Spins and Needles

Album Review: Errors - Have Some Faith In Magic

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 19:56:00 +0000

Control does funny things to people. Held in the wrong hands, it's a murderous swine of a power. The annals of history are peppered with examples of how it can be taken to the most extreme levels; where lateral thought and common decency are overthrown by a fug of totalitarianism and self importance. And that's just modern day traffic wardens.

But even when massaged in the right palms, control isn't always such a virtuous thing. The responsibility that goes with authority can overwhelm once creatively poised lines of thought. Suddenly the inventive mindset that helped forge control in the first place becomes the unspoken enemy. Playing it safe is the default position. There's no room for chance taking.

This type of control - the fermenting, grey-matter dissolving, long-term variety - has seen the mainstream music industry come to a shuddering standstill over the years. Lauded yet archaic labels are being outflanked and outmanouvered by wiley young bucks; mainstream rags are folding quicker than an origami sensei; while music retailers are navigating their ships with the foresight of an Italian cruise liner captain in the Mediterranian. Bands aren't much better, often attempting to re-pique listeners' lugs by winding out re-heated leftovers from the days they sounded 'fresh'.

Thankfully, Glasgow electro outfit Errors have always valued progression over this out-of-control control. The quartet's debut LP, exotically entitled It's Not Something, But It is Like Whatever, was a glitching, slinking, synth-stained wench of a record that never took itself seriously. Its follow up, Come Down With Me, was more unhinged; lathered in afro-rhythms, it contorted its various musical limbs into wild-eyed rankles that felt equally at home in the Amazon as they did on the dancefloor. Which ever way you took them, you could never accuse Errors of being entirely on top of things.

Here, then, at the foothill of album number three, the band have earned the right to a little control. After all, it's been six year since they signed to Rock Action. Six long years. In that time they've watched notable contemporaries appear then disappear almost as regularly as they've seen the letters M-O-G-W-A-I tattooed into every line of every review. But they've survived. Unscathed and unaffected, the band have gradually climbed the scales of leftfield respectability.

In many ways, Have Some Faith in Magic helps Errors secure their place atop the UK's shagpile of bleep-making behemoths. This is the sound of a band taking stock. A band more measured than ever before. There are no stray movements, no wayward throes. Every note is considered, mulled, strangulated. Yet, it's surprising just how non-manipulated it feels. Somehow, amidst all the rigid architecture, Errors have conjured up something utterly organic in nature, but skin-tight in direction.

Such clear headed precision is immediately noticeable. Opener 'Tusk' sets out on a thick, chomping guitar growl, before breaking into a cathedral synth apogee. Bereft of atypical android-electro signatures, this is a crisp and linear mark up, where layers of drum and synth build into swarms of faintly victorious bit-crushed melody.

Pre-release, much has been made of Stephen Livingstone's increased vocal input, suggesting a not-so-subtle shunt in direction beckoned. But the reality is nowhere near as overt. Livingstone's woozy, affected tones add depth rather than focus, supplying a hymnal incantation to the entrancing cosmoses of 'Magna Encarta' and 'Cloud Chambers's textural rhythms. Like everything here, the vocals are more than just tokenistic; they have rhyme and reason for being there.

On early listens, two clear circling points exist. The bass-bin pushing, gutter shuffle of 'Pleasure Palaces' creates a hypnotic, persuasive bounce that's impossible to resist, slinking its way through a star-scattered playground of cathedral synth and pulsating beat. 'Earthscore' is more aggressively charged. Coiled by tribal rhythm and monolithic keys, it's an intensely claustrophobic, demented affair that unfolds, cinematically, as a magnificent other-worldly soundtrack.

As exhilarating as they are, these propulsive efforts are considerably out of step with the record's slow-burning centre. Composed of gentle rhythms that exude a distinctly Balearic temperament, ...Faith in Magic is a considered and self-reflective affair. Post-rock is, as ever, at the core of Errors work, but in this claustrophobic, overhanging chasm lurks a less primal beast, where thick, airy numbers like 'Barton Spring' or 'Blank Media' verge eerily close to a smart, scholarly elegance that takes time to study and sink in.

But once it's in, slotted and stapled into some realm of the brainbox, it's brilliant. Unashamedly, undeniably, unequivocally brilliant. With Have Some Faith in Magic, Errors have out-Mogwaied Mogwai, out-Sadded The Twilight Sad. Through each of these 12 immaculately crafted slabs of grandiose sound lies mesh upon mesh of complex, interwoven melody that, like the beatific swells of album climax 'Holus Bolus', chimes with an array of emotions.

Admittedly, it is, quite probably, a peak they'll never again scale. But Errors are no longer inviting us to come back down with them. They're no longer in the mood for, like, whatever. That was another time, another band. Right now, they're taking us to where they want to go. And they can. Why? Because this is a band in complete control.

Spins and Needles' Albums of 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 21:19:00 +0000

Oh look it's another list. Boring, I know, but it's the end of the year and us music writers have fuck all else to do apart from look back on 2011 and reflect. Being a hater of both Bon Ivor's and PJ Harvey's recent efforts, my selection this year sways away from the hive, veering between synth-addled spectacles and acoustic guitar wielding weepers.

Curiosly, I don't think there's anything in there my 15 year old self would have termed 'indie' (i.e scruffy chancers with guitars and scuzzy tunes). Does that mean 'indie' is dead or the 'indie' inside of me is dead? A question for another day perhaps, but given my prediliction for guitar based music a few years back it is a touch odd to see the music I've most enjoyed this year is, in every sense, synthetic. I guess I must be moving with the times. Look at me go.

1. John Maus - We Must Become The Pitless Censors of Ourselves
This is one of these albums I keep coming back to. The cold, synthsized aesthetic makes it a perfect London sountrack, but there's a interior pathos to these tracks that means their just as listenable played low on a late night. An absolute gem.

2. Rob St John - Weald
Annoyingly this came it after I had submitted my list for records of the year. Rob has always been an amazing performer and here, with this sumptious debut, he compounds his place as one of the UK's most engaging singer/songwriters.

3. SBTRKT - SBTRKT
Post-dubstep? Sigh-Fi? Who knows and, really, who cares. Aaron Jerome's debut LP is a masterclass in understated beats and glitchy effects. Admittedly, it wasn't something I was initially in to, but after a few spins while pounding the pavements to and from Liverpool Street its jarring nodes clicked like Fonzy's fingers in a 50s dancehall.

4. Tune-Yards - w h o k i l l
As much as I enjoyed Bird-Brain, w h o k i l l is a dramatic step up in both songwriting expertise and production value for the idiosyncratic Merrill Garbus. Brutal, intense and utterly compelling, it's the sort of album that you can mine for months and never quite get to the bottom of it.

5. Nicolas Jaar - Space Is Only Noise
In the cold depths of February Nicolas Jaars airless compositions seemed to be on continous loop. But once the days lightened its impact lessened, Jaar's weighty electronic matter sat ill at ease with the the joviality of summer. Now, with winter back in full swing, it's once again a fascinating, harrowing listen.

6. Psychedelic Horseshit - Laced
A mental, psychedelia-splattered crackpot of a record from lo-fi genius Matt Whitehurst. The magnificent I Hate The Beach is still my running tune of choice.

7. David Thomas Broughton - Outbreeding
With his odd, almost incomprehensible warble, David Thomas Broughton is one of the UK's most curious songwriters. This sublime acoustic LP is testament not only to his lunatic Anthony Hegarty-like pipes, but also his infectious ear for a tune. Mental bastard indeed.

8. Gang Gang Dance - Eye Contact
This hits the top ten based almost purely on the frazzled fuckery of album opener Glass Jar. The rest of the album's not too shabby either - filled with bleeps, bleeps and rhythmic chants - but as a cut Glass Jar is the record's absolute zenith.

9. Conquering Animal Sound - Kammerspiel
Initially I thought Kammerspiel was far too technical to ever truly immerse in, but after a few months of prolonged listening it clicked, transforming into a mesmerising electro-beaut of a record.

>

10. Cat's Eyes - Cat's Eyes
Well, this was a surprise. Faris Badwan (he of Horrors fame) and Rachel Zeffira (she of opera soprano fame) joined forces to create one of 2011's most spell-binding and utterly fascinating shimmers of retro-pop brilliance.

My pictures of the year

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 21:07:00 +0000

In the couple of years that I've been faffing around with a 'proper' camera, I think the last 12 months have shown a definite improvement in what I'm doing. Not that I'm great, mind, but I can absolutely see the difference between the types of shots I was interested in when I was learning the ropes, compared to the types of shots I'm taking now, having started to understand said ropes.

Interestingly, what I've noticed most is that my eye for every day detail has improved remarkably. These days I find myself looking at textures, patterns, people and environments and thinking "how could I turn this into a strong image?", even without a camera to hand.

As a hobby I'm finding it more and more enjoyable. Moving somewhere new was made less daunting through the eye of a lens; while the many hours I have alone at the weekends when Su is working are often taken up with myriad picture-taking escapades (which mostly include my favourite family of swans on the lake outside my flat).

So, with it being the end of the year, and the end of the year being all about 'lists', here's a list of my favourite pictures I've taken in 2011. I'm not suggesting these are in anyway amazing, or even good, but from all the various photographs I've taken in 2011 these are the ones that mean the most to me.

Dunbar harbour, Dunbar [February]

North Berwick harbour, North Berwick [March]

Roseburn Park, Edinburgh [April]

Strathy Beach, Caithness [April]

Forth Rail Bridge, North Queensferry [May]

The Crags, Edinburgh [May]

4 July barbeque in Florida [July]

Water of Leith, Edinburgh [July]

Roseburn, Edinburgh [July]

Snape Maltings, Suffolk [August]

East Feast, Suffolk [September]

Mersea Island, Essex [October]

Westminster, London [October]

Autumnal leaves in Morris Town, New York [November]

Central Park, New York [November]

Cortlandt St. subway station, New York [November]

My birthday cake, Colchester [December]

Our Christmas tree, Colchester [December]

Thanksmas, Colchester [December]

One of my records of the year: Found - Factorycraft

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 23:51:00 +0000

*First part writen by Sean Adams, DiS Editor....

Each year, DiS asks our staff to vote for their albums of the year. Our editor vaguely tots up the 'votes' and then contrasts and compares this with what's been written about, as well as what has been talked about all year on our boards. DiS then ends up compiling some sort of year-end list, which attempts to approximately sum up the year that was. And then lotsa people object and moan about their favourite record not being at number one...

However, each and every year, there are records which slip through the cracks, that individuals who write for the site absolutely adore, yet few others seem to even be aware of. To help highlight a few _lost_ records, a few years ago we invented the Lost List, and ask individuals to write some words explaining why they love the album in question. Next up, our former Drowned in Sound columnist, Billy Hamilton, shares a personal tale of a record he wishes to upgrade the 7/10 score he awarded it earlier this year...

***

Back in March when Factorycraft was released, it didn’t feel like a record that warranted much attention past the initial curious few listens. Found, the album’s creators, had seemingly gone from eclectic, electronically-charged path-cutters to “flat-out indie-rock”, as I so charmingly described their musical evolution in these pages. For a band (or arts collective, if you’d prefer) so cavalier in its pursuit of the unknown, there was a disappointing sense of regression in their efforts.

It wasn’t that Factorycraft was a bad record (for those who get into a midden over these things, 7/10 is a GOOD score) it was just a surprising one. Found, after all, were renowned - in Scotland at least - for pushing boundaries and stretching ideas, often creating astonishing, free form funks that climaxed as unidentifiable melodies. Yet, here they were as a stripped-down three-piece dishing out threadbare, straight-laced ditties. It was fine, yes, but something didn’t seem quite right.

So, I forgot about it.

Left alone to collect pixelated dust in my Apple-made MP3 shelf, I imagine Factorycraft, if it were a Cypbraphone-like machine, would have wondered what it had done to suffer the indignation of languishing with the also-rans. After all, had it not received a reasonable score? Hadn’t I commended “You’re No Vincent Gallo” and ‘Anti-Climb Paint’ with a swooning, pear-tooth grinning thumbs up? So why, that collection of compressed files would have asked, do I regularly skip past them like some sort giddy girl guide when it made an unsolicited appearance on my morning commute?

Well. The fact is Factorycraft is a solid, straight faced work of Scottish songsmanship. I had appreciated its sounds, I’d even compared them to Arab Strap - Arab Fucking Strap - but nothing kept me coming back for more. To these ears, it was an austere album for austere times. Given the chance, my fingers flicked to the wild, bestial ravage of Tune-Yards’ WHOKILL or the thrill of SBTRKT’s pavement scorching post-dubstep,. Why bother with something so… flat?

And then it all changed. In my last few days of living in Edinburgh (a town I’d called home for 11 years), Found played a miniscule indoor festival in a church just off Leith Walk. While all around them were turning out earthy, arid acoustica to a congregation of hirsute chin strokers, Found vented an itching, scratching, syncopating spleen of bug-eyed electronica that scorched through the church like the burning fires of Beelzebub.

It was a revelation. Here was a band making the most maddening, insane, futuristic sounds on stage, yet its last record had almost passed me by. The feeling didn’t fit. So off I hopped, back to my 4th generation, screen-splintered iPod handed down from my other half. Skipping past The Field, The Flaming Lips, Floatation Toy Warning and Foals, I eventually landed at Found’s doorstep; softly knocking, almost apologetically, to be let back in, because maybe I was wrong; maybe it deserved a second chance. Maybe I deserved a second chance.

And what difference a few months of space and time made. Factorycraft suddenly began to make sense. What I discovered wasn’t a straight-edged, indie-pop jamboree; instead, here was a dark, dank, slow burning cauldron of invention. Sure, guitars chimed with jingle-jangle glee across the bow of 'I’ll Wake With a Seismic Head No More', but under the surface lies a complex eco-system of rhythm that holds infinitely more brevity than I had ever imagined.

In reflection, I still stand by the review, so there’s little value in labouring the same points here when you can read it here, but what never clicked in that two week period of pre-review listening was Factorycraft’s prolonged ‘stickability’. Even now, I find myself edging back to the shimmer-pop tones of ‘Machine Age Dancing’ and the berserk post-tropicalia squall of ‘Every Hour That Passes’ in search of something new, something I’ve missed. And, y’know , 50 plus listens in I usually find some sneaky little nuance that’s gone undetected, slowly rising to the surface, demanding the attention of my piqued lugholes.

Even today, as I sit on the 7.33am to London Liverpool Street, another component of the dullard Metro-reading commuting community, the menacing throes of ‘Blendbetter’ ring right through me. At this precise moment, it sounds like my own cinematic victory, a striding two fingered salute to the anodyne life of Windsor -knotted ties and starch-ironed shirts. Eight months on from its release, Factorycratft has become my way of negotiating the travails of trains, tubes and twats who spend half their life playing Angry Birds on tablet computers. And here, at the end of 2011, this is no longer Found’s record: it’s mine.

2011: My year in review

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 22:11:00 +0000

Trying to put the last 12 months into context is easier said than done. Quite simply, I have never had a year like it. In fact, even the year I spent wrenching myself away from my microscopically-sized hometown, teenage year friends and a (first) long term girlfriend to make the leap to a big city was a doddle in comparison.

The year started bad. Su was fanning the flames of a fledgling freelance career, which, in terms of success, seemed to peak and trough with rollercoaster-like frequency. We were, in every sense, miserable. We lived off less in a week than I now make in a day, couldn’t afford to put the heating on in the peak of an Auld Reekie winter and had to excuse ourselves from socialising in any shape with the outer world for the first half of the year.

We’d kid ourselves things were good. At least Su wasn’t working with dead bodies, we’d say. But were things good? Were we really staring at an incline in fortune? I didn’t think so. Not deep down at least. Work for me was going nowhere. A promotion never looked on the cards, despite some of the effort I’d put in, and my stuttering journalism career seemed to nosedive into a pit of pointlessness, saying nothing and meaning even less. Half the time I didn’t even want to read it, so fuck knows why anyone else would.

Add my rapidly dissolving emotional state to Su’s already diminished resolve and you had a couple of people who were unable to see enough light to figure out which way the tunnel led, never mind where it actually ended. It was a nadir. But then things started to pick up. My recently married mother sold my family home, lending us enough money to pay for spirit-lifting flights to Florida to see Su’s family. And then my dear wife got three job interviews and got three jobs. Our luck was up. Change was afoot.

Of course, it was never going to be that easy. One of the jobs required moving to Colchester. That was, of course, the job Su wanted. So we thought long and hard. Could we do it? Do we really want to up, what were admittedly rickety, sticks and leave a city we both love? I wasn’t sure, but things needed to change. Bold decisions aren’t always my wont, but even an idiot could see we weren’t able to go on like this. So we went for it.

What proceeded were the most mental three months of my life. Separated from my wife, someone I’ve fought tooth and nail for to be with, I spent my time wrangling between a life in Edinburgh and a hopeful new start in the south of England. I’m not sure just how many flights I took in that period, but I’ll definitely not be getting invited to any eco-friendly social functions this year. Finding a job was tough, being apart from my wife was tough, trying to feign interest at work was tough. It was, I’ll admit, a fucker of a time.

Then, by a stroke of LinkedIn induced luck, I got a job. Suddenly I was moving: packing up my flat, saying tearful farewells to my friends and moving away from a city I’d lived, breathed and loved for 11 years. That was the hardest part. Colchester is no Edinburgh and coming from the cultural epicentre of Scotland to one of England’s many vacuous commuting voids rang my head through a ringer. What the hell are you supposed to do here? I still don’t know. But I do know why there are so many trains to London.

Right now, I’m still adjusting to life down here. Thankfully, my homesickness has gone. A trip to New York and a few beers with some rekindled friends has put things into perspective. I’ve also been spending a lot of time thinking about culture and environment. I used to think that when Scots moaned aboutnot getting any airtime down south, there was an element of justification in their parochially-borne whinging. But, really, there’s not. It’s just the thought process of people who don’t have the cajones to move on to the next step. And that step, no matter what people protest, is London. A place no-one come from, and almost all need to go to.

Down here it feels like you’re living in hyperspeed; the work, the people, the bastards on bikes that nearly scythe your feet clean off every morning, even the trains (well, only when they work). It’s cliché, but this place doesn’t have time to wait. If you want to be a part of it, you need to jump on. It won’t come to you. And it’s something I’m still learning. If you need something down here, ask for it. If you don’t, then tough titties. Proactivity is the only action these people understand.

And now the end of the year is here. Somehow, I’m almost 31 and it’s the first time I’ve felt like I’m actually shaping my own life. I’m still writing, but it’s not an overarching ambition anymore. I’ve got a career to think of. A wife to think of. The next step to think of. Those Lester Bangs ambitions have finally gone; there are others out there being better and hungrier than I am capable of being (the consistently amazing John Doran is a prime example). Instead, I’ve found my niche and my focus is to take it to all the places I want to go: London is just the starting point. That, in itself, is quite exciting. It’s not the height of my ambition, merely the beginning.

If I was my old journalism lecturer, I’d mark myself down for pretending this was a ‘review’ of the last year. There’s not really enough analysis here to masquerade as a critique. So, I apologise unreservedly for my shameless naval gazing. In some sense it was probably very useful for me to reflect on the changing shape of the previous 340+ days. And given how tumultuous 2011 has been, it would seem a little masochistic to say I hope the next year is just as berserk. But, right now, that’s exactly what I want. Bring on 2012.

11 years on: Primal Scream's XTRMNTR

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 11:00:00 +0000

These days, it’s hard to tell where Bobby Gillespie sits in the spectrum of politicised popstars. Played through a media lens, the last decade has seen Primal Scream's foreman swing his cause between socialism and socialising. His barracking of political paradigms and societal unjust is often undercut by supermodel hob-nobbery and a tendency to scattergun red-army style rants with little rhyme or reason(although it is difficult to sympathise with the vile Theresa May). At almost 50, Gillespie may continue talk the talk, but his walk is certainly not what it once was.

Yet, venture back just 11 years and Gillespie's was a voice you wouldn’t dare to fuck with. Amidst the final parps of post-Britpop balderdash, Gillespie was busy taking global capitalism to task, penning odes to black revolutionaries and, as ever, ripping into the core of Tory idealism with pitbull brute. He was, in every sense, the archetypal angry Scot, propping up his granite argumentative streak with a cold, deadened stare.

At a time when Christina and Britney were duelling for pop’s top spot, Gillespie felt like a fully-fledged iconoclast; a ferociously read spawn of a left-wing activist who'd pontificate over politics as readily as he could get his rocks off. This wasn’t the pill-packing hedonist of Screamadelica, or the gak guzzling reprobate of Give Out But Don’t Give Up. This was Bobby Gillespie in his prime; a self-declared cultural warrior in the days before Lower Manhattan was turned to a rubble of bricks, mortar and blood.

It started with Vanishing Point, the 1997 return to form that washed away Give Out’s overbloated blues-rock. Imbued between the notes of its psychedelic whirls and speed freak fuckery was a caustic unwillingness to surrender. It was nasal, grating, alive, unrepentant. The Primals had found their scream and Gillespie, Duffy, Mounfield, et al weren’t in the mood for keeping it down. In fact, aided by a swell of narcotics and the vitriolic posturing of a world adjoined by globalisation but split by idealism, they had no choice. It was them or no-one.

And then XTRMNTR came crashing in. A vowel-less crank of post punk (not post-punk) rancour riding on a beat up trashcan of nihilistic disco, this was the masterpiece Primal Scream had been promising. All Gillepsie’s pre-album posturing had frothed with disdain towards a world disfigured by fat-catisim and western foreign policy. XTRMNTR was the Scream fighting back; the pin being pulled from one almighty hand grenade. As Gillespie put it in an interview in 2000, “It's like an attack... It's not fucking background music. It makes you stand up and take notice.”

He was right. Take notice was all you could do.

Charging out with the Chemical Brothers-tampered single 'Swastika Eyes' - a ferocious, rocket hurtling, two-fingered salutation to oppressive governments and blood-sucking conglomerations - this was the sound of a mainstream band shunting itself to the periphery in the crudest, most innocuous fashion. Realistically, XTRMNTR shouldn’t have shifted units. The record’s rapacious lyrical content, stoic, eastern-bloc production and cranked out butane jazz were light years away from the anodyne climate of chart topping boybands and pop princesses. But XTRMNTR stuck, reaching the top three in the UK album charts(when those things still actually meant something)and spinning headlong into every record of the year list going.

Listening back it’s not hard to understand why. The record rushes through the body’s orifices with psychotic purpose, ambushing you any way it can. 'Accelerator' is a thrash ‘n’ grab fuzz fuck of barbiturate guitar. Album opener ‘Kill All Hippies’’ bleeds hip hop swagger and discombobulating, cyborg synthesiser; while the serrated ‘Insect Royalty’ is a throttling spiderweb of percussion and blaring horns that finds Gillespie howling out diseased, acid-swathed entrails of the English vernacular. It's a relentlesss throng; every crevice is enveloped in white noise - even ‘Keep Your Dreams’’ narcoleptic fug has a certain sadistic terror plunged beneath the xylophone chimes and Gillespie’s cathartic crow.

Played out today, XTRMNTR's still a jagged, awkward squall. Butchered cuts like the free jazz scarred ‘MBV Arkestra’ (Kevin Shields’ unidentifiable remix of Vanishing Point’s funk-smuggling If They Move Kill ‘Em) and exhaust pipe throttling swansong ‘Shoot Speed/Kill Light’ are as oppressive and inhospitable as the ideologies Gillespie despised. And even when the lyrics sag insufferably, as they do on ‘Exterminator’ (“Everyone’s a prostitute/All jails are concentration camps/ all judges are bought”) and ‘Pills’ (Gillespie’s preposterous rap is a Scream nadir), the pounding ballast of junkyard distortion and thumping drums pulls them through like shards of shrapnel plunging into the temples.

Eleven years on and the shock and awe of XTRMNTR’s message has worn off somewhat. This is an era exhausted by war, terrorism, famine and global debt. The anger stage has, to an extent, passed. Optimists would even say we’re at the root of the problem, even if the solution keeps getting further and further away. Yet, it’s unnerving to consider just how precise XTRMNTR was. It wasn’t quite a call to arms, but it could have soundtracked any of the game changing events of the last decade: the UK riots, the Arab spring, the London bombings or even 9/11.

Just how far XTRMNTR’s anti-American sentiment would have stretched had it been released a year and a half later is a question we'll never find an answer to. Would Gillespie have dared to attack American foreign policy so vehemently? Would Creation have been brave (or stupid) enough to release such a critique? Who knows. But XTRMNTR does have an unshakably forboding feel to it. The message was simple: This can’t continue, something’s going to crack. Little did anyone know just how wide and deep that crack would run.

Coiling back from the record’s political overtones, XTRMNTR stretched far beyond its time as a musical artefact. Even today it’s still fascinating and futuristic; a dense, impermeable concoction of ear-shaking, amphetamine-shifting, thrill-seeking disco punk that shits all over the ecstacy-infused wash out of Screamadelica. And while 2011's Primal Scream are happy to retread the steps of their post-club 'classic', XTRMNTR proves this was a band that had something to say, something worth hearing even today: PRML SCRM MTHR FCKR.

Album review: Rob St John - Weald

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 10:54:00 +0000

The sheer heft of Rob St John’s voice is deceiving. The Burnley-born songsmith’s gravy-thick pipes exude a wisdom that should only come from the weathering of life; the kind of ripened warble that expresses the nuances and extraordinary experiences of someone who’s seen and done it all. As a vocal, it's many things - evocative, touching, tear-jerking, wise - but one thing it’s not is a sound you’d associate with a kid in his twenties.

But that’s exactly what Rob St John is; a cherubic troubadour without the worldly eminence or piety of Waits, Drake or Cave. Yet St John’s debut LP Weald suggests otherwise. There’s no snazzy production, no high-profile special guests to boost chart returns (unless you count the good and the great from Edinburgh’s alt-folk scene), and no gimmicky promotional smokescreens to be found here. Instead, this is something simple for a complex age: a record filled with both masterful arrangements and tender songwriting craft.

If press releases are to be believed then this is St John’s aural vision of a contour that runs between the Lancaster moors and Edinburgh’s winding paths. To help emphasise his imaginary axis, St John plots the record across three key habitations - Cambridge, Edinburgh and Oxford - capturing each town’s unique atmosphere via cracking reel-to-reel recordings, enveloping church acoustics and the nocturnal claustrophobia of basement flats. Yet, within this urbanised construction, there's a distinctly arid feel to Weald's narratives, with St John tending to bury heavy emotional metaphors beneath tales of topographies and oceans.

So it’s perhaps unsurprising that within Weald’s nooks lurk song structures so brittle they often seem to be disintegrating inside your ears. Prime example is album opener ‘Your Phantom Limb’, a spellbinding, neck hair quivering wooze led by a guitar plucked so delicately it’s as if it’s tiptoeing over a shattered chandelier. Like-wise, ‘Vanishing Points’ is wrapped in a fragility generated by moribund strings and a despairing lyrical paean that finds St John mourning “in monochrome we are just vanishing points” with celestial coyness.

In the wrong hands Weald could seem borderline depressive, but St John’s deft songwriting emits an openness that keeps the valium at bay. In fact, acoustic creeper ‘Acid Test’ - a reworked lament from his early Edinburgh days - is positively glowing in possibility, epitomising the record’s feel for ever-changing apertures and space. This interspersing of frail melodies and silent space is one of the record’s central traits, creating concentrated tapestries filled with atmosphere and weighty emotion, even when there appears to be little happening at all.

That’s not to say St John’s afraid to dabble with instrumental intensity. Far from it. ‘Stainforth Force’ is a slow, meandering swell, menacingly composed of weeping strings and crashing cymbals that are pushed into a violent, suffocating climax by St John’s rising wails. Somehow, the mighty ‘Dominio’ goes one better. Led by a funeral pound of drum and cranky guitar, it’s a brutal, intense journey that replaces the record’s shroud of silence with a clap of instrumental thunder. It’s the sort of intense pit-of-the-gut bellow that could wouldn’t feel out of place on Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds’ more acrid efforts.

Closing out with melancholic sweep ‘An Empty House’, Weald proves a consistently strong and challenging record. Each of its eight tracks blend emotional girth with an exquisite musical craft that stretches far beyond the reaches of many of today’s young singer-songwriters. Many of these contemporaries, of course, needn’t worry, they still have plenty of time to find their voice. But Rob St John is different, he’s already found his. A long time ago.

Rob St John "Your Phantom Limb" from rob st john on Vimeo.

Album review: Wise Blood - These Wings

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 10:52:00 +0000

In the 17 minutes it takes for Wise Blood’s These Wings EP to tornado into and out of the atmosphere, it’s possible to piece together Chris Laufman’s premonition of what the future may hold. And it aint a pretty picture.

Beneath the Pittsburgh’s songsmith’s synthesized, ear-grating, scuzz-soul melodies is a deep-seated sense of absolute hopelessness, his own pre-emptive sketch of an inhospitable world that holds no sense or reason. Lyrically, it’s perhaps not quite as obvious as it sounds - Laufman instinctively prefers to get down to more basal matters, honing in on his inability to hold down steady relationships.

Yet step aside from the emo-heavy subject matter of tracks like 'Darlin’ You’re Sweet', a trumpet-parping shuffler that finds Laufman sweetly cooing “I need someone who won’t fade when I go insane and I can’t stand, I know that you can”, and you’ll find a dark, clever off-piste pop collection fused with bleeps, beats and despair. He may be 21, but these songs have been penned with the air of kid who’s seen and heard way too much tragedy in his years.

From the off, huge skyscraping beats punctuate the record’s skyline, turning ‘Penthouse Suite’s ambient keyboard groove into a wonky android-ballad that recalls the burned-out sonic junkyard of Sublte. Less abrasive, but no less affecting, ‘The Lion’ is two minutes of parping brass cobbled over a gyrating rhythm that has Laufman spitting “Baby I ain’t no man, I’ve got to confess, I’d probably kill you just to try on your dress” with all the funk of Prince, only without the high-heels and inflated sex drive.

For all its virtues, what These Wings fails to do is map out just where Laufman goes next. Instead, what it serves up is a taster of its maker's class, crossing borders with more ease than a passport-less traveller going through UK immigration. But with cuts as essential as 'Loud Mouths' - a piano-looping, hip-hop-spitting, beatbox-blasting, body-popping contender for song of the year - it matters not; Laufman proves he's blessed with enough duality and brilliance to appeal to even the most toughened ear canals.

As premonitions go, Chris Laufman can rest assured: the future is very much Wise Blood’s.

Album Review: Loney Dear - Hall Music

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 06:19:00 +0000

If there’s one thing Loney, Dear toubadour Emil Svanängen isn’t, it’s someone you’d want playing your party. Well, actually, let’s be clear on this. If it was a hip-shaking, dance-floor packing, rug-cutting sort of shindig you were after, the Scandanavian multi-instrumentalist would be so far down the list he’d be underground. But, if you're playing host to a simple night of social hob-nobbing, peppered with slabs of stinking cheddar and guests glugging back goblets of pinot noir, then Svanangen is the man to call.

Yet, to chasten his music as background wallpaper at some bourgeois soiree does his craft a considerable disservice. The Swede is an extraordinary songwriter capable of distilling a melodic splendour so potent it could stop pulses dead. Each of his previous long-playing offerings have been scratchy affairs, filled with understated, introspective swells that slowly and steadily capture attention. It’s safe to say Svanängen's no fan of immediate impact; his whispered wares require repeated spins before they dare expose their inner beauty.

Album number six, Hall Music, continues this reticent foray, concealing its quaint charms until six or seven concentrated plays have been sucked up and digested. So far, so Svanängen then. But, this is a record that finds him venturing beyond his traditional bedroom-coined aesthetic, choosing instead to dive into an ocean of orchestral flourishes that rise above the gloomy despondency of relationships gone bad.

Thematically, Hall Music is both romantic and tragic. The record's maudlin stall is set the moment Svanängen purrs “I want your name, I want your name next to mine” over ‘Name’s crèche of dream-sequence keys. Its follow up, ‘My Heart’, doesn’t relent on the self-pity stakes, riding out on a misery-soaked a cappella that melts into stargazing effects before eventually climaxing as an oscillating peel of church bells.

A bold spiritual awakening courses the veins of this ornate and echoic affair. Soul searching numbers like ‘Maria, Is That You’ and ‘Largo’ emit a deep cathedral aura as they unfold into a flush of parping brass and parish organ. Coated with love-sick repentance that feels both pious and absolutely lost, each is a fine, intoxicating saunter that wouldn’t be out of place played out as a Sunday Service interlude. And, sure, they’re fey of heart, but these are significant steps beyond the corduroy-coated whims bleated out by fellow Swedish popstrels Suburban Kids With Biblical Names.

Given the devout subject matter, there’s a fair chunk of emotional heft lodged in between these skeletal cuts. While Svanängen’s nasal coo may evoke memories of the Bee Gees as it judders across acoustic psalm ‘D Major’, ‘Calm Down’ is a ponderous ballad that starts out tranquilly before gliding across a luscious carp of xylophone chimes, strings and dashing, deep seated percussion. This penchant for musical toploading is Svanängen’s party piece, but it's occassionally wearisome; his inability to resist the lure of a slow fruition can be as tiring as it is magnetic.

So when he charges from the blocks, as he does in the record’s final throngs, the purposefulness is refreshing. ‘Durmoll’s staccato strings thrust into thick orchestration, throwing itself from hushed lull to theatrical prangs as if scraped from the cutting floor of a Broadway musical. 'I Dreamed of You’ is equally impressive, striding along as a transient, yet utterly simple, melody that even invokes a hopeful tone from Svanängen while he croaks “I dreamt about you, I dreamt about you” on a doe-eyed loop.

Finishing on ‘What Have I Become’s velvety, synth-soaked high - a track led by the magnificent purr of Malin Stahlberg - Svanängen completes his journey from fragility to resilience with the same sense of contemplation and complexity he set out on. And, yes, Hall Music may prove he’s not a man for a party, but you suspect Emil Svanangen doesn’t mind one bit. For him, there are clearly much higher and more rewarding planes to climb.

What I’ve been listening to on the train this week

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 19:57:00 +0000

Oh look, look, look - IT’S FRIDAY (well, at least it is when I’m writing this on the 17:58 from Liverpool Street to Colchester).

Since my post about music listening as a commuter last week I’ve been thinking it might be quite nice to wheel out the old “What I’ve been listening to this week” pieces. But, seeing as my music listening tends to be done hurtling down a railway line these days I’ll change the title to “What I’ve been listening to on the train this week”. Clever, huh? I don’t work in corporate communications for nothing. Well, actually I haven’t been paid yet, so that’s completely up for debate.

So, aye, here goes the first of my weekly columns about train music listening. Can I just say now, there’s no Stone Roses in this. Firstly, because I haven’t listened to them this week (or this decade). But I have listened to a lot of people go on and on and on about how it’s going to be the best thing ever. Forever. And ever. But it’s not . Because Ian Brown can’t sing; Reni looks a little like the unhinged middle-aged dad he is; John Squire is (quite rightly) a bit embarrassed by his own acquiescence with the whole thing; Mani was in a better band; and, anyway, it’s all about the love (not the money and certainly not the music).

***

Sunset Rubdown
Inspired by a post on the DiS forums, I’ve been tuning into the Sunset Rubdown’s back catalogue all week. Shut up I’m Dreaming was the record I thought Spencer Krug could never top, but then along came Dragonslayer, plastered in medieval rollicks, impenetrable metaphors and massive ball-dropping crescendos, and shoved a big fat sky-crashing rocket into my lugholes. Awesome. Plus I spoke to him a few years back and he was a cantankerous grouchy sod. Which makes him infinitely better in my head. I fucking hate compliant interviewees.

Tunnels
What an immense find. The offshoot of Jackie O’Motherfucker, Tunnels is austere narcoleptic electronica that sounds as if it’s been brewed in the belly of some East Berlin laboratory in the early 70s. Harsh, brooding, pounding; it’s got all the anatomy of archetypal Kraut-tronica, but meshed within are stinking undertones of punk anarchy that kinda goes something like: grr....chk….grr…chk…chk…grr….grrr…crunch

Tunnels - Deux by sweatingtapes

David Byrne
The sound of 70 other people snoring and farting at six in the morning does unseemly things to the equilibrium of a man’s mind. David Byrne’s solo LP was my only sanctuary in the beat up bellows of a London hostel a few weeks back. In such a predicament Byrne’s sweet whispering melodies are the only thing that get you through unscathed. They tell you everything’s going to be okay; this isn’t going to scar you; you’ll be fine; just go to a green, grassy distant land and think pleasant, soothing things. Which is what I did.

Loney, Dear
Normally I don’t care for the whimsical bullcrap that’s all too readily churned out from Scandinavia and salivated over by oh-so twee shitbags, but having been cornered by Loney Dear’s latest LP Hall Music for the purposes of a review I have to admit it’s a record that’s slowly creeping up on me. Which sounds a bit pervy. Maybe it is. Either way, it's definitely not a record for those who hate camomile pop with a teaspoon of fey, but it’s got a bit of stick - sort of like one of those weird, gloopy stretch hand things you used to fling at a window that were fun until they were coated in pocket fluff and turned out absolutely useless and a bit manky. Not that Loney, Dear are, mind. They're just alright.

Dirty Projectors and Bjork
Collaborations are usually R.U.B.B.I.S.H. Surely I can’t be the only one who thinks this? I’m fairly sure there’s probably been a few okayish ones of late that I can’t remember while I’m sitting on this train, yet most of them have been hideous catastrophes (and the jury’s still out on that overbloated bastard of a love-in by Kanye and the Jizza). But, but, but.... Dirty Projetors and Bjork just sound right together, like they were meant to be forever and ever and ever - even if they’re crooning out some conceptual nonsense from the perspective of whales and mother ocean. Or something.

ALBUM REVIEW: Real Estate - Days

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 18:49:00 +0000

This review seems to have been a wee bit divisive amongs the DiS hoards and the doe eyed Real Estate masses, apparently for the language used. I guess it's a wee bit florid, although not that different from what I've done before. My guess is the h8rs (is that how you spell it these days?) are pretty pissed I gave it a 5/10 and venting their spleen at me any way they can. Perhaps I should have written it in less than 140 characters: "Real Estate - Days. A bit pish."

***

The problem with chillwave is that it’s just too chilled. No matter what those hipster kids claim, there are really only so many languid melodies one set of lugholes can take before fingers itchily reach for the off switch. And it’s this inability to surprise, to rouse for the jugular in a moment of out-of-step awe, that will render it another transient genre that passes quicker than a Usain Bolt bowel movement.

So far, Brooklyn-based ensemble Real Estate have treaded close to chillwave’s ambient contours without suffering any blemishes. The hazy-eyed surf-pop woozing of the quartet’s self-titled debut LP whiffed an air of Californian beaches and hemp-puffing sundown parties. Sure, it was complex of craft, but its brittle canticles retained a joyous listenability. This wasn’t chillwave; more a wave of tranquillity in an increasingly fraught and temporal world.

In many ways album number two, Days, evokes more of the band’s sun-basking atmospheric. The softened, almost mallowing, swells of lugubrious guitar still melt through every pore; the sloop-shouldered acoustics continue to wisp across brushing percussion; even Martin Courtney’s airy mew retains its gracious air of elegance as it weaves between each carefully tailored tapestry.

Such determination to get back on at the same station they got off has, rather ironically, left Real Estate sounding like a band that’s lost its way, a band trying so hard to replicate what it once was it can’t possibly consider what it could be. Couple this with the illuminating grace of guitarist Matthew Mondanille’s recent extra-curricular Ducktails adventures, and it’s hard not to consider _Days_ as anything other than an indigestible waste of potential.

To make matters worse, it sets off on a zesty promise. Opening number 'Easy' bears the brushstrokes of an outfit pushing hard on the accelerator, desperate to take advantage of their debut’s goodwill. Oozing orange-soda jangles and washed out vocals, it’s a radio-friendly canal that threatens to spill beyond the contrite lugholes of the Pitchfork-gorging few and out into the marrow of populist listeners. But, disappointingly, that’s where the party ends.

From here, Days plunges into a soapy lather of identikit sways and swoons, grounded out at monotone pace. Circling stale ground like a peg-legged pirate determined to uproot buried treasures of old, 'Green Aisles' is a lilting mush of underwhelming tune that’s high in production but achingly low in seduction. 'Younger Than Yesterday’s gauzy summer tones are equally dispiriting, creeping along to a dreary guitar shuffle that’s as stagnant as a mosquito infested swamp.

Curiously, much of the album’s intrigue is found in counting up the rollcall of acts with viable claims for an artistic credit. 'Municipality's bulbous chorus and jangling twangs dangle between the sweetened melodies of The Byrds and Teenage Fanclub’s more reflective moments. Hints of The Shins drift between 'It’s Real's blustery harmonies and convivial rhythm. Worse still, 'Wonder Years's softened flush runs perilously close to the Califironiaphile shimmering of _The Thrills_. Picking them out's a fun time killer, but these aren’t exactly gooseflesh inducing touchpoints, intentional or not.

With a smidgeon of increased purpose, Days does at least manage to carve out a few swabs of decency that point to what might have been. Forged upon a gloopy honeycomb hook, the tropicalia-dazed instrumental 'Kinder Blumen' builds from slow waltzing schmooze into a thick climax of Honolulu rhythm. Likewise, album closer 'All The Same' conjures up the unexpected. Palpitating with rhythm, it’s a striding, chiming slab that stretches way beyond the record’s soporific core, while retaining the band’s homely tones.

But these towering moments stretch thin across a record lost in a comatose state of traditional, if beach-bumming, rock-pop tedium. Instead of transcending the band beyond the traditional indie shagpile, Days merely sheds doubt on the their capacity, or will, to push beyond their prism of easy-riding familiarity. They might not be chillwave, but, on this account, Real Estate sure do like to act it.

A traveller's tale: music to my ears

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 13:05:00 +0000

It’s impossible to truly articulate just how important music is to daily commuters.

Newspapers, books, laptops or any other time consuming artefact can be done without, but the thought of getting through the morning grind without the blare of my iPod is, quite frankly, horrifying.

From what I can gather, music serves two purposes for us transient types. Firstly, it blocks out the hum and drum of the people around us. Even then, I am frequently astonished by the decibel levels some folk go to to make sure I can hear them over the squall of Liars.

In fact, there was a report published last week that suggests commuters who listen to music have less problem with reduced personal space, which makes sense. While all those non-music sponging sorts are flustering over their sardine like existence for an hour, I’m blissfully able to switch off from those around me, unbothered by a few stray limbs invading my personage.

Secondly, music brings the thematic of a journey to life. So if I'm having a particularly rushed morning, the howling secration of Deerhoof creates a poignant meaning to the sight of central London rushing towards me at 7.20am.

Likewise, if I’m feeling purposeful and urgent - emotions I tend to encounter during my trek back through the swarm of suits making their way to Liverpool Street Station - then the siwvelling ball-of-the-heel techno-tronica of The Knife is a perfect soundtrack.

And if it’s Friday and I’m slumped on my Network Rail hued chair with a bevy, homeward bound, then there’s few better companions than The Talking Heads’ Remain in Light to dwindle down a journey into the weekend.

Yes, for three hours of my day, music is my lifeblood; the one source of escapism that can evaporate me from the predicament of sitting still with nothing to do or no-one to talk to.

On trains, that talking thing is a no-no. People just don’t like to communicate with the others around them. Eye contact is hard enough to bear (the amount of people who choose to examine their choice of footwear rather than look a stranger in the eye is extraordinary), never mind actually involving yourself in the tedium of a conversation about the weather or the train being delayed.

I once sat next to a girl who decided to start talking to the four other people surrounding us, picking up conversation from the books they were reading or the pens they were writing.

Fortunately for me, I was plugged in. She may well have posed a question, but I never heard her. I wasn’t being rude, I was just in a world of my own. Music that day, like most others, was my saviour.

A traveller’s tale: Hot, hot heat

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 08:49:00 +0000

Phew… it’s hot out there. All week the mercury’s been pushing 26C, a temperature we tartan-topped expats have little experience of in our luscious, sodden homeland.

These southerners, of course, love it. Draped in dresses so skimpy they bear an uncanny resemblance to cast offs from a rubber band factory or showcasing their latest pair of extraordinarily expensive and utterly ridiculous mirrored sunglasses, it’s fair to say the boys and girls of London town come prepared for an Indian Summer.

For me, I’ve caught barely a ray of the sun’s autumnal resurgence.

My morning train is engulfed in a shroud of heat-induced haar, while lunchtime in the City equates to a five minute trip to Marks & Spencer to pick up a horse-radish smothered baguette before racing back to my paper-strewn desk. By the time 6pm comes along, mister sun is busy setting in the west and I’ve become a part of the shirt and tied ant farm swarming for Liverpool Street Station.

It is amazing just how much of the day passes you by as a commuter. I spend about three hours a day scurrying to and from work. That’s two games of football (although given some of the dross I’ve seen recently on Sky missing out might not be such a bad thing) or a flight to Eastern Europe.

Those ten minute bus rides into Edinburgh seem almost laughable now. I vividly remember being incensed when my bus would stop for two minutes on the Bridges because it was ahead of time. Yesterday, we halted outside of Stratford for 20 minutes before moving. An excuse didn’t even flute out from the tannoy. It just happens and you have no choice but to grudgingly accept it.

But it’s not as bad as you might think. I’ve developed a unhealthy obsession with completing the London Evening Standard’s daily crossword (it’s a swine of a puzzle that looks easy but is devilishly difficult), while enjoying a Friday evening Hoegarden and watching the countryside whizz by while the sun retreats is an indescribable delight. I’ve quickly learned these are the small pleasures that get commuters through the tedium.

Today, however, is Saturday and I have the chance to grab a dollop of sun and spend some much needed time with my wife. No trains for me for 48 hours. Thank. The. Lord.

Here are some pictures from last weekend when my dear old mother came to visit. The first few are from a fantastic food festival in Snape Maltings and the rest are the result of a trek around Colchester.

ALBUM REVIEW: S.C.U.M. - Again into Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 06:57:00 +0000

Choosing a band name is like choosing a partner. Get it wrong and you’re in for a whole world of pain. So, mess them both up and, well, you might as well throw in the proverbial towel, make for a delapidated drinking den and douse your liver in acrid, stomach pit burning grog. To say Ian Cohen - better known in Daily Mail reading circles as Peaches Geldof’s other half - and the rest of his S.C.U.M. cohorts have a lot to prove, then, is something of an understatement.

Contending with an appellation that smacks of hipsteratti desperation is one thing (it’s short for Society for Cutting Up Men, a term coined by radical feminist and attempted Andy Warhol killer Valerie Solanas), but finding yourself in the middle of an awkward PR-stunt conjured up by your frontman’s flavour of the month (Geldof recently gobshited to the world that she has 'no intention' of joining her boyfriend’s band) spells S.U.I.C.I.D.E. for any outfit looking to score pretention points with the chin-stroking elite early on.

Yet, S.C.U.M.’s debut LP Again Into Eyes is a surprisingly uncompromising affair that’s made of sterner stuff than the inflated brouhaha suggests. Bound in melancholy and introspection, it’s an album that steers into hopelessly bleak terrain, clearly tailored by Sisters of Mercy-era ambience and a smearing of dirt black mascara. Yet, below the slit-wristing exterior there lurks a band with an ear for tender rolls of melody and colossal soundscapes.

The gutter-scraping thrash of ‘Summon the Sound’ offers little indication of the band’s softness. A cloying, pavement-gobbing brawler, its apoplectic percussion and gyrating guitars traipse the depths of horror-shlock rock‘n’roll. ‘Amber Hands’ is equally rancid, galloping into a blackened soup of cathedral keys that converge as a clattering, snarling psychedelic swamp.

Such proto-punk blustering inevitably draws parallels with early-days Horrors. And in the scuzzy, roughed up aesthetic of basal numbers like ‘Days Untrue’ the resemblance is unavoidable. But that’s where it gets interesting. Much like the Faris Badwin’s ensemble, S.C.U.M. are at their most intriguing when shunning razor-sharp shtick for velvety sheen, purring with nuance and subtle shifts in tempo.

With more gothic furnishing than a Victorian-era burlesque house, Again into Eyes was never going to be a futuristic masterpiece. But, congealed with Thomas Cohen’s joyless intone, the band’s creaking instrumentation is deployed impressively. Opener ‘Faith Unfolds’s warming glow is chalked with a soft complexion of synths and drums, laying bare a misty-eyed anthem of grandiose range; while 'Sentinal Bloom’s austere framework exudes a brevity that stretches beyond archetypal graveyard signatures.

More captivating still is the slow-burning opulence of ‘Paris’. Awash with despair, the mournful keys carve an arctic backdrop that freezes out Cohen’s fading wails of “I have nothing”. It’s intense, thoughtful work; an ambitious arrangement of wide-angled sound and heart-gnawing atmosphere that ribbons into the record’s most graceful swoon.

Glorious album swansong ‘Whitechapel’ flips the record into one final elated throb. Built around ministerial synths and a deep, pulsing bassline, there’s more than a hint of devoted Eighties styling to the industrial disco beat. It’s an infectious, almost irresistible affair that underlines the band’s ever-evolving capabilities while it waggles its hips with the androgynous grace of Brett Anderson in a downtown brothel.

So forget the name; forget the celebrity girlfriend; forget those meticulously fringed press shots and vacuous interviews. S.C.U.M. are a band blessed with stealth, steel and, as much as they loathe it, an overarching sense of the indie mainland. Rest assured, their world of pain is being put to good effect.

A traveller's tales: a train reaction

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 20:02:00 +0000

The worst thing about my daily commute isn’t the London Tube. In fact, it’s not even the 6am start or 7pm finish. No, it’s much more macabre than that.

So far, in the seven days (including my day trip to London on Saturday, pictures of which you can see below) that I’ve been travelling to work, three people have been hit by trains. Three fucking people.

Now, this strikes me as an inordinate number of folk being pummelled by the full force of an Intercity 125 rushing from the slumber of suburbia to crawling, be-suited anthill of central London.

Surely this sort of serendipitous scorecard totting must trigger a sniff of an inquiry in one of the Metropolitan Police Service’s many out-houses, where officers have little else to do but pick up bladder-pickled street urinators?

But, no, this is just one more inconvenience to jostle the patience of daily commuters. And the worst of it is, all you care about is getting home. Or not getting home. Or just being late getting home.

Someone might have died. A family might have lost its only child. A child might have lost its only family. And the only thing that crosses your mind is, ‘Shit, I can’t believe I’m going to miss the football.’

It’s inevitable really. You don’t see the accident, only the repercussions. So it’s not a real person that’s had his cranium smashed to smithereens, it's just another traffic report that's causing you a disruption.

And that’s my biggest irk with commuting: there’s no compassion. Life revolves around getting from A to B. Anything that falls inbetween - from the old lady who stops right in front of you at the station to the guy who’s had enough of life and chucked himself on a track - is a hindrance.

So as I sit here on the 6.30pm London Liverpool Street train to Colchester, trying to take stock of what it means to be a commuter, I should really count my blessings. This isn’t the worst predicament. I mean, I have a cushioned seat, a nice view and the opportunity to wind down from a long day at work. What more could a boy need, right?

Yes, it seems life is good. Even if it's currently running 20 minutes late.

London loves...

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 22:42:00 +0000

Well, it's almost been a week. Yep, that's right, seven whole days have passed since I moved from my safe, homely Edinburgh town to the big bad world of England. And, y'know what, it's not that bad. Well, it's not dreadful, let's put it that way.

Living in Colchester and working in London is far from ideal. The daily commute is a drag. Realising you've sat next to the same person on the same train twice in one week is foreboding. And dealing with the pressure of having to fathom out an alternative shirt/tie combo every day is darn right debilitating at 6am in the morning.

In truth, I'm a little homesick. But, I'm not quite sure what for. How much of Edinburgh I'd trade for Essex/London is impossible to say. The homeliness of Auld Reekie probably has a lot to do with it. The fact I lived there for almost 12 years is probably even more significant.

Yet, London is not without its charms. Firstly, the people I work with are exceptional. Not just in a 'wow they're great people, I can't wait to know them better' kind of way, but in a way that makes you sit up, take stock and admire their purpose. So far, it's been impossible not to sponge up.

Secondly, the city is mental for boozing. I mean, really properly mental. These people may be garbed in tailormade D&G suits, but they'll happily guzzle a few snifters of piss-pale ale by the side of Monument as the wind away the stresses of another full throttle day.

And, full throttle it is. These people, these places do not stop. Our work canteen is open from 8am - 9pm. That's breakfast through to supper. Here 9-5 isn't the way to make a living. It's much much more than that. Thank heavens no one works on overtime - the country would be bust.

So, it's exhausting. And a bit galling. Yet, it sucks you in. The place is alive: The traffic. The people. The buildings. Even the smog. This is a city that breathes energy; that seeps gusto. You can't, in all honesty, help yourself from being swept along. I'm trying desperately hard to go with the flow.

A decade on...

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 15:52:00 +0000

It's hard to believe that ten years ago today the western world dropped to its knees. At the time, I was working in a wine shop on Morningside Road making some money to get me through the home straight of my undergraduate course.   The news filtered through to me from the boozehounds who would come and collect their daily tipple of a two litre bottle of White Lightning.

The scale of the catastrophe never really hit home. It wasn't until I made it back to my flat to watch it unfold on the television that I had a sense of the sheer magnitude of what was happening.   I have still never seen anything like it in my life. My then girlfriend and I stared, eyes-agape, at the destruction and terror that had engulfed New York. It was mesmerising and utterly terrifying.

As someone who works day in day out with communications, I don't think I'll ever see a stronger message of intent. There was no ambiguity, no space for misinterpretation. This was war.   And war it was. Or to be more specific, war it still is.

  One decade on and the situation hasn't changed. The globe is split like two caged bulls eyeing each other up. Sure, Bin Laden is dead - as are many 1,000s of souls - but the fear of terror still imbues every aspect of western life, while the hatred of capitalism continues to run deep in the East.  

But, for the 3,000 people who died on 11 September 2001, none of it matters. They started the day alive. They finished it dead.

It's over. It's just beginning.

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 15:08:00 +0000

I'm finally here. After all the months of crazed panic, I'm writing this blog post sitting in my spacious Colchester flat being entertained by the footballing majesty that is Fulham v Blackburn Rovers.

It's been a long slog, and the last week of goodbyes was exhausting. Leaving was never going to be easy - I love the sights and sounds of Edinburgh - and leaving so many friends only amplified my melancholy.

But that was yesterday. Today, I've been settling into my new life. I've forked out a few hundred smackers on clothes for my new vocation in London town and I've spent the equivalent of an annual Edinburgh bus pass on one month's travel to and from the UK's Capital city.

So this week will be an experience. I'm excited to be working in a different environment and with different people. Compared to two years ago when I started my first job in internal communications, I'm more confident about where my future lies. The skills are all there - now I just need to show these London-types what I can do. Easy, eh?

Rabbiting on about lists

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 20:34:00 +0000

There's now less than a week before I leave Edinburgh. Tomorrow I begin my final week of working at Royal London. Almost all the key milestones of the Big Move have been struck. Suddenly, my flight to London Stanstead is getting dangerously close.

In the last week or so since I posted here, a lot has happened:

I moved out of our flat of almost three years in Roseburn
I moved into a flat in Leith with my friend Catriona
I befriended a bunny rabbit called Honey
I drank whisky (on the rocks, not neat - I'm not that brave yet)
I wrote my final Drowned in Scotland article
I watched my boss captain a dragonboat down Leith Docks
I said my first goodbye.

This week, my pre-departure date itinerary is equally expansive:

Have a final pint with fellow scribe/music cynic Nick Mitchell
Work on handover notes for my current job
Read handover notes for my new job
Meet some old work colleagues for lunch
Absolutely gut my work desk - a task which will probably include two years worth of cleaning and scrubbing
Leave my flat in Leith and say goodbye to Catriona and Honey
Move into Johanna's flat in Dalry
Take current work colleagues out for leaving night bevvy
Meet age-old friends in Calistoga for d-day lunch/wine/cheesecake
Get a flight from Edinburgh to London Stanstead
Move into my new life

In some ways, writing it down like this makes it look a lot more manageable. But I'm pretty sure I'll be running around like some sort of headless lunatic for the duration of the next six days. As much as I'll be sad to leave Edinburgh, I really cannot wait for this whole episode to be over.

My last Drowned in Scotland...

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 19:56:00 +0000

Over the last month or so my life has been consumed with boxing up my Edinburgh flat, job interviews and frequent visits to my soon-to-be new home in Colchester. In almost a decade of writing about the Scottish music, I can’t remember a time I’ve been more disconnected from what is going on in Scotland’s music scene. Somewhere along the line, adulthood has come into play; the inevitable move to England is finally happening.

Now, normally, with this being a column focused on the sporran-sporting sounds from north of the border, such total detachment would mean I’m no longer qualified to pulpiteer my way through the various goings on in Scotland over the coming month. But with this being my last ever Drowned in Scotland feature, I’m indulging myself (while covering up my lack of direct involvement of late) by taking a slight sidestep from the norm.

So this month I’m going to walk you through (what I consider to be) the bands, labels, media and promoters currently propping up the grassroots of the Scottish music scene. Given my stingy 1,000 or so word count, this won’t be a lengthy dissection of the country’s movers and shakers. Instead, it’s an excessively hyperlinked guide through the belly of the Scottish music scene which you can explore at your leisure.

The bands

Bronto Skylift

There aren't too many more superlatives I can lavish on Bronto Skylift without repeating myself. Almost every month I seem to drool over the duo’s head-rattling, sewer-scraping punk thrashing. Built around the machine-gun pummelling of sticksman Iain Stewart and Niall Strachan’s jarring guitar squalls, witnessing Bronto up-close feels like being caught up in the middle of deafening street brawl without any escape. An absolute tumult of a band.

Cancel the Astronauts

Scotland may be steeped in indie pop tradition, but it’s been some time since any jangle-friendly tunesmiths have stretched beyond the drudgery of local prisms. Armed to the teeth with candy-wrapped melodies, Cancel the Astronauts may well be the band that finally reignites the trend. Both literate and epidemic, their ebullient musical wares sport a hint of fellow shmindie-dancefloor fillers Pulp and James. And with whiffs of tune like that, what’s not to like?

Discopolis

Discopolis initially passed me by like a whizz-ravaged Jenson Button on the autobhan. Rather than submerging in my ear-sockets, the Edinburgh trio’s hyper-driven beats and bleeps swirled around for a few minutes then scarpered off with minimal impact. Give or take a few months and Discopolis are everywhere: on the BBC, on the wireless, in magazines and at every indie-disco north of the border. And d’you know what? Turns out this mass-saturation technique works. Discopolis really ain’t too shabby at all.

John Knox Sex Club

The slap-bang-brilliantly monikered John Knox Sex Club (JKSC)’s debut LP Blud Rins Cauld was largely ignored when it hit the shelves in 2010. The pity for all those who missed it is JKSC served up the most majestic slab of post-folk-rock tuneage released in Scotland last year. Launched this week, follow-up Raise Raven continues down this path of throat-throttling, parochial soundscapes. This time, surely, some needs to listen.

Lady North

On record, it’s hard to get a sense of just how extraordinary Lady North are. But fleshed out on stage, garbed in underpants and sodden in sweat, it’s crystal clear: the Edinburgh trio’s guttural, math-infused, android-funk is the most exhilarating, eardrum pillaging sound in Scotland today. Once they hone their studio craft, the fresh green pastures they’ve been exploring in recent months will only get fresher and greener.

The labels

Armellodie

You’ve got to admire Armellodie. A tiny label it may be, but that certainly doesn’t quell its ambition. Tooled up with a roster containing the Scottish Enlightenment, Super Adventure Club, Le Reno Amps andKill The Captains, the Glasgow-based label’s ‘anything fits’ policy has pulled off some superb stops, pushing it into the fulcrum of the country's aspirational wave of DIY labels.

Fence Records

It’s impossible to mention Scottish record labels without bringing up Fence. Much more than just a distributor of records by the likes of King Creosote, FOUND and James Yorkston, the Fife-born label is the blueprint for every aspiring label in Scotland, creating a loyal community from the foundations of good solid music taste. Today, Fence’s reach stretches far beyond the Scottish border, yet with sublime events like Haarfest and Homegame it’s found the perfect way of keeping the locals happy.

Gerry Loves

Over the last year, Gerry Loves has become one of the most potent indie labels in the country. A spewing of split single releases cottons on to the Scottish music scene’s recent swing towards collaboration, providing an admirable playground for forward thinking acts like Lady North, Paws, Japanese War Effort, Miaoux Miaoux and Wounded Knee to test their mettle on gloriously shiny vinyl. Combine this with some boisterous showcase nights across the central belt, and you’ve got a label pounding to the pulse of Scottish music today.

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The media

Glasgow PodcART
Glasgow PodcART embodies the internet in all its glory. Based around a swear-box filling rant of a weekly (or so) podcast, the site has become one of the go-to haunts of local bands trying to climb the rungs of the music industry's ladder. Far from perfect in execution, the emotional and utterly subjective tone of the site’s head honchos is what makes Glasgow PodcART such a compelling proposition.

Popcop

Say what you like about the man’s music tastes, but Popcop knows how to sniff out a story. Instead of blurting out archetypal blogosphere hype, the Popcop has made its reputation by ‘patrolling the beat of the Scottish music scene’. As horrific as the MO sounds, the site's regular in-depth features on the issues affecting music in Scotland are persistently on the button and thought provoking.

The Skinny

What The Skinny has done for Scottish music in the six years since it started is almost immeasurable. Through the magazine’s ink-smudge pages have swanned a decorated roll-call of bands, writers, designers, promoters, media vagabonds and general chancers who’ve gone on to shape the country’s music scene and is surrounding subculture. What The Skinny has achieved on such a consistent basis is, truly, nothing short of astonishing.

Song, By Toad

Inflammatory, outspoken, passionate. Three words could not describe Song, By Toad (SBT) more succinctly. Over the past few year, it’s been an entertaining ride watching Matthew Young’s personal music blog transform into an influential media-rich community of like-minded, and equally opinionated, souls. And just for good measure, SBT has turned recording stable for the likes of Meursault, Trips & Falls and the magically intoned Rob St John). A true testament to persistency and perseverance.

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Notable others

Detour Scotland

Kings of the guerrilla gig, the Detour boys – David Weaver and now Radio 1 DJ Ally McCrae - _raison d’être_ is to showcase Scotland’s finest new bands in as enterprising a manner as possible, including band hijackings, streetside shows and guided musical walks. Littering their site with blogs, podcasts and videos, Detour’s unending quest for innovation is as infectious as it is awe inducing.

Ten Tracks

Ten tracks for £1. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Created by local music entrepreneur Ed Stack, Ten Tracks is an effortless (well, for the user) venture that lets punters pick from hundreds of quality MP3s by local (and sometimes not so local) bands at a knock down price. Conceptually it’s an interesting idea, but, as ever, convincing the masses to part with spondoolas for music poses more challenges than Anneka Rice on an assault course.

The end

And that’s it. My final paragraph in my final ever Drowned in Scotland. Fortunately, you’re being left in capable hands. Delightful west-coast wordsmith Elaine Liddle is taking on the tartan-speckled reins from next month. As for me, that’s it. Thanks for reading my monthly ramblings on the Scottish music scence.You can catch me here on twitter if you’ve any interest in keeping up with my sojourn south. Now, I’m off to start researching my first Drowned in Colchester column. Oh…

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For more on the latest happenings on the Scottish music scene check out Radar.Scotsman.com

Almost, but not quite...

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 19:46:00 +0000

We're almost there. After four months and lord knows how much stress, we finally moved all our belongings (well, bar a suitcase worth of clothes) from Auld Reekie to Colchester.

It took three hours of loading a van, eight hours of driving a van and another two hours of unloading a van before our ordeal was over. But, now, it's done. Finito.

My current flat in Edinburgh is barer than the torso of a publicity seeking reality TV star. But there's something reassuringly empty about it. The echoic silence signifies the calm after the storm of the last few weeks.

In one week, I leave my flat. In two weeks and two days, I leave my job. In two weeks and three days, I leave Edinburgh for good. The count is going down...

Photos from moving day*

* Taken on my camera phone because I've had to leave my D700 in Colchester.

Album Review: Fionn Regan - 100 Acres of Sycamore

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 05:47:00 +0000

For those not up to speed with the latest happenings in reality TV, a show called The Voice is set to expunge across UK plasma screens and tabloid newspapers very soon. As you’d expect for a mindless Saturday night extravaganza, the show’s format is standard fare: a panel of judges passes comment on auditioning singers who are subsequently appraised by the watching square-eyed masses, with the winner taking home a neat, but ultimately unrewarding, record contract.

So what?

Well, The Voice sells itself with an added twist. Instead of focusing on the entire ‘package’ on offer, the judges hone in on one attribute: the voice. Before seeing the goods, the panel – which in the States contains the rapidly decomposing Christina Aguilera – chooses those who make it into the business end of the competition based only on the strength of their vocal-chord busting prowess. Oh, the authenticity of it all.

As anodyne as it seems, the show does form an intriguing basis for debate. Who in today’s current musical climes would cut the muster in a blind audition? Would Beyonce manage to holler her way to public approval without the taut jiggle of her derriere? Could Justin Timberlake brace himself for an audition knowing his artillery of robotic-jiving and A-list collaborators was as redundant as his acting acumen? And what about Cheryl Cole? Could she succeed if… actually, let’s leave that one alone.

One man who’d surely have no problem progressing past the blindfolded preliminaries is Fionn Regan. In full flight, the Irish-born songsmith’s pipes coax a remarkable sound. Soaring and swooping with eagle-like effect, Regan’s spine-tickling intonation is the auto-focus of his work, rising beyond the arrangements that form the backbone of his work. If The Voice is looking for a surefire bet, Regan is all they need.

But this strength can work its way into a flaw. Too often Regan’s records are vocally imposing, yet musically lacking; too frequently his towering cries capture attention, only to be released by a lack of musical clout. Somewhere along the way he seems to miss the vital connection between his natural and creative abilities. Sadly, new record 100 Acres of Sycamore does little to redress the detachment.

Laid to tape in just seven days, 100 Acres… was recorded live in a quest to stay true to the integrity of Regan’s songwriting. And, to an extent, it’s an aim well struck; the confessional narratives and layers of instrument bleed a sincerity that bypassed last year’s folk-rock throbber The Shadow of an Empire. But while Regan produces an undoubted cosiness of sound, there’s a lack of bite to the record and a distinct hum of sterile predictability percolating through its spine.

On their own, these candle-burning canticles float with poignancy and poise. 'Lake District’s ivory key balladry is an opulent tearjerker, wailing out a symphony of string and gentile guitar plucks. More positivist in rhythm, 'For Nightingale' finds Regan tingling out scales like Rufus Wainright without the drama school histrionics, crowing “You’re a star” as though it’s the climax to some love-sloshing Disney animation.

When he gets it right, it’s an instrumentally rich affair; strings, piano and acoustic guitar are woven into a fine tapestry of contemplative melody. The quivering title track is testament to Regan’s ability to fine tune. His gorgeous, tear-soaked strain coils around the weeping violin and officious percussion, lilting and wilting its way through a soundscape so sparse and atmospheric it could rival Cave at his balladeering best.

Yet, as a whole, the record has one obvious flaw: it’s dreary. Too much of 100 Acres... passes over without need for recognition. The melancholic tint of 'North Star Love' is indeterminable from 'Dogwood Blossom’'s equally emotive plodding. Likewise, the bleak, mournful narrative and minor-key weep of 'Vodka Sorrow' swills along at the same painful pace as '1st Day of May', so much so it’s barely noticed that a distance of two tracks segregates the pair.

Ultimately, 100 Acres of Sycamore biggest failing is its own consistency. A banal collection of candle-lighting acoustic numbers, it’s little more than a mild-mannered soundtrack to a bourgeois dinner party in suburbia. He may well have the voice, but Fionn Regan needs something more powerful to convince the record buying judges he’s worth their vote.

Album Review: Memory Tapes - Player Piano

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 20:24:00 +0000

Dayve Hawk is not a man who seems particularly comfortable in the limelight. In fact, so attuned to the shadows does the brainchild behind Memory Tapes appear, you suspect one moment in the neon glare of fame would render below him a sweaty pool of anxiety as he gnaws and gnarls his way, rat-like, back into the sanctity of anonymity – a place where all good bedroom-bound producers prefer to reside in these prevailing times.

Given this predisposition to invisibility, the follow up to Hawk’s blog-wooing 2009 debut, Seek Magic, throws a surprising curveball: his voice. For all its homespun beauty, Player Piano’s most noteworthy trait is the omnipresence of Hawk’s airy tone. Sure, it was there on Seek Magic, but it was a backseat companion to the record’s glowing soundscapes. Here, its hands are firmly on the wheel, driving the album into fresh pastures and – surely to Hawk’s chagrin – wider spheres.

‘Wait In The Dark’ is an early flagbearer of his saunter to the vocal fore. A luminous shifter of pop melody, the wiggling synths and agile percussion bear heavy Postal Service hallmarks, albeit with Hawk’s crotch tightening mew replacing the emotive strains of Ben Gibbard. It’s an irresistible opening, doused in love-struck regret and indicating a new approach to song creation, where organics replace synthetics.

Despite its ever-expanding chill-wave contours, Seek Magic was at heart an industrious play on highbrow French house, built on robotic arrangements and primal dancefloor urges. Player Piano finds Hawk scrawling a new signature, crossed and dotted with thick, rich swathes of sound, rather then textures. What he’s created is a record pounding to the beating heart of pop; alive to the nuances of live - or at least live sounding - instruments (particularly keyboards), translucent melodies with a sweet spot and cheek dampening narratives.

Of course, to call it a pure pop excursion does Player Piano a disservice. Complexity rolls through the record’s contents like an antidote to puritanical song structures. ‘Sunhits’’ rollerblading rhythm may shimmer to surf guitar, but the deep choral undertones balance out the slinky, early Nineties swell. Likewise, the simplicity of ‘Offers’’ blissful, day-breaking melody is offset by the foibles of a tin-can synthesizer cross-stitching its way across the cut’s zesty exterior.

Lyrically, the focus often falls on the aftermath of a tumultuous relationship. Through the two-part run of ‘Fell On Ice’, Hawk is buried deep under emotional rubble, examining the remaining painful shards while insisting “I don’t want to remember”. This poignant moment finds Hawk’s brittle tones accentuated by the quiver of an abandoned guitar. Part II washes away such melancholy; a cloud-bursting ivory key shower suggests hope is on the horizon, although you suspect Hawk never quite believes it.

But it’s not all doom-harbouring and girlfriend grieving. ‘Today Is Our Life’ is a striding, steel drum lather of ebullience that grins widely like some Yeasayer-inspired special of Glee, bearing proclamations of “we will never be better off than we are”. Less sweetened, ‘Worries’ opens on a looping Hammond rhythm and pounding tribal beat. From there, it explodes as a hazy ray of optimism, the thick carp of instrument ladling out an impossibly infectious chorus.

Complex of subject matter and sound, Player Piano could have been weighed down by intricacy. Instead, Hawk has interwoven his artistic lusts with clean melodies, creating a nailed-on summer soundtrack that treads the precipice between romantic laments and illuminating, cocktail-shaking jaunts. For someone who’s naturally inclined to back his way into the shadows, this is the sound of a man taking a significant step forward. The limelight awaits.

You've got to get yourself a wee jobby, son...*

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Sat, 13 Aug 2011 20:28:00 +0000

On the day I discovered Bert and Ernie’s courtship will never jet-boost beyond platonic, I accepted a job offer in London.

It’s an odd connection, admittedly, but there is a tenuous link between the two. Both were possibilities I never thought would really happen: One did. One didn’t. Sadly for Jim Henson’s finest and most convivial creations, I handed in my resignation yesterday.

It’s a strange feeling. On one hand, It’s the greening of new pastures; the end of job hunting, Skyping and cooking for one. But, on the other paw, I’ve just signed the release clause from the city I love. A place I’ve built a life, friends, reputation and career in the twelve years since I scuffled down from the very northern tip of Scotland.

It’s going to take some acclimatising. A 50 minute train journey in and out of London is going to feel like a life time in comparison to my normal 10 minute bus trip from just outside our meagre one bedroom flat on Murrayfield. While London, for all its places of intrigue, doesn’t have the rose-tinted allure of Edinburgh for me – yet.

Today, in preparation for the Big Move, I’ve been boxing up all our mounds of stuff. It’s incredible just how much tat/crap/Su’s clothing we’ve accumulated in the three years we’ve lived here. We came to this flat with just a couple of suitcases each and a few boxes. We’re leaving it with a van crammed to the rafters. God knows what it will look like when we eventually leave Colchester.

But this is an exciting time. It’s only really been a month since Su left, yet it has felt like a lifetime in terms of stress levels. Finally I feel like I’m getting my life back in to some semblance of order. Thank God.

As for Bert and Ernie, well, who knows what the future holds. Marriage might not be on the cards, but at least they’ve still got each other.

Here's a picture from just outside my soon-to-be new place of work.

*It's something my gran once said to me when I was 15. It still makes me laugh today

Standing in not so good stead

noreply@blogger.com (Billy Hamilton) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 19:10:00 +0000

I don't mean to boast (and honestly I really don't), but my carbon footprint is getting bigger every week. In the last month and a half I've been on eight flights. After Wednesday I'll have another two stubs to add to by burgeoning collection of EasyJet tickets. Having a wife, as well as my preferred job market, based hundreds of miles away certainly doesn't do anything for the environment.

Given its proximity to my Colchester abode, London Stanstead is my plane station (calling them airports just seems so drab) of choice. It is, in every sense, a hell hole. The third busiest airport in the UK it may be, but Stanstead does a good job of resembling a dysfunctional sheep's pen.

Dead-eyed security wardens shepherd travellers into an uncoordinated, never ending drove; lager-sodden Ryanair hoards jetsetting it to Alicante pass voluble judgement on less loutish explorers; while air-conditioning is only a daydream in this perspiring people-coup of adventureless air travel (there's no transatlantic flights, hence the perceived lack of adventure).

As a child I used to find just the thought of an airport a thrill. A congregation of people gearing up to take flight to unexplored destinations was wholly ambitious and aspirational. But Stanstead has killed that. It has no joy within its monochromatic casing; no goose-flesh to its practical but wholly prosaic skin. London Stanstead is the embodiment of a modern airport. A place to get from A to B. Maybe I'm wrong to expect something more.

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Incidentally, I was in Colchester last weekend. Here's some pictures I took while I was there. My white balance was unknowingly set to fluorescent, so there's a slight blue tinge to my pictures. I've tried to touch them up in Photoshop but I'm afraid there' not much I can do to cover up such a rookie faux pas!