skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Put it down to my musical upbringing, to my personal taste or to my whatever, but 2002 has left me floundering like a fish out of water thus far. Dealing with a series of weak examples of genres I was never that fussed on in the first place has been like climbing a sheer rock face with no crampons or ropes; suffice it so say, handholds have been hard to find. So for probably the first time on my travels I find myself quite pleased to see Oasis live up to their name and come to my rescue; I know where I am with the Gallaghers and they always give me something to get my teeth into, albeit usually with a sharp bite rather than a savoury chew.
Ok, so what's on the menu this time? Well 'The Hindu Times' is a song that baits its line with any number of hooks and riffs, none of which land the big fish that would make this a killer. So as far as that goes, it's business as usual and it's ironic to report that Gareth Gates took more risks on his take of 'Unchained Melody' than 'The Hindu Times' takes with the entire Oasis sound - it might trim some of the flab that hung round the middle of their more recent releases in a return to the cocky swagger of 'Rock & Roll Star' and 'Supersonic' ("Cos god gave me soul in your rock and roll babe"), but in truth whereas those previous songs cut with a razor sharpness, the edge has been dulled by time and repetition to a crayon thick, pub rock wooze of cod psychedelia kicked off with a drum roll where even Liam's once 'top of the world' sneer now sounds smeared and strained in delivering the same old dial-a-match lyrics ("There's a light that shines on, shines on me, and it keeps me warm").
One aspect of 'The Hindu Times' I'd always previously enjoyed were the punky John Perry/Tom Verlaine - like guitar fills that I'd always assumed were contributed by Andy Bell in a throwback to his days in Ride, but it was suggested to me literally this morning that they are in fact a direct lift from Stereophonics' 'Same Size Feet'. And blow me down, after a little research I've found out that they are indeed - magpie Noel strikes again, and in striking dulls that edge just a little bit further to cast off the main line that tied 'The Hindu Times' to my affections. So as I say, business as usual. As guitar anthems go in the 2002 chart, then 'The Hindu Times' and its attendant 'attitude' is a big fish in a shallow pond. In the grand scheme of things, it never rises far above the ordinary.
In terms of Pop Idol, when I said (on the previous entry) that "We'll be meeting the 'losing' members of that trio sooner rather than later", I wasn't joking - Gates was runner up to Will Young in that self same programme. And being a magna cum laude graduate to Young's summa, he didn't get first dibs on the exclusive original song, which might explain why the old war horse of 'Unchained Melody' is led out of the stable for one more canter. Maybe, but it won't explain why, with Robson and Jerome's 1995 version hardly a distant memory, the general public felt they simply needed yet another version of it.
Gates at least tries to do something a bit different on his take, but in reducing the once clockwork solemnity to a generic, cabaret-lite clapathon then the effect, if not quite akin to setting Chopin's 'Funeral March' to a funky drummer rhythm, is no less misguided and misunderstanding as to what the song is all about. Again, Gates can carry a tune, albeit with a voice heavy on the quiver, but then you'd expect no less after all the hullabaloo he'd been through on the show. The problem is that you get no more either, certainly nothing worth 'idolising' and I'd be happy to stake the farm on the proposition that, without the show and the public's affection for the close but no cigar pretty boy with a stammer, then this particular workhorse would have been sent to the knacker's yard and boiled down into glue long before it got anywhere near the top ten, let alone number one.
After Popstars had re-ignited interest in television talent shows, Pop Idol "was a talent contest to decide the best new young pop singer (or "pop idol") in the United Kingdom, based on viewer voting and participation".* Oh yes, once Hear'Say had rubbed the lamp, this was one particular genie that had no intention of going back in the bottle. Winner of the inaugural series was one Will Young and his reward was a debut single penned by Cathy Dennis (incidentally, all three finalists in the show recorded it too. We'll be meeting the 'losing' members of that trio sooner rather than later).
Dennis reputedly wrote 'Anything Is Possible' in three hours, but if I was paying her by the minute then I'd be double checking her timesheets - 'Anything Is Possible' aims for the peg marked 'smooth ballad' but in execution it plays like a series of off-cut motifs and discarded melody riffs stitched together in an awkward Smorgasbord of ill fitting key and tempo changes that Young has to smooth flat like a cowboy carpet layer disguising a bodge job by hammering the lumps out with a mallet. It's worked in the past, but the fly in this ointment is that Young's voice hardly carries the force of a mallet blow - a steady drip of treacly syrup, Young intones the "I never thought I could be feeling this way, standing here in front of you this perfect day" not as a interpreter trying to breathe life into doggerel but as a man desperate to please but more desperate not to put a foot wrong. And he doesn't really, but in letting the song play him it doesn't make this any more palatable.
Flip side 'Evergreen' was formerly a Westlife album track and sounds exactly like you'd expect a Westlife track to sound**, something I went into on my last review. Again, Young stays faithful to the source and serves up a professional job with a hummable tune that, while not irritating me enough to be able to hate it nevertheless runs over me without trace like water on glass. Taken together, this release has a bleached vapidity that perfectly encapsulates all that I dislike about Pop Idol and its ilk, and it's nothing to do with a snobbish dislike of 'manufactured' music either; in the final analysis, these shows aren't about unearthing fresh talent (and Young himself has all the 'pop idol' qualities of eating porridge for breakfast every single day of your life). Nothing so daring. No, they're about unearthing people with a hardwired desire for fame that's such that they are willing to whore whatever talent they might have and be manipulated into a non boat rocking 'career' that sells the same old mediocrity in exceptional numbers in a way whereby the 'artist' can be controlled in order to generate the maximum revenue for those pulling the strings.
* Thank you Wikipedia.
** "Eyes, like a sunrise, like a rainfall down my soul. And I wonder, I wonder why you look at me like that" - I can probably guess why if that's the sort of bollocks you're going to spout at her.
I'm starting to view the seemingly endless procession of Westlife number ones with, if not exactly dread, but with the same weary resignation that Mickey Mouse came to greet the endless procession of magical brooms he'd conjured up in Fantasia - suffice it to say that I greet these things with a heavy heart. And that's largely because I know what to expect before the needle hits the groove (or the laser reads the digital data off the optical surface). That's not a criticism per se - I kind of know what I'm going to get whenever I buy the latest album from The Fall album unheard too (which I'm wont to do). The difference there though is that I like The Fall and feel they're speaking my language. There's a direct Wi-Fi connection in our band/listener relationship that's simply not there with the latest Westlife output. On both counts.
But to criticise them solely on these grounds is not really logical because the criticism also generates its own defence; Westlife aren't speaking to me, don't pretend to be and most of my dislike stems from my inability to penetrate that invisible barrier that exists between us for whatever reason, and so unless I want to look like a clueless old fart maybe I'd best keep my gob shut. Maybe, but that's not satisfactory either - the difference as I see it is that I found The Fall myself; they didn't come looking for me. Mark E Smith and the ever shifting line-up that back him up might be something of an acquired taste, but they're a non-exclusive club that will have anyone as a member (and if you don't want to join then you can take a walk - Smith won't miss you).
I'm using The Fall as a recurring example here for the sake of convenience - there are any number of acts I equally adore who would fit the agenda just as well. That is, artists who plug away for no apparent reward other than the joy of making music. Everyone is welcome. Westlife, on the other hand, have a set demographic in mind and they go after it with the accuracy of a cruise missile primed for maximum impact and me and my kind are purposely excluded from the blast radius. Oh if I want to like it then fine, it's no skin off their nose; my money is as good as anyone else's, but my patronage is neither expected, wanted or needed. Similarly, me telling the world I was a fan of Westlife would in no way be 'cool', 'hip' or 'down with the kids'. In fact, a middle aged bloke (such as myself) carrying a copy of the latest Westlife album would be...well, just a bit creepy, almost the latter day equivalent of going out armed with the dirty mac and pocket full of sweets that were the supposed trademarks of the 'bad men' of my childhood out to lure me into the bushes to see some non existent puppies.
So it's just as well that I'm not much of a fan really then, but that leads me back to my opening dilemma - after all the dust has settled, there's a song here that needs a word or two said about it. And so I'll crack on, even though I already know before I start that it's going to sound much like the previous eight - that is, a professional job with a hummable tune that, whilst not irritating me enough to hate it will nevertheless run over me without trace like water on glass. "World Of Our Own" gives credence to my earlier suggestion that Westlife are the Benjamin Button of boybands; after earlier singles of fist clenching angst, their output has gradually mellowed to let in more gas from the pop bottle and "World Of Our Own" is their most unpretentiously direct single to date.
That's not to say that they've stopped trying - "World Of Our Own" comes boxfresh and as chrome shiny as the lift the boys are standing in on the cover. There's a clipped, dance friendly bassline that never delves into funk enough to overshadow the wrecking ball swing of the chorus. There's a New Order style guitar riff in there that adds, if hardly an indie edge, at least an edge that Westlife have never shown before and a simple key change at 2:30 gives it fresh legs just as it was flagging from running on its own treadmill. Simple and effective, "World Of Our Own" is a professional job with a hummable tune that, while not irritating me enough to be able to hate it nevertheless runs over me without trace like water on glass. And yes I know I've already said that, but if Westlife can repeat themselves then I can too.
A mere thirty one years after we met the father, son Enrique gives lie to the claim that apples don't fall far from the tree by eschewing Inglesias Sr's Mediterranean groove for a low key, Americana drive time power ballad (just as I was bemoaning the lack of guitar based songs in recent months, now we get two on the trot. Typical). Low key in production that is; 'Hero' might for the most part be a song of plucked acoustics but it's no more than two steps removed from the hot air balloon of an eighties soft rock behemoth - the likes of Foreigner, Journey or (shudder) REO Speedwagon wouldn't need to waste too much candle in tweaking this for their own agenda.
So what does that tell us about 'Hero'? Nothing that the title doesn't really, Enrique's sultry groan rubs the dry sticks of the tune until they smoulder, but he can't get it to give off much actual heat in its passing - 'Hero' imagines itself as freshly minted from the mould stamped 'tortured singer songwriter', but in striving for effect that vital ingredient called 'heart' has been neglected and in its place is a set of tips taken from the 'How To Write One' manual. As far as that goes, 'Hero' ticks off the quiet start/loud climax, "I can be your hero, baby, I can kiss away the pain. I will stand by you forever" promises checklist to the letter, but following such a strict template makes 'Hero' run on oil rather than warm blood and its mechanical presentation betrays not a hint of spontaneity or fragility. It has the best of intentions, but on listening to 'Hero' I hear more ice than fire at its core - buying the biggest, most expensive Valentine's card in the shop remains an empty gesture as long as it was given for effect only and such an overblown statement will never take the place of a genuine hug.
If a wave of sentiment had a hand in pushing 'More Than A Woman' to number one, then it used both along with a good boot in the pants to get this one there - already a number one hit from 1971, 'My Sweet Lord' was re-issued as a charity single following the death of Harrison from cancer in late 2001, meaning that not only was he the second former Beatle to score a posthumous number one, this was the first time two artists had found success from beyond the grave consecutively.
Of the song itself, there's little more I can say that I didn't back on my earlier review (this is a straight re-release with no remixing or embellishing), except to say that in the context of these hard edged years of boy bands and shiny dance tunes, hearing Harrison's song of warm spirituality is like slipping into a warm bath after a hard day. How long has it been since we last heard a guitar on these pages (let alone a slide guitar)? The answer to that is 'too long', and after wading through the rampant swagger of endless "and I swear if you come back in my life, I'll be there till the end of time" and "This memory will last for eternity, and all of our tears will be lost in the rain" mock epic bravado, George and his understated "I really want to be with you" refrain remains unwithered by time and knocks the ball out of the park in the emotion stakes.
Not a cover of The Tavares 1978 disco hit, this 'More Than A Woman' is a prime slice of latter day R&B from the proclaimed "Queen of Urban Pop". In execution, 'More Than A Woman' plays out like (2000 Aaliyah single) 'Try Again' redux, only pimped to the R&B max. Because whereas 'Try Again' clicked with a sparse and understated cool that nagged for your attention, Timbaland's production on 'More Than A Woman' is a breathless rush that crams too much information into too small a place. Instead of carrying her, it lays down an assault course of loops and cuts of clutter and dead ends that give Aaliyah's sweet soprano voice no room to find a fly, free flowing groove. Which was always kind of the point in this genre. With some pruning, 'More Than A Woman' could find its own path to the sunlight, but I'd suggest her tragic death at age 22 some five months earlier contributed more to its success of this than any inherent value - she's done a lot better than this.
Put it down to my musical upbringing, to my personal taste or to my whatever, but 2002 has left me floundering like a fish out of water thus far. Dealing with a series of weak examples of genres I was never that fussed on in the first place has been like climbing a sheer rock face with no crampons or ropes; suffice it so say, handholds have been hard to find. So for probably the first time on my travels I find myself quite pleased to see Oasis live up to their name and come to my rescue; I know where I am with the Gallaghers and they always give me something to get my teeth into, albeit usually with a sharp bite rather than a savoury chew.
