Music Review

Ethereal Is Not A Dirty Word

Robert Cochrane — Thu, 05 Jun 2025 01:28:55 +0000

Ethereal Is Not A Dirty Word Robert Cochrane June 4, 2025 - 21:28

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A strangely eclectic sensibility is evidenced on Ania Brzozowska's new album, Secret Garden, her second. Although Polish, a Celtic flavour pervades, a breath of Irish mellowness and charm with her delicate mastery of piano and violin. Assured and elegantly underscored, as though Tori Amos were in cahoots with Enya, you'll have an idea of the classicism at play. Not that Ania is a mere pastiche of both or either, she brings her distinctive grace and style to the ears of the listener. There's a flawlessly other-worldly feel to her music, but it remains grounded, earthed by sublime musicality. Her image is wrapped in floral motifs, and musical signatures sourced from other times, an approach of ancient modernity. Understated yet encompassing.

"Secret Garden" is a perfect opener, featuring a delicately picked harp. Shades of Caroline Lavelle echo and beguile this slow-burning epic. Ania's voice is subtle, never cloying on account of possession of an earnest earthiness. This haunting madrigal soothes the listener into her otherworldly vistas. If rolling piano motifs and subtle violin lines resonate, here is the perfect ticket with all its gifts of haunting refinement. Mannered but exquisitely accessible.

With "Another Day," there is a sparseness of piano, a lament that holds the delicate space it inhabits with a melancholy ambiance. As it builds, via a sadness of violin, the sense of restraint is palpable, as her vocals effortlessly glide, whilst underscoring and harnessing the fluidity of the song.

"Another week gone by

And not a minute too soon

Another passerby

Staring up at the moon."

"Reach My Shore" is a slow waltz imbued with a gossamer moodiness. A swirling of bells and piano, it broods and aches with gentle drama. A small slice of reflective perfection, perfectly judged and elegantly delivered. This aching beauty continues with "Autumn Leaves," a perfect capturing of longing, absence, and regret as winter draws in. An exercise in brevity, it has an icy warmth in all its piano-strummed ghostliness and sorrow.

"I see your lips, the summer kisses

The sun-burned hands I used to hold"

A brave song to cover arrives in the form of Chris Isaak's masterpiece of failure and fatalism, "Wicked Game," bedecked in baroque refinement with delicate violin lines, it weaves a hypnotic web upon the listener's heart. Stripped of its lyrics until the last few seconds, she allows it to exist as a classical piece, an astute departure that works intuitively and eloquently. '"Love Songs" possesses the timbre and ache of early Kate Bush. Measured yet gently soaring, neatly scored with piano in a dance with barely borne violin and swaying vocals.

"Sound Of Silence" is one of those songs you'd assume should be left untouched, especially given Disturbed and their manful reinvention of it in recent years. Ania takes it back to a more medieval feel—a sense of older, more innocent and magical times, but with a world-weary aspect. As the violin rises softly over the elegantly picked guitar, there is restraint within the longing expressed, those elements of profound sadness. Dramatic in an understated way, it saunters and sails to a conclusion of gentle resignation and decline—a minstrel in a gallery conceit.

"En Aranjuez Con Tu Amor" by the Spanish composer Rodrigo, from 1939, becomes an epic soundtrack of ambitious proportions, awash with cello and violin, and blessed with an exquisite vocal take. Ethereal yet supremely magnificent via a certain consideration of restraint, it swirls and cascades, slowly building without ever bursting forth till the entire affair gently slips away. A precise and elegant revisiting. It closes the vinyl version, which is a thing of elegant beauty in its splattered elegance. What closes the CD, the acoustic version of an earlier song, "Reach My Shore," proves a perfect exit piece of vulnerable simplicity that encases the eloquent concision of her voice. Ania is a singer who is not fearful of space because she knows exactly how to occupy and harness it, a trait she shares with Norwegian songstress Cecilie Anna. All seems effortless, which is an aspect of the magic involved.

Ania could be described as Pre-Raphaelite for modern times. An elegant soul with a sublime lightness of touch. Her visual presentation has a floral intensity that suits and complements her deceptively gentle sound. With this album, her secret garden should be a secret widely shared and poorly kept—a breeze from the past with modern times in mind.

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A Minnesota Matinee In Manchester

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 20 May 2025 15:16:37 +0000

A Minnesota Matinee In Manchester Robert Cochrane May 20, 2025 - 11:16

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concert review

Gaelynn Lea and James Holt

The Band On The Wall, Manchester

17 May 2025

Manchester is the recipient of sunshine, not rain on a mid-May Saturday. The streets buzz with the clink and chatter of an almost European ambience, as people make the most of the driest stretch of days in many years. The Band On The Wall, however, maintains an inviting darkness despite the change in the weather.

Waiting to be served, I am approached by a small lady in a wheelchair as she glides past potential obstacles with an easy confidence. She smiles, "Are you the support act's father?" Just as I begin to explain that I'm not, the woman beside me announces that she's the mother of James Holt and introduces her husband, the true father sought in the question. Gaelynn Lea, in her motorised chair, immediately scoots across to them. This composer, violinist, and singer I've never seen live, but this almost introduction makes me relish the prospect of the afternoon's performance with an added frisson of anticipation.

The support act, the previously mentioned singer-songwriter James Holt, specialises in confessional, articulate pop maladies. An engagingly relaxed presence, his songcraft is immediately evident. There are shades of Dylan, Emitt Rhodes, and the cohesion of fellow Mancunian troubadour John Bramwell ( I Am Kloot). It's easy to discern why he's garnered admiring plaudits from many, including Brian Eno. The songs are reflective and complex, with sixties sway and swagger, and by his admission, they aren't always the happiest, but therein lies beauty. "The Wedding" fillets his sorrow over a failed love interest who marries another guy, a surprisingly up-tempo affair given the loss attendant in its subject matter. This elicits a playful heckle from Gaelynn, who is perched at the back of the venue, as she berates him for enjoying a good wallow in despair, which he manfully agrees is true. I would recommend his "Sanguine On The Rocks" release to those in search of new aural delights, a treat that will not disappoint, nor indeed will any of his work.

When Gaelynn takes the stage with her guitarist Richard Carter, there's a faint ripple of anticipation. Because of her small stature, she plays her violin like a cello. It is a perfect arrangement, an inspired compromise. Her sound builds via loops and pedals, and with a knowing nod to her accompanist, with whom she shares an eloquent rapport and fluency, the show begins. The songs are unique confections that enter the heart and haunt the soul. At times her voice fuses with the violin, as though it, the instrument, and she are as one. The sound has a gypsy baroque element, neither country or folk but a beguiling hybrid of both with a sense of refined classicism. An enchanting and mesmerising energy pervades. As she performs, an expressive reverie is present in her eyes. There's an element of Cyndi Lauper to her voice, along with the dedicated concentration of an artist in perfect fusion with her evocative creations.

Lea is promoting the music she wrote for Daniel Craig's Broadway portrayal of Macbeth, and introduces these pieces a little apprehensively on account of them being aired out of context, but she needn't have worried. They are beguiling and work above and beyond their initial purpose as incidental motifs to complement a revered drama. Their pathos and musicality become extraordinary. She expresses her disappointment that many of her favourite musical moments were cut from the play, but is grateful that she got to hear them, albeit once, from a Broadway stage, in an empty, darkened theatre.

Her haunting ballad "Some Day We'll Linger In The Sun," written about her husband, a beautiful gesture she only confessed to much later, is one of the afternoon's highlights. At times, I felt tears rise as the music soared and flowed. Later, she even whips the crowd into an audience participation sing-along. All too soon, the magical reverie is over, the moment flown. Her intrinsic artistry is slowly reaping the recognition her diligent efforts deserve. Collaborations with Low have raised the stakes in her favour, as did her Tiny Desk win (video at top) in 2016. Her first visit to the UK in several years, these shows are a timely reminder of her unique gifts. This Manchester gig is the Minnesota natives' first matinee performance, a uniqueness she is happy to experience and embrace.

Afterwards, Gaelynn mingles with her audience for a chat, a captivating soul with an infectious giggle. On the metro, I was deflated to realise her compact discs had slipped out of my not-quite-sealed rucksack. Beyond the initial sense of loss, a faint hope rose that they'd be found by someone who'd take them home and discover moments of grace from my lost tracts of musical delight. Perhaps matinees, though a thing of the past, might have a bright future. A new kind of afternoon delight in Manchester, Minnesota, and beyond.

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Gaelyn Lea revue

What a superb revue, totally captures what was a magical concert.

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In Space No One Can Hear You Scheme

Chet Kozlowski — Sun, 23 Mar 2025 20:13:56 +0000

In Space No One Can Hear You Scheme Chet Kozlowski March 23, 2025 - 16:13

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science fiction

I think of Elias Koteas as Canada's Robert DeNiro. He is similarly hardbitten, has the same twisted grin, and a suggestion of volatility. With almost a hundred film and TV shows to his credit, he's a sturdy character actor. I remember him best from Fincher's Zodiac, Cronenberg's Crash, and Malick's The Thin Red Line. It's good to catch up with him in The Silent Planet. He's older, more grizzled, but no less compelling.

Mr. Koteas plays Theodore, the sole inmate on a penal planet. Theodore's life is one of routine: he excavates the rocky wasteland, gets buzzed if he flags—"Back to work," intones an electronic voice—and has a sensor in his chest. At night in his space pod he stares out a small portal or watches a TV sitcom supplied by his captors, showing what life might be like if he'd gone straight. Theo is haunted by the vision of a lovely woman from his previous life. He is terminally ill.

One day a new pod suddenly arrives, carrying a young woman who is unaware of Theo's presence. She thinks she alone has been sent there. Theo is desperate for company. He stalks around her pod, playing hide and seek, until he makes himself known. The woman, Niyya, is a convicted terrorist, serving out a life sentence. But the two are the only ones there. So begins an unlikely comradeship.

Mr. Koteas at first plays Theodore as feeble in a way that belies the character's past and potential. Newcomer Briana Middleton is an able foil for him: athletic, with striking features and an air of a warrior princess. Both hold the screen well as their story ceases to resemble edgy domestic tranquility and more something like Bresson's Le Dernier Combat.

The two set up house. By day Theo schools Niyya in their barren environment: "Things just fly out of your mind here. It's like birds," he says. His hallucinations become more distinct and agonizing. Niyya, for her part, finds Theo familiar but just can't place from where. Her memories nag, until they reveal her true mission on this desolate planet.

The Silent Planet, intriguingly subtitled The Sad Dreams of Earthlings, is written and directed by Jeffrey St. Jules, whose previous films include Cinema of Sleep and Bang Bang Baby. Mr. St. Jules suspends our disbelief with spare terrain and lively exchanges in the pods.

The Silent Planet does a lot with a little. It's a suspenseful space opera on its own terms. Those coming to The Silent Planet for interplanetary fireworks will instead find a low-tech chamber piece, a two character show, not moody but not light either.

____________________________

The Silent Planet. Directed by Jeffrey St. Jules. 2024. From Quiver Distribution. Available on digital platforms. Runtime 95 minutes

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From A Whisper To A Scream

Robert Cochrane — Wed, 19 Mar 2025 18:49:38 +0000

From A Whisper To A Scream Robert Cochrane March 19, 2025 - 14:49

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Peter Farrelly 1949-2025

Peter Farrelly cut an elegant figure in the heady days of prog rock via his sensitively considered vocals, sophisticated bass lines, and somewhat foppish appearance. A striking character, he was the charismatic frontman of Fruupp, Northern Ireland's distinguished but sole contribution to the world of progressive rock. A strange entity to emerge in the murderous and bloody period of Irish turmoil, they simply didn't fit in. Needless to say, they moved to London to advance their chances of a career securing a record deal with Dawn Records in 1973.

Farrelly merited greater recognition for his sublime technique and could vocally rise from a whisper to a scream with effortless ease, as illustrated in the songs "Decision" and "Mystery Might," but though his days with Fruupp are his lynchpin to legacy, their sound has aged like a wine of fine vintage, they never, despite being constantly on tour, broke through to the higher echelons of fame. His delivery hovered between the jazziness of Cleo Laine and the deceptive casualness of Tim Hardin, although when required, he could "rock out" with the best, possessing a rare and subtle air of vocal understatement.

Fruupp's four albums have gained greater recognition in later years than were gifted on release. Peter's distinctive artwork graced their first two LP sleeves, Future Legends and Seven Secrets, and the early promotional posters and flyers via a curious mixture of Victorian children's illustrations and colorful seventies whimsy. The band's rigorous touring schedule ended his role as their visual merchandiser. He simply no longer had the time to execute another sleeve of such intricate detail, a loss of stylistic continuity that really should have been avoided.

Like most natural talents, he was humble about his own. A distinctive and strong visual centerpiece to the eclectic brilliance behind him, the classical keyboard flourishes of Stephen Houston, later the layered electronic washes of the late John Mason, Vincent McCusker's searingly dynamic guitar lines in tandem with Martin Foye's driven and inspired drum motifs. What made Farrelly unique was his ability to sing exquisitely whilst delivering throbbingly appropriate bass progressions. His instrument of choice had been the acoustic guitar, but the bass reigned supreme in his hands. It was a remarkable and unintentional transition, indicative of his innate talent.

Fruupp shared the bill with Genesis, Queen, Hawkwind, and Focus, to name but four. David Bowie and Angie, dressed in matching white suits, showed up at one of their London gigs. Eclectic and electric, it remains a mystery why their career stalled whilst lesser talents soared. Their final album, Modern Masquerades, was exquisitely produced by Ian McDonald from King Crimson, another band they'd previously toured with.

After Fruupp imploded in 1976, the advent of Punk rendered their contemplative sound instantly obsolete. Farrelly formed The Crowd, an inspired Doors/Stranglers "New Wave" hybrid, who, with a little more kindness from Lady Luck, could have broken through. Sadly, they disbanded without recording any material, though some live bootlegs of inferior audio quality apparently exist. After a few more short-lived bands, he gradually drifted away from the scene that had sustained him for a decade.

Though Peter Farrelly left music, the music never left him. He continued to write songs, developing an interest in the classical genre after taking up the piano. His talent will continue to bring delight and awe to those who know it already and those who've yet to discover the delicacy of his recorded work. After half a century, it still beguiles, remaining a tasteful legacy of elegance, refinement, and good grace. Understatement is a talent often easily dismissed or ignored, but he lived long enough to see his efforts reassessed and praised

He died peacefully at home in Belfast aged 76.

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Serendipity Far From Home

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 11 Mar 2025 20:13:41 +0000

Serendipity Far From Home Robert Cochrane March 11, 2025 - 16:13

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indie rock

CAROLA BAER - The Story Of Valerie (Concentric Circles)

Something inexplicable occasionally saves a piece of art from oblivion. Rarely can fate have been so perilously tempted, nor an edge as closely danced along, than Carola Baer's album The Story Of Valerie. It should have vanished and almost did, but for a final "thrift store" encounter where items are dumped in bins on the shop floor for the curious to peruse for a few hours before being gathered up and unceremoniously consigned to the local landfill in Portland, Oregon. Had local artist Natalie Ann Howard not been curious enough to purchase a homemade cassette, there would be no story, no album, nor a litany of connections and circumstances befitting a fable. No pathway towards remembrance,

Carola Baer was a young West London-based musician of Armenian lineage who, in 1987, arrived in San Francisco for a few days as she made her way to Australia. No flowers adorned her hair, but for the sake of the story, they may have done. She met a boy and fell in love, overstaying her original intention to the tune of two decades. The songs inspired by their affair, which he helped her record, were poignant and fresh. She'd create cassettes of these in the hope of involving others, but despite much effort, tapes were only being made when one was required; fate was not on her side. Carola eventually left San Francisco and returned to England, and her lovingly crafted efforts were subsumed by other memories and other songs. Like pages from a forgotten diary, they no longer mattered.

Though these works were created by primitive means, they fail to betray the humble nature of their origins—a 4-track tape, a Yamaha DX-7, a Casio CZ -101, and a primitive drum machine. They now survive via a vinyl release of 500 copies. What emerges from the grooves is quite extraordinarily fresh and engaging. There are elements of an unvarnished Cocteau Twins, early days of P.J. Harvey, and flashes of Bjork. The whole affair possesses an assured element of completeness, a vision realized. Earthy and organic, it does not provide any concession to time in its wordless vocalizations and ethnic melodies.

The madrigal-like "Maker Of Me" proves a perfect opener. An incantation, perhaps a prayer, it possesses the ethereal intimacy of This Mortal Coil and Miranda Sex Garden, whilst "Golden Boy" betrays unvarnished aspects of the Cocteau Twins with subsumed rasps of vocal and an insistent percussive theme that builds to a dervish-driven peak.

"Save Me" extolls a pervasive folksiness, elemental, like water over stones, the disembodied vocals, hypnotic and entrancing, via instrumental aspects of Japan and Talk Talk, a sonic texturing akin to Siouxsie and the Banshees. A poetic waifishness of Virginia Astley frosts "We Already Feel," a spoken word sequence of mesmeric grace, whilst "Springtime" evokes a call to prayer in its stark, alluring briefness. "Doors Talk" concludes the first side; we appropriately are exploring a vinyl-only affair, with a sense of church-like reverence, vespers, and whispers, slight gothic shades of Nico haunting its subtle dirge.

"Solemn Cattle" presents a casual piano motif and a vocal ghostliness of Vashti Bunyan, an ethnic jazziness implied by the percussion. "Nothing Left To Say" heralds a discreet piano riff that nods towards a gothic Enya in conversational song, though whilst it grows and builds, the tone becomes more edgy. "See The Lights Again" implies Liz Fraser or Dead Can Dance as a floating vocal rises aloft a keyboard cascade in dulcimer-like affectation. "Dreams" could have been lifted from a neglected sci-fi movie with poorly lit walkways and city nightscapes. Proceedings are concluded by "On Top Of The Mountain," which continues the dystopian theme, a sense of underground claustrophobia, trains stopping and stuttering by, drifting past to a tribal-like chant.

Impressionistic yet crafted and stylized, The Story Of Valerie presents as a consistently accomplished and eloquent creation. A casual self-assurance emerges from these grooves, which could have been created in any yesterday from the last forty years. Effortlessly timeless, its survival and arrival, a profound joy. This tapestry of sonic sophistication is never showy but shines as a lost gem, repolished and reset, something that Carola Baer can now enjoy as it gradually finds its rightful place in a world that didn't know nor care. Her current band, the appositely named, but unintentionally so, Quiet Wish.

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Beyond The Alley of the Dolls

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 04 Mar 2025 13:11:04 +0000

Beyond The Alley of the Dolls Robert Cochrane March 4, 2025 - 08:11

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David Johansen 1950 -2025

When the New York Dolls burst forth upon an unsuspecting public via the release of their eponymous album debut, they were draggy, druggy, and degenerate, resembling a team of transvestite hookers. Their startling appearance rattled a world of "Rock & Roll" that thought it had seen and been it all. Bob Harris described their appearance on his show The Old Grey Whistle Test as "Mock Rock," a slogan opportunity they should have stolen with a knowing wink. Raw and in your face in the way that The Velvet Underground and The Stooges were, the Dolls took no prisoners and startled all of the mostly empty horses. Fronted by the glamourous androgyny of David Johansen in high heels, who claimed he wanted to look like the French movie star Simone Signoret, he actually resembled Lauren Bacall in a beret, after many nights on cold and slippery, dirty tiles.

Cribbing their name from the building opposite where they used to rehearse, "The New York Dolls Hospital," where kids took their damaged dolls to be repaired, proved a strangely befitting choice. Their sound was loud, nasty, and aggressive, something that didn't go amiss when Todd Rundgren, a man known for his aural elegance, captured it, warts, rhinestones, and all, in the eight days that it took to record. Despite decent reviews it didn't sell. Their stripped-back angry energy was an unintentional rallying call for what would later become known as a Punk, but in those days, they stuck out like a bruised and throbbing sore thumb. Songs like "Personality Crisis," "Jet Boy," and "Trash" perfectly exemplify their ragged, jagged grace. Formed from the ashes of a Bronx-based band Actress whose members Johnny Thunders and Billy Murcia decided to create a new band. But when Thunders decided against being the frontman, David Johansen, who'd previously played in a few Staten Island garage bands, was recruited. He was born there in 1950. The original line-up, including Sylvain Sylvain and Arthur "Killer" Kane, performed their first gig on Christmas Eve at the Endicott Hotel, which was by then a shelter for the homeless.

Invited to the UK to support the Faces at Wembley in 1972 and to undertake a handful of shows, disaster befell the band when, at a party in London, Billy Murcia overdosed. Placed in the bath and fed coffee, he asphyxiated. The journalist Peter Burton (1945-2011), then Rod Stewart's P.A., remembered the party but had no idea till he heard the following morning what had transpired. "There were plenty of strung-out people there. A passed-out drummer in a bath didn't seem much of a cause for concern."

The tour was abandoned, and a teenage Stephen Patrick Morrissey never got to redeem his ticket for their canceled show at Manchester's Hard Rock. He'd ran their UK Fan Club. and penned an early book about them. The band returned to New York to consider their future, recruiting Jerry Nolan as Murcia's replacement, and secured a deal with Mercury Records.

In October 1973, they juddered an American viewing public via their appearance on The Midnight Special. Middle America dropped jaws and coffee cups and flipped channels in the days when the shock was both palpable and awesome. Eventually recording a second album, the gloriously monikered Too Much Too Soon, with the legendary Shadow Morton, on account of their adoration for the girl groups he'd worked with in the Sixties like the Shangri-La's. Again, the print reviews didn't translate into sales, but a legend was growing. Their divisive appeal was reflected in the fact that Creemmagazine awarded them Best Band of The Year and The Worst.

When burgeoning rock Svengali Malcolm MacLaren visited New York on a trip to sell his then-partner Vivienne Westwood's clothes designs, he tracked them down, became their manager, and dressed them in red leather. He claimed the new look was his idea, but Johansen later disputed that maintaining it was his. Either way, it didn't work since it effectively alienated their old fans whilst hardly attracting any new ones. There was a tour of Japan, but the drug use of Kane, Thunders, and Nolan exacerbated inner conflicts within the band. Dropped by Mercury Records in late 1975, the Dolls staggered on, more from reputation than industry support, finally bowing out at a post-Christmas gig in 1976 with Blondie at Max's Kansas City in New York.

Johansen, between 1978 and 1984, released a quartet of creatively strong but commercially underachieving albums. He successfully drifted into acting, appearing alongside Bill Murray as the Ghost of Christmas Past in Scrooged, (1988), Let It Ride with Richard Dreyfuss (1989), and Freejack with Mick Jagger and Emilio Estevez (1992)., a mere triptych of his many noteworthy screen appearances.

By the late eighties, he'd reinvented himself as Buster Poindexter, a vaudevillian persona, after the fashion of his glam contemporary Jobriath, who morphed into Cole Berlin, a gin-soaked lounge pianist. As Poindexter, he scored a modest but memorable hit with "Hot. Hot. Hot," a cover of a song by soca artist Arrow. Johansen later admitted that skirmish with success had become the bane of his life. He released Buster's Happy Hour, an album sourced and soaked in the subject of alcohol. Another followed as Buster Poindexter's Spanish Rocket Ship, rooted in salsa music. These albums were a long way from the flash and thrash of the New York Dolls.

In 2004 Morrissey was curating the Meltdown Festival at the Royal Festival Hall. His jewel in the crown was the reformation of the New York Dolls, or rather, the three left standing. Johnny Thunders died in a hotel room from a drug overdose in 1991, or a possible homicide, whilst Jerry Nolan succumbed to bacterial meningitis and a stroke, his life support being switched off in January 1992. The performance resulted in a vinyl album, a DVD, and a permanent return of the Dolls, although Arthur Kane's reprise was tragically brief. A mere twenty-two days after the glory of their reunion he died two hours after being diagnosed with leukemia and having gone to hospital in LA complaining of fatigue. He thought he'd caught flu whilst in London. Johansen and Sylvain Sylvain continued with the New York Dolls releasingthree further albums One Day It Will Please Us To Even Remember This(1996), Coz I Sez So (2009), and Dancing Backwards In High Heels (2011). It was a brave, concerted and credible comeback. They played their final gig in Scotland during a tour with Alice Cooper in 2011.

David Johansen was immortalized by Martin Scorsese in the documentary Personality Crisis: One Night Only, recordedmostly in 2020 at an intimate show at Cafe Carlyle. Released in 2023, it captures and encapsulates all his raw and ragged peacock glory, a perfect testament to an era already descending into the amber of memory and absence. His final years were beset with health issues, diligently cared for by his wife Mara Hennessey. He gradually faded from view but not from memory. In the documentary he recalls being arrested for impersonating a woman at the height of his Dollsiian notoriety. "I had to go to jail dressed like Liza Minnelli!" he drawled.

His will be a hard act to follow. There'd be little need for anyone to try since Johansen was uniquely unclassifiable, a source of inspiration and beguilement, a man for all seasons who deserves another addition. He died from cancer on the 28th of February, 2025, at his New York City home, holding hands with his wife and daughter Leah, surrounded by music, flowers, and love.

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An Exercise In Discreet Sophistication

Robert Cochrane — Wed, 26 Feb 2025 23:45:50 +0000

An Exercise In Discreet Sophistication Robert Cochrane February 26, 2025 - 18:45

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pop rock

Perry Blake: Death Of A Society Girl (Moochin' About)

There's an elemental European air to Perry Blake, a songwriter who transcends the limitations of geography and perception. Though Irish, he could be French, where indeed he commands cult status. His songs are subtle, refined, and timeless. It is tasteful, like a cascade of warm velvet and cool silk, without alienating the listener. Elements preside of David Sylvian and a restrained inflection of Bowie, but without the histrionics. Languidly precise, he has plowed an individualistic path, a secret that should be more widely shared. With the release of Death Of A Society Girl, he may finally garner the attention his work so achingly deserves. Blake has written songs for the late Francoise Hardy and, in the past thirty years, become a touchstone artist whose refined maladies wander gently into the ear and tug gently at the heart.

"Requiem" is the perfect introduction to the uninitiated, reassuring the faithful. As languid as it is engaging. This intimates a journey of subtle delights. Restrained by an easy elegance, it suggests Scott Walker on a Sunday afternoon of fog and blurred sunshine. With "One Of These Days," delicate piano notes swish and sway over a hand-clap series of beats. It could be an out-take from Bowie's Lodger album. But stems perfectly from the interior world of Mr Blake. There's an eerie, almost operatic female vocal ghosting the proceedings, and the song drifts away on a small river of strings.

"If it's not broken, I'll break it.

That's just what I do.

If it's not real, then I'll fake it.

Just like you. Just like you"

These lyrics reveal a dark awareness of the soul, especially his own.

"Nobody's Child" sways, glides, and resolves upon a hauntingly beautiful violin line that dances over gentle stabs of piano. As late night as it can respectably be, this is a song with moments of Tin Drum by Japan that winds like a reptile waiting to strike. In "Song Of The Wind," there's a sense of a slow rolling train on a track of beguiling strings and neat acoustic guitar. Blake's voice has a warm resonance that draws the proceedings along.

"They don't seem to notice.

They don't seem to mind.

They don't seem to know

That they were less than kind."

"Let's Fall In Love" presents a louche plea of longing, but with epic proportions beating at its heart's core. A concise piece of ear candy, it builds and glows like an ember that never quite ignites, which is all part of its discretion of charm. Oriental folksiness pervades "Concertina" like a madrigal of sighs this sophisticated jewel casts a strange reflection in the soul of the listener. Deceptively effortless, here belies an inherent craft and beauty that wanders off into a mysterious distance. If you could make a road movie on a pagoda, this would be your soundtrack.

"Rules Of Love" delivers the swerve and masquerade of a perfect pop song in the restraint of its commercial conceit. As neat a summer radio accompaniment as a wish could require. this is simply sublime; a stream of strings and light splashes of piano creates a sense of past evenings.

"Death Of A Society Girl," the album's trailer single, again ghosts Bowie in a vocal that is effortlessly underplayed. The well-known actor Paul McGann (Withnail & I, Empire of the Sun, Alien 3) handles the spoken-word section. There's a burgeoning rise within the melody that never bursts forth, held in place by a spoken word aspect akin to stolen diary entries. Like rain through the moonlight, a quiet brilliance of confection.

Farewell arrives in the form of the brooding "Hummingbirds." A neat goodbye, sad but rather joyous, is Blake at his assuredly deceptive but assertively artistic best. Unshowy but latently powerful, the subdued beauty holds the song in a place like frozen lace.

"Maybe that is why these birds fly solo

Far away from land.

Far away from earthly sorrow.

Far away from man."

This work deserves a wide audience and should find one, but it remains to be seen in our unfair world. If you wish to steal some moments with an artist at the height of his understated powers, this is the ticket you require. Rarely has sophistication seemed so effortless. Refinement takes effort and time like fine wine, but you can't see it. It merely becomes evident when one is privy to the experience.

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The Man Who Came In From The Cold

Robert Cochrane — Mon, 24 Feb 2025 19:21:05 +0000

The Man Who Came In From The Cold Robert Cochrane February 24, 2025 - 14:21

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obituary

When Bill Fay's two albums were reissued on CD in 1997, the label See For Miles had no idea if their creator remained alive. Efforts to locate him had proven fruitless. He later reflected to me" "I'd long believed that the masters had been binned, so I was surprised to see them resurface. Back then, I made enough from those records to pay a few electricity and gas bills."

His debut, recorded in 1969, released in 1970, was entitled simply Bill Fay. A strangely ornate baroque masterpiece it is lush and stark in equal measure. Bill had arrived expecting to record with a band, only to find a full orchestra awaiting him in the studio, and all his songs scored by Michael Gibbs. Eloquent, defiantly English, but understated on account of Fay's deliberately fragile vocals, it received lack-lustre reviews, one comparing it to the easy listening treacle of Mantovani.

Fay by his own admission had been signed on the strength of his possessing a certain commercial potential. "I guess I kind of wrote myself out of a contract," he admitted without rancour. His second album, Time Of the Last Persecution, released in 1971, was not, despite its gloomy brilliance, what the record-buying public had in mind. Selling poorly, and now incredibly rare, it perfectly captures what later artists like Nick Cave would claim as their territory, but for years it was ignored.

After being dropped by Decca Records, he was offered a deal with Albert Grossman's Bearsville imprint. Having heard a rockabilly style song of Bill's Grossman wanted an entire album after that fashion. Bill refused. He wrote to me once: "Sometimes, when standing on the nightshift, you think perhaps an album of rockabilly songs maybe wasn't so bad an idea as it might have then seemed."

He had been signed to Deram Records, which in 1968 released "Some Good Advice" backed with Screams In Your Ears," a single with a Dylan-like swagger in its grooves but a British edge that should've troubled the airwaves but frustratingly didn't. He worked for a time with his label-mates Honeybus, and one of his songs was covered by the band Sadie's Expression.

With no record deal, and zero interest in success, Bill Fay supported himself via factory work and fruit picking, whilst continuing to write and record songs at home, purely for the love of doing what he did best. The new century saw a gathering a gradual momentum and interest. His albums were repressed, a compilation of rarities released, as well as his abandoned third album.

As his reputation grew, artists began to reference his influence and unique vision. Jeff Tweedy of Wilco being an early admirer and advocate, and when asked in the wake of the Twin Towers atrocity, what people should listen after such an event, he recommended "Be Not So Fearful" by Bill Fay. An accolade that initially rather spooked Bill, though he would eventually share the stage with the band at Shepherd's Bush Empire in 2007 and The Union Chapel in 2010. That song has also been covered by John Howard and Ed Harcourt.

Fay eventually returned to the studio, releasing three majestic albums on Dead Oceans: Life Is People (2010), Who Is The Sender (2015), and Countless Branches (2020). The reviews were extraordinary. They are tender, fragile masterpieces, part Nick Drake, Al Stewart, and early Cat Stevens, but entirely the elegant artistry of Bill Fay. His was a second chance akin to that gifted Sixto Rodrigues, another man who returned from the cold.

My connection to Bill was forged when I placed an advert in Mojo magazine in 1998 asking if anyone knew what had become of the artist known as Bill Fay. One day, the phone rang, and the caller introduced himself:

"It's Bill Fay here, Rob. I'm sorry you had to advertise for me. I'd no idea anyone was remotely bothered about where I was." That exchange resulted in a small feature, appropriately in Mojo.

He was a quiet and diligent soul who cared about the potential of others. When I introduced him to the songs of the beleaguered artist Jobriath, his response was humbling: "I don't know why there's interest in my work when stuff of this caliber is being ignored." It was an incredibly compassionate assessment of a dead performer and a fellow piano man.

One morning, a cassette arrived from Bill. He'd lovingly compiled an album of songs from the many I'd written with Steve Hywyn Jones. Frustrated that nothing had been released, it was accompanied by a note advising me to "Release this. The worst thing that can happen is someone writes to you in thirty years time asking who you were?" It appeared in 2005 as Hatter Mad by Blue Eyed Black with a liner essay by Bill. An act of altruistic kindness for which I remain humbly grateful.

Bill Fay died (age 81) in North London where he'd resided his entire life. His late flowering, the conclusion of an interruption from thirty years before.

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Beautiful Sounds Surrounded by Plastic Candles

C. Jefferson Thom — Tue, 11 Feb 2025 02:20:03 +0000

Beautiful Sounds Surrounded by Plastic Candles C. Jefferson Thom February 10, 2025 - 21:20

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classical

Candlelight: The Best of The Beatles

Sparkman Cellars, Seattle

Upon entering Sparkman Cellars and seeing the plastic candles lining the stage, I immediately had flashbacks of Orange County clubhouse events from my youth. It was not the best introduction, but it was nothing that wasn’t quickly overcome with a little wine and some beautiful music.

I’ve seen advertisements for these Candlelight events for some time now and had been meaning to check them out, so an evening dedicated to the songs of The Beatles was a natural nudge to follow through. The formula for these events, presented by Fever, is simple enough: select music, pick a classy venue, hire the musicians, surround the stage with electric candles, provide alcohol, and you have a show. It’s a simple concept, but it works, and at the event I saw, it was the passion of the string quartet on the stage that really made the evening.

Adapting classic rock to the confines of the quartet worked well, as did the curtsey of the Seattle String Quartet. Eli Weinberger made up the rhythm section, playing pizzicato on the cello with passionate precision, offering up visceral feelings while keeping the beat. First violin, Vanessa Moss, also shows her skill, flying through some of the busier licks and runs. The arrangements for the evening were made by the in-house Music Curation team and adapted by the performing musicians themselves. Some songs make the transition better than others, but the selections that really work help bring out unique qualities in the songs. For example, in the polyphonic conclusion of "All You Need Is Love," the four string players divide up the referenced pieces and overlap them nicely, providing a crisp perspective on the brilliance of this ending. Then you have "Eleanor Rigby," which was recorded with a string quartet, giving us the opportunity to hear this beautiful piece as it was originally intended.

The whole experience was a very relaxed and enjoyable evening. It lasted roughly 60 minutes, a perfect amount of time to sip wine, revel in the music, hold hands with your partner, or share a table with some friends. I would happily do it again.

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Dedicated To You But You Weren't Listening

Mark Plakias — Sat, 08 Feb 2025 22:41:26 +0000

Dedicated To You But You Weren't Listening Mark Plakias February 8, 2025 - 17:41

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celebrity obit

Michael Ratledge was very tall. I was first introduced to Mike by a mutual friend, Susan DePalma, in the afternoon of one of our annual 12-hour New Year's Day parties in the West Village. Susan had a Cheshire Cat grin when she got my attention by saying, "There's someone I think you will be very interested to meet." When I turned, I had to look up, and at the same time, I heard the words "Mike Ratledge"—I went weak in the knees and almost fell backward; such was the power of the man's presence. This was probably 1995. Mike eventually left after a few hours, but then much later returned, saying this was the best party around, and proceeded to lose at Backgammon versus my 12-year-old daughter (the more sober player at that point). Thanks to Susan, we kept in touch and talked about our respective endeavors. In one such moment in a typical Ratledge bon-mots, he said of my persona as a consultant, "So you really don't undertake anything; you’re just the undertaker."

The last time I saw Mike in person was at his club in London, a properly wood-paneled dark warren of well-worn Chesterfield sofas and clouds of cigarette smoke. It was probably the second bottle of wine when I realized that the man was a technical genius who just happened to also be rendering his own translation of Francois Villon's love poetry. Back then, metadata was not as commonplace as now, but he was annotating interactive CDs with fine-grained metadata covering session players and recording dates. To say he was a virtuoso conversationalist is like saying Bucky Fuller was laconic.

The bottom line was that I was fortunate enough to be an acquaintance of the post-Softs Ratledge and astute enough to heed the man who had contributed so mightily to the canon of music that today is generalized as the Canterbury Scene.

The first time I heard Soft Machine (many fans refer to it as The Softs) was in my friend Jeff Ryan's basement during our weed-infused after-school listening sessions, which were surrounded by Jeff's walls of vinyl. Volume One was unique at the time and remains so to this day. Emerging at the moment when LPs with continuous sides were starting to become a thing, it was the product of the original and short-lived lineup of Kevin Ayers (whose Joy of a Toy stands as one of the greatest electric bass solos of the era), guitarist Daevid Allen (who would go on to form the anarchic assemblage under the name Gong), and the combination of Ratledge and Robert Wyatt on drums and vocals that gave voice to Ratledge's brilliantly scored compositions. Exemplary in all aspects, including volatility, this original line-up lasted long enough to blow people’s minds and, importantly for me, earn a spot as the opener for the Jimi Hendrix Experience North American tour of 1968.

This was the one and only live performance of Soft Machine I was privileged to attend. Yes, Jimi set fire to his Strat. The Foxboro Arena is just that, so the nuances of the Softs’ music were lost, but what boomed out in its place was Mike Ratledge's Hammond B3 on drugs—fuzz and wah-wah underneath industrial grade percussion (an organ setting pioneered by Jimmy Smith and Larry Young). So, who else could make an organ trio fit in perfectly with Jimi Hendrix? The answer is Mike Ratledge.

The tour was followed by a reconstituted band with the great Hugh Hopper on bass, who was convened to fulfill a contract, resulting in Volume Two. The same joyous vocals, the breakneck changes and edits, and the seductive melodies propelling highly literate lyrics (if anyone else knows songs about Alfred Jarry's Pataphysics, please let me know) remain singular sonic monuments. That came out in 1969, post-Hendrix—there is a line in Have You Ever Bean Green that starts: "Thank you Noel and Mitch…." And ends with the sound of what is reported to be Jimi's motorcycle.

Depending on the demographic you are talking to, kaleidoscopic 1969 can be characterized in many ways. The celebration of Mike Ratledge's achievements can be described as an invisible but massive hinge that opens up another way to imagine and play music, especially from a keyboard player's perspective. Consider the releases that feature distorted organ: Larry Young, organist in the supergroup Lifetime led by drummer Tony Williams and featuring a blistering John McLaughlin on the debut album Emergency. Or, speaking of McLaughlin, Miles Davis' bombshell double-LP set Bitches Brew featuring Chick Corea, Larry Young, and Joe Zawinul. Pedals for keyboards came into wide use about this time, several years after Mike had used them in early performances.

When I asked Mike about the sound he got from the B3 he obliquely referred to was-was pedals and (this may be a reference to the banshee sounds in Third) scraping tone-wheels inside the Hammond.

That's the context for the next transition of Soft Machine. No more "Volume" in the title, just the number. Soft Machine Third, a double-LP set, dropped in 1970. The inside photo is a living-room shot of the band relaxing with some port and reportedly tripping. Third is to Soft Machine what Bitches is to Miles, an arrival from beyond the solar system. Key to the transformation is the influx of trained jazz players bringing colors that diffuse an ethereal yet at times acid mood using a mix of violin, trombone, bass clarinet, flute—not your average instrumentation in 1969 unless your Brian Wilson. Third is also notable for the arrival of Elton Dean on alto and saxello (a kind of bent soprano). What followed were two more albums (you can guess the titles by now). This is seen as the "jazz" period of the Softs, with a floating pool of musicians all playing their asses off in the company of Ratledge and Hopper. It is rarely heard on the air.

Collectively, these five albums constitute the canon of Mike Ratledge in his incarnation as Soft Machine, at least for me. They also remain in a class alone as the greatest rock music that most people have not heard. Twelve sides propelled by the genius of a creative giant who left it all out there for us, who can only marvel.