Nathaniel Sutton – Starlite

Isn’t it great when bedroom musicians make it big?  Daniel Bedingfield notwithstanding, there has been a long lineage of stars who’s 4-track demoes have landed in the right hands and have propelled them to super-stardom, swapping their bathroom mirror and a shampoo bottle for a headline slot and a microphone.  Now, Nathaniel Sutton has not exactly garnered the same success to, say, Mika, who started creating tunes in his parents’ attic and through hard work, dedication and not to mention a few outrageous outfits, managed to burn his shrill and chic nursery rhyme melodies into our collective consciousness; nonetheless, Sutton now has a modest record deal and access to a studio, sans parental interruptions.

So, considering the fact that he now has a studio at this fingertips, why is it that he still sounds as if he is recording in his bedroom?  It’s not that the crystalline melodies on the eponymous opening track are not potentially stadium-sized, it’s simply the toned-down, fuzzed up recording of the music that seems to slightly dampen its sound.  If the chugging electro-acoustic guitar was replaced by a searing Telecaster, say, or the beautiful, chiming outro was played not on a mildly distorted guitar but on a set of orchestral-drenched synths, then surely he could retain his credibility but bring it to a wider audience?

Perhaps this is not the point.  Perhaps Sutton is one of these artists who does not crave commercial success and is happy tinkering away in his studio without attempting to bother the charts or any of his peers.  This is a respectable attitude, and one that is all-too-rare in today’s accolade-craving world of pop music, however, one can’t help but feel that Sutton is not achieving his true potential.

The rest of the album continues the electro-tinged troubadour feel, with almost robotic vocal effects conjuring up peculiar sounds over the deeply personal ‘High Holy Day’.  Borrowing heavily from Friendly Fires’ ‘Paris’ as to manipulating vast, sound scape intros that hook the listener’s attention from the beginning, ‘Serious Crime’s’ epic opening chords hint at something special, before Sutton crawls into a harmonica-accompanied, sped up funeral dirge that showcases uncharacteristically weak lines such as, “You say you’ve got a headache, well I’ve got a headache too.”

As Sutton does not vary his musical styles as much as he perhaps should, fifteen songs is far too long for his electro-rock singer-songwriter opus; the tunes begin to blend into one another, in the way that a trance album often feels like one continuous song, yet when the numbers have differing lyrics and story lines, then one soon begins to lose the plot.  If Sutton is happy to stick to his bedroom experimenting, then he should be proud of this offering; however, if an aspirational thirst should befall him, then he should consider approaching some big name producers in order to quench it.

David Harfield

(http://www.roomthirteen.com/cd_reviews/10250/Nathaniel_Sutton__Starlite.html)

Cass McCombs – Catacombs

Poetry and music have always walked hand in hand along the artistic road, often crossing over to one another’s side to moonlight in creative outputs. Jim Morrison crooned lovelorn lines of sorrow, hope and backdoor men while his band played carnival-esque psychedelia, igniting the sixties’ poetic revolution.  Conversely, poets such as Allen Ginsberg would often appear on stage at rock and roll acquaintances’ gigs to deliver his beat-poet address to young rock fans.  The melding of these two creative outputs can elicit both shocking and beautiful results, world-altering moments and truly transcendental experiences.

It therefore comes as a surprise that Cass McCombs’ body of work has been critically lauded for its sense of poetry set to music, as his latest album seems bereft of either of these two concepts.  Lead single and first track is entitled, Dreams Come True Girl.  Seriously.  This sounds like the Bay City Rollers, slowed down to a strolling pace with the word girl repeated more times than a Motley Crue single.  Prima Donna imposes itself on the listener more than any song ever should through a dragging, repeated melody that goes on for two minutes too long; perhaps an ironic self-reflexive nod towards its title, the indulgent tune that doesn’t know when to leave.

Part of the problem is that the songs are all so long; for a folk song that does not go anywhere interesting instrumentally, anything over three and a half minutes is indulgent, unless the lyrics are strong enough to carry the song forward and hold the listener’s attention.  You Saved My Life is actually quite touching, with the attractive refrain, “only angels have wings” accompanied by a heavenly slide guitar, a la Bright Eyes, I’m Wide Awake…-era, yet could easily fade out over a minute before it actually ends.

The album does feature some high points amongst its mediocrity; Don’t Vote‘s ploddingly hypnotic bass line supports McCombs’s gentle musings on the democratic governmental system, “If you don’t vote, you can’t complain,” and could easily have featured on the Rock against Bush or Plea For Peacetours that surrounded the last American Elections.  Nonetheless, throughout the album, any attractive feature is often a pleasant harmony or hummable melody rather than a stunning lyrical verse; McCombs may be channelling Voltaire for all it’s worth, yet the impact of any poetic lines are lost within the bland ether of banality that the music presents.

Country music consistently shows how great lyrics can save average music, while pop music repeatedly proves how great music can rescue the direst of lyrics; unfortunately even within the arts, scientific laws will prevail and if an artist does not choose to shine in either area, the combination of two negatives will rule out the chance for a spark.

David Harfield

(http://www.roomthirteen.com/cd_reviews/9977/Cass_McCombs__Catacombs.html)

Leo Abrahams – The Grape and the Grain

It’s an ambitious solo artist who attempts an entirely instrumental album, especially when the key instrument is an acoustic guitar, as there are often only so many acoustic songs one can bear before being reminded of Ned Flanders serenading a Christian summer camp.  Fortunately, Leo Abrahams is a guitarist of prodigious talent and at the tender age of 27 he has released an understated album that attempts to hold our attention with rhythms from around the world and a guitar style honed from the study of a thousand years of musical history.

Opening numbers Masquerade and Come The Morning engage the listener through the careful utilisation of medieval scales, arabian-beats and riotous hand-claps that posit Abrahams to be a travelling court jester at a Henry VIII birthday bash.  There is more than a hint of Cat Stevens’ early material in Abrahams’ delicate arpeggios and practised strumming patterns, creating an ethereal sensibility to his playing that occasionally transports the listener away from the mundanity of day-to-day life, to that special heaven that only music, not words can truly describe.  From Here and Spring Snow’s building riffs and subtle percussion tread a thin line between quietly beautiful and easily ignorable, and merge so easily into Blind that they may as well be all one song, or at least a Spinal Tap-esque trilogy. (Lick My Love Pump, anyone?!)

Herein lies the danger with any instrumental album; unless the artist constantly varies the sound throughout, then the entire composition runs the risk of sounding like one very long, albeit impressive jam session.  The alternative option is to create a concept album where the songs are all interrelated and complement each other with their similarities, something Texan post-rock stalwarts Explosions In The Sky do to dazzling effects.  Yet without the wah-wah pedals, fuzz boxes and screaming pick slides that create EITS’s uniquely brilliant sound, Abrahams is left with eleven songs that do not exactly constitute a concept album, yet bear a little too much similarity too one another to truly pick a favourite.  One can hardly imagine there to be many ‘shout-outs’ or requests at his gigs, as without lyrics, the unimaginative titles must surely be arbitrary reminders to his band as to what key to play in.

This being said, The Grape And The Grain is certainly not without its charm; there is no doubting Abrahams’ deft skill with his beloved guitar and the melodious tranquility that permeates the album is ideal for any Sunday morning lie-in.  There is always the danger, however, of the listener falling into a catatonic trance and emerging chanting, “Kumbayah…”

David Harfield

(http://www.roomthirteen.com/cd_reviews/9884/Leo_Abrahams__The_Grape_and_the_Grain.html)

Moriarty – Gee Whiz But This Is A Lonesome Town

‘Sarah Brown to collaborate with The Shins on a Plea for Peace album!’  ’Cherie Blair names Tiny Dancers as support for her European tour!’  ’Dennis Thatcher to duet with Devendra Banhart!’ No?  Only in France could a credible indie band share a record label with the nation’s First Lady without so much as a batted eyelid, yet this is the rather enviable position that folk-blues quintet Moriarty have found themselves in after recording their debut album Gee Whiz But This Is a Lonesome Town for French record label Naïve.

Their moniker being a direct homage to Jack Kerouac’s infamous wild character Dean Moriarty, the band’s off-kilter blend of dusty percussion, theatrical showmanship and French bistro-blues have taken France by storm, with 2009 seeing them attempt to translate their success over the channel.

Jimmy, the album’s promising opener, is a lo-fi acoustic-folk jaunt that endears itself to its audience with honeyed vocals and casual acoustic strum, before reaching a haunting coda, “If you remember you’re unknown, Buffalo land will be your home.”  Later on, the stripped-down acoustic ballad Cottonflower picks up where Jimmy left off, gentle harmonica introducing a gorgeous slide guitar that could easily go on for hours unnoticed.  Rosemary Moriarty’s uncharacteristically reserved vocals create the album’s beautiful peak, “Even though I hear the robin’s crying, not a word ‘cos I’m only dying.”

Moriarty’s lyrical style is at odds with Kerouac’s ephemeral benzedrine-fuelled stream-of-consciousness tirades, opting rather for a slower-paced, comic storyboard style of songwriting.  Private Lily introduces the song’s key character, then walks her through various scenes in her life, with key themes being underpinned in the choruses.  Animals Can’t Laugh strikes the right balance between vaudeville camp and bluegrass jamming, as if Billie Holiday had recorded a live album with Muddy Waters, back-stage at the Cirque du Soleil.

Unfortunately the line between whimsical and drivel is thin and Moriarty tread buckled toes over it more than a few times.  Lovelinesse, as it name suggests, is unbearably twee, with an operatically influenced Rosemary singing of, “pizza with chocolate and cheese,” subject matter that only Kimya Dawson can really get away with.  The sheer volume of peculiar instruments, (kazoo, spoons and drilling machines to name but a few), can spell disaster in the wrong hands.  There’s no doubting the band’s carnival-chic musical abilities, so perhaps these instruments are in the right hands, it’s just that there are too many to juggle successfully.

Moriarty are certainly leaders in their genre, even if they are the only members in their French bohemian-jazz-blues-vaudeville-folk pigeon-hole.  Their idiosyncratic jazz-folk infusions may not be to everyone’s taste, yet with label-mates in high places they can comfortably remain on the road for some time to come.

David Harfield

(http://www.roomthirteen.com/cd_reviews/9647/Moriarty__Gee_Whiz_But_This_I.html)