Spotlight: The Arcane Parade
Published by Al Young | Filed under Music
Energy, dedication and artistry: all that matters in music, and all that the Arcane Parade embody. It’s wonderful (for me at least, it may be a perversion to others) to find a band so free of pretence, so free of a sole desire for success above music, so free of an adherence to mainstream musical formulae. The song Bang (from their album/EP Deferring Heartbreak/Changing Forever) puts it best: ‘there’ll be fire in our hearts, we’ll try to make you understand that we do what we do, ’cause it’s the only thing we know.‘
The music itself, across everything that they have recorded, is wonderfully energetic, and a little esoteric: vocal delivery is plain and honest and sometimes ascends to a raspy growl, something which could be considered a lost art in the age of the rape that is excessive post-production. Their music combines vivacious chord progressions with technical lead parts, and the two combine to form a whole greater than the sum of its parts. It’s danceably simple, yet complex enough to satisfy snobbish music theorists: who would probably be better off listening to the likes of the Dillinger Escape Plan, Shotmaker and The Jesus Lizard anyway. This concept of duality in their music is a pattern: in The English Way, vocal fragility is combined with a surprising strength in the chorus, with that growl showing its lovely self once again.
The drumming is easily on a par with the ability of the guitarists: the drummers serves as more than a timekeeper, and seems to actually lead the songs rather than merely keep the other instrumentalists going. A refreshing change from the standard rock beat, that’s for sure.
James Summerfield - Count to Ten and Start Again
Published by Al Young | Filed under Music
Birmingham seems to be at the forefront of a new wave of folk- and country-inspired music, with the likes of Sam Bentley, Friends of the Stars and Stuart Yeadon coming to the favour of ourselves and other local media. And here, in James Summerfield, we could have another sign that the next ‘Birmingham sound’ is going to be closer to Saddle Creek’s current definition of the ‘Omaha sound’ than the metal of the ’80s.
The album starts with an almost painfully cliché country-esque song title in Another Day With You’s Like Torture - it just screams of the likes of I Beat My Wife to Dull the Pain mid-Western America songwriting - but (luckily) it finds its salvation in the content of the song itself. It’s a delicate number of strings, acoustic guitar, slide guitar and drums accompanied by the sort of pained, spiderweb-thin vocal delivery paralleling that of the late Elliott Smith. The lyrics are full of sweet little references to the limitations of knowledge and the transience of relationships, throwing back memories to late-era ‘everything is a ballad’ Dr. Hook. And that is quite possibly the only time that that particular comparison has been made favourably.
Heads Down and Eyes Up is a song which I can immediately love, if only for the passing theme of ‘I can’t stand theists for whom God only exists in their hours of need.’ It’s just delightful commentary on a breed worthy of hate. Again, Elliott Smith comparisons seem necessary: the delay on the voice is reminiscent of Independence Day, and works to thicken out the texture of the song in the same way, alongside the far more minimal backing of slide guitar and strings.
The third song on the album, Stuck in the Mud, is probably the most indicative of the minimalism of his music: voice and guitar. It’s a simple combination which works, especially with the contrast between the harsher highs of his vocal chords and the clean sounding mids of his accompanying guitar. Count to Ten is, simply, wonderful: soothing vocals tell the story of a stalkerish distant desire, but in terms so pure. Chinese food, independent films, cashews and cheap wine are truly the more base components of a successful relationship. The sudden-onset swell of the instruments at the end of the song at the point of ‘I’m thinking of you even though we have not met’ seems so earnest that the song cannot be construed as anything but earnest by anything possessing a heart. The descent into a whisper from this just compounds the effect. The subsequent instrumental of Jelly Bones demonstrates the technical proficiency of James quite well.
Getting thoroughly hammered because of a loved one: it’s so passé, but so wonderfully adaptable to music. What’s on Your Mind shows a struggle between whiskey and wine brought on by the perceived distance of another, and its wonderfully executed with vocals which for the first time on the album seem strained, and it’s a strain of a most appealing nature. It’s an emotional strain. It’s genuine. Delusions of adequacy and grandeur are also great concepts for songs, and Films tackles this, again, with great aplomb. The vocals and guitar mesh to form a whole, rather than just being the sum of two parts.
A Little Time’s guitar part is wonderfully playful, and it’s an infectious riff. It could be considered danceable, as far as that term is usable in country. I’d be a Helpless Friend is a song, once again, of James Summerfield’s more minimalist side: guitar plucking accompanied by slide and the most gentle of percussion. At 1:59, it’s a nice break from the rest of the album.
Once is a sad song, simple as: the debate of love as a once in a lifetime experience versus a constant one just doesn’t lend itself to jolly music. His melancholy is an enjoyable one, though: the vibrato on the vocals becomes gradually more and more unrestrained as the song goes on, just giving the feeling that the performer is close to tears. It’s wonderful.
9 Lives and Paper Bags are a stylistic departure from what was the formula laid down up to now. 9 Lives sees the introduction of clean electric guitars and a far more staccato vocal style. Paper Bags, on the other hand, is the polar opposite to this. The song brings with it a delightfully fragile piano intro and a gentle climb to full instrumentation. The only lyrics in this song, which are sung towards the end, serve as a closing to this album wonderfully: it’s a synoptic account of the themes of the entire album.
I must say that this album is, in a little way, a little hackneyed, but only in a thematic sense; and I’m not quite sure as to how bad of a thing that is. Sure, the songs are about love, about life, about the day-to-day: and all of that has been done before ad inifitum. But who cares? These themes cut to the very core of the human condition.
It’s out in August. Buy it.
Commercially Inviable Records, the record label at the helm of what I see as the folk revolution in Birmingham, are really pressing the concept of ‘art for art’s sake’, and I can truly respect that. I hope that their lineup grows exponentially with a maintenance of quality.
The Exposition: Hardcore/Screamo/Emo/Whatever It’s Called This Week
Published by Al Young | Filed under Music
We have a new set of features here at Starve in Heaven, kids: a weekly (or more frequent) series with the subject of the best local bands in any given genre. The aim is simple: exposure for the little known (but greatly talented) bands, and a certain hipster kudos for me for my knowledge of the pseudo-obscure. We start with the oft used terms of screamo and hardcore: two terms often incorrectly used, as people who are already readers of SiH may have already noticed my dismay at. I’m going to spare you the rant and just get into the bands:
Gaza City Blues - MySpace
The downtempo instrumental leanings of the likes of I Would Set Myself on Fire for You and Circle takes the Square combined with the ferocity and immediacy of Neil Perry. Layered guitars mesh intricacy and vehemence in a style most wonderfully suited to the genre, and the vocals do not disappoint either: considering their origins of Wolverhampton, they are clean and emotive in a fashion so pure any human listener would feel the cathartic effect of their initial recording. The lyrics worth the paper which they are written on, which is becoming most rare: ‘but how is it possible to be the oppressor and the victim at the same time?’ screams of a desire to find a rational dichotomy, and by god it does scream.
Hips Unite - MySpace
God. The drumming. God.
It’s like giving crack to a child with a pair of dustbin lids, a snare and a bass drum. It’s heaven. The guitar parts are far more accessible than a lot of their contemporaries’: the on-off chord jerking serves to provide a little more dancability to the mix, in a turn away from the musical elitism the genre seems to breed. The screaming itself is a little eccentric as well: emphasis is not placed on technique at all, but rather the emotion behind the music. Yes, he will one day lose his voice but their music will be that little bit more awesome until that time. You have to suffer your art, right?
Stella Dawes - MySpace
Progression in music is a wonderful thing: my favourite songs (Envy’s A Warm Room and Circle Takes the Square’s A Crater to Cough In as but two examples) start soft, but end in an orgasmic sonic cataclysm. Stella Dawes have taken this another step further: the songs start hard and just carry on upping the ante. Vocals travel from a scream to a chant to delicate singing. Their journey is a wonderful one to listen to. They’re also one of the only bands which I have ever come across which make chainsaw guitars sound anywhere near pleasing. Seriously: they make me want to ask for just a little more muddiness to their tone. A bit more of that crunch. Anything for that more of that sound. That godawful sound. That wonderful sound.
I’m clearly a masochist.
Manrae - MySpace
More of the Indian Summer/City of Caterpillar bent, Manrae combine elegant indie-esque guitars with guitar noise over carefully orchestrated drumbeats. Distortion, meet your polar opposite of clean, treble-biased sounds. Despite its seemingly polar self-contradiction, the combination works to good effect. The vocals walk that oft-tread line between fragility and strength and always seem as if they could break at any moment. The songs aren’t just demonstrations of shifting dynamics: they’re the very up-and-down nature of life itself. It’s truly an endearing quality.
Now, if I’ve wet your appetite for the emo/screamo/kittencore/hardcore/whatevercore scene of Birmingham and the Midlands, I must disappoint you: Stella Dawes is the only band out of these still going, the rest burnt out before they had the chance to sell out. Obviously. Nonetheless, this is demonstrative of the diversity our fair region has to offer, and testament to the works of prior greats in their chosen specialities.
A new slew of bands would not go amiss though, if they were as good as the above mentioned bands. Hint. Right there.
Rock Martyrs?
Published by Sapheen | Filed under Debate, Music
Good god, if being a music journalist makes you this cynical and misanthropic I’m surprised we aren’t all disposed to jumping off the BT Tower like a bunch of Lemmings. Then again, SiH has never been this silly, unless a few of you out there wants to keep an eye out for the next ”Rock Martyr,” which to be honest is a phrase I haven’t actually heard until reading this:
Nice little spark for some debate I think, If any of you actually care.
On some level, I think the man has a point: without the death of Ian Curtis, Joy division probably wouldn’t have been as glamourised as it is today, We HAVE had just about 2 years of ”Joy Division mania.” Yep, there would probably be fewer 17 year olds wondering around at Bloc Party and Interpol gigs wearing Joy Division t-shirts/badges and what have you. Also, as brilliant as ‘Control’ was, it would probably never have come into existence… well there wouldn’t have been reason for it to do so.
At the same time, I fail to see the reason why Lester feels the need for bands to follow what he calls a more interesting ”Narrative arc.” Surely it’s enough for bands to continue to release albums until they truly stop making any decent music, and then be allowed to retire gracefully? I’d much rather artists such as Ian Curtis, Jeff Buckley, Elliott Smith or Nick Drake were still alive rather than dead, even if only out of respect for their families. Lester appears to associate too much glamour with the demise of young musicians who’s music is more an attempt to wring beauty out of somewhat tragic alienation. It is quite irresponsible for Lester to go picking out who he feels will be our next ”Rock Martyr.”
Needless to say, if I were Thom Yorke, I would have punched the living shit out of him. Feel free to comment/debate as necessary.
Astro Reality
Published by Al Young | Filed under Music
From their very inception, most bands walk that most treacherous tightrope: balancing, on the one hand, their ideas and preconceptions of what they want to sound like, and on the other, the vocabulary of how to define that sound. So it is, once again, with a heavy heart that I have to whine about the misuse of the label ’screamo’ amongst the populace at large. Astro Reality are to screamo what Hawthorne Heights are(/were, ha) to emo: a travesty of mislabelling and essentially a bastardisation of a genre most radically different to its diluted ‘followers’.
However, a history lesson isn’t what this article is about: even if their sins of woefully inadequate genre nomenclature are to be forgotten, the music itself exposes doubt as to the validity of their self-professed status as a band. They state that they ‘want to be known across the land for being unique and keeping it Astro’, but any prior illusions you may still have about their uniqueness in the sea of their ’screamo’ (inverted commas are important) peers are dispelled as soon as you hear the first chord in any of their songs. As for ‘keeping it Astro’, I’m not nearly well informed enough to know what that means: the cool kids are probably laughing at me right now for that.
Warranty, their most recent musical foray, shows the instantly recognisable chug-chug of a distorted electric guitar and the most dire screaming I have ever heard, even in a band of this perversion. The screams are not the light accentuated growl of the likes of Tim Kasher or Geoff Rickly, nor are they the visceral-yet-high-pitched wail of Billy Werner: they’re something all together more weak, a cross of the two styles as unwelcome as a 20 year old at a Conservative Club, and just about as out of place amidst the pop-punk riffs and hackneyed lead parts.
Listening through the rest of the tracks on their MySpace, one cannot help but get the feeling of deja entendu (and no, not the Brand New album. That work is holy and should not even be sullied with a mention here), and that is because, in all sincerity, the songs do sound the same. Guitars? Distorted, with crispy overtones. Bass? There. Drumming? Keeping time in the most dull ways imaginable. Think ditchwater, mixed with Jimmy Carr’s humour: shit, plain shit. Vocals: dual and completely out of harmony. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t work.
There’s a limited school of thought (only on certain sites on the Internet, granted) that Casey Calvert’s opiate, citalopram and clonazepam fuelled death was due to the realisation that he had, almost single-handedly, destroyed a once great genre and ruined its name for the good many years of copycat bands to come. I sincerely hope that this band follow his lead, and just give up on music or find an original niche: I have no doubt of their instrumental ability. I just abhor their shitty music.
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