the Clean
Unknown Country CD
Flying Nun. 346.
by Keith McLachlan.
December 1, 1996.
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Only the third proper lp in the Clean's 15 year career, this lp has
the feel of a musical sketchbook, where sometimes disparate ideas are
combined to form songs that are usually on balance clever and always
interesting. Unknown Country differs from its predecessor, 1994's
Modern Rock in that the sound is less dominated by drummer Hamisch
Kilgour, so the casual, dark groove of Modern Rock has been
replaced
with a more artistic, experimental mode. The vocals are spread out
equally among the three members and David Kilgour's guitar if not
dominant, comes back into play on several songs. The opening
instrumental track "Wipe me, I'm lucky" is just the sort of song only
the Clean can muster, with a simple guitar line, acentuated by
harmonizing vocals and a resonant cymbal starting the album on a
diverse trail. Only on "Twist Top" and "Chumpy" are ghosts of the
past reflected, and still if perhaps they are filled with less spark
than gems from the past, they make it clear that the Clean have indeed
cornered the market on charm.
the Clientele
A Fading Summer CD-EP
March. Mar060.
by Keith Mclachlan.
July 6, 2000.
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They don't sound anything like Belle and Sebastian and
more like it the Clientele are not even fans of that
glasgow mob. They sound like Richard Davies fronting
the Moles which is silly since Richard Davies did
actually front the Moles. But when he did so he
didn't sound like he does now and the Moles didn't
sound like the Clientele either.
I suppose a more obvious starting point for comparisons is either Bowie or Barret recorded in an echo chamber backed up by the most minimal of musical accompaniments. Sketchbook guitar riffs, rattled tambourines and an undercarriage of simple rhythms assemble to form something at once ghostly, magnificent and stirring, really. Balloons in the sky, bicycles and Mr Jones are given a mythic air by the charms that amble from Alistair Clienteles mouth to your ear. How odd then that the next big thing is truly and utterly wonderful.
the Clientele
Lost Weekend EP CD-EP
Acuarela. nois 020.
by Keith Mclachlan.
April 14, 2002.
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I can, rather easily actually, imagine the gnashing of
the choppers in the mouth of Alasdair of the Customers
when he records a new song and realizes it is
incredibly tuneful and, well, pop. I bet he thinks he
is somewhere along the line between eccentrics and
wackos with his dreams of surrealism and umbrellas and
dissection tables but sadly he has ths strange
capacity for writing instantly catchy numbers which
seem to sacrifice any hope for credibility among those
devoted to admiring the tuneless. Even with the avant
garde dressing down these songs receive by way of
dissonant piano tones and field recordings interwoven
there is an unmistakable amount of popular genius on
view. They probably sound exactly like some obscure
60s band but I don't know which, they are treading a
light fleet path towards a sound all their own really.
The Mrs. says it is more Galaxie 500 than any of the previous The Customers releases and I might agree especially with the featured presence of the falsetto and the insistence on placing references to rain in nearly every song but then comes the marching/waltz number 'Kelvin Parade' which greatly improves on previous versions of this style in their pop armament and I can't place a reference further back than the Customers own past. I also find it interesting that they likely use more effects on the vocals than on the guitars cause there is no way any human naturally has a voice like this, or if he does he probably doesn't look like the Customers' lead singer because he looks a bit too much like a Blockbuster clerk to have such a fascinatingly interesting dark personna. Maybe they should only release EPs and singles cause they are on such a winning streak that pausing to record a full-length might not be in the Customers' best interest.
the Clientele
Suburban Light CD
Merge. mrg187.
by Keith Mclachlan.
January 16, 2001.
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I wonder if those lucky enough to have voices that can
make people tingle are born with them, or do they have
to work for years to develop them into instruments of
emotional manipulation? Did Alasdair Maclean simply
open his mouth one day and instantly realize his voice
was ghostly, magnificent and romantic? On the
strength of the evidence of this LP/Compilation I'd
have to say no.
'A Fading Summer' was a wonderful ep, it made me return to my days as a shoegazing past when the four song ep was the source of a constant stream of youthful thrills. Upon release of records from 'Sunburst' to 'Today Forever, my life was continually being defined by the four song ep. Now of course the four song ep has effectively been banned by regulatory dictate in England and so the Clientele do the next best thing by releasing their "debut". But it isn't really because all but three of the songs released here have seen the light of day before now, and truthfully it is actually the exclusions that are more glaring than the inclusion of the so-called rarities, where is 'Driving South' or '6am Morningside'?.
Early Clientele songs, nearly all of which are present here, seem, ultimately, to be defined by their production values which, during most points of their infancy, seem to have specialized in making records as thin and tinny as those which have ever been made. Alasdair's voice sounds a bit wayward on a lot of the songs, as if he knows he possesses an emotional MX missile but at the moment he only wanted a flashlight in the darkness. Following that mode then many of the songs here are very nearly bad and the mood is all too similar as well, for the same four or five notes are plucked atop a shuffling jazzy beat for most of the record and it gets somewhat tiresome by the end of the day. Still the best songs are those that have been released most recently including 3 of the 4 songs on 'A Fading Summer' and 'I Want You More Than Ever'. Whether this means these are examples of their most recent songwriting output is unknown to me but if that is the case then this record will soon be more easily characterized as an archaeological document than a definitive opening statement.
They have the voice, and the surrealism/automatic writing would have once appealed more to me, but for now it is simply the voice, and if Alasdair can continue to hone its effectiveness the future then promises very great things with a new focus on the wonderful concept of lush and placid production ethics, then only wonderfulness awaits. Probably.
Cloudboy
Down At The End of The Garden CD
Loop. 02.
by Keith Mclachlan.
May 3, 2001.
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Demarnia--it's a lovely name isn't it? Parents name a
child thus surely in an effort to influence the child
enough so that they either grow up to be a princess of
some small obscure national incorporation or a poet.
Demarnia Lloyd chose the latter. Her poems are her
dreams, and her dreams are her songs, and these songs
have become malleable forms of dark emotions glazed
with a gauze-like atmoshpere of furtive emancipation.
The slow numbers almost sound a bit like they were
drawn from middle-England hymnals, offering devotional
takes of the dark side of a dream cycle alongside
sharply constructed arrangements of samples and
strings that offer up more with each more detailed
listen. There is barely a guitar audible in the mix,
I am sure guitars are there somewhere but none so
noticeable as to be able to be concentrated upon. No
worry, this, for we are all here for Demarnia's voice
anyhow. Her gift, the voice, isn't a tool of
remarkable technical sophistication, it rarely rises
above a whisper but the tone and level of emotional
investment on her part act with narcotic efficency
drawing evryone deeper into the ether of her
'daydreamworld'. Not to be discounted are the other
members of Cloudboy which officially numbers 3, I
believe, at least in the recording version of the
band, Jo and Craig match her intensely personal
renderings with musical foundations that have a
uniqueness of texture and explorative multi-cultural
feelings. I have been waiting for this record for
something near five years now, and when first I placed
it on the hi-fi I was feeling slightly let-down. I
had impossibly high expectations but now after a
further three listens I am hopelessly addicted. It is
an organic record composed almost entirely of
electronic elements, it is a record that gallantly
tries to better its place in life but likely due to
fiscal constraints (they truly are a band from the
other side of the planet who are naturally slotted as
the underdog) is limited by technology to a
neighbourhood somewhere adjacent to the 1980s. I can
hear elements of Bjork, perhaps a nod to Portishead
and definitely a nod to the semi-recent history of
underground music in New Zealand including artists
such as Alastair Galbraith and This Kind of
Punishment. The packaging is a delight as well, the
entire package comes off as something resembling a
child's storybook with lovely illustrations and ornate
paper adorning the inside of the cd's liner notes.
This is a dark tale, almost a child's tale, of
learning to live with the dark by standing, fearful
still, in the face of an ocean of sound, less fury,
and calling out to the world everything that fills
your head hoping to empty out a little wisdom to the
sea and carry it on currents around the world,
inspiring.
Club 8
Club 8 CD
Hidden Agenda. AHA!024.
by Keith Mclachlan.
August 4, 2001.
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Kirby Puckett is in the Hall of Fame and yet Jack
Morris is not. People go on about Kirby's performance
in the 91 world series and seem to forget Jack's doing
in that same world series when he pitched 10
magnificent innings in game 7 for the win? Was there
ever a better gamer than Jack? And what about his
other post-season glories with the Tigers and Blue
Jays? If there is a place for Don Sutton in the Hall
then Jack (most wins in the 80s) Morris probably
deserves his own wing in order to even things out.
Being overlooked then is the theme but here on the
reverse because it seems Club 8 is greatly surpassing
the flagging stature of its forebearer Acid House
Kings. This is the first of two Club 8 records to be
released this year and it is truly delightful. I've
not any of the previous Club 8 records and always
thought they were simply another swedish pop band more
slight than the former Labor secretary Robert Reich.
But they are far more substantive than my previous
fears had coined them, the music often starts off
bland enough but they have a knack for dramatic
flourishes in the chorus and the voice is a gentle
stir reminiscent of boring French cinema and it's
cavalcade of breathy beauties. Trip-hop seems an
embarrassing genre to lavish praise on but since this
is hardly the cheesy, seductive type more of the
library science love over a modem type I find myself
falling for it hard. They are handsome people these
Club 8 folks and their music rivals their physical
appearance and therefore, once again, I am forced to
eat my hat because it is on a Parasol affiliated label
and here I am in the midst of enjoyment instead of
revulsion. Ugh. Maybe the Jack Morris slight is
mustache discrimination?