Barry Adamson begins his new album, Back to the Cat, with a dream– a feverish, apocalyptic fantasy about “The Beaten Side of Town.” It’s either nightmarish or utterly euphoric– or perhaps a little of both– depending on your perspective. In it, our shady narrator emerges from the shadows and recalls a vision he had of a giant temple, with a steeple spire and a sign that bids welcome, in no uncertain terms, to anyone and everyone: Junkies and liquorheads, lowlifes and deadbeats, addicts and hustlers. We’ve even told that agnostics are on the list.

As Adamson lays down his litany of the broken and the downtrodden, the freaks and the thugs and the addicts, he sets the tone for what the album is all about. It’s about people, in all their brokenness and ugliness and need. So for the next several songs, Adamson catalogs a strange and bewildering assortment of nocturnal citydwellers, inhabitants of the beaten side of town, all of them messed up and all of them ultimately beautiful. Adamson, whose modus operandi has always been to craft soundtracks in search of films, is a remarkably sophisticated guy, painting in broad strokes with mythological and cultural archetypes– the kinds of characters we’ve all seen and heard a million times before, they’re so ingrained in our humanity– and then fills them in with his devilish humor, his poet’s eye for detail, and his odd mix of cynicism and compassion. He gives us jilted lovers, men on the lam, characters desperate to escape from their past, and perhaps their present as well.

But he really clinches it on the next-to-last-song, a song that’s titled– appropriately enough– “People.” Amid the flurry of images and ideas that Adamson packs together, this tune is so simple that it feels almost confessional in nature. And it’s here that he unlocks the door of what the album is all about: “People, they are dumb/ And it’s come to my attention/ That I am one.” And there, with that line, Adamson places himself on the same plain previously inhabited only by Tom Waits, Nick Cave, Joe Henry, and maybe Leonard Cohen, a place where humanity is seen in all of its messiness and depravity, its addiction and its need– and then afforded a measure of dignity and compassion, as the singer and listener both identify themselves among the beautiful and damned.

That’s a big part of Adamson’s gift– his ability to peer into the shadows and back alleys of our civilization and find things that truly alarm and dismay, but also things that remind us of our shared humanity and of the strange beauty therein. The fact that his lyrical sophistication is matched– even exceeded– by his musical sophistication, as he brings together elements of jazz noir, James Bond soundtracks, Elvis-loving rock and roll, acid funk, gospel, and lounge crooning, is all the more reason why Back to the Cat isn’t just one of the year’s finest records– it’s downright essential.

Listening to Barry Adamson’s Back to the Cat inevitably conjures up images of late-night, smokey bars and lounges that could be in Memphis, New York, or almost any other American city. Mr. Adamson, formerly of Magazine and Nick Cave’s Bad Seeds, has made an album of dark and sultry, bluesy-jazz/rock–or is it jazzy-rock/blues?–whatever it is, its intoxicating. Its the horns that really define the record’s sound. They appear on nearly every song adding personality and atmosphere galore!

The first track, “The Beaten Side of Town”, captures the vibe of the record very well. In it, Adamson sings about an apocalyptic dream and the ragged, dilapidated areas found in some city that could be anywhere in the country. The song opens with a piano chord hanging in the air, the tapping of a cymbal, the rap of a snare drum, a smooth-talking bass line, and the snapping fingers of a lounge singer–then enters Adamson’s splendid crooning “I woke up this morning from a crazy dream…”

Considering the mood of these songs you might expect a gravelly growl in the vein of Tom Waits, but Adamson has a voice that is sharp, crisp, and smooth creating an interesting contrast to the down and dirty circumstances about which he sings. This makes it all the more intriguing because while the lyrics might fit in well on a Tom Waits record, there certainly isn’t any of the messy, junkyard blues of Waits’ recent years showing up on Back to the Cat. These songs, like Adamson’s voice, are slick and shiny–like a used car salesman on the beaten side of town. All of it really boils down to one word–seedy–but its wonderfully so.

Back to the Cat features two instrumental numbers, the chaotic “Shadow of Death Hotel” and the dark jazz-fusion-inspired “Flight”–as well as two surprisingly poppy songs, the organ-fueled “Straight ‘Til Sunrise” and the toe-tapper “Civilization.” Overall, it is a humid, sticky, seedy affair that is just too much fun to miss.

Its a frank album that will likely feel right at home in your CD player–for more on Back to the Cat, check out the review that turned me onto Barry Adamson over at The Hust Review.

As elusive and intoxicating today as it was when it released several months ago, Barry Adamson’s fantastic album Back to the Cat remains in heavy rotation here at Hurst Headquarters. Don’t let the year end without drinking of Adamson’s heady musical brew; here’s a quick taste:

Desiree. Autora: Alex Prager (2008)

__________
Theresa Green - Barry Adamson (2006)

Notes on a train twixt Oxford and Tisbury. 

A while ago I wrote about Basingstoke Station and included a couple of handy hints for anybody involved in espionage or escape and evasion. I have another tip for budding George Smileys. Platform two is overlooked by a tall pole - outside the station - full of cameras pointing in every direction. Platform One, therefore is a much better bet if you want to set up a dead letter box or carry out a little light assassination. You should also bear in mind that, at the time of writing, the rear entrance to the station is closed so you should not rely on it as an escape route.

The following is not at all train related:

Somebody (and for the life of me I cannot remember who, I‘m afraid) blogged a while ago about receiving some uninvited chocolate body paint as a freebie. I also have freebies but, unfortunately, nothing as intimate although much more useful. I have recently had two windfalls. The first (courtesy of the charming Simon Chapman) was from Hozelock who very kindly sent me a couple of their Aquapods. The idea is that you link these little things together and each has four pull out tubes that then drip water into a collection of pots. The water supply is controlled by a timer attached to the tap. I entrusted the setting up of these to my elder son and very efficient he was (although, as is the way with teenagers, the packaging and instruction booklets were left cluttering up the joint). I then turned the thing on and went to Scotland for a week and a bit: nothing died in my absence which means that the things were a resounding success. They are pretty straightforward to set up so if you have a cluster of pots on a terrace somewhere, they will do the business.

My second freebie was even more exciting. The nice people at John Deere sent be a very spiffy lawn mower to try out for a year. It is shiny and green and has a roller on the back. The handles are ergonomically designed so that old sods like me do not put their backs out when mowing. I am particularly keen on the very simple grass box full warning system. This is a gauzy piece of fabric that flaps when you are mowing: when it stops flapping you need to empty the box. I am thrilled and very delighted: nobody has ever given me a mower before (even though I have to give it back after a year). The variety I have is the R43RVE with a roller on the back for stripes and stuff.

So thank you to both my benefactors: I am considering changing my name to James Hozelock - McDeere or, at the very least, tattooing their company logos on my buttocks (although that might have an even smaller audience share than, say, Gardens Illustrated - although equally exclusive). Sometimes I marvel at how very cheap I can be if I apply myself. 

Mind you if somebody did want to send me some chocolate body paint I wouldn’t complain.

I completely missed the eclipse on Friday. This was particularly neglectful as, according to my horoscope, it was important to my future happiness. 

The photograph is of Thalictrum polygamum. I am listening to On the Edge of Atonement by Barry Adamson

Last year I was writing about a very small garden in London.

Step Brothers, the latest comedy from Will Ferrell, is bout as bawdy and as vulgar as big-screen summer comedies come. There’s almost non-stop profanity, a distinctly R-rated sense of humor, and, in one scene, Ferrell unzips his pants and places his testicles on John C. Reily’s drum kit.

But in spite of all that, it’s also a very inspired bit of silliness, a movie that’s as funny as just about any others in recent memory. I said as much in a set of comments I wrote about the film a few days ago, and one of my astute readers– specifically, my mama– questioned whether or not this gave the film any redemptive value. It’s a good question. My answer, in brief, is yes, though probably not in the way she means it. I think that, even if it’s a piece of work that celebrates vulgarity and misbehavior– which this movie certainly is– it’s only fair that we acknowledge any excellence of craft or creativity that we find in it. That doesn’t mean I’m recommending the movie per se– just that I’m honest about its strengths as well as its weaknesses. Again, it only seems fair.

But there’s another work of art that I’ve been spending a lot of time with recently– Barry Adamson’s record Back to the Cat (my review; some additional comments) that has also been described as vulgar– not because it contains an excess of foul language or anything in the way of explicit sex, but simply because Adamson’s world is a seedy, greasy one, populated by addicts, junkies, whores, killers– heck, he even mentions some Agnostics! The first song on the album plays like an invitation to “The Beaten Side of Town”– the opening of the gates to the Netherworld, through which the listener may pass at his own risk.

But that, I think, is a distinctly different sort of vulgarity than that of Step Brothers– and I think it’s largely a matter of attitude. The biggest problem with Ferrell’s movie is not that it portrays vulgarity– it’s that it celebrates it. Foul language and naked testicles are one thing, but this is a movie that treats lightly, even derives fun from adultery and divorce– two far greater offenses than some four-letter words, I should think!

Adamson’s album isn’t like that. Sure, it’s populated with low-lifes and thugs, but the point isn’t to cast them as heroes. They’re viewed through the eyes of compassion, to be sure– Adamson doesn’t condemn these characters. He simply shows how they condemn themselves through their own actions. Yes, they’re addicts and whores, but they’re also lonely, broken on the inside, empty but full of fragile beauty. By viewing them through these eyes, Adamson might even help us (unintentionally) to see them the way we really ought to– through the lens of Christ-like compassion. We don’t celebrate the misbehavior of these characters, but we do feel empathy for them.

Even more than that, though: We see ourselves in them. We count ourselves among the damned. Adamson’s travelogue through the back alleys of human depravity leads to a feverish conclusion– “People, they are no good/ and what’s more, I am one.” How’s that for total depravity? Maybe that’s the greatest value of spending time with sinners– it reminds us that we ourselves are sinners.

And that’s what separates crass entertainment like the Will Ferrell movie from lasting works of art, like Adamson’s record. And while he doesn’t point us to Christ– as far as I know, he isn’t a believer– he doesn’t have to. By God’s Common Grace, truth and beauty can be found even in the work of a guy like Barry Adamson. By spending time in his world, we might be reminded of our own need, our own brokenness. And we might also be spurred on to greater compassion and empathy, Christ-like humility. That’s what comes from sitting with sinners– just like Jesus did. We see ourselves right there with them, and are reminded that our only hope is the Lord Jesus Christ.

Barry Adamson was a founding member both of the seminal art-punk band Magazine and of Nick Cave’s ragtag gang of Bad Seeds, but he might be best known for composing the soundtrack for David Lynch’s film Lost Highway. And that’s just the beginning of his soundtrack work; throughout his solo career, Adamson has returned to writing and recording soundtracks again and again, following a musical muse that is undeniably cinematic both in style and in scope. In fact, if you were to ask Adamson, he’d likely tell you that every record he’s ever made is a soundtrack– even if most of them don’t actually have movies to go with them.

I’m not sure who invented the “soundtrack in search of a film” aesthetic. The idea is bandied around quite a bit in music circles, and Adamson is the man most frequently credited with dreaming it up. Some musical historians might disagree with that, but regardless: Adamson knows how to write a killer soundtrack album, music so evocative and grandiose that it feels like, well, a movie, shown in glorious Technicolor.

His latest such soundtrack, Back to the Cat, doesn’t have a corresponding movie. And maybe that’s for the best. Listening to the album, one imagines that its film equivalent would be weird beyond words, dark and gritty and more than a little surreal. There aren’t many filmmakers who could possibly come up with a film that could hold its own against Adamson’s quirky imagination, so maybe it’s best that the album stands on its own, as a soundtrack to Adamson’s own twisted dreams and glorious obsessions.

But if there’s no picture to accompany it, you might ask, then what exactly makes it a soundtrack? It’s not that the music tells a story per se, although there is certainly a strong narrative thrust to it. It’s not that there are any sweeping flourishes of strings or brass; it’s a much greasier, gaudier piece of music than that. And it’s not that it’s an instrumental work where the listener has to provide his or her own story; actually, only two of its ten tracks are wordless.

Still, the medium is unmistakable: This is a soundtrack through and through, made by a man who’s haunted, bewtiched by the very concept of the soundtrack. And he explores that obsession with bizarrely compelling results, filling the album with musical references, a pastiche of familiar styles and sounds, and archetypal characters in such a way that he creates and then subverts his own weird mythology. You don’t need the booming voice of a narrator to tell you what the setting is, or who the characters are– the music, and Adamson’s carefully-chosen words, tell you everything you need to know.

Make no mistake: The journey Adamson invites you on is a dark and a strange one, but it’s also endlessly seductive. It’s seedier than a Tom Waits album and more noir than The Maltese Falcon, with a musical vocabulary that’s fluent in the campiest styles and influences you can imagine– lounge crooning, Elvis-style rockabilly, acid-jazz, Burt Bacharach, Scott Walker, Isaac Hays, and, of course, all the craziest film scores you’ve ever heard. Adamson treats all these styles and influences as equal, drawing equally from all of them and blurring the lines of where one ends and the other begins, using the connotations and implied meanings of each genre to tell his story and create not just a musical landscape, but an entire world. Or at least its seedy underbelly.

If there were to be a movie based on this record, you can bet it wouldn’t be the feel-good hit of the summer. These songs are full of addicts and murderers and jilted lovers and junkies and whores– all residents of “The Beaten Side of Town,” he tells us on the first song. These are the kinds of folks you’d expect to find hanging around at 2 in the morning at Tom Waits’ mystical bar. Dark is the word to describe it, but dark doesn’t always mean dispiriting or depressing, especially not when you’re talking about a writer with such a vivid imagination and such a firm grip on gallows humor. These songs might make you laugh, and, when you least expect it, they might even knock you upside the head with a surprising burst of compassion.

Indeed, even as Adamson sings about a world ruled by Satan and his minions, where death lies in wait behind every closed door, it’s hard not to think there’s something oddly redemptive here– or at least, something strongly moral. Maybe it’s as simple as the fact that he’s taken such dubious pieces of sound and story and stitched them together into a truly masterly, beautiful, endlessly creative piece of music, one in which style and substance are one and the same. I’m still not sure if this is the best album I’ve heard this year or not, but it’s up there, and it’s a must for any listener with a sense of adventure– and of humor.

Stuart Maconie hits the nail on the head in his intro, “The Peel Show has brought me moments of Joycean epiphany when pop has shed its scaly skin and changed my life”.

Anyone who listened to Peel even semi regularly has a story about the time they were sat in the kitchen/driving to a party/lying in bed etc. etc. listening to his show when suddenly he played a record that made them feel like they’d been accelerated through space and time whilst being punched senseless. Those very rare moments when music leaves you stupefied, breathless and gasping….”What the fuck is this - this is amazing!”

Inspiral Carpets: Keep the Circle Around (live 2008 performance!)

Wedding Present - Why are you being so reasonable now? (about 3.45 in)

The Siddeleys: Sunshine Thuggery

Dat Blygu: Ugain I Un (can’t find Wyau)

Mighty Force: Thrashing A Dead Horse

Robert Lloyd: Nothing Matters

A Guy Called Gerald: Voodoo Ray

Dinosaur Jr: Freak Scene

Got nothing on Chinhoyi Superstars after a quick search - if you’re determinded and have more time then maybe you’ll have more luck.

Criticism and chronic listmaking seem to go hand and hand; we reviewers tend to jump at any excuse we can get to rank our top ten of pretty much anything. A couple of weeks ago, at the old blog, I posted a list of my ten favorite records of the year so far; but since I’ve moved to this locale; since it’s now July 1st, and we are officially halfway through with 2008; and since my friends David Kennedy and Jeffrey Overstreet have recently turned in halfway-point top ten lists of their own– it seems like a good time to do it again.

But actually, I have still another, even more significant reason for reposting this. This is the time of the year when I tend to gain some clarity and perspective on those albums released in the earlier months, which can sometimes lead to some major altertions in my picks. There are always a few albums that I deeply appreciate for their artistry, their vision, and their technical skill, but, for whatever reason, they don’t quite sink their teeth into me on a gut level. They don’t come to mean anything to me personally, and so, while I still regard them as superlative recordings, they’re just not finding much space in my regular rotation. I’d put the new Fleet Foxes and Portishead both into this category. Likewise, there are meaningful works of art that simply don’t move me because of where my own life happens to be. I don’t think poorly of these albums at all; they simply didn’t come along at the right time to become personal favorites for me– think Sam Phillips and Tift Merritt.

So, all that to say… these are the ten albums that I find myself coming back to, again and again, playing over and over. They entertain me, they move me, they give me perspective. They’re all strong contenders for my end-of-the-year list, and they’re all albums that aren’t just great, but meaningful to me personally.

1. The Tallest Man on Earth, Shallow Grave
(A Swedish man gets to the heart of American music better than any yank has in years.)

2. Ron Sexsmith, Exit Strategy of the Soul
(Review coming soon!)

3. Joan as Police Woman, To Survive
(Review coming soon!)

4. Marco Benevento, Invisible Baby
(Is it jazz? Classical? Pop? Yes, no, all and none of the above.)

5. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Dig!!! Lazarus, Dig!!!
(The apocalyptic court jester of rock digs deep for a riotous album about sex, religion, growing old, and the end of the world.)

6. The Hold Steady, Stay Positive
(Review coming soon!)

7. Coldplay, Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends
(Chris Martin and Co. make good on their promise– finally!– with an album that’s expertly crafted and often thrilling.)

8. My Morning Jacket, Evil Urges
(Southern rock meets Prince? Must be heard to be believed)

9. Barry Adamson, Back to the Cat
(Through the gates of hell and down to the beaten side of town.)

10. Shearwater, Rook
(Fables and fairy tales from rock’s most graceful ornithologist.)

So what am I missing?

Barry Adamson couldn’t have picked a better song to open his new album, Back to the Cat. The smoky horns, strutting bass line, and lazy piano figures leave us with no doubt as to where we are-in some shady, smoke-filled bar on the edge of town-and when Adamson starts singing, we learn everything we need to know about our narrator. He “woke up this morning with a crazy dream” that the “Earth was a burning ball of fire,” and from there it isn’t long before the Devil and his demons enter the story. By the time the story ends, our guide through the twilit netherworld is rattling off a laundry list of freaks and losers and outcasts-the cast of characters we’re to meet along the way-and he ends the song with an ominous growl: “And now I’m going down.” But is it a final farewell, or an invitation to follow?

That, of course, depends on how brave of a listener you care to be. Adamson is nothing if not dramatic, and opening his album this way is intentional-it’s the sound of the door opening just a crack, barely enough for us to peek into the album and see what awaits us in the remaining songs. And it isn’t exactly frivolous fare-it’s an album strewn with broken hearts and shattered dreams, crowded with junkies and drunkards and whores-but as dark as it may sound on paper, it’s a total delight on record.

Adamson-formerly the bass player for Magazine, then one of Nick Cave’s Bad Seeds-sounds like he’s drinking from the same creative well as Tom Waits. In fact, it sounds like he’s hanging out in the same seedy bars; Back to the Cat comes as close as anything can get to capturing the same spirit of early Waits classics like Small Change and The Heart of Saturday Night. But where Waits draws his inspiration from American blues, post-rock experimentalism, and vaudeville, Adamson’s music is a different animal altogether. He is, first and foremost, a composer, and his albums all sound like soundtracks to films that haven’t been made yet (and would probably be impossibly weird if they were). His music is grandly theatrical, even delightfully, intentionally campy sometimes-Adamson is clearly playing a persona here, and his music is doubtless inspired as much by film noir and spy movie soundtracks as much as anything. But there’s also some sultry jazz, sleazy lounge, rollicking rock and roll, pop, funk, and even-perversely!-some gospel. It’s a gritty and greasy brew of piano and organ, electric guitar, and Enrico Mancini horns.

And it all works amazingly well. The music of Back to the Cat is alluringly dark, thick and full, cinematic in all the right ways. Indeed, there are two dynamite instrumental numbers here that feel just as crucial to the fabric of the record as any of the other tracks, and Adamson has sequenced his songs in such a way that it feels like a story gradually unfolding; if “The Beaten Side of Town” sets the stage and introduces the cast of characters, “Straight ‘Til Sunrise” and the Elvis-style rockabilly “Spend a Little Time” let us get to know them a little better; “I Could Love You” slows things down for a soulful, organ-drenched jukebox number that brings some tenderness and emotion into the mix, while late-album tracks like the horn-laden gospel raver “Civilization” and the somber pop ballad “People” feel like crescendos, epiphanies, and album closer “Psycho Sexual” is appropriately epic, a druggy summary of everything that’s come before it.

But is it worth it, spending so much time in Adamson’s shady bar? Sure it is. Theatrical though he may be, he’s no sensationalist, and the point of these songs is not to shock us with how sleazy they can be; on the contrary, though the music is certainly greasy and dark, Adamson’s songs are teeming with humor and compassion, brimming with humanity, finding wisdom and beauty even amidst the profane. Plus, the album is just flat-out delightful. Adamson combines styles and influences into an imaginative and evocative whole that is stirring as well as spooky, illuminating and mysterious at the same time, and vivid enough that, for this particular soundtrack, no accompanying film is necessary. Adamson’s achievement here is deeply impressive, and the album is a dark and irresistible gem for any listener courageous enough to give it a try.

Postanowiłem pogrupować krótkie wpisy w kategorie, bo trudniej porównywać Fleet Foxes z Jamiem Lidellem niż na przykład Williego Nelsona z Neilem Diamondem. Zaczynam więc od najwyższej kategorii wagowej, albo - jak kto woli - kategorii najwyższej wagi - czyli dinozaurów, dwóch faktycznych i jednego naprędce awansowanego.

.

WILLIE NELSON
“Moment of Forever”
Lost Highway 2008
>>3<<<

Na początek idzie płyta ze stycznia, więc tak stara, że aż wstyd. Ale czymże są te cztery miesiące od jej wydania wobec wieku autora: 75 lat. Wokalnie Nelson to wciąż genialny pewniak, dlatego trochę szkoda go naciągać na jakieś brzmienia środka drogi, a to jest płyta nieco zbyt po amerykańsku szablonowa, by mogła cokolwiek dodać do jego dyskografii. Rick Rubin nie ma rączek jedenastu i był pewnie zbyt zajęty albumem, o którym nieco dalej, żeby i tu coś podkręcić. Po Cashu Nelson byłby naturalnym wyborem. Lecz cóż, może zbyt oczywistym dla Rubina… Nawet niezły “Gravedigger” Dave’a Matthewsa brzmi tu w moim mniemaniu na tyle gorzej niż w oryginale, że chyba nie warto było się za niego brać. Obok tego kompozycje m.in. Kristoffersona czy Newmana i pojedyncze, zresztą najlepiej broniące się w zestawie utwory samego Nelsona - z otwierającym “Over You Again” i przedostatnim “You Don’t Think I’m Funny Anymore” na czele. Słucha się tego, w leniwe niedzielne przedpołudnie nawet lepiej niż do tej pory, ale za dużo fragmentów psuje odbiór całej płyty.
.

NEIL DIAMOND
“Home Before Dark”
Columbia 2008
>>>4<<

Maniera wokalna Diamonda odpowiada mi nieco mniej niż sposób śpiewania Nelsona, ale to dalej superliga wśród wokalistów, zresztą i tym razem wygrał Rubin. Już otwarciowy “If I Don’t See You Again” pokazuje, że będzie na poziomie niedawnego “12 Songs”. “Pretty Amazing Grace” jest jeszcze lepsze, a balladę “Another Day” (duet z Natalie Maines) fani już okrzyknęli jednym z najlepszych utworów w karierze Diamonda. Pewnie nieco na wyrost, bo 67-latek z Nowego Jorku znalazłby w swoim archiwum parę równie dobrych, ale nie da się ukryć - i ta piosenka bije wszystko, co mamy na “Moment of Forever”. Czujność producenta polega na tym, że dba o emocjonalny charakter albumu, o klarowność, prostotę i siłę przekazu, no i nawet w słabszych utworach dorzuca patenty, które przyciągają - jak wspierana gitarą wokaliza w “Don’t Go There”. A po naszej stronie zostaje wydłubywanie takich smaczków z pozornie tylko ascetycznej płyty (o dziwo, czytałem już opinie fanów Diamonda złych za to, że to piosenki nagrane ze skromnym akompaniamentem i na jedno kopyto). It’s a grower - jak by powiedzieli w Ameryce. Może dlatego na razie masowo ignorują ją recenzenci, zajmując się (o zgrozo) debiutem płytowym Scarlett Johansson.
Aha, dla zainteresowanych - album zawiera gitarowe partie Matta Sweeneya.

.

BARRY ADAMSON
“Back To the Cat”
Central Control 2008
>>>4<<

To ci oryginał. Nie nagrywał wprawdzie ostatnio najlepszych płyt, ale po tym gorszym okresie wraca w naprawdę imponującej formie. Mistrz jazzowo-popowej stylizacji, ale takiej, która wystraszyłaby Michaela Buble. Bo Adamson to czarny kryminał, bardziej budowanie klimatu niż popisy wokalne i tygodniowy zarost zamiast gładko ogolonej twarzy. Funk, sekcja dęta, ale niski głos starego zakapiora zamiast gładkiego timbre’u pięknisia. Z tą starością to pewna przesada, no ale w czerwcu monsieur Adamson (który na koncie ma The Bad Seeds Nicka Cave’a, jeszcze jako basista, a przede wszystkim legendarny zespół Magazine!) kończy 50 lat. Słyszałem lepsze albumy BA, ale to było BArdzo dawno temu. W nowym stuleciu “Back To the Cat” z całą pewnością jest najbardziej przekonujący.

Jean-Claude Claeys es un ilustrador parisino de 57 años amante del cine y la novela negra americana de la posguerra. Su trabajo es tan violento como erótico pero tan elegante como inquitante. Para lograr ese ambiente oscuro e hiperrealista no se sirve de un proceso digital; toma las instantáneas y las transforma a golpe de tinta china. Maestro del trazo y las luces y sombras es el responsable (quién sino él) de la versión francesa del cartel de “Cotton Club” de Francis Ford Coppola.

Visto en uno de los nuestros

Música:
Barry Adamson “Black Amour”

Je zou er verbaasd van staan als je zag wat voor rare individuen er op zo’n platenbeurs allemaal rondlopen. Mensen met grijze paardenstaarten, met ingevallen ogen, met (lijf)geurtjes (!!), … En daar zat ik dus tussen. Je stelt jezelf in vraag op zo’n moment, terwijl je staat aan te schuiven om door de stapels platen en cd’s te kunnen lopen. Voor elke twintig centimeter aan een tafel wordt bijna gevochten. De geur van vinyl (voor zover ik me die niet heb ingebeeld) zweeft door de ruimte. Het licht viel op een bepaald moment zelfs uit. Het draagt allemaal bij tot de charme van de platenbeurs.

En dat gevoel als je iets vindt natuurlijk. Ah, Jason Faulkner, daar ben ik al een hele tijd naar op zoek. Eindelijk gevonden! Op de kop getikt dus en dat voor een luttele 5 euro. Bij dezelfde verkoper trouwens ook ‘The King Of Notting Hill’, de vorige van Barry Adamson, gekocht. Zijn laatste (’BackTo The Cat’) spookt intussen al een hele tijd door mijn hoofd (”Bring me civilization”). En daar, de vorige Shearwater: ‘Winged Life’. Kopen die handel en meteen de laatste van Apostle Of Hustle en de nieuwe Yoav meenemen. 9 euro per stuk. Verkocht! Nog even tussen de Beatles-dingetjes zoeken. ‘All Things Must Pass’, de reissue van George Harrison meegrabbelen. Daar staan nog leuke dingen: miniatuurgitaartjes zoals ik er thuis ook één staan heb.

En dan weer huiswaarts. Laten ze nu net Wide Open Road van The Triffids spelen op de radio. De perfecte dag met andere woorden.

Here are this week’s new music releases:

Barry Adamson - Back to the Cat
Amelia - A Long, Lovely List of Repairs
Beat Union - Disconnected
Tab Benoit - Night Train to Nashville
Bizzy Bone - A Song for You
Blind Melon - For My Friends
Billy Bragg - Mr. Love & Justice
The Cat Empire - So Many Nights
Tony DeMarco - The Sligo Indians
Elbow - The Seldom Seen Kid
Flight of the Conchords - Flight of the Conchords
Goldfinger - Hello Destiny
Jeff Healey - Mess of Blues
The Jealous Girlfriends - The Jealous Girlfriends
Juno Reactor - Gods & Monsters
Lettuce - Rage!
Donny Osmond - From Donny… With Love
Ashlee Simpson - Bittersweet World
Sleepercar - West Texas
Chris Standring - Love and Paragraphs
Story of the Year - The Black Swan
Tantric - The End Begins
Tokyo Police Club - Elephant Shell
Anna Ternheim - Halfway to Fivepoints
Phil Vassar - Prayer of a Common Man
Whitesnake - Good to be Bad
The White Tie Affair - Walk This Way
Thalia Zedek Band - Liars and Prayers

Aaagh, Billy was right, this is bloody awful.  Damn him! I have been kind of nervous ever since I read his review, and also really wanted to be sure that his rather scathing dismissal didn’t overly influence my own opinions.  Can I promise that it hasn’t? Probably not, but I don’t think so; this is rubbish.

My relationship with Mr. Adamson has always been a bit hit and miss anyway - I really didn’t like King of Nothing Hill, his last album but one, but then the one inbetween that and this was terrific, so I thought that perhaps it had been an aberration.  Sadly, no, as a lot of the failings of Nothing Hill rear their heads once more on this record, and it is pretty simple to explain: no bite, no zing, no swagger, no sex, no menace, no simmer, no fucking balls, man!

I know that may not be all that informative, but that’s about all I can really say.  It’s all that really needs saying.  Cinematic jazz noir with some really salacious energy to it fucking brilliant, and this lacks that quality so plainly there is really no avoiding it at all.  Sorry.  Crap.

Barry Adamson - Straight Til Sunrise

website | hype | buy

Barry Adamson is nine albums into a lengthy career that has included collaboration with such luminaries as Nick Cave, David Lynch and Howard Devoto. He’s written soundtracks, made records, and god knows what else, but I read in The List that this is his first tour? First?? Bugger me!

It was pricey, I have to be honest, and nineteen quid was too much for what we saw. I love some of Adamson’s stuff, but he is a little patchy. King of Nothing Hill really wasn’t a very good album - all the venom and menace neutered - and I have heard that the new one isn’t very good either, although I have yet to listen to it enough to form my own opinion. That said, he has at least three brilliant albums to his name, and when his particular brand of cinematic jazz noir is good, it is truly brilliant, so I thought why not chance it.

In the end, I really enjoyed myself, but I wouldn’t say I was in raptures. It’s completely unfair to judge someone on the strength of their first tour, especially someone so trepidatious that they wait this long to pop the cherry, so I think some leeway is called for in evaluating this gig. In the end, though, I think the live show was just a little loungey, which kind of stripped the music of some of the slightly theatrical malevolence which it oozes in recorded form.

Ultimately, Adamson’s music is pretty experimental most of the time and, despite the evident proficiency of the band, it ended up slightly anaesthetised. It was a bit like watching an action movie with no swearing, in some ways, because I knew the attitude was in there somewhere. This all makes it sound like I had a bad gig, which I didn’t. I enjoyed myself, and I really enjoyed the show, it’s just that I know there’s more and I ended up trying not to spend most of the evening waiting for it.

Barry Adamson - Jazz Devil