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Beulah When Your Heart Strings Break (Shify Disco: U.K.) There is never any justice in the world, but should exception to this rule occur, it would be nice to think that Beulah may find themselves getting a bit of credit for having produced one of the most splendid albums of recent memory with When Your Heart Strings Break. A friend of mine recently described them as Indie Beach Boys, which is apt to a point, theirs being a sun and harmony drenched sound, but places too much emphasis on the retro for what is really very current and multi-referential. Classic pop and psychedelia nestle comfortably alongside traditional Indian instruments (hear Comrade’s 26th), a more honed version of the surrealism of early Ween material (recent Shifty Disco a-side Sunday Under Glass is a good example of this), and even something that sounds like the music from the Adam and Jo Show (Matter vs. Space, which features some fine Latin horns as well). All this is nothing in itself, I guess, if not for the subtlety and ease with which this bunch of San Francisco mailroom assistants pull it off. The greatest strength is the songs, which could shine through almost any instrumentation, making the superb production a bonus and something you almost overlook from time to time. Highlights are the afore-mentioned single, which does indeed live up to my friend’s tag, the Air-esque plushness of Emma Blowgun’s Last Stand, with it’s 3 minute intro, and most especially Calm Go the Wild Seas which is very post-Pet Sounds in an I Just Wasn’t Made For these Times kind of way. In a lot of ways Beulah remind me of Gomez: they share a youthful idealism and neat eclecticism that makes whatever gets thrown into their (respective) melting pots inevitable rather than contrived (as appears to be the case with countless other bands). The records of both seem to have similar home made Fisher Price/Casio origins (When Your Heart Strings Break was recorded in the bands rehearsal room and at friends houses) that only add to their strange charm, and both make you wonder why nobody had thought of doing it sooner. You get the general idea, now go and buy it. AG. |
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Return of the Grievous Angel, a Tribute to Gram Parsons A friend and I embarked recently upon a 3-hour car journey, windows wound open, enjoying the orange warmth of a July evening as we tore up the ‘mac….. After a routine search of the in-car tape collection produces little to inspire, I remember the unmarked copy of Return of the Grievous Angel that I have about me and thus it becomes the next 70-odd miles’ listening. We have no track listing to hand and so our challenge whilst listening is to try and match the Gram Parsons songs that we hear to the performers, most of whose names we know from an ad in my copy of a well known monthly music magazine. We don’t do too badly: we remark immediately how impressed we are with any record that can make The Pretenders sound likeable, as does their rendition of She, one of three of the album’s songs featuring the project’s overseer and original Parsons collaborator, Emmylou Harris; we quietly rock to the Cowboy Junkies’ ZZ Top-meets-Eno radical overhaul of the previously jaunty Ooh, Las Vegas; and when it comes to Beck and Evan Dando, respectively, we have no problem recognising the charmed, laid-back-horizontal tones of either. (Dando and Juliana Hatfield’s duet on 1000 Dollar Wedding is one of the album’s finest moments.) We are then confronted with a couple of strange ones. Firstly, one man performs Hot Burrito #1 in the manner of Roy Orbison shouting through his Ray Bans over the wrong drum loop, and secondly two men sounding like an item from a vintage ‘80s Sing Country episode bounce through High Fashion Queen. Upon hearing the latter with it’s rhythmic gusto, walking bass and Strat-tastic licks, my friend and I agree that this must be the spawn of The Mavericks, so imagine my horror to find that they are in fact the perpetrators of the previous fiasco, and this is no less than the work of original Flying Burrito, Chris Hillman alongside Steve Earle. Usually there could be no doubt of the credibility and inventiveness of either, so strange, then, that they choose to play it so safe and m.o.r. here. Fortunately the momentary lapse in quality doesn’t result in any major pile-up and sweet relief is found in the heavenly vocal pairing of Sheryl Crow and Emmylou for Juanita, their voices melding together incredibly as the motorway unwinds behind us. Unfortunately, though, Elvis Costello’s, Sleepless Nights (aptly named) is still ahead, featuring his increasingly irritating reinvention as some kind of cheesy-listening crooner and I am afraid that the FFW facility is utilised at this point, and also on further listenings. If I seem harsh, I don’t mean to, these are only momentary lapses in what is as a whole a fine album, and much of the best is still to come for us as we wend our automotive way homeward, such as Hillman’s fellow Byrd (though not Parsons collaborator) David Crosby, who with Lucinda Williams turns in a fine version of the record’s title track, showing that genius still lurks within the Old Guard. Wilco produce another of this CD’s highlights with a charged, double-pronged guitar attack for 100 Years From Now. It is not surprising that their debut was part of the inspiration for this project (which incidentally is in aid of land mine victims), in its constructive drawing on Parsons as an influence, but not a blueprint, and it is surely the most important aspect of his legacy that his relatively short career still inspires younger bands to keep reinventing and thus rejuvenating country music. As we drive on through Whiskeytown (A Song For You), Gillian Welch (Hickory Wind) and the Rolling Creekdippers quirky In My Hour of Darkness the summer sky fades duskward and my friend comments on how good this album is for driving. I guess there are many less-suited road companions than a collection of Gram Parsons songs! Our journey is not finished, yet unlike that of the music of Gram, it does have a finite conclusion. AG |
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