapon, Jon Clayton’s drum part, which knows exactly how exciting a four-stroke snare fill can be when the band’s going headlong into the chorus, and – most of all – Macro’s absolutely enormous guitar sound.

Future From Here is a great-sounding record generally, but the guitar tones are particularly cool, a product of both the tones Macro dials in (a function of instrument, amplifier and pedal choices) and the way drummer and recording engineer Jon Clayton captures them. Jon runs a studio called One Cat near Brixton (if you’re a London-based musician and don’t know about One Cat, you’re missing out), and he’s an excellent engineer I’ve had the pleasure of working with several times over the last five years or so*. On Memory Cassette, with the arrangement stripped down to drums, bass and a single guitar track (the bass and guitar are panned off left and right), Hurtling are at their most primal and exciting, and the quality of the sounds and playing is clearest.

I’ve not seen them play live yet, but I can’t wait.

Here’s the video for Memory Cassette.

*Jon recorded basic tracks on some of the songs on James McKean‘s and Yo Zushi‘s recent albums. More recently, he recorded all the drums, bass and scratch guitar tracks for the upcoming third James McKean record, and being a multi-talented, Captain Manyhands kind of guy, played a beautiful cello part on one of my songs from the EP I’m working on with Melanie Crew, which I absolutely cannot wait to share with you.

 

Coast is Clear – Curve

Bands, all bands, have context. Curve’s context is not the plants and refineries of Grangemouth, like the Cocteau Twins, or the low-achieving, living-in-penury, C86 world of My Bloody Valentine. Curve’s context is Dave Stewart and Annie Lennox

The Eurythmics were not cool in 1990 when Curve formed. They weren’t cool when Stewart was making cheesy-listening smooth-jazz/pop crossover hits with Candy Dulfer. They weren’t cool when Lennox decided to measure herself against Aretha Franklin and didn’t even have the humility to find herself wanting. If they had, briefly, been cool, five minutes either side of releasing Sweet Dreams in 1983, they had already fallen from cool by the time they hired a bass player called Dean Garcia for their live band, later the same year.

Garcia hung in with his insufferable bandmates until Stewart introduced him to a young singer called Toni Halliday in 1985. They formed a duo called State of Play, playing post-New Pop, synthesiser-based pop music, with huge programmed drums and funk-influenced rhythm guitars. Their music lacked much in the way of spark or originality, and its grim, joyless efficiency (learned at the feet of Lennox and Stewart, no doubt) failed to find an audience.

Halliday – ambitious, photogenic and, truth to tell, a bit of a chancer – then went for it a second time, now as a solo artist. Her solo album was in the mould of Roxette and post-Go-Gos Belinda Carlisle – huge drums (again), pop-rock guitars with the odd squeally metal solo, and big harmonies in the choruses. It was a better example of its type than State of Play, but again, it sank without trace. At this point, probably no one in popular music was carrying more baggage than Toni Halliday.

In one of the most enormous stylistic about-turns in pop history, Halliday once again hooked up with Dean Garcia, this time as Curve. Their guitars were loud, the vocals were mixed low, the drum loops were obvious. They were a shoegaze band.

Shoegaze was an easy bandwagon to jump on, an easy sound to adopt, and Curve were pros. All they needed to do was stand still, look down at their feet, appear somewhat ill at ease, and play tremendously loud. Halliday and Garcia had been around the block a few times each, they had contacts and by now they knew what they were doing in the studio and on stage, so the this shoegaze thing was almost too easy. They welded furious guitar noise to oddly insistent melodies, unlike their contemporaries (Slowdive for instance), many of whose songs are so evanescent they practically fade away while you listen to them. Perhaps they adopted their new sound too studiously. Maybe they’d have been bigger if they’d dialled back the guitars a bit – listening to the chorus of Coast is Clear is like listening to music in a wind tunnel, particularly in its viciously over-compressed remastered form. As it was, they stayed a cult act, best remembered for doing pretty much everything Garbage ever did, five or six years before the latter act formed. By that time, Curve themselves were chasing the big-beat trend, leaving behind the wind-tunnel guitars in favour of an aggressive rock-dance hybrid, as in thrall to Nine Inch Nails and the Chemical Brothers as My Bloody Valentine.

Never respected in the music press, who knew all about Halliday’s big-hair period and Garcia’s Eurythmy, Curve nevertheless received an after-the-event blessing from the King of the Jazzmaster himself – Kevin Shields – who played on their mid-noughties comeback album, when they returned to guitar-led shoegazing. Garcia (now in his mid-fifties) can’t leave it alone – he’s in a shoegaze/electronic duo with Halliday’s daughter, Rose Berlin (less vixenish than Halliday, perhaps, but very obviously her mother’s daughter). I don’t know if that’s sweet or creepy.

curve

No one knows – Olivier Libaux, featuring Inara George

I should hate this. Easy listening covers of hard rock songs. Hard rock covers of dance songs. Dance covers of jazz standards. Urrgh. Any sense of joy and discovery and emotional connection gets flattened by the concept, by the unspoken attitude behind the project, which is always one of three mindsets: Look how good this music would be if it adhered to our aesthetic norms (the impulse behind Travis’s Britney cover and Alien Ant Farm’s Smooth Criminal); Look how clever I am, that I can take a song in that style and play it in this style (the impulse behind this); or Look at me and my funny arrangements of pop songs (Richard Cheese and so on).

When the Queens of the Stone Age started, they derived their effect from playing repetitive riffs at punishing volume (and I do mean punishing – no other gig I’ve seen has come close to the eardrum-shattering, stomach-churning volume of QOTSA back in 2001, although I’ve never seen MBV or Dinosaur Jr), creating a sort of heavy metal version of Kraftwerk – robot rock, as Josh Homme called it.

But even by the time of second album Rated R, they were moving away from that. It became clear to Homme, I think, that the band’s real power lay in the distance between the aggression of the music and his calm, clean, disconnected-sounding vocals. Homme doesn’t shout hoarsely and passionately. He sings calmly, in rather a high-pitched voice, while the band around him batter their instruments senseless. That tension lies at the heart of all their great early songs: Regular John, Mexicola, The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret, Better Living Through Chemistry, In the Fade (although Lanegan is Homme’s proxy on that one) and No One Knows. During Nick Oliveri’s time with the band, his gonzo vocal performances were effective because of their contrast with Homme’s reigned-in style; without Homme’s blankness to play off, they’d have simply been ludicrous (and as it is they’re still pretty silly).

There’s no need to remake a QOTSA record where the music sounds as disconnected, as lifeless, as the vocal. Or, if you are going to make elevator-music backing tracks, get powerful, sweaty voices to sing the songs. Get, I don’t know, Tina Turner or someone, to stamp and bellow her way through them. Get Tom Jones to come over and roar the songs like an enraged Old Testament prophet.

And yet… I like this. I shouldn’t. On paper it shouldn’t work. I shouldn’t just dislike it; I should hate it. This sort of thing never works as real music. And yet it, on this occasion, it does. Olivier Libaux, the French songwriter behind Les Objets Bain and Nouvelle Vague (who have done the same in the past to the Talking Heads), has made a full record of this stuff, with a parade of guest singers: the Bird & the Bee singer Inara George (daughter of Lowell George from Little Feat) on No One Knows, plus Susan Dillane from Woodbine, Ambrosia Parsley from Shivaree, Skye from Morcheeba and so on. Since all the singers give similar performances, with no real outliers in tone or approach, there’s more than a whiff of markets being targeted; get a guest singer and you can sell your record to that singer’s fanbase; get 10 guest singers… There’s more than a whiff of cynicism about the whole enterprise, and still I can’t bring myself to hate the damn thing.

It’s a strange feeling to like a record that seems to have been designed specifically to annoy you. Yet here it is, and while I’m certain I couldn’t stand a whole album of it, I do like it. I’d tell you why, but I honestly can’t.

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Inara George and Josh Homme – They don’t know. I don’t know. I guess no one knows