Gosh, it feels like only yesterday that we last had one of
these. When, in fact, it must have been ages ago: I was only 49 then ...
"Feel It All Around", by Washed Out. Otherwise
known as the theme music from "Portlandia", the show that skewers
hipsters from the inside. To borrow a line from Whit Stillman, some of them think
it's a documentary.
"Wishing You Were Here", by Chicago. From Portland
to Chicago (see what I did there?). The calling card for this song reads:
backing vocals by Al Jardine, Carl and Dennis Wilson. The Moog line is a bit
weird, and, yes, I know, it's Chicago, but oh, those backing vocals ...
"Dream Captain", by Deerhunter. Deerhunter are no
Beach Boys, but you can't deny that Bradford Cox has as fine an ear for melody
as any songwriter of the "modern era".
"Gun", by Emiliana Torrini. From the album
"Me and Armini", another song from which appeared on an ealier
playlist. I am mesmerised by the cavernous largeness of the electric guitar on
this song. I should probably just go out and buy the album.
"Tube Stops and Lonely Hearts", by Annie. It's not far from Iceland to Sweden, but the distance from the previous song to
this one is like the journey from out of the darkness and into the light. Which
might well not be even remotely grammatical. I hope nobody is watching.
"All That Matters", by Kolsch. What happens is, Kompakt keep tossing out these perfectly crafted pop songs in the
guise of dancefloor fillers. Don't be fooled.
"Bipp", by Sophie. You can make pop songs out of
the most unlikely of materials. This, for example, sounds like what you would
get if you had sat down in 2013 to make a sequel to "Warm
Leatherette" using most of the same raw materials. It sounds just as harsh
as that, and just as in your face, but you can also carry it around in your
head for days.
"Would You Believe", by The Hollies. I just
mis-typed this as "Wold You Believe". That would make no sense at
all, obviously, but wold is one of my favourite words. I wouldn't go so far as
to say that this is one of my favourite songs, but it is very good, with its
George Martin-esque ever-so-slightly avant garde string arrangement, its Bee
Gees-esque vocals, and its Scott Walker-esque sense of drama. That's a lot of
esques.
"Take It Easy My Brother Charlie", by Astrud
Gilberto. It is always a pleasure to listen to the honeyed vocals of Astrud
Gilberto. The song you (probably) know. The version you (possibly) don't. What
are you waiting for?
"Besame Mucho", by Apollo 100. This month's WTF
moment.
"Girl You Move Me", by Cane and Able. The first
couple of minutes of this monster track come on like some serious Funkadelic doolally.
Gradually it morphs into the kind of soul/funk thing that wouldn't be out of
place on your blacksploitation soundtrack of choice. So it's all things to all
people, really.
"Remember to Remember", by Rick Holmes. Actually,
maybe this is this month's WTF moment. Who can tell? Nine minutes of slow
groove that doesn't once deviate from its chosen path in all of that time,
augmented by some very tasty synth noodling, and all the while operating in the
service of Rick Holmes's recitation of lines / titles from various notables, from
John Coltrane to Stevie Wonder to Sydney Poitier, ending with the plaintive cry
of "How long will it take?". Recorded in 1981, it's like the Civil
Rights movement never happened. Produced by Roy Ayers, no stranger to
blacksploitation soundtracks himself.
"Poor Wayfaring Stranger", by Shelton Kilby. The
groove on this might also suggest blacksploitation soundtracks, but don't be
fooled: it is actually from an album of gospel music. If church sounded like
this, I could, just possibly, be saved. What? What's that? It's too late? Damn.
(Oops.)
"Water Wheel", by Steve Gunn. The title of this
charming instrumental brings back memories of one of John Elliott's less
successful business ventures. ("Wow, that guy's got a big nose", said
the 14-year-old recently, on having a glimpse of the great man during a promo for
one of those "grumpy old men" television programmes I can no longer watch
on account of their being too close to home.) This is, of course, sheer
coincidence and of no relevance whatsoever to anything. The appearance of
Helena Espvall, of Espers (who have been much too quiet of late), on this album
is more to the point, and suggests loosely where this music might be coming
from: a generation of kids who grew up listening to John Fahey records, and to
the whole psych / rock / folk late-sixties UK axis, but who, unlike recent
predecessors bearing the "freak folk" and/or New Weird America tag, have
chosen what to my ears is the preferred balance between Pentangle, Fairport
Convention and Steeleye Span, on the one hand, and The Incredible String Band,
on the other. But what do I know?
"Yuba Reprise", by Date Palms. English music of a
particular type from the late sixties and early seventies continues, as this
and the previous song illustrate, to provide a rich seam from which young prospectors, from generation to generation, continue to dig up gleaming nuggets. This song draws from a different lode, the same one, perhaps, that Spacemen 3 hit upon in the course of their own excavations 25 years previously. Well, as we say
here much too often, "it's all good".
"The Viaduct (Kid Loco Remix)", by The Pastels. No
matter how much music you listen to, there will always be vast tracts of arable
musical land that you haven't had the chance to harvest. (Seems to be metaphor month around these parts.) Like, I know nothing
about The Pastels. There, I said it. And anyway, I suspect they don't sound
much like this. A languid 4/4 beat eventually trails off into wispy clouds of,
um, bliss. It's a perfect way to finish this thing off.
