The most beautiful song ever?

We all love a tearjerker. We all love a song where a lyric makes us well up, where a chord change makes your gut melt. And it is probably the most difficult skill to get right, but when a songwriter can do it and do it well, it’s unsurpassable. As Wilco once memorably put it ‘Yes, I am trying to break your heart’.

The reason for this is that I heard this morning my candidate for the most beautiful song ever on the radio, the heartcrushing ‘Always On My Mind’.  It was, admittedly, not the best version recorded, being the Pest Shop Boys Eighties Number 1, but it still resonated with a depth and sadness that very few other songs have. The best version, of course, is Willie Nelson’s, in which the red-headed stranger wrung out every last drop of loss, regret and pain from the wonderful lyrics. It’s truly a work of art.

The reason, I think, that this is my favourite is that it isn’t obscure. this has been a hit record for many, many people, yet is still a deeply affecting song which resolutely refuses to lose any of its power after damn near a half century. You want classical music? THIS is classical music! It also manages to be touching without being trite, to be inspiring without being insincere. That’s some trick to pull off on what was, after all, a mere pop record.

So, good folk of the ELM Universe, let’s hear your nominations. One rule; it has to have been a hit. There are lots of great bands out there making really beautiful, touching music, but the winner of this title has to have had a universal pull. Apart from that, anything goes; any act, genre or style accepted.

And if you all come on and go for ‘Somewhere Only We Know’ by Keane just to annoy me, I shall be very cross.

The Fall’s Mark E. Smith - Genius In Farrahs

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Mark E. Smith, erstwhile gaffer of The Fall, has a reputation which most would kill for; by turns eccentric, maverick, innovative, curmudgeonly, seminal, evil and drunk. And, to be fair, after finishing his autobiography ‘Renegade’ it’s impossible to discount any of those labels.

This book isn’t a linear history, more a stream of consciousness from a very unique mind based loosely round some vague timeframes. There is an implied notion that the reader will have some knowledge of The Fall’s history, which is fair enough and, given the amount of articles the band have garnered in the monthlies over the years, not too difficult, but there is plenty here for someone coming in blind.

Smith is, simply, a deranged if lovable bastard and brilliant so long as you don’t have to live with him. ‘I’ve had loads of partners’ he boasts, ‘though they’ve mostly left me, mind’. His attitude to his music can be summed up in one phrase; don’t compromise, ever. Fundamentally, The Fall is Smith’s band, it does what he wants it to do and that’s the end of that. Guitarist wanting to influence songwriting style? Fuck him. Sacked. Producer moaning at Smith and his preferred recording style? Fuck him. Sacked. Record label getting ideas above their station and wanting input? Fuck them. Smith walks. It’s very difficult not to admire this stance, though one does feel some sympathy for those who have to deal with such an uncompromising manner (he goes through Managers the way normal citizens go through toothbrushes.)

There are some absolutely unshakeable tenets in Smith’s life; all middle-class people are arseholes (”see, working-class people don’t have this daft notion of rebelling against their parents the way middle-class people do; we appreciate what they’ve done for us”) but it isn’t their fault (”it must be hard when they realise that their idols, be it John Lennon or Bono or whoever are, or were, cunts”) and that nothing, ever is his fault, except, of course, when it is. And that’s the wonderful thing about this book; it’s inherently full of contradictions because it’s subject is absolutely riddled with them. Smith, I suspect, genuinely believes everything he says at the time he says it. He’d pass a lie detector. At times he’s vehemently anti-drugs (except booze, always) before, a few short pages later, he’s describing various altered states of consciousness.

Above all, though, it’s funny. Although I’m a big fan of Marc Riley, you can’t help but laugh as Smith takes him to task for ‘thinking he was in the fucking Beatles or something.’ Various musicians get the hairdryer treatment for not being rock’n'roll enough and ‘running back to all them dickheads in Bury telling them how I was mental just because they can’t handle the road’ and, perhaps most tellingly of all, Fall fans who ‘just get too into it.’ Basically, if you are a Fall fan, their leader welcomes you to come up for a pint and a chat. What he does not want is your story or a tale about how one of his records changed your life. As he says, why the fuck does he care?

Where this book really is in avoiding the ‘it’s grim up North’ clichés whilst simultaneously avoiding glamorising Smith’s exploits. This is neither a judgemental nor hagiographic book. This is simply one fairly unique musicians story, devoid of sentiment or posturing.

Oh, and he only met John Peel twice and thought he was a ‘good bloke’, but that he gets too much credit for any success The Fall have had. A national treasure.

The Fall - Reformation

Ryan Adams & the Cardinals - Birmingham Academy

by E Streeter

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About a year ago I went to see Ryan Adams and the Cardinals with a friend and having seen about an hour and a quarter I was really none the wiser as to whether Ryan Adams is a rock musician trapped inside a wistful country boy’s shell, or not. I’m still not sure but I really don’t care because it really doesn’t matter.

Adams has a singing style simultaneously fragile and brave, a high register full of soul and a pleasing mid-range which conveys emotion and surprising enjoyment. He is also prepared to deliver achingly personal sentiments sotto voce, quiet, plaintive and in a sweet falsetto. That said, snivelling indie kids expecting an evening of angst will be disappointed because Ryan Adams and the Cardinals play songs which engage and enthral. The other Cardinals are the usual American standard collective of highly-competent players with the unenviable task of remembering a back catalogue from such a prolific writer.

Statistically, this gig ended just ten minutes short of three hours to a three-quarters full Carling Academy. With no support act. Adams and Co took the stage just after 8 with the minimum of fuss, Ryan emphasising the collegiate nature of the evening with the first of four ‘we are the Cardinals’ references and an upbeat opening sequence which featured the excellent ‘Rescue Blues’ and some livelier material. The ‘Easy Tiger’ and ‘Cardinology’ material sounded strong and confident and on this evidence, there’s still fuel in the songwriting tank.

For someone who bares their heart on a regular basis, Ryan Adams disdains the polemic style of Billy Bragg or the pre-Rising Springsteen, content to let his songs do the talking for him. Apart from some arcane meandering about oversized calculators in Oxford and in-jokes with his pals, Adams restricted himself to short introductions and diffident thank yous..

I’ve bought RA&TC CDs like ‘29’ and ‘Heartbreaker’ and find Ryan Adams a frustrating ‘hit and miss’ artist, far too much average alt-country material padding out the songs that grab your attention. Thankfully, this tour seems to have been scripted with set lists and strong material like ‘Beautiful Sorta’and ‘Shakedown on 9th Street’ to the fore. Highlight for me was the low key melodic caressing of ‘Wonderwall’, breathing new life into what is now karaoke-fodder for the terminally unimaginative. Adams did four songs at the Wurlitzer and on this evidence should do a bit more because he was uniformly excellent, showing that his surprisingly strong rock guitar isn’t the only surprise he has.

After an interminably long wait, the half hour encore featured this writer’s favourite ‘Stars Go Blue’ and ‘I See Monsters’. However, a Ryan Adams gig wouldn’t be interesting without an attempt to snatch defeat from the jaws of triumph, which the self-indulgent feedback fiesta ‘Magnolia Mountain’ undoubtedly was. A surreal ending to what was, on the whole, three hours well spent.

Low - Glasgow Oran Mor

by Vespertine

This was advertised as ‘the Christmas show’ due to the promise to play their new Christmas single and the now legendary Christmas EP first championed by John Peel many years ago. ‘Little Drummer Boy’ even got used in a Gap advert. But…it is November and it is a Monday. Can the Glaswegian audience close its eyes and pretend? The band won’t care I suppose: Mormons don’t celebrate Christmas….

The hall was packed (and decked?) and the reception for the band was warm. The first 35 minutes saw a more or less standard Low set: simple songs that rise above their basic structure and instrumentation and become things of startling beauty. Highlights were ‘Murderer’, ‘Sandinista’ and the awesome ‘When I Go Deaf’. Then came the heckle: “Play the Christmas stuff; that was on the advert, play it.” After being told to f*** off (by me) the girl in question was announced as a ‘prophetess’ by Alan Sparhawk who then brought support act Ida (excellent) back to the stage to augment the sound. I felt both proud of my sterling defence of the band’s artistic expression and yet alos mildly stupid.

The Christmas EP is a thing of great beauty, warmth and humour. It is all great but highlights for me were ‘Take The Long Way Round’ and the lyrically profound ‘If You Were Born Today’:

“If you were born today
We’d kill you by age eight
Never get the chance to say:

Joy to the world and Peace on the earth
Forgive them for they know not what they do,
Blessed are the meek”

Then came the new single, a reggae (yes, honestly) hymn ‘The Coming of Jah’ which skanked in a way I had assumed I’d never see Low skank. Then the awesome, terrifying and wonderful ‘Santa’s Coming’ which works in a way it shouldn’t. A slab of noisy, sparse rock which hopes that Santa doesn’t miss any little children this Christmas. Oh yes.

The band was dragged out for a last encore which was a ramshackle and oddly moving cover of ‘Merry Christmas, War Is Over’ by John Lennon. With events round the world being as they are it worked, replete with sleigh-bells and glorious backing vocals. “War is over, if you want it” is a thought and a half for us all.

I left feeling uplifted and with thoughts of peace and goodwill to all men. Except hecklers and c***s who talk through gigs.

Dengue Fever - Glasgow King Tuts

Dengue Fever

As labels go, ‘Cambodian jazz pop rock psychedelic dance party’ is neither the most succinct or inspiring. But yet, Dengue Fever have attracted quite a bit of interest lately, culminating in an appearance on Jools Holland last week and a very short UK Tour. However, in the bar before the gig, it’s rather obvious that no-one knows entirely what to expect. This is a gig which could be amazing or atrocious.

Tuts is a legendary venue, and it is also a very good one, but its reputation does occasionally engender an arrogance which impacts directly on the customer service. For example, Tuts is a great believer in the rock’n'roll ethos that bands don’t emerge on stage until after ten. Now, as many bands playing here are indie bands on their first run-through, and attract a lot of students, this doesn’t present a problem. But when a band who attract a, shall we say, more mature crowd play - as is the case tonight - it can for a lot of punters. And frankly, there isn’t any need for it on a Monday. I’m all for the spirit of Keith Moon coming to the fore, but hey, we’ve got work in the morning!

But what of the band? Well, they look great, all beards and Rasta hats. Lead singer Chhom Nimol is like a sparkly little Cambodian doll, but man, she has a pair of lungs. The music is generally jazz-inflected pop, with her vocal style best being described as ‘distinctive’. The band are very well drilled, and very much aware of the groove. It’s very difficult not to grin watching them, as they are all having a ball and clearly loving what they are up to. And in a world where Chris Martin moaning about how his macrobiotic breakfast was served a degree too cold sells records, it’s refreshing to see that.

‘Tiger Phonecard’ is a slinky little number with an incredible vocal performance, but the highlight is ‘Sober Driver’ which is the best pop song about getting pissed and phoning someone for a lift you’ll hear this year. it’s a shimmering, funky thing which wouldn’t seem out of place in a particularly dark film noir.

There are a few psychedelic wig outs happening too, and much many of us in the audience are lolling our heads and shaking our hips along with it. On a freezing, pissing with rain night in Glasgow, that is some achievement. Some bands just make you happy - Dengue Fever are one of them. Check them out.

Gig Recommendation - Americana Night

We are always pleased to recommend things of interest to our readers, and with that in mind, we are delighted to plug what should be an excellent night in early January (and let’s face it, who couldn’t do with something to cheer them up in dull, drab early January?)

So if you are a fan of top drawer Americana - and you should be - you’ll appreciate the following info……..

Saturday 10th January  2009  @ 7.30pm
An Evening Of Alt. Country and Americana with :
 
$outhpaw
The Scuffers
Jericho Hill (Johnny Cash Tribute)
 
At Nice And Sleazy,
Sauchiehall street
Glasgow
G3 (0141 3339637)

We’ve seen $outhpaw before and they make a golden racket which screams ‘yee-haw’ as eloquently as any grits-eatin’ redneck. They are ace live and it’s worth a few quid of anyone’s money.

Speaking in Tongues - Great Non-English Songs

Tonight sees ELM decamp en masse to see Dengue Fever, a strange little Jazz-pop combo who are fronted by a Cambodian lady and who, appositely, have a lot of songs with Cambodian lyrics. Now, pop music is very English-language dominated. How many times have you watched a German or a Lithuanian go 15 rounds with Shakespeare’s lingo on Eurovision? Whilst hilarious, it just doesn’t seem right.

Pop music does mainly seem to originate in the US or Britain and consequently is absolutely dominated by our language. It’s also less of a bugbear for our European neighbours, who have a far higher rate of bi-lingual citizens than we do. for example, 7 in 10 French people speak passable English, whereas only 1 in 10 in the UK speak passable French. That is because French is a stupid language, with three different words for ‘it’ depending on how many of you you are or something.

But even allowing for the gobbledygook that foreign types try to pass off as language, you do get some corking good songs belted out in non-English. Here are three of the best;

Nena - 99 Luftballoons

Insane German woman sings of a post-nuclear holocaust Planet to an incongruously catchy electropop backing. Indeed, given how fashion has spun 360 degrees, bands sounding like this are getting on the front of the NME. Nena was foxy in a strangely severe way, but being German didn’t shave her pits and had a bush you could lose a badger in. Probably.

Vanessa Paradis - Joe Le Taxi

Vanessa was only 15 when she released this ode to Parisienné cab drivers, and conjured up an image a touch more sexy than a Brit would have managed with ‘Frank the Cabbie.’ I recall - for I was a mere slip of a lad when this came out - being absolutely transfixed by her beauty. Now, almost twenty years later, when I went on YouTube (see above) to have a look for research purposes, I simply couldn’t believe how pointy her nips were. Still a cracking tune mind.

Sigur Ros - Hoppipolla

Now, this rocks frankly. The Ros sing in a language comprised of Icelandic, English, made up bits and Elf-ish. Yes, they made up their own language to sing in. It’s like rock’n'roll Esperanto. That is class. Of course, the true majesty is that even though you don’t have a clue what the hell they are on about, you are absolutely moved by the beauty and power of the songs. That, my friends, is truly special.

Now, loyal readers, any more spring to mind?

Reprise - Worst Cover Ever

In this Article we discussed the worst cover version ever. At the time i was unable to find a link to this, monstrosity, which frankly beggars belief.
I can’t be arsed embedding it, so you’ll need to click Here to see it.

Sigur Ros, Glasgow Carling Academy

Photo courtesy Heidi Kuisma
Photo courtesy of Heidi Kuisma

An eagerly awaited sold out gig and one that finds the Icelandic quartet at a crossroads of sorts.

New album ‘with a buzz in our ears we play endlessly’ was something of a progression for the band, drawing from the acoustic work the band produced for their recent DVD as well as from more traditional ‘rock sounds’. They even had one song sung in English! To my ears the best songs were the more gentle tracks, some with very sparse instrumentation: a piano or an acoustic guitar, or perhaps a choir.

Tonight sadly very few of these songs were played, instead the band focused on more bass heavy and percussive tracks. This was my first problem with the gig: I understand that 3,000 people might want ‘entertainment’ but they did buy Sigur Ros tickets did they not? Would slower songs really have been a challenge? Wouldn’t it have sold the album better by playing all the best songs? Of all bands I felt that they could have trusted their audience.

Before the gig I noted was that the band was not touring with Amiina, the string quarter that has been palying with them for several years now. How would the band react? They reacted by simplifying the instrumentation and choosing carefully from the back catalogue. This was my second problem with the gig: it did veer a bit too close to foot in the monitor rock for my taste. This band is different, and therein lays their appeal. The sound is other-worldly, the strings and glockenspiels add layers and depth and the vocals create more raw sound and answer no questions.

Is there a market for them to strip away the layers and ‘get their message across’? Isn’t the mystery the message? The layers of perception their audience add to the band create their appeal rather than lyric sheets or guitar solos. We project a meaning and this emotion works with the music to subjectify the experience.

I have a few theories:

1. They are bored with the noises, clicks, long songs and romantic notions attached to them by over eager fans and fan websites.
2.  They believe that at heart they are a rock band and want to show a ‘new side to their work’.
3. In these days of ‘credit crunch’ they are tailoring their set for stadiums across the globe. Are they perhaps planning the next ‘leap forward’ in their career?
4. Maybe when bands get to audiences of 3,000 or more it does attract people who need loud noises, backdrops, catchy songs. People who attend because it’s cool, or in NME, or their pals are going. Poeple who will drink, and talk over them. Maybe their core audience is now a minority and the band realise this?

Who really knows?  I have seen them 4 times going back several years and they always left me awestruck. Tonight though they were merely very, very good and only ‘Poppligadd’ and ‘Saegloppur’ stirred the blood and raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I love them still but I hope the next album sees a retreat from more clearly understood lyrics, bigger guitars, driving rhythms and attempts to ‘work the room’. Let the room work harder to understand the band and its music.

Vespertine

The JD Set featuring Art Brut, Hugh Cornwell and Rosie and The Goldbug - Glasgow ABC2

Here’s a question; what is the most important part of a live show? Is it all about the music or is it all about performance? Is it a mixture of both? Does one take precedence over the other?

I ask because no-one crystallises this more for me than Bournemouth’s own Anglo-German mentalists Art Brut. I would always go and see them live, any time they played; but I never, ever play their albums (a stance shared by my gig accomplices tonight.) I would always recommend and cajole anyone into going to see them live; but I never tell people to download their stuff.

Now, that’s not to say Art Brut don’t make good records. They have a couple of decent albums out and a slew of cracking singles. But the live arena is absolutely where they belong. fronted by Eddie Argos - think Morrissey if he was pissed and lewd - they specialise in short, sharp pop songs which, when played live with gusto and no small cojones, end up punk as fuck.

Bounding around the stage like a demented ADD-addled child, Argos’ lyrics are scabrous, bilious and usually very, very funny. His delivery, half spoken and half shouting, may well be an acquired taste, but like Waits or Costello, once you are in you never really notice it. He jumps into the crowd and pogos like Zebedee during ‘Formed A Band’ and it feels genuine. ‘Emily Kane’ shows their sensitive side, though it still zips along like three speedfreaks nailed together, while ‘Direct Hit’ should, in a fair and just world, have had the success ‘I Predict A Riot’ did.

Black mark; they didn’t play ‘Pump Up The Volume’ and thus annoyed your writer. Sort it out next time lads.

As this is part of the JD Set, the Jack Daniel’s sponsored series of events round the country, we also get two more bands. Firstly, an unadvertised local female songwriter who is so boring I didn’t catch her name. But just in case she’s reading this, KT Tunstall is NOT a role model and the world can do without more twenty-something vaguely hippyish bints bellowing out platitudes like some braying Mr. Ed.

Next up are Rosie and the Goldbug, who are ‘hotly tipped’, meaning they make achingly fashionable edgy pop. Except, the edginess is absolutely wilful, such as deliberately discordant piano which makes no sense and is obviously just put in to up the weird factor. They give themselves away though on a couple of ballads which resemble none other than Beverley Craven.

Finally, both bands are joined by Hugh Cornwell, formerly of the Stranglers, for decent run-throughs of ‘Strange Little Girl’ with Rosie and the Goldbug and ‘Duchess’ with Art Brut, which both sound pretty decent. he may now resemble a kindly old schoolteacher, but the man can still go. Although as the crowd start singing the bassline from ‘Peaches’ whenever he appears, it’s clear that he’ll never escape his past.