MUSIC | Records
ALBUM OF THE ISSUE
ELECTRO-POP SYNAESTHETE Array (Kit Records) ●●●●● Tropical electro-pop livewire Sarah Tanat- Jones, aka Synaesthete, first came to our attention as the glittering, drum- battering vocalist of Edinburgh alt-rock combo Come On Gang. Said troupe split up before they issued their debut album, Strike A Match, in early 2011, but not before they’d
LO-FI / PSYCHEDELIC POP ARIEL PINK pom pom (4AD) ●●●●●
Judging by some of his troll-y statements about women of late, you’d be about as pleased to know your best friend is dating Ariel Pink as you would one of those unwashed-looking, average-Joe porn stars hired presumably to make men feel better about themselves. One of whom this part-baked LA lo-fi weirdo could pass for, come to think of it. His attitudes are roughly consistent with some of the inevitably mature themes
addressed herein – ‘Sexual Athletics’ celebrates Pink’s prowess in the sack to a tongue-in-cheek comic sleazy vibe, ‘Black Ballerina’ features a skit where a teenager is taken for his first lapdance by his Irish grandad – although there’s little point making a moral judgement based on pom pom’s unashamed perversions. All pop is fantasy to some extent, and you’d be as well sifting this album for earnest views of the opposite sex as you would Pink’s opinions on Jell-O (‘big satisfaction’) and nude beaches (enthusiastic, suffice to say).
earned a reputation as a promising power-pop band. Effectively the first Pink solo album without his usual Haunted Graffiti
Tanat-Jones moved to London where she works as a visual artist, co-helms ace radio show / webzine / clubnight / label Kit Records, and records as Synaesthete, which sees the musician and illustrator explore – and express – the audio-visual symbiosis between sound and music. (Tanat-Jones herself has synaesthesia – a perceptual condition that confuses, and conflates, the senses – and experiences letters and numbers as colours.)
The album is terrific: a choral, often minimalist, percussion-led romp through disco, R&B, afrobeat, dark electro, a cappella vocals (reminiscent of Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares) and shimmering, clattering pop. ‘The Beat’ sounds like a swooning tech-pop hit – all bone-rattling rhythms, electro rapture and glorious vocals, ‘Fruit’ is verdant with exotic chimes, clacking beats, African chanting and gorgeous harmonies, while the stripped-back, disjointed R&B of ‘Signs’ is equal parts euphoric and dystopian and gives FKA Twigs a run for her money.
The songs are superb, but the album pulls another colourful punch with its accompanying booklet, created by Tanat-Jones. From dayglo soundwaves to bright fruits and 3D sloganeering, it vividly reinforces the album’s rich array of sound and vision. (Nicola Meighan) ■ See Synaesthete interview at list.co.uk
collaborators, pom pom edges back a little from the near radio-friendliness of his last set Mature Themes. While it may leave you hankering for a track as standalone good as ‘Only In My Dreams’, it’s fun to hear him back splashing around carefree in his paddling pool of strange ideas at such great length, while retaining the last record’s overall improvement in production quality. Across 17 songs touching on everything from surf rock to trashy punk,
standouts include the trippy- smooth synth-funk of ‘Lipstick’ and dreamy, hazy west-coast pop jangle ‘Put Your Number In My Phone’. ‘Black Ballerina’ typifies Pink’s knack for an irresistible squelching groove, and is possibly the best song here despite its schoolboy-ish pervy snickering, and more annoying still, the munching crisps sample on every fourth bar – a metronomic reminder that it’s rarely possible to appreciate Pink’s work without infuriating exception. (Malcolm Jack)
INSTRUMENTAL ALT-FOLK SOUND OF YELL Broken Spectre (Chemikal Underground) ●●●●● PSYCHEDELIC FOLK-POP THE SON(S) The Things I Love Are Not At Home (Olive Grove Records) ●●●●●
His sometime El Hombre Trajeado accomplice and co-founder RM Hubbert might have attracted more recognition in recent times for his exhausting workrate and proliferation of fine albums, but Stevie Jones’ own career has continued apace in the meantime, both under his own Rude Pravo title (alongside artists Luke Fowler and Cara Tolmie) and as a collaborator with the likes of Bill Wells, Aidan Moffat and Jer Reid. Now, with this solo-steered but still collaborative album under the alias Sound of Yell, he will hopefully earn more recognition for his own individual talents.
Jones’ central roles on the album are as composer and player of some intelligent, expressive acoustic guitar parts, although, unlike Hubbert, his songs aren’t founded around a single instrument with occasional interventions from others. Instead, Jones has around a dozen musicians contribute throughout the record, lending an expansive sound which betrays both its creator’s beginnings on the Glasgow indie scene and a rich kind of alternative folk vibe.
Belle & Sebastian’s Stevie Jackson plays harmonica and Teenage Fanclub’s Norman Blake contributes wordless vocals, but this record is more in keeping with the usual styles of Alex Neilson of Trembling Bells (drums and percussion) and Alasdair Roberts (hurdy gurdy). As such, there’s a keening, folksy air to ‘Scuffling’, a laid-back country feeling amid ‘Hitherto’, on which Jackson’s harmonica wails out, and an eerie urgency about ‘Sated Eyrie’, with Abi
The Son(s) is a mysterious outfit – apparently the solo continuation of what was a three-piece band (hence that awkwardly un-Googleable moniker), details about the people involved are scant. But, in a way, that only adds to the sense that this lush, woozy, cathartic trip just popped into the world fully formed. The Things I Love. . ., without being predictable, has that no-note-out-of-place sense of something that just sounds right. One thing we do know is that RM Hubbert features, and his percussive style
is there on tracks like closer ‘The Long Fuse’, just one of the many textures worked into a soft and subtly cohesive whole. There’s also some gorgeously warm, rough and ready brass and a distorted guitar solo on instrumental (doo doo doos aside) opener ‘Vinny and Ronnie Creeping On The Waitresses’. Something in that track’s laid-back persistence and swirling pianos is reminiscent of early instrumental Doves, and it’s a likeness borne out throughout the album, along with a more than passing vocal resemblance to the wounded falsetto mannerisms of Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon. That woundedness and the conspicuous sentimental wallowing of songs like ‘Polaroids’ won’t be for everyone, but the mood never stays too down for long – ‘Death, With Castanets’ is a lovely slice of 90s-style jangle pop, with a half-asleep kind of indistinctness to the vocals that only adds to the mystery of what ‘The Son’ might be saying.
Made for listening to while gazing out of rain-streaked windows, The
Vuillamy’s musical saw ringing throughout the song. Like Hubbert, Jones shares a compelling emotional variety to his music, even as it gets by with minimal lyrical interference (Kim Moore’s breathy, jazz-style contribution to ‘Caiman’ is a lovely exception). Otherwise the finely tuned minimalism of the title track, the fusion of what sounds like most of the creators on ‘Crescent’ and Jones’ final solo tilt at ‘Ossicles’ all suggest a well- tuned sense for melody and pure feeling. (David Pollock)
Son(s)’ music is the perfect accompaniment to a Scottish winter. Although original, these songs do fit the mould of something the Scottish music scene does very well at the moment: simple folky melodies surrounded by lush layers of varied, often cinematic sounds. Without too much second- guessing of motives, this feels like an offbeat labour of love; made against the odds of departing bandmates, it is decidedly idiosyncratic, and wholly refreshing. (Laura Ennor)
70 THE LIST 13 Nov–11 Dec 2014