Given the paucity of non-chain record stores in Canberra, it is surprising what turns up on the shelves at the local libraries. Here’s the latest selection:
“Better Shred Than Dead: The Dick Dale Anthology”: the first disc of this two-disc retrospective rocks (although Link Wray is my artist of choice in this department). The second disc, covering the Dick Dale renaissance of the 1990s, adds not much to the first disc except higher fidelity; it also can’t help but suffer from the presence of one Stevie Ray Vaughan, much loved by bearded men who use words like “chops” and “licks”, but who in my opinion was strong on craft but sadly lacking in art.
Lisa Gerrard and Patrick Cassidy, “Immortal Memory”: not the first time I’ve borrowed this. At previous attempts I hadn’t been able to see past the idea of this being an extension of Dead Can Dance. And I suppose in some ways it is: you wouldn’t mistake Lisa Gerrard’s voice for anybody else’s. But reading it in that way, it fell short of expectations. This time around, I have been able to appreciate it for what it is: a compelling song cycle in the classical tradition, but with a definite Irish feel to it. Which, obviously, tells you nothing. This record is a delicate, precious thing, which quietly convinces you to give it the time and attention it needs for its beauteous charms to slowly unfold before you.
The Free Design, “You Could Be Born Again”: undoubtedly the pick of this bunch. The Free Design are mostly known, of course, for their purported influence on Stereolab; a theory which is parrotted so much that it is as if, if you had all the Free Design records, you would see nothing at all novel in the ’Lab. Which is, of course, a load of cobblers. You can hear plenty else in Stereolab, from the minimalists to the Swell Maps, from the Velvet Undergound to Suicide. None of which, by any stretch, have any connection, musically at least, whatsoever to the Free Design. At least, not on the strength of this record, which I think was their first, from 1968. This album sits fairly comfortably inside a circle bordered by, let’s see, the Seekers, Sergio Mendes and Brasil 66, Os Mutantes, and any number of records under the banner of Phase 4 Stereo, but with a touch of Van Dyke Parks thrown in to keep it just difficult enough to have remained slightly under the radar of popular consciousness. The arrangements and harmonies are unfaultable. And their version of “California Dreamin’” is up there with the best. But to come back to this whole Stereolab/Free Design straw man, the more I listen to this disc the more I suspect that a better modern comparison would be Broadcast, and in particular “Ha Ha Sound”, in which that band postulate a world in which 60s nostalgia would bypass all of the usual suspects in favour of the early electronic artists, Stockhausen, The Fifth Dimension, and European soundtrack music.
The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, “The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion”: JSBE, I find, are much like a visit from your in-laws (note: I didn’t say my in-laws). It’s good to have them around, but it’s also nice to see the back of them. And yet when they’ve gone you kind of wish they’d come back again. Weird.
“The Late Great Daniel Johnston: Discovered Covered”: disclaimer: I have always been a bit uncomfortable with the whole notion of outsider artists in general, and with the cult of Daniel Johnston in particular. Is it okay to derive pleasure out of the product of someone else’s mental illness? And yet the roll call of the great and the good on this tribute album surely speaks some kind of volumes about the quality of his songs. And in the hands of “actual musicians” they do scrub up rather well. The packaging suggests Johnston’s full blessing, so I am putting aside my misgivings for the time being. It’s nice to hear Calvin Johnston’s basso profundo again after all these years, for example; while Beck, M. Ward, Tom Waits, Bright Eyes and Eels are there for the benefit of the hipster cogniscenti. “Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Your Grievience [sic]” is a gorgeous song no matter what its provenance.
Hood, “Outside Closer”: having listened to this four or five times, I find myself unable to commit any of it to memory. Where does it go? I can’t say I dislike it. Quite the opposite. Maybe I have reached saturation point. Influence corner: the gold standard of post-rock, Tortoise’s “djed”; The Sea and Cake; Four Tet.
Pulp, “We Love Life”: in this busy world in which we live, “Hits” is all you really need of Pulp. No more - but certainly no less, I hasten to add, in case you took this as some kind of put-down.
Mission of Burma, “Signals, Calls and Marches”: over the years I have probably discarded more Mission of Burma records than you have ever owned. Unlike most records I have gotten rid of, I haven’t yet lived to regret having done so. Once again I can’t pinpoint the problem. If I said that the CD version of their live album, “The Horrible Truth about Burma”, was the one record of theirs that has ever come close to being indispensable, would I be saying anything?
Casiotone For The Painfully Alone, “Twinkle Echo”: if I hadn’t spent much of the second half of the 1980s lost in a world of K Records, the Cannanes, and Wayne Davidson’s mostly cassette-only Toytown label, I’m sure I would find CFTPA fresh and exciting. (Plus I would now be able to lead some kind of normal life. Thanks, fellas.)
