My first two novels are now available to buy online. If you’re interested in pop culture/music-themed fiction, please take a look. They can be purchased via the links at the bottom of this post and will soon be available through Amazon.
Britain 1990. While the world buzzes with the hope of real change after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the youth of the UK pin their hopes on a musical revolution to turn the tide of recession and to return the power back to the people.
For six friends from Norwich, being an active part of this revolution means everything. Too long have they danced to the sounds in tiny local clubs and watched from afar as the wave of destiny has swept across the land.
They head for the Stone Roses concert at Spike Island on the Wirral in a rented VW camper in the hope that they will all find something that is missing from their lives there. However, this journey of discovery forces the friends to face some of their darkest secrets. Instead of a hedonistic journey into the fantasy world of ecstasy-inspired togetherness, the six are forced to accept a new reality.
Britain 1994. Danny Jones emerges from a stifling three-year relationship to find out the eternal battle of the sexes is raging on a new front with completely new rules. As the country dives head first into a Cool Britannia where anything goes, Danny and his friends struggle to strike a balance between embracing the new Lad Culture of girls, goals and ‘go on my son’ with the search for authentic human connection. In a maelstrom of sex, drugs and Britpop, Danny and his mates mount an increasingly desperate search for The One – the perfect woman who can save them from themselves – while staggering ever closer towards the abyss.
If musicians are the chroniclers of the times they live in, and should the human race in one form or another survive the cataclysmic fate that some believe is unavoidable, our descendants will listen to Crystal Castles and wonder why the hell we didn’t see the error of our ways. No other band manages to embody all the confrontation, conflict, and stress of these End Times or deliver such a fiercely aggressive and unyieldingly bleak vision of this modern tribulation we call life in the 21st Century. Humans of the future will play Crystal Castles’ glitch-riven onslaught and understand immediately why we pretty much got what we deserved. Everything we could have learned about ourselves is here in gory, visceral detail – yet ignored to our shame.
The first two albums by Alice Glass and Ethan Kath will sound to them like the end of the world itself; a two-pronged feral assault of screaming, panic-edged vocals and malfunctioning techno shock and awe, leaving few in doubt that the last years of humanity were a frantic, frightening, flesh-tearing descent into chaos. This third album, (III), is still oppressive, claustrophobic and downright unlistenable in places but in the review of humanity’s catastrophe it would represent the final eerie slide into resigned horror, as if Crystal Castles had managed to record humankind’s exhausted death throes as it raged against every machine; breathless, hopeless and fighting against the dying of the light as the clock ticked closer to midnight. (III) is filled with references to blood, wounds, antiseptics, and soil which gives it a touch of torture porn which is unsettling at best and at worst makes the listening experience feel like the scraping of disease off the last morsel of food which could keep you alive. Many have praised Glass and Kath for their nihilistic approach to electronica and the reflection of the septic world we are seemingly cursed to inhabit. And as a document of our time, (III) is maybe the closest we get to the musical interpretation of our modern malaise.
Life can be shit and horrible things happen to decent people every day. Putting wake-up calls into music is nothing new and message-driven art is an essential part of the informative process; it reaches millions in ways that other documentation can’t. But does it have to pierce the soul like the cries of a parent mourning a deceased child? Does it have to unsettle and unnerve like the screeching whine of incoming munitions? When presented this way, there leaves little room for hope and even when the message is grave, music should always offer some hint at redemption. You’ll find none here.
Commendations
The album opens with ‘Plague’, a sinister siren-driven intro which has hints of the unnerving Alien scream of Ridley Scott’s science fiction masterpiece. Beside the ebbing and climbing wails, early 90s rave synths phase in and out, stabbing in the dark for supple flesh to pierce, until Alice Glass eerily begins to whisper childlike threats of bodily invasion: “I need you pure, I need you clean…Don’t try to enlighten me …” The pace quickens as the first of Kath’s incessantly annoying production effects kicks in. A word of warning: throughout the entire album you’ll be checking for loose wires – be aware now, it isn’t a malfunction, only lazy and unimaginative phasing which effectively ruins every track. Soon Glass is screaming “I am the plague” and the uncomfortable and cacophonous opening assault is complete.
‘Kerosene’ offers some hope that the entire album won’t be a sustained and relentless aural rape. It’s a pumping atmospheric dance track with something approaching a tune buried somewhere under the layers of unnecessary effects. But again, the stuttering production techniques which make it sound like the electricity meter is in desperate need of feeding ruins what could have been a peerless example of witch house.
‘Wrath of God’ begins eerily with an encouragingly trance-like melody but before long the phasing begins and Glass tries to make a vocal impression on the track only to have her Red Riding Hood voice ripped apart by Granma Kath’s big production teeth. Glass’s voice is processed within an inch of its life and at some point she becomes ultrasonic. The song finds its feet again with the introduction of an urgent drum beat which makes it engaging but its total sum is a mess. The same can also be said for ‘Affection’ which is an effective slow burner which gets brutally murdered by the production as it struggles to find its keys.
‘Pale Flesh’ summons the image of the famous monkey’s-with-typewriters-creating-the-compete-works-of-Shakespeare scenario. It sounds as though a bunch of chimps have been left with a room full of synthesizers while an epileptic subway accordion player attempts to conduct the primate melody from an adjoining apartment. It will take a brave and relentless soul to find worth among the litter.
The pace and quality of (III) hits the highest level with ‘Sad Eyes’. It’s the stand-out track mainly because Kath’s meddling is at a minimum. It’s a haunting yet driving dance tune which leaves you wonder if the sad eyes of the title belong to someone who has had to sift though the detritus on hands and knees to find this one gem.
The reprieve is brief and it’s soon time to return to the mire with ‘Insulin’ which is a broken, scabrous radio signal beamed in through a filthy toilet bowl. This is the aural equivalent of root canal work. You can’t listen to it for pleasure and you can’t dance to it, which leaves you wondering what the point of it all actually is. Perhaps it will find a place on the set-list at Guantanamo Bay. Played continuously at volume, the war on terror would have been over a lot sooner but then the US would have been even more open to increased pressure over its use of torture. Thankfully, the one thing in its favor is that it’s mercifully short.
‘Transgender’ comes next. It has a good club vibe behind it and could actually be described as music if hadn’t been smashed to bits by a producer who apparently sees cohesion as a toy destined to be crushed by a petulant child. Then there’s ‘Violent Youth’… Take the Donald Duck vocals out of the equation and fire the producer and this one would be a dance-floor filler. Unfortunately, as it is, it’s just a bit rubbish.
‘Mercenary’ is welcome only because, for the most part, it’s inoffensive and not trying to cause any cerebral bleeding.
The final track, the pleasantly titled ‘Child I Will Hurt You’ is at least melodic until it once again decides the listener is the enemy and starts jabbing psychotic sleigh bells down your ears to remind you that this album on the whole is a challenge, not pleasure or entertainment.
Next Steps
It has to be said that Crystal Castles seem utterly unrepentant in their approach or vision so one suspects that, should we see it past the end of the Mayan long-count calendar on December 21, 2012, we’ll get an equally – or perhaps bleaker – interpretation of the human condition on IV. Even surviving the apocalypse is unlikely to turn Glass and Kath into life-affirming purveyors of handbag house.
The story of how Melody Prochet went from the classically-trained multi-instrumentalist in twee French pop outfit My Bee’s Garden to a hippy-trippy psychedelic solo artist is one which has all the makings of a classic rock tale. Shackled and restrained by her classic training and unfulfilled by the lightness of her band, Prochet went in search of an aesthetic which would drag her from her comfort zone and release her from her gilded cage of comfy chanson. This quest led her to a meeting-of-minds with Tame Impala’s Kevin Parker backstage at the Aussie psych-rockers’ Paris show in 2010. Drawn to the echoey-depths of Parker’s heavily-layered sonic landscapes, Prochet had found exactly what she had been looking for – the key to both her physical and musical escape. While her decision to leave My Bees Garden would not be instantaneous, she eventually broke free, in many different ways. “I tend to write songs with pretty chords and arpeggios, and I was kind of boring myself,” she recalls in a recent interview. “So I asked Kevin to destroy everything.”
The result is Melody’s Echo Chamber, Prochet’s debut solo album, and it is – for the most part – a triumph of contradictory beauty. Soft yet brittle, light but with an unnerving darkness at the edges like a gathering storm on the horizon of a sun-kissed meadow, this is an album on which a young woman appears to be exploring the sounds in her head and hearing them perfectly replicated in the outside world for the first time. “This record was my dream sound,” Prochet has said. “I’ve tried for years to get it but finally I found the right hands to sculpt it.”
There’s no getting away from the fact that Kevin Parker’s fingerprints are all over the production of this album but to credit the Tame Impala man entirely would be doing a massive disservice to Melody Prochet. The trademark scuzzy, fuzzy guitars, the “Tomorrow Never Knows” drums and spaced-out, soaring synths leave you in no doubt who is in the control booth and for the most part, this is a good thing. The orchestration is as lush and layered as you would expect; album opener “I Follow You” is an uplifting yet edgy pop song, perfectly balancing Prochet’s sugary vocal with the heavily-delayed guitars, while “Crystallized”, another potentially airy slice of 1960s revivalism, suddenly transcends to an altogether more sublime level due to the far-out Krautrock finale that shakes the song from its summer reverie. “Endless Shore” pushes the standard even higher with its George Harrison-influenced eastern vibe, piercing keys and effects-heavy, reverbed riffs.
But all this wonderful production would mean nothing if it was not supporting Prochet’s considerable talent for addictive hooks, dreamy harmonies and arpeggios which are delivered like showers of diamonds.
The production, however, is partly responsible for the album’s few but obvious shortfalls. Prochet has one of those classically girly French pop voices which needs to be treated with care and as such, Parker records her in much the same way as he lays his own delicate vocals down on Tame Impala records – as an instrument rather than a dominating factor. The result is that, while he manages to lift his own voice above the psychedelic turmoil of the music, Prochet tends to get snowed under in the sonic avalanches. This makes it extremely hard to understand what she’s singing about which raises questions about the lyrical content – only because one can’t clearly hear the words. The darkness and grittiness of some songs are somewhat ill-pitched and would have been more effective had the music explored the edginess in Prochet’s voice and personality rather than expecting her to meet the challenge set by the ominous orchestration.
Despite this, and the fact that the high quality of the record gradually tails off throughout its second half, Melody’s Echo Chamber is an impressive, immersive debut featuring enough beautifully constructed and thrilling music to make one forgive the few weaknesses which occur as it reaches its conclusion. For a first attempt at soaring to the outer limits of her vision, Melody Prochet has taken an intriguing maiden voyage.
Melody’s Echo Chamber opens with the wonderful “I Follow You” with its delicious hook and Prochet’s luminous vocals skipping over waves of feedback and woolly guitars. Albums which open on such a high note are often doomed to slide towards mediocrity – or worse – and while the album does gradually lose its momentum and vision in the final third, the opening track is not the tipping point. “Crystallised” again takes Prochet’s feathery vocals and lifts it up on a crunchy base of reverb-heavy psych-rock.
Singing in English on record for the first time, Prochet retains her alluring Francophone tones which are perfect for the gorgeous, swaying Parisian pop of “You Won’t Be Missing That Part Of Me” which taps into Serge Gainsbourg’s smoky seduction but rolls sexily over rumbling motorik beats like a playful lover on pristine hotel sheets.
“Some Time Alone, Alone” opens with the signature Tame Impala choppy guitar intro and cascading bass scales favoured by Tame and Pond bassist Nick Allbrook but Prochet soon muscles in to reclaim the song as her own, soaring above it all with a wonderful melody which is one of the album’s best vocal moments.
“Endless Shore” stretches out like a walk along a shimmering beach with wispy waves of electronica blowing in and Prochet’s voice rising and diving like birds over the water. A chiming, vaguely Kraftwerk-inspired keyboard refrain plinks and plonks from time to time to give it a strange, other-worldly atmosphere. It’s both soothing and mildly disconcerting at the same time.
She reverts to her native tongue on “Bisou Magique” (Magic Kiss) which comes across like Vanessa Paradis fronting Broken Bells. It’s the perfect music for an afternoon’s aimless wander through Left Bank avenues with its lazy synth lines and a pace which barely gets above pedestrian. It’s a shame though that the potentially interesting combination of styles is left to chug along lethargically with very little direction when so many possibilities are just around the corner.
The ghostly “Quand Vas Tu Rentrer?” is the first real slide down the quality scale. Beginning with fairground keyboards, it morphs into an agitated jazz shuffle which is knocked off its stride from time to time by discordant drums. Prochet’s vocal sounds as though it was recorded for a different song, which hints at a better alternative than the track it was pasted over.
Prochet proves on a number of tracks that she can rival her producer in the offbeat stakes. “Mount Hopeless” is gloriously gloomy and is reminiscent of the mid- to late-80’s 4AD roster, with aspects of Lush at their most pseudo-Goth while “Is That What You Said” sounds like a bunch of drunken guitars getting into a fight on a horror movie carousel. The experimental, backwards orchestration has something of the Stone Roses’ penchant for flipping their own songs over and calling it something new. While it’s a courageous move, it’s somewhat of a jarring anomaly.
“Snowcapped Andes Crash” – a song about post-plane disaster cannibalism, would you believe – trips daintily along on airwaves of plinking electronica before hitting a massive storm of turbulence halfway through and crashing to earth in a cacophonic maelstrom of twisted guitars, exploding drums and screeching loops before Prochet’s voice – like the ghosts of the victims – begins to rise to the heavens again.
Finally, “Be Proud of Your Kids” returns the record to near sanity with Beatles-esque strings, reminiscent of “Rain” or “Taxman”, twanging behind children’s voices and Prochet’s whispery and discordant sighing. It doesn’t stray too far from bizarre but has some nice musical elements in it. The overwhelming feeling that a five-year old got hold of the recording equipment and a microphone at some point, however, cannot be shaken. It’s brave and a concerted move away from the formula of the more catchy numbers but it smacks of an oddity for oddity’s sake.
The high points on Melody’s Echo Chamber are high indeed and one hopes that on her next outing she will have a full album’s worth of ideas because when she hits the mark, it makes for a joyous listening experience and the more she does this, the happier this writer will be. The album’s final third suggests that there wasn’t quite enough material or focus for a full record of quality (or maybe both singer and producer ran out of steam towards the end). One would also hope that Melody Prochet discovers how to fully exploit the interestingly macabre aspects of her music and explores her dark side a little more on the next record. This admirable debut has a good mix of poppy melodies and thematic darkness but a better understanding of the dark foreboding behind the luminosity would see Prochet scale even greater heights. All-in-all, she’s progressing nicely along the right track.
It’s a telling indication of how Australian psych-rockers Tame Impala view themselves. They saunter on stage just seconds after their last roadie has departed it and moments before the house lights are lowered to announce their imminent arrival. It’s a slightly awkward moment which the sold-out crowd at Amsterdam’s Paradiso venue don’t quite know what to do with. The rising anticipation of the band’s arrival in darkness seems to deflate like a punctured tire as the quintet of shaggy-haired Antipodeans shuffle about the stage collecting their instruments under the fierce fluorescent glare. Even the lighting operator is thrown by this seemingly unconscious shunning of stage etiquette, lowering the lights for a brief second before realizing the moment has passed, and raising them again. The band, barely acknowledging the crowd or the faux pas that they’ve just made, plug in, sweep their lank tresses behind their ears and get on with the business at hand.
Tame Impala are not rock stars. They don’t see themselves as objects of adoration or individuals worthy of gushing prose and column inches of acclaim. They’re musicians and slightly wonky ones at that. The screams that eventually rise to the rafters of this former chapel provoke bashful smiles on stage and uncomfortable twitching with the bare-footed Mowgli of a front man Kevin Parker hopping and skipping with shy urgency around his mike as his band limber up. It’s only when they launch into set opener ‘Be Above It’ that the five willowy figures grow in stature and start filling the space above the nodding, predominantly teenage, heads with a throbbing aura. An urgent drum beat begins to rattle around the walls as the vibrating strings and ethereal keys begin to form the swirling psychedelic fog of noise which will ebb and flow for the best part of 90 minutes. Parker’s somewhat reedy voice initially struggles to be heard through the growing colorful storm, unnerving him slightly, but he visibly stabilizes as he chugs out the opening chords of the storming ‘Solitude is Bliss’ from debut album Innerspeaker and launches into the verse with verve.
This sets a pattern for the whole gig. The older numbers, more rocky and robust than those from current album Lonerism, are attacked with an intensity which seems beyond these unassuming and callow-looking youths when they’re not conjuring their magic. ‘Lucidity’ starts abruptly and stomps off on a gargantuan glam riff, played simultaneously by Parker and bassist Nick Allbrook, before melting into a free-for-all which is both full of abandon and control; ‘Alter Ego’ runs away on Julien Barbagallo’s skittering drums with Parker, fellow guitarist Dom Simper and Allbrook chasing the beat as Jay Watson’s synth sends SOS alarms into the smoky air; despite being a slow groove on record, the live version of ‘Why Won’t You Make Up Your Mind’ also bursts out of the gate on Barbagallo’s beats before each of the Impalas drop into the groove. Parker’s uncovered toes twitch pedals and twiddle nobs as the sound grows and melds into a soaring acid-tinged hymn worthy of this place of musical worship. ‘Desire Be, Desire Go’ starts off on a screeching wave of feedback before Parker starts slashing at his distorted Rickenbacker, sending the young crowd into raptures.
The new material, more delicate, nuanced and dream-like on record than those on Innerspeaker, is even more multi-layered and expansive live, which appears to appeal to the older members of the audience, perhaps drawn to Lonerism‘s similarities to early Pink Floyd and the more paisley-tinged aspects of the Beatles. These are the songs in which Allbrook and Barbagallo excel. This is a rhythm section as telepathically in tune and at one with each other as John Paul Jones and John Bonham in their pomp. While Parker, Simper and Watson freestyle through 10-minute lysergic workouts of ‘Endors Toi’ and ‘Music to Walk Home By’, bassist and drummer are anchoring the sound while adding intricate fills and runs of their own to create a sonic smorgasbord. On the Lennon-esque ‘Feels Like We Only Go Backwards,’ its Allbrook who stars, driving the melody with a lazy and dreamy groove which pierces through the mistiness of the plaintive ballad.
Keyboardist Watson seems lost in his own thoughts or mildly disinterested at times, head resting on a propped up hand as he waits for his part. But his is an under-rated but important job. When the joyous stomp of ‘Elephant’ fires up and the pit becomes a seething mass in front of the stage, he waits patiently until his keys are required to bring the glitter-clad pachyderm to life.
Even though some songs seem to go on for days – ‘It Is Not Meant To Be’ gets not one but two intrusive ovations as the crowd are tricked by a number of pauses and restarts – the overwhelming feeling is that, despite the apparent lack of restraint, this is a supremely drilled band. Parker is always in control, even when he’s falling to the floor or playing on his knees or back, and everyone knows where they should be in each song and what they should be doing there. Set closer ‘Apocalypse Dreams’ is another supreme example. A simple pop song hanging loosely on a Motown drum and bass beat, the band employ all their tricks to go out with a bang, building the outro into a five-minute crescendo which leaves the Amsterdam crowd breathless. Then as quietly as they entered, they’re gone – only to return with the sublime ‘Half Full Glass of Wine’. It’s another raucous glam-inspired groove which has the waves of fans ebbing and flowing like an ecstatic ocean, breaking like surf on the safety barriers. It’s a send off which leaves these accidental rock stars beaming with embarrassed glee and stumbling over wires and each to get to the safety of their back stage sanctuary.
"Everything I know about morality and the obligations of men, I owe it to football." — Albert Camus..................... "If God existed, he would be a solid midfielder." — Aleksandar Hemon................……………...........................
Tales from Down the Front 